Page 25 of A Queen's Match

May whirled around, her throat dry. She’d been so focused on Ducky and Eddy that she hadn’t noticed Prince George coming to stand near her.

Are you pleased?he’d asked. Surely he didn’t mean,Are you proud of what you’ve done?

“The gallery tour,” he went on. “Are you pleased with it?”

“Oh—yes,” May replied swiftly. “I so rarely get the chance to look at art.” It was true; May never went to picture galleries unless it was for a social occasion.

George tucked his hands into his pockets. “Which painting is your favorite?”

May’s eyes drifted to a portrait she’d noticed earlier, of a man in a sixteenth-century ruff with a slashed doublet. “Him,” she declared. “He reminds me of what you wore to the Cadogans’ fancy-dress party.”

“You remember that?”

May must not have been thinking clearly, because she blurted out, “Of course I remember. We danced that night.”

The Cadogans’ party had been the first time she’d felt this pulse of affection, or attraction, or whatever it was, between her and George. May instantly feared she’d said too much, but George’s eyes were warm.

“I don’t think I’ve danced since that night. Not a lot of dancing on board the ships of Her Majesty’s Navy.”

The two of them drifted toward a far corner of the room, where a wistful-looking water nymph stared at them from a canvas.

“I haven’t heard much about your tour,” May admitted. “Where did you go this time?”

“To Australia.”

“A nation of thieves!” she exclaimed, and George laughed.

“Perhaps it was that way once upon a time, but not anymore. And besides, we’re a nation of thieves too. Constantly stealing things that aren’t ours.”

May looked at him in surprise. He sounded positively socialist. “Don’t let Her Majesty hear you say such things.”

“Oh, she knows my opinions.” George shrugged. “Speaking of places we’ve stolen from, I’ve been thinking I’d like to go to India next. Perhaps I could serve as viceroy someday.Might as well find a way to be useful to the Crown,” he added, his tone self-deprecating.

“You are useful to the Crown right here in England,” May said firmly. “And really, India is too far. Everyone would missyou.”

“Would you? Miss me, I mean?”

He was turning her words on themselves, and yet May was about to agree, to say that of course she would miss him—

The moment was cut off by a scream out on the lawn. An instant later Missy was stumbling inside, grabbing at her arm, where a red welt was already forming.

“I was stung by a wasp!” she cried out, voice shaky with tears.

George mumbled something about needing to help, then sprinted toward his cousin. He shrugged quickly out of his jacket and wrapped it over her shoulders. As if feelingwarmerwould cure a wasp sting.

May stood there, watching him handle Missy with infinite tenderness, and felt the tiny hope that had bubbled in her chest quietly deflate.

What a fool she’d been, thinking George saw her as anything but a friend. It wasn’t like May to make the same mistake twice. She must have some kind of willful blindness when it came to George.

She wasn’t Hélène or Alix, to dream of marrying for love; she was May of Teck, and could only afford to be brutally practical. She didn’t chase childish fantasies. She would marry for the only reasons that mattered: security, practicality. Position.

And if her plan worked, she reminded herself, she would have them all.

Chapter Eleven

Hélène

Hélène was grateful that Nicholashad alerted her to this gallery tour at the Earl of Stafford’s house. Earlier, when she’d come downstairs and seen the waiting letter, she had hoped—for a fleeting, foolish moment—that it was from Eddy.