The Wild Princess: A Novel of Queen Victoria's Defiant Daughter

She opened her arms and drew him to her, cradling his head against her breast as if he were a child, stroking the back of his sweat-damp neck. He let her hold him for a few moments before pulling away again to face her. This time he held her hands firmly in his, resting them on his thigh just above the top of his boot.

She had the strangest feeling that he’d intentionally pinned her in self-defense. As if he feared she might strike him if she were free to do so.

“Your mother,” he began, looking directly into her eyes, “I believe she is very fond of Mr. Oscar Wilde?”

“Ye-e-s,” she said. Although what the new playwright might have to do with their marriage she had no idea. “She believes Mr. Wilde is a gifted and promising writer. He’s already had more than one success on the stage.”

“He is”—Lorne’s voice hitched, hesitated—“quite brilliant. And—”

“And?” she prompted.

“And he is a dear and close personal friend of mine.”

So? Then it struck her—what he was getting at, and why the subject of the playwright had come up at all.

She closed her eyes and forced herself to suck down air to stop her head from spinning. But Lorne said nothing more, as if waiting for her to process the information he’d merely hinted at. He let her make the mental leap alone. A trapeze artist without a net.

“Mr. Wilde,” she began again, “has been rumored to prefer the company of other men.”

“So they say.”

“Which, by law, is considered lewd and unnatural behavior, and is punishable by imprisonment.”

“Exactly.” Lorne watched her expression.

Her heart felt as if it were cracking down its middle. She was spiraling down into the dark space between its broken halves. “And you are an . . . an intimate friend of his?”

He blinked his beautiful china blue eyes and touched her cheek tenderly. “Yes, my dear. I am.”

Oh Lord.

“Lorne, just to be clear, are you telling me . . . That is, do you also prefer the physical closeness of other men to the touch of a woman?” She’d never asked a more difficult question in her life.

He gave her his sweetest smile. “I do, my dear. I really do.”

What was left of her heart exploded into a thousand jagged, opalescent shards . . . which fell at her feet. For a long moment, she felt sure the shock had killed her. She felt nothing.

“Then why—why this marriage?” she demanded, anger driving blood back into her ice-cold hands.

“But isn’t it obvious?” He had the temerity to shrug his shoulders in casual surprise. “I admit I’ve been abominable, putting you in this position. But I was terrified, you see. Titled men of good families, men far more famous than Oscar are being packed off to prison for their so-called sins.” His voice became clipped, indignant. He peered deeply into her eyes, as if through them he could reach her better than with words alone. “I believed it was only a matter of time before the law made the connection between us—Oscar and I—and others in our circle. Who knows how dedicated Scotland Yard will be in rounding us all up and shoving us into some dank cell like common criminals.”

His weeping had stopped. For that she was thankful. And he was right; the danger was real for a man like him. “Oh, Lorne. What will we do?”

“Yes, well, we . . . that’s the question isn’t it?”

“Are you saying you wish to annul our marriage?” The prospect of the scandal left her feeling woozy.

“Heavens no!” He stared at her. “You still don’t understand, do you?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“I said that I’ve used you because I knowingly agreed to this marriage to protect myself. If I’m married to a woman of such obvious charms as Her Royal Highness, Princess Louise, how can anyone doubt my sexual inclination? I’m safe.”

“I see.” And now she really did understand. Resentment muted her compassion, though she tried not to show how confused and desperate she was beginning to feel. “But how are we to be . . . to be together, to have children, if you don’t have relations with women?”

“That’s the crux of the problem, as I see it.” He nodded his head. White-blond waves fell over his forehead, shadowing the azure glow of his eyes. “Louise, I swear to you, I would never have agreed to marry you if I’d thought I couldn’t find a way to give you children. I supposed I would be able to make love to you, now and again, for the purpose of procreation, you see. And perhaps a bit more often, if you required it of me.”

“Required it?” She suddenly felt her entire body a-flush with anger. Every muscle tensed. Her head pounded a ragged tattoo. “Required!”

“For your pleasure. To satisfy your needs. Yes, of course. I believed I would be capable of making a go of it, although I never have done it with a woman.”

“Lorne.”

“You’re looking frightfully pale, my dear.” He gently took her by the shoulders and laid her back against the pillows. “I’ll get you a drink of water, shall I?”