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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  EVER A PRINCESS

  A Jove Book I published by arrangement with the author

  For Maria Isabel Fernandez Marrero.

  Here's your story, Man.

  Enjoy!

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition I February 2002

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2002 by Rebecca Hagan Lee.

  Excerpt from Almost a Gentleman copyright © 2002

  by Rebecca Hagan Lee.

  Cover art by Leslie Peck.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in

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  ISBN: 0-515-13250-0

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  Codicil to the last Will and Testament of

  George Ramsey, fifteenth Marquess of Templston

  my fondest wish is that I shall die a very old man beloved of my family and surrounded by children and grandchildren, but because one cannot always choose the time of one's 'Departure from the living, I charge my legitimate son and heir, Andrew Ramsey, twenty-eight Earl of Ramsey, Viscount 'Birmingham and Baron Selby, on this the 3th day of .August in the Year of Our Lord 1818, with the support and responsibility for my beloved mistresses and any living children born of their bodies in the nine months immediately following my death.

  As discretion is the mark of a true gentleman, I shall not give name to the extraordinary ladies who have provided me with abiding care and comfort since the death of my beloved wife, but shall charge my legitimate son and heir with the duty of awarding to any lady who should present to him, his legitimate heir, or representative, a gold-and-diamond locket engraved with my seal, containing my likeness, stamped by my jeweler, and matching in every way the locket enclosed with this document, an annual sum not to exceed twenty thousand pounds to ensure the bed and board of the lady and any living children born of her body in the nine months immediately following my Departure from the Living.

  The ladies who present such a locket have received it as a promise from me that they shall not suffer ill for having offered me abiding care and comfort. Any offspring who presents such a locket shall have done so at their mother's bequest and shall be recognized as children of the fifteenth Marquess of Templeston and shall he entitled to his or her mother's portion themselves and their legitimate heirs in perpetuity according to my wishes as set forth in this, my Last Will and Testament

  George Ramsey,

  fifteenth Marquess of Templeston

  The first duty of a Princess of the Blood Roayal is to serve the House of Saxe-Wallerstein-Karolya

  —First Maxim of Protocol and Court Etiquette of Princesses of

  the Blood Royal of the House of Saxe-Wallerstein-Karolya, as

  decreed by His Serene Highness, Prince Karol I, 1452.

  April 18, 1874

  Palace at Laken Baltic Principality of Saxe-Wallerstein-Karolya

  You must wake up, Your Highness!"

  Her Royal Highness Georgiana Victoria Elizabeth May heard the whisper, recognized the voice, and placed her hand against the soft fur at her side to quiet the low, menacing growl coming from the throat of Wagner, the huge wolfhound sharing her bed. She opened her eyes and found Lord Maximillian Gudrun, her father's private secretary, standing in the dim glow of the lamplight beside her bed.

  "Thank the All Highest," he whispered reverently. "I've reached you in time."

  Alarmed by the old man's reaction, Princess Giana pushed herself into a sitting position, leaning against the mound of feather pillows propped against the headboard of the old-fashioned half-canopied tester.

  "What is it, Max? What are you doing here? You're supposed to be in Christianberg with Father and Mother."

  A sheen of tears sparkled in Lord Gudrun's eyes and ran unchecked down the weathered planes of his face. The old man clutched at his side, then dropped to his knees by the side of the bed and bowed his head. "Something terrible has happened at the palace, Your Highness."

  A frisson of foreboding prickled the fine hairs at the back of Giana's neck, and her voice echoed her terror. "Max?"

  Lord Gudrun reached across the fine snowy-white linen and thick eiderdown comforters to clasp Giana's right hand. His hand left a dark smear of blood on the covers, and Giana drew in a sharp horrified breath as he slipped a heavy gold signet ring onto her right thumb.

  "His Serene Highness Prince Christian Frederick Randolph George of Saxe-Wallerstein-Karolya bid me bring this to you, Your Highness."

  "No." Giana began to tremble as she stared down at the gold ring Max had slipped on her thumb. The royal seal. The seal of state worn by every ruler of Saxe-Wallerstein-Karolya since the principality's beginnings in 1448—a gold seal now stained with blood. "My father... Max?" She glanced up at him. "He can't be ..."

  Lord Gudrun bit down on his lip to stop its quivering, and then gave a sharp affirmative nod. "I'm afraid so, Your Highness."

  Although she understood the meaning of the transfer of the royal signet ring, and had always known that one day, this day would come, Giana couldn't bring herself to utter the words. To do so would be to confirm the thing her heart and her mind could not accept. Her beloved father was dead. She was now ruler of the principality.

  A sudden rush of hot, salty tears stung her eyes as Giana pushed back the covers and scrambled to her feet. The wolfhound bounded to his feet beside her. "We must go to the palace at Christianberg at once. My mother will..." Her mother would know what to do. Her mother would put aside her own deep overflowing grief and help Giana get through the ordeal ahead; to do what must be done.

  Lord Gudrun struggled to stand, then gripped Princess Giana's hand with his left one and squeezed it hard. "I'm sorry, Your Highness, but your mother ..."

  Giana wrenched her hand out of his and shook her head. "No, Max, please ... Not my mother, too."

  "I'm sorry, Your Highness."

  "How?" she asked. Giana was willing to admit that a healthy, hearty man in his early fifties might meet an untimely death, but she could not concede that his wife might meet the same fate. Unless ...

  "Treachery, Your Highness. Your father and your mother were stabbed this evening by hired assassins."

  Giana's breath left her body in a rush. "Why? Who?"

  "Prince Victor has been inciting the young men of the ruling class, denouncing your father's support of a constitution and a Declaration of Rights for the Masses. Victor has been promising estate grants, titles, and funds to the foolish younger sons of aristocratic families to gain their support, and he has convinced these young traitors that your father's aim was to reward the poor with the landed estates of the rich."

  "Victor?" Giana struggled to comprehend the meaning of Max's words. "My cousin assassinated my parents?"
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  "Yes, Your Highness," Max confirmed. "Your parents were murdered in their bedchamber after retiring from the state dinner celebrating the opening of Parliament. The palace has been overrun. Your father's loyal servants are being slaughtered, and Victor's men are searching for you."

  "How did you escape?" She asked the question, though she dreaded hearing the answer.

  "I was delivering the nightly dispatch box to your father's bedchamber. I heard Prince Christian cry out a warning as your mother entered the room. I entered your mother's chamber from the south door through the dressing room and hid the dispatch box under a bonnet in one of the princess's hatboxes, then I drew my dress sword and entered your father's bedchamber." Lord Gudrun took a breath. "Your father lay on the floor, bleeding from several wounds. Your mother lay dead beside him. One of the traitors was attempting to remove the seal from the prince's hand. He turned and discharged his pistol as I entered the room."

  Giana suddenly realized Max was bleeding—that the blood from the seal hadn't belonged only to her father. "How badly are you injured?"

  Max shrugged. "A minor wound, Your Highness. The ball glanced off my rib." He uncovered the wound in his side so Giana could assess the damage.

  Giana's face whitened at the sight of the spreading red stain. Please, don't let me faint, she begged, please; let me do what must be done. Her stomach muscles clenched and her head began to spin, but she refused to give in to the weakness. Stiffening her resolve, Giana reached across the bed for the nearest pillow, stripped off the pillowcase, and pressed the white linen into Max's hand to help staunch the flow of blood. She found, to her amazement, that the task was what she needed to help dispel her light-headedness. "It may require stitching." She bit her bottom lip. "But for now, I think it best if we wrap it."

  "Yes, Your Royal Highness."

  Giana met Max's gaze. His eyes were dark and shadowed with pain as she withdrew her hand from the makeshift bandage at his side. Giana wiped her bloody hands on the sheets, then took a deep breath to steady herself. She reached for another pillow, removed its case, and bit a hole in the seam, tearing the fine linen into strips of bandage. She repeated the procedure with another pillowcase, then helped Max remove his waistcoat und jacket. He lifted the bandage as Giana unbuttoned his shirt, then placed it back over the wound as she wrapped the strips of linen around his chest. She talked as she worked, speaking in the clipped .and precise regal tone that was as much of an imitation of her father as she could manage, hoping her questions would keep the old man's mind off his pain. "The traitorr who shot you?"

  “I ran him through, Your Highness.”

  Giana tightened the last strip of linen, knotted it into place, and stepped back to view the results. “And Papa? Did he suffer:” She knew the answer. She knew, her father had sufferet terribly, but she wanted Max’s reassurance, so she had to ask.

  "No, Princess," Max answered, softening his tone and reverting to the familiar form of address. "Nor your mother. She died instantly. Your father tried to save her and when he could not, he bid me to deliver his seal to you, to get you to safety, and to guard you with my life. Those were his final orders to me." Prince Christian had given him one other order before he died, but Max could not muster the strength to deliver it yet. Tell Giana never to be afraid to follow her heart. Promise me, Max. Promise you will help her find a way. His voice broke on a sob and his rounded shoulders shook from the force of his grief. "And I shall, Your Highness, I will not fail you again."

  Max buttoned his shirt over the bandage and struggled into his brocade waistcoat and wool jacket. He stared at the princess. To him, she was still a girl—barefoot, dressed in a demure white lawn nightgown with her long blond hair plaited into a single braid. She was too young to be the ruler of a wealthy principality. Too young to bear the crushing burdens of the state. Her blue eyes were darkened with sorrow and red-rimmed from the sting of tears she refused to let flow. She stood tall and looked him in the eye, her gaze unflinching as she accepted responsibility for her country and for her people. She was a girl on the brink of womanhood, a princess and rightful heir to the throne, filled with strength and courage and compassion.

  Her Serene Highness Princess Georgiana Victoria Elizabeth May of the house of Saxe-Wallerstein-Karolya.

  Max knelt before her, kissed the ring that had belonged to her father, and swore to serve her as he had served her father and as his father and grandfathers had served the rulers of Saxe-Wallerstein-Karolya for four hundred years.

  Giana reached down and buried her fingers in the soft brindle-colored fur just above her wolfhound's shoulders. She held on to Wagner, bracing herself against the tide of anguish that threatened to overtake her. She was the sovereign ruler of her country, and she was alone and terribly afraid. She wanted to throw herself into Max's arms and weep as she had done many times as a child, but she stayed the impulse. The ruler of Saxe-Wallerstein-Karolya could not succumb to emotions. She couldn't behave like a grief-stricken daughter. She had to behave like a princess—like the ruler of her country. She had to behave as her father would have behaved, so she accepted her due, nodding regally as she helped Max to his feet. "Wake the others," she ordered. "We must prepare for the journey to Christianberg."

  "Your Highness, you cannot return to the capital," Max told her. "Your cousin will kill you if he finds you."

  "Finds me?" Giana asked. "The fact that I'm on holiday here is common knowledge. My program is published each month. Victor knows I'm at Laken."

  "No, Your Highness, he does not. Your schedule was altered before it was made public."

  "By whom?" Giana demanded.

  "Your father."

  "But why?"

  "Prince Christian knew of the unrest among the young aristocrats in the capital and suspected your cousin might be behind it. Prince Christian received word of your cousin's traitorous activities shortly after he refused to consider Victor's request for your hand in marriage."

  "Victor offered for me?"

  Max nodded. "Your father knew Victor was plotting to overthrow him. He refused his offer for your hand because he feared Victor would use you to gain the throne. But Victor was incensed by Prince Christian's refusal, so your father suggested this trip to Laken in order to get you out of the capital and away from possible danger."

  Giana's eyes widened at the revelation. "Papa sent me away? On purpose?"

  "Yes," Max confirmed. "He suspected Victor might try to use the opening of Parliament to incite rebellion."

  "He sent me away. But he allowed Mother..." Giana couldn't finish the thought.

  "You were the heir apparent," Max reminded her.

  "But—"

  "Prince Christian tried to send your mother away. He begged her to accompany you, but Princess May refused to leave him. She refused to allow him to face the traitors alone."

  "Oh, Mama." Giana tried mightily to keep her sorrow in check, tried to keep the tears at bay, but one solitary droplet slipped through her lashes and rolled down her cheek. While her father had ruled the principality, her mother had been the glue that held everything together. Prince Christian was the hereditary leader of Saxe-Wallerstein-Karolya, the embodiment of goodness, justice, and might, but Princess May was the heart and soul of the country—the mother of its heir, the champion of the common people, keeper of centuries-old traditions, and social arbiter. Without her mother to guide her, Giana was lost. Overwhelmed. Terrified. Unequipped to rule. She didn't understand government; she didn't understand the nuances of negotiating treaties, or foreign trade rights. Giana had always known that the continued beating of her father's heart was all that kept her from assuming the throne, but somehow the knowledge hadn't seemed real. She had never seen herself ascending the throne, had always assumed her role as heir apparent was temporary—until a brother came along. She didn't know how to do her father's job. She wasn't prepared to be a ruler. She only knew how to be a princess. She glanced at Max. He had been her father's confidant and adviser for more than
twenty years. Surely he would know what to do. Surely he would have all the answers.

  "How many people do we have, Max?"

  "Only myself, Your Highness, and those serving you here at Laken."

  Giana frowned. The permanent staff at Laken was kept to a minimum. Those presently serving at Laken were Langstrom, the butler, and Isobel, his wife, who served as housekeeper, Josef, the stable master, and Brenna, Giana's personal maid. Everyone else lived in the village and came into work on a daily basis. "That gives us four," Giana said. "Six counting you and me. Seven with Wagner." She glanced down at her beloved wolfhound. "Seven against Victor's traitors."

  "There are many landowners and men in the government and the army who will remain loyal to your father," Max assured her.

  "Then we must return to Christianberg to rally them."

  "You cannot, Your Highness. I swore a solemn oath to your father that I would see you to safety. The palace isn't safe and neither is the capital."

  "But we can't let Victor win," Giana protested. "We can't stand idly by and allow Victor to ascend my father's throne. To get away with murder—with regicide."

  "We must for now," Max assured her. "The tide of rebellion is running high. Victor will not risk losing his chance to gain the throne—however briefly. We cannot risk your life. We cannot risk the life of the rightful heir to the crown."

  "The crown," Giana breathed slowly, reverently, as understanding dawned. "The crown. If Victor wishes to wear the crown of Saxe-Wallerstein-Karolya, he must abide by the Law of Succession. He must endure the wait. He cannot marry until the traditional period of mourning for the late ruler is over. And he cannot be crowned until he is married. Until that year is over, Victor can govern the principality, but he cannot be recognized as its rightful ruler."

  Max managed a slight smile. "And because you are recognized as your father's successor, not Victor, the People's Parliament of Karolya will require him to marry a princess of Karolyan blood."

  "There are no princesses of Karolyan blood left to marry. I am the only one." She looked at Max. "Unless he marries one of his sisters."