which was far less pleasant. Louise pressed her palms over her face, feeling as if she needed to hold it in place. The room swam. Her stomach soured. At last she forced herself to drop her hands and locate Donovan again.
He was stepping into his trousers, tugging them up to his waist while the heated conversation among the men continued. But now he no longer blocked her view of the two intruders. Older men. Both much broader in the shoulders, fuller in the belly than her young lover. The dark-haired, taller of the two tried to get a look at her even as a half-clothed Donovan dodged back in front of him to keep him from seeing her.
“I doubt she’s any different than the others,” the other man said in an offhand way. “Yes, let’s do have a peek at her, Gabe. Weren’t you saying you were short a model for tomorrow?”
“Ah, yes.” His friend laughed. “I need a Mary for my stable scene. Think she’d suit, Donovan old boy?”
Louise roused herself enough to pull up her blouse, which had fallen beneath her breasts. She was beginning to recall details now. Donovan’s hands soothing her. His kisses. His . . . forbidden caresses. She’d let him do things to her that she’d admittedly enjoyed, though now that the wine’s effects were retreating, she suspected her mother might object rather strongly. Her governesses had often emphasized that princesses ought never to allow themselves to be caught alone in a room with a grown man who wasn’t family. No reason was ever given for the rule.
Now, she believed she knew.
Her face flushed with heat at the thought of their recent intimacy. But she wouldn’t have wished away her night with Donovan for anything.
It seemed laughable to fear something so beautiful and natural. This was how lovemaking happened. This secret way of showing tenderness and passion was what being a woman was all about. And after all, she was eighteen years old . . . and a woman.
A surge of excitement and pride nearly chased away the worry that she’d unwittingly crossed a forbidden line. But sorting out these tangled feelings, and the arbitrary rules of society, would just have to wait. She had rather more pressing wardrobe issues to deal with.
Her skirt and petticoats and chemise, in extreme disarray, had become bunched up around her waist. She tugged them down under cover of the robe. Where her drawers had gone, she’d no idea.
Meanwhile, Donovan was having little luck trying to physically force the two men out of the room. Decently covered now, Louise sat up straight, tossed off the robe, and swung her legs off the side of the divan. She planted her bare feet firmly on the floor and stood up, hands on hips, aiming her haughtiest glare at the two strangers.
“These are not public rooms, gentlemen,” she announced quite loudly. “How dare you barge in here like this. I demand you leave at once and give us our privacy.”
Her little speech had an unexpectedly powerful effect. Eyes wide, jaws dropped, the pair appeared stunned to the point of speechlessness. Louise combed her long, brown hair away from her face with her fingers, patting the waves into place, feeling sure the pair would now tactfully depart.
However, the strangers appeared to have frozen into biblical pillars of salt. They stared at her, shifted horrified gazes to each other then back to Donovan.
The one called Gabe was the first to move, and it now occurred to her that this was probably the artist Dante Gabriel Rossetti. So perhaps he had a right to be here, as this was his studio. Still, she thought his manners quite abominable.
Having recovered his mobility, Rossetti stepped forward with a vicious snarl, grasped Donovan by the shoulders, and gave him a rough shake. “Tell me this isn’t who I think it is. Tell me, you fool.”
Donovan turned to look at her, and for the first time, his eyes looked worried and his bravado visibly leaked away. He lifted his lips in a tremulous smile. “Mr. Rossetti. Mr. Morris. Really, it’s all right. She wanted to be with me. She did. She came of her own free—”
“Tell me her name. This instant!” Rossetti’s eyes blazed, dark fired and fearsome as a hellhound’s.
“I am,” Louise said, taking an only slightly tipsy step forward while thrusting her chin high, “Princess Louise Caroline Alberta of England—Your Royal Highness to you gentlemen. And now I demand you leave us.”
Rossetti’s companion let out an