Promised to the Swedish Prince - Sasha Cottman Page 0,31

back into the inkwell and raked his fingers through his hair. With the Russian delegation due in London by the end of the month, time was not something he had in abundance.

There is no other way I can think of that will get me into those parties. I need Erika.

A shadow fell over the table. He didn’t need to lift his gaze to know who it was standing beside him.

“Can we talk?” she said.

Christian got to his feet and bowed. “Of course. Is here suitable?”

He went to offer her the chair, but she waved him away. “I’m quite happy to stand. I find at this time of the day that my knee begins to complain if I sit down for too long.”

She took up a spot with her back against the low wrought-iron balcony railing and met his gaze. Her usually sunny disposition was noticeably lacking.

“I have spoken to Pappa and let him know of my decision. He asked that I come and talk to you.”

Christian remained beside the chair, unsure as to whether he should approach Erika or not. There was a brittleness about her that called for him to close the distance between them and hold her in his arms. To offer the comfort that no matter what she had decided, he was there for her. And always would be. “I shall respect whatever you wish to do. None of this is easy. If it were, I would not have asked you to consider this ruse.”

“I know. Thank you. My answer is yes. You and I shall be betrothed for a time. During that period, I will do all I can to help you to secure the treaty. I do have one condition for our agreement—something which is non-negotiable,” she replied.

If that wasn’t an ominous statement, Christian didn’t know what one was. He was also not in a position to refuse Erika. He could only hope it was something minor—a matter easily overcome.

“And what is your condition?” he asked.

She pushed away from the railing and walked toward him, stopping only a foot away. When she raised her head and met his gaze, he could have sworn he saw tears.

“You are not to tell me that you love me.”

Chapter Sixteen

As King Charles’s official representative, it was Baron von Rehausen’s role to announce the betrothal of His Royal Highness Prince Christian and Countess Erika Jansson. A letter was sent to the Prince Regent at Carlton House. Count Jansson wrote to King Charles and Prince Stefan informing them of this latest development in the trade negotiations.

Later that week, the first of the invitations arrived at Duke street. A newly engaged couple was more interesting to the matrons of London society than two unconnected foreign dignitaries.

While their betrothal might well be a ruse, there was still the matter of the façade which had to be maintained. Erika quickly found herself in the center of a whirlwind. Baroness von Rehausen became the mastermind of countless modiste fittings for new gowns, as well as endless shopping trips. It was nice to have new clothes, but the fact that Christian was funding her new wardrobe left a bitter taste in Erika’s mouth.

I have been sold for the good of my country.

“You cannot just announce your engagement to Prince Christian. You must be seen about town making preparations for the wedding,” the baroness explained.

The fact that there was not going to be any nuptials didn’t seem to matter. All that did was the appearance of a future wedding. The Jansson home soon became full of boxes—items that a prospective bride would be expected to gather. What Erika was going to do with all the linen, fine china, and manchester when Christian officially broke off their betrothal, she had no idea.

Hopefully Pappa will let me take it all back to Sweden when I leave.

Returning home from yet another long morning of shopping with the baroness, an exhausted Erika retreated to her sitting room. She stood at the door, peering over the multitude of boxes.

Will I ever see my comfortable sofa again?

Along one side of the miniscule room were boxes stacked almost to the ceiling. Erika could manage to get to her writing desk if she squeezed between the low walnut coffee table that the Spanish ambassador had sent as an engagement gift, and the oak sideboard that may or may not have come from the United States Minister to Great Britain.

“Thank the lord the baroness is managing the gifts and the thank you cards,” she muttered.

She was