A daughter’s love. A monarch’s duty. On the road to greatness, one young woman must make an unthinkable choice. For Princess Mary, life has never been simple, but through it all the love of her father, the Duke of York, has been a constant and reliable comfort. Despite his own loyalty to the Catholic Church, the Duke and his brother, King Charles II, raised Mary as a Protestant to protect her in a time of religious and political upheaval. In order to cement this safety and to ensure the stability of the family line, at age fifteen, Mary is married to her Protestant first cousin William, Prince of Orange. However, in post-Restoration England, matters are rarely so simply settled. When Mary’s uncle, King Charles II, dies suddenly and without an heir, her beloved father is crowned James II. But a Catholic king is not the will of the people, and even Mary’s own husband is crying out for change. Can Mary take part in actions that will ultimately remove her own father from the throne and endanger his life? With family loyalty and the will of a nation at odds, what choice can a young princess make? With emotional clarity and vivid historical detail, beloved author Jean Plaidy brings us into the court and behind the scenes as history unfolds—and the young princess and her groom become William and Mary—the legendary monarchs, and the only co-regents in the history of a nation. JEAN PLAIDY is the pen name of the prolific English author Eleanor Hibbert, also known as Victoria Holt. More than 14 million copies of her books have been sold worldwide. Visit www.CrownHistorical.com to learn about the other Jean Plaidy titles available from Three Rivers Press. Early Days There have been two people in my life whom I have loved beyond all others, and it has always weighed heavily upon me that I was called upon to decide between them and, in choosing one, I betrayed the other. I did what my heart, my faith, my sense of duty dictated and ever since I have suffered from the torment of knowing of the pain I inflicted and from which I myself will suffer to the end of my days. I want to go right back to the beginning, to project myself into the past, to see it more clearly than I could when it was happening. I want to ask myself: what should I have done? I was born in St. James’s Palace at a time when my birth was of little interest to any except my parents, for a most significant event was taking place. My uncle, King Charles, recently restored to his throne after more than ten years’ exile, was about to marry the Infanta of Portugal—an event which generated great excitement and expectation throughout the country. In any case, I was only a girl, and fifteen months after my birth, a boy was born to my parents, a fact which robbed my birth of any importance it might have had. In the beginning the world was a wonderful place; the days were full of sunshine; I was surrounded by people who loved me and, being cherished by all, I was led to believe that the world had been created for my pleasure. The best times of all were when my parents visited us. Everyone was so respectful to them that I quickly realized how important they were. My mother would take me up into her arms. She was like a big soft cushion into which I could sink with a feeling of cozy security. She would caress me, murmur words of love to me and pop a sweetmeat into my mouth and show me in a hundred ways how much she loved me. But the most important of all was my father. When he came into the nursery crying: “Where is my little daughter? Where is the Lady Mary?” I would stagger or toddle and later run to him, and he would pick me up and set me on his shoulder so that I could look down on everything from my lofty perch. I loved all those around me but no one so much as I loved my father. Once I heard someone say: “The Duke loves the little Mary beyond all others.” I never forgot that and I used to say it to myself when I was in my bed alone. I would listen for his coming; and often in later years, when I was haunted by memories of the fate which had overtaken him, I would recall those days and, sickened with doubts and self- reproaches, I would contemplate the part I had played in his tragedy. How often then did I sigh for those days of my youthful innocence, when I thought the world a beautiful place in which I should be happy forever. When he visited us he would not let me out of his sight. I remember an occasion when he even received some of his officers to discuss some naval matter and he kept me there with him. He was Lord High Admiral of England then and I remember his seating me on the table while he talked to them; and, to please him, I know now, the men commented on the extraordinary intelligence, vitality and charm of his daughter—and how delighted he was. Sometimes it is difficult to know whether I really remember certain incidents from those days or whether they were talked of so frequently that I convince myself I do. There is a miniature