Some Enchanted Evening: The Lost Princesses #1

by Christina Dodd

The crowd gave a gratifying gasp.

  “Yes, imagine that—an improvement in only five minutes!” Clarice pointed as she spoke. “Her dark circles are gone, and her skin is pink and healthy looking.” More important, Clarice thought with satisfaction, Miss Rosabel’s nose and chin were no longer pointed, and the softened hairstyle gave her a girlish loveliness. “Give me an hour and think what I can do!”

  Cautiously Miss Rosabel touched her face. “Am I pretty?”

  “Very pretty,” Clarice assured her.

  “My skin feels so clean and fresh!” For the first time, a smile broke across Miss Rosabel’s face, and the men rumbled in admiration. They hadn’t noticed her before. Now they did. She wasn’t yet beautiful, but she was young and healthy, and she would be swamped with offers to walk in the evenings.

  She would have to be careful. Most men treated a single woman with honor, but sometimes they did not, and Clarice anxiously scanned the crowd, looking for potential trouble.

  Extracting a swath of soft blue material from her saddlebag, she draped it across Miss Rosabel’s bosom. The color made an already attractive face even more attractive, and she said, “So, ladies and gentlemen, is this improvement worth ten pounds from Billie MacBain?”

  “Yes!” the crowd roared, and everyone looked around for Billie.

  Clarice laughed. Laughed with the pleasure of a win against Billie and a dozen guaranteed sales. “He sneaked away five minutes ago. But I’ve made my point. You can buy the face cream from me now, and if you’d like to know more royal secrets, I’ll be staying at the inn—”

  The handsome gentleman reached up and caught her hand. He spoke at last. “It would be best if you stayed up at the manor…Princess.”

  She’d seen MacKenzie Manor as she rode into Freya Crags. Set well off the road on a rise, four stories high and twenty glass windows across, with gargoyles poised on the roof and bronze double doors so big they should have been at home on a cathedral. The gray, forbidding stones weighed down the ground and chilled Clarice’s heart. It was as if the house warned her to ride on, and she did, urging Blaize along the road at a brisker pace. Her reaction surprised her, for she prided herself on being practical and not at all skittish.

  Perhaps she disliked the place because of her knowledge of its owner. Her spy in the town had written her about Lord Hepburn, a ruthless man who ordered his lands and his family like a despot. Clarice didn’t want to stay in the house, and she didn’t want to be anywhere near this fellow, who was probably the steward or the butler or…or a man too gorgeous for his own good. Or hers.

  So with a superior smile that frightened off most men, she tugged to free her hand. “You’re very free with your master’s invitations.”

  He didn’t release her, and he didn’t look frightened.

  A rustle of laughter spread through the onlookers.

  “No!” Miss Rosabel pinched her elbow hard.

  Clarice flinched. She’d made a mistake, although she couldn’t imagine what it was.

  In a soft voice with a hint of brogue he said, “I’m free with the invitations to MacKenzie Manor for good reason.”

  No. It couldn’t be.

  But it was. “I’m Robert MacKenzie, the earl of Hepburn. I’m the laird of Freya Crags—and the master of the manor.” He kissed her fingers. His breath warmed her flesh, and for one moment she thought his tongue touched her skin. “I’m not a prince, but still, I insist. Stay at the manor with me.”

  Three

  Don’t just aim high, reach oot and grab some happiness along the way.

  —THE OLD MEN OF FREYA CRAGS

  Clarice wrenched her hand back. No. The most handsome man in town couldn’t also be the most powerful. He couldn’t be.

  But as she looked into Lord Hepburn’s eyes, she realized—of course he was. He exuded authority. Her luck had indeed taken a turn for the worse—but she had talked her way out of more desperate situations. “I wouldn’t dream of imposing on your hospitality.”

  “To have a lovely woman visit in my lonely home is not an imposition.” Lord Hepburn’s voice was mild, deep, and implacable, and he looked just like he sounded.

  She could only hope she didn’t look like she sounded, for her voice sounded dismayed and breathless. “It wouldn’t be proper.” The place where his tongue had touched was damp, and the breeze cooled her skin. She flexed her fingers to get rid of the sensation.

  “I have sisters and a myriad of servants to chaperone us.” His blue eyes were framed in lashes as black as his hair, and he scrutinized her inexorably, like a man keeping watch over a treasure.

  She didn’t want to be his treasure. She could not be any man’s treasure. “My business affairs would interrupt the peace of your household.”

  “I always welcome visitors from the town, especially the ladies, and you—you’re special. You’re a princess.” He cast a smile around at the women who had pressed close to hear their interchange.

  Susceptible to his charm, the women tittered like a flock of wrens drunk on berries.

  Clarice couldn’t detect one smidgeon of sarcasm in him, but she knew that beneath the deep, respectful tone, cynicism was there. He didn’t believe she was a princess. But for some dark, inexplicable reason of his own, he invited her into his home. “I—”

  Miss Rosabel pinched Clarice’s elbow again, hard enough to bruise her.

  Clarice recognized a signal when she received one. She had to capitulate. He had won this round, but nothing in her life was ever as difficult as the next two words she spoke. “Thank you.” She smiled at him, her best royal, gracious smile. “That is so kind. If you want to ride ahead, I’ll conduct my business and follow later.”

  “I’ll wait.” He smiled back with lofty civility. “I would hate for you to…go astray.”

  “So kind,” she repeated. She hated him for insinuating that she would skip town if she could.

  Well, he was right. She would if she could. All her instincts were rumbling. This was the wrong time and the wrong place to sell her wares. But if she didn’t succeed in Freya Crags, she faced a bout of hunger and perhaps a stint in the workhouse. No, she didn’t dare think of leaving, regardless of what her instincts told her.

  She tried to ignore him as she descended from the platform, but he, damnable man, caught her hand and assisted her down. With gentlemanly grace, he assisted Miss Rosabel too, and then retreated to the back of the crowd.

  Miss Rosabel disappeared into the seamstress’s shop as Clarice attended to the women who crowded close, their coins clutched in their hands. She sold fourteen jars of face cream to fourteen eager patrons, and tried to speak to each of the other women who lingered close. She recognized their type from other towns, other sales. They were intimidated by her royal status, didn’t feel comfortable enough to speak to her directly, and perhaps hadn’t the coin to buy her wares. But she worked hard to set them at ease. After all, they couldn’t buy if they labored under the fear that they would say the wrong thing. She had to make them comfortable.

  The sad-faced lady stood off to the side, watching with wide brown eyes and saying nothing. Clarice noted the quality of the lady’s gown; she wasn’t one of the townspeople, yet Clarice was sure she could help the lady with her dress, which was drab, and her manner, which was apprehensive. But despite repeated charming smiles, the lady did not move forward.

  Nor did she leave.

  As the crowd thinned, Lord Hepburn strolled back to Clarice.

  The women of the village stepped back, allowing him passage, yet they stayed close enough to inhale the excitement of having royalty in their midst.

  He was tall, almost a foot taller than she, and his somber suit emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. She didn’t feel threatened. Not with violence. But he overwhelmed her every sense, and he didn’t seem to try. He blocked the sky with his height. His scent was clean and fresh, and his touch…she’d already suffered his touch, and she didn’t relish experiencing it again.

  “Are you ready?
” he asked.

  His voice caused a frisson up her spine. “Not quite.” He had forced her hand in the matter of her lodgings, yet she modulated her voice as her grandmother had taught her and made one last attempt to free herself from his dominion. “I always ask the ladies to visit me so I can demonstrate my unguents and creams. You wouldn’t like me to do so in your home…would you?”

  The sad-faced lady stepped forward and slipped her arm through Lord Hepburn’s. “I’d be glad to act as your hostess.”

  Clarice was surprised, but Hepburn looked astonished. “Millicent, would you really? That would be grand.” He stared down at the woman with affection, the kind that comes from a long-standing familiarity.

  Millicent must be his wife. Well. That made Clarice’s stay at MacKenzie Manor more respectable, indeed. She would be glad to stay there knowing that the man with the compelling eyes would be occupied at night with a woman he held in such esteem.

  But her informant in the town hadn’t mention he was married. With a jolt Clarice realized—no, Millicent wasn’t his wife. She was his sister. His older sister—poor thing. On closer inspection Clarice could see the resemblance. Millicent’s hair was brown and twisted tightly into a bun, her yellow gown turned her complexion sallow, and the features that sat so aristocratically on Lord Hepburn looked merely too large on her long face.

  Not that a new coiffure and a touch of cosmetics couldn’t change matters, as well as lessons in how to walk and talk and smile. With some humor Clarice realized she was already measuring Millicent for a new gown. That, perhaps, was the reason behind Millicent’s offer to act as hostess. She was dissatisfied with herself, and wanted to change—and best of all, she had the money to pay handsomely.

  Very well. Clarice could help her.

  But what was behind Clarice’s own inexplicable relief at discovering Lord Hepburn was unattached?

  She didn’t like this. She didn’t like it at all. She was always in control of her emotions, always focused on her goal, and now this man disrupted her concentration by observing her as if he saw through her clothing and her masks right down to her bones. No, worse. Right down to her soul.

  He smiled down at Millicent, and in a tone friendlier than he had yet used around Clarice, he said, “This is my sister, Lady Millicent. Lady Millicent, may I present Princess Clarice.”

  The two women bobbed curtsies.

  “It’s a privilege, Your Highness.” Millicent’s voice was pleasant, modulated, and her gaze met Clarice’s without artifice.

  “Thank you for your generosity, my lady,” Clarice answered. “The time you’ll spend hostessing for me must surely take time away from your other activities.”

  “It’s quiet in the country, and we beg for company.” Millicent smiled, and the smile transformed her from a plain woman into one of unusual beauty. “Besides, we’re about to be invaded by most of the ton. We’re giving a ball, and it is a very special ball. You see—”

  Robert made an almost imperceptible gesture.

  Millicent continued gracefully. “I am not accomplished at arranging these things.”

  That hadn’t been what she was about to say.

  “I suppose, Your Highness, that you are a great planner of balls,” Millicent said.

  “I…yes, I am.”

  “I imagine all princesses are,” Robert injected.

  His tone got under her skin. “Precisely. I was in training to care for the palaces I would one day rule, and Grandmamma would not have it bandied about that any of her relations were incompetent.”

  With a sweetness that seemed a part of her character, Millicent said, “I would so appreciate your assistance. Our younger sister will be making her debut at the ball. She’s a little unsure, and she would never forgive me if I allowed you to stay anywhere but at MacKenzie Manor.”

  As Lord Hepburn grimaced in disgust, he looked almost like a normal brother. “Prudence has gone mad with dresses and hair and hats. I’ll be buying royal cream by the gallon.”

  “The smallest amount works miracles, and for a girl about to make her debut, even that may be too much.” Clarice smiled conspiratorially at Millicent. “I find that when I make the young too beautiful, those of us who aren’t so young grow irritable.”

  “Prudence would be the first to tell you she’s difficult.” Millicent folded her hands and pruned her lips, but her eyes twinkled with humor. “I would be the second.”

  Startled into a chuckle, Clarice realized she could like the other woman. And liking was always dangerous; in her business, it was best not to become attached to any person for any reason. It made the leaving so much more difficult.

  “So it’s settled.” Lord Hepburn again looked appropriately solemn and not at all like he’d won—again. “Millicent will be the hostess for your gatherings, you’ll assist Prudence with her debut, the ladies in the town shall have a jolly time—and you’ll come to my ball.”

  Clarice breathed in a great breath, careful to make no sound, yet needing the fortification. “To the ball? I didn’t say I would come to the ball.” That would be disaster.

  “But you’re a princess.”

  Clarice chewed her lower lip. He was toying with her, she could see that. Sometimes the truth would disarm such a villain. “Pardon me, my lord, but I’m sure you understand that a princess who sells creams brings disgrace on her country.” And if this princess were seen by the wrong people, it would more than disgrace. It would bring imprisonment, lynching, and death.

  Blaize tossed his head and made an impatient sound.

  “The horse will stand for only so long,” he said. “We’ll discuss your attendance on the ride.”

  Recalled to her obligations, Clarice said, “I’d like to talk to Miss Rosabel in private. Give her some hints on how to improve her hair and dress.”

  Lord Hepburn’s eyebrows rose. “But she hasn’t paid you.”

  “Sometimes a princess has to be kind to those less fortunate.” Clarice’s voice contained little of the gentle loftiness Grandmother had taught her a royal always used.

  “Of course.” He gestured Clarice toward the seamstress’s shop. “Take your time.” With the kind of pleasure only a man who loved horses could show, he said, “I’ll walk your colt.”

  “Do be careful,” Clarice said with relish. “He doesn’t like men.”

  Offering his hand to the stallion, Lord Hepburn stood perfectly still as the horse sniffed his fingers, his arm, his shoulder, and then nuzzled his ear. Lord Hepburn caressed the soft nose of her stallion. “I think we’ll get along.”

  Fie on the horse! He gentled only for women—and most women were afraid to go near him. Now this man who reeked of nobility, cynicism, and an indefinable masculinity held Blaize by the reins and petted him as if he were a tame dog, when in fact Blaize was—Clarice ran her finger under the tight collar of her riding costume. Seeing the way Hepburn watched her, she hastily pulled her hand away. She would not behave as if she were guilty. She wasn’t guilty of anything. Not here. Not yet. “Thank you, my lord. You’re very kind.”

  Clarice walked toward the seamstress’s shop. She turned back before she had gone ten steps. “His name is Blaize. Treat him well.” She looked Lord Hepburn in the eye, demanding his consideration. “He has been abused, and he is my friend.”

  Lord Hepburn bowed before her demand. “Of course.” His attention lingered on Clarice’s hips as she hurried away. She moved with a lithe grace that held his gaze. He glanced around the square. Held the gaze of every man there. She sold the women face cream. With her bold words and small, curvaceous body, she sold the men something else entirely.

  Happiness, she had said.

  Perhaps, just perhaps, he was in the market to pay.

  Four

  Never lower yourself to dishonesty, regardless of the circumstances.

  Such behavior besmirches the shining white character of royalty and the Fleur family.

  —THE DOWAGER QUEEN OF BEAUMONTAGNE

  Yer Highnes
s.” Mistress Dubb had lingered close enough to hear the exchange. Hurrying forward, she curtsied. “Yer presence will honor my humble shop.” She shot a triumphant glance at the other women.

  Clarice gave a silent groan. She knew this woman’s type. Mistress Dubb would tell the story of the princess in her shop until the other women were ready to roast the seamstress on a spit. And Clarice needed to speak to Miss Rosabel alone. But there was no helping it; she had to show Mistress Dubb the proper courtesy. To fail would be discourteous…and eventually bad for sales. “I thank you for your kindness, to me and to Amy.”

  Mistress Dubb simpered, curtsied again, and opened the narrow green door. A variety of hats were set in the small window, all as dull and lusterless as everything in this village.

  “You’re a milliner also!” Clarice exclaimed. “How talented you are.”

  “I do me best, Yer Highness.” She flung the door wide and bobbed up and down as Clarice entered.

  In the dim interior of the shop Miss Rosabel stood by the mirror, smoothing the last of the clay off her nose and chin.

  Clarice blocked the entrance. “Turquoise is the newest fashion color in London. But you knew that, of course.” Clarice lavished a smile on the seamstress as she picked the one color most likely to complement any complexion. “I imagine you’re working on hats and gowns of that color right now.”

  Mistress Dubb took a breath. “Aye. Aye! In the back.”

  “I’ll be doing a private consultation with Miss Rosabel now.” Gently she pushed Mistress Dubb away. “Of course, you’ll have your turn later. I’m sure you understand.” She shut the door on Mistress Dubb’s blossoming smile.

  “That was skillful.” Miss Rosabel stepped out of the shadows. “The old biddy will brag about your kindness for a fortnight.”

  Her hostility was palpable, her tone scornful, for Miss Rosabel was, in fact, Clarice’s younger sister, seventeen years of age. She was Princess Amy of Beaumontagne.

  Before she answered, Clarice switched to German. Changing languages as they spoke was something she and Amy did frequently—it kept their linguistic skill thriving and befuddled anyone who might be listening. “I am a princess, and I do try to be kind.”