Some Enchanted Evening: The Lost Princesses #1

by Christina Dodd

  Yet now, as she faced this man, she recognized the stirrings of disorderly infatuation.

  His voice was low, reasonable, and civilized. “Please, ma’am, be assured I hold you in the deepest respect. Yet I know that men are drawn to you, and I imagine a good number of them see no reason to restrain their baser desires. Since you’re not protected by marriage or family, they believe you are fair game.”

  She nodded once stiffly. “A refined way of putting it.”

  “I have a great need for your services to entertain and…ah…make the ladies handsome, and I suspect you’ll find this ball a fertile and profitable endeavor.”

  Ah, he did know what to say to entice her! “Yes, thank you, my lord. I have decided to remain and do as you require—as long as I may sell my creams to your guests.” For while he might promise to pay her to stay, she knew better than to trust an aristocrat’s generosity.

  “Good. Good.” He smiled that amused, patronizing smile that revealed he had never doubted she would yield to his will. “You may call me Robert.”

  Her hackles rose, and she answered without thinking what sort of restitution he would demand. “You may call me Your Highness.”

  “A privilege granted to few, I’m sure.” With mocking deliberation he added, “Your Highness.”

  His tone made her all too aware she had stooped to a condescension as great as his. She, who was usually so glib, had been inept and autocratic.

  His fault.

  Then she heard her grandmother’s voice in her head telling her that a true princess always took responsibility for her actions, and Clarice laid the blame where it belonged. On herself. I shall have to try harder. A lump of pride formed in her throat. “Actually, since I’m not in my own country, I encourage people to call me, as you have, ma’am, or Princess Clarice, or even my lady.” Never had words been harder to force out.

  Dreadful! That sounded even worse than before.

  But he pretended to be grateful when all the while his eyes glinted in that cynical manner that made her want to give in to yet another ungracious response—and slap him. “Thank you, but if you’re to attend my ball as a princess of the realm, whatever realm that is—”

  She gritted her teeth.

  “—and lend me countenance, I feel I must give you the full weight of respect for your office.” Once again he smiled, a smile as sharp as a rapier. “Your Highness.”

  She had known him only a few hours, but already she had come to hate that smile. “I cannot attend your ball.”

  He ignored her as if she’d never even spoken. “In return for your services, I promise that you’ll be protected from those ignominious men, your reputation will be polished to a shine, and when all is said and done, you’ll have enough money to immediately return to your ‘kingdom,’ should you desire, or stay here and live well for the rest of your life.”

  He must be a devil to correctly read her desires. But she had to object. “To attend the ball given for so great a hero as Colonel Ogley would bring on me an attention that could be dangerous.”

  “I’ll keep you safe.”

  That voice. Those words. This proved he was a devil, for all these last lonely, difficult years, she’d dreamed of a man saying that to her.

  Worse, she must be a fool, for she believed him. “You’re promising a great deal.”

  “I am. I always keep my promises.” Leaning far out of the saddle, he took her hand and squeezed it. “But in return you’ll do as I require.”

  “Before I agree to that, you’ll tell me everything you wish me to do.”

  “When the time comes.” Lifting her hand to his mouth, he kissed her glove.

  That circumspect salute through a covering of leather should have felt less seductive than the kiss he had earlier pressed on her bare hand.

  If anything, it was more seductive. It brought to mind a whole scope of dissipations involving the slow strip of her leather glove from her fingers. The removal of all her clothes from her body. His lips moving everywhere on pale skin and sensitive nerves.

  She yanked her hand back.

  She didn’t comprehend why he wanted her at his ball, but she did know he desired her body, and demonstrated his need boldly. He watched her with those glorious blue eyes and managed to convey both aggression and passion. And she…she wanted both to skitter away and move closer.

  The man was a sensual weapon.

  “Please tell me what it is you want of me.” That was too blunt and sounded vaguely…well, it sounded like a question a courtesan would ask.

  He knew it too, for he smiled at her. Smiled in a way that had her once again think about the open road and how easy it would be to ride away and never look back.

  “It would be easier if you spelled out the duties you want me to assume as your resident beauty maker.”

  He still smiled and, of course, answered evasively. “For now you have only to be kind to Millicent, be patient with Prudence, and handle my relatives, who are descending on us even as we speak. Keep the girl-cousins entertained. There are scores of them, and when the lasses giggle in that high-pitched tone, they can shatter glass.”

  “You aren’t being completely honest with me.”

  “When the time comes, I’ll let you know what I require of you.” He looked deep into her eyes, so deep she wanted to protect the dim, almost forgotten corners of her soul. Softly he repeated, “When the time comes.”

  Eight

  Never smile. It causes smile lines.

  —THE DOWAGER QUEEN OF BEAUMONTAGNE

  Hepburn hadn’t been exaggerating. He did have a lot of girl-cousins. And girlfriends of those cousins, and girlfriends of his sisters, and kin so distantly related, the kinship couldn’t be explained with a single breath. All of those girls had mothers, and all of them had arrived that afternoon to prepare for the ball honoring the renowned hero Colonel Ogley—and to prepare for their debuts.

  Wisely their fathers and brothers had gone fishing.

  Clarice sat a little apart, sipped her tea, and gazed across the huge dressing room filled with ruffles and bows, beads and feathers. She listened to the clink of cups and the sound of female conversation, watched as the girls pounced on the teatime sandwiches and cakes, and found herself relaxing about Hepburn’s intentions. Because he really did need her to entertain, assist, and organize.

  Hepburn’s sister Prudence was useless. A pretty, curvaceous blonde of seventeen, she fit right into the giggling, shrieking crowd of young women.

  Nor was Millicent of any aid. Since the girls and their mothers saw no reason to respect a plain, unassuming, and unmarried lady, they ran rampant over Millicent’s suggestions and pleas.

  Now Clarice watched as Millicent stepped over mounds of shoes, separated two of the girls who were loudly disputing the ownership of a bonnet, and pressed a handkerchief into Miss Symlen’s hand so she could wipe her incipient tears. While she paused, Lady Blackston roundly informed her that the menus needed to be planned this minute. This minute!

  When at last Millicent arrived at the place where Clarice sat a little apart from the others, Clarice said in a mock-haughty tone, “You have been remarkably lax about planning this ball. It’s a good thing your relatives have descended on you en masse or you would never have it done in time.”

  Millicent sagged against the wall and laughed hollowly. “But Lady Blackston’s right. I should have the dinner planned by now.”

  “Silly you, not to realize they would arrive four days early.” Clarice pressed a cup of tea into Millicent’s hands and a plate filled with lemon cakes. “Now sit down and drink your tea.”

  Millicent dropped into the chair beside her and laughed a little more naturally. “Yes. Silly me.”

  Clarice scanned the crowd. She’d already memorized most of the names.

  There was Lady White, an austere woman whose daughter, the thoughtful Lady Lorraine, watched the proceedings with calm interest.

  Mrs. Symlen’s gracious smile hid a smug determination to
place her sixteen-year-old daughter, Miss Georgia Symlen, into society and marriage long before that immature child was ready to leave the classroom.

  Miss Diantha Erembourg, plain and sulky, was there without a parent; her mother was in Italy, touring with her second husband, and her grandmother, old Lady Mercer, chaperoned four granddaughters, including Diantha.

  Beautiful Mrs. Trumbull was outshone only by her daughter, Miss Larissa Trumbull, a type of female Clarice recognized and did not like. Larissa was pale and willowy, with shining black hair and large doelike brown eyes that she could widen to attract the gentlemen or narrow to frighten off any competitors. She would be the belle of the ball no matter how many bodies she had to step on on the way, and Machiavelli himself could not outmaneuver her.

  And there were more. So many more.

  “Are these all of the ladies,” Clarice asked, “or will more arrive on the morrow?”

  Millicent sipped her tea and ate one of the cakes, then with a little more composure said quietly, “I believe we’re missing only Lady Barnelby and her five daughters, but what difference will six more make?”

  “What difference, indeed? So I shall entertain them tonight.”

  Millicent blew her straggling hair out of her eyes. “That would be wonderful. So I can…I can plan that dinner with Cook!”

  “If there’s one thing I know, it’s how to capture the attention of vain young girls.” Clarice scanned the matrons who sat, heads together, in the middle of the room. “And their aging mothers.”

  Millicent glanced at the older ladies too, and lowered her voice yet further. “They haven’t spoken to you yet. They’re leaving you strictly alone, but they’re eyeing you. Will they plague you, do you suppose?”

  “No.” Clarice sounded, and was, sure of herself. “They haven’t made up their minds about me yet.”

  “I told them you were a princess.”

  “I know.” Clarice had noted the sideways glances, heard the hissed whispers. “The young girls want to believe it. The older ladies doubt my word. Even if I told them the name of my country, they would have reservations. It’s not until they speak with me and learn what I can teach them, that they will begin to believe, too.”

  As if she were ashamed to repeat the accusation, Millicent whispered, “Lady Blackston said she went to a house party and met another woman who claimed to be a princess, and in the morning, the woman had stolen everyone’s reticule.”

  “I have never yet stolen anyone’s reticule. When they use my royal creams, they freely open their reticules to me. Don’t worry, Lady Millicent, before the evening’s out I’ll have them feeding from my palms.”

  Millicent gave a sigh of relief—and admiration. “I wish I could emulate your confidence.”

  “You can.” Clarice patted Millicent’s arm. “Before the ball you shall.”

  “Oh.” Shaking her head, Millicent stood up as if putting distance between her and Clarice would help. “No, not me. You must save your magic for the youthful girls who will win every heart.”

  “But then it’s not magic, is it?” Clarice smiled. “You don’t want to hurt my feelings by refusing my services.”

  Millicent gave a nervous snort. “You jest.”

  “Not at all. I like to help my friends.”

  “I…well, thank you.” Millicent looked flustered, pleased, and dismayed. “I had hoped…I mean, I thought perhaps we could be—”

  “Friends?” Clarice said warmly. “I think we already are.”

  “Yes. I think we are too.” Millicent smiled, a slow, beautiful smile quite unlike her brother’s derisive grimace. “But don’t waste your valuable time on me. If you’ll entertain these women tonight, that would be kindness aplenty. I don’t know what I would do without you.” As if she could scarcely wait to escape, she fled the room.

  Clarice clapped her hands. No one paid a bit of attention. The girls continued to tumble over each other like anxious puppies, wrapping themselves in shawls and trying ever more ridiculous hairstyles. Their mothers saw no need to award their consideration to a woman who claimed to be a princess from some unknown country, and continued with their conversations.

  Lifting her teacup, Clarice tapped it with her spoon until she had captured some of the younger girls’ attention. “Ladies, we shall make our way to the conservatory, where I’ll show you some activities to make yourself look fresh even after dancing the night away, and tell you about the newest styles from Paris.”

  The girls stared at Clarice like frogs being lured to a new lily pad.

  “Many of you are tanned from your travels.” Clarice was careful not to allow her gaze to rest on any face in particular. “I have an unguent that will help remove those stains.”

  Like offended cats, the mothers sat straighter.

  Clarice played her trump card. “But first I’ll show you how to clear your complexion and hide the freckles on your noses.”

  The shriek of rapture that rose from every throat made Clarice flinch and take a step toward the door.

  Hepburn was right. Their high-pitched voices and the scent of their perfumes could easily drive a sane man to madness—and uneasily Clarice remembered that Hepburn’s sanity had been already been called into question.

  But she thought him quite sane. Probably. Only ruthless and…dynamic.

  And she thought about him far too much for a man she’d met that very day.

  Tearing her mind away from contemplation of him, she glanced at the clock on the mantel. In ringing tones she said, “I shall see you in the conservatory at seven o’clock.” Slowly and carefully she articulated, “In the conservatory at seven o’clock. Did everyone hear me?”

  “In the conservatory at seven o’clock,” a few of the younger ladies repeated.

  Most of them, Clarice knew, would be late, but they would be there. The sum total of the girls’ ambition was to be just like everyone else. Vaguely Clarice remembered a time when she wanted nothing more than the anonymity of being normal too. Now she just wanted to make it through the next week without being hung by her neck until dead—and without spending more time in Hepburn’s company.

  Slipping from the room, she strolled toward the conservatory and spoke to the first footman she encountered. “Greetings, my good man. May I inquire as to your name?”

  “Ma’am? Um, Your Highness? I’m…um…” The red-cheeked lad couldn’t have been more than sixteen, and as his stocking slid down his skinny, hairy leg, he tugged it back up and stuck it beneath his powder-blue breeches. “I’m Norval.”

  “Norval.” She committed his name to memory. Whatever home she visited, she always made sure the servants liked her and wished to do her bidding. One never knew when one might need a fire made up—or to make a fast escape. “I need to have the candles in the conservatory lit, and, Norval, I think you are the man to help me.”

  “Of course, Your Highness. I am, Your Highness.” He beamed so much, she considered using him for illumination.

  “Thank you, Norval. I knew I could depend on you.” With a smile she walked down the corridor and into the conservatory.

  Her casual air comprised part of her confident masquerade, one she always cultivated. She was gracious and made everyone around her feel at ease, and drew the Millicents of the world out of their shells.

  Beauty was easy so much of the time. If a woman thought she was beautiful, and smiled and was gracious, she became beautiful. It was all a trick, one that Clarice knew well, one she would impart tonight to those who would listen.

  She looked with satisfaction at the conservatory, easily the most welcoming room in MacKenzie Manor. The sun had not yet set, and golden light filled the glass-enclosed chamber. Violets and pinks bloomed together in small pots, while in larger pots pink damask roses grew over short trellises. A dwarf peach tree had been trained flat against the wall, and its espaliered limbs bore small green fruit.

  The servants had already placed sofas and chairs in among the flowers, facing the table that Claric
e had covered with a lace cloth and with balms and creams, hairpins and swaths of cloth. Now Norval entered with three more footmen, and swiftly they lit the candles set around the room. Before she had finished with the ladies, she would need the light, and the gentle illumination would make her task easier. A woman never looked so fair as by the light of a gently glowing candle.

  She thanked each one of the footmen, noting that Norval was easily the youngest footman and therefore the most malleable—important, should she have to leave MacKenzie Manor without Hepburn’s sanction.

  Humming, she arranged the jars. She had done this presentation at least a hundred times, before ladies and peasants alike, yet whenever she picked a girl out of the crowd and fixed her hair and clothes, made her sit up straight and smile, Clarice saw hope blossom on a young face.

  Amy thought they did nothing but bilk their patrons out of their money. Amy pointed to the times they’d had to leave town just ahead of the lynch mob. But Clarice knew that for some of those girls her instruction made them see themselves in a new light, and perhaps changed their lives.

  She would do it again this evening. She had already picked out the lucky lass. Miss Diantha Erembourg flounced and sulked, wore the wrong color and the wrong hairstyle. Tonight she would be transformed into a lovely lady—and tomorrow she would buy every ointment Clarice offered her.

  Down the corridor Clarice heard the hum of voices and the tap of footsteps. They were coming, filing into the conservatory and jockeying for the best position in the room. She waited until most of them had seated themselves, then used the line that always caught their attention. “I can cure your spots. I can dress your hair. I can tell you about the fashions that are au courant. But why bother with such prosaic transformations, when I can make you beautiful?”

  Lady Mercer, outspoken, deaf, and seventy, brayed, “Can you make me beautiful?”