Hepburn nodded weightily. “So I thought. And it would be churlish of this guest to refuse to participate in such a social event, would it not?”
Clarice clutched a jar to her chest and wished she could throw it at him.
“That would be an indication of false pride. Understandable, but the good host would find a way to make the guest feel at ease.” Mrs. Trumbull’s eyes gleamed with the craving for gossip. “My lord, what would be the moniker of this gentleman?”
“Gentleman?” Hepburn blinked in simulated astonishment. “Not a gentleman at all! It is our own Princess Clarice who is so modest she refuses my invitation to the ball.”
Thump! Larissa’s elbow hit her mother’s ribs.
Mrs. Trumbull flinched. She stammered, “But…she…Princess Clarice…”
“I agree,” Hepburn said. “Princess Clarice is more noble than anyone who is attending my ball. Her exile is shameful, and her presence is necessary. Yet she’s shy and so fears to presume, she has begged to retire rather than attend. But, Mrs. Trumbull, your kind reception to her has undoubtedly changed her mind.”
Every eye focused on Clarice.
“Jolly!” Prudence clapped her hands. She elbowed her friends and nodded at the fuming Larissa.
Miss Diantha Erembourg took her cue immediately. “Yes, jolly, indeed, Princess Clarice! We do so want you to come.”
One of her cousins, Lady Alice Igglesworth, followed suit. “It wouldn’t be fun without you, Your Highness. Say you’ll be there.”
“See, Princess Clarice?” Hepburn spread his hands to indicate their audience. “All of your worries were for nothing.”
Clarice didn’t dare look at him for fear he would be smirking in revolting triumph. With an incline of her head she said, “Thank you for your generous welcome. Of course I’ll attend. I’m…honored to attend.”
Taking her hand, he kissed her fingers. He wasn’t smirking. He was serious and intent. In a low tone he said, “Your Highness, remember this. I will have my way.”
Ten
The road t’ hell is paved with guid intentions, so ye might as well supply a few bricks.
—THE OLD MEN OF FREYA CRAGS
In the twilight of a Scottish spring Robert stared at the letter in his hand. He had read the flagrantly scrawled script many times, yet still he could scarcely comprehend its message.
I send to you good tidings. I have married. The stain of my disgrace is washed away by Holy Mother Church, and my child now has a father. But My Beloved wishes me to remain at his side here in Spain, and so I cannot travel to your barbaric Scotland and do your bidding….
To have come so close, and to be thwarted now!
Robert struck his fist against the surface of the desk, then cursed the pain he had caused himself. Fury would avail him nothing. This problem required cold, ruthless planning—and his scheme qualified as both.
As the clock struck nine, he heard the patter of feet down the corridor toward Millicent’s drawing room. Hastily he folded the letter and tucked it in his jacket.
He heard Millicent speaking, Princess Clarice’s faintly accented reply, and…oh, no. His younger sister’s voice.
Prudence was tagging along.
He had invited Millicent. Millicent was a sensible woman. Her behavior in any situation could be accurately predicted.
He had invited Princess Clarice. He needed Princess Clarice. Needed her for his plan to work. Needed to ascertain her skills and coax her, if possible, or blackmail her, if necessary, to do his bidding.
But Prudence was like a midge, randomly buzzing from place to place, causing such irritation, he wanted to swat her. Yet if he did, he knew very well she would dissolve into such a wailing, he would pay for the next month, and mayhap forever.
Besides, he was not their father, and he would not indulge in the malicious acts and words that had so scarred the family.
He was not his father.
As the ladies stepped in, he stood and bowed with perfect civility to each.
Holding out her hands, Millicent came across and embraced him so gingerly, it was as if she feared he was his father. “Robert, this is so good of you to take an interest in our ball.”
“The Hero of the Peninsula is gracing our house with his presence even as my dear younger sister”—he leaned down and accepted Prudence’s enthusiastic buss on the cheek—“makes her bow in society. I can think of nothing I would rather do more than to assist in every way possible.” He glanced up to see if his professions of devotion impressed Princess Clarice.
Apparently not, for she stood with her hands folded demurely before her and a suspicious pucker to her lips. A pucker that smoothed as soon as she realized his gaze was on her.
“Is your scar still hidden?” Prudence lifted his bangs. “It is! Princess Clarice is very clever. She’s been selling jars of royal secret creams and royal secret unguents ever since you left!”
“And the royal secret color emulsion too, I’ll wager.” Again he glanced at Princess Clarice.
Why did she not trust in his professions of affection? His sisters believed him. Had Millicent even realized that the years of war, violence, and betrayal had dragged him into a dark and unbearable pit? No, she didn’t. She thought all was well because he took care that it seemed well.
“No, no one has the audacity to buy it from her.” Prudence stuck out her bottom lip. “I wanted some to cover my freckles, but when you had left, Mrs. Trumbull started whispering again about strumpets and girls who had spots as divine punishment.”
He had loved his sisters once. Distantly he thought that somewhere the emotion still lurked in him. But he couldn’t feel it, and so love and all the attendant anxieties and joys were dead to him.
Yet he put on a good show. Why didn’t Princess Clarice believe the proof before her eyes?
And why was he so sure she didn’t believe it?
Prudence continued. “No one dares to thwart that beastly woman.”
“It’s of no concern. I predict I’ll be called to visit almost everyone in the privacy of their bedchambers.” Princess Clarice’s eyes twinkled. “No one knows what happens within.”
She was such an interesting female: wise about human nature and at the same time accepting of their foibles. She saw humor where Robert saw hypocrisy—but of course, she was a hypocrite too. A trickster. A peddler of dreams. “What fascinating creatures women are,” he said.
“We are,” Prudence proclaimed pretentiously.
“At least we like to think so,” Princess Clarice stage-whispered.
Millicent chuckled.
Robert stared at his sister in surprise. The years he’d been gone had placed a dull sheen over Millicent and her personality. She’d never been a pretty woman, but now she looked tired all the time, as if the perpetuity of dealing with their father had aged her. Robert blamed their father’s relentless displeasure. He blamed himself for leaving her alone. Yet what choice had there been?
But under Princess Clarice’s care, Millicent seemed happier and more secure.
Or perhaps her transformation was due less to Princess Clarice’s company than to Princess Clarice’s arts. He examined Millicent’s face in the candlelight. She didn’t look noticeably different.
Seeing the chance to draw Princess Clarice out, he said, “So, Your Highness, you’ll be transforming every lady into a belle.”
“Some ladies need more transforming than others.” Prudence tittered. “Like Mrs. Trumbull. You couldn’t possibly make her appealing to all the men. The gentlemen say she’s a wolverine.”
“Prudence. That is no sentiment for a lass!” But Millicent’s voice was unsteady, as if she wanted to laugh.
Prudence flounced at the reproof. “It’s true. You know it is, Millie. You’ve heard the gentlemen talking. You told me you had.”
Millicent pleated her handkerchief. “I didn’t mean for you to inform anyone.”
“This isn’t anyone. This is Robert and Princess Clarice. They don’t
mind”—Prudence swung from one to the other—“do you?”
“I find gossip endlessly fascinating and enlightening,” Princess Clarice admitted. “However, repeating Lady Millicent’s observation could hurt her socially. I don’t think you’d like that, Prue.”
Not noticeably chastened, Prudence said, “No! I wouldn’t, and I won’t repeat it again—but it’s true. All the men think she’s appalling, and none of them like her nose-in-the-air snobbery.”
Robert lifted his brows. “So Her Highness can’t make Mrs. Trumbull appealing to the gentlemen.”
“With enough freely distributed liquor I could,” Princess Clarice said crisply.
A gust of amusement caught Robert by surprise—and he laughed. Laughed out loud, a brief bark of irrepressible humor. He hadn’t laughed since…he didn’t remember the last time. Before he left for the Peninsula, he supposed. Before savage deeds and betrayal had stripped him of gaiety. If he had thought about it, he would have said the instinct of mirth had died in him.
But although it pained him, like blood flowing to a frozen limb, Princess Clarice had resurrected the impulse.
Amazing. Impossible.
Terrifying.
His gaze narrowed on her. Damn her. She made his senses stir. All of his senses, and at a time when he required complete control over his mind and his heart.
She was dangerous. That was something to remember.
And she was necessary to his plan. Something else to remember. “But you can’t change a woman’s appearance to make her unrecognizable.” He hoped the challenge would make her rise to the bait. “That’s ridiculous.”
A smile played around her lips, and she shrugged modestly. “I make a woman—or a man—look better than they have before, but that’s nothing more than enhancing their superior traits.”
Prudence wasn’t interested in Princess Clarice’s decorous response. She demanded, “But can you change a person to look like someone else?”
Cautiously Princess Clarice admitted, “Within reason, yes.”
That was the answer Robert had hoped to hear.
“That’s fascinating!” Prudence bubbled. “Can you make me look like Larissa Trumbull?”
Millicent wrinkled her nose. “Why would you want to?”
“Because she’s the belle!” Prudence used an impatient, patronizing adolescent tone of voice that made Robert want to send her to her room.
Princess Clarice said, “Miss Trumbull is the belle only until the gentlemen learn that she’s a younger version of her mother. And a younger wolverine is more likely to tear out your throat, Lady Prudence. Remember—a gentleman of sense likes a lady who smiles and puts him at ease, not one who cries at breakfast and demands constant tending.”
Like the silly lass she was, Prudence tried to argue. “But—”
“I said a gentleman of sense.”
Robert wondered if she deemed him a gentleman of sense.
She continued. “And, Lady Prudence, why would you want any other kind of gentleman?” Princess Clarice reconsidered her words. “Well, except to dance with. Men of sense always seem to be able to remember the most difficult intricacies of politics and not the simplest dance steps. But don’t worry, Lady Prudence, you’ll have all the attention from the gentlemen, sensible or not, that you could desire.”
“I don’t know,” Prudence muttered, “I desire an awful lot.”
Millicent chuckled again, a gay, lilting sound that made Robert realize how very solemn his house had been since his return. “I’ve been telling her so,” Millicent confided, “but she doesn’t listen to a mere sister.”
As if reminded of a grievance, easy tears rose in Prudence’s large blue eyes. “Robert, a most dreadful situation has arisen. Millicent won’t let me dampen my gown for the ball.”
“Oh, no, young lady.” Millicent shook her finger at her sister. “You’re not dragging Robert into this.”
Prudence ignored her and wheedled, “Please, dear brother, you’ll give your permission, won’t you? All the other girls are doing it.”
Millicent took on a combative posture. “All the other girls are most certainly not doing it. Only the girls whose family don’t love them enough to put a halt to their flightiness.”
Prudence folded her arms across her chest. “That’s not true. Bernice is dampening her gown.”
“Bernice is a spoiled brat,” Millicent said.
“What do you think, Your Highness?” Prudence demanded in a petulant voice. “Shouldn’t I be allowed to dampen my gown?”
“It’s your debut. Your night,” Princess Clarice said warmly. “You should be allowed to do anything you like—”
Millicent’s eyes grew big. Her mouth opened.
Robert placed a restraining hand on her shoulder.
“—no matter how damaging to your reputation,” Princess Clarice concluded.
“Damaging?” Clearly Prudence had never expected to hear that from the smart, daring princess. “It wouldn’t be damaging. It would be fashionable.”
Princess Clarice gave the slightest shrug. “You wish to dampen your gown so that the material is transparent, isn’t that right?”
“As the French do,” Prudence said.
Princess Clarice retorted, “The French also cut off the heads of aristocratic young ladies and eat truffles that are dug up by pigs.”
The genuine bitterness of her tone startled Robert, and even Millicent looked taken aback. “You’re very harsh.”
“Their revolution caught all of Europe on fire, and while they bow to the tyrant Napoleon, the rest of us who were caught up in the flames still live in exile, scrambling to make a living while we wait in vain to be called back to—” As Princess Clarice almost betrayed the name of her country, she caught a distraught breath.
Robert would have sworn she bit her tongue, and he rather admired her acting ability. More and more it appeared he had made an excellent choice.
Certainly Millicent and Prudence were wide-eyed at her virulence.
But when Princess Clarice lifted her gaze once more, her face was smooth and tranquil.
She had hidden depths and secret passions. He would be wise to remember that—he dared not have her lose the game for him in a temper.
She said, “But, Lady Prudence, we were talking about your gown. I have some silver braid in my chamber that is all the rage in London. If you would like, I can show you how to place it for the best advantage. With your dark hair and your blue gown, it would be most striking.”
“All right.” Prudence sounded subdued, and she watched Princess Clarice as if troubled by her explosion.
Millicent wrapped her arm through Prudence’s, and coaxed, “My silk shawl is just the thing to finish the outfit. Shall we see how it matches?”
“Go on. Her Highness and I will discuss the ball without your able assistance, and let you know what we’ve decided.” No one would ever know he had every intention of using the princess in a nefarious plan. So much depended on its success. If it did not, the man to whom Robert owed his life would suffer and probably hang, and Robert himself would slowly sink into the depths of hell.
But perhaps…he was there already.
Coming out from behind his desk, he offered the princess his arm. “We shall walk where we can be seen and thus put an end to all rumors of a romance.”
Lightly Princess Clarice placed her hand on his arm.
“I doubt that.” Millicent’s gaze lingered on them. “Not when you’re the most eligible gentleman here.”
“For the moment,” he admitted. “The advent of other gentlemen will soon throw me in the shade.”
“I doubt that also,” Millicent said.
With a saucy grin Prudence declared, “Larissa declares you the Catch of the Season, and she brags she’ll trap you.”
Princess Clarice smirked.
Millicent yanked Prudence out the door and down the corridor. “Prue, you’re such a tattletale!”
He didn’t like being the brunt
of the princess’s amusement, nor did he relish being pursued like a trophy by Miss Larissa Trumbull. “I don’t care about her,” he said abruptly.
“I didn’t imagine you did.” For one moment Princess Clarice covered her smiling lips with her fingers. “Neither did I see you look away when she displayed her…er…wares.”
“Her—? Oh.” Princess Clarice surprised him by her frankness. Most ladies would never refer to the ample display of bosom Miss Trumbull had exhibited to him. But then, most ladies weren’t Princess Clarice. “Miss Trumbull has breasts like a cow.”
Princess Clarice took a startled breath.
He had surprised her in return. Good. He wished to keep her off balance. “She made me think of the village.” Leading Princess Clarice into the corridor, he went in the opposite direction of Millicent and Prudence. “Freya Crags. Freya is an old Norse name meaning lady. The village was named for the rounded twin hills that tower behind it.”
Princess Clarice stopped. Throwing back her head, she laughed. Laughed low and long, taking pleasure in his wit.
Struck dumb by the sound of her mirth, he stopped with her and stared.
She was beautiful. No matter that she was a wench of the road and a thief of uncommon daring. She was truly beautiful. He’d known she was an uncommonly attractive woman the first time he saw her; hell, every man in Freya Crags had known it, and lusted after her. But he hadn’t really plumbed the depths of her attractiveness until that moment, when she laughed with uninhibited delight.
Turning his head, he breathed in the scent of flowers and spice that wafted up from her hair. She smelled good, like springtime and, at the same time, like the kitchen on baking day. Just by closing his eyes and inhaling, a man could imagine he had a woman with an arm overflowing with roses and a hand full of cinnamon buns. The perfect woman, indeed.
When her chuckling had died down, she continued on their walk. A dimple creased her cheek as she said, “I should have known you would be thinking only of your people. You’re a very responsible man.”
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