Her eyes were wide and deep as the forest as she gazed up at him. “When you look at me like that, I want to bed you,” she said.
He choked. “What?”
She tilted her head, considering him closely. “I would think it advisable to limit ourselves to one night, in case it’s unpleasant.”
“Unpleasant.” God, no. That’s the last thing it would be . . . at least at first. Later perhaps matters might turn, but never, ever “unpleasant.”
Thankfully, they were interrupted by a great fanfare from the hall. Stanton pulled Lady Alicia from behind the plant to see a familiar robust figure step grandly into the party.
“Oh, heavens,” Alicia whispered. “Is that—”
“Oh, yes,” Stanton said grimly. “The Prince Regent himself has arrived.”
Prince George IV turned from greeting his host to see Stanton beside him. He frowned.
“Bloody hell, Wyndham. Can’t I escape you lot? Are you planning to follow me to the privy?”
“You don’t use the privy,” Stanton pointed out. “You have minions to carry your piss.” Titled minions, at that. It was supposed to be an honor to be Lord of the Royal Commode, or whatever it was called, but Stanton was deeply thankful he didn’t have to tote anyone’s offal.
George clasped his hands behind his back and glared. “Typically literal. What are you doing here?”
“I am enjoying Lord Cross’s hospitality. I brought along my mistress, just as you did.”
George blinked. “You have a mistress? I shudder to think on it. Where is she?”
Oh, hell. Perhaps he ought not to have brought Alicia to George’s attention. Buxom and lively, she was just the sort of woman to attract the Prince Regent. Although his highness’s current mistress was still quite new, lusty George had been known to keep more than one at a time. The ladies never complained.
George was waiting, so rather than call any more attention than necessary, Stanton gestured offhandedly in Alicia’s general direction. “There, in the green gown.”
George gazed curiously across the room. “The zesty redhead with the astounding figure?”
“Er . . . yes.”
George gazed at Alicia with continued appreciation. “Well, damn it, man, perhaps you do have blood running through those veins! I’d have wagered the kingdom on its being icy water.” He slid his gaze back to Stanton. “So that’s the woman who brought you to a boil, eh? Shall I beg an introduction?”
Stanton reached for any distraction. “Your highness, about your presence here—” It might be throwing oil on the fire, but anything to get George’s greedy gaze off Alicia. “With our enemy loose and possibly still nearby, you are not safe enough here.”
The warning did the trick. George’s eyes narrowed. “You think the Four have me well leashed, but you forget. There is nothing you can do to me. Steal my crown as you did my father’s? My little Charlotte is overyoung, but I’m sure my brothers can regent for her. You’ll likely have better luck with one of those puppets on your strings anyway.”
He turned slightly to bow to a nearby lady, then turned back to Stanton. “I will not be caged, Wyndham.”
A footman approached one of George’s entourage, who then whispered to another person in blinding gold braid, who then whispered to another, finally moving up the chain of command to the man allowed to whisper in the royal ear. George listened impatiently. “Very well,” he told the man, who sent the message back down the chain to Cross’s footman once more.
The musicians paused and everyone’s gaze turned to the dais at one end of the room.
Cross stood there, hands outstretched. “Esteemed guests, I am very proud to present to you our master of ceremonies, our very own Prince Regent, Prince George the Fourth—this week’s Lord of Misrule!”
Rapturous excited murmurs moved in waves about the hall. Stanton closed his eyes briefly. Bloody hell. Not only was this a week-long orgy of food and sin, but Cross had resurrected the ancient rite of Saturnalia—albeit a few weeks early.
George took the dais.
“In the finest of ancient pagan Saturnalia tradition, and in accordance with our own amusement, we must have a Lord of Misrule—one man who will set the tone of the festivities. Our king for a week—whom we must obey. One man who will embody every wicked thought, every scandalous deed—every lascivious wink!” He accompanied that with a broad and gleeful wink of his own. The gentlemen guffawed. The ladies winked back.
Stanton folded his arms, feeling ever more uncomfortable and out of his element. He longed for his quiet house, or even the cramped Chamber of the Four. Give him an international incident to resolve and he was fine, sharp and incisive. However, surround him with vivid social intercourse and his quick mind slowed and his voice had to fight past a bog of wary distance.
He tried to relax his brooding scowl, for it was imperative that he seem to be one of the mob, but those near him tended to sidle away despite his best effort.
George clasped his hands over his belly and looked benignly upon them all. “I have a surprise for you, my darlings.”
The Prince Regent slid his gaze in Stanton’s direction and smiled. It was not a friendly smile.
Oh, damn.
“As your ruler,” George pronounced, “I promise to always care for your pleasure and prosperity. That said, I fear I cannot go on. I declare that I shall abdicate my throne!”
A moment of shocked stillness followed. Stanton moved closer to George, just in case the capricious and unhappy prince meant to do something dangerous. The crowd of guests began a worried murmuring.
George raised both hands to quiet the growing hum. “Do not worry, for I have decided upon a better man to lead you all.”
Stanton stepped up on the dais, ready to stop George with physical force if necessary. He could not be allowed to toss such a torch into the current political climate. England might never recover!
Unfortunately, George seemed all too resolute. “As my last act as your ruler, I declare . . .”
Stanton was only a few yards away. Five more steps and he would be at the Prince Regent’s side.
Even as George watched Stanton’s approach from the corner of his eyes, the prince threw his hands wide. “ . . . that Lord Wyndham shall be crowned your new Lord of Misrule!”
Oh, no.
11
It was Stanton’s own personal hell on earth. That was truly the only way to describe it. Stanton stood on the dais with all eyes upon him, the Prince Regent’s arm slung across his shoulders, while everyone present waited for his reaction.
It seemed like an hour, but was likely only seconds—yet Stanton was able to fully calculate the result of various futures based on his possible reactions.
He could shrug off his prince and ruler and stalk from the room. Tempting, but what would that do to his mission? He did not wish for a certain mysterious gentleman to wonder too hard upon why Wyndham might come to this event if he wasn’t intending to take part.
He could politely try to put the crown back on George’s head.
“It’s done. You’re entirely stuck, Wyndham,” George whispered in his ear. “You might as well enjoy it.”
Close your eyes and think of England.
George was right. He was stuck. However, he absolutely refused to enjoy it.
He stepped forward, out from the unwanted embrace of the prince, and cleared his throat. He need not have bothered, for every eye in the room was fixed upon him.
“As your new Lord of Misrule, I declare the first law of Saturnalia to be . . .”
He caught sight of Alicia, who stood with one hand pressed over her mouth, her eyes wide above it. She was either trying very hard not to scream, or failing rather badly not to laugh.
Very well then. If he must, then he would serve his own purposes as well.
“I declare that until midnight tonight, everyone here must tell the absolute truth!”
He saw frowns cross several brows in the sea of faces before him. The silen
ce grew. He’d bungled it, he feared. He wasn’t accustomed to playing this sort of game.
Then Alicia leaned forward to cup her hands about her mouth.
“Then I shall go first!” Her voice carried through the nearly silent hall perfectly. “My lord prince, I fancy your very large . . . hands!”
Laughter erupted around her. “And I, your highness!”
“I too!”
“I fancy Lord Wyndham’s superior shoulders!”
The laughter and cries increased as people became more enamored of this game of bawdy confession.
Which, of course, was not quite what Stanton had in mind.
As soon as possible, Stanton slipped from the dais to stalk across the hall to where Lady Alicia stood. She was grinning at him, clearly enjoying the moment of his downfall.
“You were quite correct,” she teased. “You are indeed a complicated fellow.”
He gazed at her without expression. “You aren’t helping matters.”
She flapped a hand at him. “Oh, pish and tosh. You wanted to blend in. Now you’re blending.”
“Ruling this madness is blending in?”
“It is if everyone thinks you are playing a part instead of being your own annoying poker-up-your-arse self.”
“I don’t have a poker up my—” He shut his mouth, clenching his jaw against such a childish denial.
She patted his arm with mock sympathy. “Now, now. You wanted to pass as one of us. Now, no matter how you go on about honor and duty and all that, everyone will think it the height of irony and the party will go on.”
He gazed at her now with his head tilted. “ ‘One of us’?”
She blinked at him. “What?”
“You said, ‘You wanted to pass as one of us.’ ” He narrowed his eyes slightly. “You cannot truly think you are anything like these people?”
She looked startled, then seemed to consider the matter. “I suppose I do. After all, everyone here is wellborn or wealthy, yet lives outside the general rules of Society.”
He folded his arms. “Nonsense. Having a mind of one’s own is not synonymous with being as amoral as a cat.”
She gave him a startled look. “I . . . that is . . .” She shrugged, obviously frustrated. “Oh, bother. Just when I believe I have my own mind sorted out, you grow annoyingly perceptive!” She threw out her hands. “Then I have no recourse but to go out and prove you wrong!”
Ha. Victory stole through Stanton’s veins as he watched her stalk away, her skirts atwitch with irritation. He was taking far too much pleasure in baiting her, but the rush of triumph when he bested her was sweet indeed—
Prove him wrong?
He cast his gaze about the room urgently. She wouldn’t.
He found her in intimate conversation with that willow twig of a green boy, Lord Farrington. Her hand rested on the fellow’s lapel as she stood on tiptoe, leaning far, far too close. Farrington’s gaze fell blissfully to her bodice as he nodded eagerly to what she whispered in his ear.
Bloody, bloody hell.
He could drag her aside again, but it wouldn’t stop her. It seemed nothing short of an iceberg would stop the H.M.S. Alicia. He would do better to hang back and guard—er, observe. After all, she had made it clear she meant to speak to every gentleman on the guest list.
Every damn, bloody one.
“My dear, if I could have but a moment?” A deep fruity voice interrupted Alicia’s conversation with yet another clump of admiring men.
She turned to see the face on the coins, the figure in every newssheet and gossip rag, the head of the parade, the man who was king in all but name. Oh . . . criminy.
She dropped to a deep curtsy, but could not find her voice to greet him properly. A beringed hand moved into her vision. “Don’t be boring, dear lady. Walk with me.”
She took that hand and straightened, entirely numb with shock. She was hand in hand with the prince!
Mama, if you could see me now.
The Prince Regent regarded her closely. “We have not been introduced, but I’ll be blamed if you’re not familiar to me for some reason.”
Alicia curtsied deeply. “Lady Alicia Lawrence, your highness, infamous tart and liar,” she said. “But that was a few years ago.”
His eyes glinted. “Are you still a tart, then?”
Alicia blinked, then grinned. “I’m currently under a certain gentleman’s protection, your highness, and I do cleave only to him . . . so far. Does that make me a tart in your eyes?”
“Heavens, no.” George blinked. “Though I’ve nothing against tarts, myself. Are you still a liar?”
Oh, he was marvelous. “Truth is more or less a matter of opinion, it seems to me, your highness, but I have never really been the liar I am reputed to be.”
He waved a hand carelessly. “Me either.” Then he grinned at her. “So tell me about this ‘certain gentleman.’ Is he taking proper care of such a treasure as more or less honest woman?”
Alicia hesitated, but then it wasn’t a secret, of course. “I am with the Marquis of Wyndham, your highness.”
The Prince Regent’s air of lazy near-boredom slipped away to be replaced by sharp-eyed interest. “Yes, I’d heard. Wyndham is with you? Truly?”
Oh, dear. Had she shed doubt with her hesitation? “We are sharing a chamber on the third floor,” she affirmed hurriedly. “Wyndham is a most generous man.”
So far everything she’d said was entirely true.
Yet the prince’s interest only sharpened. “And he treats you well? Not too . . . demanding?”
Alicia’s eyes widened. “Demanding? Er . . . no, I do not find his demands overwhelming, your highness.” Again, all true.
George shook his head, respect glinting in his eyes. “You are quite the good sport, then, Lady Alicia. You must remember to come to me should you ever regret . . .”
Alicia was panting to ask the prince what he meant, but how could she when she was supposed to already know? And what could Wyndham’s demands consist of, that they would put such urgency in the voice of a libertine like the Prince Regent?
Good heavens, was Wyndham a participant in strange acts and perversions? Anything was possible. She scarcely knew the man, after all—and she already knew she was prone to trust the untrustworthy.
Demands. Just thinking about the possibilities made Alicia’s breath begin to come faster and her pulse to pound.
She ought to be alarmed and fearful, not titillated! She ought to ask Garrett to sleep in the room with them tonight. She ought to run screaming into the night—
An image popped into her mind of Wyndham dressed in highwayman’s black, his hands full of vaguely obscene instruments of pleasure, dark eyes gazing at her with hunger and fire and evil intentions . . .
“Lady Alicia?”
She put a hand up to cool her cheeks. “Yes, your highness?”
George was watching her with knowing eyes. “Hmm. I can see that you are well able to handle Wyndham. Still, do call upon me should you ever tire of him.” This time it was not an offer of rescue, but an invitation.
Alicia smiled warmly at him. “Your highness, if I tire of Wyndham, you will be the first to know.”
“Know what, my lady?” It was Wyndham, standing directly behind her.
His deep voice was a spark to the embers already glowing deep in Alicia’s belly. She shivered slightly, her cheeks heating again, then realized that George was watching her reaction with genial curiosity.
“You’re a lucky bastard, Wyndham,” the prince stated with evident envy.
“So I hear,” Wyndham replied dryly. “My lady, have you yet tired of the revels? I am most eager to return to our room.”
Alicia watched the flicker in George’s eyes. Did Wyndham even realize that his statement made him sound like an overeager lover, or was he merely bored with the evening?
Either way, it had sealed the Prince Regent’s opinion of their affair.
“Perhaps . . . in a while, my lord.” Alicia al
lowed herself to lean back against Wyndham. He stiffened almost imperceptibly but didn’t move away. Instead, she felt his fingers toy with her hair.
Lovers, such behavior stated. Trembling, passionate, cannot-wait-to-be-alone lovers. At least, she was quite sure her own performance was convincing, for it was no performance at all. She was abruptly and completely on fire for Wyndham’s slightest touch. If he’d made those mysterious demands on her at that moment, she might very well have performed them in public.
Danger.
Oh, yes. Hot, physical, aching danger—yet she felt no fear. All she felt was a mad need for him to be naked behind her, and for her to be naked before him. Would his skin be as hot as it seemed? Would his touch scald her? Would she burn alive? Would she care?
She felt his hand slip down over her bare shoulder scarcely touching—yet scorching her skin all the same!—until his gloved hand took hers.
“If you will excuse us, your highness?”
Alicia curtsied blindly and turned with Wyndham, allowing him to lead her away from the Prince Regent. He continued to cradle her hand in his until they had reached the other side of the hall.
Once there, however, he dropped her hand and stepped away. “That was quite convincing, I’d say,” he said coolly. “I do think it might behoove you to stay far from the Prince Regent’s attention.”
“He—” Words wouldn’t come. She couldn’t seem to think past the thrumming in her body. Her very bones ached to feel his heat again. She swallowed. “He came to me,” she managed. “He recognized me from . . . before.”
“Ah. Trust George to keep tabs on every fallen woman in town.”
Fallen woman. The words were true. She’d heard them before, said more cuttingly. So why did it slice directly through her heart when Wyndham called her that?
“I’m thirsty,” she said abruptly and turned away.
Stanton watched her go, aware that his terse words had hurt her. He hadn’t meant to, but his control was unraveling as the evening waned. When she’d pressed back against him just then, he’d fought back a rush of mingled black lust and panic that had threatened to dim his vision.
Celeste Bradley - [Royal Four 04] Page 10