Princess Charming

by Pattillo, Beth

  “An understandable oversight, Lady Lucy, since I am standing behind you.” He reached out and took her hand, even though she had not extended it to him. Wellington growled a second time. Lucy wore no gloves, and her hands were like ice. So she was nervous, despite her smile and calm demeanor. He raised her fingers to his lips and brushed them with a kiss.

  Lucy responded as if he’d slapped her. She snatched her hand away and stepped back, narrowly avoiding Wellington as she fled to a nearby sofa. The little pug followed and tried to heave himself up onto the cushion.

  “Very fine weather today, is it not, Your Highness?” Lucy asked his father brightly as she reached down and lifted Wellington to sit beside her. Crispin groaned and sank into an armchair by the fire. Nick’s father cleared his throat twice and stared at his future daughter-in-law in confusion.

  “Ahem, ahem. Yes, my lady. Certainly. Fine weather, and all that, but we’re here to talk about—”

  “Reform!” Nick interjected, and Lucy’s eyes snapped toward him. She paled, and when she spoke, her voice was low.

  “Have you not humiliated me sufficiently? Must you come into my home and mock me here as well before your vanity is satisfied? I suppose this is all because I did not recognize you from the first for the prince that you are.”

  Nick unclenched his jaw and tried to remember it was his behavior that had been in the wrong the night before, but Lucy had the ability to goad him into a temper when no one else could.

  “Madame, this has little to do with my vanity and more to do with your conduct. We would not be in this situation if it were not for your total lack of decorum. Reform is a base business for a man, even more so for a woman.”

  Her shoulders stiffened. “I beg to differ, Your Highness. We would not be in this situation if you did not feel the need to parade about in servants’ clothing!”

  “Children, children,” Crispin interrupted. “Squabbling will resolve nothing. Lady Lucinda, Nick has come to say something very particular to you, and given the events of last night, I should think you would be eager to listen.”

  Lucy shook her head. “It is not necessary. None of this is necessary.”

  Nick moved forward and seated himself on the sofa beside her, Wellington standing guard between them. Lucy glared at him as if he were a plague carrier.

  “Your hasty departure last night was unfortunate,” Nick said, leashing his own temper. Whatever Lucy’s failings might be, he was the one who had publicly compromised her, and it was up to him to set matters to rights. “We left an important matter unfinished.”

  “Did we?” Lucy looked at him with wide-eyed innocence. “I don’t recall.”

  Nick glanced at his father, who frowned and looked meaningfully at a spot on the floor in front of Lucy. Crispin coughed in a vain attempt to muffle his laughter. With a deep sigh of resignation, Nick slid from the sofa until he was kneeling in front of her. He thought about taking her hand again. It would certainly be a good strategy, in case she decided to slap him, but the feel of her hand in his was likely to wreak havoc on any good sense he still retained.

  “Lady Lucinda, I have come today to ask you to make me the happiest of men.”

  He had thought she would laugh at him or grow angry, but instead she smiled with satisfaction, and for a moment Nick wondered if she’d played him for a fool. Had she, in her perverse way, been angling for a proposal after all?

  “What are you saying, Your Highness? I am not quite clear on how I might be the source of your happiness, but I will do whatever is in my power to send you into transports of joy.”

  Nick hesitated. What did she have up her sleeve?

  “You will make me the happiest of men, Lucy, if you will agree to be my wife and my future queen.” Nick was warming to his subject now, gaining confidence, for he had practiced this bit in the mirror several times that morning. “I can offer you everything that a woman dreams of: position, wealth, a title. I know that our . . . um . . . courtship has been rather unorthodox, but, well, surely we can manage to rub along quite well together.”

  Rub along quite well together? Had he really said that? That was certainly not how he’d practiced it. He watched Lucy for any sign as to her thoughts, but her face was smooth as glass, her eyes politely interested, with a gleam of triumph in them. That gleam worried Nick, made his collar feel far too tight.

  Lucy pulled Wellington into her lap. “What a charming offer,” she said, and then smiled. “No pun intended, of course.”

  That was when Nick realized he was in a great deal of trouble, and his breathing became quite shallow. Lucy was far angrier than he’d thought.

  Her blue eyes bored into his. “It is good of you, Prince Nicholas, to sacrifice your life, your happiness, even the future of your country so that I might not be burdened by a blight upon my good name. But, then, you are of a rather unique disposition, are you not? Rescuing damsels in distress—for that matter, anyone in distress—seems to be a rather integral part of your nature. Unfortunately, your attempts to rescue me seem to have had some rather disastrous consequences.”

  Nick eyed her with caution. “It is not my attempts to rescue you that have caused this difficulty, my lady. It is the very public kiss we shared at Carlton House, and I believe you were a partner in that indiscretion.”

  She flushed a becoming shade of pink. “My indiscretion, sir, was committed with a gardener, and while it would have led to my disgrace, it would never have imposed upon me a sentence of marriage!”

  It was absurd to be jealous of himself, but Nick felt the prickles of that unwanted emotion. “Your indiscretion with a gardener is a direct comment upon your morals, I am sure,” Nick said before he could stop himself.

  Her cheeks grew bright red. “I am not ashamed to associate with common men, sir. There is more decency in the fields and cottages of Nottinghamshire than in all the ballrooms of London. And if lo—that is, if feeling affection for someone of the lower classes is a sign of low morals, than mine are scarcely up to my ankles.”

  “Affection?” Nick shouted, ignoring the other word that she had almost said, since it caused his muscles to tense for flight and made it difficult to breathe. “And you display your affection by humiliating its object in front of the most esteemed personages in the land?”

  “I did not humiliate you. I defended you.”

  “You rejected me. You ran from my proposal so that the guards and I had to follow after you for your protection. Do you know how frantic I was when you fled through St. James Square? Whatever I might be, Lucy, I am not a worse prospect than that ruffian who accosted you. A woman, alone at night—I can only thank God that someone taught you how to defend yourself, and that you arrived home safely.”

  She was quiet for a moment, and Nick realized his words had made some sort of impression upon her.

  It was Crispin who decided to jump into the breach. “Nick is not so bad, Lucy, once you become accustomed to him. Even now the scandalmongers are printing their morning editions. Your situation is shortly to become much worse, I’m afraid. If you and Nick can settle things this morning, you will perhaps be insulated from the worst of it.”

  Lucy eyed him narrowly, unappreciative of his concern. “You knew all along! When you came to my stepmother’s that first day . . . and when you locked us in the coal cellar . . .”

  Crispin tugged at his cravat. “Well, yes, of course. I knew . . . that is, I wanted to . . . oh, dash it all, Lucy, I could see straightaway that you and Nick were perfectly suited for each other. I just afforded you the opportunity to see for yourselves.”

  Her cheeks flamed. “Perfect for each other? Are you mad? I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life.”

  “I agree,” Nick said, and then wished he’d kept his mouth closed, for now Lucy was eyeing him furiously.

  She turned on him. “So you will marry me anyway, even though I am ridiculous? Merely for the sake of appearances and reputations?” She rose abruptly, setting Wellington aside. Nick r
ose, too, and followed her across the room to stand in front of the windows overlooking the street.

  “Now, Lucy.” He must placate her, for her hands planted on her hips meant that things were going from bad to worse. “You know what I mean. We find ourselves in a ludicrous situation.” He stepped closer to try and shield his next words from Crispin and his father. “We’ll sort it all out, Lucy. I promise you. It will not be so terrible.”

  She had gone quite pale. “How could it possibly be any worse? My every move would be scrutinized,” Lucy hissed. “I should be useless to the reformers.”

  “Of course you would,” Nick agreed. “But life as a royal princess would have its compensations, don’t you think?”

  She looked at him, eyes wide with disbelief. “Compensations? What could ever substitute for the loss of my freedom and my cause?”

  “Me?” Nick offered with a small smile, in an attempt to be winning, but he was sorry as soon as he uttered the lonely syllable. When it came to Lucy Charming, he had evidently come to enjoy rejection, even crave it.

  “You want me to sacrifice everything?” Her blue eyes widened. “Merely to be a princess?”

  Why did Lucy Charming have to be the one woman in all of England who had no desire to become royalty? “Not just any princess. My princess. And, someday, my queen.”

  She laughed. “And leave England?”

  Nick squirmed. “Well, not straightaway. Someday, perhaps.”

  “Perhaps?” His father, who had clearly overheard every word, sounded puzzled. “What do you mean, perhaps?”

  “You want me to give up everything I believe in,” Lucy continued, color returning to her cheeks, “to become something I despise, and do so knowing that I will never have a chance to make a real difference to anyone or anything. Is that what you are offering me, Nick?”

  “You would make a difference to me, Lucy.” The words sounded like cannon shot in his own ears.

  She stilled, and her eyes searched his. “Why? Why would I make a difference to you?”

  But he couldn’t answer that. Not now. And certainly not in front of Crispin and his father. “Be realistic, Lucy. We have no choice, other than the kind of public scandal that would make mockeries of us both.”

  “But we do, Nick. We do have a choice.” Lucy was edging away from him, but he was determined not to let her elude him again. For better or for worse, Lucy Charming was his destiny, and one that he did not want to escape. Only alter a bit.

  “We cannot go back,” he argued. “From the moment you knocked me on the head with that blasted door, our fates were sealed.”

  Her face whitened. “No. We have a choice. There is always another choice.”

  Nick knew that he had to say his next words. “Do you really think your fellow reformers will welcome you with open arms when they realize what association with the infamous Lucy Charming will bring? Your notoriety will render you useless. How many delegates can you hide beneath your stepmother’s nose, or the noses of the ton, once they realize what you’re about?”

  “No,” Lucy protested. “It won’t happen. I won’t let it.”

  “It’s too late, Lucy. It’s too late to change anything. We can only make the best of it.”

  “And that’s what I would be to you?” she asked. “The silk purse you fashioned from a sow’s ear?”

  Nick stilled. “No. You would be my wife. My princess.”

  His answer was not good enough. He could see that in her eyes. “That is all?” she asked.

  He would not allow her to be anything else, to work her way any further beneath his skin. “What more is there? What more can there be? It has to be better than living as a virtual servant in your stepmother’s home.”

  She looked away. “Except that in this house, I have had a certain freedom that has meant a great deal to me. Would I have that with you, Nick?”

  He could not lie. “Your life will change, Lucy, one way or another, but I am not an unreasonable man. I know your passion for reform, and you will be free to indulge it within certain boundaries. You will have as much freedom as any woman of your station could wish for.”

  “Hah! Boundaries set by you, no doubt?”

  Blast! Could the woman at least appear to be reasonable about this thing? “Boundaries set by society, Lucy. You may have your choice of projects—climbing boys, half-blind seamstresses, whatever you like. Heaven knows there are enough unfortunates in London to keep you busy for the rest of your life.”

  She bristled. “That is not reform. That is applying sticking plasters to gunshot wounds. Until all men have a voice in the government of this country, there will never be any real change.”

  This remark sent his father into a coughing spasm so severe that Nick was forced to leave Lucy standing by the window and attend to the king. He and Crispin pounded his father’s shoulder blades until the fit passed.

  “Well, what say you, young lady?” his father demanded when he recovered his voice. “It is as fine a proposal as you are likely to receive today.”

  Lucy smiled, and Nick’s stomach tightened, for she appeared far too satisfied with herself. “Actually, I have already received a much finer offer this morning, and I have accepted it.”

  The words took Nick’s breath away and sent his father into another coughing spasm. Crispin continued to pound on the older man’s back, but Nick had endured enough. “This is not amusing, Lucy.” His patience was at an end. How much longer would she resist the inevitable? “Come, let us name a date so that preparations may begin. I daresay you will want some time to buy wedding clothes.”

  She smiled brightly, falsely. “Certainly, but it will be none of your concern. My future husband has directed that any bills be sent to him.”

  Nick rubbed his temples, for a sudden headache had appeared there. “Lucy, I am your future husband. There is no other choice.”

  “But there is, Your Highness, and I have made it.” She lifted her chin in a manner that would have done any actual princess proud. A cold shiver raced down Nick’s spine.

  “Oh, Lucy. You didn’t.” The image of Mr. Whippet in the foyer retrieving his things from the withered butler flashed through Nick’s head. “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would, and I did.” She was trying to look pleased with herself, but Nick could see that underneath her bravura, she had some understanding of what it meant to play with fire.

  “Are you mad? You know what type of man he is.”

  “And so will the rest of the world, if he fails to live up to our agreement.”

  Nick moved toward her, his hands clenched in frustration. “You are treading on very dangerous ground, Lucy.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “Mr. Whippet will suit my purposes, and I shall be perfectly safe.”

  The thought of Lucy married to the decadent vicar guaranteed a lifetime of sleepless nights. “What makes you so certain? What sureties has he offered?”

  Lucy laughed. “Woof,” she said, and winked at Nick.

  He could endure no more. The woman was his personal pestilence, a plague sent from God to torment him for his wicked ways. He had thought an offer of marriage would see her thoroughly rescued at last, but she had outmaneuvered him again. Nick turned and strode to the sideboard. He poured himself a very tall brandy and downed it in one swallow.

  Chapter Twelve

  LONDON SOCIETY was agog with news of the now infamous Lady Lucinda Charming. Still, it was not her acceptance of the Reverend Mr. Whippet’s marriage proposal that caused women to stare and men to ogle her on those rare occasions when she ventured into public view. Rather, it was the offer of marriage she had declined that caused a sensation and made Lucy the most talked-about woman in town.

  The fact that the spurned Prince Nicholas haunted the Duchess of Nottingham’s doorstep on South Audley Street did little to quiet the gossip. Nor did the fact that Lady Lucinda refused to see him. The rest of the ton might speculate it was her family history of mental infirmity that caused the mysterious miss to sp
urn the handsome prince, but Lucy herself knew the truth. She was tempted to depend upon Nick, and so she was wise to refuse him admittance when he lifted the knocker at precise, two-hour intervals to inquire if she were at home.

  In the days since she’d informed Nick of her acceptance of Mr. Whippet’s proposal, the only difficulty with her decision had been that she couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything or anyone but the ever-present Crown Prince of Santadorra, drat the man. He had taken to knocking on the door of Nottingham House at two hour intervals, each time seeking admission and each time being denied. Lucy was thinking of him now as she sat fidgeting in a chair before the fireplace in the morning room, one eye on the ormolu clock on the mantel and the other on the duchess. Her stepmother lay prostrate on the sofa, smelling salts close at hand.

  “You are a wretched, ungrateful girl, Lucy Charming. You, of all people, might have been a princess! Think what that would have meant for my girls.”

  Lucy held back a sigh. They’d been engaged in this conversation for the past half hour, and though there was no escape from the duchess’s recriminations, Lucy did try to channel her stepmother’s complaints into happier thoughts.

  “Given the scandal, Your Grace, I do not think the match would have been to my stepsisters’ advantage.” Lucy dug the toe of her slipper into the carpet, idly drawing a map of the East End in the rich nap. She marked the location of Spitalfields by making an indentation with her heel. After her humiliation at Carlton House, she had known that it was pointless to try to assume her place among the ton. No, she had been right before to believe that her home was among the common folk, and from now on, among them she would stay.

  The duchess lifted her fan and gave it a few weak waves. “The scandal, as you call it, would have been allayed if you had only accepted Prince Nicholas. You tricked me, Lucy Charming. Placing the engagement announcement in the Times before I had any knowledge of your underhanded dealings. Mr. Whippet has no money and only limited connections—nothing of use to my girls.”