Princess Charming

by Pattillo, Beth

  Nick swallowed his panic and caught sight of Lucy’s cap a short distance ahead. He pushed against the crowd until he was near enough to grasp her shoulder. She looked back and smiled, her face flushed with excitement and anticipation, and continued. Nick held on to her as tightly as he could without betraying his feelings.

  The square before the church was a writhing sea of humanity. Disguised in his gardener’s togs, Nick knew he had nothing to fear, but trapped in the midst of this ocean of peasants, he felt his royal title all but stamped on his forehead. He kept his cap pulled low and clung to Lucy.

  Being Lucy Charming, she didn’t stop until she was within twenty feet of the platform that had been constructed in front of the church. The speeches had already begun amid a great deal of bunting and several large banners proclaiming the need for universal suffrage. When Lucy stopped, he tried to stop as well, but the crowd pushed against his back, and it was all he could do to hold his ground. Not sure how else to protect her, he put his arms around her waist, clasping them over her belly. Even his discomfort, though, could not shield him from the shock he felt when Lucy leaned against him and briefly squeezed his wrists, her fingers then resting on his forearms where they gently cradled her against him.

  The speaker droned on, and Nick was satisfied to ignore the man. He worried about the crowd while still savoring the pleasure of holding Lucy in his arms. The man ground to a stop, and the mass of people offered polite applause.

  “I remain unconvinced,” Nick whispered into Lucy’s ear. He smiled when he felt a tremor run through her body.

  “You have not yet heard Orator Hunt,” she shot back over her shoulder. “Look, he is next.”

  The man who strode to the podium was the epitome of an English gentleman farmer. He was tall, more than six feet, dressed in riding clothes, but his thin lips and pale eyes gave him an ineffectual air.

  “This is the man who is to convince me of the error of my ways?” Nick chortled. “Perhaps you will concede right now, and we can make wedding plans.”

  Lucy stiffened. “I will certainly be making wedding plans, sir. But not with you. Orator Hunt will see to that.”

  Nick listened with half an ear as the man spoke, but he was distracted by the disturbing image of Lucy standing in front of an altar with Mr. Whippet. Orator Hunt’s comments echoed the usual complaints—demands for an annual parliament, universal suffrage, and secret ballots, pleas for a repeal of the Corn Laws. “He would make a very good Frenchman,” Nick whispered in Lucy’s ear, but she shushed him, and Nick found there was nothing to do but actually listen to the man.

  The reformer demonstrated more energy now. His gestures became larger, his voice growing in intensity. His pale eyes shone with an almost holy glow, like a martyr facing the lions.

  “Let me ask you this question, my beloved friends and brethren,” Hunt bellowed as his gaze swept the crowd. “If all are to be sacrificed to the cause of our nation’s freedom, then should not all Christians enjoy the same rights?” Cries of “huzza!” filled the air. “Should not all who proclaim Christ be given the vote?” The crowd of weavers, largely French Catholics and Huguenots, broke into wild cheers. Nick shifted uncomfortably in his worn boots. Orator Hunt had chosen his subject well, for only men who were members of the Church of England enjoyed rights of suffrage. Because of their faith, even propertied immigrants had no voice in their own government.

  “Should not all men of Christian faith participate in a government ordained by God?” Hunt’s question threw them into a further frenzy, and Nick refused to squirm. Blast the man for hitting the one sore spot in Nick’s love for his mother’s native land. While his mother had once been Church of England, she had converted to Catholicism to marry his father. Nick had been raised a Catholic. Though he had never put much stock in religion himself, at least not since he’d been rescued from the Santadorran forest at age twelve, Nick had often been on the receiving end of taunts and jibes at Eton.

  “Should not all qualified men hold office and vote? Should not all taxpayers enjoy the right to own property, regardless of their house of worship?”

  Lucy applauded and cheered with the rest of the crowd while Nick tried to push his disturbing thoughts away.

  “An end to divisions!” Hunt cried, and the crowd echoed his roar. “An end to privilege!” The other speakers on the platform stepped forward and applauded enthusiastically. “An end to tyrannies that deny men their inherent rights!”

  Orator Hunt stepped back from the podium, saluted the cheering crowd, and followed the other speakers as they disappeared behind the platform. Lucy turned in Nick’s arms.

  “Well?” she asked, her face shining with the joy of the words that had washed over her. She was lit from within, as if a thousand candles had been placed inside her. “Confess that you were moved a little bit. No one could be indifferent to that, not even Sidmouth himself.”

  And it was at that moment, at that very moment, that Nick felt his heart open with a great, resounding crack. She was so sure, so confident—more resplendent in her passion for reform than she had been in a satin ball gown. He could no longer deny the truth. He did not want her because she appeared so very beddable. He did not even want her for the fire she sparked within him each time his lips met hers. What he wanted her for was this—this innocence, this belief in the goodness of men, this hope for the future. He had lost his own so very long ago.

  Around them, the crowd was dispersing in bursts of song and general merriment. Lucy’s eyes were still shining, and suddenly he could not stand another moment of the optimism and bonhomie.

  “Hunt is a fool, as are you,” he hissed. “You would give the vote to every criminal and lunatic who haunts the streets. All your dreams would lead to chaos, and who do you think would be the first person slaughtered in her bed? The daughter of the Duke of Nottingham, my dear. To believe anything else is a lie.”

  The harsh words cut across her face like lashes, but he did nothing to call them back. Her eyes, her damned deep blue eyes, filled with pain. Nick knew he was striking out from his own well of grief, but he could not stop. His feelings ran too deep, and he would save Lucy from her folly if he could. Governments were ordained by God for a reason—so that people could sleep in their beds without fear of having their throats slashed.

  “You will not even try,” Lucy accused him, and Nick agreed.

  “No. Not when the stakes are the lives of men I know and respect.”

  “It is not their lives that are at stake,” Lucy argued. “Only their livelihoods. That is the real issue. The Conservatives may argue on principle, but they act on gold.”

  Overhead, the clock of the church chimed the hour. It was growing late, and dusk would soon settle. They still had a long walk across London ahead of them.

  “Don’t despair, Lucy. You still have thirteen days left to change my mind. Perhaps you will yet succeed, but Orator Hunt leaves me unconvinced.”

  “I will succeed,” she said, straightening her spine. “I know a little of your character. You cannot be as indifferent as all that.”

  Nick refused to respond. Instead, he took her arm and guided her away from the church. He could not answer her, because she was right. He was not indifferent. Not to her, not to the Catholics, and not to the sufferings of other people. But these feelings were ones he could not afford to indulge. Not and honor the past.

  “Has no one told you, my dear? My indifference is the stuff of legend. As is my intolerance.” He glanced down at her. “And never wear those breeches again.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  LUCY REFUSED TO be defeated by Nick’s closemouthed response to Orator Hunt’s magnificent speech, just as she was determined to win their wager. Consequently, she mounted her next offensive by sending a note round to him, inviting him to inspect a school based on principles of reform. And so, a few days after their trip to Spitalfields, Lucy found herself seated across from Nick as his father’s well-sprung carriage rolled smoothly over the rough, m
uddy roads out of London. Nick leaned into the thick cushions and smiled with satisfaction, which irritated Lucy to no end. She was glad Crispin had sent Wellington along with them. The mere sight of the little dog had brought a flush to Nick’s otherwise sanguine expression.

  The carriage conveyed them past Kew and farther along the Thames. After much deliberation as to what might earn Nick’s good opinion, Lucy had settled on this expedition to a school for abandoned climbing boys. Once the boys grew too large to fit up the flues, their masters turned them off with nowhere to go and no way to earn their bread. Surely the valiant work done at the school would help Nick see the need for reform.

  “With regard to the school,” Lucy said, “you should be aware that—”

  “I brought a picnic luncheon,” he interrupted smoothly. “I thought we might stop at Kew on our return.”

  Lucy felt a prick of surprise. “What? Oh, well, yes. I suppose we could. Now, about the school—”

  “My valet asked your favorites, but I didn’t know, so I instructed him to order a bit of everything from the kitchen at the Cromwell.”

  She groaned with frustration. He was taunting her, however charmingly, with his indifference. “I’m sure whatever your valet selected will be delicious. Now, let me tell you about the school.”

  “Did I mention my admiration for that specific color of blue?” He nodded toward her gown. “It does marvelous things for your eyes.”

  Lucy rolled the eyes he was admiring. Clearly Nick had no intention of allowing her to make her case. Very well. She would let the school speak for her. This would certainly be the day that Nick saw reason, because not only would he be introduced to the value of education for the lower classes, he would also meet the generous benefactor who gifted the school on a regular basis. Lucy did not know the gentleman’s name, as his beneficence had been anonymous, but Mr. Cartwright, the headmaster, had assured her that the school’s patron intended to visit that very day.

  So Lucy gave up her attempts to lay out all of the school’s good work and instead let Nick offer pleasantries about the weather and the state of the roads, only responding to his comments when necessary. Actually, she responded a good deal more than was necessary, which further irritated her. Nick was doing his best, or perhaps his worst, to charm her, and it was working quite well, for her stomach fluttered with the nervous energy that his presence always created. His smile and dark eyes alone would have lured her into a delicious sense of complacency, but when he added his quick wit and dry sense of humor, Lucy could not help but be captivated.

  “You did no such thing!” she shrieked when he regaled her with a tale from his school days. “Where in England would one find an elephant to put in the headmaster’s sitting room?”

  Nick chuckled. “It pays to have friends in low places as well as high. The caretakers of the menagerie at the Tower do not mind if you buy them a pint or two. Or a dozen.”

  He laughed unselfconsciously at the memory, and a great yawning pit opened in her midsection. She did not want to like Nick St. Germain. She did not want to find him captivating or handsome or any of the other things that might tempt her into regretting her refusal of him. She had accepted Mr. Whippet, and her blackmail kept the vicar neatly in hand. After all, Nick did not want her for herself. He wanted a royal bride who could take her place in society, not an inveterate reformer who had recently found how much she preferred the freedom of breeches to skirts. No, it was only Nick’s pride and his sense of his own consequence, as well as his sense of honor, that made him pursue her still. His interest had nothing to do with her true charms. The thought only made the emptiness in her belly expand even further.

  “Ah, it looks as if we’ve arrived.” Nick nodded toward the carriage window. “A smart-looking place, I must say.”

  The carriage had brought them down the high street of the village before pulling to a stop in front of a picturesque cottage. Ivy climbed with gleeful abandon over the slate-gray stone, and the panes in the windows gleamed with polished care. On the small patch of lawn in front, two coltish-looking boys attempted to roll a hoop.

  “I wonder that the children are not at their lessons,” Lucy said before the two lads came running toward the carriage. Almost instantly, a dozen heads appeared in windows and around gateposts. The front door of the cottage was thrown open, and a stream of shrieking, shoving boys came pouring out.

  Lucy winced at the cacophony, and Wellington growled, angry that his nap should be summarily interrupted. She had hoped that Nick would find the boys diligently at their studies, perfect models of the highest aims of reform. With reluctance, Wellington rolled to his feet and barked at the chaos.

  Nick stepped from the carriage and turned to offer Lucy his assistance. “My lady.” He bowed over her hand and delivered her safely to the ground while she tried to ignore the way his touch sent warmth traveling up her arm and down her spine. He reached into the carriage for Wellington, who came growling in protest.

  “Gor’ blimey, it’s him! The nabob! The nabob!” a young voice cried, and the others quickly took up the chant. Lucy looked around, thinking to find the anonymous benefactor, but no other carriages were in sight. At that moment, Mr. Cartwright appeared. The headmaster mopped his balding brow as he toddled down the path.

  “Welcome, welcome,” he said, wiping his forehead between effusive greetings. “What a delight to have two of our greatest supporters visit us in unison.” He smiled at her and bowed over Lucy’s hand. “Lady Lucinda. The boys always look forward to your visits.”

  Lucy opened her mouth to return the greeting, but Mr. Cartwright had dropped her hand and turned toward Nick.

  “Your Highness.” The headmaster bowed so deeply that Lucy was afraid he would not be able to right himself, but with a bit of wheezing, he returned to an upright position. Wellington, gingerly held in Nick’s arms, sniffed the headmaster with disdain, but the little dog’s disapproval did nothing to stem Mr. Cartwright’s enthusiasm. “As always, it is a great pleasure, indeed, Your Highness. The boys have finished the tree house you helped them begin last week. They hoped to have a formal dedication ceremony after tea.”

  Formal dedication? Last week? Lucy looked from one man to the other, from the gleaming pate of the round little schoolmaster to Nick’s tall, solid form holding Wellington as if he were some species of rat, and her heart sunk to the top of her half boots. Oh, no. Oh, heavens. Not again. She refused to be duped twice by Nicholas St. Germain.

  Mr. Cartwright urged Nick down the path toward the cottage, and Lucy followed in their wake, battling her confusion. Only she knew the answer already. She knew from the way Mr. Cartwright directed Nick to the most comfortable chair in the drawing room. It was obvious in the way several of the boys approached Nick to have their hair ruffled and to give account of their progress in their studies. Nick called each boy by name and offered praise or encouragement, whichever was more appropriate, while Wellington huffily settled himself at Nick’s feet for a resumption of his nap. Lucy sank onto a settee, too stunned to be furious, numb and yet aching, as she observed Nick in all the glory of his patronage.

  Her numbness did not last long.

  Heat kindled in her chest and then spread to her cheeks. The cad. The scoundrel. He had known their destination since she had sent him her note, but he had not breathed a word of his secret. No, he had let her make a fool of herself through the length of London and beyond. Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes.

  She looked up then, and Nick caught her eye. He was smiling, but not with the wicked triumph she expected. Instead, his mouth curved into gentle lines, as if inviting her to join in his secret. His chocolate eyes begged her indulgence, asking her not to reveal his deceit in front of the boys.

  Lucy’s stomach twisted. He was a rascal and a scoundrel, but she couldn’t resist that silent entreaty. His pleasure in the boys was obvious, as was theirs in him. Lucy examined her heart and found she could not deny any of the males present the happiness they enjoyed.
She would save her scold for later. After all, they were to picnic at Kew, and she could lambast him all around the pleasure gardens for the remainder of the afternoon. That thought was immensely comforting.

  Mr. Cartwright, beaming benevolently, came to join her on the settee. “I had no notion that you were acquainted with the prince, Lady Lucinda. He is a fine fellow, is he not? Most generous to the school. If I didn’t know better, I would suspect he sent us his entire quarterly allowance last month.” The headmaster gave his brow one final mop before stuffing his handkerchief in his pocket. “With his help, we have purchased the cottage next door and filled it with aging seamstresses whose hands can no longer ply the needle. They will be motherly influences on the boys, or so we hope.”

  Lucy barely heard Mr. Cartwright’s words, so intent was she on observing Nick. Now the boys were gathered in a ring around his chair as he regaled them with a tale of adventure in the wilds of his native land.

  “Santadorran bears are far hungrier and far more fierce than French or Spanish bears,” she heard him say. “And so, as I huddled against the back wall of the cave, with no way to escape and no weapon at hand, I knew all was lost.” The boys alternately laughed and gasped as Nick’s tale carried them to the pinnacle of danger and then back down again. Lucy smiled at his vivid imagination. She doubted whether the Crown Prince of Santadorra had ever been allowed to venture alone into the mountain forests, much less enjoyed the opportunity to slay a bear.

  The wild tales in the drawing room were followed by a more formal ritual, the dedication of the tree house. This newest addition to the school was found at some distance from the cottage, down the sloping lawn that led to the river. Nick appeared on the verge of offering her his arm for the trek, but the boys quickly commandeered him and Wellington and bore them off toward the river. Lucy followed more slowly at the side of Mr. Cartwright, who continued to lavish praise on Nick, eager for Lucy to murmur her approval at each new compliment.