by Eloisa James
“You’re going to make me cry,” Henry said bracingly.
“I just—” Kate took a deep breath. “She would have told me.”
“She thought she had time,” Henry said. “We all think we have time, you know. It’s this miracle substance and there seems to be so much of it, and then all of a sudden, it’s gone.” Her voice had an edge that made Kate bite her lip.
“My first husband was older than I was, and I gallivanted around town and generally carried on the way a young wife shouldn’t, but that didn’t mean I didn’t love him. I did. When he died, I howled for days. Absolutely howled. I hated myself for every moment I’d spent with anyone else.”
“I’m sorry,” Kate said, touching her arm.
“But that’s it,” Henry said, turning her head. Her eyes were bright and quite dry. “We never know how much time we have with each other. Even your supposed fiancé, who’s all bursting with self-importance in his lovely purple waistcoat, could be gone tomorrow.”
“Victoria would be—”
“Of course she would,” Henry interrupted. “But my point is that we can’t—we don’t—live like that, remembering that the end is coming. Your mother didn’t count her time because she loved being with you. She let herself forget that death was coming, and what a gift that was. So she never told you about the money; she knew it was there. More interesting is why your father never said anything to you.”
“He actually told me after she died that my mother had left me a dowry, but I was wretched and didn’t want to talk about it. And then he went off and brought home Mariana. The next thing I knew, he was dead as well.”
“Typical of a man,” Henry said. “They always die inconveniently.”
They broke out of the seclusion of the maze to find that the gardens were thronged with elegant gentlepersons. “Now, Dante is very like Bartholomew,” Henry said. “That would be my second husband, the one before Leo. He was decent through and through. We just have to find Dante, and I’ll drag the two of you into a hedge or something and tell him the story.”
“Wait!” Kate said, grabbing her arm. “I don’t want to meet him like this.”
“Well, then, how do you want to meet him?”
“Not in this wig,” Kate hissed at her.
“It’s better than yesterday’s,” Henry said. “I’ve never seen that cherry color, and at least it makes you look fashionable.”
“Can’t we wait and meet him at a later date, when I’m myself?”
“No,” Henry said, “we can’t. He’s on the verge of declaring himself for Effie Starck. She’s practically an octogenarian, at least twenty-two.”
“I’m twenty-three!” Kate said.
“I forgot that. Look, she’s so desperate that she went for Lord Beckham under the table, and he stuck her with a fork. Or no, she stuck him. Later he told everyone that he thought there was a mongrel under the table gnawing at his trousers. I don’t want her anywhere near poor Dante.”
“I would still rather not meet him until I’m in London.”
Henry turned and looked at her.
“I just want to look better than this when I meet your—when I meet Mr. Dante,” Kate confessed.
“He’s not Mr. Dante,” Henry said in an offended kind of way. “I would never pair off my goddaughter with an Italian merchant. He’s Dante Edward Astley, Lord Hathaway.”
“I’m fairly sure that my breasts, the wax parts, are melting,” Kate said desperately, “because my wig is so hot that I’m sweating. Plus I’d rather not have the dogs with me.”
Henry looked her over. “You do look rather hot. The cherry-colored wig doesn’t help.”
“I’m going to my chamber,” Kate said, making up her mind. “Here, give me Coco.”
“I’ll keep her,” Henry said, rather surprisingly. “I like the way she walks. You can tell just by looking at her that she’d rather be out here showing off her jewels than closed up in your chamber.”
Kate looked down to find that Coco had positioned herself just next to the hem of Henry’s gown, as if she knew how well her multicolored look complemented striped silk. “Send her back whenever you wish.”
“Wear a different wig this evening,” Henry said. “I’ll have that handsome devil Berwick seat us together with Dante. Do you have a wig that you actually like?”
“No,” Kate said. And then she added, a little desperately, “My hair is my only asset, Henry. Please, could I just avoid Lord Hathaway until I can meet him as myself?”
“Your hair is your only asset?” Henry snorted. “Look at Coco.”
Kate looked.
“She’s the most vain scrap of animal I’ve ever seen, and she’s utterly irresistible as a result. No one’s going to undervalue her. Do you suppose that she thinks she has only one asset? But you . . . if you tell yourself that hair is all you’ve got, then that’s all you’ve got. Among other things—and I don’t have time to enumerate them all—you have utterly devastating eyes. That’s Victor’s color, of course; he had gorgeous dark yellow hair, like some sort of lion, and then the green eyes. He was a sight to behold.”
“Victoria sent along a pale green wig that looks better with my eyes than this red one,” Kate offered.
“Wear that one, then. I’ll deal with Berwick, and you screw your courage to the sticking point. Dante is ripe for the plucking and I don’t want Effie to grab him before you.”
Seventeen
Gabriel was fantastically annoyed. He had tramped off to meet Lady Dagobert, and managed to extract himself from a crowd of ladies only after a young woman practically importuned him on the spot. She’d powdered her face so heavily that her eyes glowed like bits of coal, desire smoking from her white face.
He only managed to escape by grabbing Toloose’s arm as he strolled by and pretending that they were bosom friends.
“Miss Emily Gill,” Toloose said. “You can’t blame her, poor thing. She got her materialistic side from her father, and the jowls from her mother.”
“I didn’t even notice any jowls,” Gabriel muttered, walking fast. “Her eyes had me backing up until I was about to fall into the lake.”
“She made a dead set for me last year,” Toloose said cheerfully. “She gave up only after I told her that I was planning to leave all my money to the deserving poor.”
“Do you have money, then?” Gabriel asked.
“Yes, isn’t that lucky for me? Not much at the moment, but someday I’ll be a viscount, though I fully expect my papa to live to one hundred. That gets me the attention of ladies like Emily Gill; she looks at me and sees a pile of golden ducats. ’Course, she looks at you and sees ducats with crowns on them, so you’ll have to be even more repellent than I was, at least until you are safely married to your princess.”
“Have you seen Miss Daltry?”
“She disappeared into the maze with Lady Wrothe. I have to say, I do like Henry. She’s inexpressibly vulgar, but it’s the kind of vulgarity one expects in a queen. Too bad she’s not twenty years younger; she’d make a great princess.”
“Let’s go through the maze,” Gabriel said.
Toloose raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t give me any more of your clever comments,” he growled. “This castle is crammed with people making witty comments.”
“Simpering cleverness is our ladies’ stock-in-trade,” Toloose said, turning obediently toward the maze.
Which explained, to Gabriel’s mind, why Kate was so fascinating. She wasn’t sugary, or simpering, or particularly pretty, especially in that ridiculous red wig she was wearing today. She wasn’t a lady, either.
So why was he pursuing her into the maze? He wouldn’t—would he?—make her his mistress after her absurd masquerade was over?
She wouldn’t want to be his mistress. She was too fierce and sharp-tongued to settle into a lush little country house somewhere. And yet he could see himself riding there, throwing himself off the horse, throwing himself onto her . . .
By the t
ime they reached the center of the maze he was walking so fast that he’d left Toloose behind. But there was no one there, only a quiet patch of sunshine housing a little fountain. Water plashed from the mouths of the laughing mer-horses ringing its edge.
He sat on the marble rim, in a patch where he wouldn’t be sprinkled by the horses, and wondered what had come over him.
Of course he wouldn’t make the illegitimate sister of his nephew’s fiancée his mistress. Not that she had shown the faintest interest in that position. He considered himself a decent man, on the verge of marriage.
The sooner Tatiana showed up, the better. A wife would stop him from hungering after women with fierce smiles and laughing eyes, women who adorned themselves in red wigs and pretended to be debutantes.
Toloose finally strolled into the clearing and gave the fountain a disappointed frown. “I would have hoped for something far more decadent after all this walking,” he said, pulling off his gloves and then his coat. “Christ, it’s hot.”
“What sort of decadence did you envision?”
“A few chaises longues wouldn’t go amiss, even if they were made out of stone. With lounging beauties, not made from stone.”
“You’re talking bachelor fare,” Gabriel said. “I’m taking a wife.”
“I hear tell there are wives who take to a bit of decadence,” Toloose said.
“Are you looking for a wife?”
“Absolutely not,” Toloose said, throwing himself down on the broad marble ledge around the fountain. “Lovely, the spray’s blowing on my face. I don’t see what you’re doing trolling amongst our English maidens anyway. Though I hate to mention it, you are holding a betrothal ball for yourself in a few days.”
“I know,” Gabriel said, unaccountably depressed. “My fiancée should be arriving tomorrow or the next day.”
“Were you sent a miniature?” Toloose inquired.
“No.”
“So you have no idea what your future wife looks like? That’s so desperately medieval. I shouldn’t care for it.”
“I don’t,” Gabriel said. “My brother fixed it all up after I sailed for England.”
There was a moment of silence. “Looks aren’t everything,” Toloose offered. “Take Miss Daltry as an example. When I first met her, I thought of her as a fluffy, giggly type. But that illness must have given her backbone. She’s far more appetizing now, even though she’s little more than a twig. You should have seen how juicy she was a few months ago.”
“No,” Gabriel said. His voice came out a rumble, from somewhere deep in his chest.
Toloose didn’t notice; he was waving his hand happily through the fountain spray. “I take it that you’re perfectly aware of her charms, given the way you sprinted through the maze after her. She must have been at death’s door, the difference is so marked. Only thing still the same is her bosom, which makes me suspect—”
Without thinking Gabriel lunged over and pinned the man flat against the marble. “Her bosom is not for you.”
Toloose froze. “Let me go,” he said slowly.
Feeling a bit foolish, Gabriel raised his hand.
“Jesus Christ,” Toloose said, sitting up. “If you plan to steal your nephew’s bride, then do it. There’s no need to play Wild Prince from the Steppes. I saw that play and didn’t like it the first time around.”
“I’m an ass,” Gabriel said. “Sorry.”
Toloose got to his feet and retrieved his coat. “You just surprised me, going all masculine and provincial.”
“Surprised myself as well. And I’m not stealing my nephew’s bride.”
At that Toloose turned around and stared at him. “Why bother defending her bosom, if not?”
It was a good question. Just some sort of madness induced by Kate, he decided. “She doesn’t like me.”
“I hate to destroy your illusions,” Toloose said acidly, “but she’s probably not the first person you’ve met who would fall into that category.”
Gabriel gave him a rueful grin; it was no more than he deserved. “Perhaps I’m having a nervous reaction to Miss Gill’s pursuit.”
“From here, it looks more as if you’re having a quite different reaction to Miss Daltry’s proximity.”
Gabriel didn’t know what to say to that, so they set off through the maze without another word.
Eighteen
What do you mean, I have to sit with the Lady Dagobert?” Gabriel said. “I don’t want to.”
Wick lit a cheroot and glared at him over the trail of smoke. “You’re acting more like a four-year-old child than a grown man. Of course you’re sitting next to the countess. She’s the highest-ranking individual in the castle barring yourself; she has known you since you were a child; she will be to your right.”
“I want to sit next to Kate,” Gabriel said, ignoring the truth of Wick’s statement. “Like last night. I’ll dine en famille.”
“You will not,” Wick stated. “Miss Katherine Daltry, sometimes known as Victoria, is to sit with her godmother, Lady Wrothe, as well as Lord Hathaway. I don’t want to puncture whatever pleasant dream you’ve having of transforming the illegitimate swineherd’s daughter into a princess—or something less respectable—but her godmother is clearly planning to match her to Lord Hathaway.”
“Kate can’t marry a lord. She’s illegitimate.”
“All I can say is that Lady Wrothe gave me two guineas to put them together, and since she’s not a brothel keeper, my guess is that she’s found some way around Kate’s irregular birth. It could be that she’s not as illegitimate as I am.”
“Nothing about Kate makes sense,” Gabriel said. “Why are her hands callused if her godmother is Lady Wrothe?”
“The only thing completely clear about the situation is your infatuation,” Wick said. “Let me sum it up for you: Kate, very sensibly, shows no interest in you. Frightened by the imminent arrival of your bride, you are now running shrieking in the direction of the one woman who not only doesn’t want you, but isn’t eligible. Really, could you be a bit more original?”
“I almost took off Toloose’s head for an ill-considered remark about her bosom,” Gabriel said moodily. “He was decent about it, but he was angry to the bone. Damn it, and I like him.”
“Then stop this ridiculousness,” Wick said. “You’re chasing the girl to distract yourself. It’s not kind to her, since you couldn’t marry her anyway. She’s already got competition; Lady Starck gave me four guineas to put her daughter and herself next to Hathaway, so the man’s in demand. Kate will need all her wits about her.”
Gabriel frowned. “Lady Starck, whose daughter is Miss Effie Starck? She’s no competition! Kate will crush her into the parquet.”
“Miss Starck is presumably of excellent birth, and likely has a dowry,” Wick pointed out.
“I’ll give Kate a dowry,” Gabriel said instantly.
“One minute you want to seduce her, and the next you’re championing her marriage to Hathaway? And just where do you plan to get the money for a dowry? I’m worried about feeding the lion, for God’s sake.”
“I’m just saying that Effie Starck is a monkey’s arse compared to Kate.”
Wick sighed. “Forget Kate.”
“You should dower her,” Gabriel said moodily. “Six guineas from that table alone . . .”
“The going rate is much higher to sit at your table,” Wick said, grinning. “I gather all the young ladies are hoping Princess Tatiana’s ship will founder.”
“So it’s to your benefit to keep me unwed.”
“I know you don’t really want your Russian bride, Gabe,” Wick said, his voice softening.
Gabriel glanced up at his brother. Wick never called him Gabe anymore; it was always Your Highness or, more often, Your Heinous, occasionally varied with Your Knaveness. “It’s not that I don’t want Tatiana. I don’t want any bride.”
“So run off to Carthage. We’ll all survive here, and you wouldn’t be the first bridegroom to flee before you
r wedding night.”
For a split second Gabriel actually considered it, imagining himself dropping all responsibilities and promises, running for Carthage like a man with a devil on his tail.
Then he shook his head. “Promises were made, and we need the money,” he said, hoisting himself up. “I’m aiming to be a prince rather than a total ass. I’d better hie myself off to Pole. He gets twitchy if I don’t give him at least an hour.”
As the castle now held nearly one hundred gentlepersons, Wick had removed the vast oak table that usually spanned the dining hall, and placed tables for six and eight around the room instead. He himself met every person at the entrance to the hall, and with the seating arrangements safely stowed in his head, dispatched them to the appropriate table in the tender care of a footman.
The whole system was working more smoothly than did most military regiments, Gabriel thought, moving to the head of his particular table, Lady Dagobert on his arm. “What a pleasure to meet your daughter, my lady,” he said, bowing to Lady Arabella.
Arabella smiled at him with the guileless charm of a young lady trained to bag eligible gentlemen at fifty paces. He sighed and let the conversation wander where it would, and the table was quickly embroiled in a discussion of the French blockade’s influence on hemlines.
He didn’t let himself look over to Kate’s table. Not even when he actually heard her laughing. One had to assume that Lord Hathaway was amusing.
Lady Arabella gave him a startled look when she heard the low growl that came from somewhere in his chest, but he controlled himself and smiled at her, and she melted.
Like snow hitting a steaming pile of horseshit, he thought to himself.
Across the room, Kate would have agreed that Lord Hathaway was amusing. He wasn’t a wit, not in the way that Mr. Toloose seemed to be. But she liked him.
She liked the sturdy set of his shoulders, and the way his hair curled over his forehead, as if he were a little boy. He was charmingly boyish, really, while managing to be very much a man. The only problem was Miss Effie Starck, who was seated to his left.