Some Enchanted Evening

by Christina Dodd

  And, of course, Robert rode Helios like a man born to the saddle. “My regiment was stationed in northern Portugal.”

  Princess Clarice raised her eyebrows at Millicent as if sharing amusement at his taciturnity. Turning back to him, she asked, “Is that where you spent all your time?”

  Millicent strained to hear the answer. When Robert had returned from the Peninsula, she almost hadn’t recognized him. The charming, debonair young rake had given way to a man with bleak, lifeless eyes who watched the world with weary recognition and never let down his guard. She had tried to talk to him about his years in the army, but he politely changed the subject, asking her about the events in Freya Crags with every semblance of interest, when in fact she feared he cared for nothing.

  “I roamed a great deal of the countryside,” he said.

  Which was no answer at all. Millicent shrank in disappointment.

  Princess Clarice didn’t appear noticeably discouraged. A small smile played around her lips, the kind of smile pretty women wore because they knew they were irresistible.

  Millicent knew she herself was quite resistible. Witness her unhappy debut, as well as the years spent at parties conversing with elderly ladies in need of company. And witness, also, the years of desperate longing for Corey MacGown, the earl of Tardew, a man who barely knew her name.

  Yet when Robert looked at Princess Clarice, something stirred in his face. Millicent was only a spinster, but she recognized interest when she saw it, and the beginnings of an unwilling thaw.

  Now she watched with fascination as Princess Clarice again prodded at Robert. “My lord, I’m sure your adventures on the Peninsula were always heroic and your travels fascinating.”

  Millicent thought the princess was flattering him.

  Princess Clarice continued. “Perhaps tonight you could regale us with your tales. What you did, who you saw…where you went.”

  With a shrewdness that boded ill for the princess and her queries, Robert said, “Perhaps you’re asking because your kingdom is in that part of the world. Are you a princess of Portugal? Or Andalusia? Or Baminia? Or Serephinia? Or—”

  With a laugh Princess Clarice held up a protesting hand. “I know and am related to most of the royal families all over Europe. I confess, I did wonder what you could tell me of them.”

  “You’re very discreet about your own background.” Robert sounded pleasant, but Millicent heard the steel in his tone.

  If Princess Clarice heard the steel, she did a masterful job of ignoring it. “Revolution makes the role of princess not only difficult but dangerous.”

  “Yet you shout of your royalty in a town square,” Robert said.

  Princess Clarice smiled with her jaw tight. “I have to sell creams, and women do not try them without due reason. Knowing that they’re wearing the same emulsions as the queens of old proves to be the enticement they cannot resist. So I take the chance and proclaim my title, then ride on to foil any abductors—or assassins.”

  “Convenient,” Robert said.

  “Necessary,” Princess Clarice countered.

  Again, that was no answer. This sparring between her brother and the princess fascinated Millicent. Millicent herself would never dare to thwart Robert on any matter. She had so looked forward to Robert’s return, but after these few months of speaking to a courteous stranger whose smiles never reached his eyes, she had lost all hope of ever finding her beloved brother again.

  Until today.

  Princess Clarice had moved Robert out of his self-imposed exile and back toward humanity, so Millicent wanted Princess Clarice close under his nose, where he couldn’t ignore her. Where the princess could bring that peculiar expression of pain and amazement to his usually impassive face.

  He wore it now as he watched her ride.

  In a move that dismissed him and brought Millicent into the conversation, Princess Clarice turned to her. “Tell me about this ball you’re planning.”

  With a pride Millicent didn’t bother to subdue, she told Princess Clarice, “My brother is hosting a ball for Colonel Oscar Ogley.”

  “The war hero?” Princess Clarice sounded suitably impressed. As well she should be. Colonel Ogley’s feats of derring-do had been reported in every newspaper. His name had been on every lip. His height, his handsome demeanor, his nobility, had been reported throughout the land, and it was rumored the Prince of Wales would confer upon him and his family a title commensurate with his valor. Colonel Ogley had even written a book, and Millicent owned it bound in the finest leather. It sat in a place of honor on her shelf. “Colonel Ogley is coming here?”

  “He was my commanding officer on the Peninsula,” Robert said. “Celebrating his return is the least I can do after his courageous acts.”

  Princess Clarice sounded impressed as she said, “What a coup for you to have him!”

  Robert glanced down, a small smile playing about his mobile mouth.

  Millicent knew what he thought. He thought that Colonel Ogley should realize the honor he was paid by the Hepburns. Gently she tried to convey that to the princess. “We’re very pleased to have the colonel with us. This is the only ball he has agreed to attend in all of Scotland.”

  Even before the words were out of Millicent’s mouth, Princess Clarice comprehended, and added, “Yes, and what a coup for Colonel Ogley to have the Hepburns honoring his return!”

  Which proved Princess Clarice was very gracious and instinctively polite.

  Millicent didn’t know why Robert had insisted the princess come to stay at MacKenzie Manor, but she had dared to add her own, less imperious invitation to Robert’s—and she found herself pleasantly surprised by Princess Clarice’s reception. Usually, pretty women intimidated Millicent. Yet for all the princess’s beauty, she was approachable and not at all condescending, and when she laughed at Millicent’s small joke about Prudence…well, Millicent thought they could possibly be friends.

  Except that Princess Clarice was a princess. Perhaps Millicent was being presumptuous in thinking they could ever have something in common.

  Then Princess Clarice said, “Dear Lady Millicent, I would be frazzled at the thought of arranging such a grand ball! Please, you must tell me what I can do for you. I’ll be glad to help where I can.”

  Before Millicent could thank her, Robert said, “Then be present.”

  Princess Clarice whipped her head around and said swiftly, “Impossible!”

  As if she were watching a game of lawn tennis, Millicent looked back and forth between them, amazed at the sudden blaze of antagonism.

  “I insist,” he said.

  “I don’t attend balls,” Princess Clarice retorted.

  “You’re a princess,” he answered.

  “Her Highness, Princess Peddler.” Princess Clarice smiled, but with not quite so much amicability as before. “I fear you’ll find most of your guests are willing to take my advice but not willing to socialize with me. I promise, my lord, I’m not offended.”

  Robert didn’t give up. “But I will be if you don’t attend.”

  The princess began to lose her composure. “I have no suitable gowns for a ball, and I have no intention—”

  “Millicent will get one for you,” he said.

  “She most certainly will not,” Princess Clarice said indignantly.

  “She’ll be delighted,” Robert answered. “Won’t you, Millicent?”

  Startled to find herself the focus of two sets of eyes, Millicent stammered, “Aye. I can…I can easily find one of Prudence’s gowns that will suit Princess Clarice. Unworn, I promise, Your Highness. I wouldn’t insult you by suggesting you should wear someone’s castoffs. Prudence has so many gowns, she’ll never miss one.”

  The princess held out a hand toward Millicent. “You’re very kind, and I thank you with all my heart. Please don’t misunderstand”—her head whipped back around toward Robert—“but I don’t take charity.”

  At once the sparks sprang to life again. “It won’t be charity,”
he said. “It will be wages earned.”

  Without finesse Princess Clarice answered, “I’d rather have it in gold guineas.”

  “I’ll pay you whatever you ask.” He smiled like a sharp-toothed tiger. “Believe me, you’ll earn every pence.”

  Even to Millicent that sounded like a threat against decency. “Robert!”

  The already-high color in Princess Clarice’s cheeks blossomed into a vivid pink, and she brought her horse to a halt before the great gates of MacKenzie Manor. “Perhaps I should clarify, my lord. I make people handsome. I’m very good at my trade, but it is my only mission. Regardless of the circumstances, regardless of the requirements, I do nothing that will compromise my reputation or my self-respect.”

  Robert brought his horse around, using Helios to block Princess Clarice’s escape back down the road. “I spoke hastily and in an ill-judged manner. Princess Clarice, I have no designs on your royal self.”

  Millicent hoped he was lying.

  “I’ll do nothing to harm your reputation.” He sounded and looked sincere.

  “Peddlers don’t have reputations”—Princess Clarice moved edgily in her saddle—“which is why I have such a care for mine.”

  Blaize turned restive at being confined, and when Robert shifted back to give the young stallion room, he slipped past Robert’s confinement and onto the open road.

  It had been, Millicent realized, a trick on Princess Clarice’s part to free herself from Robert’s entrapment. The princess was a match for Robert. Now, if only he would rise from the mausoleum where he had entombed himself and seize her.

  Certainly it seemed he would as he swiftly placed himself between her and the village. “Princess Clarice, you’re unmarried, so I do excuse your wariness, but even if you don’t believe me, think on this. With my two sisters in the house and carriage-loads of female relatives arriving, it would be unlikely that I could find the time or the place to seduce a guest, beautiful though she might be. And certainly not as honored a guest as you will be.”

  “The time? Perhaps not. The place?” Princess Clarice patted Blaize’s neck. “The gossip in the village is that you live alone in a cottage.”

  He gave the princess no more explanation of his peculiar behavior than he had given Millicent and Prudence. “Since my return from the war, I desire privacy.”

  Oh, dear. If he wished to bring the princess around to his way of thinking, using that clipped tone of voice and that aloof expression was not the way to do it.

  But for some reason, Princess Clarice seemed reassured. “Very well, I accept that your intentions are honorable—but I won’t be a guest at your ball.”

  Without taking his gaze from the princess, he said, “Millicent, I wish you would ride ahead and prepare a bedchamber for the princess. The queen’s bedchamber would be best. It’s close to yours and Prue’s, and that most honored showcase will demonstrate to our guests the esteem with which we hold our royal visitor.”

  He was getting rid of her. Millicent understood that, but she didn’t trust him not to frighten Princess Clarice away, and Millicent wanted the princess to visit. She wanted a chance to see if they could be friends. Most of all, she wanted to know if Princess Clarice would continue to burrow under Robert’s skin and bring him back to life.

  So she sat there a moment too long, and Robert flicked a glance at her. “Millicent. Please.”

  That still-faced, cold-eyed soldier was back, replacing the man who showed signs of humanity, and she flinched. It hurt to see him so closed off. It hurt to know there was nothing she could do to reach him. It hurt that he reprimanded her in front of a princess, as if she were nothing to him.

  Not his beloved sister, but merely a convenient housekeeper for his home. As she had been to her father. As she would be for the rest of her life. Her father had told her no one would ever care about her feelings. Her father was correct.

  Hastily, before she dissolved in tears, she said, “Of course, brother. At once.” Turning, she hastened toward home. Toward sanctuary.

  Seven

  A princess always takes care that her words are honeyed, for she may have to eat them.

  —THE DOWAGER QUEEN OF BEAUMONTAGNE

  Clarice watched Lady Millicent ride away and wished the woman showed a little more gumption—to stand up to her brother, and to stay as protection for Clarice.

  Not that Clarice needed protection. She’d found herself in worse circumstances than these—really, what could Lord Hepburn do here on the road?—and gotten herself out. But it would have been easier to have Millicent as a buffer. “You hurt her feelings.”

  “What?” Hepburn glanced after his sister. “Don’t be ridiculous. Millicent is far too sensible to—”

  “Have feelings?” she flashed. “Or too ill-valued to dare show them?”

  Typical male. He stared at her as if she were speaking a foreign language and said, “I’m sure Millicent knows her value at MacKenzie Manor.”

  “I’m sure she does too.”

  Now he stared at her as if he heard the irony, and puzzled over it. No doubt he would dismiss her comment as normal female blather while his sister withered away into the nothingness of cowed spinsterhood.

  Clarice would have to do something about that. Millicent needed help, and Clarice needed to stay away from Lord Hepburn.

  Because when all was said and done, he made her uncomfortable in a way no man had ever done before, and she suspected he had his ways of enforcing his will that would make her even more uncomfortable.

  Yet when she braced herself and faced him, he said only, “Come.” Turning, he rode up the shady, hilly tree-lined drive toward the house.

  Clarice stared at his disappearing back, then looked around at the empty road. She could ride away right now. Hepburn was a sophisticated man. He wouldn’t give chase…and even if she had overestimated his decorum, she and Blaize could outride him and that long-legged gelding he called Helios.

  Probably.

  But…she had Amy in Freya Crags, a vast need for cash, and the prospect of a robust salary if she would visit MacKenzie Manor. Hepburn was not a villain; nothing Amy had said gave her any such indication. Even if he gave Clarice a few rough moments, if he followed through on the promise in his blue eyes…well, she could handle him. She specialized in taking care of herself.

  She turned Blaize’s nose toward the drive and stopped.

  Yet, obeying him now, following him now, made her feel much like a butterfly willfully fluttering into a very sticky web.

  If she proceeded with this project, she would be even more careful than usual. She would be helpful to Millicent and sell her wares to the guests, immediately receiving their payment. If Hepburn stepped one toe out of line, she would tell a fib about assisting Mistress Dubb with her face cream, ride into Freya Crags, pick up Amy, and take flight. That was her plan, and it was a good one.

  Tight-lipped and mindful, she started after him.

  And as she crossed through the gates, she suffered an almost preternatural jolt, as if she’d traversed a threshold and she could never return to the place where she’d been before.

  She almost turned back. She almost did. But the thought of trying to survive the coming winter here in Scotland without enough food or coal, and the magistrate in England who would hang her if he could, drove her on. And always at the back of her mind Beaumontagne shimmered like a silver vision, drawing her forward.

  Shaking off her trepidation, she rode into a half-tamed wilderness where giant oaks shivered in the spring breeze, and azaleas bloomed in clumps of blazing pink and virgin white. The scent of pine drifted through the air, and the spicy perfume lifted Clarice’s spirits and put heart into her.

  She’d done more difficult things. If all went well, if Hepburn kept his promise of payment, she and Amy would be free to take passage back to Beaumontagne, slip into the country and find their grandmother, and help her overthrow the last rebels. Perhaps Grandmamma was growing old and feeble, and that was why she hadn�
��t sent word for them to return. Perhaps she was trying to protect them from harm. She didn’t realize the fragile girl-children she had sent away had grown into adults capable of so much more than needlework and dancing. This ordeal with Hepburn was one of the final challenges Clarice would have to overcome, she was sure of it.

  When she caught up with him at the top of the rise, she had, once more, become a courageous, rational woman.

  His black leather gauntlet pointed the way. “There it is. MacKenzie Manor.”

  Seen from the main road, the four-story monolith had made her draw back. Seen across a sweep of lawn, through lacy-leafed trees, the gray stone rose abruptly from the soft green grass. Harsh and imposing, it seemed less of a home and more of an edifice designed to awe and humble those who visited the mighty Hepburns. No ivy softened its harsh facade, no flowers grew along its foundation, no portico welcomed visitors. MacKenzie Manor eloquently spoke of wealth and prestige but said nothing of home and the gentle arts.

  Once again the sense of being trapped overwhelmed her, and she glanced at the man beside her.

  His appearance was as stark as his home. The sunshine dappled his visage, yet the gently moving flickers of light and shadow didn’t soften the harsh, jutting contours of bone against skin. His hair had been tossed back from his face by the ride, dipped into a stark widow’s peak, and framed his face without alleviating the austerity of his features. The ripple and redness of a burn scarred one side of his forehead, a burn that must have caused much agony.

  Yet he seemed not to require compassion for himself, and nothing about him hinted at warmth or pride in MacKenzie Manor. Instead, he watched it with the cool proprietary air of one who possessed without affection.

  Then he turned that same assessing gaze on her.

  She should have run. She should have escaped down the road and never looked back.

  Instead, now she couldn’t tear her gaze away from his.

  All her life she had watched as other people suffered from unfortunate and precipitous passions and wondered at them, for she was a princess. She practiced control with every motion, every smile, every emotion. Passion was for lesser beings, and she had always believed her breeding and her training provided immunity.