The sound penetrated into his heart, warming him from the inside, and Rodrigo made it his personal mission in the next week and a half to hear Meg’s laughter again—often.
Her cheeks were flushed, and her hair was coming loose from its bindings. She pushed the curls out of her face with a flip of her fingers. “Carlo, I cannot thank you enough. I had resigned myself to a day of boredom.”
“As had I.”
“And you are certain the prince doesn’t mind you riding his horse?”
Rodrigo studied her face for an instant and then shook his head. “Patito needs to be exercised.” He turned the horse toward a hill that rose from the meadow floor.
“He seems to favor you,” Meg said, urging Bonnie to follow.
“Sí. We have been friends for a long time.” Rodrigo patted the stallion’s neck, careful to be as honest as he could, even as he maintained the ruse necessary for them to remain so comfortable with one another. “He is one of the only companions that accompanied me from Spain.”
“Do you miss Spain?”
Rodrigo’s throat tightened. He missed his homeland so much that at times it was painful. “Nearly every moment,” he said.
“I am sorry.”
He turned toward her and tried to muster a smile. “But today for the first time in months, I have had something else to occupy my mind, and for that I must thank you.”
Meg regarded him thoughtfully, and he wondered how much of his frustration was evident in his expression. “Is it painful to speak of your home? I would love to know more about Spain.”
“What would you like to know?”
Meg tipped her head, as if she were thinking. “Have you ever seen a bullfight?”
“Yes. Of course.” Unsurprisingly her mind had jumped to that exhibition. Her fascination with the sensational was utterly enchanting. And she wasn’t the kind of lady to behave squeamishly as so many British women did when he discussed the violent performance—or its gruesome end.
She looked at him expectantly, obviously waiting for him to tell her more.
“Margarita, la corrida de toros, it is—”
Meg shook her head and let out a groan. “Please don’t say it is not appropriate for a young lady or I might scream.”
The look on her face saddened him as he wondered how often Meg had been discouraged from learning or trying new things. “I was going to say, la corrida de toros, it is something you would love.”
“Truly?” Her face brightened.
“Sí. It is very sensational. The toreadors, they are masters who have trained for years. The bullfighter learns the quirks of the bulls as he confronts the animal with his capote and maneuvers out of reach of the animal’s horns, at times coming within inches of being gored.” He demonstrated with his hands the swish of the cape and the near miss of the bulls’ horns.
Meg watched, enraptured by his description. “The entire performance is filled with pageantry, costumes, a parade, and music; but mostly it is the tradition that makes it special. The tradition of festival, of celebration.”
“Tell me more. What else happens at festival?” Meg’s eyes were alight with excitement, and he loved that his words had been the cause.
“Of course, no gathering would be complete without a feast, and Spaniards love to eat. Supper is much more informal than it is in England, often lasting late into the night. And the food is delicious. Pastries, fish, chicken stew, fresh fruit. And delicious desserts I have yet to see in England. I particularly love turrón.”
“It all sounds wonderful. I would love to travel to Spain.” The light in her eyes dimmed, and Meg’s expression changed to wistful.
Rodrigo thought there was nothing he would like better than to watch the delight on Meg’s face as she experienced festival for the first time.
Then the truth spread like a shadow over his mood. There was no festival. Spain was in turmoil. His countrymen were dying and their livelihoods torn away. Even when this war ended, would the country he loved ever recover?
They reached a stream, and Rodrigo dismounted then moved to Bonnie’s side to assist Meg. She put her hands on his shoulders and leaned into him as he lifted her down from the saddle. When he moved to back away, Meg reached out a hand to touch his arm.
“I didn’t mean to make you more homesick.”
He looked down at her caramel-colored eyes, aware of how close they stood to one another. He had not thought it possible for a person’s expression to touch him so deeply. “You did not. I simply allowed my mind to wander. I apologize.”
She nodded. “I understand.”
“I imagine you do.”
They led the horses to the stream and allowed them to drink. Rodrigo worried that he had cast a pall over their outing and tried to think of a way to bring Meg’s smile back. “Tell me about Charleston. You said your grandfather raises horses?”
Meg nodded, running her hand over Bonnie’s neck. She glanced at him for a moment and then turned back to the mare. “Yes, racehorses. I learned to ride at his farm.” She sighed. “Charleston, my family, all of it seems so far away.” She continued to stare at the horse as she spoke, her hand moving automatically in the same repetitive motion. “I’d always dreamed of embarking on a grand adventure. Sailing across the sea to visit a castle seemed so magical, but now that I am here, I realize nothing is how I had imagined. I will likely never return home.”
Rodrigo was taken aback. Why would Meg believe that she was not to return to Charleston?
Meg turned toward him with a start, and he wondered if she purposely changed the topic. “I forgot to tell you, Lord Featherstone and I saw poachers in the forest. I hope you will be careful if you and Patito ride in there.”
At the sound of his name, the horse lifted his head toward her, and she rubbed his nose. It seemed Patito was smitten.
“I would guess they are not poachers,” Rodrigo said. “More likely soldiers. The prince and his sister are under heavy guard.”
Meg tipped her head to the side and ran her teeth over her lip as she considered this information. “I imagine it is frustrating for them,” she said, “living in constant fear. It would make one’s house seem like a prison.” She patted Patito’s neck.
Rodrigo turned the horses back toward the road.
“I should return to the castle,” Meg said. “Lady Vernon expects me this afternoon for a gown fitting.”
“Has the issue with the apricot dress been resolved to your satisfaction?” Rodrigo hoped the change of subject would lighten the mood as he helped Meg back onto the horse.
“I am afraid not.” She took the reins from him, and once he was astride Patito, the horses began to walk side by side back toward Thornshire Castle. “Lady Vernon is quite adamant that I wear it to Lady Harrison’s musicale. She has even ordered a head dress with feathers for me. I shall either look like an Indian chief or a chicken.” Meg shrugged her shoulders, her eyes rolling.
Rodrigo fought the impulse to laugh at her sentiment. Even when she did not intend to, Meg managed to lift his spirits, but right now, she looked so unhappy.
“I wish we didn’t have to return so quickly,” Meg said. “I have enjoyed this more than any day since I arrived in England.” She rode with her gaze down.
They rode to the stables, and he helped Meg dismount. One of the duke’s grooms took Bonnie away but knew that Rodrigo preferred to care for his own horse.
Meg’s melancholy hung over them, and the air felt heavy. Rodrigo cast his eyes around, looking for something to say that would return her good humor.
“Did I tell you what Patito means?” Rodrigo asked as Meg patted the stallion’s nose.
Her eyes squinted in confusion. “I assumed it was simply a name.”
“In Spanish, it means small duck—duckling.”
A smile stretched her lips. It grew, lifting her cheeks and finally reaching her eyes, igniting the sparkle he had not realized had been so obviously missing until it was returned. “The prince’s white stall
ion is named Ducky?”
Rodrigo nodded. He smiled himself at the laughter in her eyes.
“How did such a powerful animal come to have a name that is so . . .”
“Sweet?” Rodrigo offered.
Meg giggled. “Yes. Sweet.”
“When Patito was a foal, he and his mother were housed in a large paddock that contained a pond. A duck built her nest near the pond, and when the ducklings hatched, they followed their mother in a line. Patito followed too.” Rodrigo smiled, remembering how comical it had looked to see the horse following along as if he were one of the ducklings.
“I adore that story.” Meg laid her hand on her chest, sighing. “Patito, you are a warrior with a gentle heart.” She leaned close and kissed the stallion’s nose.
Rodrigo would not have ever imagined a time would come when he was jealous of his own horse.
Chapter 6
A bead of sweat rolled down Meg’s back as she took the dance master’s hand and allowed him to lead her from the floor. They had been practicing for hours, beginning directly after luncheon. Her feet hurt, and she was utterly exhausted.
“Much better, miss,” Mr. Crenshaw said. “But there is more to a dance than simply memorizing the steps. A lady should appear to glide across the floor.” He swept his hand in front of him with his palm down. “Effortless grace is one of her best assets.”
“I understand,” Meg said, hoping this little speech was an indication that their lesson was over. The steps in England were much more formal and complicated than what she was used to, and the idea of blundering the sequence in front of a ballroom full of elegant ladies and gentlemen made her insides shudder.
“You are such a beautiful young lady,” Lady Vernon spoke up from where she sat on a chair near the wall. “It is too bad that you clomp around like a . . .” She waved her hand in front of her, as if searching for the right word but apparently gave up. “Well, anyway, you shall simply need to practice. The ball is in less than two weeks, and I know you will want to demonstrate your proficiency for all the handsome gentlemen who will attend.” She smiled, obviously anticipating the event more than Meg.
Meg nodded. It had been an incredibly long and disheartening day, and she didn’t have it in her to pretend to be enthusiastic about anything at the moment. Least of all noblemen who were much more likely to be impressed by the accomplished young ladies with titles and large dowries than an American merchant’s daughter.
Lady Vernon had spent the morning listening to Meg pound out the repertoire of songs she knew on the pianoforte. The countess’s smile had been kind, but she had determined in only a few minutes that Meg would need to work with a music instructor if she was to prepare a song for Lady Harrison’s musicale.
“I do not think it is necessary for me to perform,” Meg had said. “Surely there are others who are much more accomplished to fill the time.”
Lady Vernon had shaken her head. “It is the custom for all the young ladies who will come out this Season to present. It gives the gentlemen an opportunity to view them in their best light.”
Meg did not think her pathetic attempts to play the instrument while wearing a gown that made her skin look pale and sallow was her “best light,” but she had learned to simply nod, discouraging further analysis of her shortcomings. She wished it were some other venue where she would not stand out as the least accomplished young lady.
The gown fitting that followed had been no better, and the feathers in her hair were the least of her worries as Lady Vernon and the modiste discussed the ways to conceal the freckles on Meg’s upper arms, where her gloves wouldn’t reach. It was decided that she would be better off wearing longer sleeves.
Serena had joined them and asked to see Meg’s Season wardrobe. “Oh, Meg. Qué hermoso sera. You will be so beautiful,” she said, holding up a cream-colored gown. “And this; you must try this on for me, por favor.”
“Thank you,” Meg said, smiling as she stepped behind the privacy screen and changed her clothes for what felt like the thousandth time.
Serena clapped and asked Meg to spin around and even spent some time admiring and discussing the bonnets, fans, gloves, and ribbons Lady Vernon had chosen. Serena’s presence had made the entire experience much less grueling, and Meg even began to feel excited about the gowns. It was refreshing to receive compliments instead of criticism, and Meg found herself laughing more than once.
Meg realized that Serena reminded her a bit of Carlo. Perhaps it was the way she listened to Meg’s opinion, instead of simply telling her what was best. Or it might be her accent, Meg thought.
Before Serena had left, she’d held up the dreaded apricot gown. “I do hope you’re not intending to wear this particular dress to the musicale,” she said. “My dress will be precisely the same color, and what a disaster that would be for us to arrive together.”
Lady Vernon and the modiste had immediately begun reassessing the gown choices for Lady Harrison’s musicale, and just before Serena left the room, she caught Meg’s gaze and winked.
Meg pondered on the meaning behind the duchess’s action. Did Serena know how she felt about the gown? But how could she? Meg didn’t have time to think about it for long before the dance master gave a small tug on her hand, and she was quickly transported back to the present.
“And now, miss, if you will demonstrate the five positions of dancing . . .”
When the dance instruction finally ended, Meg fled to the sanctuary of her window seat in the library, but her reprieve only lasted an hour until it was time to change for supper.
When she reached the top of the stairs with her hair arranged and wearing a fresh gown, she saw Lord Featherstone, Colonel Stackhouse, and Daniel standing together in the main hall.
Even though she could not hear what they were discussing, she could see by Daniel’s posture that he was uncomfortable. He stood rigidly with his arms folded and brows furrowed. Colonel Stackhouse was listening to Lord Featherstone, whose back was turned to Meg. The colonel’s face was unreadable.
Meg stepped quietly down the stairs, so as not to disturb the men, and as she approached, the earl’s words became clear.
“It is bad enough that cotton prices have risen in the extreme, but my steward tells me that we shall have to begin to find another source for sugar. I know I am not alone in my opinion that the former colonists owe us the courtesy of discontinuing trade with our enemies. Why, it is no secret that the Royal Navy has been forced to employ privateers to seize American cargo ships bound for France.”
Meg stopped with one foot in the air. The arrogant earl must know that the navy’s action was costing her father his very livelihood.
Daniel looked up, his gaze meeting hers. His face was pale with anger, and she saw lines of tension around his lips. He shook his head ever so slightly, indicating that Meg should remain silent.
Colonel Stackhouse’s eye darted to her quickly, but he continued to regard the earl without acknowledging Meg’s presence. “If I understand you correctly, sir, you are saying that the Americans should stop acting like an independent nation and work harder to serve Britain’s global interests.”
“Precisely,” Lord Featherstone said, nodding once. And even though Meg was behind him and could not see his face, she could tell by the motion of his arm that he was stroking his upper lip whiskers.
“And, Miss Burton, what is your opinion on the matter?” the colonel said without taking his gaze from the earl.
“I . . .” Meg didn’t look at Daniel but could see from the corner of her vision that he was attempting to catch her eye.
Lord Featherstone turned and stood aside as Meg stepped down the remaining stairs.
She looked between the two men. Colonel Stackhouse stood quietly, awaiting her reply, and Meg had fully decided to play the entire matter off as if she did not understand such issues and change the subject—until the earl blinked and lowered his chin. That slight movement portrayed such a wealth of condescension that Meg’s han
ds clenched, and a flood of words poured from her mouth.
“I believe that exact attitude, the British blatant disregard of rights, not to mention contempt for international laws upon the high seas is the reason that there will most assuredly be another war between Columbia and Britannia.” Meg turned her head from the colonel to the earl. His bright eyes were half-lidded, and he held a small smile as he appeared to humor her, and she could not help but continue.
“And if you would condemn American merchants for trading with the French, perhaps, England would care to explain how the Indians attacking frontier settlements have come to be supplied with British weapons.” Meg’s legs were trembling.
“Meg,” Daniel stepped toward her and placed his hand beneath her elbow. “This is hardly the—”
“Dear Miss Burton,” Lord Featherstone interrupted her brother, “I admire your loyalty to your homeland. It is quite adorable.” He shook his head from side to side slightly, his face still exhibiting that expression that looked as if he were speaking to a person of slow wits. “But you understand America has no hope of defeating His Majesty’s Navy.”
Meg pulled her arm from Daniel’s grip and turned her entire body to face the earl directly. “It is true, sir. Although the continual illegal impressment of Americans to serve in the British navy has provided many men with an excellent training in naval warfare, however unwanted it might be.” The issue of impressment had been a topic of heated discussion in Charleston ever since the Chesapeake-Leopard affair, and the thought of men taken forcefully from their families to serve for years aboard a foreign warship heated Meg’s blood further.
“I think you would be surprised, sir. The shipyards in Massachusetts produce top quality vessels. But even if America didn’t have the resources to attack the British fleet, the fact is, England’s soldiers are spread about the globe. Even now, more and more are sent to the peninsula, not to mention India and other holdings of the crown. I would not be surprised if the United States decided to put pressure on Britain by invading the Canadian colonies. Strategically, it is the perfect—”
Miss Burton Unmasks a Prince Page 6