by Lauren Royal
The core-filled napkin dropped from his hand to the basket. “Our time together changed nothing,” he blurted out. “I’m still betrothed to Priscilla.”
Amy stared at him sitting stone-faced across from her. Unbidden tears threatened to spill from her eyes.
He looked away first. “Don’t cry, Amy,” he said to the floor. “I don’t think I could stand it.”
She blinked back the tears. “I know you’re betrothed. I haven’t been thinking anything had changed. Have I said something to make you think I have?”
“Well, no…” He hesitated, then moved over to her side and took her hand. “No, you said nothing. But as much as I wish to spend time with you in London, there are those who would take note of it and make both our lives miserable.”
“I know no one important in London.”
“What about your former clientele?”
Amy bit her lip. He had a point. They may not have been her friends, but the fact remained she was acquainted with many of London’s elite.
“I don’t care,” she declared. “I’ll be in Paris the rest of my life, in all probability. What London thinks of me couldn’t possibly matter.”
“You don’t know what course your life will take, Amy.” He dropped her hand. “I’ll set you up at the town house, but I won’t be spending nights there myself. A carriage and driver will be at your disposal. I’ll let you know where you can reach me so you can send word when you’ve purchased all the items you need.”
“Where will you stay?”
“That depends upon who’s in town. But I’ll make sure everyone knows we’re not sharing the town house.” Distancing himself from her already, he moved back to the opposite bench.
The implication was obvious. He wouldn’t risk anyone finding out they’d kissed, as a relationship with the likes of her could only be an embarrassment to him. It couldn’t be that he was protecting her reputation—she was leaving the country, anyway.
Colin stretched his legs and crossed them, then retreated behind his book. Miserable, Amy withdrew into one protective corner of the carriage. There was no point in continuing the discussion. He had made his position clear, and he hadn’t asked for her opinion.
He was so unfair!
She’d never asked to stay with him, or even hinted at it—she knew plain Amy Goldsmith didn’t belong with the Earl of Greystone. She had her own life and obligations to fulfill. All she wanted was a few more days with him, a few more days of happiness, a few more days when she could pretend she wasn’t alone in the world.
Even now, aloof as he was, she wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch him, to lose herself in his arms.
As hard as he was trying to be cold and demanding, he’d melted when her tears threatened. She should take solace from that, she told herself. The real Colin was in there somewhere, obviously just as confused as she was—if not more.
She opened her book and held it in front of her face, staring blindly at a page while she composed herself. If she had any hope of changing his mind, she wouldn’t accomplish it by weeping and begging.
She took a deep breath and forced herself to focus on the words, until she was caught up in the exciting end of Clélie’s long tale. Three hours of silence later, just as they crossed London Bridge, she finished and, with a sigh of satisfaction, laid the book on the seat beside her.
Gazing out the carriage window, she marveled at the changes the fire had wrought in her hometown. Blocks and blocks were naught but charred vacant lots. The odd chimney or blackened stone oven stood like gravestones among the debris. Except for the clip-clop of horses and the creaking and crunching of wheels passing through, the city was hauntingly quiet. As Amy moved closer to the window, a small sound of distress escaped her lips.
Colin looked up from his book. “It won’t be like this forever,” he said gently.
She listened carefully. Here and there came rare, banging sounds of construction. “Some are rebuilding,” she observed.
“Yes, but it’s forbidden until owners clear the rubble and establish their claims to the land. It will take time.”
Driving along Fleet Street toward Chancery Lane, they passed into the unburned area at last. Amy breathed a deep sigh of relief as the familiar smells of London hit her. Odors of tar, smoke from incessant coal fires, and the stench of tanneries were overlaid with a pervasive reek from the open sewer that the Fleet River, commonly called the Ditch, had become over the centuries. Though rank and foul, the stench was a comforting memory of another life.
And the traffic! Carriages, hackney coaches, carts, mounted riders, sedan chairs, pedestrians, and animals jostled one another in the noisy, crowded streets. After months in the quiet countryside, Amy’s ears seemed assaulted with the cacophony of hawkers peddling their wares in pushcarts, wheelbarrows, and simple baskets, crying out in singsong rhyme of the superiority of their goods.
One man called out, “Rats or mice to kill!” and Amy smiled.
“The rats,” she mused. “How could I have forgotten the rats?”
Colin smiled in return.
Thieves, pickpockets, and beggars were everywhere, but so were street singers ballading for pence. Amy caught sight of a familiar face and turned excitedly. “Oh, it’s Richardson the fire-eater! May we stop and watch?”
Colin shrugged and knocked on the roof for Benchley to halt. Amy hung out the window, wide-eyed, as Richardson chewed and swallowed hot coals, then melted glass and, as a finale, put a hot coal on his tongue, heated it with bellows until it flamed, cooked an oyster on it, and swallowed the lot.
The audience burst into wild applause, and Colin dug in his pouch and handed Amy a coin to toss out the window before they moved on.
They finally reached Lincoln’s Inn Fields, a fashionable neighborhood bordering a large, grassy square. It was a quieter area, but only in comparison to other parts of London: Lincoln’s Inn Fields Theatre was here, known for spectacular moving scenery, and the square was often the scene of fights and robberies, as well as a place for public executions.
The carriage stopped in front of the Chases’ town house, a four-story brick building on the west side of the square. Amy climbed out and gazed up at the distinguished facade. Giant Ionic columns held up a boldly projecting cornice and balcony. Triangular decorations crowned tall, rectangular windows.
Colin came out after her and stretched, yawning.
“It’s Palladian,” Amy breathed in an awed tone. “Was it designed by Inigo Jones?”
“Yes.” He took off toward the front door.
Following him, Amy frowned, her exhilaration at being back in the City dampened by his attitude. Where were his usual chatty explanations? Colin loved showing his family’s homes and recounting their histories.
Was he that unhappy with her, then?
The interior was every bit as impressive as the outside. The few aristocratic residences Amy had seen were paneled in dark, traditional Jacobean wood. Not this home; the comparison was like coal to diamonds. Her gaze swept up a wide, graceful curving staircase. Light, cheerfully painted walls were ornamented with classical motifs and festooned with a riot of carving: flowers, fruit, ribbons, palms, and masks.
She couldn’t wait to get a tour of this magnificent house.
Colin prodded her forward, toward where the servants waited in a neat row.
“This is Mrs. Amethyst Goldsmith,” he said, pleasantly enough. “She’ll be staying here for a few days. Ida?”
A slight, blue-eyed girl stepped forward. She looked about Amy’s age. “Yes, my lord?”
“Please see to Mrs. Goldsmith’s comfort.” The maid’s blond curls bounced as she nodded, eagerly accepting the responsibility. Colin turned to Amy. “I’m going to take a nap. I suggest you do the same.”
With that, he was off, his long legs climbing the stairs two at a time. Ida showed Amy to a chamber and pulled back the covers on the bed. Amy still wondered about the house, but she hadn’t been anticipating a self-guided tour; s
he wanted Colin beside her, telling her all about it.
She lay down, and when she awakened from her fitful sleep, Colin was gone. On her way down to supper, Ida said something about him dining with Priscilla before making an appearance at some ball or other, but Amy listened with half an ear.
Although she’d had most of the day to get used to the idea, she still couldn’t believe that Colin had left her alone.
THIRTY-EIGHT
AS THE DANCE prescribed, Priscilla performed a graceful bow and pointed one square-toed shoe, chattering over the slow music of the minuet. Growing more impatient by the minute, Colin wondered what on earth had possessed him to squire her to Lady Carson’s ball. He hated balls.
And why hadn’t he ever noticed before what a gossip Priscilla was?
Her mouth was as mincing as the minuet. Perhaps if he backed her into that matron over there, who rather resembled the stuffed peacock on the buffet table, Priscilla might shut up.
“Excusez-moi!” The matron pinned him with accusing eyes.
“My apologies, madame.” He wrinkled his nose against the cloying perfume that wafted from the woman’s unwashed body. But his ploy had worked. Priscilla ceased babbling about Lady So-and-So and Lord Such-and-Such, and turned her attention to him instead.
“Really, Colin. You must be more careful.”
“How clumsy of me,” he said with an innocent smile, and quickly changed the subject. “You are looking quite well this evening.” It was true. Priscilla was eighteen and a beauty. Her shoulder-length silver-blond hair gleamed in the candlelight from the blazing chandeliers. Her figure was tall and willowy rather than curvy, but she carried herself with a regal air, and her ivory satin gown accentuated her pale beauty. The complete opposite of Amy’s coloring.
Criminy.
He deliberately pushed Amy out of his mind.
“Why, thank you.” Priscilla smiled at the compliment, but no blush marred her complexion. Sedate and proper at all times, she never blushed. Unlike Amy, who—
“Colin, are you listening?”
“I was admiring your complexion. You’re as flawless as a porcelain doll.”
“Oh.” She concentrated on the next dance step.
“And you dance so prettily,” he added for good measure as they both balanced forward in three-quarter rhythm. When he reached to skim his knuckles along her cheek, she flinched and pulled back. He frowned, wondering if the gesture had been overfamiliar…but they had kissed before. More than once. Although it had been nothing like kissing Amy—
“Colin?” Priscilla waved a hand in front of his face. “As I was saying, Lady Beauchamp—”
“Do you think we might discuss something else?”
“I beg your pardon?” Her eyebrows lifted as her toe traced a half-circle. But her voice held no emotion, not even annoyance at the interruption. Without knowing what possessed him, Colin found himself edging her closer and closer to the peacock matron, until—
“Oh!”
“Well, I never!”
As the matron stalked off, Priscilla righted herself and smoothed her skirts. She would have fallen flat on her behind if Colin hadn’t caught her at the last second.
He waited for a reaction. Anger. Indignation. Embarrassment. Anything.
There was nothing.
He frowned and mentally added to his list: She was as cold and passionless as a porcelain doll as well.
He would have to work on that.
“I’m so very sorry,” he ventured, watching her untangle an earring that had got caught in her hair. “I simply wasn’t looking where I was going. You must be furious…”
“It’s all right,” she said mildly.
And it was.
And there was nothing for it but to resume dancing with her, though Colin suddenly felt unaccountably irritated.
“As I was saying, Lady Beauchamp—”
“I don’t wish to discuss Lady Beauchamp,” he said bluntly.
“What is it you wish to discuss?”
“Something…relevant. Our families. Our future. History. Art.” He was steering her rather forcefully through the glittering, jeweled throng of dancers, though he was careful to avoid bumping into anyone. “What did you think of the play tonight?”
“Lady Scarsdale’s gown was horrendous. The orange girls were better dressed. And did you see the earl’s periwig? It had lice. I cannot believe we were forced to share a box with them.”
The music ended, and Priscilla glanced around. “Lady Whitmore has arrived. I have something to tell her.”
“By all means.” With a great sigh of relief, he sent her sailing from the dance floor. He regretted his bad behavior, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Why was he so out of sorts tonight? Was it just the prospect of spending every day of the rest of his life listening to Priscilla gossip?
Actually, the thought of that was rather depressing.
Could he find some way to discourage her habit before she drove him mad? Perhaps an instructive practical joke…
Ah…yes. He smiled as he caught the eye of a dear friend across the ballroom: Barbara Palmer, the Countess of Castlemaine and King Charles’s mistress these past six years.
Barbara would be the perfect co-conspirator, for she enjoyed a prank as much as he. He made his way over to her.
Though she was five years older than Colin, Barbara’s auburn hair and deep blue eyes made her the equal of any young woman at court. She was a rare beauty, which played no small part in her hold over Charles. Colin supposed he ought to be shocked and disapproving of Barbara’s wicked ways, but he’d known her so long and so well—and the king’s affairs were so universally accepted—that her behavior failed to diminish her in his eyes. She always remained the same old, marvelous Barbara.
“My Lady Castlemaine,” With a little bow, he took her arm and drew her away from the group surrounding her. Barbara was always in the center of a crowd. Everyone was well aware she had the king’s ear, and she wasn’t a bit opposed to dabbling in politics.
For a price, of course.
“Greystone!” Barbara’s eyes danced. “You have my thanks for rescuing me. Where have you been hiding these weeks past?”
“Some of us have to work, you know,” Colin teased. Pulling her farther away from the masses, he dropped his voice. “I was wondering…might you be willing to help me play a little trick on Priscilla?”
“One of your practical jokes? On Lady Priscilla?” Barbara’s musical laughter tinkled through the ballroom. “Count me in! What do you have in mind?”
“Well…” His ideas were half-baked. But suddenly inspiration hit. “Would you mind pretending you’re with child?”
“How would that help?”
“I’ve discovered Priscilla is quite the gossip—”
“You’re just finding out? For heaven’s sake, I’ve known that for years.”
“Well, I was thinking to tell her you’re expecting again—Charles’s babe, naturally—but not to tell anyone. She’ll tell everyone, of course, and eventually someone will congratulate you. Then—here’s the part you may not like—then you’ll storm off, saying you are not with child but you’ll certainly never be wearing this gown again! And Priscilla will be mortified that she started this rumor.”
“I love it!” Barbara exclaimed. “It’s so mean!”
Colin frowned. He didn’t want to humiliate Priscilla; he just wanted to teach her a lesson. “Do you think so?” he asked.
“No, not really,” Barbara recanted.
He looked at her sharply.
“Most any lady here would spread the rumor,” she rushed to reassure him. “Lady Priscilla won’t be thought of unkindly. Besides, no one will know where it started. One request, though. Afterwards, we must tell the poor soul I take to task—and Lady Priscilla, of course—that we started the rumor ourselves.” She fluffed her skirts. “I quite adore this gown, you know.”
Colin nodded. “You’re stunning in it. And worry not—I’ll make certain
everyone learns the truth afterwards.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary. It will do my reputation good for people to think Charles has come back to me again. He will, you know.”
“Of course he will,” Colin assured her. “He always has.”
“He’s made such a fool of himself over Frances Stewart.”
Colin had heard this refrain before. A tall, beautifully proportioned girl some eight years younger than Barbara, Frances had arrived at court almost four years ago, and King Charles had been head over heels for her ever since. His love was unrequited, however, since Frances was that rarest of creatures: a chaste courtier.
“I cannot stand her,” Barbara said. “She prances around in that man’s dress made fashionable by the queen—as though I could wear such garb after bearing five of His Majesty’s children!”
“Come now, such dress is ridiculous anyway. And no one could rival you in that gown.”
“Thank you,” she said as though such compliments were her due. “Charles wrote a poem about her, you know. ‘Oh, then ’tis I think there’s no Hell, Like loving too well,’” Barbara quoted in a sickly sweet voice. She rolled her eyes. “And still she wouldn’t share his bed.”
“There are those who think Frances must be simpleminded to persist in such virtue,” Colin consoled her—carefully skirting his own opinion on the matter.
“Oh, she’s a dunderhead, all right. Her favorite pastimes are playing blind-man’s buff and building castles out of playing cards. Grammont said it’s hardly possible for a woman to have less wit or more beauty.”
“Then she’s no true rival to you,” Colin assured her. He spotted his intended making her way across the ballroom. “Priscilla is headed this way. You agree to my plan?”
“Yes, it shall be great fun. I shall dazzle you with my performance.”
“Very well, then. I look forward to it.” He walked toward Priscilla nonchalantly, hoping she hadn’t noticed the long time he’d spent talking with Barbara.