by Lauren Royal
After mingling a bit, he danced again with Priscilla, enjoying the jealous glances of the other men present. She was tall and graceful in his arms, and she wasn’t gossiping, for once. At the end of the dance, he was pleased to realize he hadn’t thought about Amy for quite a few minutes.
Coming off the dance floor, he said casually, “I’ve heard tonight that Barbara is expecting His Majesty’s sixth child.”
“She told you so?” Priscilla was more animated than usual, her interest piqued by the opportunity to be in on a juicy bit of gossip.
“No, it was someone else. You mustn’t tell anyone, though, for she hasn’t even told Charles yet.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t,” Priscilla said much too quickly. “But who told you?”
“I’ve been sworn to secrecy. I chatted a bit with Barbara to see if she’d let it slip, but she didn’t say a word.”
“She doesn’t look enceinte.” Priscilla slanted a dubious glance to where Barbara was surrounded by a new group of hangers-on.
“She’s only just had it confirmed, according to my source. She wouldn’t be showing yet.”
“Of course. I’m not well versed in such matters, since I haven’t had children myself—yet.”
Priscilla knew Colin wanted children; he’d made no secret of the importance he placed on family life. And she’d offered no arguments, he reminded himself now. She really was a good choice for him.
“Would you care for some spiced wine?” he asked, knowing it would be out of character for him to discuss such a gossipy subject too long.
“No, thank you,” Priscilla declined prettily. “I’m not thirsty.”
Colin saw right through her excuse: She couldn’t wait to get back to her friends. However, he enjoyed his jokes tremendously, especially the anticipation, so he wasn’t quite ready to let her get started.
“No, I insist.” He drew her over to the refreshment table and handed her a cup of wine. Taking one himself, he grasped her firmly by the elbow. “Shall we enjoy the garden for a while?”
“It’s freezing out there,” Priscilla protested.
Colin smiled to himself. “Just for a minute. It’s beastly hot in here.”
She couldn’t argue with that. Between the blazing fires on either end of the ballroom, the hundreds of candles burning in the chandeliers above, and the guests packed in elbow-to-elbow, it was difficult to breathe.
Priscilla reluctantly went with him, in no small part because he dragged her along physically, and he guided her through the crowd and outdoors.
“Ahh.” He inhaled deeply of the fresh air. “It’s pleasant out here, isn’t it?”
Priscilla drained her cup and crossed her arms in a most unladylike fashion. It was quite foreign to her nature, and Colin was pleased; perhaps she was becoming more human. “I’m finished. May I go back inside now?”
“Not just yet.” Colin drew her further into the formal garden, over to a low brick wall. He set down both their cups and leaned back against it, then wrapped his arms around Priscilla’s waist and pulled her close. Ignoring the startled look in her eyes, he brought his lips down to hers—just a little bit down, he realized, momentarily surprised at the reminder of her height. But her mouth was warm in the cold night, and he was pleased to think this statuesque heiress was his, so it was a moment before he realized she wasn’t kissing him back. Instead she was pushing away from him, her palms flat against his chest.
“Colin—not here.”
“Why? No one’s here to see.”
“It’s not proper. And there’s no one to see because no one else is mad enough to come out in this weather.”
“I’ll keep you warm.” Though taken aback by her reaction, he put on a smile and rubbed her arms encouragingly. She’d never seemed to mind kissing him before…
But Priscilla was ever well mannered and proper, and Colin realized with dismay that he’d never tried to steal a private moment with her before, that each of their kisses had had its customary time and place. But surely, with patience, he could teach her to enjoy a stolen kiss or two. Was there an instructive practical joke that might—
No! No. He quashed that idea immediately.
His arm lightly around her shoulders, he walked her back to the ball. In no time, she was gone. She’d spotted Lady Crowhurst across the room and said she just had to talk to her, and Colin let her go. He chuckled to himself when he saw her lips mouth the word “Barbara.” And he laughed out loud to see Barbara herself flitting about with a hand laid discreetly over her middle.
Not five minutes later, Colin would swear there was a new buzz in the room as gossiping ladies rushed to be the ones to spread the delicious rumor. And in the end, it was Priscilla herself who couldn’t resist approaching Barbara.
She waited politely until Barbara was free. “My Lady Castlemaine,” she said, pulling her aside, “I hear congratulations are in order.”
Colin sidled closer and concealed himself behind a post.
Barbara played her part to perfection. “Is that so?”
“I’ve heard in the strictest of confidence that you will be presenting His Majesty with another child soon.”
Barbara’s face tensed.
“Is something wrong, my lady?” At the sight of Priscilla’s panic, Colin had to choke back laughter. “Am I mistaken?”
Barbara’s cheeks blazed red—what an actress she was! “Do I appear pregnant, Lady Priscilla?” she said through gritted teeth.
Priscilla took an uncertain step back. “Oh, my lady, I didn’t mean—that is, if I’ve caused you any offense—”
“On the contrary,” Barbara hissed, her eyes flashing, “I’m all gratitude. How delightful it is when trim, younger women take the trouble to inform me that my figure is not what it used to be.” With a dramatic huff, she turned on her heel and marched from the ballroom and up the wide staircase, fuming all the way.
Priscilla followed her into the hall and watched her flight. She was still gazing up the sweeping stairs when Colin came up behind her.
“Is something wrong, Priscilla?”
She turned to him immediately, a frown creasing her beautiful forehead. “Oh, Colin, I’ve made the most dreadful error. I thought to congratulate my Lady Castlemaine, only to discover she isn’t carrying after all. Now she’s horribly angry, and everyone thinks she’s with child. What am I to do?”
“Whyever would everyone think Barbara is with child?” he asked with a glint in his eye.
“I told them!” Priscilla wailed. “And they told one another.”
“Priscilla! You promised you wouldn’t tell anyone!” he exclaimed in pretended disbelief.
“You mean to say you really meant that?” Priscilla protested. “Why would you tell me if it were a secret?”
“You mean to say I shouldn’t trust you? I shouldn’t tell you anything unless I want everyone to know?”
“Yes! I mean, no! Oh, Colin, I shouldn’t be such a terrible gossip, should I?”
Colin grinned—he simply couldn’t help himself. The scene was playing out even better than he had hoped.
“Why are you smiling?” Priscilla demanded. “I’ve ruined everything! Barbara’s never really liked me—she only invited us to her parties because of my father, and now she’ll hate me. We won’t be welcome anywhere.”
“Now, Priscilla, you know that’s not true. Barbara would never leave me off a guest list. We were in exile together—I’m one of her dearest friends. Besides, Charles is all but a big brother to me. He’d never allow her to snub us.”
He was right, and Priscilla knew it. Colin’s relationship with the king was her father’s primary reason for agreeing to the match. Lord Hobbs had been a fence-sitter during the war, and consequently, though he hadn’t lost his lands, he held no favor with Charles, either.
“I suppose you’re right,” Priscilla said with a sniff.
Just then, Barbara came back down the stairs, grinning from ear to ear, and Colin took one look at her and broke out laughin
g. Priscilla stared at Colin, then at Barbara, and back to Colin before bursting out, “What is going on here?”
Colin could do no better than sputter. “I—we—I—”
Barbara rescued him—sort of. “What Lord Greystone means to say, dear, is that we set you up.”
“Set me up?” Priscilla’s pretty brows furrowed in confusion. “You mean you aren’t truly angry?”
“Colin started the rumor with my consent.” Barbara chuckled. “He thought to demonstrate how gossip spreads.”
Priscilla stared at her, openmouthed.
“It was a joke,” Barbara finished weakly.
“A practical joke,” Colin put in.
“A practical joke?” Priscilla repeated in disbelief. “On me?” She snapped him on the arm with her folded fan. “How dare you play a practical joke on me.”
Colin rubbed his arm out of reflex, though it didn’t really hurt. Priscilla had put as little enthusiasm into the blow as she gave to everything else. “I play practical jokes on everyone,” he reminded her.
“You don’t play them on me, Colin Chase. They’re stupid and childish, and I won’t stand for it.”
“Don’t you think it’s funny?” The last of Colin’s laughter died. “Don’t you find it amusing that I know you well enough to devise a trap you would fall into perfectly?”
“No. I don’t find it the least bit amusing.” Priscilla turned on Barbara. “My lady, I find it difficult to imagine why you would play along with his trickery—now everyone thinks you’re with child.”
“It doesn’t signify.” Barbara waved a hand airily. “I probably will be with child by the time anyone could discover otherwise. I always am, it seems,” she lamented.
Colin laughed. “You’re a good sport, Barbara.”
“There are those who would disagree,” Barbara pointed out archly. More than one man had met his downfall at the hands of Barbara Palmer. Luckily, Colin and she had grown up together, so he knew her too well to make the sort of blunder that would turn her against him.
And he’d thought he knew his betrothed equally well, but all of a sudden he wasn’t sure. He’d spent all eve trying to get under her skin, and now that he’d accomplished that goal with his practical joke, he rather wished he’d never played it. His relationship with Priscilla had never been complicated—why, now, did he feel so confused?
“Please call for the carriage,” she requested calmly, breaking into his thoughts.
“What?” Colin blinked. Her face had regained its impassive expression. “The evening is still young.”
“We will forget this ever happened. I trust it won’t again. I wish to return home now.”
“Lost your taste for gossip, Lady Priscilla?” Barbara asked sweetly.
The barb went right over Priscilla’s head. “I merely find myself fatigued. Colin?” She took his arm and led him away.
Colin looked back at Barbara, shrugging his shoulders helplessly. She laughed and waved him on before gliding back into the ballroom.
THIRTY-NINE
“I HAVE A headache.” Priscilla lifted her elegant chin and calmly shut her door in Colin’s face.
Now what?
Distracted by his prank, he’d neglected to approach anyone at the ball to arrange lodging. At a loss, he wandered back to his carriage. He wasn’t about to drop in on a friend unannounced. And no one would be in at this hour, regardless; it was much too early for any self-respecting man-about-town to make his way home.
As Benchley opened the carriage door, Colin sighed. “Take me to Whitehall Palace, please.”
At Whitehall, the court stayed up until the wee hours gambling and playing billiards. Colin wasn’t in the mood to enjoy himself, but he forced himself to play anyway. Fortunately, he didn’t lose, but he wasn’t as pleased as he’d normally have been to pocket the few coins he’d won.
And again he’d failed to ask any acquaintances for a bed, so when the sun was about to rise and the games were coming to an end, he made his way back to his carriage and gave Benchley instructions to return to the town house.
No one even knew Amy was there, he rationalized, shoving aside the concerns he’d voiced the day before.
Amy…now there was someone who appreciated his attempts at humor. A vision popped into his head, of Amy laughing the loudest when the joke was on her. Her color high, her rosy lips—
Curse it! He shook his head to clear the image.
He’d suspected from the start that Amy’s request to come to London had been naught but a ploy to stay near him longer. And he hadn’t been ready to part with her, either. But he never should have agreed—he’d known it was a mistake the moment “I’d be happy to take you to London” came out of his mouth.
Now they’d be alone together in the town house. Alone, but surrounded by all of Charles’s gossipy, meddlesome court. London was full of people like Priscilla, bored aristocrats who would gleefully shred an innocent young girl’s reputation before breakfast.
This had been a spectacularly bad idea.
Well, done was done. And luckily, Amy would be sound asleep at this hour. He’d sneak in, get a few hours of rest, and be out again before she awakened.
Where he’d go, in the early hours before noon, when everyone he knew was sleeping off overindulgences of the prior evening, he wasn’t sure. But surely he could find some way to amuse himself. Perhaps he’d call on Priscilla—she’d certainly turned in early enough to receive a morning visitor.
He entered the house quietly and ducked into the study to pour himself a brandy before stealing upstairs. No need to rouse the servants—even a hushed conversation might wake Amy, and he was perfectly capable of putting himself to bed.
Sneaking past her door, he nearly choked on a mouthful of brandy when he heard the unmistakable sound of weeping.
She was awake.
He paused, his fingers drumming on one thigh while he listened. Then he reached for the door latch—and jerked back, almost as though it had burned his fingers.
He knew all too well what could happen if he went in to comfort her. Would it not be kinder to leave her in peace and privacy? There was no sense prolonging the hurt, or giving her false hope. Hardening his heart, he slipped past her chamber and entered his.
But alas, he could still hear Amy through the adjoining wall. Easing the door shut failed to block the sound. He cursed himself for allowing Ida to put her in the room adjacent to his, but he’d thought he wouldn’t be staying here, so it hadn’t occurred to him to interfere.
Sleep would be impossible now, he knew. Every sob was a fresh wrench of guilt, like a knife jabbing deeper into his chest. He unbuckled his sword belt and tossed it on the bed, started a fire as quietly as possible, then sat in the nearby chair and slowly sipped his brandy.
This was his fault. He was older and more experienced than Amy—if only by a few years—and so the duty had been his to put an end to things before they got out of hand. But he hadn’t done that. Instead he’d given in to emotion, abandoned honor and compassion, and tread all over this poor girl’s still-mending heart. And then he’d brought her here and abandoned her, too.
She was strong, and she would heal, and she’d probably forget him before long. She’d be better off without him. But thinking back on these last few days with Amy and the indescribable way she’d made him feel, he knew—sure as he knew the sun would rise in the east—that if he somehow could do it all over again, he would give in every time. He was a weak, despicable man, and that was the worst thing of all.
Though the brandy flowed a hot path down Colin’s throat, it failed to melt the knot in his chest. Draining the glass, he set it on the small table by his chair and stared into the fire, twisting his ring.
Wondering how long she’d been crying, he tried to envision her: hair tangled, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, face puffy and swollen, creased from where she’d pressed it into the sheets to muffle those gut-wrenching sobs.
It was not a pretty mental picture.
Who was he fooling?
He silently finished undressing, slipped into a robe, and padded softly out of his bedchamber, intending to head for the library. He needed a distraction.
But as he passed by her door, he heard a long moan. Soft and resonant, the sound ripped his wounded heart in two. He was into her chamber before he could form a coherent thought.
She was a long lump under the heavy quilt, her head buried beneath the covers.
He knelt by the bed. “Amy?”
“Colin?” She peeked out, then sat up. In the firelight, she looked beautiful—and not at all like he’d expected. Her face was pink and tear streaked, yes, but not even close to the puffy mess he’d imagined.
“What—what are you doing here?” She looked over the edge of the bed, taking in Colin’s state of undress.
He stood up, belting his robe tighter.
Her gaze slid down to his bare feet, then slowly back up to his face. She sniffled, dashing the tears from her cheeks with an impatient motion. “How long have you been back?”
“Long enough.”
“You’ve been…?”
“In the next room.”
“Marry come up. You heard me, then.”
She threw herself back to the mattress, pulling the covers over her rapidly reddening face. “Go away, please.”
Her body rolled toward him as his weight dropped onto the edge of the bed.
“Go away!”
He didn’t.
Amy lay rigid, apparently willing him to leave—or herself to magically vanish—until he folded the blanket away from her face. “I’m sorry,” she squeaked out, her eyes filling again.
“You’re sorry?” he asked, incredulous.
He couldn’t credit it. She was sorry.
“I’ve been…wallowing in my misery, I guess you could call it. I…haven’t been alone before tonight. Since the fire, I mean. Not all alone, where I was sure no one could hear me. Since my father died.” She sniffed and let out a long breath. “I woke up and thought I was alone…”