The Earl's London Bride

by Lauren Royal

  He took a deep breath and sidled away from the man. “I’m marrying someone else this afternoon,” he said quietly.

  Hobbs’s jaw set, and his breath became labored. “You would leave Priscilla for another woman? My Priscilla? After a formal betrothal? After you—you ruined her?”

  Despite the gravity of the situation, Colin felt an absurd urge to laugh. “Ruined her?” he said, incredulous. “I’ve only kissed her.”

  Hobbs’s gray eyes darkened in anger. “Not everyone shares our good king’s lack of morals, young man. Priscilla was raised properly, and—”

  “Do you honestly believe I’m the first man your daughter kissed?” The outraged father role did not fit Hobbs well; Colin could see the truth in the man’s eyes, and he’d had it with his pomposity. “After you tried to pawn her off on half the Royalists in England?”

  “You…you…”

  “There’s not a name you could call me that would change my mind.” With an outward calm he didn’t feel, Colin set his goblet on the table, spread his feet and crossed his arms. “What will it take to satisfy you, Lord Hobbs?” His hand moved to his sword. “You may draw my blood if it will appease your sense of honor, but I warn you: I do not intend to lay down my life in order to be released from this betrothal.”

  The older man’s eyes flickered toward Colin’s rapier and back up, then narrowed connivingly. “I’m certain we can find a civilized way to settle this, Greystone.”

  “What do you want?”

  “A private audience with His Majesty.”

  It was naught but an audience—it would cost Charles nothing but a few minutes of his time. He’d do it if Colin asked.

  But it made Colin furious that he’d have to ask.

  “I’ll get you your audience. I’ll get you ten audiences. You can have a standing appointment—”

  “Just one audience. As long as you can guarantee my license will be forthcoming.”

  Colin paused. It was a tall order. Though Hobbs had professed neutrality throughout the war, he was rumored to be a closet Parliamentarian. The king did not look kindly on those responsible for beheading his father; Charles didn’t merely disregard Hobbs, he actively disliked the man. More than a simple request, this would mean asking a special favor of Charles.

  But Charles owed the Chases favors. And a license wouldn’t cost Charles, either—to the contrary, he would probably milk Hobbs for an exorbitant fee. It grated on Colin, a scheming buzzard like Lord Hobbs getting his way, but it wouldn’t be a problem.

  He nodded once. “Consider it done.”

  Hobbs didn’t smile. He seated himself at the drawing room’s marquetry writing table and waved Colin into a chair opposite. “I’ll expect my funds returned within the week, of course.”

  Colin’s stomach knotted; this was the part he’d been dreading. “I cannot do that, sir. I don’t have the funds. They were used for renovations—”

  “Then the deal is off. You were legally betrothed, and you accepted part of the dowry. Surely you don’t expect—”

  “I’ll pay it back. Just”—Colin sucked in a breath—“give me some time.”

  Hobbs fixed him with an icy stare. “You will sign a note. Eight percent interest, with the balance due before we see 1668.”

  A year. One year. If the renovations were halted, the fields produced bumper crops, the quarry was extra-productive, the sheep thrived…

  It was a terrible gamble.

  Colin pictured Amy waiting for him at the inn, and his vision blurred. They would have her inheritance. But he’d promised her he wouldn’t take it.

  “I’m waiting for your answer,” Hobbs pressed. “Unless you’d prefer to pretend you never walked in here today.”

  Colin blinked. “I’ll sign it.”

  Hobbs wasted no time producing paper, quill, and ink. He scribbled a hasty contract, which Colin signed, a weight in his gut, the scratch of the quill sounding like nothing so much as a death knell. Hobbs dripped wax by the signature, and Colin used his ring to set his seal, remembering the day he ordered it from Amy. How he’d walked away that day, expecting never to see her again.

  Hobbs sprinkled sand on the ink, then dusted off and rolled up the contract. “If you fail to pay up, I’ll have you slapped into Newgate Prison so fast your head will spin. You’ll see the devil in heaven the day I show you mercy.”

  Although it would never come to that—Hobbs would end up with Greystone instead—the thought of squalid, vermin-infested Newgate made bile rise in Colin’s throat.

  He pushed away the image. He’d find some way to pay back the money. Whatever sacrifices were necessary would be worth it in the end.

  Hobbs tucked the scroll in a drawer, poured himself another goblet of wine, and downed it in one long gulp. “I won, you know.” He swiped a hand across his mouth. “I’ll have my license, and I still have my daughter.”

  “To sell to the highest bidder? The man with the next item on your agenda?”

  “That’s what daughters are for. You’ll learn it when you have your own.”

  Colin ignored that, setting aside his own goblet of Madeira in disgust.

  “Who is she?” Hobbs asked suddenly.

  “It doesn’t signify. She has nothing to do with my lack of love for your daughter.”

  “Love, hah! You’re a weak man, Greystone—my daughter is well rid of you.”

  Hobbs’s stare dared Colin to respond to the insult, but Colin forced himself to ignore him once again. “Please give Priscilla my regards, and my sincere apologies.”

  “She’ll be fine. She’ll suffer some loss of face, but she’ll survive. I’ll remind her how little she liked you—and your countrified family, as I believe she called them.”

  That should have hurt Colin, but it didn’t. He felt nothing but relief and an overwhelming compulsion to escape.

  He stood. “I’ll take my leave, then.”

  To Colin’s vast surprise, Hobbs held out a hand. “A pleasure doing business with you, Greystone.”

  Colin blinked. “There are no hard feelings, then?”

  Hobbs shrugged. “It was all for the better.”

  “That it was,” Colin muttered, proffering a halfhearted handshake. He shuddered to think how narrowly he’d escaped becoming this man’s son-in-law. Claiming a favor from Charles and acquiring a monstrous debt were small penalties, indeed, for avoiding the biggest mistake of his life.

  Still and all, if he never saw the buzzard’s face again, it would suit him just fine.

  SIXTY-TWO

  WITH KENDRA in tow, Madame Beaumont bustled into room Number Three and made her way to the window, throwing open the shutters. “Get up, mademoiselle. We must make you ready for the mariage!”

  Amy sat up, blinking the sleep from her eyes. She winced as Madame clutched her chin, turning her poor bruised face this way and that to examine it in the early afternoon light.

  “Mon Dieu!” Madame exclaimed, shaking her head. “We have a lot of work to do!” She clapped her hands. “Come in!”

  Two footmen entered, toting a large wooden box between them. Madame indicated a spot on the floor where she wanted it placed, then shooed them out with an impatient wave of her hand.

  Kendra rummaged in the big box. She pulled out a dressing gown made of peach-colored fabric with a lavish lace edging, then helped Amy out of bed and into the garment, tying it at her waist as one would for a small child.

  While Kendra sat Amy at the dressing table, Madame took a wooden case from the box. Carrying it by its ornate brass handle, she brought it over and opened its hinged lid with a flourish. The contents were a jumble of brushes and pencils, jars, bottles, pots and boxes filled with mysterious colored powders and pomades, all of which Madame set about the tabletop.

  “Now…” she said, lifting a sinister metal tool.

  In her jewelry shop, Amy had used something similar to pick up loose gemstones. She flinched as Madame tilted her chin up and leaned over her, the device hovering in the re
gion of her forehead.

  “Oooh, charmant,” Madame gushed suddenly. “Perfectly arched. Just look.” As though Amy were nothing more than a doll, Madame swung her head around toward Kendra, then dropped the implement on the table. “No plucking,” she declared.

  Amy gaped at Kendra. Plucking, indeed!

  Madame set to work, conferring with Kendra from time to time, and Amy relaxed, as no other instruments of torture seemed to be forthcoming. They chatted excitedly about the upcoming wedding and Colin waiting below in the taproom with his brothers, “probably nursing a good stiff drink,” according to Kendra.

  Amy bit her lip. “I’ve never worn cosmetics.”

  “No?” Using a hare’s foot, Madame powdered Amy’s face.

  “No. My father…I mean, he thought…it’s not considered acceptable…”

  At their vague smiles, her voice trailed off. Could she ever fit in their world?

  She sneaked a wary glance in the mirror, then gasped. “Marry come up! The bruises are gone!” She touched her fingers to her face in wonder. “And the dark circles under my eyes.”

  “It’s the Princesses Powder.” Madame brushed away her fingers and applied more to repair the damage.

  “Princesses Powder?” Amy clenched her hands in her lap to keep them from shaking. Merchants’ daughters didn’t wear powder made for princesses.

  And they didn’t wed earls, either…

  “It’s so called because four princesses, whose great beauté is known throughout Europe, have used it with such success that they’ve preserved an air of youth till seventy years of âge.”

  “Seventy years?” Kendra touched nonexistent crow’s feet at the corners of her sixteen-year-old eyes. “I must have some.”

  Madame turned away to swipe powder on Kendra’s cheeks. “You can procure a supply from Madame Elizabeth Jackson, near Maypole in the Strand, for a price of sixpence per authentic packet.”

  Only half-listening, Amy stared at her reflection. Would her father be disappointed if he were here? She was breaking her promises, but he’d loved her …would he really deny her love for Colin?

  “A bargain at twice the price.” Kendra’s face appeared behind Amy’s in the mirror. She frowned at her newly powdered complexion, then smiled. “I shall visit Elizabeth Jackson tomorrow. Will you come, Amy?”

  Amy shook her head slowly, pressing her lips together to hide the telltale quiver.

  “Of course not; how silly of me.” Kendra’s grin grew wider. “You’ll want to be with Colin, won’t you?” She handed Madame a kohl pencil.

  With Colin. What a wonderful, magical thought. “Yes, I will,” Amy said, surprised at how clear and sure her voice rang through the room.

  Turning Amy from the mirror, Madame rimmed her eyes with kohl and darkened her lashes and brows with the end of a burnt cork. “Oh, did I get some in your eyes?” Concerned, she leaned closer, peering at Amy. “Je regrette. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s all right.” Amy blinked back the tears, embarrassed that she couldn’t seem to control herself. She sneaked another glance in the looking glass. “My eyes look huge,” she worried. “Maybe Colin won’t like me with a painted face.”

  “Don’t be a goose,” Kendra said. “I expect I’ll have to wipe the drool off his chin.”

  Madame tore a sheet of red Spanish paper out of a tiny booklet and rubbed it lightly on Amy’s cheeks.

  “Did Colin talk to Priscilla?” Amy hesitantly asked Kendra.

  “No, he talked to her father.”

  “And?” Amy watched as Madame took up a small pot. “What happened?”

  “Shh,” Madame interjected, applying pomade to Amy’s lips.

  Kendra shrugged. “I don’t know exactly, but all is well. Don’t ask him about it. He’s rather furious. Still muttering about the buzzard or some such.”

  Amy was about to ask another question, but Madame took her by the shoulders and swung her around to fully face the mirror.

  She stared, her eyes sparkling. “I-I’m beautiful,” she breathed, watching in wonder as the words came from between her glossy lips.

  “No,” Kendra corrected. “You’re magnificent. You’ve always been beautiful.” She bent to wrap Amy in a hug. “My lovely sister—can you credit it?” Sniffing, she wiped her eyes, and Amy wiped her own, too. “Oh, we’re both going to ruin our faces! Let’s get you dressed.”

  As Madame fetched her clothing from the box, Amy stood in a daze, trembling from head to toe, plagued by second thoughts, yet excited at the unbelievable miracle of wedding Colin. Madame and Kendra didn’t seem to notice as they slid off the dressing gown and pulled a new chemise over her head, taking care not to disturb her carefully applied face. Next came the sapphire and cream gown that Amy had despaired of ever having the occasion to wear.

  The moment they smoothed the satin skirts over her hips, her doubts scattered. It was going to happen. Dear heavens, she would be a countess before the day was out.

  “Mine. I hope they fit.” Interrupting her thoughts, Kendra held out stockings and a pair of fashionable Louis-heeled shoes.

  With a distracted smile, Amy drew on the stockings and stepped into the shoes, teetering on the high heels while Madame twisted a sleeve here and tweaked the waistline there until she was satisfied. She led Amy back to the dressing table and tucked a kerchief into the top of her gown, to protect the exquisite pearl-studded lace while she powdered Amy’s throat to match her face.

  A curling iron was set to heat at the edge of the fire, and Madame set to work on Amy’s hair. “You really should cut this if you wish to be à la mode.” With the edge of her hand against Amy’s neck, the seamstress indicated the preferred length, just below ear level.

  Remembering the feel of Colin brushing her hair dry, Amy blanched and gathered her long tresses into both fists.

  Madame chuckled. “Perhaps not today.”

  “Colin wouldn’t like it,” Amy stated flatly, and that was that. Madame’s deft hands twisted, plaited, and curled, and before long Amy’s hair was arranged in a semblance of fashionable style: long ringlets at the sides and a bun plaited together with sapphire ribbons in the back.

  “No wires.” Madame patted Amy’s thick mass of curls.

  “No fair.” Kendra pouted. “I need wires and false ringlets besides.”

  “Now you’re being the goose,” Amy said. “What I wouldn’t give for that rich red color. And have you any idea how long it takes to dry this?”

  “Mon Dieu, mesdemoiselles,” Madame clucked. “We all have to work with what God gives us, and you’re both lovely.” She rummaged with a fingertip through a tiny box of black beauty patches. “Hearts, stars, flowers…which do you think?”

  “Hearts,” Kendra decided. “It’s for a wedding, after all.”

  “No patches. I’m painted enough as it is. Colin will scarcely recognize me.”

  Kendra snorted. “It’s not as though you’re painted like an actress. One patch?”

  “This is not a negotiation.” Amy laughed. “No patches.”

  “Madame?”

  Madame took Amy by one elbow, stood her up, and guided her to the center of the chamber. Amy stood stiff as a poker while Madame walked all the way around her, looking her up and down. The seamstress backed across the room, her eyes narrowing as she contemplated her creation.

  “Her complexion is flawless,” she said to Kendra.

  “What difference does that make?” Kendra wondered. “Patches are all the rage; they’re not just to hide pimples and smallpox scars anymore.”

  “She’s a perfect bride, n’est-ce pas?” Madame led Amy to the pier glass. “Look.”

  Amy gazed in the mirror, transfixed. All evidence of her mistreatment was hidden. Veiled by the cosmetics, her face and neck appeared creamy and unblemished. Vanilla lace spilled from her sleeves and over her wrists, concealing the unsightly abrasions.

  The glossy sapphire satin shimmered; the pearls on her collar and underskirt gleamed. Fat, springy corkscre
w curls spilled artistically over her shoulders, and suddenly the ebony color seemed to suit her perfectly. To her vast relief, she didn’t look overpainted—to the contrary, owing to Madame’s skill, she looked very much like herself, only enhanced.

  Her eyes met Kendra’s in the glass, and they shared a smile.

  Amy had never felt so beautiful.

  She would have stared at herself forever, but Madame gave them both a little push. “The groom is waiting. Allez-y!” With a graceful wave of her hand, she dismissed them.

  SIXTY-THREE

  THE CHASE brothers’ conversation had long since turned to discussing the interminable length of time girls always took to get ready.

  Colin popped the cork on another bottle of sack. “I vow, they must have food in there.”

  “Food?”

  “Food. They never eat much in front of us, yet they always complain about how full they are after a few bites. My theory is they sneak food into their dressing chambers.” Colin paused for a swallow of wine from the green bottle. “While we’re out here, waiting and starving, they’re dining and laughing at us.”

  Ford chuckled. “Just how long do you hypothesize this has been going on?”

  “Since the dawn of time, at the very least.”

  Jason smoothed his mustache. “And they’ve kept this a secret over the centuries?”

  “It’s a vast conspiracy—every female is sworn to secrecy from birth.” Colin spoke solemnly, but the glitter in his eyes betrayed his amusement. He lowered his voice and leaned into the center of the table. “We’ve always teased Kendra because she eats her dessert first. Well, that’s because she already—”

  An apparition coming down the stairs claimed Colin’s attention, effectively cutting off his words. A vision in sapphire and cream, Amy glided toward him. His breath caught as he wondered how he’d ever considered letting her go.

  Dressed in satin and lace, ribbons and pearls, she lacked only some of her exquisite jewelry to look every inch the countess she was about to become.

  Not that it mattered, of course.

  She could be wearing a burlap sack, and he would marry her.