The Earl's London Bride

by Lauren Royal

  “I canceled delivery.”

  At Colin’s grim words, Amy froze, her hand on the latch.

  “You—”

  “Canceled it. Fernew will have to get along without it. Tell him it’s only till next year.”

  The defeat in his voice gnawed at Amy’s insides.

  “And the mill?”

  She grimaced at Colin’s heavy sigh. “That will have to be repaired; there’s no way around it. Have Jenner order the parts; I should be back to help well before their delivery. No sense paying for more labor when it isn’t necessary. Anything else, Benchley?”

  “No. No, my lord.”

  Amy jumped back when Benchley opened the door. He nodded to her and headed toward the entrance hall.

  As his footsteps receded down the corridor, she stepped into the room. Colin was bent over a sheet of vellum, shaking his head. She bit her lip.

  Another financial problem he couldn’t solve, thanks to wedding her?

  “Amy.” He glanced up with a distracted smile. “Come here, love.”

  She went to him, smiling in return when he ran a hand over the swell of their child, feeling for signs of movement.

  “Charles wants to see us,” he said, looking up from her middle with thinly veiled disgust. “Tomorrow night.”

  “Charles?” Amy eyed the paper in his other hand. A large red seal was attached, broken but impressive nonetheless. “Charles who?”

  “Charles. The king.”

  Her heart paused before continuing at an unsteady gallop. Of course she’d known that Colin was intimate with the king, that she was now a countess and expected to move in court circles. But here at Greystone, in their own little crumbling castle, she’d felt very removed from the possibility. “But…why?”

  “Who knows? Perhaps he’s miffed that I didn’t ask his permission to marry you.”

  She leaned weakly against the desk. “His permission?”

  Colin sighed, tossing the summons onto the surface with a flick of his wrist. “As a peer of the realm, ancient law says I’m obligated to obtain the king’s approval. But no one actually asks—not even his own brother James before his secret marriage to Anne Hyde.” With the heels of both hands, he rubbed his forehead, as though a massive headache had just arisen. “It’s archaic; I’m certain no one has asked for a century. Still, Charles has always been like a big brother to me.” He squinted, and his eyes turned a glazey dull color. “I don’t know.”

  “Can’t you just send him a note? Tell him you’re busy and I’m with child?”

  Colin’s laughter was immediate; his eyes cleared and turned to her, a glittering emerald green. “No, we cannot just send a note, love.” He caught her hand and pulled her onto his lap. “When the king calls, one answers. It’s off to Whitehall for us, I’m afraid.” He was silent a minute, his fingers absently twirling one of her long ebony ringlets. “We’ll leave first thing in the morning, to arrive at the town house by noon. You can nap before the evening festivities.”

  “I’m sure I won’t sleep a wink tonight.” She groaned softly and moved her hand to cover where their child registered his own protest, in the form of a particularly violent kick.

  “It’s nothing to be worried about. Charles is an affable sort.”

  “But there will be all those people…” She imagined hordes of svelte ladies, all dressed in the latest fashions. And haughty lords, beribboned and bejeweled, looking down their aristocratic noses at her bloated form.

  “You already know some of them,” he reminded her patiently, “from your shop.”

  “As customers. Oh, Colin, look at me! You’re going to be sorry you married me, I just know it.”

  His fingers stilled in her hair, and he said very quietly, “I will never, ever be sorry I married you, Lady Greystone. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  When his hand moved to the back of her neck, and he pulled her toward him and kissed her lightly, she almost believed him. “And you’re beautiful, as beautiful as ever. I swear it.” He kissed her again, this time long and deep, his mouth warm and possessive, and she did believe him.

  For two seconds, at least.

  SEVENTY-ONE

  “AND WHEN Harry kisses me…” Lydia shuddered expressively. “Oh, I cannot think how to put it.”

  “Ooh la la?” Madame Beaumont suggested, putting the finishing touches on Amy’s face.

  Lydia laughed. “Ooh la la exactly!”

  “Ooh la la?” Amy echoed distractedly.

  Madame Beaumont helped her to stand. “You’re a million miles away, my lady.”

  “What? Oh…yes, I’m afraid you’re right.” Sighing, Amy set down the amethyst necklace she’d brought from Greystone. The deep violet pear-shaped gems glistened on the dark wood of the dressing table, beckoning her to hold them again. She flexed her hands and forced a smile. “I was daydreaming about wax and knives.”

  “Pourquoi?”

  “Lady Greystone used to be a jeweler,” Lydia explained, hiding a smile of her own.

  “Oh, I see.”

  Madame looked as though she didn’t see at all, but she didn’t seem shocked or disapproving, either. Amy gave the older woman’s hand a quick squeeze. “I cannot thank you enough for coming.” Having received her frantic messengered note yesterday, Madame had been waiting at the London town house this morning, gown in hand. “You saved my life.”

  “Surely you exaggerate.” Amusement twitched on the seamstress’s lips as she drew off Amy’s dressing gown and laid a gentle palm on her abdomen.

  Amy jumped a bit, then relaxed. Of late, she’d noticed everyone thought they had a right to touch her, as though her body had become public property since she’d swelled with the child.

  Madame slipped a lacy new chemise over Amy’s head, and Lydia held out the gown. “I never exaggerate.” The blond maid giggled. “Lud, my Harry is so…so virile.”

  “Pray tell, Lydia, where did you find this amour?” Madame set the curling iron to heat in the glowing embers of the fire. “This paragon of masculinity?”

  Amy grinned. “In our stables. Colin recently hired him to relieve Benchley of some duties. Your dream man, is he, Lydia?”

  “Hmm,” Lydia murmured noncommittally. Hiding her face, she made herself busy adjusting the gown over the bulge of Amy’s stomach. “When he kisses me, yes, but…all is not perfect with Harry.”

  The seamstress eased Amy onto a chair and set to work on her hair. “Have you talked to your amour about your problems?”

  Lydia puttered around the room, sighing as she folded Amy’s dressing gown. “I’ve tried. I suppose I should try again.”

  “I wish you luck.” Amy frowned into the dressing table mirror. “Men don’t care to discuss our problems. They always think they know what’s best.”

  As Madame’s eyes met Amy’s reflection, her hands plaited faster.

  “It’s true,” Amy muttered defensively. “When I talked to Papa about how I didn’t want to marry our apprentice, he disregarded my feelings entirely.”

  “Not all men are like that.” Madame’s fingers caught and pulled at her hair. “Not my François.”

  “Surely not the earl?” Lydia’s face appeared beside Madame’s in the mirror, puzzled. “You confide in him, don’t you? He loves you so.”

  Did he really? Amy bit her lip. It was pointless to confide in Colin, anyway; he’d made it clear before they wed that a countess would never run a shop. And he’d become more and more closed and distracted over the months.

  Lydia and Madame were still staring at her. “Oh, I suppose you’re right,” she said. “It’s just one of my silly notions.”

  “She’s breeding,” Madame said knowingly.

  “That doesn’t make me a nimwit,” Amy said with a huff.

  Lydia nodded, ignoring her outburst. “I’ve seen five different ladies through five different pregnancies. They’re all this way.”

  “Hmmph.” Looking down to her crossed arms, Amy glimpsed her cleav
age exposed in the purple dress’s low neckline. “Dear heavens,” she whispered, her hands fluttering up to cover the bareness.

  Madame’s laugh tinkled through the room. “You’ll be the most modest lady at court, just you wait and see.”

  With luck, the brazen display would draw attention away from her unfashionable high waistline. But Amy felt daring and embarrassed at the same time. She hoped Madame was right.

  “Voilà.” Madame tied the last ribbon in Amy’s hair.

  While Amy watched in the dressing table’s looking glass, Lydia clasped the amethyst necklace around her throat. Aching to make something like it again, Amy’s fingers moved to touch the twenty-carat gem that dangled at the bottom. She gazed at its flashing brilliance in the mirror.

  “Milady?” Lydia held out the matching earrings. “Shall I put these on for you?”

  “Heavens, no.” Amy took a deep breath and blew it out, then fastened the earrings on her lobes. Shaking her head to set them swinging from their clustered diamond tops, she smiled.

  “That’s more like it.” Lydia slipped a simple amethyst and diamond bracelet onto Amy’s left wrist, where it would complement her heart-shaped amethyst wedding ring. The maid stood back and grinned. “Cuds bobs, if you don’t look the perfect lady. I’ll just go tell the lord you’re ready to leave.”

  “Come, see if your Lydia wasn’t telling the bare truth.” Taking her hand, Madame helped Amy rise from the chair and led her to the pier glass.

  The rich purple silk gown shimmered as Amy approached the mirror, beaming at her reflection. The seamstress had worked her magic yet again. A gold tissue overskirt looped up, held on each side with golden bows, while matching gold bows marched down her full sleeves. The purple underskirt sparkled with hundreds of golden stars.

  A low whistle of appreciation came from behind her. She turned to see Colin leaning against the doorjamb, his gaze fastened to her scooped neckline. She melted a little at the sight of him, even after nearly eight months of marriage.

  He was devastating. Would she ever get used to it? She thought not. Not in eight months, or eight years, or eighty years, even.

  “You’ll be the most beautiful lady at Whitehall,” he said softly.

  “And you, the most beautiful gentleman.”

  Colin laughed. He was dressed, predictably, in the same black velvet suit he’d worn for their wedding, identical down to her cameo pinned in the lavish lace of his cravat. His crisp, dark hair was loose and fell in waves to his shoulders.

  Amy felt a lump of emotion swell in her throat. She was so lucky to have him. Their marriage was beyond wonderful, and she had no cause to dwell on melancholy thoughts, especially on a day like today.

  She moved to him and looped her arms around his neck, threading her fingers in the hair at his nape. She heard Madame bustling about, putting away cosmetics, but the sounds seemed to fade as Colin brought his lips to hers.

  He kissed her gently, and she tried to pull him closer, but he tugged away and grinned.

  “Later, love. We wouldn’t want to spoil Madame Beaumont’s accomplished artwork.”

  Amy’s face flamed, and she stole a glance at Madame. But the seamstress was studiously looking elsewhere.

  “Shall we?” Colin curled an arm around Amy’s waist and drew her from the room.

  Was she really on her way to Whitehall Palace, to be presented to England’s king and queen? She, Amy Goldsmith, merchant’s daughter?

  It didn’t seem possible.

  “Why so quiet, love?” Colin interrupted her thoughts. “You’re not worried about tonight, are you?”

  “A little, maybe. But…”

  Her chest ached with the need to tell someone, and she shot him an appraising glance. But then she heard the old words again, You cannot have everything, and heaven help her, she couldn’t tell if it were her father’s voice or Colin’s.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “But what?” The fingers of one hand drummed against his thigh.

  “My goodness, Colin.” Forcing a smile, she pulled him toward the front door before he could question her further. “You know how moody breeding ladies are!”

  SEVENTY-TWO

  AMY TREMBLED as she stood in line outside the Presence Chamber, a mixture of anticipation and sheer terror shuddering through her. Colin clasped her hand tighter and looked down at her sympathetically. “They’re only people, love,” he whispered.

  Oh, but what magnificent people they were! Before her stood a lady in a satin gown of deep magenta studded with pearls, with an ermine-trimmed train so long that Amy was forced to stand ten feet behind her. She turned to peek at a lady wearing a splendid gown of rich turquoise with a silver lace overlay, then spun back and clapped a hand to her open mouth. Why, the woman’s bosom was all but falling out of her low neckline, which made Amy’s neckline look demure!

  Beside her, Colin chuckled. He raised her hand and pressed his warm lips to the back in a soft kiss.

  Amy looked up at him, offering a shaky smile. She was surrounded by men in long, elaborate crimped periwigs. Their satin and velvet clothing dripped with ribbons and lace in such profusion as to rival the ladies. Their fingers were bedecked with garish gemstones, their necks adorned with ropes of huge, costly pearls. Still, she was certain that Colin was the most stunning male specimen within twenty miles of Whitehall.

  They advanced slowly, until suddenly it was their turn to be announced. The usher puffed out his chest and took a deep breath. “The Earl of Greystone! The Countess of Greystone!”

  As they entered the Presence Chamber, the throng of spectators in the gallery above leaned forward en masse. Heads turned to ogle the new arrivals. Amy heard a distinct murmur from the lords and ladies lining the walkway.

  Gliding down the endless aisle on Colin’s arm, she stared straight ahead. “What are they all saying?” she asked low, trying to keep her lips from moving.

  With an easy smile, Colin inclined his head toward hers. “They’re saying, ‘Ah…the rumors are true. Lord Greystone jilted Lady Priscilla for an uncommon beauty.’”

  “Shh!” Amy blushed and giggled. “They’re all looking at us.”

  “Of course they are. See those ladies talking behind their fans? They’re saying, ‘Such a shame the earl is no longer available. But at least his gorgeous lady is taken and therefore out of the competition.’”

  Amy nearly tripped. “I was never in the competition,” she chided. “I was only a merchant’s daughter.”

  “Tsk. They’re deluding themselves, anyway. You may be out of the competition for marriage, but at Charles’s court, it’s assumed one is always available for an affaire d’amour. It’s taken for granted that wives are as unfaithful as husbands; the men here demand fidelity only from their mistresses.”

  “Not all the men, I’m hoping.” She looked up at Colin with a sparkle in her eye.

  He raised one brow wickedly. “Oh, there might be one or two holdouts.”

  In spite of her anxiety, Amy grinned, but the smile faded as her attention was drawn ahead, to where Their Majesties sat awaiting her.

  Their thrones were set side-by-side on a raised platform, framed with a swagged canopy of crimson velvet bedecked in silver and gold. But it wasn’t the magnificence of the setting that awed Amy.

  It was the king himself.

  The most compelling figure she’d ever seen, His Majesty sat tall on his throne, dwarfing his queen, his long legs sprawled carelessly before him. Though he’d already reached the advanced age of thirty-seven, his long, shiny black hair held nary a hint of gray. His face was lean, with a thin, curly black mustache over a generous mouth.

  The prospect of actually meeting him was terrifying.

  The magenta-garbed lady rose and moved out of the way, swishing her fur-edged train behind her. When Charles looked up, his heavy-lidded black eyes settled on Amy. A small smile twitched at his lips, and Amy’s heart clenched in her chest.

  Colin drew her forward. He walked with t
he sure steps of a man greeting an old friend, while Amy’s feet hesitated along the carpeted approach. When they reached the dais and Colin knelt down, Amy tore her gaze from King Charles and dipped into a deep curtsy.

  She looked back up into the large, liquid brown eyes of Queen Catharine of Braganza.

  Queen Catharine’s olive-tinted features were pleasant rather than pretty. Tiny and dark, with a long nose and high forehead, she looked very, very foreign. She smiled at Amy, revealing small teeth that protruded slightly.

  “Lady Greystone,” she said, her Portuguese-accented voice beautiful and melodious. Her eyes were compassionate, as though she understood Amy’s nervousness. They flickered toward the king and back; though theirs was an arranged marriage, Amy thought she looked very much in love with her husband.

  Catharine was dressed in soft yellow, an unfortunate choice of color that did nothing for her naturally sallow complexion. She proffered a slim hand for Amy’s kiss, smiling graciously at her and down to her rounded belly. Was that a trace of envy that fluttered in Catharine’s welcoming expression? Sadly, in five years of marriage, the queen had not proven able to present Charles with any royal children. There was constant talk of Charles setting her aside to replace her with a queen who wasn’t barren.

  She was brave and kind, and Amy decided she liked her very much.

  “Ah, the new Countess of Greystone,” she heard King Charles say. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, my dear.” He held out a shapely hand, and Amy moved closer to kiss it. “A pleasure,” he repeated, holding on to her hand a bit longer than was necessary.

  “It…is my pleasure, Your Majesty,” Amy replied after she found her voice. Charles’s eyes locked with hers, signaling a warm welcome, and she decided he wasn’t frightening after all.

  “You’ve done well for yourself, Greystone,” Charles drawled with a wink in Colin’s direction.

  “Then you’re not…displeased?”

  “Displeased, Colin?”

  “I assumed, when I received the summons…”