Royal Regard

by Mariana Gabrielle

  Nick placed Lady Huntleigh’s gloved hand on her husband’s arm, and she shyly tucked her face into Huntleigh’s shoulder. Her bare hand hidden in her gathered skirts and scarf, her eyes roamed Nick’s body, even as he kept his face open and friendly, no more or less formal than he had been with anyone else.

  “You have been most indulgent this evening, Lady Huntleigh, allowing me to monopolize your husband with business, then listening to us go on all night. I am sure we are both deadly dull.”

  Nick was assured entrée with Bella as long as he had entrée with her husband, which was really only a question of money.

  I have to stop thinking of her as Bella before I say it aloud, Nick thought, followed by, I wonder how Nick will sound when she whispers it in my ear. Better yet, moaning. Screaming. He couldn’t remember the last time he had so wanted to render a woman mindless with pleasure.

  He invoked the kings of England to keep his thoughts about the back of her knee from becoming obvious in his trousers: Willie, Willie, Harry, Stee, Harry, Dick, John, Harry three, he recited to himself until he managed to bring his physical reactions back under control. He hadn’t been embarrassed by his own body since Eton, and wasn’t planning to begin anew in the ballrooms of London. He was an Englishman, for heaven’s sake, not a hot-blooded Latin.

  The superiority wafting off her husband relaxed Nick to a certain extent; the man thought his wife had proved immune to the infamous Duke of Wellbridge, preferring Humdrum Huntleigh to the globe-trotting Lothario who stole a new man’s wife every Season. Nick knew Bella—Lady Huntleigh—would be more appreciated at home in days to come, and might even receive an apology from her husband for whatever it was he’d said in the carriage to make her angry.

  If nothing else, one dance with a duke would ensure too much interest from other men, including her husband. Nick would wait to send flowers until she had other admirers—most likely of her prospects, not her person—when her husband would be less likely to notice among other bouquets. He planned sonnets and sestinas in her name, delivered with orchids and gardenias to demonstrate in floriology his rising passion for her. If Lord Huntleigh knew a language of flowers even existed, Nick would eat Old Rowley’s hat.

  When Bella reached up on tiptoe to give her elderly husband a sweet kiss on his cheek, Huntleigh puffed up with satisfaction, outright smug when she whispered it was getting late and she would prefer to be safe and warm at home than out gallivanting all hours with rapscallions and rogues. Huntleigh won the battle, since he would take Bella home in his carriage. He didn’t understand he’d lost the war as soon as he agreed to let Nick dance with her.

  Chapter 7

  Two hours before the fashionable promenade, Bella set a rapid pace through Hyde Park, trying to be ignored by passing riders and the few others braving the chilly walking paths. Even on a raw, grey day, one peer or another would surely feel compelled to engage her, if only to tell everyone else he had. Bundled up against threatening rain, the sable trim of her new jacquard pelisse hugged her jaw line, and a matching Russian hat covered her from the crown of her head to her earlobes.

  She was hoping the smell of precipitation rising out of the London fog and soot only presaged freezing rain, rather than snow, but the temperature had been steadily falling all day. It was too cold to be out, really, but she hadn’t been able to stand one more minute of impertinent workmen and servants with silly questions. It had been days since the weather was warm enough to escape the house alone.

  She had an umbrella on her person and, waiting in Berkeley Square, a carriage with a heavy fur lap rug and coal footwarmers, which Mrs. Jemison had insisted she use for the long walk to the park, “in case Your Ladyship should find it chillier than might be comfortable.”

  Her stories of icy gales at sea did nothing to appease her housekeeper’s concern, nor did Bella’s pronouncement that there was no need to always be comfortable. She had tried to invoke her new countess demeanor to decline unequivocally, but Mrs. Jemison had used her running-the-lives-of-countesses-since-before-you-were-born voice, ordering the coachman to follow Bella at a snail’s pace until she complied. Eventually, she did, if only to stop the carriage drivers behind him from screaming obscenities in the narrow street.

  She had brought Ivanhoe, thinking she might stop for chocolate and biscuits at Gunter’s before returning to Russell Square, but kept a close eye on her lapel watch to ensure she was home long before crowds of lords and ladies descended on the Park at five.

  Frigid as it was, she still wished she were back at sea, away from the ever-present miasma of coal smoke and carriage horses, away from aristocrats trying to make her into a heroine or villainess, depending on personal inclination. She wished she were still on the Arabella, where everyone treated her like a member of the crew, albeit one who held more sway with the ship’s owner than any sailor.

  Just as the end of the path came into sight, still a fair walk away, a cabriolet came up next to her, two matching blacks slowing on command to meet her pace. The sleek high-steppers were a perfect match to the black carriage, black greatcoat, hat, and boots, and the coal-black hair and eyes of the driver. If he weren’t so handsome, he might have blended into his equipage entirely.

  “How lovely to see you, ma petite.” Lord Malbourne tipped his bicorne hat. “Might I offer a ride to your destination?”

  She walked faster. “No, thank you. It is very kind of you to offer, but I had planned a quiet afternoon alone.”

  “I am sad to hear it. I have been hoping we might enjoy the discussion of Paris you promised.”

  As she turned off the carriage track and onto a walking path, he guided the buggy away from her, stopped the horses, jumped down, and quickly tied the ribbons to a low tree branch.

  She stopped for a moment involuntarily, manners overtaking sense, but rapidly began to walk away as she recalled her husband’s likely displeasure. If possible, even worse than at the Gosfords’ ball a few nights ago, when the Duke of Wellbridge stole two consecutive dances.

  Discourage Malbourne’s attentions in no uncertain terms, Myron had said more than once. If nothing else, Bella had to give Lord Malbourne credit for determination. No matter how certain her terms, he remained perpetually sure of her regard. It was like he could read the dangerous thoughts that invaded her mind—and her body—whenever he looked her way.

  The duke’s long strides easily fell into step with hers.

  “I prefer the quiet of the empty commons, Your Grace.” She could not help calling him Your Grace. She supposed she would always feel like the poor baronet’s daughter with this man; he was so very ducal. “With no offense intended, of course.”

  “Not here for la Promenade? A shame, as your beauty would make a fine addition to the spectacle.”

  “Beauty,” she snorted in the most genteel way possible. “Your flattery is legend, Your Grace.” If she actually believed he thought her beautiful, she might throw herself at his head.

  “Surely you do not think me a sycophant. A Frenchman finds beauty in every woman.”

  “I have heard you fancy yourself a connoisseur,” she smiled wryly, “To your credit, you have not used your expertise to cut a swath through the beau monde.”

  He spoke quietly nearer her ear, “I am honored to know you have made it a point to ask.” He stepped back before she could shiver at his breath almost kissing the back of her neck, his bergamot scent wafting about, pulling her closer.

  She tried to stand her ground: “Your Grace, while I value the opportunity to practice my French, I think it best to return to my solitary amble before the aristocracy overtakes me.” She held up her book. “I am determined to at least begin Ivanhoe before the Shelderhill’s ball this evening.”

  I should never have told him where I will be, she thought, grimacing.

  “From your expression, you would prefer not to attend. I admit the same, but the unwelcome duty will be much improved by your presence. Your husband will not allow us a dance, but he cannot stop me dr
inking in your loveliness from across the room.”

  This was the foremost reason she disliked England. She had never known how to manage repartée with eligible London gentlemen. She was very good at it by now elsewhere, had matched wits with some of the most important men in the world. But in London, among the fashionable set, her stomach churned and hands shook, she couldn’t help feeling—often acting—like a stuttering schoolgirl who had always known she was too ugly for a come-out.

  As though by a witch’s curse, as soon as the ship had passed into English waters, Bella had completely lost the ability to direct conversation with men who flirted. It was one reason she was so comfortable with the king—with kings in general—not one had ever acted the inamorato. She looked back longingly at an empty bench behind the trees, ironwork surely colder than Finnish frostbite, but far better than banter.

  “You said when last we spoke that you took pleasure in the Louvre. I often enjoyed la Grande Galerie, before it was thrown open to the undeserving, and I am curious as to its transformation. Did the rabble preserve the collection, or was it lost like the rest of France?”

  She answered politely, much as she would have with any of her husband’s business associates, “I have seen it many times, of course, but I have no way to compare it to la Grande Galerie. It is my understanding the collection remains intact with a great many improvements, although most of the works added through Napoleon’s warfare have since been returned.”

  “Of course. The usurper appeasing the hoi polloi until true royalty is called upon to act with honor.” He spoke as though spitting his disgust for Napoleon onto the graveled path. “It is unfortunate such treasures did not remain in France, where their beauty might be best appreciated.”

  Bella corrected him quietly: “The French are not the only people to appreciate beauty, Your Grace.”

  He stopped then, as a curve in the path left them momentarily out of sight in both directions, a grove of bare trees ahead, a stand of pussy willows and desiccated reeds behind. The greys and browns of the dead and decomposing foliage reminded her of the dulled feathers of a wood-warbler taken down by a cat.

  “Non, ma belle, but the only ones to worship it.” He took up her hand and kissed it, looking into her eyes, stroking her fingers, holding on far too long.

  Before she could pull away, he gently placed her hand on her waist, covering it with his own, his fingertips only inches from brushing against the suddenly quivering tip of her breast. She stepped back before she found herself leaning into the caress.

  While she choked on a complete absence of adequate vocabulary, he began walking and talking again. “I keep many reproductions of artwork in my home in Dover, but I was forced to leave most of the originals in the château. I expect they may have been added to the Louvre after I took up residence in England, as my home was stripped bare. I have never wanted to return to face the ruin.”

  Ruin. Ruin is what would happen to her if she listened for one more minute. She needed to free her leaden tongue soon, before his golden one made short work of the last shreds of her reputation, as well as the firm underpinnings of her marriage.

  She stopped and held up her book again, arm’s length between them, as a saint might hold up a Bible to ward away a demon. “I really must get to Ivanhoe, Your Grace.”

  He simply smiled and walked ahead a few steps, and her ingrained comportment couldn’t help following when he asked, clearly resolute, “Do you enjoy novels?”

  She felt her feet fall into step with him again, skittish, walking nearly sidelong in her attempt to keep herself away, but still on the gravel path.

  “I read on other topics, of course, but fiction best passes the time. In the case of Ivanhoe, I’m told there is an intriguing subtext. I am to meet the author, you see, and one wants to have something intelligent to say.”

  “I must admit, I am not one for imaginary tales, although I understand how such frivolity might catch the fancy of a lady. Do you study anything of interest?”

  She looked around, hoping to see anyone she knew, restraining the contrary parts of her nature from discussing the political undertones of the book in her hand, if only to tweak his outdated notions about a woman’s intellectual capacity. She knew if she took that path, she would either offend him utterly—not the worst result—or they would find their way into a fascinating conversation, a risk she couldn’t take. If he were half as interesting as he was eye-catching, she would have no defense at all.

  “I study architecture on occasion,” she continued desperately, hoping he would think her too much a bluestocking to pursue. “I have been very fortunate to see so many different styles of edifice, and have always had an interest in the construction.”

  “C’est bien! We have this in common. Have you seen the Eastern domes? I have never travelled there—I am not so well travelled as you, ma minette—but I am amazed at the assembly of such structures. I cannot imagine how they remain upright.”

  “I have seen them,” she said, for the first time with genuine interest. “They are astonishing. The first time I was under such a roof, I admit an unreasonable fear it would collapse, even after hundreds of years staying aloft.”

  She searched for something to say to end a conversation that was beginning to spur unwelcome curiosity. “But such topics are deemed too intellectual a pastime for a lady in London, I am told.”

  At that, she saw Charlotte’s husband approaching on a riding horse. He hadn’t yet seen her, but she would wave him down as soon as Alexander was close enough that he might remove the man from her presence by any available means.

  Lord Malbourne stopped and smiled, taking up her hand once again. He kissed her fingertips, then turned her hand and touched his lips, the tip of his tongue, to her wrist, just above her glove. As she sucked in her breath, he said, “There are too many pastimes deemed unfit for ladies in London, ma chère. I leave you now to your reading, but I hope we may find occasion to speak again.”

  Chapter 8

  Bella needed everything. Furnishings and fittings for every inch of the largest house in Russell Square, as well as refurbishment of their shipboard rooms and the royal guests’ quarters on the Arabella. Carriages and horses for every occasion. Exotic ingredients for Myron’s meals, since he preferred not to eat like an Englishman. Clothing for herself and her husband from the inside out. As frivolous as it seemed, she and Charlotte shopped every day, having, for the most part, successfully stemmed the tide of gossipmongers by having her new butler turn them away at the door.

  The results of this avoidance were immediately apparent in more dramatic and flowery talk-behind-the-fan wherever she went, but thus far, no one had given her the cut direct, either because other women’s husbands relied on hers for the greater portion of their income, or because she was a favorite of the king. With his implied sponsorship, she received even better service in the shops than she would have inspired as a new countess.

  Now that Bella was safely in England to stay, she could buy more pretty things than would fit in a sea chest, her gowns needn’t be chosen for sensibility, and for the first time in her adult life, she could spend her husband’s money on anything she wanted, with no question of how she would get it home. While she hoped she weren’t so shallow as to have her head turned, she had to admit it was exhilarating.

  Today, for the first time, Charlotte and their purchases were entirely focused on Bella’s appearance. They had been traveling amongst the shops since just after the morning repast. First at the modiste, where Bella had ordered a dozen new gowns with outerwear and accessories to match, Mrs. Harman’s for stays, then the bootmaker for walking shoes, the shoemaker for slippers, the milliner for hats and bonnets, and Rundell, Bridge & Rundell for jewelry to match it all.

  On their way to Gunter’s to meet Charlotte’s children and their nurse for ices, Bella had stopped the driver when she saw a flash in the window of an almost-hidden linen draper, the perfect color tulle for the overskirt of one of her new tea gowns. T
he driver had been sent to announce their delay, and now, she and Charlotte were deep in discussion over a huge table filled with fabric and ribbons and openwork, seated on low chairs, a servile shop girl placing item after item out for their inspection.

  Bella was holding up fabric samples from the mantua-maker against the trims in the tiny shop when the deep rumble of Wellbridge’s voice sent shivers down her spine.

  “The lavender would look lovely with your coloring, Lady Huntleigh, especially against the green watered silk.”

  She and Charlotte both jumped up from their chairs and curtsied quickly as he signaled the attendant. “Please wrap up the spool of purple ribbon for Lady Huntleigh.”

  Charlotte argued, “Sir, you cannot—”

  He turned a critical eye toward Charlotte’s selections. “Perhaps the navy with your dark hair, Lady Firthley. Or do you prefer the coquelicot?” He tilted his head. “No, definitely the red. Just a bit scandalous, and nearly as exquisite as the lavender on Lady Huntleigh.” His eyes rested on Bella as he held up the ribbon next to her face, and she was somehow unable to look away.

  Seemingly by accident, his thumb ran down her cheek. She gasped, and he halfheartedly apologized, sheepish but not contrite. He motioned to the shop girl, who added the red ribbon to the order. Charlotte’s eyes twinkled at him, filled with confirmed knowledge that might or might not make it into the round of gossip, though Bella employed a cold stare to try to freeze out her cousin’s opinion before it even left her mouth.

  Bella whispered to him, heart pounding in her raspy throat. “You cannot just buy things for married women.”

  At the same time, Charlotte curtsied again, no longer objecting, and said, “How very kind of you, Sir. I had been hoping for a gentleman’s opinion, and of course, Lord Firthley would rather be hanged than set foot in a dress shop.” When Bella scowled, Charlotte poked her in the side and hissed, “Have you no manners? The appropriate response is, ‘Thank you kindly, Sir.’”