Royal Regard

by Mariana Gabrielle

  He threw back his head and laughed raucously. “You are a marvel, Bella. An absolute treasure.” He took up her hand again and kissed her fingertips. When she didn’t pull away, he turned her hand over and stroked her palm and wrist as he continued, never taking his eyes away from her face. She found herself unable to look away, and any embarrassment fled in the face of devastating desire.

  He kissed her palm, then folded her fingers over his. Before she could react to the fact that she was now actively holding his hand, which would destroy any reputation she might have left and assuredly destroy her marriage, she heard tiny footfalls running down the hall, stopping briefly at every empty room.

  “Auntie Bella? Auntie Bella!”

  She yanked herself away and stood so fast she nearly upset the tea cart, crossing the room to put at least fifteen feet between them. He also stood, straightened his coat, and managed to look entirely unaffected when Jewel came flying through the door and jumped onto Bella with all four limbs outstretched. Since Auntie Bella and Uncle Myron had brought gifts from every place they had stopped since the little girl’s birth, she had displaced Alexander’s doting sister as the favored aunt within an hour.

  Bella grasped the six year old tightly around the waist and twirled her about, provoking exceptionally loud squealing and laughter. Once the little girl was settled against her hip, Bella exclaimed, “My goodness, sweeting, you must have frightened poor Mr. Watts to death running through the house like that! You must do what he tells you when you visit, and I’m certain he didn’t give you leave to whoop like a wild Indian.”

  “Yeth, Auntie Bella. Good afternoon, Yer Grathe.” Jewel intoned, in the same ‘humor-the-adults’ voice Charlotte had used when she was young. Wellbridge bowed, but didn’t have time to say anything.

  The butler followed Jewel with Charlotte, who was trying to catch up to her daughter, but weighed down with two-year-old Alex in her arms. Charlotte started, “I’m sorry we’re early, Bella. The children drove the painter to distraction, so we cut the sitting—” She stopped short when she saw Wellbridge.

  “Duke,” she said once she gathered herself. “Please forgive me if I don’t greet you properly; I am rather overwhelmed.”

  “Don’t be silly. Can I be of some assistance?” He reached out to take the baby from her, but she shook her head.

  “No, thank you, Sir. You are very kind, but my help will be along once the nursery is in order, and then I will be able to gather my manners again.” The nursemaid appeared as if summoned and took Alex from his mother. Mr. Watts had taken possession of a large bag of whatever it was nannies needed to travel anywhere with their charges.

  The baby started screaming immediately, and when the older woman beckoned to Jewel, she hid her face in Bella’s neck and shrieked “Don’t want to! Want to thtay with Auntie Bella!” nearly shattering Bella’s eardrum.

  “Come along, Miss,” the nurse said firmly. “I am told there are nice things waiting in the nursery.”

  Mr. Watts nodded as Bella said, “Indeed there are. Brand-new toys for you to play with when you visit, and if you are a very good girl, I expect Mrs. Jemison might be convinced to bring you cakes and milk.”

  Jewel was unconvinced. “Cakes before supper?”

  “Cakes taste best before supper, don’t you think?” Bella asked. Jewel nodded and reached out to Nurse, whose arms were filled with Alex. Bella set her down and ruffled her hair. “I’m sure such a big girl can walk upstairs with Mr. Watts. You don’t need Nurse to carry you.” Nurse followed Watts out, listing under Alex’s weight, almost dragged off balance by Jewel, now impatient for the promised treats.

  Charlotte sighed and mumbled, “I wish you had children I could spoil until you tear your hair out.”

  Instantaneously, Charlotte’s face crumpled, “I’m so sorry, Bella… I didn’t mean…”

  Bella’s throat closed, and she looked into the corner of the room. She swallowed tears and tried desperately to compose her face. “No need for apology, Charlotte. Thankfully, it is years too late for pity.” Before she became maudlin, she turned to Wellbridge, who was staring with more than a little concern, but the sympathy in his eyes only made it harder to maintain her composure.

  “I am sorry Lord Huntleigh was unavailable to entertain your requests, Sir, and I apologize for my cousin burdening you needlessly with my family’s small tragedies. I hope you will forgive me cutting your visit short.”

  “Of course. Think nothing of it.”

  “I will ask my husband to call on you as soon as he returns.” Bella reached over to the bell pull to summon another servant.

  Wellbridge simply said, “That would be most kind, Lady Huntleigh, but there is no particular urgency. Thank you so much for tea. I hope I will see you and Lord Huntleigh soon.” He bowed his head to the two women, but didn’t attempt to kiss Bella’s hand. When Mrs. Jemison came in, Bella directed her to return the duke’s coat and hat and show him out.

  Bella saw her cousin take in the dry crusts of sandwiches and crumbs of cakes, the almost-empty whiskey decanter on the tea table, and the inches of dregs in the slop bowl, but Charlotte didn’t say anything about how long Wellbridge must have stayed.

  She sat down on the sofa and pulled Bella down after her. “Darling, I’m so sorry… I wasn’t thinking… I swear I never meant… I can take the children home right now…” When Bella declined emphatically, but began weeping, Charlotte held her cousin in her arms and rocked her like she was still a child herself.

  Chapter 11

  The intensity of Bella’s thoughts nearly matched the colors and emotions of The Triumph of David. Her trip to the Dulwich Gallery was long overdue, and the solitude most welcome. She had only narrowly avoided Charlotte accompanying her, which would have resulted in an entire afternoon of whining about the much more fulfilling enticements on Bond Street—the shops and the rakish men who patronized them, all of whom, Charlotte said, Bella should be evaluating as potential husbands.

  As Bella looked down at her guidebook, searching out any further information about Poussin, she heard a low voice and steep French accent in her ear, sending shivers down the neck of her gown.

  “My dear Lady Huntleigh, how marvelous it is to come upon you.”

  “Your Grace,” she said as she turned and curtsied to rank.

  What was it about her that suddenly made charming rakes want to sneak up on her in public, and what was she supposed to do when they did? Didn’t they know she couldn’t be coherent when they stood so close? She wondered if she could convince a pair of dukes to wear bells on their watch chains.

  “I see you have found the contributions from France.” He gently guided her to the next painting, Rinaldo and Armida. “Most probably stolen by Bourgeois and Desenfans, but this I can forgive, as it allows me to remember sweeter times past.” He looked Bella up and down as he added, “Were I a thief, it would be my pleasure to pilfer such beauty.”

  She slouched slightly to hide herself inadequately from his boldness. No matter what she did, she always felt a green girl in his presence, as though she had been caught dressing up in her mother’s clothes. “I think you must be following me, Monsieur.”

  He chuckled. “But of course, my sweet,” he said, tipping up her chin with his index finger to force her to straighten her shoulders and look at him. “If I did not, I might never be allowed to speak with you alone.”

  “You are scandalous, Your Grace,” she whispered, her eyes looking away, though her face couldn’t follow suit, not sure what else to say to such a brazen admission.

  He shrugged carelessly as he let her go, explaining, “You are always surrounded by gentlemen hoping to protect you from harm, and sadly, they believe my surname must be Dégât, rather than Fouret.” He kept walking, forcing her to join him or step away, rightfully secure in her decision.

  “Perhaps if your name were ‘Harm,’ it would offer some warning to the young ladies who find you so intriguing. I would be reminded what will happen to my
marriage, should anyone come upon us.” Which surely had already happened, as the gallery was hardly private.

  “Indeed, young ladies do seem to follow in my wake. It has always been so, but I give to you my word, gentle lady, I shall keep you free of any hint of dishonor. Surely, there can be no disgrace in an accidental public meeting. It is well known we are both great lovers… of art… are we not?”

  She blushed and looked away from him, just catching the outline of his strong shoulders from the corner of her eye. As usual, she was far too interested in engaging this handsome and cultured man in conversation, but without any idea what she should say.

  “I’m not certain what it is you want from me, Your Grace.”

  He cast a sly smile like a fishing lure from the side of his mouth. “This is simple, mon ange. I intend to make you love me.”

  She stepped back, her mouth fallen open. “Love you?”

  “But of course, ma chère. Romance is so much sweeter when it engages the heart, not only the body. Do not mistake me; I find you most beautiful, and I know you find me not so unattractive, and I wish very much to make love to you.”

  She strangled on her response and coughed until she thought she would cast up her accounts. Thankfully, she did not, but neither could she think of anything to say that wouldn’t result in a nasty public scene and months of humiliation for them both, even more than tomorrow’s speculation about this meeting—hopefully not in the newspaper.

  Her hands shook when she considered his feelings if she were to send him away. Even worse, she wondered about her own. He might make her endlessly nervous, but she couldn’t help her interest in his clever conversation. And the way he so perfectly filled out his clothes. The bergamot that permeated in his hair oil or his soap or his very person was an endless source of titillation, even when he wasn’t in her presence; she’d had to give up such infused Chinese teas altogether.

  It must be sinful for a man his age to have so few faults.

  He continued, “However, my dear, your thoughts, your intelligence, your quiet dignity, intrigue me as much as your dazzling eyes and exquisite hair. In repose, my love, you have the golden hair and blue eyes of an angel, but when the ire is up, when your passion shows, your cat’s eyes glow green and your hair reddens like the flames of Hell. Fascinating.”

  As his gaze wandered lower, he added, “And naturally, the beautiful breasts and the waist so sadly tortured in that English cage. Still, your spirit is… unfettered.”

  Skipping over her skirt, moving his eyes up from the floor, he said, “The turn of your ankle is like music, ma fifille, and I wish to follow the melody to your inner thigh, as I believe there I find the songs of Heaven.” He at last looked deep into her eyes. “The two of us in bed, we are a symphony, ma mie. A masterpiece.”

  She had stopped in her tracks at the word ‘breasts’ and squeaked at ‘inner thigh.’ Rather than drawing even more attention or giving him a further target for his musings, she folded her arms across her chest and started walking again, the heat in her face almost making her perspire.

  “But of course, ma minette, so, too, you have a gentle heart and kindly nature, most charming… Any man could love such a woman.”

  She racked her brain for anything to say to rescue her sodden dignity. “Perhaps, Monsieur le Duc, you have forgotten I am married.”

  He laughed, “Perhaps, ma petite, you have forgotten I am French.”

  She stopped again when he ran his thumb down her shoulder. She didn’t pull away, but did look around, startled to see he had maneuvered her into an alcove, hidden from the other patrons. Even though the commentary unnerved her in every way—and well it should—she couldn’t decide whether the disturbance of her sensibilities was good or bad. His eyes drifted down her throat again, and when his gaze caressed her breasts, it might have been his hands, as quickly as her breathing shallowed.

  Once she was completely disoriented, he shattered her nerves entirely with a self-satisfied smile, stepped back, and offered his arm. She shrank into a small shake of her head, but he moved not an inch, blocking her exit from the niche until she took his elbow.

  He waited patiently for her to step back to his side and start walking again, apparently happy to remain silent as she mulled over the idea of romance, not only chaste friendship, but every minute she didn’t speak made it seem more and more as though she were considering it. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t suspected, but hearing him say it—in such descriptive language—brought her conversational abilities to a screaming halt.

  When a few minutes had passed with no word from her, Malbourne initiated an exchange Bella recognized as the type a self-assured gentleman would use to draw out conversation from a wallflower struck dumb. Not so far off the mark.

  “Does your guidebook tell you about this building? It is new, but for a fellow student of architecture, perhaps as interesting as the paintings. Quite radical.”

  “Two full pages,” she said, swallowing her confusion along with the frog in her throat, “and I am fascinated. The natural light from the roof windows is magnificent. I have never seen galleries so perfect for displaying oils. Without the glare…” she trailed off, not sure how to express what she had been thinking just before he appeared to throw her thoughts off balance.

  “Without the glare, the paintings can breathe, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Yes. Yes, that is exactly right. Soane is a master artist as much as any painter.”

  He walked slowly beside her, not pointing out what was obvious to her: they were now ambling right past the artwork, more engaged with their conversation than its subjects.

  “Have you yet visited the British Gallery?”

  She smiled broadly, leaving behind any question of his masterful seduction, certain now that forewarned was adequately forearmed. “I attended an exhibition with Lord Huntleigh last week and have been asked to become a trustee.”

  “Ma belle, c’est bien! The Governors are wise men to appreciate your taste.”

  With a note of pride, she added, “I am the first woman to be asked, and quite astonishing really, considering I have no works to loan like the others. I have always wanted a collection of my own, but we were never in one place long enough.”

  “I am sure you have seen many more masterpieces than even the most ardent of collectors. Your counsel can only advance their work.”

  “Do you really think it so? I was certain it was only to encourage Lord Huntleigh’s patronage, but His Majesty says the Galleries need the Countess of Huntleigh more than the earl. Prinny is a flatterer, though. One never knows when he is sincere.”

  “I have found in my time, ma chère, questioning the motives of a king is best left to other monarchs. I am certain His Majesty would not lie to you about such a small thing, but one must always remember that princes are capricious.”

  She didn’t respond, but for her proud smile. Other than with this man, with whom she might always feel uneasy, she finally, for the first time in her life, felt as though she might be able to manage herself in London. The aristocracy still frightened her, but with every new perceived honor, every new lady who deigned to call upon her, every new gentleman who requested a dance, she took one step away from her constantly tongue-tied state. She was learning, slowly, that her fear might be just a bit misplaced.

  Perhaps it was her renewed confidence that drove her to ask, “Monsieur, why do you wear only black? Not even a white tie for evening.”

  He was silent as they passed four paintings.

  “Excuse my prying, Monsieur. I am too forward.”

  “Forgive me, my darling. Only it requires some courage to speak aloud.”

  His face showed an extraordinarily tortured longing: his muscles loosened and eyes became unfocused, lost in a chaotic daydream she suspected he often visited, but which never brought pleasure. Rather than forbidding, his grim countenance turned forlorn, seeming almost too young to be so sorrowful.

  “I once had a very large family—two brother
s, four sisters, and my parents, who were very much in love. I am the youngest of all, but many years now alone. There is not enough black.”

  “Monsieur. I am so sorry. I had not meant to open a sore subject.”

  Regardless of her discomfort at disturbing his emotional sensibilities, now that he had gathered his courage, he saw fit to continue the conversation. “I have worn mourning nearly all of my life. My eldest brother took a fall from a horse when I was nine; at eleven, my father ate a bad piece of meat, and my remaining brother drowned when I was twelve. It was then I became the tenth duke, Maman and her brother stewards of my estate and guardians of my two sisters yet unmarried.”

  “You must have been their pet,” she teased.

  He replied in an ominous undertone, “I have never been any woman’s pet, ma chère.”

  She heard the clear warning, but even if she hadn’t, the look on his face when she glanced at him sent her gaze immediately to the varnished wooden floor.

  His approval of her unconsidered movement was almost audible as he continued, “When I was ten-and-six, Maman was gathered to God, and I was called to Court to become head of the Fouret family. It was then I took up black as custom.” His hand drifted to the velvet lapel of his fine wool jacket.

  “Out of respect for your mother.”

  “And so it began, but the grief compounded two years later by the loss of the girl I would marry, then my uncle, who had been like a father, and just before the Revolution, my duchess and my heir. Finally, in La Grande Terreur, all of my sisters, their husbands, their children, were put to death by guillotine—twenty-six in all, two still in infancy, and innumerable aunts, uncles, and cousins.”

  Her hand flew to contain her gasp. “Monsieur! I am so sorry. I should have thought—” The back of her glove seemed stuck to her lips.

  Malbourne allowed her to excuse herself just too long for courtesy, and Bella found herself reflexively curtseying and dropping her eyes.