Once Upon a Time

by Marylyle Rogers

  "Orville is no part of my dream." Amy almost groaned, annoyed for having lost any thread of rationality in the tangled morass of her ill-prepared attempt to win a friend's support. Taking a deep breath, Amy tried to piece together every scrap of tattered patience she could summon. Only after calmly separating, defining and briefly stating the issues could she start at the beginning and try again.

  "Because Lord Comlan of Doncaully's appearance, voice and name are the same I immediately suspected that he was the embodiment of my dream's hero. My suspicions, I believe, are proven true by the similarity between the mysterious picture of my fantasy castle and his drawing of Isobel."

  Welcoming the faint encouragement grudgingly provided by the curiosity flickering in Beattie's eyes, Amy went on. "Orville thinks Comlan is a threat to his courtship of me and has sworn to see the Irish lord exposed as a fraud. I am positive Orville is wrong."

  Beattie looked unconvinced by Amy's fervent defense.

  "And yet," Amy tenaciously continued, "how can I refute his accusation? Simply state that Comlan is actually king of the Tuatha De Danann?"

  "No." Amy grimaced, acknowledging the ridicule such a seemingly absurd statement would earn. "The dilemma I face is how to provide Orville with evidence of—as no doubt you'd say—a fairy-tale king?"

  "Tch, tch." These muffled sounds of disapproval were Beatrice's sole comment.

  But Amy, familiar with the various inflections Beattie gave this favorite response to anything for which she had no immediate solution, was heartened by their lack of emphasis.

  "The answer is, I can't," Amy flatly responded to her own question. "And it's my inability to refute Orville's slanderous charges that leaves me willing to risk shame by sending this invitation which I hope will give me the chance to warn Lord Comlan of a threat he doesn't deserve."

  "Aye, well, lambie…" Although Beattie nodded in docile resignation, she couldn't hide the dubious gleam in her eyes. "If you insist on meeting that Irishman so publicly in Hyde Park, then you must take me as chaperone to lend some little measure of propriety."

  "I wouldn't dream of doing elsewise." Amy grinned. By securing this small measure of support, no matter how unwillingly given, she could claim to have won at least this minor skirmish and that gave hope for success in the greater war.

  Amy, anxious to depart unseen, glanced nervously over her shoulder while slipping down an elegant winding staircase and crossing the broad entry hall. To avoid the crush of later hours she'd planned this meeting for the earliest permissible time for rides through Hyde Park—late morning.

  When impressive double doors finally closed behind Amy and her maid, the sun was already well on the way to its zenith. The fact that two other genteel residents of the Wyfirth town house were still abed, granting at least a temporary reprieve, gave Amy a heartening sense of relief.

  Her mother would be livid when she awoke to discover a daughter absent without approval. Amy had considered leaving a note but, recognizing the effort's futility, had dismissed the idea. She'd failed to convince even Beattie, so how could she possibly compose an explanation acceptable to the sternly disapproving Lady Cornelia?

  Yes, there would be a penalty to pay for this unseemly behavior. And Amy knew she'd have to pay it… but not until after the warning she'd sworn to give had been delivered.

  Having succeeded in the day's first challenge by escaping the quiet house, Amy was pleased to see the carriage waiting beyond the front gate. It was an imposing vehicle, well-tended and of a size able to comfortably accommodate the whole family—a necessity as it was the only one they kept in town. She regretted only that the cumbersome vehicle was hardly the thing for a fashionable outing.

  James, the tall coachman waiting to open the carriage door and help them inside, looked uncomfortable with his role in this adventure. Knowing she was lucky that he had little choice but to obey a summons from his master's daughter, in wordless thanks Amy gave the uneasy servant a bright smile of uncommon sweetness.

  While handing his young mistress up into the vehicle's shadowy interior, the coachman felt sheepish remorse for having initially begrudged this chore for the viscount's daughter—reportedly too independent and unfashionably dark yet undeniably winsome.

  Amy tensely perched on a leather seat with Beattie at her side as the carriage lurched into motion. Garbed in her most becoming dress and bonnet, both in her favorite shades of rose trimmed with dark green ribbons, she was filled- with an uncomfortable mixture of anticipation and uncertainty.

  What if Comlan didn't come? After all, she hadn't received an answer to her invitation. That worry was immediately followed by another question at least as troubling, the same one that had kept her awake most of the night. If Comlan did appear, what specifically should she say to tell him about Orville's intentions? More importantly, what ambiguous phrases could she use so that, were she wrong about his identity, he needn't know her mistake?

  The winding trip through city streets brought them, at last, to Hyde Park. Hoping for, yet dreading, a prompt beginning to the task ahead, Amy was disheartened by the length of time that passed while they leisurely moved over Rotten Row's firm gravel surface. She leaned against the door and anxiously peered through a side window at the lane ahead… to no good purpose. Under growing strain, Amy nibbled her full lower lip. Only nannies pushing prams or guarding small charges could be seen strolling through the patches of sunshine and shadow beneath towering trees.

  Her daring plan, it seemed, had failed. Discouraged, Amy started to sit back. But at that moment her attention was caught by four magnificent black horses beginning to pass her vehicle. Admiring gray eyes followed the harness line back to an open carriage of shining ebony and widened on the stunning figure skillfully wielding reins while sunlight gleamed over his golden hair. Though expecting the powerful man to appear, she wasn't prepared to suddenly meet the white flash of his potent smile or the intense heat of his green-fire gaze.

  Comlan was equally disconcerted at finding the shield of charm holding his heart impervious to feminine wiles endangered by the welcoming warmth in Amy's sweet smile. Driving four-in-hand, he slowed the beautifully matched stallions to assure his open coach and Amy's massive carriage move forward at the same pace.

  "Good morning, Miss Danton," A wicked gleam sparkled in Comlan's eyes while gentle mockery tilted his smile awry. "Fancy seeing you here so early in the day."

  With fine disregard for her own conclusions as to Comlan's true nature, Amy was first flustered by the surely too confident man's nearness and the next instant annoyed with herself for that embarrassing response. She proudly lifted her chin as, with none of the composure so long her goal and which she'd intended to maintain today, rushed to snap back.

  "As you were invited, it can hardly be a surprise."

  Grin widening, an unruffled Comlan purred, "But very much a pleasure all the same." When Amy failed to immediately respond, he smoothly continued as if the brief pause had been intended.

  "Will you do me the honor of joining me in this open coach? My man, Dooley"—he tilted his head back toward the groom standing post behind—"can keep your maid company while you and I visit."

  Without waiting for an answer, Comlan brought his vehicle to a halt and Dooley jumped to the ground. Once the Wyfirth carriage stopped a short distance ahead, Dooley moved to help down the dark beauty he remembered well from her brief visit in another realm.

  Comlan spoke to Amy's coachman while his servant aided her into the open coach. By the time Dooley took her seat in the carriage, James had been instructed to slowly drive his passengers through the park. In two hours time, the two parties would meet at the Marble Arch.

  Inside the Wyfirth carriage an indignant Beattie sat stiffly erect, considerably less than pleased by this arrangement. It might be perfectly respectable for a lady to share a gentleman's open coach but she was none too happy about being closed into this carriage with a wiry, rough-looking creature who clearly was no gentleman—an opinion c
onfirmed by the first insolent words to leave his mouth.

  "And who might you be, me darlin'?"

  Dark eyes gone hard as granite, Beattie frigidly answered her unwelcome companion's impertinent question. "Mrs. Beatrice Milford."

  "Puir Mr. Milford." Dooley's bushy brows met in a feigned show of sympathy that did nothing to tame his teasing grin.

  Beattie's eyes snapped with silent rebuke for the man whose flaming hair surely betrayed ill-breeding. She would rather bite her tongue in two than admit to this feckless cur that the Mrs. was merely a courtesy title and the only Mr. Milford in her life was the father she'd never known.

  Faith and begorrah! Dooley grinned. A right banshee was this vinegary creature, and he'd no' waste a moment more tryin' to pierce the wall of ice betwixt them. He made a fine show of gazing with overdone admiration at a lovely view of the Serpentine's calm waters wending through vivid green lawns.

  While their servants rode in a chill silence, it was nearly as quiet between the pair in the open coach that soon slowed again to a halt, this time in an area widened for that purpose.

  Blind to the beauty of sweeping lawns and bright sky, Amy cudgeled her brain trying to recall her carefully devised speech. But with Comlan so near the feverish effort was to little avail. She instead busied herself opening the seldom appreciated parasol that for once had a useful purpose in providing something for nervous fingers to clutch. His disturbing nearness heightened awareness of him and tossed the fragments of sane reasoning into a chaotic clutter while at the same time summoning vivid memories of each too brief but exciting embrace.

  Sweet Heaven! Abruptly realizing the immodest turn of her thoughts, Amy's cheeks burned. No man should be allowed such devastating charms. But then, Amy wryly reminded herself, as king of the Tuatha De Danann, Comlan could hardly be restrained by the average human male's limitations. The next instant she rediscovered the grave error of glancing up into his mesmerizing gaze. She must look away, truly must but—as she ought to have learned before—couldn't.

  Comlan watched rosy heat wash the cheeks of this enchanting damsel who was clearly flustered by their mere proximity. Another wicked grin flashed. Miss Amethyst Danton was the most unique female who'd ever crossed his path. Amy was intelligent enough to be wary of matters she didn't understand and yet brave enough to knowingly risk learning more. He applauded those traits. As one who by nature was most attracted to the contradictory, it was the paradox of her spirit—half dedicated to cool logic and half drawn to the irrational joys of adventure and imagination—which made her both pleasing and intriguing.

  Realizing that the maid's reaction to his nearness was also the impediment making it difficult for her to state her purpose for this meeting, Comlan's smile faded. The wordless plea in her charcoal eyes struck a deep chord in him that had never been touched before—one he was quite certain should remain buried. He very nearly broke his realm's first rule for dealing with humankind by giving answers before necessary questions were asked. And, to his shame, it wasn't respect for that principle which prevented the action but the interruption of another human.

  "Comlan, old boy," a hearty voice called out. "I heard you'd come to the City but couldn't credit the claim. It hardly seems your milieu."

  "Old Pam!" Comlan warmly greeted the speaker, a silver-haired man strolling over to grip the smooth wood railing between walkway and the graveled lane widened to accommodate vehicles pausing for owners to visit. "By what trickery did you escape your duties in the House of Commons?"

  Amy was mildly surprised at being hailed by anyone at this hour. Surprise intensified to amazement with the discovery of the speaker's identity and then deepened to shock on seeing how well these two men appeared to know each other. Flustered, she struggled to tame the burning heat of chaotic responses to what seemed a rude revelation. She'd plainly made a complete fool of herself by allowing illogical emotions to cloud rational thinking and convince her that Comlan was a fantasy figure, a fairy-tale hero. It wasn't true, couldn't be if he'd such a close friendship with this famous elder statesman and one time Regency buck, Viscount Palmerston. But, a small inner voice persistently asked, then how had he managed to save the boy?

  "We've separated into committees," a shrugging Palmerston explained, first smiling broadly at Amy and then turning curious eyes to her escort. "Mine doesn't meet until this afternoon so I came around first thing this morn to look over what we can only hope are the finishing touches to the Queen's Great Exhibition."

  Amy's gaze automatically followed a wave of the statesman's arm to a most amazing structure rising so high it encased even a giant elm and yet was both graceful and delicate.

  "Paxton's creation is quite something, ain't it, me girl?" With his famous eye for feminine charms, Palmerston easily shifted admiring attention to the beauty at his seldom glimpsed Irish neighbor's side. "A giant conservatory with more glass in one structure than many a soul might see in a lifetime."

  "I, along with a great many others, look forward to the day when our Queen opens her exhibition." Amy's claim was more than mere tact as she really was anticipating the event, despite the hinted concerns of her father and brother. Hordes of foreigners will descend on London and who knows what dreadful diseases they might bring.

  "That day will soon be here." Palmerston gallantly lifted Amy's fingers to brush his lips over their tips. "And I hope to see you there."

  The two gentlemen fell into a brief chat concerning the challenges facing Irish landholders, freeing Amy to more intently study the ingenious pavilion while trying to devise a plausible excuse for requesting this meeting. Her gray gaze moved across impressive expanses of glass glittering in the sunlight until a curious sight caught her eye.

  An unkempt figure sporting a ragged eye patch and peeking at them from behind a broad trunk. Strange. What logical reason was there for anyone to hide in a public park free to all? A park beginning to fill with an odd assortment of people from every class? Shabby gawkers met in clusters near the building in progress while various elegantly garbed Society members had embarked on their promenade. Why then should this man skulk about, ineptly hiding behind trees? Had Palmerston an enemy? Or was the peculiar man some dull-witted thief foolish enough to risk striking in bright daylight?

  "Miss Danton—"

  Comlan's deep voice effectively thrust all thought of their furtive watcher from Amy's mind and lured her into looking his way.

  "Lord Palmerston is leaving us and wishes to bid you farewell."

  Amy was flustered by her ungracious inattention to the highly respected statesman and immediately gave the man a sweetly earnest smile of apology.

  "Yes." Lord Palmerston accepted her regret with easy warmth. "Unfortunately, I must be off to Parliament. There are matters to arrange before my meeting begins." He gave a slight shrug before again taking Amy's hand to kiss her fingertips. "But I do hope to see you again—soon."

  Amy nodded, grateful for this gallant response from the older man who tipped his top hat to Comlan before striding across green lawns and away from them. But while Palmerston moved beyond hearing distance, the dilemma posed by his arrival and the friendship it revealed intensified Amy's anxiety. What possible explanation, what purpose could she give to the Irish lord as excuse for her invitation?

  Flustered and hoping to keep Comlan's attention diverted, Amy spoke without wise forethought. "Do you know Lord Palmerston well?"

  Even as the words fell from her lips Amy wished she could call them back. An open discussion of Lord Palmerston's acquaintanceship with this Comlan could only deepen her discomfort with its proof that her Irish dream had been no more than that.

  Valiantly attempting to suppress a pang of disappointment, she gave Comlan a brilliant smile.

  "His Irish lands and mine share a common border." Comlan nodded, feeling Amy's unaccountable nervousness and wondering if she had some strange idea that he might be a threat to her. After a glimpse of her beguiling smile, he dismissed that plainly absurd notion.
However, it underscored an alarming hazard—the ease with which this human damsel could muddle keen senses honed over a length of time she was unlikely to comprehend.

  "Government duties keep the viscount thoroughly occupied," Comlan added with a mocking smile whose self-derisive source only he knew. "Leaving little time to spare for visiting."

  Amy fidgeted with her parasol. Despite having just wished the words opening this subject unsaid— as if in demonstration of how capable this man was at detouring her once logical, well-ordered thoughts—she was now unhappy that it had been so quickly depleted.

  Hating to look like every other vapid debutante playing the weak-wit to flatter a suitor, Amy desperately sought something intelligent to say. However, when the logic behind her carefully planned speech had burst, as might be expected of any fairy tale's insubstantial bubble, it had robbed her of rational words. While an uncomfortable pause lengthened, she sat in doomed isolation… featherbrained goose chosen for slow roasting.

  "But, yes," Comlan continued at last. "The viscount and I are acquainted."

  Amy stared blindly at the sleek black horses held nearly motionless by the skillful control of the powerful man beside her. She was amazed by how little affected he was by what had seemed to her a wretchedly long, unnatural silence. That thought generated a more pertinent question: Why had he hesitated at all?

  "But Lord Palmerston knows your great-aunt Daffy far better than he knows me."

  "What?" Thick lashes fluttering in bewilderment, Amy fought to untangle the sudden wealth of conflicting questions his statement inspired. Comlan knew Daffy? He must, how else could he be certain her great-aunt and Lord Palmerston were friends? More disconcerting still, after having accepted that her dream was only a dream, did Comlan's cryptic statement mean that he really…

  "We're all neighbors." Comlan regretted that this uncushioned declaration of fact was too cryptic to clear Amy's confusion. But, having come hazardously near to shattering the first rule governing the Tuatha De's traffic with the human world by offering answers unasked, his jaw firmed and mouth clenched into a tight line. He dare not risk speaking for fear of saying too much. No matter. With the colleen so close, so clearly fascinated by the beguilement of unfamiliar ways, could the wordless power in a steady, emerald gaze be more' effective than simple words?