by Lauren Royal
Colin stretched his legs and crossed them, then retreated behind his book. Miserable, Amy withdrew into one protective corner of the carriage. There was no point in continuing the discussion. He had made his intentions clear, and he hadn't asked for her opinion, anyway.
He was so unfair!
She'd never asked to stay with him, or even hinted at it—she knew plain Amy Goldsmith didn't belong with the Earl of Greystone. She had her own life and obligations to fulfill. All she wanted was a few more days with him, a few more days of happiness, a few more days when she could pretend she wasn't alone in the world.
Even now, aloof as he was, she wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch him, to lose herself in his arms.
As hard as he was trying to be cold and demanding, he'd melted when her tears threatened. She should take comfort from that, she told herself. The real Colin was in there somewhere, obviously just as confused as she was—if not more.
She opened her book and held it in front of her face, staring blindly at a page while she composed herself. If she had any hope of regaining their intimacy for a day or two, she wouldn't accomplish it by weeping and begging.
She took a deep breath and forced herself to focus on the words, until she was caught up in the exciting end of Clélie's long tale. Three hours of silence later, just as they crossed London Bridge, she finished and, with a sigh of satisfaction, laid the book on the seat beside her.
Gazing out the carriage window, she marveled at the changes the fire had wrought in her hometown. Blocks and blocks were naught but charred vacant lots. The odd chimney or blackened stone oven stood like gravestones among the debris. Except for the clip-clop of horses and the creaking and crunching of wheels passing thought, it was hauntingly quiet. As Amy moved closer to the window, a small sound of distress escaped her lips.
Colin looked up from his book. "It won't be like this forever," he said gently.
She listened carefully. Here and there came rare, banging sounds of construction. "Some are rebuilding," she observed.
"Yes, but it's forbidden until owners clear the rubble and establish their claims to the land. It will take time."
Driving along Fleet Street toward Chancery Lane, they passed into the unburned area at last. Amy breathed a deep sigh of relief as the familiar smells of London hit her. Odors of tar, smoke from incessant coal fires, and the stench of tanneries were overlaid with a pervasive reek from the open sewer that the Fleet River, commonly called the Ditch, had become over the centuries. Though rank and foul, the stench was a comforting memory of another life.
And the traffic! Carriages, hackney coaches, carts, mounted riders, sedan chairs, pedestrians, and animals jostled one another in the noisy, crowded streets. After months in the quiet countryside, Amy's ears seemed assaulted with the cacophony of hawkers peddling their wares in pushcarts, wheelbarrows, and simple baskets, crying out in singsong rhyme of the superiority of their goods.
One man called out, "Rats or mice to kill!" and Amy smiled.
"The rats," she mused. "How could I have forgotten the rats?"
Colin smiled in return.
Thieves, pickpockets, and beggars were everywhere, but so were street singers ballading for pence. Amy caught sight of a familiar face and turned excitedly. "Oh, it's Richardson the fire-eater! May we stop and watch?"
Colin shrugged and knocked on the roof for Benchley to halt. Amy hung out the window, wide-eyed, as Richardson chewed and swallowed hot coals, then melted glass and, as a finale, put a hot coal on his tongue, heated it with bellows until it flamed, cooked an oyster on it, and swallowed the lot.
The audience burst into wild applause, and Colin dug in his pouch and handed Amy a coin to toss out the window before they moved on.
They finally reached Lincoln's Inn Fields, a fashionable residential neighborhood bordering a large, grassy square. It was quieter here, but only in comparison to other parts of London: Lincoln's Inn Fields Theatre was here, known for spectacular moving scenery, and the square was often the scene of fights and robberies, as well as a place for public executions.
The carriage stopped in front of the Chases' town house, a four-story brick building on the west side of the square. Amy climbed out and gazed up at the distinguished facade. Giant Ionic columns held up a boldly projecting cornice and balcony. Triangular decorations crowned tall, rectangular windows.
Colin came out after her and stretched, yawning.
"It's Palladian," Amy breathed in an awed tone. "Was it designed by Inigo Jones?"
"Yes." He took off toward the front door.
Following him, Amy frowned, her exhilaration at being back in the City dampened by his attitude. Where were his usual chatty explanations? Colin loved showing his family's homes and recounting their histories.
Was he that unhappy with her, then?
The interior was every bit as impressive as the outside. The few aristocratic residences Amy had seen were paneled in dark, traditional Jacobean wood. Not this home; the comparison was like coal to diamonds. Her gaze swept up a wide, graceful curving staircase. Light, cheerfully painted walls were ornamented with classical motifs and festooned with a riot of carving: flowers, fruit, ribbons, palms and masks.
She couldn't wait to get a tour of this magnificent house.
Colin prodded her forward, toward where the servants waited in a neat row.
"This is Mrs. Amethyst Goldsmith," he said, pleasantly enough. "She'll be staying here for a few days. Ida?"
A slight, blue-eyed girl stepped forward, perhaps sixteen or so. "Yes, my lord?"
"Please see to Mrs. Goldsmith's comfort." The maid's blond curls bounced as she nodded, eagerly accepting the responsibility. Colin turned to Amy. "I'm taking a nap. I suggest you do the same."
With that, he was off, his long legs taking the stairs two at a time. Ida showed Amy to a chamber and pulled back the covers on the bed. Amy still wondered about the house, but she hadn't been anticipating a self-guided tour; she wanted Colin beside her, telling her all about it.
She lay down, and when she awakened from her fitful sleep, Colin was gone. On her way down to supper, Ida said something about him dining with Priscilla before making an appearance at some ball or other, but Amy listened with half an ear.
Although she'd had most of the day to get used to the idea, she still couldn't believe that Colin had left her alone.
CHAPTER THIRTY
As the dance prescribed, Priscilla performed a graceful bow and pointed one square-toed shoe, chattering over the subdued music of the slow minuet. Growing more impatient by the minute, Colin wondered what on earth had possessed him to squire her to Lady Carson's ball. He hated these affairs.
And why hadn't he ever noticed before what a gossip she was?
Her mouth was as mincing as the minuet. Perhaps if he backed her into that matron over there, who rather resembled the stuffed peacock on the buffet table, Priscilla might shut up.
"Excusez-moi!" The matron pinned him with accusing eyes.
"My apologies, madame." He wrinkled his nose against the cloying perfume that wafted from the woman's unwashed body. But his ploy had worked. Priscilla ceased babbling about Lady So-and-So and Lord Such-and-Such, and turned her attention to him instead.
"Really, Colin. You must be more careful."
He flashed her an innocent smile. "Od's fish, my dear, but you are looking well this evening." It was true. Her shoulder-length silver-blond hair gleamed in the candlelight from the blazing chandeliers. Her figure was tall and willowy rather than curvy, but she carried herself regally, and her ivory satin gown accentuated her pale beauty. The complete opposite of Amy's coloring.
He shook himself. Whatever had made that pop into his head?
"Why, thank you." Priscilla smiled back at the compliment, but no blush marred her complexion. Sedate and proper at all times, she never blushed. Unlike Amy, who—
"Colin, did you hear me?"
"I was admiring your complexion. You're as beautiful and flawle
ss as a porcelain doll."
"Oh." She concentrated on the next dance step. "I was saying that Lady Beauchamp—"
"Shh." He skimmed two fingers up her perfect chin and along her jaw. When she flinched and pulled back, he frowned and mentally added to his list: She was as cold and hard as a porcelain doll as well.
He would have to work on that.
They both balanced forward in three-quarter rhythm. "As I was saying, Lady Beauchamp—"
"Do you think we might discuss something relevant?"
"Relevant?" Her toe traced a half-circle.
"Relevant. Morals or values—but not in the context of the latest scandal. Politics. Literature. Art." The peacock matron shot him another dirty glare, and he edged Priscilla farther into the glittering jeweled throng of dancers. "What did you think of the play tonight?"
"Lady Scarsdale's gown was horrendous. The orange girls were better dressed. And did you see the earl's periwig? It had lice. I cannot believe we were forced to share a box with them."
The music ended, and Priscilla glanced around. "Lady Whitmore has arrived. I have something to tell her."
"By all means." With a great sigh of relief, he sent her sailing from the dance floor.
He had to find a way to stop this habit of perpetual gossip before it drove him mad. Perhaps an instructive practical joke…
Ah…yes. He smiled as he caught the eye of an old friend across the ballroom: Barbara Palmer, the Countess of Castlemaine and King Charles's mistress these past six years.
Barbara had a passionate nature both in and out of the bedchamber. A perfect co-conspirator, she would doubtless enjoy a prank as much as he.
As he approached Barbara, he couldn't help but admire the auburn hair and deep blue eyes that had played no small part in making her Charles's favorite. "My Lady Castlemaine." With a little bow, he took her arm and drew her away from the group surrounding her. Barbara was always in the center of a crowd. Everyone was well aware she had the king's ear and, even more important, wasn't opposed to dabbling in politics.
For a price, of course.
"Greystone!" Barbara's eyes danced. "You have my thanks for rescuing me. Where have you been hiding these weeks past?"
"Some of us have to work, you know," Colin teased. Pulling her farther away from the masses, he dropped his voice. "I was wondering…might you be willing to help me play a little trick on Priscilla?"
"One of your practical jokes? On Lady Priscilla?" Barbara's musical laughter tinkled through the ballroom. "Count me in! What do you have in mind?"
"Well…" His ideas were half-baked. But suddenly inspiration hit. "Would you mind pretending you're with child?"
"How would that help?"
"I've discovered Priscilla is a devil of a gossip—"
"You're just finding out? For the love of God, I've known that for years."
"Well, I was thinking to tell her you're expecting again—Charles's babe, naturally—but not to tell anyone. She'll tell everyone, of course, and eventually someone will congratulate you. Then—here's the part you may not like—then you'll burst into tears, saying you lost the babe, and Priscilla will be mortified that she started this rumor."
"I love it!" Barbara exclaimed. "It's so mean!"
Colin frowned. It wouldn't do to humiliate Priscilla; he just wanted to teach her a lesson. "Do you think so?" he asked.
"No, not really," Barbara recanted.
He looked at her sharply.
"Most any lady here would spread the rumor," she rushed to reassure him. "Lady Priscilla won't be thought of unkindly. Besides, no one will know where it started. One request, though. Afterward, we must tell the poor soul I break down in front of—and Lady Priscilla, of course—that I was never actually with child." She put a preening hand to her auburn locks. " I haven't ever lost a child, you know."
"Indeed. And we'll make sure everyone else knows, too."
"Oh, that won't be necessary. It will do my reputation good for people to think Charles has come back to me again. He will, you know."
"Of course he will," Colin assured her. "He always has."
"He's made such a fool of himself over Frances Stewart."
That wasn't news to Colin. A tall, beautifully proportioned girl some eight years younger than Barbara, Frances had arrived at court almost four years ago, and King Charles had been head over heels for her ever since. His love was unrequited, however, since Frances was that rarest of creatures: a chaste courtier.
"I cannot stand her," Barbara said. "She prances around in that man's dress made fashionable by the queen—as though I could wear such garb after bearing five of His Majesty's children!"
"Come now, such dress is ridiculous anyway. And no one could rival you in that gown." He conspicuously eyed her low decolletage.
"Thank you," she said as though such compliments were her due. "Charles wrote a poem about her, you know. 'Oh, then 'tis I think there's no Hell, Like loving too well,'" Barbara quoted in a sickly sweet voice. She rolled her eyes. "And still she wouldn't share his bed."
"There are those who think Frances must be simpleminded to persist in such virtue," Colin consoled her.
"Oh, she's a dunderhead, all right. Her favorite pastimes are playing blind-man's buff and building castles out of playing cards. Grammont said it's hardly possible for a woman to have less wit or more beauty."
"Then she's no true rival to you," Colin assured her. He spotted his intended making her way across the ballroom. "Priscilla is headed this way. You agree to my plan?"
"Yes, it shall be great fun. I shall dazzle you with my performance."
"Very well, then. I look forward to it." He walked toward Priscilla nonchalantly, hoping she hadn't noticed the long time he'd spent talking with Barbara.
After mingling a bit, he danced again with Priscilla, enjoying the jealous glances of the other men present. She was tall and graceful in his arms, and she wasn't gossiping, for once. At the end of the dance, he pleased to realize he hadn't thought about Amy for quite a few minutes.
Coming off the dance floor, he said casually, "I've heard tonight that Barbara is expecting His Majesty's sixth child."
"She told you so?" Priscilla was more animated than usual, her interest piqued by the opportunity to be in on a juicy bit of gossip.
"No, it was someone else. You mustn't tell anyone, though, for she hasn't even told Charles yet."
"Oh, I wouldn't," Priscilla said much too quickly. "But who told you?"
"I've been sworn to secrecy. I chatted a bit with Barbara to see if she'd let it slip, but she didn't say a word."
"She doesn't look enceinte." Priscilla slanted a dubious glance to where Barbara was surrounded by a new group of hangers-on.
"She's only just had it confirmed, according to my source. She wouldn't be showing yet."
"Of course. I'm not well versed in such matters, since I haven't had children myself—yet."
Priscilla knew Colin wanted several children; he'd made no secret of the importance he placed on family life. And she'd offered no arguments, he reminded himself now. She really was a good choice for him.
"Would you care for some spiced wine?" he asked, knowing it would be out of character for him to discuss such a gossipy subject too long.
"No, thank you," Priscilla declined prettily. "I'm not thirsty."
Colin saw right through her excuse: She couldn't wait to get back to her friends. However, he enjoyed his jokes tremendously, especially the anticipation, and wasn't quite ready to let her get started.
"No, I insist." He drew her over to the refreshment table and handed her a cup of wine. Taking one himself, he grasped her firmly by the elbow. "Shall we enjoy the garden for a while?"
"It's freezing out there," Priscilla protested, clearly impatient.
Colin smiled to himself. "Just for a minute. It's beastly hot in here."
She couldn't argue with that. Between the blazing fires on either end of the ballroom, the hundreds of candles burning in the chandeliers
above, and the guests packed in elbow-to-elbow, it was difficult to breathe.
Priscilla reluctantly went with him, in no small part because he dragged her along physically, and he guided her through the crowd and outdoors.
"Ahh." Colin inhaled deeply of the fresh air. "It's pleasant out here, isn't it?"
Priscilla drained her cup and crossed her arms in a most unladylike fashion. It was quite foreign to her nature, and Colin was pleased; perhaps she was becoming more human. "I'm finished. May I go back inside now?"
"Not just yet." Colin drew her further into the formal garden, over to a low brick wall. He set down both their cups and leaned back against it, then wrapped his arms around Priscilla's waist and pulled her close. Ignoring the startled look in her eyes, he brought his lips down to hers—just a little bit down, he realized, momentarily surprised at the reminder of her height. But her mouth was warm in the cold night, and he was pleased that this statuesque heiress was his, so a few moments passed before he realized she wasn't kissing him back, and in fact was pushing away from him, her palms flat against his chest.
"Colin—not here."
"Why? No one's here to see."
"It's not proper. And there's no one to see because no one else is fool enough to come out in this weather."
"I'll keep you warm." Though taken aback by her reaction, he offered her a smile as he pulled her close again. She wasn't the most passionate of women, but she'd never resisted his advances before. She'd even been willing to share his bed. No one at court—barring an aberration like Frances Stewart—was celibate, after all.
But Priscilla was ever well mannered and proper, and Colin realized with surprise that he'd never tried to steal a sensual moment with her before, that every action had had its time and place. And he had no doubt that, with time, she would learn to enjoy a stolen kiss or two.
Priscilla went limp in his arms now, not resisting but not participating either, and Colin decided her first lesson in sensuality was over. He swung her about and walked her back to the ball, his arm lightly around her shoulders. When Priscilla's own arm stole around his waist as they crossed the threshold, he was pleased.