The Hidden Prince
By Nadine Millard
Blue Tulip Publishing
www.bluetulippublishing.com
Copyright © 2016 NADINE MILLARD
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
THE HIDDEN PRINCE
Copyright © 2016 NADINE MILLARD
ISBN-13: 978-1-946061-07-2
ISBN-10: 1-946061-07-7
Cover Art by Jena Brignola
Table of Contents
Front Matter
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ALSO FROM BLUE TULIP PUBLISHING
DEDICATION
For my sisters.
Love, always.
CHAPTER ONE
THE PROBLEM WITH holly and ivy, Lydia Charring realised, was that it had an unnatural desire to attach itself to parts of a person to which it had no business being attached.
She had pulled and pushed and battled fiercely against this particular bush for hours, and she was freezing.
Her nose, she was sure, would be beet red, and she was fast losing feeling in her fingers, even as they were ensconced in her buttery leather gloves.
Finally, she managed to force the bush to part with some of its holly, and with a satisfied sigh, she dropped it into the basket at her elbow.
Well pleased with her morning’s work, Lydia stomped back across the vast meadow toward her uncle’s pile of bricks. Although uncle wasn’t entirely accurate, since Horatio Huntsforth (and wasn’t that a mouthful) was her mother’s godfather, and not actually a relation at all.
The site of Chillington Abbey was always a little intimidating. Never more so than on a day like this, when the clouds hung low and ominous in the sky, and even the weak winter sun didn’t seem able to penetrate the thick cloud sitting over the manse.
Chillington by name, chilly by nature, Lydia thought wryly. The place was freezing. And though it had fireplaces big enough to stand five of Lydia side by side, her uncle was a miserly old so-and-so who wouldn’t light more than one fire to save his life.
Thankfully, he kept to his suite or study for the most part, and so the library and Lydia’s bedchamber, as well as her mother’s, were kept toasty and warm, with Lydia promising to bear the brunt of her uncle’s displeasure should the maids get caught lighting the fires.
It wasn’t that her uncle was unkind, for truly he wasn’t. He was her mother’s dearest friend, after all. And for years they had trudged here every Christmastide so the old codger wouldn’t be alone.
He was just careful with money, her mother would say. Very careful. Lydia, on the other hand, would say he was stingy and then receive a sermon for her troubles.
Still, the place was beautiful in an austere kind of way.
She wondered, not for the first time, who the mysterious nephew of his was that would inherit the place on Huntsforth’s death.
He had married years ago, long before Lydia’s birth, but the marriage hadn’t produced any heirs, and sadly his wife had died young.
He’d never married again, not even to secure his line.
“He was heartbroken.” Lydia’s mother had sniffed delicately. Which had been terribly sad.
So it was, that a nephew, some middle-aged chap around Mama’s age, from foreign lands, was to inherit, though he would appear to be less than interested, since he’d never come to visit, nor written, to Lydia’s knowledge.
Imagine, a man not caring at all that he was to become lord and master of such a place.
And not just this! Huntsforth also owned a townhouse in London and, bizarrely, a mansion of some sort in some small European country or other.
All very strange.
Well, Lydia continued her rambling thoughts as she hurried across the expansive grounds; she thought it most unkind that his own flesh and blood should treat Huntsforth so ill, not caring about the old man.
She’d wager the nephew was a slimy little weasel just waiting for his uncle to meet his maker so that he could sell off all the property and continue to stay far away.
Well, let him, thought Lydia. Nobody wanted him in any case.
She finally reached the house and hurried to the drawing room, dropping her cloak and gloves into the waiting hands of a maid who’d obviously been watching for her.
“Your mother wishes to see you in the pink drawing room, miss,” the maid said with a little curtsy and a sympathetic grimace.
Oh, Lord, Lydia thought. What was it now?
Her mother had found some problem or another, and no doubt Lydia had done something wrong.
“I wonder what I’ve done this time,” Lydia quipped.
The maid’s eyes darted this way and that before she leaned in to whisper conspiratorially “There are guests.”
Lydia inwardly groaned as she thanked the maid for the warning.
Guests.
That meant mama’s nerves were probably at breaking point.
Prudence Charring was painfully shy. She often said she had no idea where Lydia got her vivacious spirit from, certainly not her timid mother or kindly-but-rather-stuffy father.
Sir James hadn’t joined them on this year’s sojourn, preferring to stay on their estate and oversee the workings of their modest farm.
So, if Mama was on her own with visitors, and Huntsforth was keeping to his rooms, as was his wont, Lydia needed to hurry.
Brushing leaves, bark, and even, she noticed to her annoyance, muck from her leaf green skirts, she practically sprinted to the door of the drawing room.
Skidding to a halt, she composed herself as best she could then pushed open the door and waltzed in, the most ladylike of ladies.
Three pairs of eyes turned toward her at her entrance: her mama’s blue, so like her own, a chocolate-brown pair belonging to a fetching young lady on the cusp of womanhood, and the darkest, most sinful eyes she’d ever seen, in the face of the most handsome, devilish-looking man she’d ever laid eyes on.
Lydia felt her jaw drop as her gaze took in the figure of the man who stood to bow to her.
He was huge, easily above six feet.
His shoulders were wide, his thighs encased in fawn-coloured breeches muscular and strong, and Lydia would just bet that he required no padding under his dark green coat.
His cravat, waistcoat, and shirt were a startling white.
In short, he was immaculately put together from the tip of his sable-black hair to the toes of his shiny Hessians.
“Lydia, darling.” Prudence Charring sounded weak with relief. “Thank goodness you have arrived. We were beginning to give you up as a lost cause.”
Her mother tittered faintly, and Lydia guessed that it had been an attempt at a laugh.
“Please, do come forward and meet Huntsforth’s guests.”
Lydia stepped forward and donned her polite society mask she used for introductions.
“This is Mr. Farago, and this is his sister, Harriet.”
Lydia smiled politely as the young lady, Harriet, jumped to her feet to execut
e a lovely curtsy.
Mr. Farago stepped forward to clasp her hand, and Lydia was shocked by the tingle that shot through her arm at the contact.
Bowing over her hand, he glanced up at her, and she had to opportunity to see that his eyes were a deep, dark brown, almost black, in fact, with the merest flecks of gold in them.
Lord, but he was handsome.
It was terribly distracting.
“Mr. Farago, Miss Farago… my daughter, Miss Lydia Charring.”
“It is an honour to meet you, Miss Charring,” Miss Farago said with a pretty smile and an accent that Lydia couldn’t quite place. European, certainly. Perhaps French? Her English was so impeccable and spoken so flawlessly that there was just the merest hint of a different inflection. “Your mother has been telling us so much about you.”
Lydia kept her smile, but inwardly she died a little.
Her mother found it difficult to engage in the chitchat that was such an inherent part of good Society. As such, when she had a topic she liked to discuss, she talked incessantly about it. Unfortunately, Lydia was one such topic. In point of fact, she was the main one.
“I do hope it hasn’t been too dull,” she answered with a friendly smile.
“On the contrary, Miss Charring, it has been extremely interesting.” This from the handsome gentleman. Lydia’s heartbeat picked up speed as she heard the same subtle accent in his deep voice as in his sister’s.
She had the ridiculous urge to fan herself. Perhaps Huntsforth was right to keep all the fires banked. This man could heat a room with his mere presence.
“Now that we see the subject in person, I think it is safe to say your mother was modest on your behalf.”
Goodness.
He was a charmer, too.
Warmth crept into Lydia’s cheeks, shocking her. She’d never been the blushing sort.
But then, she’d never met anyone worth blushing about. But Mr. Farago, well…
“Lydia, won’t you have some tea and— Is that holly in your hair?”
Her mother’s question brought Lydia’s thoughts back from decidedly wanton places to the situation at hand.
Holly?
Eyes widening, Lydia lifted a hand to pat her chestnut-brown hair. She winced slightly as she felt an array of leaves and berries scattered through it.
“Ah, why, yes, it is,” she answered as though it were perfectly normal for a young lady to go around with foliage in her hair. “I was collecting holly and ivy for the ball.”
A gasp from Harriet saved Lydia from her mother’s disapproving gaze.
“A ball? How exciting.”
Lydia grinned at the younger girl’s excitement.
“Have you attended many balls here in England?” she asked by way of engaging the other girl in conversation and distracting her mother.
“None.” This from her brother. “And certainly none with forest nymphs,” he quipped with a devastating smile, nodding his head at her hair.
Lydia grinned in response. She could run off embarrassed, but what would be the point? It was hardly the crime of the century to have some holly in one’s hair.
“A forest nymph,” she answered, taking a seat beside her mother. “That is a terribly polite way of saying I look like I’ve been dragged through a bush.”
Mr. Farago’s laughter was delectable; raspy and deep.
Dear heavens! She simply must get a hold of her wanton thoughts.
“Really, Lydia,” her mother twittered like a little bird, “you shouldn’t be gathering holly. Can’t you get a footman or a maid to do it for you?”
Lydia shrugged, unrepentant.
“I enjoy it,” she answered simply. “And it wouldn’t be fair to pull them from their duties because I insist on having it.”
“When will the ball be?” Miss Farago asked, her dark eyes, though not as dark as her brother’s, shining with excitement.
“Twelfth Night Eve,” Lydia answered excitedly. It truly was the highlight of her calendar. “Will you still be in the area by then?”
“Not in the area,” Miss Farago answered. “Here!”
Lydia’s stomach performed a strange little flip at the news that she would be sharing a house with the mysterious stranger and his sister.
“Oh?” was all she managed with her suddenly dry mouth.
“Yes, they have travelled from Aldonia!” her mother said, her tone awed as though she’d just announced they’d arrived from the moon.
Lydia was suitably impressed. “How envious I am that you have travelled so far.” She smiled. “I should love to travel to Europe — Aldonia, Italy, Spain, France! I’ve never gotten past Yorkshire,” she finished glumly.
But then she remembered something. “Huntsforth has family in Aldonia,” she said. “I wonder if you know them? Some odious nephew who can’t wait to get his greedy paws on Huntsforth’s wealth but apparently can’t bring himself to write a letter.”
“Lydia, really,” her mother chided with scalded cheeks. “You cannot say such things. We do not even know Horatio’s nephew.”
“I know enough,” Lydia continued, unrepentant. “Imagine ignoring an elderly man on his last legs then having the audacity to inherit everything. Oh, and I would just wager that he is rich as Croesus and has no need for Huntsforth’s money. If he were a poor man, he’d have been here begging years ago.”
She turned to look at their guests and was ashamed to see their expressions; Harriet looked both confused and embarrassed; Mr. Farago brooding and most displeased.
“Oh dear.” Lydia was immediately contrite. “Please, forgive my forwardness. I do let my tongue run on.”
Then she was struck by the most horrid thought.
“You don’t know his nephew, do you? I haven’t just insulted a friend or cousin or something?”
Miss Farago opened her mouth to answer, but her brother got there before her.
“Not at all,” he answered smoothly, “but we do know Huntsforth from Aldonia. At least, our family knew him when he lived there. I was just a child when he left, and Harriet hadn’t even been born.”
Lydia breathed a sigh of relief. Wouldn’t it just be like her to put her foot in it?
“I’m glad to hear it,” she answered.
Poor Miss Farago looked bewildered by the conversation, so Lydia decided it was time to change the subject back to more pleasant things.
“Well then, if you’re staying here, you shall be able to help me with arrangements for the ball,” she exclaimed. “I only hope that Huntsforth is well enough to be able to host.”
“Huntsforth would never allow the ball to be cancelled,” Prudence said now, clearly relieved to have had the conversation move on. “Even if he cannot attend himself, he will be happy for us to host on his behalf.”
“I am not sure that I have a suitable gown,” Miss Farago stated, biting her lip.
“Are you old enough to attend?” Lydia asked. “Have you had your come out?”
“Oh, yes. I was — ah — presented last year,” she answered with an odd look for her brother.
Perhaps he was the overprotective sort.
And wasn’t that just lovely?
Lydia knew she was in danger of turning this man into one of the heroes in her Gothic novels, and she gave herself a mental shake. He had barely spoken above five words to her. And he surely wasn’t perfect.
“So, how did your family know Huntsforth? I never hear him speak of his time abroad.”
“Oh, we, um — that is to say, our father is—”
“Our father is dead, unfortunately, Miss Charring.” Mr. Farago cut in smoothly as his sister floundered with the question. “He was quite out of touch with Mr. Huntsforth at the time of his death, but my sister and I were curious about the man who had once been so close to our family, and since we wanted to experience the delights of England anyway, it seemed a good time to visit.”
Lydia beamed at him.
How kind of him to try to rebuild a lost friendship.
/> “I am sure Huntsforth is delighted to have you here,” she said.
“Unfortunately, Huntsforth hasn’t been able to greet them yet, as he is still quite unwell,” Prudence said. “But after a couple of days of rest, I am sure he will be thrilled to have you here.”
“Well,” Lydia said, standing, needing time to sit in her rooms and pore over every detail of the short meeting she’d just had with Mr. Farago like any self-respecting young lady, “I must remove the forest nymph costume and ready myself for dinner.”
Her comment earned her a pair of matching smiles from their guests, though only one set her heart racing.
“I am so pleased to have you here. The house will be much livelier for it.”
“I, too should like to freshen up from our journey,” Miss Farago said. “Alexander, would you please escort me to my rooms?”
It was a bit unusual for a young woman to ask her brother to show her to her rooms, rather than call for the housekeeper.
But, Lydia reasoned, she was probably shy in these new surroundings.
“Certainly,” Alexander responded, and with a bow to both Lydia and her mother, he followed his sister from the drawing room.
Lydia watched him leave and couldn’t stifle a dreamy sigh.
Alexander.
What a wonderful name.
CHAPTER TWO
“WOULD YOU LIKE to explain what sort of game you are playing, Alex?” Harriet snapped, the moment they were alone.
Alex would love to explain. As soon as he figured it out himself.
How to explain to his young, innocent sister that his incredible reaction to the delectable Miss Charring had made him lie through his teeth? That he had an inexplicable need to have her approve of him.
She very obviously did not approve of Huntsforth’s heir.
And if she found that that it was he, well, chances were she wouldn’t give him the time of day.
Exactly why Alex was so concerned about the opinion of a stranger was beyond him.
Miss Charring was beautiful, no doubt. But he’d seen beautiful women before.
Her appearance in the drawing room… hair filled with twigs and leaves… cheeks rosy from being outdoors… well, she’d looked like a princess from a fairy-tale, and he’d been utterly captivated.
The Hidden Prince Page 1