A Prince Among Men (15 page)

"A week then, my lord. Thank you." He clearly wanted them gone.

On the pavement outside the shop, Jasper laughed. "I hope you're pleased with yourself, Ophelia, now that I'm buying a coat from the fellow. I don't know when I've been so insulted by a tradesman. You'd think the man was royalty himself."

Ophelia winced at her brother's careless snobbery, but she thought it good for Hetty to see it and not be blinded by Jasper's charm. "Actually,
think he's selling Prince Mirandola's coats."

"Don't be absurd, Ophelia. Princes don't sell their coats, and nobody buys secondhand coats. Certainly Revelstoke wouldn't."

"Nobody knows they're buying them," she said. "The coats are cleverly altered by the artist, who claims to make only one coat."

Jasper stared at her.

"You said Mirandola was desperate. He's sold
his horses, now he's selling his coats."

"Rubbish."

Ophelia shook her head. "I think you just agreed to buy a secondhand coat, brother dear. Come on, Hetty, let's go."

"Wait," Jasper called after them. "I'll take you home in my curricle."

"It's not necessary, Jasper. We're not going home."

He caught up with them. "But Miss Gray."

"I'll see her home, Jasper. Besides, you should watch the shop to see who appears."

"Will I see you tonight, Miss Gray?"

Hetty cast Ophelia a hesitant glance. "We're bound to be going to the same party sometime." She smiled wanly at Jasper.

"I'll look for you then," he said.

"
Y
ou don't have to tell me how foolish I'm being," Hetty said a few minutes later. A chill breeze ruffled their skirts and tugged at their bonnets.

Ophelia looked at her friend directly. "Do you truly like him?"

"Are you going to tell me he's vain, idle, frivolous?"

"Apparently I don't have to," Ophelia said dryly. "I was going to say that Jasper's interest in ladies has been inconstant, but—"

"Oh, I know his interest won't last." Hetty clutched her reticule. "I just want to enjoy his regard while I can. I promise to return to being sensible, as soon as
he
…
looks elsewhere."

Ophelia stopped. "You should promise no such thing. You should
…
"

"It's silly to think of anything else. He's a snob, isn't he?" Hetty's voice was gentle.

"Like all my family." Ophelia recalled Jasper's story about Sebastian and the beggar.

"I wrote a poem about him."

Ophelia said nothing. If Hetty had written poetry about Jasper, she was smitten indeed.

"You'll laugh at me. It's a sonnet."

Ophelia made an effort at lightness, but her throat ached. "Shakespearean?"

"Yes, and I've made your brother 'my sun' that shines with sovereign eye, 'kissing with golden face the meadows green and gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy.' So you see, my case is hopeless."

"He wants to impress you," Ophelia said carefully. "He wouldn't go to Lucca's without you. He wanted you there to witness his success when he found the missing prince. That's something new, Hetty. I don't know when Jasper has tried to impress a woman. Charm them, yes—but impress one? I've never seen that."

It was the most hope Ophelia could offer. She procured Hetty a hackney in Piccadilly, and they parted. Her friend's view of Jasper made Ophelia think differently about her brother. It was as if she had to reinvent Jasper to see what Hetty saw, but she could not imagine her brother going to the house in Kensington, shaking hands with Solomon Gray, treating Hetty's father with respect. And no blindness to Jasper's faults would lead Hetty to permit her father to be treated with contempt.

Weighed down by her thoughts, Ophelia tur
ned the corn
er of Moreton Street and saw a
liveried Searle footman walking Pet in front of Madame Rondeau's elegant shop. Pet looked decidedly unhappy to be on the pavement in the care of a servant. He waddled impatiently as far as the footman would allow, then turned the other way. Ophelia could see that there was a definite struggle going on over who was truly at the leading end of the leash. Pet moved in jerks, trying to anticipate the footman's actions so that he did not suffer the indignity of being dragged by the collar. As soon as he saw Ophelia, he stopped and barked all his frustration at her.

"Pet, you walking bolster," she crooned. "Discovering what it means to be a dog?"

He lunged for her, forgetful of the collar and leash until he reached its length and fell heavily onto his forefeet, panting.

Ophelia smiled, allowing her mother's second footman to open the shop door, and with a little wave, passed inside.

Madame Rondeau's was the one place where Lady Searle's air of indolence fell away. The duchess and her modiste discussed every aspect of the creation of a gown. Watching this intense collaboration usually put Ophelia in charity with her mother. There was no doubt of Lady Searle's talent for costume, her unerring eye for style and fashion.

The dress they were creating for the royal ball was a blue Spitalfields silk, brocaded with silver threads. The color was ethereal, but not so pale as to make Ophelia look like a debutante. The dress had virtually no bodice; two narrow wedges of silk barely skimmed her breasts. A thin silver cord spanned Ophelia's chest below
her breasts and fell to her hemline, giving the
illusion of height. A silver clasp gathered soft blue gauze across her bosom and shoulders. Ophelia thought an Amazonian breastplate would be more appropriate, considering the nature of society, but refrained from saying so.

Today they were deciding on the headpiece. Her mother favored feathers, while Madame Rondeau favored a coiled band of the blue silk and silver thread.

Ophelia stood for an hour, the line of pins up her side under her arm pricking as she breathed. Then her mother asked Mada
m
e to make an adjustment to the feathered version of the headpiece so that they could consider that. The modiste and her assistant disappeared, conferring in rapid French.

Ophelia lowered herself gingerly to a velvet-cushioned bench, and regarded her mother silently.

Lady Searle looked up from her pattern book. "Don't sit, Ophelia, you'll wrinkle."

Ophelia considered disobeying and decided against it. She circled the fitting room, trailing her fingertips across bolts of silk and coils of trim. She needed to know whether her mother was truly set on any of her suitors. Her mother, focused on the trimmings and details of a costume, was likely to answer Ophelia's questions without considering them too deeply; still, it was best to approach the topic of marriage obliquely. "Mother, do you think Princess Charlotte is marrying well?"

"Saxe-Coburg will suit the princess nicely."

"But suppose he likes wet, muddy dogs and
she likes delicate, fastidious cats? Or he likes farce and she tragedy?"

Her mother looked mildly uncomprehending, her gaze on a sketch from the modiste. "A wife is hardly constrained by her husband's interests. She has her sphere, her resources, and he has his."

Ophelia considered that. It summed up her parents' marriage precisely. "But what happens when the spheres collide? When husband and wife come together in intimacy?"

Lady Searle lifted her gaze from the dress and gave Ophelia a hard scrutiny, as if she'd said something truly offensive.

"You are not yourself this week, are you?"

"Me? I'm as I've always been." Surely her mother didn't see past the blue gown to the real person.

Her mother continued to study her.

"Clagg told me just the other day that you've not been riding. You must ride, dear, keep up your routine. You don't want to develop odd notions." Without appreciating the activities that gave her children pleasure, Lady Searle insisted that they do whatever kept tempers even.

"No, of course not."

Her mother continued to study her. "I will speak with Clagg. I want to see you behaving sensibly this season." Her mother looked down at the pattern book. "If only you were two inches taller, Ophelia, we wouldn't have this difficulty."

Chapter 10

T
he sky outside Ophelia's window grayed. In the stable the grooms would be readying horses for the day's work. Below stairs, the servants were at work, shoulders bent under the first duties of the day, hauling buckets of coal and water.

A mist obscured her view of the stable roof, but Alexander must be there, talking to Shadow and Raj, preparing to accompany her to the park. Sleep had been impossible with her mind inventing a thousand ways this first meeting would go. Could she see Alexander and not kiss him? The question had consumed her through the opera, a long supper party, and the quiet hours of the night. She turned from the window, stepping over the glittering debris of silk, jewels, and feathers from her evening dress that lay in a heap by her wardrobe, waiting for her maid's attention.

With a yawn she reached for her riding habit. Colonel Cooke had told her once that it was the raw recruit that wasted hours of thought pondering that which could be determined only by
the battle itself—whether one would stand and fight or crack and run.

She gathered the heavy velvet riding habit in her arms and headed for her dressing room. With her short curls, she had no need of a maid in the morning. She could think her own thoughts as she dressed for the day's battles.

She frowned at herself in the glass. The rules of society forbade ladies' stooping to the embraces of their servants. Yet the offense in such a liaison was not in the adultery as much as in the woman's giving of her favors to a man beneath her in rank and breeding. Society dictated whom you would wed and even whom you could take as a lover.

Ladies like her mother and the patronesses of Almack's guarded their lists of guests. Like the defenders of ancient castles, willing to pour boiling oil on the heads of would-be invaders, the ladies ruthlessly preserved the inner circle of society. Ophelia was to find a husband among the privileged or nowhere.

The rules kept the elite together in a pattern as elaborate as a dance, where one moved up or down the set in a prescribed series of steps. Alone you were nothing. As part of the pattern, you had power.

The rules were a reminder that you could be cast out by scandal or misfortune. Not even your family could save you then. If Ophelia caused her family embarrassment, they would lock her up on the smallest, most remote manor in her father's dukedom or marry her off by special license to whoever would have her, most likely Dent.

* * * * *

T
he mist enveloped the stable in a deep hush. Shadow and Raj, standing ready at the mounting block, nudged her, demanding to have soft noses stroked. Raj snorted uneasily, tossing his head as she reached out to him. Instinctively she glanced around for Alexander, but saw no sign of him.

She reminded herself not to blush or shrink. There was no need for talk, really, and above all, she would not look into his eyes. She could manage a morning ride without succumbing to inappropriate feelings for her groom.

Then he came across the yard, something like eagerness in his stride, and her pulse fluttered. Her riding habit covered her from her chin to her toes, yet she felt he must see the heated flush of her skin. She dropped her gaze, gripping the leather crop, steadying herself until he halted a few feet away.

"The usual ride this morning, Alexander," she told his boots, unable to risk a direct look into those blue eyes.

He murmured some assent.

Just that, not her name. She felt bereft.

He wiped the damp saddle dry and held Shadow for her to mount. She was careful that their hands didn't meet.

Once she was settled, he pivoted abruptly, startling Raj, and the stallion reared, circling back on his
hi
nd legs, his nostrils streaming vapor, his eyes wild. Ophelia's breath caught at the display of power and her hands froze on Shadow's reins. Alexander slapped the mare's hindquarters. Shadow leapt aside. Another groom came running with ropes, but Alexander waved him off. He moved toward Raj smoothly, apparently indifferent to the pawing hooves above him.

Fog swirled around them. Raj raked the air with slashing hooves, and Alexander spoke, his voice coaxing the stallion gently down again until Raj descended, his hooves touching the earth without a sound. When he stood quivering and still, letting Alexander stroke his neck and whisper in his ear, Ophelia knew she would kiss her groom.

In the park he rode behind her in proper fashion. Pockets of cloud bound them in a cool, silent awareness. Sensations startled her, a bird cry unnaturally loud to her ears, or a sudden overwhelming fragrance of grass and earth. They were headed for Hetty's almost before she noticed.

When they reached the Gray stable, she had either to throw herself into his arms or run. She lifted her knee from the saddle, kicked loose, and slid to the ground with only a slight stumble.

"Ophelia," he called.

And she fled into the house.

I
n the hall, Ophelia paused to catch her breath. Outside the
morning room she saw Mrs. Pen
dares stop with a tray in one hand, reaching for the knob. Just then Solomon came from the other end of the hall, and Ophelia caught the expression of longing on his face as he saw the housekeeper struggling with her burdens.

Ophelia fell back against the wall, waiting for the moment between them to pass before she made her way to Hetty.

"I didn't expect you," Hetty said.

Ophelia pulled off her gloves, avoiding Hetty's
gaze. "My mother ins
isted I go back to riding in th
e mornings." She managed a wry smile at the irony of it.

"You look burnt to a cinder." Hetty poured coffee and set a cup in front of Ophelia.

"Thanks," Ophelia said. "I've always striven for that haggard look."

Ophelia sipped her coffee, conscious of Hetty's thoughtful gaze.

"Is it something you want to tell me about?"

Ophelia shook her head. "I'd rather hear about you, hear your poems."

"Not my poems, this morning, unless you want to hear your brother praised in poor meter."

"If you found any way to praise Jasper in rhyme, I'm impressed. My love is like a red, red—what rhymes with 'Jasper'?"

"Casper?"

"You didn't."

"No," said Hetty, "but I tried." Hetty hung her head.

"I can imagine.
Sweet Hetty Gray loves Jasper/And longs for him
to
…
clasp her."

"Never," said Hetty, but the corn
ers of her mouth twitched.

"Jas-per,
were
,
stir, myrrh, fur, cur
—"

"Stop it." Hetty was laughing now, and Ophelia felt better. "Do you think he's found the prince yet?"

"He'll want to tell you when he has."

S
hadow's soft whicker always heralded Ophelia's approach. Alexander looked up from his book, thinking that in the last couple of hours
he might have rewritten the laws of Trevigna or proved Fermat's last theorem, if he hadn't spent them thinking of Ophelia and reading the same sentence a few thousand times.

She appeared at the stable door and halted, stiff and distant, her gaze meeting his and sliding away.

He went to her, intending to draw her to the bench, but stopped short of touching her. "Sit."

She obeyed without a word. The care she'd taken to avoid even the most fleeting and impersonal touches had put him on edge.

He busied himself with the horses. Her name had frozen on his tongue, and he feared she would not come back tomorrow, feared this aloof Ophelia.

She was embarrassed, and that was unlike her. He knew instinctively that it was the reason she wouldn't look at him or talk to him. All his imagined conversations, kisses, and touches seemed absurd. With foolish, contrary intentions, he wanted her haughty and he wanted her to kiss him. He finished saddling the horses.

Without a word she came to Shadow's side and stroked the mare's neck gently. They were alone for now, but another groom could walk in at any moment.

He came up behind her. He had to say her name. "Ophelia, look at me."

She shook her head.

He edged around her and rubbed Shadow's nose, more for his comfort than the mare's. "Let me speak, then."

No reply. She leaned her forehead against the horse.

"If one of us must be embarrassed for our last meeting, let it be me."

She turned her head slightly and checked. He felt his pulse trip in answer to that small concession.

"Ladies who dally in amorous encounters with their servants have the worst of all bad names." Her voice was toneless, as if she were reciting a rule conned by rote.

She was right, of course; it was one of society's most unforgiving rules. Married women were permitted discreet
amores
with men of the same rank, but by society's rules she had sinned on two counts when she had let him kiss her. He'd not thought she could be hurt in this way. She was a rule-breaker, but for some reason she was ashamed of their minor transgression. The game of subverting her authority over him and testing her egalitarian principles had taken an unexpected turn. Because she believed him a groom, she would play by rules of the old world of money and title, not the dream world of the new Trevigna he hoped to build.

But she was wrong to blame herself for what happened. That, he could do something about.

"I started things. You stopped them."

"Not soon enough." Her voice was shaky.

"Painfully soon," he said quietly.

She looked over her shoulder at that, the brown eyes, usually so shrewd, now wrenchingly vulnerable. He gripped the strap of Shadow's bridle, tangling his hands in the leather. The steel bit jingled. "Do you think it was your weakness in the garden? It was mine."

"Mine," he insisted. "You don't know what liberties a morning ride allows." He took a deep breath. If he told her his thoughts, she'd never trust him near her, but maybe he could make her laugh. "I can see your elbows always close to the body, your wrists loose and easy. You have perfect hands. And you have a flawless seat. You and Shadow move as one."

"You were moved to kiss me in the Grays' garden because of my superior horsemanship?"

"I suppose other men praise your hair, your eyes, your wit, your grace—"

"My dowry." She said it lightly, keeping her distance with irony. "We must not kiss."

It was nothing less than reason and truth, and he ought to agree and obey and lift her to her horse and ride out into the morning.

"You don't want to kiss me?" he asked. "Or you don't want to admit that you want to?" He waited for her answer, which seemed a long time coming.

"I can't." Her eyes were sad.

His good intentions dissolved. It was not refusal but regret. He had her speaking to him, looking at him, and he wanted more. He edged around Shadow, sliding his hand down the mare's neck, letting Ophelia see that he was going to touch her. At the lip of the saddle he paused, giving her one more chance to back away. When she didn't, he took her gloved hand in his, turning her from the horse, pulling her up against him.

She came like a dreamer, floating, borne along by the current of his will, and their bodies met softly. Then he slid his arm round her waist,
clasping her to him, and brought his mouth down on hers. The kiss lasted no more than a few seconds.

Rough voices in the alley made them spring apart. His heart was hammering, but he linked his fingers for her foot and tossed her up on Shadow.

They rode out into the light of mid-morning. The s
un
had burned away the mist and Ophelia blinked in the brightness. Three men came toward them in the narrow lane, swaggering, joking loudly, filling the space. One moved to allow Ophelia and Alexander an opening, but the fellow in the middle grabbed his arm and stopped him. All three came to a halt, blocking the way.

"Gor, blimey. If it ain't 'er little ladyship." Ophelia's former groom, William, looked from Alexander to her with suspicious eyes. "Still escapin' yer da, ain't ye?"

"Good morning, William. I hope you've found a new post." Ophelia regretted the words at once. The man reeked of sweat and ale, his clothes grimy and streaked with dirt, his collar gray.

"Oooh, it's William, is it?" said the man on his right. They all laughed unpleasantly. Raj's ears went back.

"There's the lady wot got me sacked, boys, fer takin' 'er to 'er friend's 'ouse."

"I'm sorry you were dismissed, William. Someone informed my father."

"Wot good is sorry?" He spat. "A man's situation taken from 'im. It's a crime, ain't it, boys?" The three men laughed again.

"Clagg sacked you, not Miss Brinsby." Alexander spoke in a voice she hadn't heard him use before, quiet and
firm. "You've only to lift the
bottle in your hand to know the reason why."

William and his companions stopped laughing and studied Alexander. There was an exchange of glances, a subtle shift in their positions, the two men on the sides closing in a bit.

"An 'oo might ye be? Ye talk fancy enough fer a bloke, that's takin' a bit on the side to please 'er ladyship."

"Bet 'e's doing it, too, Bill," said the man on the right.

"This the bottle yer blamin'?" William lifted it to his lips and swallowed. With a glance at his companions, he turned the bottle upside down, shaking out a few last drops, and wiped his mouth along his sleeve. The gesture seemed to signal the men to close in on Ophelia and Alexander.

Alexander nudged Raj between Ophelia and the men. William shouted, smashing his bottle against the ground, raising the jagged end, and lunging forward. Abruptly, Raj rose on his hind legs, advancing, hooves slicing the air, screaming, and the three men fled, flinging bottles and shouting curses and threats.

"
O
phelia, are you going to sleep all day?" Jasper's voice at her door woke Ophelia from hot, muddled dreams of Alexander holding her.

She must have managed some answer because Jasper entered and threw himself in an armchair at her bedside. "Did I ruin my chances with Miss Gray forever by being such a dolt at the tailor's shop?"

Ophelia blinked and rubbed her eyes. "What time is it?"

Jasper checked his watch. "Three."

Ophelia fell back against the pillows, her eyelids heavy, her limbs like jelly.

"I suppose she thinks I'm an idiot?"

"Who?"

"Miss Gray." Jasper frowned at her, his handsome brow furrowed.

Ophelia pushed herself up against the headboard. "Not at all."

Jasper snorted. "I run around London searching for a man without knowing what he looks like."

"You did look foolish for a moment, but I'm sure—"

"—Foolish? I looked an ass. A prize ass! So sure of my moment of glory that I brought her along. She saw right through me, I'm sure. She has very
…
intelligent eyes." Jasper slumped, his elbows on his knees, his hands pressed to the side of his head.

Ophelia tipped her head to one side, studying this new self-critical Jasper who recognized the intelligence in her friend's eyes. It was hard to pinpoint what was different about him.

"I know you probably think she's merely quiet. But it's just that she doesn't say everything she's thinking. You can see she takes it all in; she notices."