How to Propose to a Prince (6 page)

“What?” Lord Gallantine lifted the edge of his wig with his little finger and scratched his bald pate. “Oh, yes. I did indeed.” Now that he
was distracted from the wet mess, his mood seemed almost buoyant. “And wait until you meet him. You and he are meant for each other. In fact, though I know it is a mite early to predict, I think a Michaelmas wedding may be in order.”

From the corner of her vision, Elizabeth thought she saw Great-aunt Prudence narrow her eyes at Gallantine at the very moment he mentioned a wedding.

She turned her gaze back upon Gallantine. “Well, my lord, if we tarry much longer I shall not have the opportunity to meet anyone this night.” She took his arm and tugged him along with her to the passage. “Come, let us away.”

The ladies collected their wraps, fans, and reticules from the entryway table, and the cadre was about to depart the house when Mrs. Polkshank called out. “Miss Elizabeth! Might I have a moment before you leave, if you please?”

Elizabeth turned her head and glanced over her shoulder at Cook, feeling very confused “Certainly.”

“Hold still just a tick, miss. There is a dark spot on your gown.” Mrs. Polkshank rushed forward. “Oh, I would not intrude on your party, but I know how important this gown is to you. Everything must be perfect.”

Elizabeth froze, not daring to move. “Are you sure there is a spot? I saw nothing.”

“I do not see anything marring the gown at all. Elizabeth looks perfect to me.” Lady Upperton lifted a quizzing glass from her reticule and peered through it. “What are you going on about, Cook?”

Mrs. Polkshank pulled a rag from the waistband of her apron and touched it to her tongue, then dabbed a tiny area on Elizabeth’s back just below her shoulder blade. “Looks like a speck of blood. Got it, though. The trick to getting a bloodstain out is never letting the blood dry.”

Elizabeth gasped and spun around to look in the mirror. The cat had scratched her back. Had she bled onto the gown? She squinted her eyes, but like Mrs. Polkshank had said, there was no indication of blood on the gown.

Elizabeth’s stomach tightened then and she thought she might become ill. For though there was no blood on the gown, there was now a saliva stain the size and shape of a guinea.

“’Ere now, just keep your wrap over your shoulders until you arrive. It’ll all be dry by then, and no one will be the wiser.” Mrs. Polkshank eased Elizabeth’s shawl around her. “Good luck, Miss Elizabeth.” She winked.
“Though you won’t need it, will you? I believe in your dream. Tonight your prince will come.”

Lady Upperton turned Elizabeth around and marched her through the door and into a carriage waiting before the house on Berkeley Square.

Everything was supposed to be perfect. But suddenly it wasn’t.

Something wasn’t right.

Elizabeth could feel a sense of foreboding vibrating through her body, like a plucked too-tight violin string the moment before it breaks…and the music dies.

Almack’s Assembly Rooms

F
or an exclusive gathering, Elizabeth was quite astounded by the sheer magnitude of the number of guests present. Truth to tell, within thirty minutes she was utterly convinced that every citizen of even the slightest social prominence was present in Almack’s this night.

Everyone, that is, except the one person she longed to behold: her prince.

She snatched a glass of carrack punch from the passing silver salver of a footman who seemed wholly focused on finding a trail along the perimeter of the overcrowded assembly room. The shifting pathway practically assured
eventual collision with a guest, most of whom were too preoccupied with seeing and being seen to notice a dozen glasses of sloshing liquid headed directly for them.

Glancing anxiously down at her precious gown, she recalled the moment of horror in her dream—when a stream of red trickled over her bodice—and a bone-chilling sense of doom fell over her like a death shroud. Shuddering, Elizabeth turned away from the footman, not wishing to view the inevitable sartorial disaster.

“There you are, my dear.” Lord Gallantine clamped his hand around Elizabeth’s wrist, making her glass of punch tilt precariously in her gloved fingers. Her hand began to twitch nervously as she tightened her grip to force the crystal level again. “These are the gentlemen I was so desirous that you meet,” Gallantine told her, gesturing before him.

She looked up from her glass and manufactured a pleasant smile as he commenced introductions to Sir Henry Halford and his young protégé, the Honorable William Manton. She dropped a careful curtsy to the gentlemen, though could not help but peer around them hopefully for a glimpse of her prince beyond.

“Sir Henry was an esteemed colleague of
your father’s, dear,” Lord Gallantine told her. “Years ago, of course. Today, Sir Henry is physician in ordinary to the king.”

Sir Henry Halford was a distinguished-looking baronet, but Elizabeth did not care for the manner in which he seemed to study her with those dangerously intelligent eyes. Nor for the pleased flick of his heavy dark eyebrows, which stood out in marked contrast to his pale skin and smattering of gray hair, as his gaze fixed on a particular part of her that seemed to catch his interest most.

By contrast, the Honorable William Manton was entirely well-mannered. He was broad shouldered with fair hair and vivid blue eyes, bringing the image of a Viking of days of old to her mind.

“Miss Royle, your father was an eminent physician, with excellent perception and sound judgment,” the baronet told her. One dark eyebrow lifted, and Elizabeth somehow knew that Sir Henry was about to request something of her. “I will be in Bath for several days, but when I return I am hosting a dinner for a number of my colleagues from the Royal College of Physicians. I wonder if you, Miss Royle, and Lord Gallantine, of course, might condescend to join us. I would consider it an honor to hear about
Dr. Royle’s mysterious years in Cornwall. Does Thursday two weeks from now suit?”

Elizabeth did not wish to be anywhere near the smarmy Sir Henry, even after knowing him for a mere two minutes. But how could she refuse him? “Thursday?” she stammered, sifting furiously through her mind for any excuse to beg off of the dinner.

Mr. Manton stepped closer and leaned his head lower so she might better hear his words. “I know I should greet the chance to become better acquainted with Dr. Royle’s lovely daughter with even
more
anticipation than Sir Henry.” He met Elizabeth’s gaze and held it firm until, flustered and somewhat flattered by his attention, she surrendered her agreement to attend the dinner.

“Very well, Thursday two weeks hence.” Elizabeth looked to Lord Gallantine. “
We
graciously accept the invitation, do we not?”

Lord Gallantine smiled at her, obviously quite pleased, and nodded. “Curzon Street, is it, Sir Henry?”

“Indeed it is, at ten of the clock. Do be prompt, for I have a unique surprise to show you both.” Sir Henry swept Elizabeth one final time with his oily gaze, making her desire nothing more than to hurry off to the ladies’ withdrawing
room to wash the film of his disconcerting attention from her skin. “I look forward to seeing you both again, then.”

Elizabeth’s skin was positively crawling. She turned her gaze around the room. “I had heard rumor that Prince Leopold would be in attendance tonight. Is it true? Is he present?” she asked Lord Gallantine.

Sir Henry interrupted. “I had heard the rumor as well, but I believe that it is all it is. The word at court, always a better source for the truth of a matter, is that the prince is secretly in London to woo Princess Charlotte—and she is in Windsor. Were I the prince, I would not venture to Almack’s if the princess was out of the Town, even if I were the unnamed guest of honor.”

Elizabeth suppressed a scowl.
He will come. He will. It is fate
.

She had just pinned her gaze on a lady and gentleman, completely unknown to her, deciding she would pretend they were friends, when the young medical protégé of Sir Henry disposed of her glass of punch, then offered her his arm.

“Miss Royle,” William said softly to her, “might I have this dance?” To offer his arm before she replied was a mite presumptuous, to Elizabeth’s way of thinking, but she was genu
inely thankful, for at last she had a proper means of escaping Sir Henry.

She lifted the edges of her lips and took Manton’s arm, offering a demure gaze to Lord Gallantine and Sir Henry. “Please excuse us, gentlemen. The dance floor calls.” She giggled like a miss, to give Gallantine the impression that the Old Rakes’ matchmaking scheme was working, then allowed herself to be led to the dance floor.

They took their places at the lower corner of the square and waited for the French quadrille to commence. The selection of this particular dance as her escape from Sir Henry was most unfortunate. The dance had only just been introduced to Almack’s by Lady Jersey, which meant Elizabeth had to focus her attention entirely on each step so as not to accidentally back into another during the
chaise anglaise.
And so, for several wretched minutes, she found herself unable to survey the assembly room for her prince.

She was not entirely sure if it was the unnatural degree of concentration the dance required or the great number of guests in the assembly room, but by time the French quadrille concluded, she felt her cheeks glowing and damp with perspiration.

“Thank you, Mr. Manton, for the dance. I greatly enjoyed it,” Elizabeth said, and curtsied politely, “but I see my sponsor, Lady Upperton, near the door, and I require a brief interview with her before I lose sight of her again.”

Mr. Manton, his fine features looking uncharacteristically perturbed, bowed gracefully before her. “I do hope we may dance again before the event adjourns, Miss Royle.”

“As do I, dear sir.” With a quick nod and a fleeting smile, Elizabeth spun around and made her way from the dance floor and through the crowded assembly room in the direction of Lady Upperton, who was now speaking with Lord Gallantine and Lilywhite.

She glanced back at Mr. Manton to ensure he had rejoined Sir Henry and not decided upon pursuit of her. When she looked before her, another footman, holding a grand tray of goblets filled with wine punch, was only two strides away and headed straight for her.
Blast!
She’d had naught but ill luck this evening and was not about to chance being doused with wine. She would not tempt fate in summoning her own doom. Or her gown’s, either.

Sucking in a great mouthful of air, she carefully pinched the emerald silk skirt and lifted her hem from the floor. Spinning around to the
left, she charged into the clustering throng, but the footman skillfully turned into her wake and remained behind her.

Gorblimey!
Did she have an archery target pinned to her back?

Suddenly, she slammed into someone. Cool trickles of what smelled like wine ran between her breasts and down her gown.

She gasped and looked low, fearful of what she would certainly see. A burst of wetness saturated the elegant bodice, changing it from brilliant emerald to the darkest of forest greens. The backs of her eyes began to sting.

No, not my gown. My beautiful gown.

But oddly, though she felt greatly saddened that her gown was ruined, the overwhelming feelings of fear and dread she had felt so strongly in her dream were absent. How could this be?

“I do beg your forgiveness,” came a deep, resonant voice. Elizabeth lifted her head and through her tear-blurred eyes perceived what, at first, she took to be a dark blue wall. She took a step backward as she renewed her breath in preparation to chide some idiotic man for ruining her gown.

Until she noticed the medals.

Oh, God.
And the red sash.

“Miss Royle! I—I did not realize—” came the voice again.

Slowly, she turned to look upward, and forced down the huge stone that seemed to have risen in her throat. “Y-Your Royal Highness.”

There was a hand suddenly pressing down upon her shoulder. She glanced sidelong to see that Lord Lotharian was now standing slightly behind her. “Curtsy, Elizabeth,” he whispered in an overloud tone so she might hear him over the din of the crowd.

And so she did, wishing with all her heart that she could leave her gaze puddled on the floor so she would not have to look up again and allow Prince Leopold to see her cheeks, which were certainly glowing like red hot embers.

Damn it all
. Sumner had intended to seek out Miss Royle this evening, to dance with her, to begin his courtship of her. But not like this. Not by emptying his champagne down between her—he could not help but look down at her—full, white breasts.

He wrenched his improper gaze from her décolletage to her vibrant eyes, which appeared as green as her emerald gown—before he had ruined it.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Royle, I—I did not
see your approach.” Sumner bent, took her slender arm and released her from her too long, too gracious curtsy.

When she faced him, he saw that her eyes were filled with tears and her cheeks flushed with embarrassed color. Damn him twice over. Out of the hundreds of others in the assembly room, he had somehow drenched and humiliated the only woman who had filled his every thought since their first meeting a day ago.

She was more beautiful than any woman he had ever beheld, even wearing a champagne-splattered gown. Even with her eyes reddened from her tears.

She was perfect in every way.
For him.

From what he had been able to learn about her during the short time since they met, Miss Royle had not been born a society miss. But if the
ton
’s chatter was to be believed, she was like him. Of the bluest of blood, but not of the name.

He realized then that he was staring down at her like an ill-mannered oaf. “Miss Royle, if you will permit me, I should like to contact your modiste to fashion another gown for you.”

Miss Royle smiled and then forced a small laugh. “My gown matters not, Your Royal High
ness.” She tilted her head then, and he saw that the tears seemed to have already drained from her eyes.

Though he could not comprehend how, it seemed, she had decided to forgive his clumsy offense. She leaned close to him and he felt her breath on his cheek.

A hint of a grin touched her full, pink lips. “Though I had thought,” she whispered, “when we last met, that you said you were…
Lord Whitevale
.”

A surge of alarm shot through Sumner momentarily.
Bloody hell
. When they had met, he was not yet posing as Leopold! Instinctively, he glanced about to be sure that no one was close enough to have heard her identify him. But it seemed no one had. He exhaled in relief. Miss Royle’s statement posed no risk to Leopold’s security. Still, he knew he had to ensure her silence. And so, he put his mouth to her ear.

Despite the champagne with which he had showered her, she smelled like orange blossoms in the spring. He drew in the scent of her, closing his eyes for a blink of time, before replying. “I was incognito at the jeweler’s shop. May I trust you not to reveal my alter ego?”

He grinned playfully as he straightened his back and looked down at her. Her eyes were no
longer glistening at all and her cheeks had calmed to reveal their true rose-colored hue, the way he remembered them when he’d placed a tiara upon her head in Hamilton and Company.

“Incognito?” Her reply was held to a whisper. “Oh, now I understand. It all makes sense.” Then her lips twitched and her shoulders began to shake with amusement. Quickly, she clamped her gloved hand over her mouth. When she lowered it some seconds later, her lovely countenance was impassive. “Of course, Your Royal Highness. You may trust in my complete discretion.”

It was then that he belatedly became aware of the tall, elderly gentleman standing a pace behind her. “Forgive my tardiness in addressing you. I do not believe I have had the honor, sir.”

Miss Royle broke in. “Your Royal Highness, allow me the honor of making known to you Earl Lotharian. He is one of my guardians.”

Lord Lotharian bent into a gallant bow, which took several seconds of grunts and gasps to disengage. “Your Royal Highness.”

“I am honored to meet you, Lord Lotharian.” Sumner swallowed hard. The man, though late in years and certainly no physical threat, was looking at him quite menacingly.

The old man did not return the pleasantry,
but took a step closer and another, until the space between felt too confined. “Rumor has it that you are in London to request the hand of Princess Charlotte,” the old man brashly stated. “True?”

“Lord Lotharian!” Miss Royle gasped. For an instant Sumner thought he detected something more in Miss Royle’s shocked response to her guardian’s words. Anger, was it? Certainly not embarrassment, which was what he might have expected her reaction to be.

Lord Lotharian did not abandon his stubborn gaze. It remained fixed on Sumner as he awaited a reply.

And so, he decided to tell the truth. “This night my only thought was to beseech Miss Royle for a dance. Nothing more.” Lord Lotharian was tall, nearly as large as himself, and so when Sumner addressed the gray-haired gentleman, he looked him directly in the eye.