Miss Burton Unmasks a Prince (13 page)

“I—I will see you tomorrow.” She turned and hurried down the path toward the castle. “Or perhaps the next day,” she called over her shoulder.

Rodrigo leaned to the side until his shoulder rested on one of the gazebo pillars. He crossed his arms, shaking his head. He had been completely wrong about Meg Burton. The idea that she was like all the other young ladies was laughable. In truth, she was unlike anyone he had ever met. Her enthusiasm for life, her wide-eyed optimism, and combination of naiveté and intelligence enchanted him. Meg was passionate about the things she cared about, and she simply made him happy.

Her joy and playfulness had a way of spreading over him when she was near, and she chased away the darkness that had plagued him for so long.

Rodrigo’s country was in uproar, his parents captured, and he was attempting to protect both his sister and himself from brutal enemies. But his greatest threat did not come from the French. If he was not careful, he would lose his heart to Miss Meg Burton.

Meg hurried from the forest clearing. Her pulse and mind were racing. What was she doing? Carlo’s words, his expressions, his touch had all left her flustered. Surely she was just affected by his reaction to the treasure hunt. But the memory of his laughter and the dimple in his cheek made her heart race even faster. Perhaps she was merely nervous for the musicale.

When she thought of Carlo’s laughter, a warm tingling spread from her chest all the way down to her fingers, and she felt like skipping or singing—which wouldn’t do at all. The treasure hunt had been a success, and she was glad she’d acted upon the idea, as silly as it had seemed.

She brushed aside the curls that blew into her face, and the memory of Carlo doing the same accelerated her heart rate again. She could still feel the heat where his fingers had touched her cheek, and she shook her head to extinguish the thought. She would do well to remember that Carlo was a servant, and it was extremely inappropriate, not to mention unkind, to lead him on like this. But the thought of spending the remainder of her time at Thornshire without the hope of seeing Carlo hurt, like her heart was being squeezed, and she couldn’t bear the idea.

Carlo was the only reason her stay at Thornshire had been barely tolerable. The friendship was diverting and not in any way unseemly, she rationalized to herself. She and Carlo were simply like-minded people who enjoyed each other’s company. They were both far from home in an unfamiliar environment. There was nothing wrong with having a friend, or even better, a
compañero de aventura
. She could not control the flip of her heart when she thought of Carlo saying the words with his deep, accented voice.

But that was all it was, a friendly association. Meg arrived at the front entrance to the castle and straightened her shoulders. It was time to be a lady. She would need to turn her thoughts to impressing Lord Featherstone and the other gentlemen of the
ton
and put any sort of thoughts of Carlo from her mind. Besides, if Carlo knew that Meg was in England to ensnare a rich man, he wouldn’t want to have anything to do with her. She hated the thought of his disappointment, and her face burned again, this time in shame.

Meg stepped into the main hall and occupied herself with removing her bonnet and gloves. She allowed a servant to take her wrap.

“Miss Meg.”

Meg looked up as the duchess approached from the dining room. She curtsied. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

“Please, since you are my guest and my husband’s relative, I would like you to call me Serena.”

Meg smiled. “Only if you will call me Meg.”

Serena nodded her head once, and Meg was again impressed by the dignity the duchess exhibited. If Meg did not know Serena was a Spanish
princesa
, her natural grace would have given it away. Compared to the duchess, Meg’s manners felt awkward and inelegant, although she knew Serena would never intend for her to feel this way.

“You have already taken a walk. How I admire your ability to rise early. The exercise has brought color to your cheeks.”

Meg did not correct her. She would allow Serena to think that the blush was a result of her morning constitutional. “Thank you again for your help yesterday, Your—Serena.”

“The pleasure was all mine. I had a lovely time with you in the kitchen, and the sweets brought back such wonderful memories of España.” Serena smiled, and Meg noticed her face was tinged with sadness, so much like Carlo’s when he spoke of Spain.

Serena took a breath and let it out slowly, and her features returned to their typical pleasant expression. “I am so glad you enjoyed the turrón. Cook told me you were so pleased, you asked for an entire box.”

Meg looked at Serena and did not see anything in the duchess’s expression beside polite interest, but the question made her wary. She did not want to reveal anything that might cause a problem for Carlo. However she did not want to tell a falsehood to the woman she admired and who had treated her so kindly.

“I wanted to share the turrón with a friend,” Meg said, her gaze slipping away from Serena’s. She hoped the answer was both satisfying to the duchess and vague as to the actual recipient of the sweets. When she looked back at Serena, Meg thought there was a twinkle of something in her eyes. Meg assumed it to be amusement at the idea that she had such a taste for confectioneries or perhaps at her attempt to pronounce the word the same way Serena and Carlo did, rolling the “r” and making a simple treat sound like something so much more exotic. But the look was gone quickly, and Meg wondered if she had really seen it in the first place.

“Come, Meg. The modiste and her assistants will arrive soon, and I am eager to choose a costume.” She linked her arm through Meg’s, and the two began to climb the stairs. “I confess, I am a bit nervous. I have never been to a masquerade ball. Once I was old enough to attend something of that nature, España, she was in such disorder that . . .” Serena’s voice cracked.

Meg squeezed Serena’s arm. “I have never been to a costume party either. Unless you consider wearing a mask and jumping out from behind the sofa to frighten my brother. But I hardly think that is the same thing.” Serena laughed, and Meg felt relieved she had been able to offer some cheer.

“I enjoy teasing my brother too.” She glanced at Meg. “Although it is not the same when we are adults, is it?”

“Not at all,” Meg said as she tried to imagine Serena donning a mask and frightening the fat prince. He would undoubtedly be annoyed she had disturbed him. Meg felt grateful to have a cheerful brother who teased and laughed, instead of an unpleasant one who avoided everyone, was cruel to his servants, and ignored his horse.

When they arrived in the upstairs drawing room, Lady Vernon, Lady Featherstone, Lucinda, and Helen were already looking through picture books of costume gowns.

A few moments later, the modiste and her staff of assistants arrived.

“Mother, I should love to dress as a wood nymph, Lucinda said, holding up a book and pointing to a picture of a fairy-like creature in a delicate flowing gown.

Lady Featherstone looked at the picture and nodded in her abrupt manner. “And what color gown would you choose?”

The modiste began to describe a light-green gossamer that should look perfect on Lucinda. The assistants started taking notes, sketching, and measuring.

Meg tapped her fingers on her knees. She was glad she was seated or she was sure she’d begin bouncing from foot to foot, so excited was she to wear a fanciful costume. She imagined a gown with layers of ethereal fabric. When she danced, the dress would float around her. Perhaps a Greek goddess or an Arabian princess. She wouldn’t even mind wearing feathers in her hair.

She picked up the costume book and began to look at the pictures. An evil sorceress, a gypsy. Meg could feel her heartbeat in her fingers.

Serena decided upon a flamenco dancer, and Meg imagined how beautiful she would be with her flowing dark curls. It was the perfect costume for a Spanish princesa, Meg thought.

“I hear a rumor that your brother will attend the masque, Your Grace,” Lucinda said.

Serena’s gaze flicked to Meg, and Meg wondered if she had allowed her dislike of the prince to show on her face earlier. “Yes, he has promised he will attend.” Serena stepped behind a screen to try on a skirt that the modiste had brought.

Lucinda’s gaze had followed Serena’s, and Meg looked away and pretended to be absorbed in the costume book. She would need to be more careful not to offend Serena by appearing disapproving of her brother

Helen was still undecided on her costume, and the women’s attention turned to Meg.

“Unless we plan to cover up her hair, let us think of a famous red-head,” Lady Vernon said.

“Cleopatra?” Meg offered.

“I have the perfect character,” Lucinda said loudly from where she was standing. “Queen Elizabeth!”

“I love it,” Lady Vernon said, clasping her hands.

“I have just the fabric,” the modiste said.

“Good Queen Bess,” Lady Featherstone mused, pursing her lips and nodding her head. “I can see it.”

“Or there is Cleopatra,” Meg said, but her words were drowned out by the modiste and her assistants pulling out fabric swatches and rustling papers as they sketched. Meg felt her shoulders slump but tried to keep a smile upon her face as they took measurements. She had lost control once again, this time of the thing she was most excited about.

Lady Vernon hurried from the room and returned with a large volume, setting it upon the table and turning the pages until she found the one she was looking for. She lifted the book and pointed to the picture with a triumphant grin.

Meg’s stomach sank. Queen Elizabeth was a white-faced stern-looking woman who wore a large dress that looked as though it were made of drapes with a high collar and oversized ruff.

“You will be magnificent, Meg,” Lady Vernon said. “We shall need a tiara, and look at the pearls along the trim of the bodice.”

“I will use pearl-colored beads,” the modiste said. “If we use this tapestry, the gown . . .”

But Meg did not hear the rest of the discussion. She stared at the picture of Queen Elizabeth and tried to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over. Her hopes of looking beautiful and exotic had been dashed, and she would make her first impression upon society as a stuffy Tudor monarch wearing yards of heavy fabric and a collar that looked as though it belonged on a cake or around William Shakespeare’s neck.

Finally the modiste had all the measurements and orders. Helen decided to dress as Cleopatra, and the countesses both chose Greek goddesses.

Once the party disbanded, Meg dashed straight for her window seat in the library, closing the curtains. For the second time in just a few days, her tears overflowed, but this time she did not even attempt to stop them. Her stomach felt as though it had turned to lead. She had never felt so frustrated or helpless. She’d not made one decision for herself since arriving in England. Well, except for the treasure map and the turrón and the ride with Bonnie and Patito. She tried to smile through a sob. The only things that had brought her any happiness had involved Carlo. And what would he tell her to do?

She could allow herself to be led around, each move she made carefully controlled, and every choice made by another. Or she could make her own decision. She remembered what Carlo had said in the gazebo, “You should do the thing that you are most comfortable with. And I know you will render the
ton
speechless.” Even though he was most likely trying to reassure her, his words had the opposite effect. They penetrated through her despair and provoked her to action.

When she’d had a good cry and her tears had stopped, she smoothed her skirts over her knees and took stock of her situation. She was not a child, but a woman. An educated woman, and she was perfectly capable of choosing her performance for the musicale.

She grabbed her favorite poetry book and pushed aside the drapes. Standing, she lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. There was not much she could control in England, but this was one thing. Now, all she needed was the nerve to actually see it through.

Rodrigo left the castle through a back entrance, discouraged that another meeting with Colonel Stackhouse had been no more productive than the first, though he was coming to enjoy visiting with the gruff veteran. While he had a high regard for the man—truly, the colonel and the duke were two of the most levelheaded men he’d met in England—it was disheartening that even the colonel’s resources had uncovered nothing concerning the whereabouts of Rodrigo and Serena’s parents.

Rodrigo pushed out a breath and raked his fingers through his hair. He started toward the stables, looking forward to a hard run with Patito to tire them both and ease some of his tension, but he stopped and stepped into the shadows when he saw Meg leaving the castle.

She held a book in her arm and looked over her shoulders as she closed the door, as if she did not want to be seen. What was she up to now?

Rodrigo’s mood instantly lifted.

Meg hurried down the pathway behind the castle toward the duke’s greenhouse. She glanced behind her once more before opening the door and slipping through.

Rodrigo waited a few moments and strode up the path himself. He cracked the greenhouse door and peeked inside. The light filtered strangely through the glass and plants, casting flickering shadows over the room. The smell of the flowers, vegetables, mulch, and soil was heady and reminded him so much of the gardens in Spain that he stopped for a moment and allowed the memories to wash over him.

Meg paced back and forth between rows of hanging plants and raised flowerbeds, muttering to herself and occasionally stopping to look in her book. She was so intent that she didn’t notice him. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him, and leaned his shoulder against the doorframe.

She paced between the rows, apparently committing the words of the book to memory. From her cadence, he assumed it was a poem that she was learning. He noticed that she furrowed her eyebrows and a line appeared above her nose when she had to stop and look in the book. Occasionally the tip of her tongue poked out of her mouth as she read. Her nose wrinkled, and she muttered, shaking her head. Then she would resume her pacing, the inflection in her tone rising and dropping. Rodrigo thought he could watch this same sight for hours.