Miss Burton Unmasks a Prince (18 page)

Rodrigo sank into a chair next to the fireplace in his sitting room. He rubbed the back of his neck, bending his head from side to side, attempting to relieve the stiffness. His habit of balancing upon a chair while he stretched his neck to watch for the light in Meg’s bedchamber window was beginning to take its toll on his muscles.

He had long since shed his cravat and jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, and now he waited impatiently for the valet to help him with his boots. Rodrigo rubbed his eyes. It had been three days since Meg had left him on the castle wall. Three days since he’d kissed her. He had thought of little else.

What had started as an interesting diversion for him—concealing his identity—had gone too far. And Meg had been hurt. He’d seen in her eyes the precise moment she’d realized that, as a servant, his very livelihood—and perhaps even his life—was in jeopardy if he was discovered. Her look of utter anguish tore at his heart, and he despised himself for being the one to cause it. And to cause it through deception.

How could he have been so cruel? And so blind? He’d had an unfair advantage over her all along. He had been free to develop feelings for Meg, and with every interaction, she had been conflicted as she’d worried about disappointing her family and causing Rodrigo harm. His stomach twisted painfully as he thought of the guilt she must have felt. And how unnecessary it was. If only he had been honest from the start.

But would she have loved him? A small voice in the back of his mind tormented him with the thought. If he had not carried out this charade, they may never have become friends. The two of them would certainly never been so free to learn of one another. They may have been introduced in a formal setting, but he avoided the young ladies of society so completely that if their relationship had not developed under such unique circumstances, it would never have had a chance, especially since he’d had no intentions of forming an attachment.

The thought that his pride and narrow-mindedness could have meant he’d never have found Meg made him ashamed. What else had he missed while he had been too caught up in himself?

His valet finally arrived, and Rodrigo was glad to be rid of his boots. The housekeeper brought his nightly glass of sherry, and he thanked her, not failing to notice her look of forbearance at his aversion to the drinks the British men preferred, such as gin or port or that dreadful watery tea that nobody on this island could seem to drink enough of. After assuring the servants that he did not require anything further, they withdrew.

Once he was alone again, Rodrigo’s mind returned to Meg. Attempts to find her, to explain himself, had been hugely unsuccessful. He’d spent countless hours at the gazebo in the forest or watching the library window. He’d even sent her a note directly but had heard nothing in return. It was all he could do not to storm into the castle and search every room.

Rodrigo opened the book of poetry, finding the pages he’d read so often the past few days.
Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage
. The words were not exactly soothing, but somehow the sorrow as well as the pride the poem evoked made him feel as if he were still part of the conflict. That he had not abandoned Spain. He did not want to forget the pain of the people, and the verses—his lips twisted in a smile—the verses spoke to his soul.

He would have never guessed that British Romantic poetry would help him feel a sense of Spanish patriotism. The smile remained on his face as he thought of Meg reciting the verses on the moonlit tower. She’d been right when she said there was a poem for every occasion.

Rodrigo was restless. He flipped casually through the book, hoping to calm his mind so he could retire for the night. As he skimmed a page, a particular phrase leapt out at him. “And Eden revives . . .” It was what Meg had whispered after he had kissed her.

He sat up and looked more closely at the words.

Oh! Cease to affirm that man, since his birth,

From Adam, till now, has with wretchedness strove;

Some portion of Paradise still is on earth,

And Eden revives, in the first kiss of love.

Rodrigo read the words again and again, and a lump formed in his throat. Somewhere inside him an arrogant prince sneered at the love-besotted fool who was becoming teary over a verse of poetry. Lowering the book to his lap, the love-besotted fool leaned his head against the back of the chair, closed his eyes, and allowed his heart to swell as he remembered every detail of that moment, when there was no prince in disguise or need to find a rich gentleman, no pressures of society, apricot gowns, or even nations suffering from war. There was only Meg and Rodrigo, and however briefly, it had truly been a paradise on earth.

***

“What have you done?”

Rodrigo cracked his eyes open and looked around groggily. He would recognize his sister’s voice anywhere, but what was she doing in the dower house in the middle of the night? He blinked and then sat up when he saw the sun pouring through the windows. How long had he slept? From the way his back and shoulders seized, he figured it was well past time to rise. He leaned forward, attempting to stretch his cramped muscles. Only then did he remember what had awakened him.

Serena stood directly in front of him, her hands upon her hips and her expression furious. “What have you done to my houseguest?”

Rodrigo didn’t even bother to pretend he did not understand. He slumped back in the chair and rubbed his hands over his face. “I kissed her.”

He did not think Serena could have looked angrier, but he was wrong. Her face turned red, and her eyes bulged. Rodrigo was amazed that his sister could appear so much like their mother when he’d been caught at mischief. He winced.

Serena’s words were a screeching tirade. “How could you do such a thing? How could you toy with this girl’s heart? This is why she wanders the castle like a ghost. Why her smile is gone and her eyes are red. How dare you treat my husband’s cousin as a conquest and toss her aside!”

She swatted his legs off the ottoman and picked up the book on his lap, glancing at it and turning as if to toss it aside. She drew a breath that Rodrigo was sure was in preparation for another battery of words. But then Serena froze, looking at the book again. Her gaze lifted to meet his, and she let out her breath and sat upon the ottoman. Serena’s expression softened as she regarded him. “You are in love with her.”

Rodrigo nodded. He rubbed his eyes.

“But she is American. What of your planned marriage? Has your decision changed,
hermano
?”

“I do not know.”

“And you did not tell her who you truly are?”

“I tried, but she would not listen, and she has avoided me ever since.”

Serena ran her hand over the book cover. “
Pobrecita
. Poor Meg.” She looked back at Rodrigo. “But you must tell her the truth.”

He nodded. “I am seeking the perfect opportunity. I do not want her to feel embarrassed or that she has been made a fool of. I need to speak to Meg alone, and hope—”

Serena squinted her eyes and rubbed her hand over the book. “Yes, you must approach the situation gently. Her feelings could be injured beyond repair.”

He pushed his fingers through his hair and rested his elbows on his knees. “How does one say, ‘I’m sorry I have deceived you for the past two weeks, but I had a good reason for it. But now I am in love with you, and I hope you will forgive me and trust me hereafter?”

Serena shook her head. “Rodrigo, why ever did you get yourself into such a circumstance?”

He did not answer, holding his head in his hands.

“There is to be a picnic this afternoon in the meadow behind the castle. Perhaps you could find an opportunity to speak to Meg then?”

“It is a good idea. I will try.”

“The masque is tomorrow, you know. And we leave for London in two days, and . . .
hermano
, what are you going to do?”

“I do not know. Perhaps I will change my mind about accompanying you to the city. I do not want to lose Meg.” Rodrigo let out a heavy breath. “Serena, am I betraying España?” His voice dropped. “Am I betraying
mamá y papá
?”

“By loving an American woman? Hermano, the world is uncertain. España, she is uncertain too. Our lives will never be the same, no matter who triumphs in this war. And our parents, they would want your happiness.”

Serena wrapped her arms around him—rather awkwardly in the chair—and kissed his cheek.

He would never understand how Spanish women could have such extreme changes in mood.
Or maybe it is all women
, he thought, remembering how Meg had transformed after their kiss.

“You have made no promise to Evangelina. I know you will do the right thing, hermano. I am glad you have found someone who makes you happy. Not all of us are destined to marry Spaniards.”

“
Gracias
, crazy woman.” He smiled and shook his head. “And now, if you will excuse me, I need to dress, and I do not think you want to remain here for that.”

Serena handed him the book of poetry and left.

Rodrigo ate a quick breakfast and hurriedly prepared for the day. He hoped Meg would tire of the company at the picnic and wander away from the group long enough to give him an opportunity to speak with her privately. His stomach sank as he considered the various reactions Meg might have to his confession. Knowing this woman, she would not make it easy on him, but it would be worth any reprimand or penance if only Meg would forgive him.

Meg leaned to the side as a servant removed her plate. Pheasant, roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, sausage, potatoes, soup, scones, fruit, pastries . . . she sighed.
Picnic indeed
. The only difference between this meal and every other served at the castle was that this one was served outside. Tables with long tablecloths and floral centerpieces were clustered in the sunniest spot on the grounds behind the castle. The setting and the weather were ideal, but the formal nature of the meal made it seem like a great deal of extra work for the servants just so that the household and their guests could have a change of scenery. And she did not particularly enjoy eating while wearing gloves and a bonnet.

She could not help but compare this outdoor luncheon to the picnic she and Carlo had shared. Though the events bore the same name, she would not categorize them at all alike. The picnic on the tower had been casual and romantic and completely lovely.

Meg wished that everything did not remind her of Carlo. The hallway outside her bedchamber brought back the memory of his attempt to haunt the castle. Her window bench in the library reminded her of the day he had beckoned to her to join him for a horseback ride. Even her books and poetry brought him to mind. She did not walk to the gazebo in the woods any longer, not only because the memories of their meetings there were so strong but also because she worried she might chance upon him and did not think she could bear it.

“How did you like your pheasant, Miss Margaret?” Lord Featherstone asked, leaning toward her and brushing her arm with his. He was, of course, sitting next to her. She’d hardly had a moment to herself without the earl dogging her steps. The more she became acquainted with Lord Featherstone, the more uneasy she felt in his presence.

“It was very good, my lord,” she said, scooting to the other edge of her chair since Lord Featherstone had made it a habit to press his thigh or arm or shoulder against her or to find an opportunity to
accidentally
touch her.

“I am glad you enjoyed it. It was a particularly successful hunting trip yesterday.”

Meg smiled and nodded at the earl then turned to her other side, where Helen and Lucinda were discussing the ball.

“Mr. Newton will certainly wish to dance with me,” Lucinda said. “He has paid me particular attention ever since his mother’s dinner party.”

Helen gazed across the table at Daniel, who leaned back in his chair, laughing at something the duke had said. Meg recognized the sorrow in her friend’s eyes and felt the strongest urge to throttle her fickle brother. Meg had known it would only be a matter of time before he turned his attention to another young lady, and she was angry Daniel had hurt Helen.

Lord Featherstone leaned forward, apparently intent upon the flowers in the center of the table. He reached for the arrangement, turning it slightly, and in the motion, grazed his arm over Meg’s shoulder.

She leaned closer to Helen.

Lord Featherstone sat back in his chair, turning to face Meg and moving his knee to touch hers. “Miss Margaret, the grounds are so lovely today. I would be very pleased if you agreed to take a turn with me.”

Meg intended to form an excuse, but she caught Daniel’s eye, and his encouraging look persuaded her. She didn’t want to have to explain to her brother later her reasons for turning down Lord Featherstone. It was easier to simply nod and agree.

“Thank you, my lord. I would enjoy a bit of exercise.”

Lord Featherstone offered his hand, and as she stood, she saw Daniel pulling gently at his cheek with his finger, reminding her to smile. She shot him a look and turned her attention to the earl, who tucked her hand beneath his elbow, squeezing her arm against his side.

They walked past the greenhouse, and the familiar lump rose in Meg’s throat. If only she could return to that day when she had recited the poem to Carlo, when she had been so happy. Would she have done anything differently if she’d known that a week later, her heart would ache so badly? She looked in the other direction at the path where they had ridden Patito and Bonnie. Carlo had seen her frustration in the stables that day and known exactly how to cheer her.

“You are very quiet, Miss Margaret.”

“I am just pensive today, my lord.” Meg did not look at Lord Featherstone’s face. She didn’t have the energy to smile and laugh and pretend to be interested in his dull conversation.

He led her along the path into the forest and over the small bridge.

Meg pulled her hand from his arm and held onto the rail as she leaned forward, watching the springtime rush of water flow beneath them.