Royal Regard (11 page)

Nick turned then, feeling Huntleigh’s eyes on
them from across the room, and whispered, “Be careful, my dear.
Everything you are imagining is all over your face.” He bowed
properly above her gloved fingers, arranged her shawl to cover the
hand he had denuded, then walked her calmly to her husband,
speaking of nothing more volatile than the price of tea as they
strolled across the room.

Nick’s speech to Huntleigh was designed to
give Bella every reason to remain wordless and mortified from the
tips of her toes to the top of her head; her husband would be
suspicious had she not.

“I know how protective you are, Huntleigh, so
I will put it to rest. I have done my very best to convince Lady
Huntleigh to run away with me: offered her every shilling of my
fortune, my undying devotion, the very cockles of my heart, and she
would have none of it. My rotten luck she loves her husband. I
shall have to muddle along a poor old bachelor another decade or
two, I suppose, before anyone comes up to the mark again.”

Nick placed Lady Huntleigh’s gloved hand on
her husband’s arm, and she shyly tucked her face into Huntleigh’s
shoulder. Her bare hand hidden in her gathered skirts and scarf,
her eyes roamed Nick’s body, even as he kept his face open and
friendly, no more or less formal than he had been with anyone
else.

“You have been most indulgent this evening,
Lady Huntleigh, allowing me to monopolize your husband with
business, then listening to us go on all night. I am sure we are
both deadly dull.”

Nick was assured
entrée
with Bella as
long as he had
entrée
with her husband, which was really
only a question of money.

I have to stop thinking of her as Bella
before I say it aloud, Nick thought, followed by, I wonder how Nick
will sound when she whispers it in my ear. Better yet, moaning.
Screaming. He couldn’t remember the last time he had so wanted to
render a woman mindless with pleasure.

He invoked the kings of England to keep his
thoughts about the back of her knee from becoming obvious in his
trousers:
Willie, Willie, Harry, Stee, Harry, Dick, John, Harry
three,
he recited to himself until he managed to bring his
physical reactions back under control. He hadn’t been embarrassed
by his own body since Eton, and wasn’t planning to begin anew in
the ballrooms of London. He was an Englishman, for heaven’s sake,
not a hot-blooded Latin.

The superiority wafting off her husband
relaxed Nick to a certain extent; the man thought his wife had
proved immune to the infamous Duke of Wellbridge, preferring
Humdrum Huntleigh to the globe-trotting Lothario who stole a new
man’s wife every Season. Nick knew Bella—Lady Huntleigh—would be
more appreciated at home in days to come, and might even receive an
apology from her husband for whatever it was he’d said in the
carriage to make her angry.

If nothing else, one dance with a duke would
ensure too much interest from other men, including her husband.
Nick would wait to send flowers until she had other admirers—most
likely of her prospects, not her person—when her husband would be
less likely to notice among other bouquets. He planned sonnets and
sestinas in her name, delivered with orchids and gardenias to
demonstrate in floriology his rising passion for her. If Lord
Huntleigh knew a language of flowers even existed, Nick would eat
Old Rowley’s hat.

When Bella reached up on tiptoe to give her
elderly husband a sweet kiss on his cheek, Huntleigh puffed up with
satisfaction, outright smug when she whispered it was getting late
and she would prefer to be safe and warm at home than out
gallivanting all hours with rapscallions and rogues. Huntleigh won
the battle, since he would take Bella home in his carriage. He
didn’t understand he’d lost the war as soon as he agreed to let
Nick dance with her.

Two hours before the fashionable
promenade
, Bella set a rapid pace through Hyde Park, trying
to be ignored by passing riders and the few others braving the
chilly walking paths. Even on a raw, grey day, one peer or another
would surely feel compelled to engage her, if only to tell everyone
else he had. Bundled up against threatening rain, the sable trim of
her new jacquard pelisse hugged her jaw line, and a matching
Russian hat covered her from the crown of her head to her
earlobes.

She was hoping the smell of precipitation
rising out of the London fog and soot only presaged freezing rain,
rather than snow, but the temperature had been steadily falling all
day. It was too cold to be out, really, but she hadn’t been able to
stand one more minute of impertinent workmen and servants with
silly questions. It had been days since the weather was warm enough
to escape the house alone.

She had an umbrella on her person and,
waiting in Berkeley Square, a carriage with a heavy fur lap rug and
coal footwarmers, which Mrs. Jemison had insisted she use for the
long walk to the park, “in case Your Ladyship should find it
chillier than might be comfortable.”

Her stories of icy gales at sea did nothing
to appease her housekeeper’s concern, nor did Bella’s pronouncement
that there was no need to always be comfortable. She had tried to
invoke her new countess demeanor to decline unequivocally, but Mrs.
Jemison had used her
running-the-lives-of-countesses-since-before-you-were-born voice,
ordering the coachman to follow Bella at a snail’s pace until she
complied. Eventually, she did, if only to stop the carriage drivers
behind him from screaming obscenities in the narrow street.

She had brought
Ivanhoe
, thinking she
might stop for chocolate and biscuits at Gunter’s before returning
to Russell Square, but kept a close eye on her lapel watch to
ensure she was home long before crowds of lords and ladies
descended on the Park at five.

Frigid as it was, she still wished she were
back at sea, away from the ever-present miasma of coal smoke and
carriage horses, away from aristocrats trying to make her into a
heroine or villainess, depending on personal inclination. She
wished she were still on the Arabella, where everyone treated her
like a member of the crew, albeit one who held more sway with the
ship’s owner than any sailor.

Just as the end of the path came into sight,
still a fair walk away, a cabriolet came up next to her, two
matching blacks slowing on command to meet her pace. The sleek
high-steppers were a perfect match to the black carriage, black
greatcoat, hat, and boots, and the coal-black hair and eyes of the
driver. If he weren’t so handsome, he might have blended into his
equipage entirely.

“How lovely to see you,
ma petite
.”
Lord Malbourne tipped his bicorne hat. “Might I offer a ride to
your destination?”

She walked faster. “No, thank you. It is very
kind of you to offer, but I had planned a quiet afternoon
alone.”

“I am sad to hear it. I have been hoping we
might enjoy the discussion of Paris you promised.”

As she turned off the carriage track and onto
a walking path, he guided the buggy away from her, stopped the
horses, jumped down, and quickly tied the ribbons to a low tree
branch.

She stopped for a moment involuntarily,
manners overtaking sense, but rapidly began to walk away as she
recalled her husband’s likely displeasure. If possible, even worse
than at the Gosfords’ ball a few nights ago, when the Duke of
Wellbridge stole two consecutive dances.

Discourage Malbourne’s attentions in no
uncertain terms
, Myron had said more than once. If nothing
else, Bella had to give Lord Malbourne credit for determination. No
matter how certain her terms, he remained perpetually sure of her
regard. It was like he could read the dangerous thoughts that
invaded her mind—and her body—whenever he looked her way.

The duke’s long strides easily fell into step
with hers.

“I prefer the quiet of the empty commons,
Your Grace.” She could not help calling him
Your Grace
. She
supposed she would always feel like the poor baronet’s daughter
with this man; he was so very ducal. “With no offense intended, of
course.”

“Not here for
la Promenade
? A shame,
as your beauty would make a fine addition to the spectacle.”

“Beauty,” she snorted in the most genteel way
possible. “Your flattery is legend, Your Grace.” If she actually
believed he thought her beautiful, she might throw herself at his
head.

“Surely you do not think me a sycophant. A
Frenchman finds beauty in every woman.”

“I have heard you fancy yourself a
connoisseur
,” she smiled wryly, “To your credit, you have
not used your expertise to cut a swath through the
beau
monde
.”

He spoke quietly nearer her ear, “I am
honored to know you have made it a point to ask.” He stepped back
before she could shiver at his breath almost kissing the back of
her neck, his bergamot scent wafting about, pulling her closer.

She tried to stand her ground: “Your Grace,
while I value the opportunity to practice my French, I think it
best to return to my solitary amble before the aristocracy
overtakes me.” She held up her book. “I am determined to at least
begin
Ivanhoe
before the Shelderhill’s ball this
evening.”

I should never have told him where I will be,
she thought, grimacing.

“From your expression, you would prefer not
to attend. I admit the same, but the unwelcome duty will be much
improved by your presence. Your husband will not allow us a dance,
but he cannot stop me drinking in your loveliness from across the
room.”

This was the foremost reason she disliked
England. She had never known how to manage
repartée
with
eligible London gentlemen. She was very good at it by now
elsewhere, had matched wits with some of the most important men in
the world. But in London, among the fashionable set, her stomach
churned and hands shook, she couldn’t help feeling—often
acting—like a stuttering schoolgirl who had always known she was
too ugly for a come-out.

As though by a witch’s curse, as soon as the
ship had passed into English waters, Bella had completely lost the
ability to direct conversation with men who flirted. It was one
reason she was so comfortable with the king—with kings in
general—not one had ever acted the inamorato. She looked back
longingly at an empty bench behind the trees, ironwork surely
colder than Finnish frostbite, but far better than banter.

“You said when last we spoke that you took
pleasure in the Louvre. I often enjoyed
la Grande Galerie
,
before it was thrown open to the undeserving, and I am curious as
to its transformation. Did the rabble preserve the collection, or
was it lost like the rest of France?”

She answered politely, much as she would have
with any of her husband’s business associates, “I have seen it many
times, of course, but I have no way to compare it to
la Grande
Galerie
. It is my understanding the collection remains intact
with a great many improvements, although most of the works added
through Napoleon’s warfare have since been returned.”

“Of course. The usurper appeasing the
hoi
polloi
until true royalty is called upon to act with honor.” He
spoke as though spitting his disgust for Napoleon onto the graveled
path. “It is unfortunate such treasures did not remain in France,
where their beauty might be best appreciated.”

Bella corrected him quietly: “The French are
not the only people to appreciate beauty, Your Grace.”

He stopped then, as a curve in the path left
them momentarily out of sight in both directions, a grove of bare
trees ahead, a stand of pussy willows and desiccated reeds behind.
The greys and browns of the dead and decomposing foliage reminded
her of the dulled feathers of a wood-warbler taken down by a
cat.

“
Non, ma belle,
but the only ones to
worship it.” He took up her hand and kissed it, looking into her
eyes, stroking her fingers, holding on far too long.

Before she could pull away, he gently placed
her hand on her waist, covering it with his own, his fingertips
only inches from brushing against the suddenly quivering tip of her
breast. She stepped back before she found herself leaning into the
caress.

While she choked on a complete absence of
adequate vocabulary, he began walking and talking again. “I keep
many reproductions of artwork in my home in Dover, but I was forced
to leave most of the originals in the
château
. I expect they
may have been added to the Louvre after I took up residence in
England, as my home was stripped bare. I have never wanted to
return to face the ruin.”

Ruin. Ruin is what would happen to her if she
listened for one more minute. She needed to free her leaden tongue
soon, before his golden one made short work of the last shreds of
her reputation, as well as the firm underpinnings of her
marriage.