Royal Regard (15 page)

If Myron weren’t a full day and a half away,
she would never even consider this, which was reason enough to
question her own motives. And the peculiar sense of
anticipation.

“Please hurry. We mustn’t keep the duke
waiting any longer than necessary.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Bella’s hands shook as she took her messy
hair down and brushed it smooth. No matter how skilled Wilson was
at arranging hair, there was no chance Bella’s fine tresses would
stay in place all day. She set out the pomade and curling papers,
then stepped over to the
armoire
to find an appropriate
frock.

Something modest, she decided, but still
eye-catching. Nothing with a low
décolletage
, nor anything
sheer, and nothing that required she tighten her corset strings.
None of the gowns she had were at all the thing, only premade and
quickly altered to replace those stolen at the inn, since
Charlotte’s
modiste
hadn’t yet delivered the dresses they
had ordered. She wanted to wear the Saxon green gown with the
salmon trim and rose-point lace. She flipped through her entirely
inadequate wardrobe until she wanted to scream, unnerved at how
quickly she had fallen into the silly fashions of the aristocracy,
changing her dress three or four times each day.

Wilson returned and took over the search,
finally locating a blue-green muslin Empire frock, shot with silver
threads. It was a bit fancier—and far more revealing—than called
for at half past three in the afternoon, but could be made decent
with a white silk underdress and a shawl. It didn’t fit perfectly,
and the slippers wouldn’t match, but it would have to do.

Once half-clothed in the underdress, Bella
sat at the dressing table while Wilson covered her shoulders with
the combing-out cape and re-dressed her hair in tight ringlets
draped over her right shoulder. Informal enough for the
afternoon—she wouldn’t look like she had done anything special to
impress him—but at least one part of her prettier than usual. She
really should have had a lady’s maid all these years, but she would
never say so to Charlotte.

She turned her head from side to side,
inspecting the arrangement in the mirror, then told Wilson to make
certain Cook sent up tea in another fifteen minutes. Any sooner and
the duke would have no reason to stay longer than a polite call.
Not that it mattered to Bella how long he stayed.

She tried for a stern, too-busy-for-company
look as she entered the study, but when she saw the back of his
jacket perfectly smooth across his broad shoulders, short tails
emphasizing his thighs in tight buckskins, she felt her lips drop
open. Her nostrils quivered at the alluring masculine scent wafting
from his person: witch hazel, citrus, leather, and the horse he
must have ridden to come here. As he turned away from Myron’s
collection of first-edition military biographies, she saw his blond
hair had fallen loose across his forehead from his queue, just like
Charlotte had described again and again, and her mouth watered.

Perhaps she was to blame for Myron’s
distance.

She forcibly closed her lips before she
started drooling on herself, tightening them into a thin line to
avoid saying anything silly that would give her away. When she saw
Wilson mending a chemise in the corner of the room, she thought the
embarrassment might bring on the first swoon of her entire life.
She could only hope he wouldn’t notice.

“Your Grace,” She curtsied quickly, then felt
ridiculous, like a schoolgirl meeting a friend of her father’s. “I
mean Duke… Sir. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He cast her a devastating grin, glancing
briefly toward Wilson, seated in one of the hard chairs Myron kept
at the drop-leaf table where he now ate most of his meals. The maid
stared studiously at her needlework as Wellbridge caressed the
undergarment with his eyes, then Bella’s low-cut dress, and
answered, “I believe you dropped your glove at the Estemore’s ball,
and I wished to return it to you.”

Staring into her transfixed eyes, he bowed
over her hand and kissed her bare fingertips, sending a shock up
her arm and into parts of her body better left unspoken. She yanked
her hand back as fast as she could, well aware of the rudeness
provoked by her sudden fear, and sat suddenly on one of the
visitor’s chairs in front of her husband’s desk before her knees
buckled underneath her.

“If I may say, Lady Huntleigh, that color is
remarkably fetching. The blue-green is very nearly a perfect match
to your eyes.”

“Thank you, Sir. How very kind of you to
say,” she responded politely, turning her face away so he would
have no further reason to comment on her eyes, sure he was feigning
continued interest for some undefined purpose that had nothing to
do with her. It was not unusual for a colleague of her husband to
attempt to gain Myron’s favor through her. They just usually had
more sense than to do it by seduction.

“Please, will you not be seated?” She
indicated the other chair two feet from Myron’s desk. “There will
be tea in a few minutes, if you would like to stay.”

“Tea would be delightful. And you must call
me Wellbridge, as your husband and I are now such close
associates.”

She stared at the walls papered in a
navy-and-grey pinstripe, backdrop for the nautical motif she had
chosen for her husband and his lifetime of mementos. The ship’s
wheel from the first vessel Myron had bought himself was far more
interesting to her in this moment than it had ever been before.

Wellbridge sat in the armchair, right next to
her in front of Myron’s desk. Scooting it slightly closer, he
regained her attention by handing over the arm-length glove,
letting it slide through his fingers as she tugged it away. She had
to swallow hard before she could speak again.

“Thank you for the courtesy, Sir. I had
wondered where it had gone, since it has no legs to walk away from
me at a party.” She tried to tease, but she couldn’t seem to help
her apprehensive delivery.

He showed nothing more than good nature when
he replied, “No trouble at all, Lady Huntleigh. I was distraught
when I found it had followed me home, certain you might call out a
constable when you found it missing.” Good nature turned
diabolical, however, when he added, “I should so hate to be thought
an abductor of ladies’ clothing.” She gulped and looked over at
Wilson, her eyes wide, but apart from a faint façade of
inappropriate interest in the duke’s person, the useless woman
acted like she had no ears.

Until the maid’s head shot up when he asked,
“May I call you Bella?”

Bella didn’t even have to try to look
censorious, nor did Wilson. “With no offense intended, Your
Gr—Du—Your Grace, I think that inappropriate. I am certain my
husband would not approve.”

“Of course, Lady Huntleigh. I’m sorry if I’ve
caused you discomfort.”

Discomfort was hardly the word for what he
was causing, but she was determined to see this meeting through
without humiliating herself by begging his favor or giving him
reason to hope she would accept his outrageous proposals.

“Of course not, Sir. I am sorry Lord
Huntleigh is away. I’m sure you have business to discuss, but he
has gone to review his shipyards and will not be returning until a
week Saturday.”

Bella could have kicked herself. She had not
intended to tell him she was alone, nor that she would be for two
more weeks. She felt heat rising in her cheeks as he sat forward
with his eyebrows raised and that enticing, predatory smile on his
face.

“You misunderstand, Lady Huntleigh. I have no
pressing business with your husband. I’ve come purely to return
your glove.”

Bella found herself wishing, indecently, that
he would put it back on as sensuously as he had taken it off.
“How I wish it were your stocking I had just removed…”
What
she wished he would do to the back of her knee. Her mouth started
watering again.

“If Lord Huntleigh won’t return until
Saturday next, might I assume you will be unaccompanied until then?
May I offer escort?”

She snapped her mouth closed, swallowing hard
and clenching her teeth until she could speak without her voice
shaking.

“Certainly not. I thank you for the
invitation, but I only rarely attend entertainments without Lord
Huntleigh. But for the Pinnester’s rout, I will be here at home
with
Ivanhoe
, preparing the house for Lord Huntleigh’s
return.”

She couldn’t seem to keep from telling him
more than she should. Now she wished she hadn’t brought up the
Pinnesters’ party, sure he would try to insist on his services as
escort. Before he could, she added, “I will attend with Lord and
Lady Firthley at my husband’s direction.”

He shrugged off her refusal, “Of course. I
understand,” but continued, “
Ivanhoe
is a wonderful novel. I
quite enjoy allegorical and satirical fiction—more entertaining
than political treatises or historical biographies. Are you far
enough along we might discuss the subtext, or will I give away the
plot?”

“Oh, no, please don’t say a word. I have been
interrupted at the start dozens of times. I haven’t even finished
the first scene.”

“Perhaps next time, then,” he said, with no
question there would be a next time.

“Perhaps,” she said, noncommittal.

Before she had to find another topic, Hannah
came in with the tea tray, dressed in a neat uniform that fit
perfectly, her hair tidy and almost hidden beneath a mobcap, face
and hands freshly scrubbed. Bella sighed with relief at the
distraction, and that he wouldn’t be disgusted by a slovenly
maid.

Hannah placed the enameled Russian samovar in
front of Bella and lit the coals, then set out the matching tea
service and cups.

“Thank you, Hannah. Please tell Cook…” Bella
looked around for anything to say to draw out the maid’s presence a
few more seconds, wishing it were appropriate to invite every
servant in the house into the room, “…this looks splendid,” she
trailed off ineffectually. “I’m sure the scones are delicious.”

“Indeed,” Wellbridge added. “And I will no
doubt do them justice, as I have had no sustenance since eight
o’clock this morning.”

Hannah curtsied belatedly, then asked, “Shall
I bring something more, Your Ladyship? Or will His Grace be staying
for dinner?” Bella wanted to discharge the girl on the spot. Now
she almost had to agree, unless Wellbridge observed the conventions
and declined anything but the offered tea.

He stared expectantly.

“Lord and Lady Firthley will be here with the
children this evening.” She turned to Wellbridge and added, “We
will be dining
en famille
. I’m sure you understand, Sir.” If
she weren’t able to get rid of him before Charlotte appeared, she
was afraid he would force his way into the dining room. And her
cousin would help.

“Of course. I have a dinner engagement
myself.” As though she cared where he spent his evenings, he added,
reassuring her, “My sister expects me at seven o’clock, but a
sandwich to tide me over would be divine.”

She should have known he would find a way to
push in. She reminded herself no matter how he discomposed her, he
was an investor of Myron’s, so must be shown every courtesy short
of her own degradation. “You may ask Cook to send up some
sandwiches, please, Hannah.”

Hannah bobbed her head again, “Yes, Your
Ladyship.” Then she curtsied to Wellbridge so deeply she nearly
fell over. Bella suspected Hannah had more than a little interest
in the duke’s green eyes. “I’ll be back in just a few minutes, Your
Grace, in case you need anything else.”

Bella told the girl as she was backing out,
“His Grace will need nothing else, Hannah. You may have Mrs.
Jemison bring the food. I’m sure Cook has plenty for you to do in
the scullery.” Charlotte was miles off the mark to think Hannah
could be trained as a proper upstairs maid.

Now Bella would have to keep up the
conversation for at least another half hour, more if he dawdled,
which he probably would, if only to unsettle her more than he
already had. Assuredly, he looked so self-satisfied because he had
agitated more than one woman in less than a quarter-hour. What had
she been thinking, hoping he would stay longer?

Wellbridge ran his finger over the hot enamel
samovar, jerking away quickly. “This is beautiful. I sent back a
set from Russia for my sister, but it isn’t nearly so fine. Did you
have it made?”

Bella immediately set to serving tea, to give
her hands something to do besides fiddle with her skirt. “The
samovar was a diplomatic gift. The teapot and cups are only a close
match, a lucky find in Canton. I never took up the habit of tea in
glasses. No matter how fine the metalwork, it seems somehow
undignified. You’ve visited Russia, Sir?”

“I’ve visited every continent at least once,
except the Arctics, of course. I travelled for more than ten years
when I was young.”

“I had heard that. It is most unusual. I
thought it was always the Army or the Church for a second son. Weak
tea or strong?”

“A second son has as many options as he can
afford, and my travels are not nearly as unusual as yours.”
Glancing at the samovar, he said, “As strong as you can make it,
please. Perhaps even as strong as a glass of brandy?”

Bella almost dropped the silver tea caddy.
“Of course, you’d prefer something more… manly. I’m sorry for the
omission. I’m not accustomed to entertaining gentlemen without Lord
Huntleigh.”

Before he could finish saying, “May I serve
myself?” Wilson was already halfway to the decanters. While the
lady’s maid was demeaning herself performing the function of a
footman, she slanted come-hither eyes at Bella’s guest. When he had
his drink in hand, he visibly dismissed the maid’s inappropriate
glances, and Bella seconded the notion, glaring Wilson back to her
seat in the corner.