Royal Regard (16 page)

While Bella went about the ritual of serving
herself tea, the rich aroma filling the air, he crossed his legs at
the ankle, stretching out as though he intended to stay all night.
Bella caught Wilson peeking at him under her lashes without an
ounce of disapproval at his familiarity, so glowered at her maid,
wishing she could send the woman away without risking her
reputation.

When Wilson disregarded Bella’s silent
command, lashes fluttering at him even though he wasn’t looking,
Bella’s carefully controlled fury at unseemly servants reached its
end.

“Wilson, I’m sure the nursery needs cleaning
before the children arrive.” She continued, by way of explanation,
“Master Alex is still young enough to eat things off the floor, and
Lady Julia isn’t old enough to tell him no, so you must scrub it
quite thoroughly. And please remind Mrs. Jemison I brought some
toys home yesterday and left them with Mr. Watts.”

Wilson stared at Bella’s hardened face,
looking back and forth between her mistress and the duke, doing her
best to silently point out the impropriety while still making
calf’s eyes at him. Bella insisted, “You may go, Wilson.” As the
maid reached the doorway, Bella added, “Please leave the door
open.” Bella resolved to have a firm discussion with Mrs. Jemison
about the possibility of the servants gossiping with anyone else,
especially Charlotte.

“Yes, Your Ladyship.” Wilson left the door
open no more than a crack, and Bella wondered, not for the first
time, whether her servants were under orders from Charlotte to
encourage potential suitors.

Wellbridge leaned forward as soon as they
were alone, taking up her hand, absently massaging her fingers. “I
wondered how long it would take you to send her away.”

She pulled her hand away half-reluctantly.
“You presume too much. I have not yet engaged the full complement
of servants, so everyone is taking on extra duties. I’m afraid it
is quite beneath Wilson’s dignity to sweep and dust, but my
cousin’s children mustn’t be placed in danger so my maid can
maintain her standing in the servant’s hall.” She turned her
shoulder toward him in her chair.

Wellbridge looked around the room, “I have
never been entertained by a lady in her husband’s study. I am
reminded of Lord Huntleigh at every turn.”

From the confines of the plaster frieze-work
hearth, the firelight flickered against the precious metal inlay on
the teak Bible stand she’d had made in Barcelona for Myron’s
sixty-fifth birthday, almost two years ago. Stuttering oil lamps
and the newest gas wall sconces kept the room bright enough for
Myron’s weakening eyesight, even late into the evening when he was
restless with planning and endless note-taking. The overflowing
candle box and blanket thrown across the chaise just reminded Bella
her husband was now maintaining a separate bedroom to keep from
disturbing her, for the first time in their married lives.

She shook away her concerns for her marriage,
well aware having Wellbridge here might do far more damage than
separate bedrooms. Suddenly, she wished they were anywhere else but
Myron’s inner sanctum. “I’m afraid there are preparations to be
made in the drawing room for my cousin’s visit.”

“Surely your butler told me a decorator would
be coming to take measurements for new wallpaper and drapes?” He
was laughing at her behind his twinkling eyes. “But no matter. This
is quite comfortable, though neither the study nor the drawing room
is where I would prefer to be entertained.”

“I have no idea to which room you refer,
Sir.” She set her lips firmly against his innuendo, wishing she
could turn off the embarrassment like the lamp on the side table.
She turned up the wick and the smell of kerosene made itself known
above the apple wood smoke from the fireplace.

“No?” He stretched out his legs again and sat
back, his hands behind his head. “If that were true, my dear Bella,
you would not be blushing like a virginal girl. And I have to
admit, my sweet, I am insatiably curious whether you have decided
where you would like me to touch you next.”

Her mouth opened and closed, too shocked to
respond; his use of her Christian name was the least of his
offenses. His smile showed teeth, like a hungry dog on the prowl,
and Bella suddenly felt like raw meat. Before she could gather her
indignation and throw him out of her house, he sat up, wiped his
face clean of everything improper, and said, “Excellent. My
sandwiches. You must be Mrs. Jemison.”

The housekeeper set down the tray, which held
a plate stacked with a veritable mountain of bread, and another
with a vast array of sweets, including a slice of the cake Mrs.
Elliott had refused to serve Bella at nuncheon, saying it was being
saved for after dinner. Mrs. Jemison bobbed a curtsey at
Wellbridge, thankfully without undressing him with her eyes. “Yes,
Your Grace, Nellie Jemison, at your service. I am happy to provide
anything else you might require.”

Now sensitive to the undercurrents among her
servants, she said, “Thank you Mrs. Jemison. I’m certain the duke
has everything he requires.”

Mrs. Jemison asked Bella, almost as an
afterthought, “Will that be all, Your Ladyship?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Indeed. Thank you,” Wellbridge added, “This
looks delightful. I will be as fat as a tick when I leave.” He
spread a cloth napkin across his lap and took up a plate, so
focused on the food that he ignored the protocol of waiting for his
hostess to offer. Mrs. Jemison’s brow furrowed and she pursed her
lips, but he ignored her censure, too.

“Thank you, Mrs. Jemison,” Bella repeated.
“The duke seems quite capable of serving himself.” He looked up
briefly, only slightly abashed, but when Bella gestured that he
might continue, he turned his attention back to the sandwiches, all
much larger than typically served in the afternoon. He picked out
three, all cold meat rather than shrimp paste or
cucumber-and-watercress or egg salad. Mrs. Elliott must have
started preparing the tray as soon as he walked in, to offer such a
selection. One of the benefits of being a duke, she supposed: the
whole world contorting itself to anticipate your desires.

She was relieved the housekeeper left the
door wide open without being asked, effectively thwarting the most
ignoble of his desires. At least one of her servants had a modicum
of common sense.

“Are you certain you wouldn’t prefer tea to
whiskey with your repast?”

He swallowed the food in his mouth, then
agreed, “That would be delightful, Bella. Thank you. Strong please,
two lumps, no milk.”

Bella emptied the dregs into the slop bowl,
rinsed the teapot, then measured out leaves from the tea caddy and
tipped the samovar to fill the pot with fresh water. While she
waited for it to steep, she said, “I hope you enjoy Ceylon. I know
it isn’t preferred by most Englishmen, but I have this strain grown
specially on my husband’s plantation.”

He was almost finished with the first three
sandwiches, but just before he took the last bite, he said, “I’m
afraid my trip to India was cut short by rioting, so I only spent
time in Maharashta. I had planned a much longer sojourn, but
instead, a year and a half in Russia. I was in India long enough to
develop a taste for Ceylon, though. Much more flavorsome than
Assam, do you not agree?” He popped the end of the sandwich into
his mouth.

“Indeed,” she answered, watching his strong
jaw working through the crusty bread and thick slice of beef. She
was amazed that he could eat so much so quickly without sacrificing
too many of his manners. Not that his manners were immaculate.

“You can be sure you have never had this
variety. It is a hybrid only grown for me.” When he was finished
with the beef, his hand floated briefly above the platter to seek
out more food; he passed up cucumber on Irish brown bread for some
sort of fish paste on Mrs. Elliott’s fine-grained wheat.

As she poured tea for him, adding sugar and
handing him cup, saucer, and spoon, she asked, “Where else have you
travelled, Sir?”

He set down his plate and took the cup,
responding, “Almost two years in the Orient and three in Africa.
The South Sea Islands were lovely, at least in the wilds, though I
found the penal colonies appalling. I stayed a little more than a
year, traipsing about the wilderness. Only a few months in North
America, I’m afraid, as no one there much likes Englishmen, but
South America was quite my favorite continent. I even learned some
Spanish, though it isn’t the thing to say so at home.”

“No, intelligence isn’t fashionable at all in
England,” she remarked, maintaining a deadpan expression.

“A sad state of affairs, that,” he said,
winking at her. “I stayed in the jungles far longer than I had
planned, but by then, my brother’s health was deteriorating, so I
had to return home. I admit, I considered disappearing on shipboard
and never returning—just another adventurer lost at sea.”

She laughed, for the first time not
self-consciously, “I planned exactly that course. If Myron—Lord
Huntleigh—hadn’t forced me to it, I would never have set foot in
the civilized world again.”

“Where would you have stayed, given the
choice?”

She thought back over fifteen years of
travel, having only rarely stopped anywhere for more than a few
months. “My preference would be Edo, although I never would have
been able to learn the language.”

“I agree. Oriental languages were quite
impossible, as was finding an interpreter who would take payment
from a foreign devil. Without my index fingers and a pocketful of
ready coin, I would have starved to death. I still don’t know half
of what I ate.”

She nodded her agreement. “It was simpler for
me, as Lord Huntleigh almost always had associates expecting us who
spoke one of the Romance languages.” She had often wished they
hadn’t. The places where they knew no one had offered much more
scope for adventure, and more often challenged her assumptions. “We
both know French, Spanish, and Latin; he speaks more Russian and
German; I have more Greek.”

He watched her ruminating. “Are you unhappy
you returned?”

She considered his question before she
answered, slowly and with deliberation. “Not unhappy, exactly, but
I have never really felt at home in England.” When his brows rose
in query, she continued, “I don’t fit in at all with the
beau
monde
. My life is much simpler when I don’t have to follow
someone else’s conventions. And it is much easier to play the
baroness—now countess, I suppose—among people who don’t forever
question the circumstances of my elevation.”

He smiled conspiratorially. “I know a
confidence when I hear one, Bella, and am honored by your candor.
But surely, as the wife of a successful businessman, you were
subject to every manner of convention in your travels? There is
nothing like the petty provincial for enforcing proper
behavior.”

She grinned at him, finally enjoying herself.
“Of course, but in other parts of the world, my eccentricities were
most often excused, as I was a baroness unaware of local customs,
who couldn’t be expected to entirely conform. And I had at least as
much money as anyone else, more than most.”

He threw back his head and laughed raucously.
“You are a marvel, Bella. An absolute treasure.” He took up her
hand again and kissed her fingertips. When she didn’t pull away, he
turned her hand over and stroked her palm and wrist as he
continued, never taking his eyes away from her face. She found
herself unable to look away, and any embarrassment fled in the face
of devastating desire.

He kissed her palm, then folded her fingers
over his. Before she could react to the fact that she was now
actively holding his hand, which would destroy any reputation she
might have left and assuredly destroy her marriage, she heard tiny
footfalls running down the hall, stopping briefly at every empty
room.

“Auntie Bella? Auntie Bella!”

She yanked herself away and stood so fast she
nearly upset the tea cart, crossing the room to put at least
fifteen feet between them. He also stood, straightened his coat,
and managed to look entirely unaffected when Jewel came flying
through the door and jumped onto Bella with all four limbs
outstretched. Since Auntie Bella and Uncle Myron had brought gifts
from every place they had stopped since the little girl’s birth,
she had displaced Alexander’s doting sister as the favored aunt
within an hour.

Bella grasped the six year old tightly around
the waist and twirled her about, provoking exceptionally loud
squealing and laughter. Once the little girl was settled against
her hip, Bella exclaimed, “My goodness, sweeting, you must have
frightened poor Mr. Watts to death running through the house like
that! You must do what he tells you when you visit, and I’m certain
he didn’t give you leave to whoop like a wild Indian.”

“Yeth, Auntie Bella. Good afternoon, Yer
Grathe.” Jewel intoned, in the same ‘humor-the-adults’ voice
Charlotte had used when she was young. Wellbridge bowed, but didn’t
have time to say anything.

The butler followed Jewel with Charlotte, who
was trying to catch up to her daughter, but weighed down with
two-year-old Alex in her arms. Charlotte started, “I’m sorry we’re
early, Bella. The children drove the painter to distraction, so we
cut the sitting—” She stopped short when she saw Wellbridge.

“Duke,” she said once she gathered herself.
“Please forgive me if I don’t greet you properly; I am rather
overwhelmed.”

“Don’t be silly. Can I be of some
assistance?” He reached out to take the baby from her, but she
shook her head.

“No, thank you, Sir. You are very kind, but
my help will be along once the nursery is in order, and then I will
be able to gather my manners again.” The nursemaid appeared as if
summoned and took Alex from his mother. Mr. Watts had taken
possession of a large bag of whatever it was nannies needed to
travel anywhere with their charges.