Royal Regard (19 page)

Half an hour and half a dozen fantasies
later, he found her. The weeping willows were thick next to a pond
Nick had never seen, cooling the summer heat, screening her from
the walking path, her dress disguised in the color of the bluebells
surrounding the bench and pergola where she sat.

He left the graveled trail for the grass, to
quiet his approach behind the climbing ivy, and by the time he
reached her, his mind had already taken her in every position he
had ever tried and some he hadn’t.

He leaned over her shoulder and whispered
into her ear, “Had I known I was searching for such an exotic
bloom, I might have found you sooner.”

She yelped and turned at the first syllable,
scooting over to keep him in sight. He decided to take it as an
invitation and slid onto the bench next to her, careful not to
overset the large, shallow basket at her feet, lined with only a
few collected blossoms. She must not have been in the gardens
long.

“My dearest Lady Huntleigh, you look so
exquisite among the flowers, you fairly take my breath.”

“Duke,” she said, nodding curtly, “I see you
have found a new place to disturb my solitude.”

He hated to admit he had been rather haunting
her, seeking her company frequently enough to be noticed. Talk was
beginning to make its way through the
ton
, but he still
couldn’t manage to stay away. At least he had arranged reason to
speak to her husband frequently, so there would be early warning of
any trouble on that front. Gossip was only gossip, after all.

She turned her entire body away from him,
fiddling with a few wildflowers she must have picked as she walked,
holding them to enjoy their scent, rather than losing the perfume
among those in her basket.

“I can only hope to disturb your thoughts, my
lady.”

He leaned in closer, letting his breath
caress the back of her neck. The scents of lilacs and lavender
caressed his senses. “Perchance your dreams?”

She waved her hand at him. “Shakespearean
fustian? How novel.”

He took up her fluttering fingertips to kiss
them, which she allowed, but she did not turn to look. He was
burning to kiss her lips, but would rightly be slapped for his
effort, and worse, it would set back his suit.

“I hope I have not given you cause to doubt
my sincerity, my lady. Rogue I may be, but I do not carelessly
bestow my favor.”

She took back her hand. “
Bestow
, is
it? I suppose I should be grateful you grant me your
attentions?”

His arm rested easily across the back of the
bench, fingers a hand span from her shoulder. The closer his hand
inched toward her, the shallower her breathing became, offering
hope against her repeated repudiation.

Never in his life had a woman resisted him so
cleverly. Every time they spoke, he was forced to begin anew, and
each time she was more likely to offer a set-down. It was
ridiculous, given she had wanted him since their first meeting, and
thought somehow he didn’t know. Even now, her interest was evident
in the corners of her eyes.

“Shall I go?” he asked, distancing himself as
a gentleman should upon the refusal of a lady. When he sat forward,
preparing to leave, her hand involuntarily moved to stop him. She
caught and stared at her fingers, placing them back in her lap.

“No, Sir. No. I must beg your pardon. My
thoughts have turned maudlin this day, and I have unfairly taken
out my temper on you. Please stay, if you will.”

Shifting back into the role of suitor, he
offered, “I welcome the chance to share some time with you and hope
I may dispel your woes. Might I inquire?”

He sat back down, staying an arm’s length
away, and she slowly turned back toward him, catching her gown on a
splinter, unnoticed.

She looked at him out of the corner of her
eye, as though judging his truthfulness—and ogling his strong
shoulders. He unobtrusively squared them and her smile seemed to
see right through his vanity.

“It is nothing.”

When he tugged the loosely woven muslin away
from the sliver of wood, her flinch reminded him to keep his
movements slow and deliberate, touching only her dress.

“I hardly think nothing,” he said. “When you
have all but shredded the poor flowers you’ve gathered.”

The blossoms in her hand were now missing
petals and leaves, nervously peeled from their stems in an
unconscious game of “He-Loves-Me-He-Loves-Me-Not.” Hair slid from
her pins, falling around her face like the willow branches under
which they sat. He longed to smooth it away, tug just slightly
until her lips fell open, and—

“Only I miss the company of my husband. I am
accustomed to being nearer him in small lodgings or on shipboard. A
twenty-room house in Town and the halls of Westminster and the ear
of the king do nothing but divert his attention from what has, for
many years, been quite a close partnership.”

“In what way is he neglectful?”

She squirmed, so he stayed silent, trying
with all his might to keep his gaze from raking her body from head
to toe. He felt his eyes glaze over, imagining her wriggling on his
lap, but she must have seen something in his face, because she
tried to distract him. Or perhaps herself.

“We came today for luncheon and now that the
meal is finished, His Majesty must adjourn to another appointment,
and Lord Huntleigh must speak to the First Lord, and I must feel
free to amuse myself in the gardens until such time as someone
turns up to collect me. It is very like all of my husband’s
diplomatic posts. I had only hoped—”

She stopped, peeking at him again. He wanted
to believe she was flirting with her glances and the biting of her
lip, but chose not to assume it.

“You had hoped what, my lady?”

“No, I beg you forgive. I should not speak of
such matters with any gentleman but my husband. My expectations do
not signify.”

“I disagree, Lady Huntleigh. The expectations
of one’s wife matter very much. At least if a man hopes to see her
smile at table every morning.” He pulled his lips into a
half-smile, but her face froze at the falsity, and she looked away,
giving an inordinate amount of attention to a small flock of sedge
warblers.

She pointed them out in the trees, saying
quietly, “They have just come from Africa.” He caught the
wistfulness in her tone, but let her direct the conversation as she
would. If she preferred to discuss the travel plans of migratory
birds, he would be only too happy to participate.

Her gaze dropped to her hands, though, the
melancholy more profound now. “I had hoped we would remove to
Brairleigh House—Lord Huntleigh’s childhood home in Saltash—or the
new Huntleigh estate outside Bath. It would be much better for his
health and afford us more time together, but he wishes to leave his
mark in Parliament.”

Nick inched his hand a bit further along the
back of the bench.

“While I cannot gainsay his choice of
residence or occupation, perhaps I may help redirect his attention
to you? I am told I am well attuned to the concerns of a wife,
though I have never availed myself of the institution.”

She snorted in a most unladylike way. “Yes, I
have heard you are well attuned to wives, Sir, and I believe I can
guess how you plan to redirect Lord Huntleigh’s attention.”

He placed his hands over his heart in a
sardonic gesture, falling against the back of the bench as though
slain by an arrow. “You wound, my dear Lady Huntleigh! Would that I
might recover my honor in your eyes.”

She giggled and swatted at his arm with the
last vestiges of her posy. “You are the veriest nincompoop, Sir. I
believe you have very little honor where ladies are concerned, and
it is the secret of your success with the wives of the
ton
.
You are like a pirate in a book. Were you more principled, you
would hold no allure at all.”

He leaned in again, as though sharing a
secret. “I believe you are right, my lady, but I beg you not repeat
it, or my piratical appeal might be unduly tarnished.”

“Heaven forfend the ladies find out real
pirates are unwashed, ill-mannered, stupid, thieving boors, not
swashbuckling Corinthians with independent fortunes.”

As he stifled a guffaw, she looked down the
winding path. “Will you walk with me?” she asked, “I had planned to
see the roses but am not sure of the direction from this end of the
palace, and was distracted by the light on the water.”

He held out his arm, but she stayed a few
steps away, shaking her head as she picked up her basket.

“No, thank you, Sir,” she blushed, “I should
not like to earn my husband’s distrust.”

Gesturing to offer the walkway, he took up a
place beside her but slightly behind, so he might catch her arm if
she lost her footing, but not crowd her elbow or make her feel
overlooked if he forced her to follow.

“I can take you to the roses; I know the
gardens well.”

“I’m sure,” she said, her lips twitching.
“Most especially the trysting spots?”

“That is unfair, my lady,” he grinned, “I
have taken pleasure in these gardens since I was a boy.” She raised
her eyebrows at him, but he just maintained a look of innocence,
rocking back on his heels. “I have destroyed hundreds—thousands—of
blooms underfoot on these grounds, playing blind man’s bluff and
hide-and-seek with the royal children.”

“Ah, so that is how you came to know Prinny
so well.”

“To some degree. I was the playmate of his
younger siblings, but yes, I grew up in the halls of the House of
Hanover.”

As they walked and talked, he occasionally
reached down to pick a flower, holding them in his hand behind his
back. He didn’t hope to surprise her, as she watched him each time,
but he would wait to present the bouquet once they reached their
destination and he might supplement his offering with the king’s
spectacular roses. She much more rarely and furtively took up a
bloom for the basket she had been given by a footman at the king’s
direction and told to fill with flowers.

“My mother had hoped to marry me to the
Princess Sophia,” he explained, “but the young lady found me
repellent from a very young age.”

She stepped back, her mouth slightly open.
Rather than remark on his proximity to royalty, however, she said,
“Repellent? Quite a strong sentiment for a little girl. You must
have been wretched.”

“Ghastly,” he agreed cheerfully, eyes
twinkling. “It may have begun when her brother and I beheaded all
of the dolls at her tea party.” Bella questioning glance sought the
rest of the story. “Playing Henry the Eighth, you see, and since
Adolphus is the more direct descendant, I was relegated to
executioner.”

As they turned onto an avenue of ash trees,
she smiled up at him, more warmly than she ever had before, and
with a look he could assuredly identify as flirtatious. Until he
realized she was turning her face up to the afternoon sun, drinking
in the warmth after so much time under the canopy.

“You sound a horrid little boy. I am
surprised the king hasn’t long since thrown you in the Tower.”

“He might yet, he assures me daily. In any
case, Adolphus was sent to Hanover to school and became the
Viceroy, and I to Eton, then Cambridge, then around the world,
including a year in his viceregal court. When I returned to
England, Prinny was curious about my travels, but as a child, I was
well beneath his notice.”

“Beneath the notice of the Prince of Wales.
The privileged life of the ninth Duke of Wellbridge.”

“One of—” The moment Nick realized he was
nothing but a common braggart, he tried to stop himself, trailing
off in a mumble, “eight titles…” He tried to salvage his honorable
humility: “All earned by better men than I, you may be sure.” But
the die was cast.

“Eight titles? All right then, what are
they?” She mocked him, somehow sweetly: “Or do you have a family
retainer who does nothing but remember them all for you?”

He now had no choice but to see it through.
He cringed as he recited, “Duke of Wellbridge, Marquess of
Abersham, Marquis de Taillebois, Earl of Baxton, Conte di
Pietranego, Viscount Yoakefield, Baron Harbury, and Baron
Ostelbrooke.”

Her lips quivered. “Titles in three different
languages. Did you learn them like a nursery rhyme when you were in
dresses?” she goaded amiably.

“No, my lady, my brother did.” He performed
the list in an off-key singsong while she giggled at him. “David
was the marquess. I was only Lord Nicholas.”

“Oh, of course. Second son. And yet destined
for a Princess?”

“In all fairness, the fifth Princess.”

“Well, obviously,” she scoffed. “Your parents
wouldn’t have tried to marry you to the Princess Royal. That would
have been a ridiculous plan.”

He arched his brow, regaining his excess of
self-regard, “At the risk of immodesty, my lady, the alliance might
have been sealed had the queen not taken her daughter’s part
against me. Still, my mother’s ambition outstripped her intellect
or she never would have encouraged friendships with the royal
offspring at all. The regard of royalty is fickle, even at the age
of six.”

“I daresay especially at the age of six.”

He saw her face draw into itself as she
considered, but did not respond in the usual way to the size of his
influence and fortune—no broadening of her smile or fluttering of
her lashes or proprietary touch of his arm. No hand to her throat
considering the heft of the jewels he might place there.
Inexplicably, she looked almost sad.

“I’m not sure I envy you the royal regard. I
certainly never had reason to be afraid for my life over Huckle
Buckle Beanstalk.”

She stopped at a group of trees, remarking,
“Lychee fruit. I had no idea it was being cultivated here. I will
have to be sure to return for the harvest. Lord Huntleigh has a
particular fondness for lychee black tea.”