Royal Regard (36 page)

His head shot up like Punch yanked by Judy.
Oh, dearest Lord in Heaven, his sister was right.

“Well, of course you can’t stand Malbourne
touching her, Nicky. You’re in love with her. It’s plain as day,”
she had expounded at her unbearable
musicale
. “And long past
time, brother dear.”

“I simply hold her in high esteem,” he had
replied stiffly. “I should not like to see her demeaned by his
advances.”

“Demeaned, is it?” Allie had asked archly.
“So, you are concerned only for her reputation?”

“And her… her…
person
. He is a
reprobate.”

“Well, yes, of course, everyone knows that,
but his morality is beside the point. Yours, however, is entirely
in question. Not only because you are also a reprobate, but more
importantly, you tell colossal lies to your own sister.”

Not a woman on Earth dragged growling and
snarls from him as well as Lady Allison Nockham.

“I have said not one false word. You are
preposterous, and I’ll not discuss it any further.”

By the Gods, Allie was going to be
insufferable.

Jerking his hand at a knock on the door, Nick
nearly spilled his coffee when Blakeley entered.

“Your Grace,” Blakeley’s voice was tight, and
his lips drawn, “Lady Huntleigh to see you.”

The coffee sloshed over his cuff after all.
“Alone?”

“Yes, Sir.” Blakeley’s opinion of this
impropriety was evident on his stony face, and Nick agreed
entirely. The past three days, her presence had become more
unnerving by the hour.

When Huntleigh had declared the night before
he would dine alone with his wife, the pronouncement grave as an
epitaph, Nick had been relieved the secret was out without Nick
having to
entirely
break his promise to Bella. He wasn’t,
however, particularly optimistic about her seeing the fine
distinctions.

“Your Grace, Lady Huntleigh? If you’d like, I
can tell her you are not receiving.”

Nick thought very seriously about doing just
that, but it would be nothing more than cowardice. She was driving
him mad, but was a lady and deserved some level of deference.

“No, Blakeley. Please show her into the
drawing room, and I will be there directly.”

“She is in the library, Your Grace, as you
have indicated such a preference for personal meetings, though I
can move her should you choose.”

“No. No, the library is fine.” Perhaps she
could be distracted by discussion of some novel or another. Or
perhaps he could.

He put on his new, bottle-green superfine
jacket, pleased he had worn it this morning, even with no
expectation of Bella’s visit. Though the tailor said it set off his
eyes to perfection, it made him peevish to set such store by the
depiction; he had never before been vain.

Since he had met Lady Huntleigh, however, the
obsequious little man could sell him anything by describing how it
set off his powerful shoulders, or eyes green as jade, or tresses
of gold. No, that wasn’t quite true. When the man said ‘tresses,’
Nick had thrown him out.

He adjusted the yellow waistcoat that matched
his tresses, then tugged his sleeves over the tiny white lawn
ruffles that stiffened his cuffs. Looking into the gilt-framed
mirror above the fireplace, he re-tied his queue with a green silk
riband, then straightened the Mathematical knot Blakeley could
achieve with a cravat in mere minutes, but Nick couldn’t if he tied
knots around his neck until he choked to death.

“Your Grace?” Blakeley prompted him politely.
“Would you like me to have tea sent to the library whilst you
prepare yourself?”

Nick tugged at his lapels. “No, Blakeley, I’m
ready now. And no tea. I can’t imagine she will want to stay that
long.”

He could barely make himself turn from the
mirror, but remembered something he had meant to address at least a
week ago. Anything to keep from stepping out of his study.

“I have been meaning to tell you. The Viceroy
will visit London soon, and most likely, I will entertain him here,
for the first time as Wellbridge. If true to form, he will be most
pleased with a generous kitchen, a discerning selection of
schnapps, and a respite from people trying to make an
impression.”

“I remember His Excellency’s tastes quite
well. Dalrymple House shall provide immaculate respite.”

Blakeley rubbed his hands together, clearly
anticipating the chance to entertain his royal former employer.
Nick could hardly fault him. Acting as butler at Dalrymple House
and factotum to Nick Northope required not nearly the level of
ceremony and grandeur as serving princes.

“If anyone can ensure that, Blakeley, it is
you. I merely wished to mention that if Cook has not added the new
staff we discussed, she will want to do so at the earliest
opportunity. It will not do to be caught shorthanded when the
king’s younger brother comes to call.”

“It will please you to know, Your Grace, Mrs.
Blanchard has already hired a new kitchen maid and scullery maid,
both experienced with good references. Both will be paid far more
than they are worth, per your usual requirements.” Nick wasn’t sure
how Blakeley’s nose could stretch so high with his neck so stiff.
“You have no need to concern yourself with the particulars of the
kitchen staff.”

He clapped the butler on the shoulder in an
entirely too-familiar way, taking recompense for the implication he
was too free with his own household budget, much of which paid
Blakeley an exorbitant wage. “Quite right. I’ve proven uncivilized
again, haven’t I?”

Blakeley’s posture loosened just slightly as
he inclined his head. “This is your home, Your Grace. Should you
wish to be uncivilized, your staff will muddle through. I do hope,
however, you will allow me to shield them from your more radical
sentiments. Purely to maintain order, you understand.”

“Of course,” Nick laughed ironically. “They
mustn’t get ideas above their stations before the Viceroy’s
visit.”

“Nor after, Your Grace. Will you see Lady
Huntleigh now, Sir?”

“Lead on.”

He followed the butler down the hall to the
library, where she was waiting quietly in a corner, almost hiding
behind a red-gold pelisse that made the flame in her hair glint in
the light of the honey-scented beeswax candles. She had removed the
coat, holding it like a shield, arms crossed, shoulders hunched in
the position she took up on occasions when she wished to become
wallpaper.

Nick nearly drooled at the high-waisted,
décolleté, curvaceous dress he had never before seen: heavy
pomegranate satin under loose-weave gold muslin with gold tapestry
trim and long, sheer, gathered net sleeves, just a bit too low-cut,
a bit too formal, a bit too ephemeral for mid-afternoon. The dress
fell to her perfect ankle above her red satin slippers, the dancing
shoes hardly sturdy enough to walk on the street. Her reticule was
gold, trimmed with red ribbons. She looked like gold inlaid into
rubies set in gold.

He had told himself he wouldn’t put up with
her yelling again, but he might put up with anything if the reward
were removing this particular gown. Soon.

He gave himself a mental shake, recalling
seemingly endless anger directed at him for risking gaol, if not
hanging, in her defense. But even before Vauxhall, she had returned
seven bouquets of flowers and four books, including a rare signed
copy of Mary Tighe’s
Psyche
, not to mention enough of his
own poetry to fill another volume. She had danced with Malbourne
right in front of him, thirteen times on six different occasions,
all but giving Nick the cut direct.

Finally, she had asked the Frenchman to meet
her at Allie’s
musicale
without an invitation, willing to
defy every tenet of proper behavior if it meant thwarting him.
Worse, Nick had paid for the clear field at his sister’s party with
all sorts of promises to Allie that he still had to keep, even
though Bella had spent the whole time ignoring him to talk about
the opera singer in French.

If Bella had appeared in his foyer a
fortnight earlier, right after their first fight, he might have
begged her forgiveness. A sennight ago, he would have been annoyed
at her intransigence and therefore cold. Since Vauxhall, however,
as long as she put up with him acting like her shadow, she could
say or do almost anything she wanted, barring any threat to her own
safety. Today, the best he could do was present a detached
countenance and engage in the politest of discourse. At the
worst…

He didn’t want to think about the
worst
.

As soon as he saw her face, his detached
countenance flew out the window as though Blakeley had left it wide
open.

“Bella, what is it? Are you all right? You’re
pale.” He reached out to touch her, to make sure she wasn’t hurt,
but pulled back his hand when Blakeley hurried in behind him,
lighting more lamps and stirring up the fire.

“Enough, Blakeley. Leave us, please.”

Nick remained standing, not wanting to be too
comfortable, in case Bella were only here to scream at him and he
had to find it within himself to send her away. He motioned her to
a loveseat, and she started by answering his earlier question,
“There is no need for concern, sir. No one has been harmed.”

He stepped back, leaning his hand on the red
flocked wallpaper to keep himself standing. Concern for her safety
abated, he was left with no bones at all.

Her face crumpled. “Except you.”

“What do you mean, Lady Huntleigh? I am
entirely well.” He couldn’t help adding, “Setting aside the bruised
knuckles and sullied reputation, of course.”

“I have been a perfect beast to you, and for
no good reason but my pride.” She started weeping softly, placing
her face in her hands. “I never meant… I mean, Myron explained once
I… I had no idea… You never deserved…” Her observations were
muffled behind her hands.

He couldn’t just stand there and do nothing
while she cried. He could send her away angry, but not leave her in
tears. He sat down on the red velvet sofa next to her, the
upholstery just a shade darker than her dress. She was nearly a
perfect match for this room, the only time he had ever seen a
wallflower camouflage herself in scarlet.

Rarely had Nick comforted a woman when she
cried; he had never had a relationship that called for such
intimacy. The last time was his fourteen-year-old sister when he
had announced he was leaving to travel.

He reached out a hesitant hand to pat her on
the shoulder. When he lied, “I am wholly sound. You’ve done nothing
to cause me lasting damage,” she launched herself into his arms,
tears now flowing like a waterspout, likely ruining his new coat.
It was a small price to pay to finally have her in his arms, even
if she were a little soggy. And even if he were still annoyed.

He wasn’t sure what to do, but one hand
automatically reached to stroke Bella’s hair, the scent of lavender
and lilacs drifting through his fingertips, and his other arm
pulled her tightly to his chest, nearly dragging her onto his lap.
Both her hands gripped the lapels of his coat, her cheek pressed
tight against his crushed cravat.

He found himself murmuring utter nonsense:
“No harm has been done, my sweet. In a day or two, it will all be
forgotten. I am not at all hurt, dearest …”

Eventually, to Nick’s enormous relief,
Bella’s tears slowed, then stopped. Without moving from his arms or
peering up at him, she ran her hand down the front of his
jacket.

“I’ve ruined your coat.”

“I’m sure Blakeley has some magic to bring it
back up to snuff, good as new.”

She sniffled, so he reached for his
handkerchief and held it to her nose, in imitation of his nurse
when he was a small boy. “Blow.”

She sat up and took the handkerchief, dabbing
it delicately on her upper lip. “Asking a lady to blow her nose in
the company of a gentleman. I’ve never heard of such a thing. You
are not very good at this.” She giggled slightly, and all he could
do was agree with her.

“Miserably bad. No idea what to do at all.”
He cleared his throat, “Are you done then?” He added weakly,
“Please say you are done crying.”

She laughed more forcefully. “I am finished
for the moment. You poor man, alone in a room with a watering
pot.”

He sighed in relief. “I’m so sorry I made you
cry, Bell—Lady Huntleigh.” He had no right to any informality,
considering, and it seemed the right thing to apologize like a
gentleman until he erased any chance of the tears beginning again.
“I never meant to hurt you, swee—I never meant to hurt you.”

“You may call me Bella when we are alone.”
She said, more quietly, “I like it when you call me Bella. For the
first time in my life, my name does not feel steeped in irony.”

He smiled inside, but then couldn’t stop the
schoolboy grin. She was forgiving him, had forgiven him, and he
hadn’t even had to ask. “Bella, Bella, Bella. My most beautiful
Bella. And you have yet to call me Nick, in all this time.”

She blushed and looked at her hands. “I’m
afraid if I say it aloud, I am liable to do so in company. You may
think my marriage a mockery, but—”

“I think nothing of the sort. You may call me
anything you like for the rest of our lives…” His voice lowered,
and he couldn’t keep out the bit of rasp that came from swallowing
what might be the first tears he had felt in decades. “As long as
you never again stop speaking to me.”

She gently laid her head on his shoulder, her
small hands reaching around his waist, “Oh, I vow I never will.
Never have I been so foolish.”

He circled her with his arms, pulled her as
close as he could, kissed the top of her head, and asked, “Now,
would you like to tell me why you’ve come?” She snuggled her head
in closer to his chest but made no reply. “Not that I mind, of
course. Surely someone has told you by now I’ve done nothing but
pine for you since you declined my proposal.”