Scandal of the Year (23 page)

How ludicrous. James was a footman, not a real prince. In truth, she should rejoice if he managed to trick Lady Davina into falling in love with him. That would be the perfect revenge for all of her nasty tricks.

Davina beckoned to someone in the milling guests. A moment later, her friend, Lady Anne, scurried forward to take the coveted spot beside the duke. Davina then strolled out of the drawing room.

So she was going to meet Prince Nicolai without a chaperone. And apparently, she believed her father was safe in the care of Lady Anne.

Blythe pursed her lips. While Mr. Mainwaring launched into a detailed description of the hunting horses in his father’s stable, she steered him toward the fireplace. When he paused for breath, she interjected, “I’ve just remembered something very important. Lady Anne mentioned that she was very much looking forward to dancing with you. I hope you will not disappoint her.”

Astonishment painted his freckled features. “Lady Anne? But her father is a marquess. I cannot imagine why she would ever notice
me
.”

“On the contrary, I believe she harbors a secret admiration for you.”

It was merely a small fib, Blythe assured herself. For all she knew, the two of them might be well suited in truth, and she could be doing them a favor.

They had reached the group by the fireplace. Blythe curtsied first to the duke, who sat with one foot propped on a stool, and then to the Marchioness of Wargrave, before turning her gaze to Lady Anne.

“Pray pardon my interruption. Lady Anne, Mr. Mainwaring would be most obliged if you’d have a word with him.”

The plain-faced girl looked wary; no doubt she’d been warned not to budge from the duke’s side. “But Davy said…”

Blythe leaned close and whispered, “He’s too shy to admit it, but he adores you. He’ll be heartbroken if you refuse.”

Lady Anne was vain enough to look pleased at the notion of the gentleman’s unrequited love for her. She hopped up from the chaise and went off with Mr. Mainwaring, who still looked somewhat befuddled by the switch in partners.

As Blythe sat down beside the duke, old Lady Wargrave held up a gold lorgnette, which magnified her blue eyes with their crow’s-feet wrinkles. “You’re Edith’s youngest. You look more like your mother than your sisters.”

“So I’ve been told, my lady.”

“You have her cleverness, too. Look at how you sent off that girl and took her place beside the most eligible peer of the season.”

Blythe fought the rise of a blush. That last thing she needed was to be characterized as mercenary.

She affected a genteel laugh. “Rather, I’ve scarcely had a chance to speak to either of you. And I
did
promise my sister that I would help her out as hostess.” Blythe turned a contrite smile on the duke, whose tailored blue coat and ruddy features lent him an air of aristocratic splendor. “I hope
you
don’t think ill of me, Your Grace. I never meant to cut short your chat with Lady Anne.”

He lifted his hand in a desultory, dismissing gesture. “Never mind, the girl natters too much about gowns and hairstyles.”

“And would you prefer to speak of hounds and horses, then?” she teased. “After listening to Mr. Mainwaring, I feel ready to compare your stable with that of his father.”

In lieu of a reply, the duke turned his attention to Lady Wargrave. “We’ve traded a few horse stories this evening, haven’t we?” he said. “I especially liked the one where my daughter beat your grandson in that race. Tally-ho and away we go!”

He slapped his hand on his knee, and they both laughed merrily. Having no notion of the joke, Blythe could only maintain a polite smile.

Lady Wargrave squinted again through the lorgnette. “You must forgive us, Miss Crompton, for we’ve been reminiscing about old neighbors in Hertfordshire. Davy had some very amusing stories to share with us.”

Blythe couldn’t imagine Lady Davina possessing any sense of humor at all. Or maybe she just reserved it for bluebloods.

A picture flashed into Blythe’s mind of Lady Davina and James trading witticisms outside in the garden. He greatly enjoyed such banter. Perhaps they would get along exceptionally well.…

“She promised to tell us a jolly good one about the Huffingtons when she returns.” The duke craned his neck to peer past the throngs of guests. “I can’t imagine what’s taking the girl so long. She left to have a word with an acquaintance, but I don’t see her at all.”

Because she’d gone to meet Prince Nicolai.

Blythe glanced anxiously at the doorway. Was Lady Davina at this very moment coming face to face with James in the moonlight? Would he kiss her hand and tell her she was the most ravishing woman in the world? Would he relate to her the enthralling legend of the gold thrones of Ambrosia?

Would she be so fascinated by Prince Nicolai that she would abandon all decorum and invite his kiss?

Realizing that she was clutching at the folds of her skirt, Blythe forced herself to relax. She must
not
think of James, nor should she wonder what was going on out in the garden. The entire point of the masquerade was for her to have this opportunity to attract the duke.

Unfortunately, His Grace was paying little heed to her. He and the marchioness were discussing the ramifications of a long-ago breach of manners perpetrated by someone Blythe didn’t know. She was forced to sit quietly and look interested. To change the topic of conversation would have been insufferably rude.

In all of her preparations for this moment, she had fancied herself having the duke’s full attention. She had worked out various scenarios in her mind and listed dozens of subjects that would spark a lively conversation. She’d planned to tease him about the guinea he’d won from her at the card party, to ask him which other games he enjoyed, and to inquire if he collected anything, since men so loved to talk about their own pursuits.

She had prepared for every contingency but this one.

Lady Wargrave presented a serious obstacle. Blythe could hardly order the venerable old woman to leave them alone. Mama might be enlisted for help, but she was nowhere in sight. Portia and Lindsey were still dancing with their husbands at the other end of the long chamber.

Blythe had to devise an excuse to lure Savoy away.

When Lady Wargrave began gossiping about a dance at which several young ladies had became drunk on the spiked punch, Blythe seized the opportunity. “Speaking of dancing,” she said, aiming a warm smile at the duke, “I haven’t yet seen you step out this evening, Your Grace. We ladies will very disappointed if you remain seated here.”

He raised a quizzical eyebrow at her. “Would that I could, but regrettably, I’ve suffered a minor attack of the gout,” he said, indicating the foot he had propped on the stool.

Aghast at her folly, Blythe hastened to apologize. “I’m very sorry, I didn’t realize. Is there something I can provide for your comfort? A pillow, perhaps?”

He patted her arm in a fatherly fashion. “That’s very kind of you, Miss Crompton. A small pillow would be most appreciated.”

“I’ll ask one of the servants to fetch it at once.”

Blythe rose from the chaise. Maybe there would be time for her to take a quick detour to the back of the house. She did so wish to see for herself how the tryst was proceeding. It would only require a few minutes to peek out into the garden and ease her nagging curiosity.…

She had advanced no more than three steps when a wave of murmurs swept through the party. The buzz of excitement gathered force and penetrated her reverie. Many of the guests were turning to gaze toward the arched doorway.

Curious, she lifted herself on tiptoes to see what had caught their attention. Even the music had ceased. Had something happened? Perhaps someone had fallen ill. Or maybe her sister Lindsey had scheduled an entertainment that she’d failed to mention to Blythe.

But her view was blocked by a barricade of gentlemen and ladies. Not for the first time, Blythe lamented the whim of nature that had made her shorter than her sisters.

As if someone had waved a magic wand, the crowd began to part in order to open a path to the doorway. Blythe caught a glimpse of Lady Davina’s blonde hair with the dainty tiara.

Not twenty minutes had passed since the girl had left. Why had she returned so soon?

The reason quickly became apparent. Davina held proudly to the arm of the man walking at her side.

Prince Nicolai.

A knell of alarm rocked Blythe. This could not be happening. She must be dreaming. Horror-struck, she stared at his tall figure, at the gleam of candlelight on his black hair and the medals decorating his crimson sash.

People were whispering the prince’s name as the news of his arrival spread like wildfire. Ladies sank into deep curtsies as he passed. He nodded to them right and left, his cool expression reflecting a faint scorn of their adulation.

Blythe lifted a gloved hand to her mouth. Dear God, why had James come into the party? She’d expressly warned him not to do so!

Had Davina discovered his true identity? Maybe she had found out Prince Nicolai was really a footman in disguise. Maybe she intended to humiliate Blythe by exposing the hoax in front of all these people.

Her cherished plan of marrying the duke would be shattered.

Like a king and his queen, the couple walked straight toward her. A miasma of dread held Blythe immobile. The calamity was unfolding before her eyes and she could not think of how to avert it.

To her surprise and relief, however, the pair walked right past her. The haughty gaze of Prince Nicolai brushed over Blythe as if she were one of the fawning sycophants he’d earlier professed to abhor.

They stopped in front of the Duke of Savoy. The crowd fell silent as if commanded by an invisible stage director. Only the ticking of the casement clock and the rustle of clothing disturbed the quiet.

“Prince Nicolai,” Lady Davina said in a ringing tone, “I would like you to meet my father, His Grace the Duke of Savoy. Papa, this is Nicolai Aleksander Leonide Pashenka, Crown Prince of Ambrosia.”

A collective
ooh
rippled through the drawing room.

Using the arm of the chaise for support, Savoy levered himself to his feet and respectfully inclined his head to James. “It is indeed an honor to meet you, Your Highness.”

Covering her mouth, Blythe subdued the mad urge to laugh. If only the duke knew he was bowing to a
footman
.

The Marchioness of Wargrave had arisen to dip a creaky curtsy. As Lady Davina made the introductions, she kept her back to Blythe, deliberately barring her from joining the small circle of aristocrats.

For once, Blythe welcomed being excluded. Trapped in this nightmare, she needed a moment to collect her thoughts and to figure out how to remove James from the party before he committed a serious gaffe.

He didn’t know all the rules of society. There were so many mistakes to be made. Besides, people were bound to ask him about the fictitious country of Ambrosia.…

To her chagrin, he pivoted toward her. His admiring gaze skimmed over her face and gown. “Ah, who have we here?” he said with that beguiling hint of an accent.

Blythe found herself the focus of everyone’s attention. The noble guests were agog at the novelty of having a foreign prince in their midst. They believed his status outranked everyone in the room, an illusion corroborated by his royal demeanor.

But they didn’t know James as she did. Although his expression had the proud arrogance of a man born to rule, she noted the distinct gleam of deviltry in his dark eyes.

And despite the dire circumstances, her heart responded with a wild lurch of attraction.

Her shock at seeing him enter the drawing room crystallized into anger. James was enjoying himself. This masquerade meant nothing more to him than a parlor game. Yet one slip of his tongue could cause the ruination of her. Blast him for disobeying her edict!

Aware of all the watching eyes, she forced herself to dip a curtsy. To neglect the required obeisance would only raise suspicion. “Pardon me, Your Highness. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “Your apology wounds me. So lovely a lady could never be an intrusion.”

Chapter 21

James watched as a faint flush tinted Blythe’s cheeks. He hoped it proved that she was not immune to his allure. She had to be livid at the way he’d seized control of her scheme. The subtle signs of her displeasure showed in the set of her mouth and the spark in those expressive hazel eyes.

He couldn’t blame her for taking offense. But she’d be even more outraged if she knew his true purpose. Fictitious or not, Prince Nicolai stood a far better chance of winning Blythe’s love than did a footman. At least it enabled James to fully participate in her rarified world.

He held on to her fingers when she would have pulled free. “May I know your name, my lady?”

Their gazes clashed. Her lips formed a taut line, though when she spoke, her modulated tone hid her emotions. “Miss Blythe Crompton.”

Lady Davina aimed a look of pure venom at Blythe. Leaning closer, she murmured, “Come, Your Highness. She’s no one of consequence.”

Blythe merely raised a cool eyebrow. But the insult infuriated James. Davina had been irritating him from the moment she’d come out to the garden, all syrupy sweetness and toadying possessiveness.

As Prince Nicolai, he had the means to punish her rudeness.

“Miss Crompton certainly
is
of consequence to me.” Knowing he dared not be too blatant in singling out Blythe, he aimed an engaging smile at the multitude of guests. “As are all the ladies here. I must commend you Englishmen, for truly you have the most beautiful women I have ever encountered in my travels around the globe.”

Excited murmurs came from the ladies. A number of gentlemen called out huzzahs of agreement, and a smattering of applause echoed through the room.

Lady Davina’s smile had become brittle. The rebuke had served its purpose.

Unfortunately, Blythe didn’t appear to appreciate his effort on her behalf. She covertly watched the guests as if expecting someone to denounce him as a fraud. Or maybe she was just looking for her sisters, who were wending their way through the crowd from the direction of the dance floor, their husbands lagging behind.