Some Enchanted Evening (11 page)

Millicent pleated her handkerchief. "I didn't mean for you to
inform
anyone."

"This isn't
anyone
. This is Robert and Princess Clarice. They don't mind" — Prudence swung from one to the other — "do you?"

"I find gossip endlessly fascinating and enlightening," Princess Clarice admitted. "However, repeating Lady Millicent's observation could hurt her socially. I don't think you'd like that, Prue."

Not noticeably chastened. Prudence said, "No! I wouldn't, and I won't repeat it again — but it's true. All the men think she's appalling, and none of them like her nose-in-the-air snobbery."

Robert lifted his brows. "So Her Highness can't make Mrs. Trumbull appealing to the gentlemen."

"With enough freely distributed liquor I could," Princess Clarice said crisply.

A gust of amusement caught Robert by surprise — and he laughed. Laughed out loud, a brief bark of irrepressible humor. He hadn't laughed since ... he didn't remember the last time. Before he left for the Peninsula, he supposed. Before savage deeds and betrayal had stripped him of gaiety. If he had thought about it, he would have said the instinct of mirth had died in him.

But although it pained him, like blood flowing to a frozen limb, Princess Clarice had resurrected the impulse.

Amazing. Impossible.

Terrifying.

His gaze narrowed on her. Damn her. She made his senses stir. All of his senses, and at a time when he required complete control over his mind and his heart.

She was dangerous. That was something to remember.

And she was necessary to his plan. Something else to remember. "But you can't change a woman's appearance to make her unrecognizable." He hoped the challenge would make her rise to the bait. "That's ridiculous."

A smile played around her lips, and she shrugged modestly. "I make a woman — or a man — look better than they have before, but that's nothing more than enhancing their superior traits."

Prudence wasn't interested in Princess Clarice's decorous response. She demanded, "But can you change a person to look like someone else?"

Cautiously Princess Clarice admitted, "Within reason, yes."

That was the answer Robert had hoped to hear.

"That's fascinating!" Prudence bubbled. "Can you make me look like Larissa Trumbull?"

Millicent wrinkled her nose. "Why would you want to?"

"Because she's the belle!" Prudence used an impatient, patronizing adolescent tone of voice that made Robert want to send her to her room.

Princess Clarice said, "Miss Trumbull is the belle only until the gentlemen learn that she's a younger version of her mother. And a younger wolverine is more likely to tear out your throat, Lady Prudence. Remember — a gentleman of sense likes a lady who smiles and puts him at ease, not one who cries at breakfast and demands constant tending."

Like the silly lass she was. Prudence tried to argue. "But —"

"I said a gentleman of
sense
."

Robert wondered if she deemed him a gentleman of sense.

She continued. "And, Lady Prudence, why would you want any other kind of gentleman?" Princess Clarice reconsidered her words. "Well, except to dance with. Men of sense always seem to be able to remember the most difficult intricacies of politics and not the simplest dance steps. But don't worry. Lady Prudence, you'll have all the attention from the gentlemen, sensible or not, that you could desire."

"I don't know," Prudence muttered, "I desire an awful lot."

Millicent chuckled again, a gay, lilting sound that made Robert realize how very solemn his house had been since his return. "I've been telling her so," Millicent confided, "but she doesn't listen to a mere sister."

As if reminded of a grievance, easy tears rose in Prudence's large blue eyes.

"Robert, a most dreadful situation has arisen. Millicent won't let me dampen my gown for the ball."

"Oh, no, young lady." Millicent shook her finger at her sister. "You're not dragging Robert into this."

Prudence ignored her and wheedled, "Please, dear brother, you'll give your permission, won't you? All the other girls are doing it."

Millicent took on a combative posture. "All the other girls are most certainly
not
doing it. Only the girls whose family don't love them enough to put a halt to their flightiness."

Prudence folded her arms across her chest. "That's not true. Bernice is dampening her gown."

"Bernice is a spoiled brat," Millicent said.

"What do you think, Your Highness?" Prudence demanded in a petulant voice. "Shouldn't I be allowed to dampen my gown?"

"It's your debut. Your night," Princess Clarice said warmly. "You should be allowed to do anything you like —"

Millicent's eyes grew big. Her mouth opened.

Robert placed a restraining hand on her shoulder.

"— no matter how damaging to your reputation," Princess Clarice concluded.

"Damaging?" Clearly Prudence had never expected to hear that from the smart, daring princess. "It wouldn't be damaging. It would be fashionable."

Princess Clarice gave the slightest shrug. "You wish to dampen your gown so that the material is transparent, isn't that right?"

"As the French do," Prudence said.

Princess Clarice retorted, "The French also cut off the heads of aristocratic young ladies and eat truffles that are dug up by pigs."

The genuine bitterness of her tone startled Robert, and even Millicent looked taken aback. "You're very harsh."

"Their revolution caught all of Europe on fire, and while they bow to the tyrant Napoleon, the rest of us who were caught up in the flames still live in exile, scrambling to make a living while we wait in vain to be called back to —" As Princess Clarice almost betrayed the name of her country, she caught a distraught breath.

Robert would have sworn she bit her tongue, and he rather admired her acting ability. More and more it appeared he had made an excellent choice.

Certainly Millicent and Prudence were wide-eyed at her virulence.

But when Princess Clarice lifted her gaze once more, her face was smooth and tranquil.

She had hidden depths and secret passions. He would be wise to remember that — he dared not have her lose the game for him in a temper.

She said, "But, Lady Prudence, we were talking about your gown. I have some silver braid in my chamber that is all the rage in London. If you would like, I can show you how to place it for the best advantage. With your dark hair and your blue gown, it would be most striking."

"All right." Prudence sounded subdued, and she watched Princess Clarice as if troubled by her explosion.

Millicent wrapped her arm through Prudence's, and coaxed, "My silk shawl is just the thing to finish the outfit. Shall we see how it matches?"

"Go on. Her Highness and I will discuss the ball without your able assistance, and let you know what we've decided." No one would ever know he had every intention of using the princess in a nefarious plan. So much depended on its success. If it did not, the man to whom Robert owed his life would suffer and probably hang, and Robert himself would slowly sink into the depths of hell.

But perhaps ... he was there already.

Coining out from behind his desk, he offered the princess his arm. "We shall walk where we can be seen and thus put an end to all rumors of a romance."

Lightly Princess Clarice placed her hand on his arm.

"I doubt that." Millicent's gaze lingered on them. "Not when you're the most eligible gentleman here."

"For the moment," he admitted. "The advent of other gentlemen will soon throw me in the shade."

"I doubt that also," Millicent said.

With a saucy grin Prudence declared, "Larissa declares you the Catch of the Season, and she brags she'll trap you."

Princess Clarice smirked.

Millicent yanked Prudence out the door and down the corridor. "Prue, you're such a tattletale!"

He didn't like being the brunt of the princess's amusement, nor did he relish being pursued like a trophy by Miss Larissa Trumbull. "I don't care about her," he said abruptly.

"I didn't imagine you did." For one moment Princess Clarice covered her smiling lips with her fingers. "Neither did I see you look away when she displayed her . . . er . . . wares."

"Her — ? Oh." Princess Clarice surprised him by her frankness. Most ladies would never refer to the ample display of bosom Miss Trumbull had exhibited to him. But then, most ladies weren't Princess Clarice. "Miss Trumbull has breasts like a cow."

Princess Clarice took a startled breath.

He had surprised her in return. Good. He wished to keep her off balance. "She made me think of the village." Leading Princess Clarice into the corridor, he went in the opposite direction of Millicent and Prudence. "Freya Crags. Freya is an old Norse name meaning lady. The village was named for the rounded twin hills that tower behind it."

Princess Clarice stopped. Throwing back her head, she laughed. Laughed low and long, taking pleasure in his wit.

Struck dumb by the sound of her mirth, he stopped with her and stared.

She was beautiful. No matter that she was a wench of the road and a thief of uncommon daring. She was truly beautiful. He'd known she was an uncommonly attractive woman the first time he saw her; hell, every man in Freya Crags had known it, and lusted after her. But he hadn't really plumbed the depths of her attractiveness until that moment, when she laughed with uninhibited delight.

Turning his head, he breathed in the scent of flowers and spice that wafted up from her hair. She smelled good, like springtime and, at the same time, like the kitchen on baking day. Just by closing his eyes and inhaling, a man could imagine he had a woman with an arm overflowing with roses and a hand full of cinnamon buns. The perfect woman, indeed.

When her chuckling had died down, she continued on their walk. A dimple creased her cheek as she said, "I should have known you would be thinking only of your people. You're a very responsible man."

"That I am." If she only knew . . . she would understand why he did what he did. But he couldn't enlighten her. Yes, she
was
beautiful; all the more reason not to trust her. "Your foray into sales was successful?"

"Very successful. You were right. I shall
m
ake enough in honest sales to finance the return to my country."

"Or you could stay in Scotland." He led her into the older part of MacKenzie Manor, dismal corridors opened only so their still-absent guests would have rooms. Here the carpets were faded, the walls dark and old-fashioned, and the sconces were too far apart for the candles to do more than alleviate the gloom. Its isolation made it the perfect venue for his proposition.

"You mean — because you don't believe I'm really a princess." She still smiled.

He didn't, of course, but of more importance was his developing fascination with her. However, he had no need to discuss that. Not yet. And when the time came . . . not with words. "You don't care a fig if I believe, do you?"

Frankly she replied, "I've faced worse fates than your disbelief, my lord."

Hepburn viewed Clarice as if she amused him. She didn't care about that either. She just wanted him to say what he wished of her and get it over with.

He started with a cool compliment. "You're gifted in the use of cosmetics."

"They're not cosmetics." Clarice had given this speech so many times, she knew it by heart. "Cosmetics conceal a woman's natural beauty. My creams reveal —"

"Please." He held up a hand. "I care not whether a girl wears a mask of rouge or pinches her cheeks to give them color.

Women have their tricks to make themselves irresistible and wrap a man in their coils, and that's fair, for men are strong, brutal, and lawless unless the law is on their side."

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. No, more than surprise. In shock. "That's true, but it's a rare man who admits it."

Flatly he said, "I've seen more than most men."

She suspected that was true. Underneath the calm facade he wore experience like a cloak. It was what attracted Larissa Trumbull and made her pronounce him the Catch of the Season. The little wolverine watched him for the same reason all women watched him. Because he was the kind of man a woman could trust to keep her safe from every threat. Every threat — except the one he exuded. The one that warned a woman he could seduce and beguile.

And what woman in her right mind wanted to be safe from
that
?

Oh, dear. She couldn't think of him
that
way. She glanced around. Not when he had led her into a deserted part of the manor. Old-fashioned furniture decorated the wide, endless corridor, and silence echoed like a living thing.

He hadn't denied his intent to use her for some different purpose than to entertain his relatives. He had her trapped . . . now he was ready to talk.

"You'll come to my ball," he said.

"With that scene in the conservatory, you made it impossible for me to refuse."