A Princely Dilemma (2 page)

Chapter Four

Walking in on his wife in her bath had not been part of his plan. No wonder the damned maid had scuttled out past him, cheeks scarlet and eyes brimming with suppressed speculation. Why couldn’t Bolt have said something? If his mother had been in her bath, the wretched woman would have seen him off breathing fire!

‘Was there something you particularly wished to tell me, sir?’

He shut his eyes, wishing to God he could shut off his imagination as easily.

‘Er, yes. Yes, there is.’ He’d think of it in a moment, when his brain stopped dwelling on how she might look in her bath—silky brown tresses pinned up on top of her head, just waiting to be tumbled around her shoulders…all soft, and rosy, and…moist.

‘Yes?’

‘Ah…’ He floundered. What had he wanted to say? He grabbed at the first thing that floated past. ‘You’ve remembered that we have guests tonight?’ That hadn’t been it, surely?

‘Yes. Your family. Grandmère.’

Who knew that a faint French accent could be so damned erotic?

‘I would not forget such a thing,’ she said.

‘Er, no. Of course not. Um, oh, yes.’ He dragged in a breath. How the hell was a man meant to offer his wife an apology for something he hadn’t really said, when all he could think about was how damp and rosy that wife would be in her bath, and how soft and warm she’d been in his arms last night.

Soft, warm—and still frightened of his lovemaking, he thought. She lay so still, it was as though she was afraid to move. It was nearly killing him to keep it slow and careful for her, let alone leave her bed afterwards, but the thought of distressing her any more was untenable. Patience. That was the key. Bed her gently, keep himself under control.

He let the breath out, banishing all thoughts of either dragging his wife from the tub or joining her. ‘I wished to assure you that my…remarks in the library earlier did not refer to our…situation.’ He frowned, thought about that. ‘Our marriage,’ he corrected. He wasn’t going to have a situation. He was going to have a marriage. He hoped. Right now it was probably a situation.

‘Oh.’

Oh? What the hell did that mean? ‘No,’ he affirmed. ‘I was speaking of—’ He broke off. Dammit! Under no circumstances could he discuss the prince’s private affairs, not even with his wife. ‘Well, I was not speaking of you…that is, us.’ Lord! If he had a horse that lame, he’d have to shoot it.

‘Oh. I see.’ Apparently his wife would shoot the poor, gimpy-legged creature too. ‘Well, thank you, sir. Um, if that was all, perhaps you might send my maid back in? I should be getting out to dress. And…and I need the towel.’

The towel hung in plain view over a dainty lyre-backed chair. If it was anything like the towels he used, and it had damn well better be, then it was silky soft, but he’d wager it wasn’t as soft as his wife’s skin.

He was moving before he’d so much as drawn breath. ‘Permit me.’

‘What?
No!’

The towel was already in his hand as he rounded the end of the screen. There was a frantic splashing as his furiously blushing wife drew her knees up to wrap her arms about them and hide her breasts, but he had one brief glimpse of heaven—wet, creamy, rose-tipped breasts and the delicate curve of her waist. It was enough; she was utterly delectable.

He shut his eyes and held out the towel. ‘There you are.’ There she was indeed. Soft and damp and naked. And he had his damned eyes shut.

‘Th-thank you.’ The tinkle of water told him she’d stood. He shut his eyes even tighter, reminding himself of all the reasons he shouldn’t open them. She was a new bride. Still shy, maidenly. She shrank from the idea of making love with a lamp lit; last night he’d tried leaving a candle alight, but she’d reminded him, in a wooden little voice that had torn him apart, so he’d blown it out, drawn the bed hangings to banish even the firelight.

The towel was taken from his grasp by a hand that seemed to tremble, and he fought the ignoble urge to open his eyes and see his wife, this woman whom he knew only by touch, and taste, a little.

Against all physical possibility, he hardened even more. Hell. If she saw that— With a strangled curse, he turned away, walking stiffly back around the screen.

‘I’ll send your maid back in, madam.’ He hesitated. The queen was not the only mother in London furious about her son’s choice of bride. Perhaps a tactful warning? ‘My mother, by the way, is likely to be early.’ Just because in this house, of all houses, she could arrive early to fluster her hostess without raising the slightest censure. Just to be able to moan a little more about his appalling marriage if her daughter-in-law was not down to receive her. All the while accepting an allowance made possible by the despised daughter of trade. And foisting Bolt on the poor girl. Just as the queen had forced Lady Jersey on Princess Caroline.

‘Ah, you know if you wished for another maid…there is no need to keep Bolt, just to please my mother.’

‘Oh.’ She sounded stunned. ‘Yes, of course. Thank you, sir.’

Chapter Five

Linnet stared at the gown laid over the chair. Dull grey silk, high-necked and long-sleeved; it was positively dowdy. It was one her mother-in-law had chosen as being appropriate. And Bolt had been her mother-in-law’s maid, in attendance when the gown had been fitted…and of course Bolt knew who was coming to dinner.

‘That isn’t the gown I asked you to lay out.’ She had asked for the muslin in soft lavender, embroidered with silver.

The maid sniffed. ‘No, Your Grace. But I thought it would be more appropriate.’

She was in mourning after all…but then, despite the downcast eyes, she saw the gleam of triumph in the maid’s expression. Linnet stiffened. She had nearly succumbed meekly to her maid’s decree. Quite possibly to her mother-in-law’s decree. Her father-in-law had been dead six months, she had never even met him and lavender was perfectly acceptable for half-mourning. She drew in a breath. Listening to advice was one thing; being dictated to was another.

‘But then I do not pay you to think for me, Bolt,’ she said coolly. ‘The gown I requested, if you please.’

Mouth primmed, Bolt obeyed. Slowly.

‘And, Bolt?’

‘Yes, Your Grace?’

‘This gown—I find that I do not like it at all. You may keep it.’

Dressed in the lavender muslin, with its elbow-length sleeves, Linnet stared into the mirror, wondering if she had taken leave of her senses. Oh, it was pretty enough. In fact, she thought it might be the prettiest gown she had ever had. But it was so daring! The low-cut, highwaisted bodice, and filmy clinging muslins of dress and petticoat, showed every curve. Not that she had many curves. She swallowed. It was one of the few gowns she had chosen for herself one afternoon when she had shopped with Severn’s older sister, Lady Farnsworth, just before her marriage.

‘Excellent choice. Kester will like that one.’

Severn hadn’t seen it yet. She hadn’t dared. She took a deep breath. If she changed her gown she would be down late. Worse, Bolt would have won. And she still had to choose the right jewellery.

‘Yes. I like it. My jewellery case, if you please. And my gloves. Oh, and the turban that matches this gown.’

The knock at the door startled them both.

Severn walked in. Gorgeous, utterly elegant in satin evening breeches, black coat and a grey-and-lavender waistcoat, a single pearl nestled in his cravat. And then the man of fashion stopped dead in his tracks staring at her, his jaw dropped in a most unducal and inelegant fashion.

Despite the blush that scorched her cheeks, Linnet kept her chin up. ‘Am I late, Your Grace?’ She knew she wasn’t. Perhaps he simply wanted to assure himself that she was suitably attired.

For a moment he said nothing. Just stared, his gaze burning, intent. Then he took a visibly shaky breath. ‘No. Not at all. I…I came to give you these.’ He held out a long slim box covered in shabby green velvet.

Biting her lip, Linnet took the box and opened it.

‘Ohhh!’ she breathed. Pearls glimmered up at her, and in their midst a great amethyst winked in the lamplight. Her hands shook as she lifted the necklace out. She couldn’t speak. The pearls hung in a great rope, caught together by the amethyst which was surrounded by tiny diamonds, a smaller loop of pearls hanging below. It was lovely, beyond lovely, but the lump in her throat defeated her.

She looked up at Severn, saw a muscle in his jaw twitch.

‘Out.’

For the second time in as many hours, Bolt scuttled from the room under ducal decree.

‘I had them reset, but if you don’t like it—’

‘I like it,’ she whispered.

He frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Then, may I—will you permit me to put it on for you?’

Wordless, she nodded. He hadn’t said anything about the gown. Yet.

He stripped off his gloves and came to her slowly, and took her hands. For a moment he was motionless, then his hands skimmed up her arms, her bare arms. Slowly. While her knees shook and her mind melted in pleasure. He paused at the silver embroidered sleeve, and then for an instant one long forefinger slid under the sleeve. The lightest caress on her hidden flesh, yet she had to stiffen herself and swallow to hold back the gasp of pleasure.

A gentleman wants a virtuous wife and mother. Not displays of wanton abandon. Over and over she reminded herself, pretending the deep, aching need wasn’t there.

With a sigh, he shifted his hold to her muslin-clad shoulders, turned her to face the dressing mirror and lifted the necklace to slip over her head. Cool and silky, the pearls slid against her skin, the great central amethyst ablaze between her breasts, just above the bodice. She shivered again as his fingers feathered along her jaw.

‘The…the pearls are lovely,’ she managed to get out.

‘I’ve seen lovelier,’ he murmured, and bent to brush a kiss where his fingers had trailed. ‘Perhaps a kiss, sweetheart?’

Everything inside her melted, yearned, as she instinctively turned towards the temptation of his mouth. Their lips met, hers trembling, his warm, firm, moving gently on hers so that they parted on a sigh.

Abruptly he straightened. Stepped back. ‘That gown—’ His voice sounded odd. ‘I’ve not seen that before, have I?’

‘No.’ Oh, God! Here it came. Was he going to tell her it was shameless? That she was to change? And she had kissed him, for heaven’s sake! Would he think
her
shameless? Yes, he had meant to kiss her, but she had done it for him.

‘Did you choose it?’ Still that odd, strangled voice.

‘Yes.’ Defiant suddenly, she lifted her chin. ‘But Lady Farnsworth thought it was pretty.’

He shut his eyes. ‘I may have to kill Louisa.’

Her heart sank. ‘You don’t like it, then.’ He had shut his eyes when he’d handed her the towel too.

The blue eyes opened, their expression unreadable. ‘The gown is very pretty. Most fashionable.’ His voice was practically a growl. He reached into a pocket of his coat for another velvet-covered box. Handing it to her, he said, ‘You had better put these on.’

She stared. His hand was shaking.

‘Earrings,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘To match the necklace.’

Taking the box, she opened it. More amethysts winked up at her, each with a dangling teardrop pearl. Carefully she put them on, fumbling. ‘Thank you, Severn,’ she whispered.

He frowned again. ‘You are sure you like them? I thought, well, we are still in mourning for my father, so colours, except for purple, are out, but I didn’t know what you liked, so if you don’t—’

‘I love them,’ she said firmly. Carefully she picked up the turban that matched her gown and set it on her hair, and pulled on her white kid gloves. Tentatively she smiled at him. ‘Is it time to go down?’

He looked at her quizzically. ‘You don’t want to check yourself in the looking glass?’

Her stomach lurched. ‘Is something wrong? Have I forgotten something?’

He stared. ‘No. Not a thing. You look lovely. Come.’ He held out his arm. Shyly she set her hand on it and he led her from the room.

Chapter Six

They beat the dowager duchess to the drawing room by a flight of stairs, hearing her below in the hall, bemoaning the inconvenience of a Sunday night dinner to her unmarried daughter, Lady Sophia.

She entered the drawing room in the wake of Blythe’s announcement. ‘The Dowager Duchess of Severn, Lady Sophia Beaulieu.’

The dowager’s mouth drooped petulantly. ‘Oh. I feared you would not yet be down, Miss Far— Dear me, what should I call you now? Oh, yes—Linette, is it not?’ She raised a lorgnette and examined Linnet from top to toe. Then lowered the glass with a faint sigh.

Linnet managed a smile. ‘Welcome,
madame
. And Lady Sophia. How do you go on?’

Rustling black silk, the dowager waved a languid hand. ‘Quite well, I assure you. If one may be well in such a poky establishment as that to which we are reduced.’ She cast a sorrowful eye around the drawing room.

‘You chose the house yourself, Mama,’ said Severn. ‘And if you feared we would not yet be down, then I wonder you chose to arrive so early.’

Linnet blinked. Severn sounded positively snippy. Seeing the dowager about to take offence, and fearing for the success of the evening, she rushed into speech. ‘But of course your mother may arrive whenever she likes, and welcome, Severn,’ she said firmly.

Baulked of prey, the dowager permitted herself a little smile. ‘Sophia, pray—my vinaigrette.’ She sank onto a sofa.

Behind her, Linnet heard Severn’s teeth grinding.

The Marquise de la Marchèrand arrived next, closing followed by Lord and Lady Farnsworth.

The marquise greeted her granddaughter with a deep curtsey, before subjecting her to a penetrating examination.

‘The gown… It is in the modern style, but not—’

‘I like it.’ Beside her, Severn sounded rather like a bear.

The marquise shrugged. ‘Naturally, if
monsieur le duc
approves, there is no more to be said.’

Lady Farnsworth dispensed with ceremony, greeting her new sister-in-law with a hug and approving look. ‘Hmm. I said that gown would be pretty. You seem very well. Kester looking after you?’

Linnet blushed.

Lady Farnsworth just smiled and turned to her brother. ‘I thought you’d appreciate that gown, Kester.’

Only Linnet was close enough to hear his response. ‘Yes, I do, and I’ll kill
you
later.’ Lady Farnsworth laughed and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

So, if he really did like the gown, why did he want to kill his sister?

Farnsworth shook her hand. ‘Evening, Lady Severn. Shan’t ask how you’re going on—you look famously. Severn’s a lucky devil. Told Louisa that in the carriage.’

She liked Lord Farnsworth, even if her grandmother did dismiss him in acid tones as the grandson of a country physician. He was blunt, kind and made no secret of the fact that he thought his wife was brilliant.

‘Are we all here?’ asked the dowager. ‘Perhaps we should go down to dinner. Where is Blythe?’

Linnet hesitated. She ought to make the announcement that they would go down, but Severn’s younger brother, Lord Guy, was not yet arrived.

Lady Farnsworth dealt with her mother smartly. ‘For heaven’s sake, Mama! You are not the hostess here now, you know. Besides, Guy is not here yet.’ She glanced at Linnet. ‘I’m assuming you invited him because you’re too polite not to do so, but since he usually ignores family invitations—’

‘Lord Guy Beaulieu,’ intoned Blythe, admitting a fashionably dressed young man with the same bright hair and blue eyes as his brother and sisters.

‘Unless he wants something,’ muttered Lady Farnsworth to Linnet.

Lord Guy bowed over Linnet’s hand. ‘How d’you do, ma’am?’ He smiled charmingly. ‘Sorry to be late. My fellow forgot to remind me in time.’

‘You’re not late at all,’ said Linnet politely.

Lord Guy passed on to his brother. ‘Evening, Severn. I say, any chance of a quick word before dinner?’

To Linnet’s surprise, Severn shook his head. ‘No. No chance at all.’

His lordship looked petulant. ‘Oh, I say. Really—’

The dowager drew herself up. ‘Now that we are—’

‘Blythe, now that Lord Guy is here, please have dinner served,’ said Linnet, speaking across her mother-in-law and shuddering internally for being so rude, but hoping to avert further arguments. To her surprise Grandmère gave a slight, approving nod. ‘
Bon, ma petite.
You begin to assert yourself.’ She dealt the dowager’s glare a gracious smile. ‘You and I,
madame
, we must remember that it is our children to whom we must now defer.
Non? ’

Severn moved gracefully to the marquise. ‘Madame, I doubt you have ever deferred to anyone in your life.’ He offered his arm. The dowager’s glare redoubled and Linnet began to wonder if they would survive the evening without bloodshed.

Smiling, Farnsworth strolled up to Linnet. ‘Now I’m a lucky devil,’ he said. ‘I get the new bride.’ He sent his wife a wicked grin.

Lady Farnsworth choked back a laugh. ‘True enough. Guy, you take Mama in, since Kester is taking Madame de la Marchèrand.’

Lord Guy looked annoyed.

‘It’s that or Sophie,’ his elder sister informed him.

Lady Sophia stared around. ‘What? Isn’t anyone else coming? You mean there is no gentleman to take
me
in? How shab—’

Severn’s glare had her swallowing her remarks. ‘This is a family dinner, not a grand occasion, Sophie,’ he informed her. ‘You may consider yourself lucky, since you are not out until next year, to be invited at all. But next time we’ll invite Cousin Randolph for you.’

Lady Sophia scowled. ‘But I would be out this year if Papa hadn’t died! It’s not fair! Why can’t—?’

‘Oh, come along, Soph,’ said Lady Farnsworth, over her sister’s complaint. ‘You’ll have to make do with me in Randolph’s absence. Or go up to the old schoolroom.’

Lady Sophia did not look at all as if this pleased her, but she shut up and took her place with her elder sister.

Farnsworth choked. ‘Randolph’s sixty. Divinity Fellow at Oxford,’ he explained to Linnet in an undertone. ‘For God’s sake take me in to dinner before one of the Beaulieus murders another!’