My Fair Princess (6 page)

He nodded.

“People can say whatever they want about him—or me, for that matter. I'm used to it.” Gillian gave him a rueful smile. “And despite what you may think, I do know when to hold my tongue. My grandfather saw to my tutoring in that regard.”

Charles could believe it. From what he'd known of Lord Marbury, those lessons would not have been easy on her. It had been no secret that he'd vehemently objected to his daughter's decision to keep her illegitimate child, and that the earl had been furious that the resulting scandal had forced them to leave England. Even though he'd subsequently gone on to have a distinguished career as a British diplomat in the Kingdom of Naples and Sicily, Marbury had never forgiven either his daughter or his granddaughter for subjecting the family to such humiliation.

“It's a useful skill, even if the learning of it is often painful,” Charles said quietly. “I, too, had to learn how to curb my tongue. I won't pretend it was easy.”

She threw him a sharp look, as if weighing his statement for truth. Then she nodded. “I didn't like it much either. And I have to admit that I sometimes forget the lessons.” She huffed out a quiet laugh. “With predictable results, I'm sorry to say.”

His sympathy stirred. Gillian could be brash, but she also had a sweet, self-deprecating manner he found enormously appealing.

“The best way to handle gossip or ill-mannered remarks is to feign ignorance,” he said. “Simply give a vague smile and excuse yourself from the discussion.”

“You mean I shouldn't plant them a facer or threaten to shoot them?” she asked, opening her eyes wide.

“I know it's hard to fathom, but Englishwomen don't generally engage in fisticuffs or duels.”

“How boring of them. I suppose I'll have to find other ways to avenge myself on the gossips of London.” She lifted an eyebrow. “What do you think of poison?”

He was tempted to laugh. “Miss Dryden, it's fine for you to engage in this sort of raillery with me or with intimate family, but—”

She waved a dismissive hand to interrupt. “I know, I know. If the situation should ever arise, I promise to be a paragon of good manners and stupidity. All of London can insult me until the cows come home, and I won't say a word. I'll simply smile and commence speaking of the weather.”

“Why does that promise fill me with more alarm than reassurance?”

She chuckled, then glanced past him. Her smile faded. “I do mean it when I say I don't care if the gossips prattle on about me. But I worry about Mamma. She's very sensitive, you know.”

Gillian tapped her chest, right over her heart. The gesture had the unfortunate effect of bringing his attention to the gentle swell of her breasts under her close-fitting garment. She wasn't a buxom girl by any means, but she had more than enough curves to attract any man's attention. They'd gotten
his
attention.

He jerked his gaze upward. Fortunately, she didn't seem to notice his inappropriate regard.

“It upsets Mamma when people say something nasty about me,” Gillian said. “I won't pick fights on my own behalf, but if they insult her, I won't be held accountable for my actions.”

Her loyalty was commendable, but hardly helpful.

“Then I suggest you let me handle any problems that may arise.” When she started to object, he held up a restraining hand. “I'm quite capable of doing so, and a good deal more effectively than you could. Your grandmother and I should be able to keep any gossip to a whisper that will fade away once you've been out for a few weeks. Your task is to exercise self-restraint. If you do, eventually the
ton
will become bored with you and move on.”

She started to cross her arms over her chest, but got caught up in the ribbons of her muff. Blowing out an impatient breath, she tugged it off her wrist and looped it on the fence post behind her. When Charles raised his eyebrows with polite incredulity, she either didn't get the point or chose to ignore it.

Subtlety was not her strong point.

“Do you also have power over the weather?” she asked. “Perhaps you can arrange for a sunny day, for once.”

He smiled. “I'll see what I can do. Miss Dryden, please trust that I can handle any gossip about you or your mother, as I trust that you will have the good sense to allow me to do so. You have already told me that you are quite capable of keeping the peace when necessary. I expect nothing less of you.”

“Do you think you have the right to order me about because you're a duke? I don't care a fig about that.”

“As head of our family, I have your mother's and your grandmother's support in this matter. I'm sure they wish you to accord me the same level of trust.”

It seemed a bit risky to play the head of the family card this early in the game, but, somewhat to his surprise, it seemed to work. Gillian fumed for a few moments and then gave a grudging nod. “Oh, very well. But never assume I'll sit quietly by while people insult my mother.” She reached out and poked him in the chest. “I expect you to deal with any such episodes in a decisive fashion. If you don't, I will.”

“You have my word. And may I point out that young ladies are not encouraged to go around jabbing men in the cravat. They might take it amiss.”

“No doubt. You poor dears spend so much time on the blasted things, you'd probably burst into tears if I disturbed the folds.” She gave him a look of mock concern. “I do hope you're not going to go into hysterics now.”

“My dear Miss Dryden, may I just say that you are an exceedingly annoying young lady?”

She laughed, her good humor restored. “So I understand. But here's Mamma now. Perhaps we can finish this conversation another time.”

“We can agree that this particular conversation is closed.”

He ignored her muttered comment about having the last word as he turned to greet her mother.

“Gillian,” the contessa said, “do you not find Green Park simply delightful? It's quite changed from my youth, when men often met here to fight duels. And you could never be sure a cutpurse wouldn't leap out from behind a tree and rob you.”

“Goodness,” Gillian said, slipping a hand through her mother's arm, “that does sound rather exciting.”

“Only to you, my love,” her mother said with rueful affection. “Shall we stroll back to the carriage? I think I've had enough fresh air for one day. Now don't leave your muff dangling on the fence, Gillian. You don't want to lose another one.”

With a sheepish smile, Gillian fetched her muff. She took her mother's arm, fussing over her as they slowly made their way back to Piccadilly. Though the contessa gently protested that she was fine, it was obvious she was happy with her daughter's attentions. Gillian's devotion was commendable and touching, but Charles couldn't help noting the imbalance in the relationship. Did anyone fuss over Gillian? Did anyone let her be what she should be—a pretty girl whose only care was which book to read next or what gown to wear at a ball?

Charles bent to retrieve the handkerchief the contessa had accidently dropped, when a voice he hadn't heard in months came from behind him. It jerked him upright, as if someone had prodded him in the backside with a sharp stick.

“Well, look who it is,” the woman said with an amused lilt that was all too familiar. “Who would think to find His Grace, the Duke of Leverton, in Green Park at this hour? How splendid that you would descend from Mount Olympus to join us mortals in so pedestrian an activity.”

Charles swallowed a curse and adopted a perfectly bland, perfectly polite expression before he turned to confront the woman who'd once ruined his life.

Chapter Six

Leverton jerked upright, dismay marking his features. The lapse in his impressive self-discipline surprised Gillian. She'd been needling him all morning, and not once had he lost his temper. He'd clearly gotten her measure, which she found both annoying and deserving of respect.

She was beginning to realize that he was also a very nice man. It was quite a refreshing change, since in her experience a wealthy and handsome man was usually very careless toward the people in his life.

The duke's expression smoothed out, then he turned to greet the woman who'd accosted them. She was exquisitely garbed, as was the man who escorted her. In fact, they were the most fashionable couple Gillian had ever seen.

The lady was a petite beauty, with hair almost as pale as moonlight. That ethereal appearance, however, was offset by a curvaceous bosom and hips, which were displayed to great advantage by her beautifully tailored walking gown. She looked both dainty and seductive, a tricky combination to pull off. Next to a woman like that, Gillian must seem like a stick, with approximately the same level of sexual allure.

Not that she cared. She never cared what other women looked like.

The lady's companion, although cast a bit in her shade, was what most women would consider a handsome fellow. He had a pleasing face, artfully arranged brown curls, and a charming smile that could coax the songbirds from the trees. Currently he was leveling that engaging smile at Leverton, who didn't appear charmed in the least.

In fact, the duke's expression was a virtual blank. If Gillian hadn't already heard the woman address him by name, she would have assumed that Leverton considered them strangers.

“Come now, Charles,” the woman said in a light, pretty voice that held a great deal of amusement. “Surely you knew that Gerry and I were back in town. There's no need to act like you've just spotted an apparition.” The woman laid her elegantly gloved hand on his arm. “Have you no words of greeting for your oldest friends?”

Leverton stared down at her for a second, then his lips curved up in a faint smile, one that stopped miles below his eyes. “Forgive me. I was merely surprised, madam. I have just returned to London myself after some weeks away.”

“At Oakdale Hall? Or, perhaps, your estate in Yorkshire?” she said. “You did always prefer the country, which was something I could never understand.”

“No, you never could.” Leverton briskly removed the woman's hand from his arm and turned to Gillian's mother with a sincere smile as he handed over her kerchief. “Your handkerchief, madam. I do hope it's not too dirty.”

Gillian blinked. His snub was so obvious that even she'd been able to catch it. That the lady had caught it too was evidenced by the flash of fire in her azure-blue eyes.

Her escort hastily moved forward and took her arm. “Now, my love, you're awfully good at teasing, but you mustn't do it to Charles. We fellows don't stand a chance once you start in on us.” Though his manner was easy, his tone carried a subtle warning.

The woman affected a pretty pout. “I always used to tease our dear Charles. He never minded it before.”

Leverton's eyebrows went up in an incredulous lift that made Gillian even more curious. Who were these people, and why did the duke find them so annoying? Vastly more annoying than her, she'd wager, and that was saying something.

In fact, His Grace was now regarding the man with an appraisal so cold that it confirmed her suspicions. The Duke of Leverton was not a man to cross. He might dress almost as exquisitely as the gentleman standing before him, but Gillian had little doubt Leverton could lift him right off his feet and shake him like a terrier shaking a rat.

The other gentleman barely managed to hold on to his smile. “Well, my love, no one likes to be reminded of their youthful follies. Leverton is no different from the rest of us, despite his exalted status,” he finished in a jesting tone.

Leverton had succumbed to youthful follies? Gillian could hardly begin to imagine.

The little joke fell flat, and an uncomfortable silence fell over their small group. The duke was now beginning to look bored by the encounter.

Mamma, who'd stood quietly by with a slight frown, finally cast a worried look in Gillian's direction and then sighed, as if coming to a decision. “Your Grace, perhaps you could introduce us to your . . . friends,” she prompted.

He was obviously reluctant, but what choice did he have? They couldn't stand around all day like addlepated dimwits.

“Contessa, may I introduce the Honorable Gerald Stratton and his wife, Lady Letitia Stratton. Stratton, Lady Letitia, the Contessa di Paterini and . . .”

He hesitated a moment, his glance flickering to Gillian. She gave him a tiny shrug. She had to start meeting people outside their small circle sooner or later, whether she was ready for it or not. And whether the rest of her family was ready for it or not, including the duke.

“And her daughter, Miss Gillian Dryden,” he finished.

“Mr. Stratton, Lady Letitia,” Mamma said with an easy nod of acknowledgment. “How nice to meet you.”

The Strattons seemed stunned for a few seconds. Then Lady Letitia's mouth curled up in a smile that looked rather gleeful. Mr. Stratton, however, regarded Gillian with avid curiosity, which struck her as rather rude. Since Gillian was used to rudeness, she simply stared back at him.

Finally, Stratton made a precise bow in Mamma's direction. “Contessa, Miss Dryden, it is exceedingly pleasant to make your acquaintance.”

“Oh, yes. This is simply delightful,” Lady Letitia trilled to Mamma in a voice so cloying that Gillian's teeth began to hurt. That level of false sweetness usually meant that the veiled insults and sly comments would commence sooner rather than later.

“We had heard of your return, madam,” Lady Letitia continued, “and have been eager to meet you. You are quite the talk of the town, as you must know. Everyone has been absolutely dying to welcome you back to your rightful home. And to meet your lovely daughter, of course.”

Gillian was hard-pressed not to roll her eyes. The bloody woman was practically quivering with excitement. She must be thrilled to have run smash into the Duke of Cumberland's notorious bastard daughter as she strolled in the park with the exceedingly proper Duke of Leverton.

“Gillian, what do you say to Mr. Stratton and Lady Letitia?” her mother gently prompted.

Gillian considered responding by tugging on the brim of her bonnet, like a street urchin, but decided against it. She never liked to waste a good insult, and this lot clearly wasn't worth the effort. Nor did she wish to distress her mother.

Directing her best smile at Stratton, she dipped into a proper curtsey that was a vast improvement on the one she'd tossed off yesterday at Leverton. “Mr. Stratton, Lady Letitia, it's a pleasure to meet you.”

Stratton blinked at her like an owl before smiling back. The slow curve of his mouth made him look like he held a particularly delicious secret. He took her hand, giving her a flourishing bow. “Indeed, the pleasure is all mine. Little did I know when I left the house this morning that I would meet so charming a young lady and her equally charming mother. A fellow doesn't stumble upon such bounties every day, you know.”

Good God
. When Gillian tugged her hand away, Mr. Stratton put on quite a little show of reluctance.

“Gerry, it's much too early in the day to be making a cake of yourself,” his wife said in that coolly amused tone of hers. “Miss Dryden, please don't be disconcerted by my husband's fulsome compliments. He flirts with all the girls, although I'm sure in your case his assessment is entirely well deserved.”

Gillian was sure there was an insult in there somewhere. She supposed she really couldn't blame the woman. While the men of the
ton
ladled out sweet nothings to the ladies like they were slopping gravy over a joint of beef, it seemed wrong for Stratton to do it so blatantly in front of his wife. Gillian almost preferred dealing with Sicilian bandits. At least one knew where one stood.

Stratton let out a good-natured laugh. “One could hardly blame me, my dear, given the delightful provocation. I'm sure Charles would agree with me completely.”

Leverton finally pried his lips apart. “I'm afraid I agree with your wife. You're making a complete cake of yourself, and not for the first time, either.” He punctuated his comment by lifting his lips in a smile that looked remarkably like the snarl Gillian had once seen on a wolf she'd encountered on a Sicilian hillside.

Even Stratton's good humor couldn't survive so direct an insult. The man's eyes flashed with anger, and he took a short step forward. Leverton raised an imperious, challenging eyebrow.

Lady Letitia wrapped a firm hand around her husband's arm. “Now who's being a tease,” she said in an arch tone. “I know you men love to engage in that sort of jesting behavior, but it's vastly boring for the ladies. Don't you agree, Countess?” She turned a prettily imploring gaze on Gillian's mother.

Mamma gave her a gentle smile. “Goodness, I'm the worst person to ask. Jests simply go over my head. Gillian, shall we start back?” She directed an apologetic glance at the Strattons. “Do forgive me, but I am not used to the British climate. I find myself growing chill.”

“Forgive me, madam,” Leverton said, looking rueful. “I am a brute to keep you standing around in this damp weather. Let me take you and Miss Dryden back to the carriage.”

“I say, is your carriage up on Piccadilly?” Stratton exclaimed, apparently over his fit of pique. “If so, why don't we all walk together? Countess, may I lend you my arm?”

“How kind of you,” Mamma said. “But it's entirely unnecessary.”

“Oh, please do let us walk with you,” Lady Letitia said so sweetly that it made Gillian's teeth hurt again. Everything about the woman made her teeth hurt, mostly because she seemed so . . . perfect.

And Gillian was getting perfectly sick of perfect.

Lady Letitia slipped her arm through Leverton's. “I haven't seen the duke in an age, and I am simply
dying
to find out how he came to be acquainted with you, my dear countess. And your lovely daughter, of course,” she said graciously.

At least Gillian thought she was being gracious, but it was a little hard to tell. Clearly, her ladyship was a dab hand both at navigating the rocky shoals of polite conversation and at the art of the subtle insult. Sadly, Gillian was adept at neither.

“There's not much of a story to tell,” Leverton said in a blighting tone.

Though he didn't seem happy to have Lady Letitia hanging off his arm, there was obviously nothing he could do about it.

When Stratton stepped forward to take Mamma's arm, she waved him away. “Thank you, but no. You young people always bustle along too fast for me. I'll walk with my maid, if you don't mind.” She turned and nodded to Maria, who'd been standing quietly behind her mistress during the entire exchange. Maria's lack of English meant that most of the conversation had sailed over her head. If she had understood it, she'd probably have boxed Stratton's ears for being so forward with her beloved lady's daughter.

“Mr. Stratton, perhaps you could give my daughter your arm,” Mamma said, smiling at Gillian as if she were offering up a splendid treat. “Maria and I will catch up with you at the carriage.”

Stratton clapped a hand to his chest. “Countess, I should be
de
lighted to escort your daughter. In fact, you have just made my day.”

This time Gillian did roll her eyes. “Obviously doesn't take much,” she muttered.

He peered at her. “I'm sorry. What did you say, Miss Dryden?”

“Nothing of any import,” she replied, taking his arm. She had no desire to stroll with the man, but Mamma obviously thought it would be a good opportunity for Gillian to practice polite conversation.

Leverton glared at Stratton, as if about to object to the arrangement. Lady Letitia, however, dragged him in the direction of the Broad Walk, already chatting away like a magpie. Gillian had to repress the impulse to laugh, if for no other reason than to see the Duke of Leverton so expertly rolled up. She felt a bit sorry for him, but it was good for a man to be managed every now and again. As nice as Leverton was, he could be a tad arrogant. It wouldn't kill him to be taken down a peg, and Lady Letitia certainly appeared capable of doing it.

That there was some sort of history between the two was obvious. Leverton's reaction suggested that it hadn't been all sweetness and fairy tales but Lady Letitia seemed to think otherwise. In fact, she looked almost possessive of him.

And he now looked as if he'd finally climbed off his high horse. Leverton even dipped down a bit to listen to her, their fair heads coming together in a glory of burnished sunlight.

Gillian frowned, startled that the sight bothered her.

“They make a handsome couple, don't they?” Stratton said as he and Gillian followed. His voice held a tinge of bitterness, as if echoing her thoughts. “Two paragons of perfection.” His pleasant expression seemed at odds with his voice.

“Then it's lucky for us that we don't have to walk alongside them, isn't it?” Gillian said. “I don't know about you, but I find perfection to be an extremely irritating trait.” When he threw her a startled glance, she smiled. “I expect it's because I'm anything but perfect myself. Then again, think of how tiring it must be to have to live up to such a standard, day in and day out.”

He laughed. “Quite right, Miss Dryden. Let us indeed count ourselves lucky that we can simply plod along like ordinary people.”