Royal Regard (31 page)

“I insisted we come when I heard the
delightful
on-dit
about Lady Huntleigh finally putting you
in your proper place. I had been given to understand it was a love
match, but now I see the gossip is right. Not so much wooing as
warring.”

“So it would appear.” He tipped his head and
raised one brow, still half a step from an altercation, but willing
to maintain decorum for the moment. For his sister.

He added, casually, “I am going to murder
that damned Frenchman if his hand travels one more inch below her
waist.”

With no visible reaction to his abominable
language, she remarked, “And you usually so charming. I hardly
remember the last time you threatened murder. One can only hope you
are losing your gift for seduction.” Her not-unfriendly censure was
overset by the entirely-too-romantic music setting the chandeliers
tinkling above the crowd. When she giggled at the look on his face,
he barely heard it.

Nick’s shoulders tightened and voice lowered.
“Blast it, Allison. It’s not funny. She’s driving me mad.”

“Goodness! You are in a pother. Damn, blast…?
Next you will be invoking the Devil.”

“I am going to invoke the entirety of Hell if
she doesn’t stop trying to tug me about on a string. I’m not a
damned dog to follow at her feet.”

Her laughter was now too loud for polite
company, drawing pointed looks.

“I’ve heard you compared to a dog more times
than I can count; it is about time someone leashed you. If you
would only come to heel, you would find it all much easier to
bear.”

“Not helpful, young lady.”

“Not meant to be, old man. If you wish me to
be helpful, you will have to be considerably more attentive to my
invitations. You’ve regretted my last two supper parties, and I
won’t allow it to continue.”

In his peripheral vision, reflected in one of
the mirrors, he saw Bella laughing as Malbourne twirled her too
quickly to be in step with the music. As though the bounder didn’t
make her quite dizzy enough with his unseemly attentions.

Unwilling—unable—to direct his growing anger
where it belonged, he hissed, “Every time I attend your supper
parties, you pair me with some vacuous debutante, and I end up
smiling and nodding at drivel all evening.” To allay the keen looks
directed their way, he smiled and nodded at her.

She mirrored his raised eyebrow and twisted
her lips sharply, tugging at her glove, “Shall I pair you with some
other man’s wife, then?” He snarled, and she continued, “You may
immediately cease taking out your tempers on me. It is not my fault
you are a hopeless nodcock.”

Before he could refute her charge, not that
he had much evidence to do so, she continued her proposition. “If
you give me your word of honor you will accept my next invitation,
I will be happy to invite Lady Huntleigh and exclude Lord
Malbourne, but I can invite them both without you, if you’d prefer.
I’ve heard they are both partial to
musicales,
and I have
the perfect soprano in mind to entertain.”

“That is extortion!”

“It is,” she answered, tapping his cheek with
her finger, smiling at how quickly he had caught on, “and you have
never stood up to my blackmail before. At least not since I was
six. Papa took your horse away last time you crossed me; what will
you lose now?”

Nick found his fists clenching, followed by
his jaw. “You are unspeakable. Mother should have beaten you twice
daily with a stick.”

She tilted her head and fluttered her
eyelashes prettily. “Shall I arrange the soprano?”

Nick growled and mumbled more curses under
his breath, but eventually agreed. “Oh, very well. But I give you
fair warning: if you pair me with a debutante—if you pair me with
anyone under the age of eighty—my rudeness will make your parties
the horror of London.” Not satisfied with this threat, he growled,
“I’ll put it out you arrange orgies for Nockham and work in a
brothel on Tuesdays.”

“Very good,” she replied, just as calm as he
was infuriated, “I will send your invitation in the morning.”

He tried to bridle his temper, made nearly
impossible when Bella laughed at something Malbourne said, then
blushed again, the same pretty pink he liked so much. He could feel
his face taking on the same expression as the time he’d killed a
man in Santiago in a knife fight, an event to which no one in
England would ever be privy, least of all his sister. His arms were
so tight against his sides, they might shatter if used for anything
but smashing a fist into Malbourne’s smug sneer.

To forestall the volatile hotheadedness she
knew well, eyebrows raised against the alarming grimace he’d never
shown her, Allie placed her hand on his wrist, tugging it gently
from his side.

“Now, since my husband is boring Lady
Adencard with the news that Charity has mastered the sidesaddle,
yes, Your Grace, of course you may have this dance.” Nick slowly
opened one hand and held out his arm to support her gloved
fingertips. “I shall be delighted to hear all the perfectly valid
reasons Lady Huntleigh has decided you are beneath her
contempt.”

“Witch.”

“You’d better hurry, or the set will be over,
and I will make you dance with me twice.”

“Good morning, Madame la
Comtesse.”

Bella sat up in bed and Michelle set the bed
tray across her lap. A steaming pot of chocolate and a china cup, a
currant scone with clotted cream and jam, and a budding pink peony
in a glass vase.

“This is just lovely, Michelle. I don’t know
when I’ve been so pampered.”

“Of course,
Madame
.” Michelle adjusted
the new lilac silk drapes, letting the mid-morning sun shine
through transom windows.

“Is Lord Huntleigh awake yet?” she asked,
hoping he would sleep late, all day if she could manage it.

“
Oui, Madame
. The earl has left for
Westminster an hour past,” Michelle said. “He has said he must meet
with the First Lord this morning and His Majesty this afternoon,
though Mr. Watts suggested he stay abed.”

Although her brow wrinkled at this news,
Myron would be incensed to think the servants had been discussing
his infirmity. Bad enough he had to discuss it with her.

His health was failing much faster since
their return, no matter how often he insisted he was in fine
fettle. When she saw him laid out, feverish, barely breathing, not
a day and a half after their argument about Wellbridge, she had
forgiven him all. Well, almost all.

He had recovered within two days, but since
then, good days were fewer and farther between. This must be one,
if he were planning to attend The Lords, but his continued
insistence on a regular schedule was wearing on her as much as it
did him.

She forced a fake smile. “I am glad he has
taken himself away. After being out so late, I have barely enough
stamina to face the day, much less a fractious husband.”

It might very well be best to face this
particular day alone, at any rate, or at least without men nearby
to say the wrong thing and send her into a gale of tears. For
today, try as she might to ignore it, she would turn
five-and-thirty, an old woman by anyone’s standard. An ugly old
woman besides. And barren. She must not forget barren, and now even
too old for a miracle. Bella could hardly think of anything more
depressing than the rest of this day.

To “celebrate” the anniversary of her birth,
Myron had surprised Bella with tickets to the stage version of
Ivanhoe
at the Adelphi the previous evening, but then left
her in the company of the Pinnesters after the first act, his
strength too taxed to continue the outing. Following the play, he
had asked her to attend their small supper in his stead, because a
handful of his other investors would also be present. She hadn’t
returned home until half-past three. Five hours past the laudatory
toasts to her accidental survival to this advanced age.

“Shall I draw your bath or will you wait,
Madame
?”

Bella sat up straighter as Michelle poured
chocolate into her cup. As Bella stirred to cool the beverage,
Michelle stood expectantly, poking at embers in the wood fireplace
and adding an apple wood log, waiting for Bella’s answer.

“A bath would be pleasant.”

Bella broke open the warm pastry and spread
fig preserve with the silver knife. Michelle waited quietly, but
when Bella made no further requests, finally said, “I will have hot
water sent up, if you have no need of me.”

Bella looked up, finally aware she had rudely
disregarded her maid, although Charlotte would say it was a maid’s
job to remain disregarded.

“Yes, that’s fine. Thank you.”

“I will return for your tray in no time at
all,
Madame
.” Michelle curtsied before she left the room.
After more than a fortnight in her employ, Bella wished she could
convince the woman to be at least slightly less formal. The more
everyone treated her like a countess, the more she felt like a
fraud.

Bella enjoyed her breakfast, as well as her
most frequent recent activity: daydreaming about Wellbridge. As
Charlotte had predicted, Bella’s continued disdain had a remarkable
effect. He simply could not stay away. Morning, noon, night, every
party she attended, every shop she patronized, every amusement she
planned with her niece and nephew.

He joined the Huntleighs for church on
Sundays, even holding no love for Myron’s Methodists. When she
distributed baskets of food for the poor in the East End, he turned
up with his own, acting as though he had been doing so all his
life. At Hatchard’s, she nearly tripped over him in the sections
related to architecture and botany. If she and Charlotte took Jewel
to Gunter’s for ices, he appeared, saying he had been checking on a
catering order for Blakeley. As though the Duke of Wellbridge
needed to run errands for his servant. It was ridiculous, and in
total, more than a bit amusing.

While she had thought it would be difficult,
the longer she played Charlotte’s game and the more she felt the
force of his reactions to “the other duke,” the more fun she seemed
to have. No man had ever written her poetry before, nor sent her
flowers by the basketful or absconded with a text from the king’s
own library.

She had been quite touched by the pastries,
as he had not only remembered how much she missed the
pâtisserie
near Myron’s new
pied-à-terre
in Paris,
but also the
mille-feuille
she enjoyed best and which London
bakery offered the closest approximation. She would have loved
every bite, if she hadn’t agreed with Charlotte to toss the next
gift right back in his face. She was only glad it hadn’t been the
book. Custard and jam only caused injury to his pride.

Even more shocking, at her advanced age, she
somehow also claimed the attentions of a second duke. Two dukes! If
Aunt Minerva weren’t already dead, she would fall into her grave at
the thought her misshapen, timid, bluestocking niece was being
courted by two dukes. Of course, the fact Bella was still married
might cause a bit of a swoon.

Monsieur le Duc de Malbourne displayed every
inch of the legendary French charm. His striking face, alluring
form, clever conversation, and smooth, sensual voice planting the
wickedest thoughts into her head... If her heart weren’t already
engaged with Wellbridge, she would be well on her way to accepting
his offer first. Even though his offer had yet to include
marriage.

Bella had begun to feel the strain of the
falsehoods, unaccustomed to feeling ashamed of herself, or lying
outright to her husband, or showing a false face to a friend.
Charlotte seemed to have no compunction about anything, with the
capture of a husband at stake, but Bella was not made for such
entrapment. Surely, if she were, the Lord would have provided her
better inducements.

Still, like all of Charlotte’s intrigues, the
plan was working. For days now, Wellbridge had been leaving parties
as soon as she declined his requested dance, so at Charlotte’s
instruction, four nights ago, when Myron demurred at the invitation
to Almack’s, she gave the first dance to the Duke of Malbourne,
then the next figure, a waltz, risking what shreds of reputation
she had left. But watching Wellbridge stride toward the door that
night, when she knew Myron would have asked him to stay to ensure
her safety—the idea that he couldn’t stand to remain in the same
room because of her disgraceful behavior—was enough to make her
want to cast up the scone and chocolate.

The goal was to win his heart, she must
remember, not make a jade of herself, letting the attentions of a
gentleman overwhelm her good sense. She might as well be a woman
for hire, collecting his gifts and giving him not a moment’s peace
in return. And really, who was she to turn up her nose at a
perfectly good offer from a perfectly good gentleman when she might
as well be Methuselah’s mother.