Royal Regard (9 page)

Nick was quite taken with her shocking tales
of their travels, though he was the only one amused, aside from
Lord and Lady Pinnester, whose entire fortune had been built on the
back of Huntleigh’s company. From the whispering behind hands, Nick
knew Lady Huntleigh’s stories were fanning gossip all over London,
but within the Pinnesters’ hearing, nothing but counterfeit
cordiality and feigned fascination with their travels.

When Lady Huntleigh told the story of a tribe
of Black Africans mistaking her for a goddess, he found himself
considering the implications of worshiping at her feet. Her
anecdotes about their frigate outrunning and outgunning pirates
took him back twenty years, though he had learned the hard way not
to discuss such adventures in company. He thought perhaps he should
take Lord Huntleigh aside to discuss the ramifications of such
public disclosure, but was far too intrigued by the lady’s
narrative to suggest she not continue.

Nick was chagrined Lady Huntleigh had seen
him in the company of the widowed Lady Rowena Astewithe, who set
his teeth on edge. Allison had arranged his escort, trying yet
again to marry him to any fertile woman with a pulse. He hadn’t
expected to see the Huntleighs, or he might have—

Might have what, exactly?
he wondered
to himself a few days later, as he surreptitiously changed the
place cards at a small supper given by Lord and Lady Carrick.
It
isn’t as though I can marry her,
he thought, as he gave a
viscountess a place at the table far higher than her position
warranted, just to seat himself directly across from Lady
Huntleigh.

I don’t even want to be married.

Lady Huntleigh barely uttered a word to him
beyond, “It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Your Grace,” and
he was entirely circumspect: he might have used a protractor to
gauge the degree of his bow and a ruler to measure the appropriate
distance between her hand and his lips. But she couldn’t keep from
staring when she thought he wasn’t looking.

Improving matters, her husband had declined
to attend at the last minute, citing ill health, leaving her in the
care of her cousin’s inattentive husband. Lady Huntleigh was
preoccupied all evening and left early, against Lady Firthley’s
objections, but it was the first time he was able to converse with
her beyond a polite greeting.

When they spoke just before the exodus to the
dining room, Lady Huntleigh was shy, glances slipping away toward
the walls, but couldn’t avoid him with everyone else in the room
engaged in other conversations.

“I had not remembered London being so cold in
the springtime.”

“It is chilly this year, to be sure.” When he
added, “The shawl you are wearing is lovely,” she seemed to lose
her breath and looked as though she wished to hide behind it.

“So kind of you to say.”

As he caught her eye with an impertinent
grin, bewilderment stained her cheeks. She was prettier every time
he saw her, especially in her emerald-green gown with primrose
trim, better fitting and better suited to her coloring than any
previous frocks, bringing out the bronze tones of her hair and the
gold of her sun-kissed skin.

She couldn’t stop the heat rising from her
chest to her forehead with each syllable of the four innocuous
sentences they shared while the guests were being seated, so he did
his best to turn his attention elsewhere. Taking too much notice
would give him away.

All he could do was quietly take in her
features one glance at a time: her soft, plump mouth, the rounded
tip of her nose, her genuine smile and real blushes. He didn’t know
the color of her eyes yet—maybe blue, maybe green. If he looked too
closely, he might not be able to tear himself away.

She wasn’t as striking as Nick’s usual
conquests, not jaded or restive or hostile, not resorting to paint
on her face or suggestive banter or sending him signals with her
fan. Still, he caught her looking often enough to warrant an
impudent wink across the table while everyone else listened to a
drunken baron rudely regale the entire table with a bizarre tale of
minor municipal chicanery. When her eyes rounded with shock at
Nick’s shamelessness, he determined they were a crystal-clear
aqua marina
, the color of a Caribbean coastline.

From the corner of his eye, Nick watched Lady
Huntleigh whisper to the woman next to her, who both ogled him just
long enough for him to notice. Whatever she heard made her mouth
fall open, but she quickly clamped her jaw shut against any
semblance of interest. Only she didn’t turn away from him as fast
as she might.

A slow, wolfish smirk crossed his face as he
inclined his head to Lady Huntleigh and the woman who was spreading
rumors. They both gulped and looked down at their squab in port
wine and cherries.

Unknowingly saving her from ignominy, the
hostess turned the table and Lady Huntleigh opened a clumsy,
self-conscious conversational gambit with the gentleman on her
left. Given the beginnings of a polite dialogue with the woman next
to him, Nick couldn’t quite hear the
faux pas
written all
over Lady Huntleigh’s face, even only four feet away, but he could
tell he unsettled her, and that was a good start. Her puzzlement at
his small attentions shone like a gas light.

Heaven help him, he was nearly old enough to
be her father—no, older brother—which, he rationalized, made him at
least twenty years less a reprobate than her husband. Huntleigh was
ancient as alphabets, but Nick guessed Lady Huntleigh was only
three-and-thirty, maybe four, given the fifteen years since her
debut. As some catty women might say, the bloom was off the rose,
but she still had the improbable air of an untouched maiden, not
cynical enough to be a world traveler, not staid enough to be a
stodgy merchant’s wife.

And Nick had never met anyone stodgier than
the new Earl of Huntleigh. Even the king said so. A devout Anglican
whose knowledge of the Bible rivaled any vicar; a staunch
teetotaler who drank naught but small beer and gambled only enough
to do business with men at the tables; a faithful spouse who made
plain his disgust for the fleshpots of London. The only sailor Nick
had ever met disdainful of dockside temptations. As a dubious
testament to his own wit, Prinny had conferred an earldom named to
fit the decades-old moniker first coined by the king’s father—with
all due pomp and ceremony, Humdrum Holsworthy had been elevated to
Humdrum Huntleigh.

A little more than a week after the Carrick’s
supper, at a rout given by the Countess of Estermore, Nick came up
behind the new earl and his wife as her wrap was being taken by a
servant.

“Lord Huntleigh, I was hoping you would be
here this evening.”

“Your Grace,” Lord Huntleigh bowed politely
and Lady Huntleigh curtsied, studiously avoiding his eyes and only
whispering a greeting.

“I hadn’t expected to see you, Sir,” Lord
Huntleigh said, neck not half as stiff as his wife’s shoulders.
“From all accounts, you avoid the
beau monde
.” The clear
implication: Lord Huntleigh had heard about Nick’s propensity for
gambling in the rookeries. Nick neither admitted nor acknowledged
the polite aspersion.

“I wished to congratulate you on your
elevation, and I have a piece of business to discuss on the advice
of Lord Pinnester. Begging the pardon of your lovely wife, of
course.” Nick bent over her hand and kissed the air above her
knuckles, but held on a bit too tightly and a bit too long.

She tugged her hand away and improved on her
mumbled salutation. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Sir.”

“Humble servant, Lady Huntleigh.”

Myron smiled with difficulty, the face of a
man secure in his own position, but ready to defend it anyway.
“With due respect, Sir, I’ve been warned to keep my wife close
whilst in your company.” Lady Huntleigh took her husband literally,
scooting a step closer to his side and holding on to his arm with
both hands. “I hate to credit rumors, but I am not in the habit of
inviting scandal, especially not involving my wife.”

Nick took a step back. Husbands normally
didn’t confront him with his intentions directly.

“No scandal intended. Although, with a wife
so charming, it must be trying to keep the blackguards away.” He
grinned at Lady Huntleigh, but she looked at the floor. He couldn’t
tell if she were being coy or if he had truly caused a problem in
her marriage, nor did he know Huntleigh well enough to gauge how he
might treat his wife if he were incensed. Nick hadn’t been trying
to make trouble, but had spoken more to, and about, Lady Huntleigh
in two weeks than he could possibly explain.

“It is not difficult to keep you away,” Lord
Huntleigh said, not quite joking, and turned to his wife. “My dear,
if you will forgive, we can find the card room to discuss our
business.” He pinched her cheek. “And you must never entertain the
Duke of Wellbridge outside my company. Any man with a wife will
tell you so.” He motioned to Nick. “Shall we attempt to avoid the
ballroom entirely?”

About an hour later, Nick made his way back
to her. “Lady Huntleigh, I had not meant to keep you from the
dancing.”

She looked up in surprise. “My goodness, Your
Grace, you startled me. Are you finished with your business then?”
She peered around him, twisting her hands together. “Is my husband
behind you?”

“Any moment.” He leaned in and lowered his
voice. “You needn’t call me ‘Your Grace,’ you know. You are an
unquestioned countess now, not a country-mouse-come-to-Town.”

She made a concerted effort to disengage her
fidgety hands, but merely moved them from her waist to begin
worrying the fabric of her skirt. “Hardly unquestioned, Your
Grace.” She conceded with a nod, almost in a whisper, “Duke.” She
couldn’t stop the nervous twitching of a wallflower, which might
explain her not dancing, if one discounted gossip as the more
likely justification.

Before they had retired to play whist, Nick
had noted her faintly injured glances toward Lord Huntleigh. They
must have had a fight before the party, or Huntleigh said something
thoughtless or hurtful. It wasn’t so important she would feign a
megrim to go home, but not so small she would forget by morning.
Though most women would be flagrantly flirting with every man
present to make known any upset with their husbands.

Huntleigh, Nick had discovered in the card
room, saw nothing wrong at all, just a youthful, compliant,
entirely respectable girl who did everything he asked. He had been
nothing but generous in everything he said about her, though never
as besotted as some old men become about their young wives. She was
a veritable paragon, to hear her husband tell it—as hostess and
nursemaid and housekeeper and opponent at backgammon. He probably
didn’t even realize she might be pleasing in the bedroom.

Nick would be doing this poor young lady a
service, paying her a bit of attention, he told himself, liven
things up a bit. Every woman deserves to know when a gentleman
thinks she’s pretty, and any husband unaware his wife is upset with
him really had no right to keep her. Nick was flabbergasted
Huntleigh didn’t realize they had been having a disagreement all
evening, perhaps longer.

“I must apologize for requiring so much of
Lord Huntleigh’s time. I had no idea you might not find other
partners, or I would never have spirited him away.”

“It is of no concern. My husband only ever
attends parties to advance his business, and I keep myself
entertained. The Estermore’s picture gallery rivals any I’ve seen
outside a royal residence or museum.”

“I shall make a point of viewing it, so we
might have a topic of conversation next time we meet.” He paused,
uncertain if his usual gambit would produce a positive result, but
more impatient than usual in his pursuit. “Unless you should like
to adjourn there to guide me through the collection.”

She took two blatant steps away, but couldn’t
help her body turning toward him, eyes dropping. “I entertain
myself, Sir, not gentlemen of my husband’s acquaintance.”

He immediately withdrew his impropriety, but
not entirely the intent. “Such a shame you should have to entertain
yourself in the absence of admiring company.”

She looked around at the crowds either
staring pointedly away from her or talking about her behind their
hands, and shrugged one shoulder. “I prefer my own society to the
entertainments of the Season.”

“Do you?” He had seen the momentary longing
on her face as she watched the couples dancing by, ladies dresses
shimmering like precious jewels under the candlelight, but not half
as magnificent as her hair. A few loose strands fell from her
upswept coiffure, draping like antique gold down the side of her
face, her eyes set like sapphires on a diadem.

She glanced toward him to gauge his
sincerity, collecting her conversation. He saw the lonely young
lady she must have been as a debutante, and prepared himself to
carry the conversation, if he managed to make her nervous enough to
lose her head.

“Surely you have heard I am the biggest
wallflower on Earth, well familiar with the edges of a dance
floor.”

“I have only heard you charmed your husband’s
associates and the king’s ambassadors all over the globe,” he
half-lied, “and you are as responsible as Huntleigh for his many
successes.”

Her face turned away as a wall sconce
flickered as though it would burn out. He could only be so lucky as
to suddenly have a dimmer corner in which to carry out his
quest.

“You will gain no advantage trying to please
me. My husband will only take into account you tried and hold it
against you.”

“Surely I am at an advantage among friends,
and it behooves me to cultivate such relationships.”

“You are more likely to make me a friend,
Wellbridge,” Huntleigh interjected as he limped toward them, not a
moment or two before the lamp sputtered out, “by cultivating
relationships with everyone else’s wife.” He turned to her. “Have
we kept you waiting too long, my dear?”