The Perfect Princess (30 page)

Not that they had exchanged more than the obligatory greetings between a servant and his employer. Her father had impressed upon her the dangers of singling him out. Richard’s safety depended on complete anonymity. So she had tried to ignore him. But at night, she could see his cottage from her bedroom window, and she could not go to her own bed till the lights in his cottage went out.

Her brother Justin arrived on the scene at that moment,
right on time for his dance with Prudence, the dance Rosamund had arranged beforehand that he would ask for. In fact, she’d lectured her brothers on their duty—no slinking off to the card room, the billiard room, or the terrace to smoke their foul-smelling cigars. She wanted no wallflowers at her ball.

“Well, Roz,” he said, “here I am. The trouble is, I forget which—”

His words died away when he saw the anguished look on his sister’s face. He blinked, noticed Miss Dryden because his sister’s compelling stare darted to that lady then back to him, and he finished lamely, “I forget where I put my dancing gloves.”

“Try your pockets,” said his sister, feigning a laugh.

Justin delved into his pockets and came up with his white gloves. As he put them on, he bowed to Prudence. “Miss Dryden,” he said, “may I have the honor of this dance?”

Miss Dryden curtsied, murmured that the pleasure was hers, and allowed Justin to lead her onto the floor.

Callie, who had been watching the expressions chase themselves across Rosamund’s face, said abruptly, “Very touching, Rosamund, but it won’t work. Your Miss Dryden will never become the belle of the ball.”

“I don’t expect her to become the belle of the ball,” murmured Rosamund absently. Her eyes were trailing Miss Dryden as Justin led to her to a set. “I just wish I understood these sudden changes of mood that come over her.”

Callie wasn’t interested in Miss Dryden, or her moods. She said, “You do realize that everyone here expects your father to announce your engagement to Prince Michael before the night is out?”

Rosamund was startled. “Then they’ll be disappointed.”

“Then what is he doing here?”

“I couldn’t take back the invitation to my ball, nor did
I want to. Just because I’m not marrying the man doesn’t mean I have to be rude to him.”

“Careful, Roz, or like it or not, one of these days you’ll find yourself married to the prince.”

Rosamund turned to look at Callie. “Why do you say that?”

Callie shrugged. “You’re the kind of girl to whom things happen. Even when we were girls, you did exactly what was expected of you.”

Rosamund was on the point of taking umbrage, but from the corner of her eye, she saw Prince Michael at the edge of the dance floor in his dress regimentals, white tunic and black trousers. He was glancing around as though he were looking for a partner. “Let’s take a little walk,” she said.

She and Callie slipped through one set of doors and entered the cavernous, marble hall. Though there were chairs set out at intervals, there were few people about, for the orchestra had started playing, and couples had left to join the new sets.

They strolled to one of the long windows that had a fine view of the park. There wasn’t much to see in the dark, but they could hear the wind whistling through the pillars in the entrance courtyard.

Groundsmen came into view and began to light lanterns that had been blown out by the wind. Callie was speaking, but Rosamund wasn’t really listening. She was watching the groundsmen, trying to determine if Richard might be one of them.

“Did you hear me, Rosamund?”

“What?”

“I said,” said Callie, “that it wouldn’t surprise me if you know more about Maitland than you’re telling.”

Rosamund’s heart picked up speed. “Like what, for instance?”

Callie smiled. “I don’t know. But when you talk of him, I get the distinct impression that you and he
became quite cozy in the week you spent together. Did he confide in you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” said Rosamund, managing to sound as though she meant it.

She heard footsteps, turned, and sucked in a breath. There was someone there, a man who looked faintly sinister in the candlelight, then he took a step toward her and she recognized him. It was Charles Tracey, Callie’s brother-in-law.

“Charles,” said Callie, “you gave us a fright. Don’t you know that eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves?” Her eyes narrowed on his face, then she said wearily, “It was a joke, Charles. You were supposed to laugh and come back at me with a witty rejoinder.”

He did laugh, briefly, then he looked at Rosamund. “I believe you promised this dance to me. We’re not too late. There are still sets forming.”

To make up for Callie’s rudeness, she smiled at him warmly. He looked like a sick puppy. Having come down with the same sickness, she was becoming an expert on unrequited love.

If only she knew the cure for it.

It was only when the dance was over that she realized she hadn’t promised that dance, or any dance, to Charles Tracey. She had the oddest feeling that things were not as they seemed—Prudence, Callie, Charles—but she couldn’t put her finger on what was wrong.

Shaking off her unease, she went in search of Aunt Fran, knowing that she would find her in the card room. Wrong again. Aunt Fran was nowhere to be found.

At midnight, the doors to the conservatory were opened and supper was announced. It was an informal affair, with the food laid out on long tables so that guests could help themselves. The original idea was that they could take their plates outside and eat in the marquee,
and afterward stroll down the numerous walks to view the lake with its waterfall, or visit the rotunda or the folly. But the weather wasn’t cooperating and only a few brave souls ventured outside.

Rosamund knew she couldn’t eat a thing. That was one of the symptoms of unrequited love, this loss of appetite, but at least her vague feelings of unease had vanished. Everything was as it should be. Aunt Fran was with the other dowagers, circling the supper tables like twittering swallows, diving down for tidbits when something caught their fancy; Callie wasn’t eating, but talking, holding her audience enthralled, Charles Tracey among them; and Prudence, well, maybe Prudence
was
the belle of the ball. She was flanked by Justin and Prince Michael, and each seemed to be vying for her attention.

As for herself, she was moving from table to table, spending a few minutes with each guest, not so much in small talk, but in an effort to get to know them better. She had taken Richard’s words to heart, when he’d accused her of being haughty and unwilling to lower herself to mix with the other ladies at that ball in Lisbon. She saw now that she’d been thinking of herself, when she should have considered the feelings of others. It was hard work. Some people would never see beyond her rank, and their empty blandishments and ingratiating manners were almost enough to make her retreat into her private world.

She was moving to the next table when a footman stepped in front of her, blocking her way.

“A glass of wine, Lady Rosamund?” he intoned respectfully.

She looked at the silver tray he offered with its array of crystal glasses. “Thank you, no.”

When she tried to get past him, he blocked her way again. “Take the glass of wine, Rosamund,” he said in a fierce undertone.

She would know that voice anywhere.

Her eyes flew to his face. It was Richard, but not a Richard she had ever seen before. There was lace at his throat, and lace at his wrists. His broad shoulders were hugged by an emerald green frock coat with gold frogging and huge turned-back cuffs. His white powdered wig did something wonderful to the harsh planes of his face.

He was gorgeous.

She took a glass of wine from his tray, put it to her lips, and took a healthy swallow.

“The folly in five minutes,” Richard said, and he sauntered off with his tray.

She watched him go. White satin breeches and silk stockings completed his livery. Her eyes lingered on his legs. After a moment, she took another gulp of wine. Then she looked around for her shawl.

The folly wasn’t far from the house, but it took her some time to detour around a group of gentlemen who had come outside to smoke their cigars. The groundsmen had given up on lighting the lanterns that had blown out, and seemed to be concentrating their energies on clearing away the marquee. She heard them cursing the rain and making jests about the inside servants and what a soft life they had.

By the time she reached the folly, which was nothing more than a glorified gazebo, she was wishing she had taken an umbrella as well as her shawl. The rain was no more than a drizzle, but her silk shawl was no protection against it.

Richard was already there. He’d doused all the candles but one, and she saw that he’d removed the powdered wig and the lace at his throat and wrists. When he said her name softly, her pulse jumped.

“I could not leave without saying good-bye to you,” he said.

Whatever she had expected to hear, it was not this. Eventually, yes, but not yet. He’d only been a week at Twickenham. He was supposed to stay for two weeks at the very least, until the search for him was called off or had died down. Harper should have told her, or her father should, or her brothers. She should have had time to prepare for this.

Her chest tightened as she looked at him. Couldn’t he see what this was doing to her? Of course he couldn’t. He didn’t know what love was. It wasn’t his fault. It was just how things were.

Don’t turn into another Charles Tracey
, she told herself fiercely. She swallowed the thick knot in her throat. “Does my father know?”

“Not yet. I thought I would speak to you first.”

She nodded, though she didn’t know why, except perhaps that she knew there was no arguing with Richard Maitland when he’d made up his mind about something.

“Where will you go?”

“It’s best if you don’t know.”

She managed to keep her voice light. “We’ve had this conversation before. Same question, same answer. You’ll note that this time, though, I don’t take offense.”

Smiling a little, he said, “If I gave offense, it was because I didn’t know you. Now that I do know you, I respect and admire you. I think you are a credit to the name you bear.”

She was disappointed in him. He was beginning to sound like all those people who went in awe of her just because she was a duke’s daughter. Could this be Richard Maitland speaking?

He was being polite and gracious, that was all, and she had to meet him halfway. “So this time, it really is goodbye, Richard?”

“Yes.”

Someone had to leave first, but she couldn’t get her
feet to move. “I should go,” she said, hoping . . . hoping . . . that it wouldn’t end like this.

It didn’t. He took a step toward her. “Before you go, I want to talk to you about something.”

Her hopes were dashed. There was nothing loverlike in his expression, voice, or manner. Her father adopted the same benign look when he was about to lecture her for her own good.

There was nothing she hated more than to be lectured for her own good.

“Oh?” she said.

He smiled. “It’s about Prince Michael.”

She didn’t return his smile. “What about Prince Michael?”

There wasn’t a gentle way of saying it, so he came straight to the point. “Don’t marry him, Rosamund. He’s not the man for you. I’m telling you this for your own good. And the same goes for all those other puppies who have been sniffing around your skirts this last week. They’re not for you, either. Why rush into marriage? Give yourself some time. One day, I’m sure you’ll meet the right man.”

“And how,” she said sweetly, showing him her teeth, “will I know he’s the right man?”

Richard folded his arms across his chest and studied her thoughtfully. Her cheeks were flushed, her bosom was heaving, and there was a tempest in her eyes. She had positioned herself by the door so that he couldn’t leave without removing her. Well, she’d better watch out, because he’d had his fill of watching her cavort with a succession of popinjays this last week. He was trying to be reasonable. All he wanted was for her to be happy. Why couldn’t she see that?