Harlequin Historical February 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Major's Wife\To Tempt a Viking\Mistress Masquerade (64 page)

Behind her eyes, a sudden rush of hot tears welled and prickled. Astute, mercilessly accurate, he had touched the painful core of her plan and she could find no answer.

‘Forgive me,' he said, sitting up. ‘You've had a busy day, sweetheart. Let's take one thing at a time, shall we? Come on, show me what's upstairs before we have dinner. Has my valet arrived?'

Relieved by the change of subject, she stood up with him. ‘Half an hour ago. He and Evie are speaking at last.'

‘Glad to hear it. I wonder what that was all about.'

‘Loyalty, I suppose. Just following my lead.'

* * *

Yet with each new step she took towards this exhilarating domestic situation, Annemarie's own private yearnings were being met so perfectly in every respect that, if the time ever came for her to show her hand and to walk away from it at the height of his need for her, her world would collapse more cruelly than his, even so. He had other things to turn to for support, a world in which she would only ever be an accessory, not a significant part. Just as devastating as the loss of her new independence and the flattering involvement of being his partner would be the forfeiture of times like this when, wrapped in dressing gowns in a house of strange sounds and shadows, they sat to eat a cold finger-feast from the sheet-covered top of a large packing-case containing the new chandelier from Pellatt and Green's. Nothing too romantic, one might think, except to a woman like Annemarie who had always dressed for dinner but who, in the space of a week or so, now found herself doing whatever it took to please him and to enjoy it, too. But as they sat quietly devouring tiny pasties, salads and cold pheasant, Annemarie sensed how her heart was betraying her, instead of him, and that it was already too late to reverse the damage.

Laughing at themselves, their eyes met. ‘You can't believe you're doing this, can you, Lady Golding?' he said.

Licking her fingers noisily, her mischievous sideways glance reflected the absurdity of it all. ‘Don't tell Father,' she said, ‘or I shall not have a leg to stand on.' They had chosen to eat in what would eventually become the morning room and, earlier, the servants had come and gone like apparitions, fading through doors as their master and mistress murmured their way round the bedroom and bathroom where the starkness was now softened by folds of linen, cotton, silk and fringed velvet brocade, white lace-edged pillows and softly shifting bed-curtains of white silk lined with pale blue.

‘We'll have the oak floor polished,' Annemarie told him, ‘with a large blue-and-cream Axminster over here somewhere. I've ordered it.'

‘And I shall like it,' he added.

‘You will like it.' She smiled, slipping an arm around him. ‘
Will
you?' She made no objection when he drew her closely into his arms to show her where his thoughts had been since his upstairs tour. At no time during her whirlwind shopping spree had she been unsure of pleasing him, but nor had he been left out of her choices. She had already learned to respect his tastes and preferences. ‘I tried,' she whispered between his kisses, ‘to please you.'

‘Please me?' he growled. ‘My God, woman...you please me...' Sweeping her up into his arms, he carried her across to the pale smoothness of the bed, setting her alight with the tender weight of his powerful body and the bliss of being under him, privately and peacefully, in their own place.

Items of clothing gradually littered the so-tidy room as warm skin pressed, caressed and slid silkily down long interrupted surfaces, their hands exploring as if for the first time, their sighs broken by hungry kisses that travelled the length of their bodies, each part provoking its own kind of response. Still wondering at the newness of the experience, Annemarie soaked up the long slow loving just as Verne also discovered how the uniqueness of her splendid body yielded the rarity value of a priceless find. That such a creature should have suffered so deeply from neglect and treachery in quick succession gave him every reason to offer her the best he had in the hope that her bruised heart would mend and accept him as an essential part of her future. Her tears had shown him how close he was to understanding her and how disturbed she was by the emotional turmoil he'd alluded to earlier. Skilfully, through her tiredness, he helped her to forget.

It was hunger of another kind that reminded them, after a long interval of whispered earthy compliments that, if they did not appear downstairs soon, their supper might be returned to its maker. So dressing gowns were slipped on and, giggling like barefoot children, they sat on cushioned boxes to eat their first meal at Curzon Street and to sip champagne from hastily unwrapped wine glasses, all the more enjoyable for being some way outside Annemarie's precious conventions.

‘No,' said Verne, ‘I may not mention this to your father tomorrow, but I shall certainly hold it over your head for some time, my lady.'

* * *

The appointment at Carlton House was not until after noon, but already the rooms at Curzon Street were busy with more delivery men and assistants to hang the chandelier. Evie had been to Park Lane and was now filling the new wardrobes with gowns suitable for a royal engagement. For Verne's sake, she must look her best, be gracious and impressed by what she would see at Carlton House, for he had every faith in her ability to charm her host, otherwise he would not have risked a meeting.

Nevertheless, considering her strong views on the Prince's extravagance, Verne thought it might be something of a miracle if she managed to hide every one of her feelings, which were bound to be tested to their limits, especially as they ascended the grand double curve of the massive staircase into the Ante Room. Her lovely eyes seemed to devour the profusion of blue and gold, but nothing was said until he himself remarked, ‘You look stunning, my lady.'

‘Thank you, my lord. I'm trying to think of something equally complimentary to say about all this, but grandeur and opulence seem inadequate, don't they? Not very original, either.'

‘Don't try too hard,' he said as synchronised footmen opened the double doors at the far end of the room. ‘You'll find him very easy to talk to. Ah, here he comes.'

Previous encounters, one of them two years ago, one more recent, had warned her what she would see, yet the Prince's almost fifty-three years of self-indulgence were not at once apparent as he approached, more like an affable uncle than the overweight, petulant and gouty would-be Corinthian she had expected. Close up, she could see that he had once been a handsome man and that he took some pride in his appearance. ‘Ah, so you've brought the lady to see me at last, Verne,' he said, beaming with delight, his hands outstretched to raise Annemarie from her curtsy. Pulling her gently forwards, he placed a cool kiss on both her cheeks. ‘And about time, too. Tell me, Lady Golding, how is Lord Benistone? Is he still snapping up all those treasures I had set my heart on?'

‘He's well, your Highness, I thank you.' She hoped his notoriously uncertain memory would not lead him to questions more difficult to answer. But another figure had quietly appeared behind him, a handsome Junoesque lady of late middle age who showed by her motherly smile that she and the Prince were comfortable together. By her deep-green satin gown and matching jewels, the perfectly arranged grey hair and rouged lips, one might have mistaken her for his wife, though Annemarie knew she was not. Her cheery nod of greeting to Lord Verne widened to a smile as it reached Annemarie, though the dreaded question was already on its way.

‘And Lady Benistone, too? You are
so
like her. It's quite uncanny, isn't it, Isabella?' he said, turning to his companion. ‘You recall Esme Benistone, don't you? Were you not good friends once?'

Isabella, Marchioness of Hertford, deflected the question like an old hand. ‘Lady Golding,' she said, kindly, ‘we're so happy to see you again. Especially with our good friend Lord Verne. Jacques, my dear, you
must
bring Lady Golding up to stay with us soon. Didn't Lord Hertford wish you to see his latest shipment from the Continent before his Highness sees them? Those two,' she continued, placing a ring-loaded hand on Annemarie's arm, ‘are veritable
dragons.
They won't allow his Highness to see
anything
before they do in case he—'

‘My taste is
faultless
,' the Prince protested, laughing. ‘Maybe a little more eclectic than theirs... I
do
love the Chinese style, don't you, Lady Golding? But wait till you've seen my...come...this way...'

The relationship crisis averted, Lady Hertford winked boldly at Annemarie as the Prince led them through the double doors, easily diverting the fickle royal attention towards safer matters. Into the Crimson Drawing Room and the tent-like Circular Room—‘I simply
adore
tents, don't you, Lady Golding?'—and on into the Bow Room with its overpowering scarlet-flock wallpaper.

She fed him with questions, some of them searching, about his passion for art and his quest for more and more effective display, his answers revealing that this was a way for him to find a purpose in his life after being denied any of the responsibilities that went with his royal position. Beneath the ostentation and excess, she recognised his need to be admired and approved, like a child needing the comfort of toys in lieu of love. She saw how close he came to tears when he admitted how little he was enjoying the costly celebrations and how he recalled her smile in the park. Any thoughts she might have retained about embarrassing him further were dismissed as unworthy, a petty, pointless revenge on a man who had lost his way. Verne had been right about not bringing the jewels. Daily, one way or another, the Prince was being humiliated by his own misplaced cravings and, not knowing how else to deal with it, unable to accept advice, was trying to ignore what other men would have confronted, consoling himself instead with his own ideas of gratification.

Contributing what she could to the conversation, Annemarie was surprised how much she understood that she'd not expected to, or even wanted to. Was she not doing something very similar on a smaller scale? Was she not deriving comfort and fulfilment from spending someone else's money on her own surroundings? And had she not been trying to ignore her conscience and her heart's messages only to inflict some pain on the man who was willing to support her, for whatever reason? Did the reason matter any more? And would this be any different, in essence, from the Prince's shunning of Lady Emma Hamilton, whom he'd professed to love?

Had she, too, lost her way?

* * *

‘I cannot admire him, no,' she said to Verne as they returned to Curzon Street, ‘but I think I'm beginning to understand him a little more. And there are even some things I could get to like, although his blinkered attitude to spending isn't one of them. That, by the way, is something you and I may have to discuss.'

‘The Prince's spending?'

‘No, my lord. Mine. Ours.'

‘You have not heard me grumble. Yet,' he said, softly.

‘We shall not be reaching that point.'

‘Then let's leave it till after the weekend, shall we? Lady Hertford has invited us up to Ragley Hall.'

‘Oh dear. When? Surely not
this
weekend?'

‘I'm afraid so. Hert has some purchases he wants me to see.'

‘Cannot it wait? The house is barely furnished. And before you tell me again that this was all part of the bargain, allow me to point out that things are already tilting rather heavily in your favour. Two days shopping and a fleeting visit to the theatre are hardly going to help me much, are they?'

‘Get used to it, Annemarie,' he said. ‘There
will
be times when both of us are obliged to help the other out, with some inconvenience. It can hardly be otherwise, can it? You accepted the terms and just now you made me proud. Surely you're not going to balk at the second hurdle, are you?'

Goose-bumps began to creep along her arms. ‘I made you proud? Did I ?'

‘Very. Did you not notice how many times the Prince's Private Secretary came in to remind him of his next appointment? He was a good hour late, thanks to you. I've rarely seen him engrossed for so long. Even Isabella noticed it.'

‘Was she annoyed?'

‘Not at all. She wants the pleasure of your company. So did his Highness. Is that not worth the loss of a day or two of putting your house in order?'

‘Yes, of course. I'm sorry. I shall not grumble again.'

‘Come over here, woman.' His hand supported her across the swaying carriage, tucking her arm into the loop of his own, snuggling her close. ‘I know how much it means to you to have everything looking as you want it, but there's plenty of time, sweetheart. And the fleeting visit to the theatre, I might remind you, was your doing, not mine. Although I didn't particularly want to watch Keane as Shylock. Posturing dandyprat!'

She lay her head on his shoulder, smiling at the way he'd already turned her annoyance and selfishness around. Even the Prince Regent shared his pleasures with duty. ‘I think I quite enjoyed it,' she said.

‘But we didn't see—'

‘No, not Keane. My conversation with the Prince. He's very well informed, isn't he? And intelligent. And a good conversationalist.'

‘That's why I enjoy working for him.'

‘And not a word about the bureau, either.'

‘I told you, he's forgotten all about it.'

Annemarie had not fully appreciated, even though Verne had once mentioned it to her, how closely he and Lord Hertford worked together on the Prince Regent's art collection. Nor had she quite realised the extent to which she might become involved when he'd said he needed a knowledgeable lady to accompany him on social and business occasions. Mistakenly, she had assumed that the socialising would inevitably be of use to her in her search for her mother, which a weekend at Ragley Hall in Warwickshire clearly would not. It was time she could not afford, though she was happy enough to reacquaint herself with Lady Hertford, who had been one of her mama's closest friends.