Lois Greiman (28 page)

T
hey rode the next morning, and although Megan felt a bit more comfortable around horses, she was still more than happy to ride the bay gelding she’d found to be so patient some days earlier. Lord Kendall spent much of his time by her left side, and Lord Riven was oft on her right, and though they were fine companions, she frequently found herself scanning the throng ahead. She had barely spoken to Nicol in days. Which was just as well, of course, but wasn’t he supposed to be looking after her?

There was a bit of a flurry over who could help her dismount once they returned to the palace, but Lord Kendall won out, slipping her to the ground, then bowing with a flourish.

In the afternoon she visited an orphanage that had become Anna’s pet project, and early evening found her dressing for the opera. Mary chose a gown for her. It was the color of a summer peach and just as soft to the touch. Her hair was pinned up and her neck draped in ivory pearls before she finally stepped into her carriage and rode down the cobbled
street to the opera house. Paqual sat across from her, making dull small talk and sitting as stiff as a hairpin.

The opera was, apparently, the place to see and be seen. The glitter of the place was astonishing. The chairs, set in a box at the exact center of the garish stage, were not particularly comfortable. But the astounding volume of the musicians, combined with their bright face paint and revealing costumes gave her much to marvel at. Still, to Megan’s frustration, she found she could barely understand a word.

True, she was hardly a connoisseur of language, having studied it for approximately three minutes, but it had been a hard three minutes, and even the viscount had admitted she was an apt student. The thought made her restive, but she dared not fidget, for next to Paqual’s stoic demeanor, she always felt as if she were as restless as a red ant.

Intermission came finally. Because of the crush of nobility, exiting her box took all of ten minutes, but finally she found herself sipping punch and scanning the crowd.

“Your Majesty.”

Megan glanced at Paqual. He bowed stiffly, then indicated the young stranger who stood to his right. “I would like to present Giovanni Fantino, the marquis of Altura.”

The young nobleman bowed from the waist, sweeping his black top hat inches from the floor before straightening and finding her eyes. “Your Majesty, I am most honor to make your acquaintance.”

“Lord Altura,” she said, and nodded briefly. At last, someone with whom she was not supposed to have had a previous history. “Are you enjoying the show?”

“But of course.” He had a strong accent, which she couldn’t quite identify, and his eyes sparkled in the uncertain light of the wall sconces. Not much taller than she, even in his high-heeled Hessians, he had a wicked smile that winked like lightning beneath his carefully trimmed mustache.
“Who could not be enjoying a Frenchman in Sedonia doing a poor rendition of an Italian opera.”

“A poor rendition?”

He bowed again, and perhaps he tried to look humble, but he didn’t quite manage it. “I mean no offense to you or your fabulous country, princess,” he said. “But you must be visiting my homeland if you wish to experience true opera.”

“Your homeland?”

He looked horrifically surprised. “Italy,” he said, sounding aghast that she might not know, and perhaps she should have, but she was a princess and all was easily forgiven.

She gave him a blithe glance. “But where in Italy exactly?” she asked, making it sound, with the briefest of efforts, as if it had been his mistake and not hers at all.

“Ahh, of course.” His tone was apologetic. “My home it lie in Florence. The most beautiful city in all of the world. You have been there?”

“Not recently, I fear.”

“Then you must come soon. It is…” He made a broad motion with his hands. “As heaven in the summer.”

“I shall try,” she said, and turned smoothly away, but he stepped up beside her.

“And what of you, Your Majesty?” he asked. “Are you enjoy the opera?”

She had almost fallen asleep once her initial shock had worn off. She had almost hoped to later, in fact, but Francois Dubois’s high notes were a bit too loud.

The marquis laughed at her reticence. “They are difficult to understand, no?”

“The princess speaks fluent Italian,” Lord Kendall argued, falling in step with them.

“Ahh well, I myself speak it quite well,” said the marquis, and smiled as he brushed his chest with his fingertips, “and yet I sometimes find myself at a loss. Would you, per
haps…” He gave her a truncated bow as they walked along. “Could I be so bold as to offer myself as an interpreter?”

She turned coolly toward him. “You are kind, my lord,” she began, but he interrupted with daring speed.

“Not at all, Your Majesty. I would forever be in honor for the opportunity to assist Sedonia’s royal jewel. And, too,” he said, leaning a bit closer and sharing a conspiratorial grin. “I will make my brothers ache with the envy when I tell them I shared a box with a lady of your unsurpassed beauty.”

“I have a need to speak with Lord Dellaire,” Paqual said. “The marquis could take my seat.”

“Well,” Megan said, and, lifting her skirts carefully in one gloved hand, gave the marquis a slanted glance as she climbed the steps to her lofty perch. “I would hate to cause the loss of your siblings’ respect.”

“You are most gracious,” he said, and offered his hand to assist her up the stairs. She took it with slight misgivings. “Since such a stunning lady as yourself has surely not experience such sibling squabbles.”

She picked her way through the compliments. “I fear I was not blessed with either brothers or sisters.”

He shrugged, his grin ever-present. “They may come in handy when looking for sisterly advise or appropriate footwear,” he said, indicating his boots. “But when each one of them is taller than one’s self it becomes naught but…irritating.”

It took her a moment to realize his implications. “Each one?”

He sighed dramatically, looking her straight in the eye. “My sisters they are unreasonable tall.”

She couldn’t help but smile as a large lord in an old-fashioned powdered wig bowed dramatically. “So many people are,” she murmured, nodding pleasantly.

Fantino laughed as he handed her into her chair. “I knew at the first that we were kindred spirit.”

The second half of the performance began with new scenery and a handsome woman in blond braids shrieking something inarticulate. Her gown was made of blue velvet, which was laced tight up the front, causing her gigantic bosom to swell up close to her collarbones.

Megan glanced toward her interpreter and he jumped slightly as if he had been transfixed. “My apology,” he said and leaned close. “She says her husband is dead and she has nothing for which to live.” The words shrieked on. The marquis raised his brows and listened raptly.

“And?” she asked.

“And,” he said as the woman began tearing at her clothes with overzealous drama. “I…seem to have a mouse in my gown.” His brows were up in his hairline as he watched the performance. “Which make me squeak on the high notes.”

Megan raised a skeptical brow at her interpreter just as a man strode onto the stage. Already in full roar, he raised his hands toward the heavens as he rambled endlessly on.

“Well?” she asked finally.

“He say…” Fantino began, turning from the stage in obvious amazement. “Lucky mouse.”

“Really,” she said, her tone skeptical.

“
Si.
”

“I fear my speech tutors may have misled me,” she quipped, and he laughed.

The rest of the evening went by amicably. The marquis was as clever as he was attentive, and begged her to call him Giovanni. Though he tended to sit a bit close and touch her hand with more frequency than she would have liked, she found his youthful foolishness somewhat refreshing after Paqual’s gray stodginess.

But retreating from her box finally, she caught a glimpse of Nicol. He was standing with his back to her. His companion glanced up. She was a tall, elegant beauty with sleepy eyes and dark, flawless skin.

“Your Majesty?” the marquis repeated.

“I beg your pardon?” Megan asked, returning her attention to him.

“I asked if I might accompany you back to the palace.”

“’Tis late,” she said, and turned her gaze forward again as they made their way down the stairs and through the great, arched doors. “Surely you will wish to find your own bed.”

The Italian smiled. “I shall be sleep at the palace tonight, with your permission, of course.”

She raised a brow, and he hurried on.

“I have brought a message for your chancellor.”

“Ahh.” Who was the dark-haired beauty who stood so close to the viscount? An old paramour or a new conquest? She felt her stomach twist.

“And I thought if you would being so gracious, I might take a bit more of your time on the journey to the palace.”

They had just reached the royal carriage. Four white stallions champed their bits and tossed plumed heads. Two liverymen mounted the vehicle behind the box while a half dozen guards stood in an arch around her; the extravagance was impressive, the crowd gay, and her companion entertaining. Yet she wanted nothing more than to find herself alone, nothing more than to sit in the darkness with her thoughts and try to unravel the mystery of how she had gotten where she was.

“I fear my carriage is already quite crowded,” she said, remembering the current conversation.

“But of course.” He gave her another bow and reached for her hand. “I am hardly hope to have you to myself. But I will not take up so very much room.” He stroked her hand
with his thumb and straightened. “After all, I am small.” He was standing quite close now. “In some areas,” he added.

She was about to pull her hand away, to mount her carriage and leave him standing there like an oversexed cockerel, but it was at that very minute that she saw Nicol exit the opera house. His companion, her expression seductive and her dark hair perfectly coifed, was smiling into his face and pressing a less than subtle breast against his arm.

“Very well,” she said, and gave him a portion of the smile the dark-haired woman had shared with Nicol. “After all, Sedonians are known for their generosity.”

“’Tis exactly what I was hope for,” he admitted, and handed her into the swaying carriage.

From the window, Megan watched Nicol and his companion disappear into the crowd. Giovanni introduced himself to her ladies-in-waiting, and though he subsequently tried to draw Megan back into conversation, she kept herself to herself.

Thus, he satisfied himself by sharing his flirtations with Lady Mary and Lady Carolyn who laughed dutifully if a bit too loudly at his jokes.

By the time they reached the palace, Megan’s head was pounding. With what she hoped was a stately nod, she said her good nights and made her way up the wide and winding staircase to her apartments.

Once in her bedchamber, Lady Mary helped her disrobe, but Megan shooed her away before she could see to her hair.

“Is something amiss, Your Majesty?” she asked.

“Nothing except for this ache in my head,” she said, and, pushing the image of Nicol from her mind, massaged her brow.

In less than a second Mary had hustled off to find a remedy. Megan sat upon a stool and unwound the string of tiny pearls from her hair. Her reflection gazed back. An elegant
lady in a pristine nightrail. An adored princess in an opulent palace. A young beauty with a host of suitors.

But it was all a lie. Nothing was hers. Not the identity. Not the clothes, not the suitors. Indeed, the only man who knew the truth was ensconced with another—an ebon-haired beauty with a legitimate title and a fondness for a man who was her equal.

There was a quick rap at the door and Mary hurried in carrying a steaming mug. “Here then, Your Majesty,” she said, handing over the offering. “A bit of mulled wine with a pinch of valerian. It will soothe the ache and help you sleep.”

Megan sipped the drink, but her melancholy mood remained, haunting her. She wished she could disappear, that she could slip away into the night and leave this all behind. And why could she not? The guards who watched the stairways did not hope to keep people in. Only to keep them out. It would be simple enough to leave. But what of this place? These people? What of the true princess? Megan had vowed to stay until Tatiana returned. But that should have already taken place. She should have already been long gone, returned to her own world. A stab of emotion pricked her, but for the life of her, she couldn’t tell what it was. Regret or fear or mere sadness.

“Are you well, Your Majesty?”

She sipped the wine and glanced up. “Do you think…In the time I have been here, Mary, have I done any good?”

“Of course, Your Majesty. You needn’t ask.”

Platitudes. But what had she expected? She nodded. “My apologies,” she said. “It must just be the headache.”

Mary was silent for a moment, then, “Your mother oft suffered from headaches.”

Megan glanced sharply up. “What?”

“I knew the duchess quite well.”

“Oh.” Megan’s mind, lulled by some strange depression,
was playing tricks on her. Or perhaps it was the wine, but for a moment she had thought the other had known her own mother, a red-haired angel with a heart of purest gold. “Did you?”

“Yes.” Setting aside a pair of slippers, Mary caught Megan’s gaze in the mirror and shyly made her way across the floor. “She was a great beauty. Like yourself.”

Sincere kindness. Megan could hear it in the girl’s tone. But what she wanted just now, was her own mother. Or at least a memory. Another to remember her goodness.

“I thought,” she continued, “when you first came to the palace that you were like her in other ways.”

“Such as?”

“She was…Forgive me, Your Majesty,” she said, and bobbed her head, her cheeks blushed. “I speak out of turn.”

“No. Please. Say what you will. Lady Fellway and I were never close.” Finally, a sliver of truth.

“No.” Mary shook her head. “You wouldn’t be. She was…” She clasped her hands in front of her mint green skirt. “She was a duchess.”