Royal Regard
Authors: Mariana Gabrielle
Tags: #romance, #london, #duke, #romance historical, #london season, #regency era romance, #mari christie, #mariana gabrielle, #royal regard
by Mariana Gabrielle
Royal Regard
Copyright 2014 Mari Anne Christie
.
All Rights Reserved.
Published by: Whaley Digital Press, LLC
Smashwords Edition
ISBN:
978-1-310-64108-4
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This book is a work of fiction.
Names,
characters, places, and incidents are either a product of fiction
or are used in a fictitious manner, including portrayal of
historical figures and situations. Any resemblance to actual
persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
La Déesse Noire: The Black Goddess
Sample Chapter
To
Phillip Bradbury,
who has reminded me time and again
that romance is wild, wonderful, and wicked,
and heroes and villains are not always as they
seem.
For consistency and
simplicity, I have applied English capitalization conventions to
the French and Italian nobility.
1820:
London, England
Teeth clenched against the wrong thing she was sure
to say, shoulders cramped and stomach churning, Baroness Holsworthy
smoothed down the tiers of ruffles on her borrowed dress, tapping
her toe out of rhythm to the music. The stays she wore so
infrequently, but would never abandon in London, dug into her waist
like a fork into flummery.
Bella tried not to stare into the looking
glasses lining the Almack’s ballroom, hoping to appear insouciant,
well above silly concerns of wardrobe and hairstyle, ignoring the
sight of her lips trembling. However, this only left her to look at
the overwhelming crowd of vexatious people, not just their harmless
reflections.
She picked at the poorly
fitting, delicate tulle floating around her body, a borrowed dress
better suited to her prettier cousin Charlotte at age seventeen
than either woman in their thirties.
Wriggling her shoulders
beneath the almost-adequate alterations Charlotte’s maid had
accomplished in the fifteen minutes allotted for the impossible
task, Bella thoroughly regretted her spontaneous decision to call
on her cousin so late in the day.
The music had already started for a
contredanse
, but she paid little attention to the dancers
taking their places, distracted by the bright candlelight mirrored
in the gilt trim along every wall. She stopped her toe drumming
against the parquet floor; given her situation, there was no
prospect of dancing, so it made no sense to engage even one foot
with the music. Of course, the only other activity to engage in was
gossip, from which she would be excluded by virtue of being the
primary topic.
The aristocrats peering at her through
quizzing glasses over the bannister of the upper floor set her
heart trembling, so she turned the corner of her eye, her
peripheral vision next caught by a grouping of at least half a
dozen women, just outside her hearing, staring at her as they
chattered behind their fans.
It seemed a fine moment to take in the
frescos above the bas-relief mouldings, all pretty enough, but no
masterpieces here. The sculpture might as well be plaster pasted
onto the cheapest marble veneers, and the paintings could have been
commissioned from any student at the Royal Academy. Having seen so
many masterworks around the world, she could find nothing to keep
her attention from wandering back to the echoes of guests in the
wavy pier glass, which had been silvered poorly and was, if she
looked closely, somewhat unclean.
She patted at her chignon, searching out
loose tendrils of her stick-straight hair. Surely, it would be
falling out of the tight ringlets by now, a style that made her
face look a half-stone heavier and had no chance of surviving the
heat of the crowds, no matter how chilly the spring evening outside
the door. As suspected, loose strands were already sticking to the
back of her neck above her nearly bared shoulders, and she
grimaced, envisioning the sweaty mess in plain view of anyone
behind her.
She sought her husband in the crush of
bodies, mindful of her fluttering hands, but unable to quell them.
Craning her neck, her nose wrinkled against too many colognes
barely masking the smell of too many people. Her cousin, the
Marchioness of Firthley, appeared at her side and snapped her fan
across Bella’s arm.
“You look like you have a palsy, Bella. Stop
twitching. They will be along shortly.”
Between her rigid carriage, the height of her
coiffure of black curls, the steep heels of her dancing shoes, and
the sleek velvet gown making her appear more slender than her
figure allowed, Charlotte seemed to tower above Bella, though she
wasn’t more than an inch taller. Less than a year older, the
unyielding lines of her proud visage added a decade to her show of
superiority.
Bella reined in her movements, but continued
to eye the throng. “I merely—” She crumpled a ruffle near her hip
without noticing the fists she had formed.
“It was the only dress I had that could be
altered.”
Sighing, Bella capitulated, “You carry no
blame for my dreadful silhouette.”
Papa had always called her
sturdy
.
Unfashionably square in form, with rather broad shoulders, her best
feature lovely, long legs she had always wished she could use to
her advantage. While Empire styles flattered her figure as much as
clothing ever did, she had never fit comfortably into Charlotte’s
dresses, even with enough corseting to buckle her knees. These
scores of ruffles made her look more like an Egyptian column than a
woman.
Smiling more gently, Charlotte patted the
pink mark the fan had made on Bella’s forearm, reminding her cousin
yet again, “Even after fifteen years, they are the same people they
were when you left, and you are now a baroness with a goodly
fortune and a husband distinguished in the diplomatic service. You
may find you are made a countess before long. Alexander says
four-to-one at White’s.” Charlotte’s sharp eyes flashed, and she
spoke from the side of her mouth. “Prepare to pretend you are
civilized. You’ve been spotted.”
Reflected in the
silvery glass behind Charlotte, Bella’s eyes
widened in alarm, and beneath her unfashionably sun-warmed skin,
her face paled. Pivoting, she insinuated herself behind Charlotte’s
right arm and ducked her head behind the princess sleeve of
Charlotte’s much lovelier gown.
Charlotte stepped away, leaving her no place
to hide. “Lady Lannedae and Lady Yarley are
coming this way, and I shall have to present you to the
hostesses before long, or we will be summoned. It is miraculous I
could secure vouchers without an interview.”
“Only so Lady Jersey can be first to tell
tales,” Bella grumbled in a higher-pitched voice than she had
meant, as she smoothed down the awful dress. Charlotte poked her
fan at Bella’s hand. “Stop it. You have to face the gossips
sometime.”
Charlotte and Bella both curtsied to the much
older ladies, and Charlotte made the introductions: “Lady Yarley,
Lady Lannadae, might I present my cousin, Lady Holsworthy?”
Both ladies sniffed, as though they hadn’t
come over specifically to speak to her. Lady Yarley’s mouth
puckered like she was
sucking soured food
from her teeth, and Lady Lannadae’s eyes
snapped
as viciously as a hungry crocodile
. They stood straighter
than Bella’s hair, elbows tucked into their sides, hands grasped
tightly across their old-fashioned waistlines, identical but for
color—one lady in mauve with grey trim and the other grey trimmed
in mauve—both restraining themselves to the last vestiges of
pretended courtesy.
Bella knew the role she had to play, no
matter how unpleasant it might be. Her husband had always depended
on her gracious behavior and deference toward anyone with whom he
might do business, most especially men’s wives. It was very nearly
second nature, even in London, so she pasted on a simpering
smile.
