Royal Regard (2 page)

“Ladies, I am so pleased to meet you. It has
been far too long since I have spoken to civilized people in the
English tongue. Lady Lannadae, I must say the lace on your gown is
lovelier than any I have seen, even in Brussels. I hope you might
tell me where you found it.”

Without so much as a how-do-you-do, Lady
Yarley ripped into her subject as a wild dog into a cornered coney.
“I’ve heard you and Lord Holsworthy have been in the most
disreputable places—the Dark Continent, the Spanish New World—”

Lady Lannadae broke in, “The penal
colonies!”

Eyeing her cohort
coldly,
Lady Yarley continued, “I cannot imagine any
well-bred young lady surviving such a voyage.”

Both of the women’s eyes narrowed to exactly
the same slits.

Bella’s mouth twisted into a patently false
depiction of continued civility. “The blizzards of Siberia, the
monsoons of the Orient, the tropics of South America…” As the
ladies leaned in, intolerance dripping from their rabid fangs,
Bella abruptly decided to provide them fresh meat.

In a clear, uplifted voice, infused with the
ice of a Russian winter, she continued: “Some places, one can
hardly stand to wear any clothing at all. I have seen more natives
au naturel
than you might imagine exist on the planet.”

Lady Lannadae sucked in a breath, nearly
swooning.

Charlotte’s voice took on a shrill tone as
she laughed too loudly, “My cousin is such a goose. Of course, she
is joking.”
Jabbing the fan into Bella’s side,
she whispered
, “
Au naturel
… My heavens, Bella.”

Lady Yarley spoke to fill her companion’s
shocked silence. “No lady of my acquaintance would stand for such
immodesty.”

“Given the choice of standing for it or being
cut up and made into British-subject soup,” Bella returned, “I
learned to cope with the indiscretions of people who know no
better. I like to think I was a civilizing influence.”

Suddenly feeling her age
and experience, Bella determined to hide neither
.

“Of course, we haven’t been without the
trappings of civilization entirely. We’ve just spent the last
half-year as guests of King Louis in Paris, though lavish
apartments in the Tuileries Palace were not our standard fare. Most
often it was riding astride on camels and bathing in river water
under tents. When we had tents, of course. And the food! Rancid
meat, offal, reptiles, insects; the retching alone might have
killed me. And obviously, only by the grace of God have I made it
back without being raped to death by hordes of barbarians.”

Judging by the matching pinched looks of
horror on their faces, if Lady Lannadae and Lady Yarley hadn’t
leaned against each other, they both might have fainted dead away
on the Aubusson carpet. Charlotte fumbled in her
reticule
, presumably for smelling
salts
.

“It has been so lovely to meet you, ladies,”
Bella said crisply. “You must feel free to call. I will be
receiving Monday and Thursday afternoons.”
Turning away from them, Bella once more sought her husband
through the crowds in which she would soon be a social
pariah
. In that moment, she didn’t give a whit, but was
canny enough to know she would later.

Before the ladies could respond, even before
Charlotte could voice the horror crossing her face, a man stepped
up to introduce himself, ignoring the need to be presented, his
lips turned up at Bella’s pointed depictions.

“
Bonsoir
, ladies,” he nodded briefly,
but didn’t bow, to each of them. All of the women curtsied, though
Charlotte’s face fell still and silent.

“I had hoped to gain an introduction to the
celebrated Baroness Holsworthy.” He bowed deeply and kissed Bella’s
hand before she offered. “I have heard you are the most fascinating
creature to grace our shores in a century.”

Charlotte grimaced as she made the
presentation: “Lady Holsworthy, may I present Adolphe Fouret,
Monsieur le Duc de Malbourne?”

His dark hair was cut short, slicked back
with pomade from a widow’s peak, highlighting eyes and brows black
as coal and deep as a quarry. High cheekbones and a hawk-like
Gallic nose spoke of an aristocratic bloodline, and flawlessly
tailored evening clothes showed a likely fortune to perfection,
every inch in black but for his pave-diamond
fleur-de-lys
cravat pin, emblematic of the French monarchy. A lifetime of
haughtiness preceded him, thicker than the scent of bergamot
wafting from his hair.

“
Enchantée, Monseigneur
,” Bella said
in his native language. “Are you enjoying the party?”

“But of course, you speak French,” he
observed in English, “and with a perfect accent.”

“
Mais oui.
How could I entertain in
Paris otherwise?”

Lord Malbourne chuckled and his smile slid
like a fingertip up her arm. He continued the exchange in French,
excluding the other women by posture, if not conversation.

“I hope you will indulge me one day soon with
your impressions of Paris. It has been more than thirty years since
I last stood on French soil, almost too young to be called a
man.”

Bella considered his probable age and took in
his still youthful appearance: hair only slightly silvered at the
temples, face barely lined, spine straight and unyielding. His
frame was still powerful and athletic, more like a man twenty years
younger. More like a man who might attract a woman her age.

Lady Yarley and Lady Lannadae watched
closely, one with eyes on her, the other staring at the duke,
switching with every utterance.
Realizing she
had been considering his body much longer than she should, Bella
shook her head and cleared her throat to return to the
present
moment
.

“I would be pleased to engage in such
discourse, Your Grace, but I am afraid you will find my impressions
weigh heavily toward
le
Jardin des Tuileries
and
le
Musée du Louvre
, not intrigues at Court.”

“Of course,” he agreed, shoulders held
straighter once he noticed she was looking. “But I have heard from
across the water that you are a most original hostess and patroness
of the arts. Your small suppers and
soirées musicales
are
very nearly legend. I will look forward to dancing with you this
evening, if you will permit.” His lips twitched. “Perhaps you will
share some tales of your travels. I have heard they are
très
amusants
.”

“You will have to ask my husband, Your Grace,
for I shan’t dance at all without his accord.”

It was her customary answer in any unfamiliar
ballroom, until she could discern the undercurrents of the event,
and until Myron advised on any men whom she needed to impress with
her flawless dancing and charming gentility. Once finished with
that chore, she could retire to a seat along the wall.

Lady Yarley snapped, “It is a wonder your
husband—”

“I certainly understand,” Lord Malbourne
agreed, dismissing Lady Yarley with his eyes. “Although I shall be
bereft should he refuse. If you will forgive, I have other business
to attend, but will search you out as soon as I might speak to Lord
Holsworthy.”
Bella felt her color rise as he
bent over her hand again; she dared not look at the elderly women
who were sure to pass on this even-better gossip
. “Until
then,
ma chère
.”

Hot, restless unease travelled down her neck;
her cheeks flamed when she felt it spread to the low
décolletage
of the loathsome dress, and then watched
Malbourne’s eyes follow. His lips turned up in a barely perceptible
leer—a subtle, momentary expression of raw desire and innate carnal
authority somehow even more French than his conversation.

His nod both acknowledged and dismissed
everyone in the vicinity but Bella, from whom he would not look
away. Dropping her gaze to the floor, her eyes swept the corners of
the room, searching an escape from his scrutiny. Finally, he
snapped his heels together and backed into the crowd.

Before she could take up the conversation
again, Lady Lannadae and Lady Yarley excused themselves, presumably
to tell everyone in London that the Duke of Malbourne had just
called her ‘dear.’

“Bella!” Charlotte snapped. “That was awful!
You can’t just talk about
naked barbarians
at Almack’s.”

“I’ll speak of anything I like to such
horrible old cats. They are lucky I didn’t come here tonight in
trousers with a dagger and pistol in my belt.” Bella said, tossing
her head, feeling more ringlets fall out of their pins. “They had
no liking for me fifteen years ago, nor I them.” Her voice revealed
a bit more bravado than good for her. “Myron is still a parvenu,
and I am the daughter of a disgraced baronet. We wouldn’t even have
Strangers’ Tickets if not for you.”

“Myron has the king’s confidence, Countess
Peagoose, and you have Myron’s. As long as you both stay in
Prinny’s favor, you can dine out among the social set forever.”

“To my infinite dismay.”

Bella had never aspired to be part of the
social whirl.
Her childhood had been spent
entirely on Charlotte’s father’s estate in Somerset. Charlotte, the
viscount’s daughter, resided in the sixty-room manor house. Bella
lived with her destitute father and brothers in a run-down cottage
on the outskirts of her uncle’s land: three rooms above, three
below.

With no dowry to speak of, no firm foothold
in the landed gentry, and no semblance of a pretty face, it was
only by the sponsorship of her cousin and aunt that she had any
prospects at all. If not for them, Bella would have been married to
a country squire or a vicar with low expectations—or more likely,
never married at all. She couldn’t imagine what machinations must
have been required to gain her admittance to these exclusive
assembly rooms.

“I have no wish to be a countess, and it is
much simpler to act the baroness while wearing one’s own
clothes.”

“It couldn’t be helped,” Charlotte said. “It
is not my fault you were robbed. I cannot imagine why you stayed at
the Blue Bear. Everyone knows—”

“I am now well aware what everyone
knows.”

Bella wished she and her husband had never
stopped at the horrible roadside inn. They had woken to find a
sneak thief had stolen the night’s receipts from the innkeeper and
money and valuables from every traveler, including the Holsworthy’s
luggage and their coach from the stables.

The theft had been a real blow. They had lost
her only child’s christening gown, a gift from Charlotte that had
never been used; Myron’s war medals from the rebellion in the
American colonies; the miniatures that were the only remembrances
she had of her family; and the elegant Parisian gown she had
intended to wear to her first party in London.

Still, she could only find fault with
Charlotte for forcing her to be here, not for her own unreasonable
fear. She wished she had stayed at home, curled up with a novel in
the library.

“We could have waited to attend a party. We
haven’t settled into the house yet, and the trip wearied my husband
more than he will admit. I must be concerned for his health.”

“Nonsense. Myron is as spry as ever.”

Bella’s lips compressed into a thin line;
Charlotte’s constant references to the thirty-two-year age
difference had started even before she married him, and only Bella
knew how dangerously ill Myron had been on the trip back to
England. Even Myron pretended he had no notion.

“You have been here more than a week without
attending any parties,” Charlotte nagged, “and you would never
present yourself anywhere unless forced to it.”

“I have become quite adept at parties, and in
any case, common courtesy would have forced the issue soon enough.
It is simply easier to feel elegant and refined in the company of
people with every reason to be kind to a man and his wife on His
Majesty’s business. Myron has more influence in Ceylon or Barbados
or Sierra Leone than in London, and no one likes a bookish girl in
England.” Bella bit her lip. “I know my place, Charlotte. I just
would have preferred to face the ordeal in the dress I had made for
the occasion.”

“You look quite handsome,” Charlotte argued.
“Your hair is straight as a plumb line, but the color is brilliant
as ever, not even a trace of grey.” Charlotte smoothed it in the
front. “And you have finally grown into your face.”

Bella’s nerves fled with a cynical laugh and
an impudent curtsey. “I am ever so grateful for the backhanded
compliments, Your Ladyship.” A habitual, playful disparagement
raked over her cousin. “I can be as handsome as I want since I
caught and kept a husband, and I am offended you discount my
scintillating conversation after I have worked so hard at it all
this time. The Governor-General of British India finds me
fascinating.”

“And no doubt the commandant of the penal
colonies.”

“The title you are looking for is Governor of
New South Wales, and yes, Governor Macquarie and Myron have been
acquainted for many years, beginning in India, and his wife,
Elizabeth, and I were quite bosom friends both times we were in the
Antipodes. She is the one whose care of the natives—”

She broke off when
Charlotte held her hand out
. “I beg you not continue about
natives.”

To distract Charlotte from further comment,
and put an end to any argument,
she inclined her
head toward Malbourne, murmuring
, “He is very handsome.”

Across the room, he was
under siege by a young lady on the shelf at two-and-twenty,
scandalously dressed in
near-translucent
silver muslin, whom, it seemed, had been pushed into the
inappropriate pursuit by an ever-vigilant mother trying to find a
way to compromise her daughter.