Royal Regard (56 page)

“Now only half a mob,” she said with more
than a hint of pique, “and he is naught but making recompense for
his trespasses against us. Or so he says.”

“Kings only trespass against other kings, my
dear. Would it improve your mood were I to say,” he waved another
card at her, “this was mixed in with my letters and informs you the
Marchioness of Firthley will retrieve you for shopping tomorrow at
the ungodly hour of nine in the morning?” She snatched it away,
with a smile that finally reached her eyes, the first hint of
excitement since their carriage had crossed Westminster Bridge.
“How is it we’ve been in London a full day and you and Charlotte
have not yet ordered new wardrobes?”

“Do not believe you will slither out of an
argument by invoking new dresses.”

She rolled a three and five and closed her
first point.

The two and one he rolled were indicative of
the poor start he had just made. “You are only cross,” he teased,
“because you wish to stay in your room until we leave for
Wellstone, and no one will allow it.”

Her face was peevish, but her icy foot nudged
his calf under the table, “I am cross because I wish to be docked
in our Venetian lagoon, clothed in naught but your dressing gown,
sipping grappa and choosing tomorrow’s destination by a game of
Hazard, not fawning over Prinny in court dress, making a fool of
myself in pursuit of unpleasant society.”

Nick dropped the dice cup in his lap at the
thought of dressing gowns, and an accidental brush of the back of
his hand against his rising cock was suddenly excruciating. When
she allowed her foot to tease up his leg, he sucked in a breath,
but icy toes did nothing to cool his heating ardor. He considered,
briefly, whether he might cut short both discussion and backgammon
in favor of a more satisfying game, but her narrowed eyes caught
him out before he could suggest it. She was not angry enough to
avoid his touch, but was not remotely finished arguing.

Rolling the dice, then drawing his hand along
her ankle, he tucked her lovely toes in closer to his manhood, a
calculated risk, given her upset. But in all the arguments since
they were wed, she had never yet delivered on promised violence
against his person, only against his ears when he made the mistake
of not listening. His hand warmed her foot, though it leached all
the heat from his fingers, leaving him all but shivering.

His next roll knocked two of her pips to the
bar and advanced Nick’s score by twenty points. Reaching across the
table, he pulled a pin from her hair, setting the shawl off her
shoulder, letting long strands fall across the dropped sleeve of
her blue brocade evening gown. Her head arched as he pulled a pin
from the other side. She turned suddenly as he drew back, grazing
his wrist with her lips and the tip of her tongue.

Her roll not only put all of her pips back in
play, it knocked two of his onto the bar. She snatched back her
pins, but didn’t put them in her hair, only dropped them next to
the board, tapping one on the table, using the back of her other
hand to sweep disordered hair out of her eyes.

Deciding on a policy of appeasement, he
purposely misused his next four and six to leave three pips
vulnerable to her attack, then stayed his hand only a few inches up
her leg and offered, “The Firthleys and Nockhams and Smythes are in
the City
en masse
. A score of people to whom you can offer
no objection.”

“Of course they are here to celebrate with
us, and I look forward to seeing everyone. It’s only—”

“We are here but a sennight. Nary a ballroom
nor banquet hall will we see.”

She sighed, “But for the king’s.”

“But for the king’s,” he agreed.

Her foot dropped from his inner thigh to the
floor as she rolled double fours and sent all of his exposed tiles
to the bar. He really should know better than to play backgammon.
He should have suggested
piquet
.

“You owe me three pins.”

He removed his cravat pin and handed it
across the table. “Two. For now.”

As their play continued, he unknotted the
green neckcloth slowly, tracking her eyes following his hands. When
he unwound the silk from his neck and untied his collar, she
swallowed hard and turned her head. The emerald stickpin dropped
into her lap when he caught and held her eyes. She took up the two
hairpins left on the table to secure her limp locks firmly back to
her head. The frown on her pretty mouth put an end to any thought
he had of distracting her with kisses, and a beleaguered sigh
forced its way past his lips.

“Were it not for the
benevolence
of
his Majesty,” she said waspishly, “we would all be much happier
adjourning to the countryside, not inviting scandal and notoriety
in London.”

“
You
would be happier,” he commented,
rolling the dice, turning up double threes, which allowed him to
bring all of his exiled pips into her home board without risking
them further. His lip turned up in amusement, and he tapped his
foot against hers. “The rest of us don’t mind London.”

She huffed out her indignation and, in her
usual fashion, avoided giving him an inch by dropping her dice cup
and turning the topic. “I’m not at all certain involving the king
is a sound decision.” The clock chimed half-past nine. It had been
months since they had retired to their bedchamber so late.

Nick unbuttoned his green wool waistcoat and
the four buttons holding his white linen shirt closed, then went to
work on the emerald studs at his cuffs.

“It was impulsive, I admit, but insulting to
rescind. One does not insult sovereigns, I expect you recall.”

They were silent for a time, only the sounds
of dice tossed across felt, ivory tiles clacking, the tapping of
his fingertips on the Queen Anne card table, the scrape of hairpins
passed back and forth between them, and the snap of the fire as it
consumed a cherry wood log.

As he began bringing tiles into his home
board, signaling the beginning of the endgame, she turned her head
away and poked her nose into the air. “His Majesty is no example of
moral decency, and consider the poor child, the expectations it
will place—”

Shrugging off his waistcoat and tugging his
shirt from his waistband, he raised one eyebrow and said the same
thing he had already repeated dozens of times, “The expectations
that arise from having the King of England as godfather are the
kind I wish my son to uphold. You may complain at your leisure,
sweeting, but Sunday afternoon, the new Marquess of Abersham will
be baptized David George Northope under the protection of the
king.”

“I hope Davey spits up on him.”

“With a bit of luck,” Nick concurred, “Prinny
will reek of soured milk all day.”

He shifted to the side in his chair so he
could remove his boots, dropping them with a thump next to the
table. His stockings were next, tucked into the boots. She eyed his
large feet, so he wiggled his toes.

“Blakeley will be none too pleased to find
your wardrobe strewn about the study.”

“Thanks to you, he has discovered my
stockings in stranger places.”

The sweet pink of her blushes reminded him of
the young girl he night have married instead of travelling, had
they met. Knowing her as he now did, he imagined meeting her as a
debutante and stealing her right out from under Myron Holsworthy,
taking her away to sea, sharing their adventures in truth, not just
conversation. He would have stopped her wasting so much of her life
on mere affection. She would have stopped him wasting his on
emotionless harlots.

When he slid his big toe up under her dress,
following the same path as hers before he had annoyed her so
thoroughly, her breath caught.

“I believe I would like to change the
stakes,” he said, deliberately lowering his voice, allowing it to
take on a husky rasp.

She stopped his foot with one hand, but
permitted him to set it on the edge of her chair, letting her
fingertips drift along his ankle through her skirts. “You only wish
to change the stakes because you are winning.”

“Why else?” He offered, “If I win, I will
hear no more argument about London or the king until we reach
Wellstone. Once there, you may be as shrewish as you like.”

She snorted, “Once there, you have hundreds
of thousands of hiding places you have known since you were a
boy.”

“True. But you will have my sister’s help to
ferret me out, and I’m certain she has a map.”

She nodded absently and tapped her finger on
the tabletop. “What will you offer when you lose?”

“
If
I lose, I shall divest myself of
the rest of my clothing, then remove yours, and worship at your
feet until morning.”

“You will do that in any case,” she laughed,
pinching his toe. “While a delightful prospect, hardly comparable
to unquestioned deference in everything unpleasant for the next
eight days. I shall accept your wager, and when I win, you will
rescind your invitation to His Majesty, and we will leave for
Bristol in the morning and Venezia as soon as our families can be
graciously removed from the estate.”

“I cannot—will not—withdraw my request to the
king, as you know, but we’ll leave for the West Country directly
from Windsor Castle on Sunday and set sail in six weeks’ time. And
you may complain about everything as much as you like, as long as
you refrain in company or in front of the king.”

She pretended to consider, tapping her finger
against her cheek. “I believe that will provide sufficient
incentive.” She picked up the dice cup. “Shall we say best three of
five games?”

“It is far too late in the evening for that,
my lady.” He pulled his shirt over his head, leaving it to hang off
the arm of his chair, watching her eyes grow glassy, as they always
did when faced with his half-clothed form and the surety of his
passionate attention. Now, Nick had seen the pretty pink blush all
over her body, so when it appeared on her face, he imagined it
underneath her clothes. He was feeling a bit more glassy than usual
himself.

He loosed two buttons on the fall of his
trousers, squinting at the game board, counting tiles, and opined,
“I am winning, but haven’t won yet.”

She quirked a coy brow, licking her bottom
lip. “So it seems.”

Rubbing one of his fingers between hers,
burrowing chilly toes into his thigh, she tossed the dice.

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Royal
Regard
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Smashwords

While writing
is a solitary occupation, finished novels are a communal effort. In
the case of
Royal Regard
, Liana Abarca-Smith and Barbara
Lund acted as beta readers, providing comments on early drafts.
Heather King was the last reader, who wielded the reddest of pens.
Rhoda Miller provided confirmation of French language use. The Beau
Monde chapter of the Romance Writers of America answered
innumerable questions about the Regency era, and several Facebook
groups of fellow Regency authors also provided both research and
moral support. Tameca L. Coleman proofread the final manuscript,
subject to my extensive style sheet, and David Cutler provided
financial backing and support to the project. Fran Allison and
Brena Adams put up with my distraction and tempers throughout, and
celebrated the small successes.

Mariana Gabrielle is the pseudonym of Mari Christie,
a professional writer, editor, and designer in Denver, Colorado,
with more than 20 years’ experience in business, technical,
academic, and marketing writing. She has been published in dozens
of nonfiction and poetry periodicals since 1989, and now writes
mainstream historical fiction, Regency romance, and poetry.

Kali Matai,
La Déesse Noire
, London’s most
famed Indian dancer and courtesan, holds tightly to a lifetime of
secrets. Her father a British peer, her mother one of India’s
legendary
tawaifs:
dancers, singers, poets, and paramours
who, throughout history, enthralled the subcontinent’s most
powerful kings and noblemen. Under the iron control of malicious
and influential men, securing Kali’s freedom, her family, and the
man she loves, will require her protectors stop at nothing to
fulfill her desires.