Royal Renegade (24 page)

Michael bowed correctly, gracefully, his gold-embossed sword sweeping against his leg. She raised her eyes to see his careful expression, as careful as her own. Taking a deep breath, she said calmly, "How nice to see you again, Lord Devlyn. I did wish to convey my personal thanks for bringing me here safely." She saw a flash of pride in the major's eyes at her unusual composure and then dropped her gaze. A princess should not be seen blushing at the approval of a cavalry officer.

The prince hastened to add, "Yes, yes, Devlyn, my thanks, too. For my cousin and I have been getting along quite cozily, haven't we, my dear? I am heartily glad she has joined us here in England. Did you know, cousin, I've been trying to persuade the major to join my regiment. I've designed new uniforms for them, Devlyn, and perhaps that will persuade you. Crimson breeches and yellow boots."

Yellow boots! Tatiana could not repress a giggle at the flicker of distaste that crossed the major's haughty features. But with perfect control, he replied, "It's tempting, sir, I assure you. But I fear Wellington's wrath nearly as much as I wish your pleasure."

"Would Wellington be wrathful?" the prince asked worriedly.

"Without a doubt. He is very possessive of his officers, you know. Doesn't even like to give us leave. I wouldn't like to speculate what he would have to say were I to transfer regiments at this critical juncture." He never looked at Tatiana as he spoke those chilling words, and she wondered if he realized what he was giving up to do his patriotic duty.

"The Chronicle and the Times would hear of it, and write editorials claiming I'm interfering with the running of the war," the prince said resentfully. "They never give it a rest, you know. And what those damned—beg pardon, cousin—caricaturists would do, I don't want to imagine. But you would do my uniform such justice. It hardly seems fair."

Tatiana looked down at her clenched hands, her disappointment almost overcoming her caution. He wouldn't join the 10th Hussars and stay in England to be near her. Could she have mistaken the feelings that inspired his reluctant passion?

But when she risked a glance at his cloudy eyes, she saw the warning there, and something else too—an anguish to match her own. It was gone in an instant, but enough to make her swallow and say with creditable ease, "You know, cousin, it is indeed a shame he refuses so cruelly to wear your design, for I vow he would do it credit. I think he would look very well in yellow boots."

Before Michael could respond to this provocation— and it served him fair, she thought resentfully—she had turned a sweet smile upon him. "I am not acquainted with British regiments. To which are those fine colors bestowed?"

"The 16th Light Dragoons, Your Highness," he said with only the slightest edge to his voice, for they both knew she was acquainted with his affiliation. "The Queen's Own cavalry. I have served the last two years, however, primarily on Lord Wellington's staff."

"Well, it's a fine regiment, m' mother's," the prince said grudgingly. "Though the uniform is rather plain, don't you think, cousin?"

Tatiana thought it a very fine uniform indeed, and said so, to the major's discomfiture. He could not like being examined this way and that like a mannequin. But it was easier to focus on his uniform than on his warning eyes. And in fact, he might have been designed to wear a uniform, it so complemented his lean, disciplined form. His coat was a dark blue-gray with gold epaulets and buttons, generously braided across the front in more gold ashed in crimson. The facings—the collar, cuffs, and seam pipings—were scarlet to indicate that the major belonged to a royal regiment.

The immaculate white breeches would not have lasted long in battle, and the brilliant shine on his Hessians would not have survived an hour's hard ride. But at a dinner party, even this impractical uniform set him apart from all the fashionable fribbles in their satin coats and lofty cravats. Tatiana wished suddenly that Michael were one of them, frivolous and flighty, undeterred by duty and honor. But then he wouldn't be Michael, and she would not admire him so.

Afraid of what her expression might reveal, she could not look up and meet his gaze. Her eyes stung with the effort of reading the engraving on one of the gold buttons adorning the major's chest. She was tilting her head to follow the letters as if they contained some secret message to her, when she sensed Michael's hard body go even more rigid.

"Cumberland! Curse you, you are late again!"

Chapter Fourteen

Tatiana felt waves of anger emanating from Michael at the prince's abrupt greeting to the burly royal duke. Devlyn's hand went instinctively to the hilt of his sword, and he tensed as if for battle. He must love me, she thought with a mix of triumph and dread, if even the approach of Cumberland would inspire such hatred.

But as Devlyn's control vanished, Tatiana sought new reserves within herself. She must forestall his anger, or he would ruin them both with a jealous display. So she lowered her eyes and curtseyed to the new arrival, murmuring some salutation. Then, bravely, she looked up to meet the man she was supposed to take to husband.

She had been warned that Cumberland was a frankly ugly man. But the royal duke went beyond ugliness to some new reach of horror. After he released her hand, Tatiana wanted to wipe it on her skirt, as if a malevolent spirit oozed through his skin. His expression was just as alienating, with a fleshy mouth and sagging jaw set in a snarl; a patch covered his damaged eye, the socket sunken into his cheek.

Tatiana's hands closed into hidden fists in the folds of her satin skirt. But she strived to keep her expression pleasant as Cumberland responded to her commonplaces in a harsh croak. Before she could speak again, Michael had turned on his heel and strode away.

Fortunately the two princes had fallen into fraternal bickering and did not notice the major's rudeness. Tatiana watched covertly as he stopped near the door, his lean body rigid as he battled the urge to walk out. Then the Lord Chamberlain announced dinner, and Michael reluctantly joined the general withdrawal.

Weak with relief, she accepted the Prince Regent's escort to the Circular Dining Room. But her already taut nerves were overset by another example of the regent's innovative decorating—this one not so serene as the Blue Velvet Room. She halted in the doorway, blinded by the flickering of a thousand candles magnified by dozens of long mirrors hung along the cylindrical silver wall. As the guests piled up behind her, the prince misinterpreted her hesitation. "Impressive, isn't it? I brought in the gold chandeliers from Spain. The reflection is dazzling, don't you think?"

"Dazzling," she repeated, thinking that only the most narcissistic prince could have designed such a display of mirrors and light. The endless reflections of mirror facing mirror disoriented her, and she closed her eyes. Finally, focusing on the reassuringly rectangular tables set in tangent to the arc of wall, Tatiana was able to take a faltering step into the room.

She willed the vertigo away by concentrating on the centerpieces, huge crystal bowls filled with rare tropical fish swimming in blue-tinted water. But still she was dizzied. Around her shimmered so much glass, the fishbowls and the chandeliers and the mirrors and the crystal glasses placed so carefully on the white tablecloths. It all seemed so fragile, as if a word could shatter the whole display, and the brittle people in their shimmering clothes would shatter into sharp fragments on the marble floor.

Careful to avoid her echoing image in the endless mirrors, she settled gratefully into the honored position to the prince's right and surveyed the room. At least the seating was fortuitous, as her predators were all a remove away. Cumberland headed up the next table, and Wellesley, casting her an admonishing glance, sat down near the royal duke. He was directly behind her, close enough perhaps to hear her conversation but not in a position to do anything about it. Lady Sherbourne was guided fuming to a spot practically into the kitchens, Tatiana observed wickedly. And Buntin had been borne off by the royal historian, who was quizzing her on the genealogy of Russian royalty before the Romanovs. She would be too dazzled by the unusual attention to pay any mind to her charge.

Tatiana's equilibrium remained precariously balanced even as Major Devlyn took his seat across from her near the other end of the table. The regent liked to have a man in uniform at each table, where he might be as decorative as the centerpiece. Stealing a quick glance, she saw that Michael's sangfroid had been partly restored, although he responded with barest civility to the overtures of an elderly countess next to him. But when he felt Tatiana watching him, his angry gray eyes met hers, and in that moment she realized how much they had to conceal, and how impossible concealment might be.

In her confusion she only stared blankly when a square-jawed man of forty or so bowed and took the seat next to her. But he took charge, as she sensed he was accustomed to doing. "Allan Fabares, at your service, Your Highness. Eighteenth Duke of Fallenwood. As the senior duke present, let me welcome you to our fair shores."

The regent added genially, "Fallenwood is one of our oldest dukedoms, cousin. Created by—one of the Plantagenets, wasn't it, Fallenwood?"

The duke fixed his host with a look that suggested Prinny should be better informed the next time they met. "Richard the Lionheart himself. That is why, Your Highness, our crest features a rampant lion, after the great warrior-king."

As he prosed on about the first duke's exploits in the great crusades, Tatiana recalled what Lady Sherbourne had told her that Fallenwood possessed a family tree nearly as spreading as his midriff.

Then, from across the table, a whisper with the slight lisping accent of the French aristocracy cut through the duke's recitation like a blade. "Your Highness, I had so hoped to be seated near to you. But I never thought such a privilege to be granted to a poor exile as well as an English squire—your pardon, sir—an English duke." The Count d'Annaud, a cousin to the Pretender to the French throne, leaned forward to increase the intimacy of his insult. "I always get them confused, these English farmers."

"Farmers, is it?" Fallenwood's shoulders hunched around his bull-like neck. "Well, at least we English farmers have some use. No one's ever found any reason for the existence of you poor exiles." Fallenwood snorted, his scornful gesture taking in the other man's burgundy velvet evening dress, the rare Mechlin lace that spilled at his throat and wrist, the fortune in diamonds studding his waistcoat. "Yes, you look poor, don't you, d'Annaud?"

The count's narrow face tightened around his flared nostrils, and he drew up straight in true affront. "Are you challenging my word, duke?" he hissed, his thin face twisted and his elegant fingers closing on the stem of his wine glass.

Suddenly the battle was joined, with Tatiana in the very middle of the fray. She couldn't help but be glad of the diversion, for the diners' attention was now riveted to the antagonists sparring right in front of the Prince Regent. No one paid the slightest heed that Major Devlyn did not take his eyes off the princess during the entire altercation.

Fallenwood possessed a blunt sort of courage that contrasted well with the count's prickly choler. "That's right, d'Annaud, dash that wine in my face. The princess will admire that display of Gallic temperament. Though I'd think revolution and twenty years of war have been enough to convince us all how delicate are the sensibilities of you Frenchies. Go ahead," he goaded, his eyes gleaming in anticipation. "Challenge me in the presence of the regent who welcomed you when no one else would have you. Show us how you scorn the country that shelters you, now that you've been thrown out of your own.

As the count deliberately set down his wine glass, the spectators sighed in disappointment. But they rallied as he removed his white glove finger by finger. Would he slap the glove in the smug duke's face, right in front of Prinny, right next to the princess? Unfortunately, the regent cut short the engagement, declaring as he half-rose in his chair, "You forget yourself, count."

The formidable Lady Hertford stepped into the breach, spiriting the challenging glove away under the table and murmuring soothing sorts of things into the count's ear. Eventually the count subsided, glancing resentfully across the table, muttering an apology to Tatiana and the Prince Regent.

Fallenwood sat back, arms folded, his square chin lifted victoriously. But Lady Hertford shot a warning look at him. "Tell the count you were only jesting, Fallenwood," she ordered, just like a mother might to a recalcitrant child.

Fallenwood shrugged. All right. I regard this all as a joke, count. Especially you."

Lady Hertford cut off the count's inarticulate cry with a single steely word, then glared at the unrepentant duke. "Remember where you are, gentlemen, and whom you are with, and what your purpose is. The princess is not pleased with your childish displays, are you, Your Highness?"

Hurriedly Tatiana shook her head, earning a benevolent smile from the regent's mistress. Relieved, the prince sagged back into his chair, beckoning to a footman for a restorative brandy. The count kept his sullen eyes fixed on Fallenwood, daring another insult, refusing to look away even when the first courses were delivered on solid gold plates.

But the duke only grinned and addressed the princess in a hearty voice. "I am something of a student of genealogy, Your Highness. Tell me, would you, how close is your connection to Peter the Great."

Tatiana sighed inwardly, for the tangled lines of her royal breeding fascinated everyone but herself. But then she saw Lady Hertford's brow furrow at the sight of Michael, straight and proud in his uniform, gazing unwaveringly at the princess. The prince's mistress was no fool, and powerful besides

"My connection is closer than the present tsar's, at any rate!" Tatiana declared. As she expected, this outrageous claim caught all of Lady Hertford's attention. "In fact, we true Romanovs don't believe Alexander is descended from Peter at all."