Royally Ever After (2 page)

She shook off her sister and friend, turned on her heel, and walked away.

L
ovedon watched her go.

The two girls fluttered anxiously about her. Miss Sharp didn't flutter. She didn't hurry away, either, which was generous of her. She had some fifty feet to travel to the door she must have irrupted from. This gave him ample time to appreciate the rear view.

For an inebriated female of negligible rank, she carried herself surprisingly well, tall and straight, without seeming stiff in the least. The only sign of unsteadiness was the slight undulation of her hips. The motion made her long, lacy scarf dance about her, and set the bows and ruffles of her pink dress atremble.

Until this moment, Miss Sharp had been no more to him than one of the numerous sisters and cousins and friends of the bride garbed in gorgeously extravagant dresses. He'd been introduced to them all, and his fearsome memory retained every name.

Beyond being able to put a name to her face—and catching Miss Sharp putting her gloved hand to her eye once or twice during the nuptials—he'd given her little thought. The girls were young and, for the most part, unsophisticated. The rites were lengthy and stupendously boring, and the fête thereafter, likewise in the tradition of the bridegroom's forbears, featured his country's quaint music. The music had driven Lovedon from the Gold Drawing Room to the picture gallery.

As one of the groom's attendants, he couldn't flee the house. His early departure would be taken a slight, and even he knew better than to offend one of the King's favorite cousins. Having no choice, Lovedon had remained, bored and irritated to within a hairsbreadth of insanity. He'd drunk enough champagne to float a flagship—possibly the entire Royal Navy—to no discernible effect.

Until a moment ago.

The last dose, the one Miss Sharp had administered externally, had brightened his mood amazingly. The eyes flashing at him had turned out be an interesting shade of green, with gold flecks. Her hair, which he'd previously dismissed as an insipid light brown, turned out to be the color of honey. Her skin was flawless, and the angry pink tingeing her cheeks had turned ordinary prettiness into something almost beautiful. Most important, she'd turned out to have a
personality.

He watched until she'd turned into the doorway halfway down the gallery.

“Well, that was cool and refreshing,” he said as he folded his handkerchief.

“What the devil was that about?” Hempton said.

“No idea,” Lovedon said. He put the handkerchief away.

“Do you think she was foxed?” Crawford said.

Beyond a doubt.
Though Lovedon hadn't thought he'd paid her any particular attention, his memory held images of Miss Sharp taking one after another glass of champagne from the many trays making their way through the crowd in the Gold Drawing Room.

Now he wondered what she was trying to drown.

Not boredom, surely, in her case. After all, It wasn't every day that a lawyer's daughter married a prince, and her sisters and friends enjoyed the privilege of mingling with the haut ton. Perhaps Miss Sharp had simply celebrated to excess her sister's matrimonial triumph. Or perhaps she wasn't used to superior champagne.

“I shouldn't venture to say,” he said. “Women get emotional at weddings. She became overwrought.”

“And abandoned the festivities, journeyed through two rooms and a passage where everybody takes a wrong turn and gets lost for days, then down half the length of the picture gallery—all to take it out on you?” Bates said.

“It's possible I said the wrong thing,” Lovedon said.

“I should say that's more than likely,” Bates said. “I'd better smooth the ruffled feathers before any Highnesses or Majesties get wind of it.”

Lovedon abruptly recollected that the lady, being the bride's sister, was the Prince of Massbeck-Holveg's sister-in-law. A short time earlier, Lovedon had expressed certain less-than-sentimental views of the match. Prince Louis would not find those comments amusing.

If any unpleasantness resulted from Lovedon's little contretemps with Miss Sharp, he would receive a royal summons, a royal dressing-down (a skill at which the King, a former naval commander, excelled), and orders to make groveling apologies to about a thousand people, mostly foreigners.

“I ought to do that,” Lovedon said. He started to push himself away from the wall.

Bates held up a hand. “You've done enough damage. I've never before seen you deal so clumsily with a woman. You'd do well to leave this to me.”

I
nsisting that she needed to calm down before she returned to the company, Amy and Sarah steered Chloe into the sitting room where she'd revived her sister's spirits.

Sarah commenced by berating her.

That was so calming.

“A lord!” Sarah cried. “And
that
one, of all lords! What on earth possessed you? He looked wet. You threw a drink at him, didn't you? Oh, Chloe, tell me you didn't.”

“It seems she did,” Amy said. “And challenged him to a duel as well.”

“I thought of stabbing him with one of the carving knives,” Chloe said, “but the servants had taken them all back to the kitchen.”

“Oh, Chloe!” Sarah cried.

“What on earth did he do?” Amy said.

The blind rage was abating, and a conglomeration of feelings were sweeping in, including a sorrow Chloe was afraid would overwhelm her.

“I took exception to something he said,” Chloe said. “Would you be so kind as to take Sarah back to the party? I need a moment's peace and quiet to collect myself, and I can't do that while she's taking fits.”

“I am not taking fits! And you're a fine one to talk!”

Amy took Sarah's arm. “My dear, we're all agitated. What's a wedding without some hysteria? But Chloe's right. She needs time to compose herself, and our making a fuss isn't helpful.“

She led Sarah away, but slowed once to look over her shoulder and mouth, “Later.”

Chloe had hardly a minute's solitude before she heard footsteps, followed swiftly by a male voice. “Ah, there you are, Miss Sharp.”

She didn't have to look that way to know it wasn't
his
voice.

She was on the brink of tears again—what a ninny she was, to regret her sister's happiness and fret about brainless aristocrats!—but she blinked hard and lifted her chin.

The gentleman—she couldn't remember his name—smiled as he approached. “Miss Sharp, I shall not waste words,” he said. “I've come to beg your pardon for any offense Lord Lovedon has caused.”

“Has he appointed you his second?” she said.

He gave a nervous laugh. “No, no, certainly not.”

“Then why send a proxy?” she said. “Why not make his own apology?”

“He didn't send me,” the gentleman said. “He's a bit . . .” He trailed off, frowning, apparently at a loss for the right word.

“A bit of an ass,” she said.

“Bates thinks I'm half-seas over and not to be trusted with delicate diplomatic negotiations, Miss Sharp,” came another, deeper voice, from the doorway.

No doubt whose drawling baritone that was.

Mr. Bates said something under his breath. Curses, Chloe supposed. She was tempted to utter several unladylike words herself. She wasn't nearly ready for another confrontation.

Though her heart beat so hard she thought she'd faint, she collected what remained of her dignity and made herself regard Lord Lovedon as coolly as he'd regarded her moments ago.

He didn't stagger into the room. He had too much self-control for that . . . even though they seemed to be upon a ship at sea.

The walls and floor ought not to be moving.

She'd been too furious before to notice but . . . maybe she oughtn't to have taken that last glass of champagne.

She forced herself to meet his mocking black gaze. “You needn't be anxious, Lord Lovedon,” she said. “I shan't create an international incident. I never tattle, and Althea is unforgivably forgiving. To calm her, I told her you were spouting nonsense because you were drunk as well as not very intelligent. By now, I daresay, she's not only forgiven you but has even made up a reason to think kindly of you. My sister—as Prince Louis had the
discernment
to recognize—is angelically beautiful not only outwardly but inwardly as well. She's incapable of thinking unkindly of anybody. She'd make excuses for Satan himself.”

He drew nearer, blocking her view of his friend—and everything else. He loomed over her, all dark wool and blinding white linen and a gloriously embroidered—and now damp—blue silk waistcoat that must have cost as much as her dress.

“Am I to understand that you came and challenged me to a duel and made me quake in my boots—all for nothing?” he said.

“
She
has forgiven you,” Chloe said. “I am not so saintly. I have not. You haven't apologized.”

Nor would he, she supposed. Some men would rather be roasted on a spit and fed to wild boars than apologize, especially to a woman.

“It seems I must kill myself,” he said. “It is impossible to continue in this world without Miss Sharp's approbation.” He put the back of his hand to his forehead. “Farewell, all. I go to a better place.”

“I think not,” she said. “I think it will be rather worse than this one and a good deal hotter.”

“But all my friends will join me there eventually,” he said. “I shall hope in time to see you there as well. You did say you weren't saintly.”

“In that case,” she said, “I wish you a very long, unceasingly unhappy life.”

She gave him an exaggerated version of the simpering smile so many other women wasted on him, and dipped a little curtsey . . . and then kept sinking.

L
ovedon lunged and caught her up in his arms before she toppled.

This wasn't the simplest feat. He wasn't as steady on his legs as he'd supposed, and she, with her great ballooning sleeves and billowing skirts, wasn't easy to capture securely.

Then, once he had her, he wasn't sure what to do with her. He thought of carrying her home and putting her to bed. He thought that might be fun.

Miss Renfrew hurried in. “Chloe, they're leav—”

She stopped short.

“Miss Sharp is not well,” Bates said.

“Excess of . . . excitement,” Lovedon said.

“We need to revive her,” Bates said.

“She needs to go to bed . . . and sleep it off,” Lovedon said. She was flushed, and under the miles of silk there seemed to be a splendidly rounded body, invitingly warm. His head dipped a little, and he inhaled a delicious blend of scents: soap and flowers and Woman.

She stirred in his arms. “Put me down.”

“Probably not wise,” he said, “considering you can't stand up.”

“I need to say goodbye to the
happy
couple,” she said. Her voice was slurred. “The madly-in-love-with-each-other couple.”

“If you try to walk unaided, you'll fall on your face,” Lovedon told her.

“If you keep trying to carry me, you'll fall on
your
face,” she said. “I'll lean on Amy. Please put me down and go away. To the devil, preferably.”

She was shapely and highly entertaining and she smelled delectable. Lovedon wanted to take her to a private corner—the house abounded in secret nooks and crannies—and set about winning her over. In her present condition, though, that would be unsporting. In any case, he preferred a woman to be fully conscious when he set about seducing her.

He let her down very carefully, so carefully that he felt every inch of her descent. For one heady moment, her breasts pressed against his chest. When her feet touched the floor, he cautiously released her. She started to turn away, swayed, and grabbed his lapels.

His arm went around her neat little waist.

“Oh, Lord,” she said. “I do believe I'm actually drunk.”

“You can't be drunk
now,
” Miss Renfrew said. “It's time to take leave of the newlyweds.”

“I . . . don't . . . know,” Miss Sharp said. “I really need . . . to sit . . . lie . . . down.” She slumped against Lovedon. “You smell like starch,” she said. “And something else.”

“Listen to me,” he said. “You can do this, Miss Sharp. If you don't, your sister will wonder what's wrong. You don't want to worry her, I know.”

“You were mean to her.” She looked up at him, green-gold eyes wide and accusing and slightly crossed.

“Yes, I'm a brute,” he said. “Ten minutes. That's all we'll need. I'll give you my arm and Miss Renfrew will support you discreetly on the other side. And Bates will bring up the rear. The crush will be so great that no one will notice we're propping you up. You'll wish the couple well and make your curtseys—”

“If I curtsey, I don't think I'll be able to get up again. I think I'd like to lie on the floor, please.”

“Ten minutes,” he said. “Pretend to be perfectly well for ten minutes, that's all. Then we'll get you safely away. If you'll do this, you and I shall have our duel.”

She blinked up at him. “I get to shoot you?”

“Yes.”

She smiled, and it was the genuine article this time. Her mouth softened and curved and her face took on the kind of blissful expression a man was accustomed to see—if he was skillful—in more intimate situations. His lower regions, which didn't understand the concept of proper time and place, became primed for action. And his mood soared so high so swiftly that his head spun, and the room whirled along with it.

The rain continued to beat at the windows, but in his world the sun had broken out, and life had blossomed into riotous colors.

“Very well,” she said. “I accept your terms.”

G
etting Miss Sharp through those ten minutes wasn't the easiest thing Lovedon had ever done, though it might have been the most amusing. He suspected he'd damaged an internal organ, keeping a straight face throughout the proceedings.