The Perfect Princess (35 page)

“You love him,” her father said finally. “But does he love you?”

“Yes,” she said. “Richard loves me.”

He had never actually said the words, but she did not tell her father that, because he would have made too much of it. Richard was not sentimental. That’s why he found it hard to say the words. He’d tried to keep her at arm’s length because, she supposed, he had too much pride to marry so far above him. As though she cared about that! And he would still be keeping her at arm’s length if he had not believed that she, and not Prudence, had been shot at last night.

He had been shaken to his very foundations. That’s what had broken his control; that’s what had unleashed his emotions. What he felt was in his eyes and in the way he trembled when he touched her, in the way he had loved her. Just thinking about it made her ache to be loved again.

Since her brothers and Richard were conversing about Twickenham’s stables, she relaxed against the banquette and took a moment to study them, especially Caspar and Richard.

In appearance they were so very different: Caspar, dark-haired and tall, with his gypsy good looks; and Richard, brown hair shot with gold. Richard looked the
more English of the two, though she doubted he’d take that as a compliment. They had one thing in common. They had presence, that indefinable air of men who were sure of themselves and knew what they were about.

Her gaze moved to Justin. He was munching on an apple. He was a younger version of Caspar, but he had some ways to go before he attained the kind of presence that distinguished his companions.

She liked Justin just the way he was. There were no shadows in him. He was as transparent as a mountain lake.

She felt a sudden chill, and shrank into the folds of her cloak.

“I don’t understand,” said Rosamund. “I thought we would leave tonight. I’ve packed my boxes. What’s happened, Richard? What’s made you change your mind?”

They were in the conservatory, with Harper guarding the door to the gardens and Lord Justin patrolling the picture gallery, where the ball had taken place. No one could get in or out of the conservatory without their say-so.

This was the first time Rosamund and Richard had been alone all day. It was dark outside, but lanterns inside the conservatory had been lit. The light wasn’t good, though, and she found it hard to read his expression.

“I haven’t changed my mind,” he said. “There’s been a misunderstanding. Shall we walk?”

He cupped her elbow, guiding her, and they began to stroll down one of the stone paths. Exotic trees with drooping branches towered above them, and the flower beds were a riot of pinks and lavenders, but Rosamund wasn’t interested in the plants. Her heart had started to race.

“Then when are we leaving? Tomorrow? The next day?”

He didn’t know how to break it gently, so he said, “I’m leaving, you’re staying. But it won’t be for long. In a week or two, I’ll come back for you, and we’ll start that new life we promised ourselves.”

She halted and turned to face him, her brows puckered. “And where will you be?”

“In London,” he said. “Rosamund, I don’t know how you could have misunderstood. I’ve never made any secret of the fact that clearing my name comes first with me.”

He could tell that he had taken her by surprise. Her eyes were huge and her breathing was quick and shallow.

He tried to soften the blow. “I won’t be far away, and Harper will bring you regular reports on how things are going.”

He looked so calm, so sure, so unaffected, while a wave of mingled hurt and fear was spreading through her. The fear was stronger. “You may never clear your name.”

“I have to try.”

“How long am I supposed to wait? A month? A year?”

“I told you. A week, maybe two. Not much longer than that.”

“How can you be so sure it will be over by then?”

He massaged his temples. “Because I’m going to set a trap for the thug who wants me dead.”

A white haze floated before her eyes. She staggered, and was prevented from falling because he steadied her with his hands on her shoulders. The white haze cleared and was followed by a white-hot anger.

She shook off his hands. “I’m your wife,” she cried. “We’re supposed to decide these things together. And I say we should leave England until things settle down. It need not be forever. We can come back in a year, if you like. Then you can start your investigation.”

He said incredulously, “A year? By that time the trail will be cold.”

“Then leave it to my father and brothers!” She stopped when she heard the note of hysteria in her voice. “Leave it to my father and brothers,” she repeated quietly. “If you stir things up, you’ll be putting yourself in mortal danger.”

He passed a hand over his eyes, straightened, and shook his head. “I thought you, of all people, would understand. This is something I have to do. It’s not just about clearing my name. Have you forgotten that Lucy Rider was murdered? I swore to myself that I would avenge her death, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

If she had not been savoring dreams all day of setting off with Richard to begin a new life, she would have been in a calmer frame of mind. But disappointed hopes and something close to panic were fueling her anger.

She took a step back. In a low, quivering voice, she said, “You choose a woman who betrayed you over me?”

He was beginning to lose patience. The melting, giving woman of last night, who seemed to understand him with no words spoken, was turning into a virago. “Rosamund, stop this,” he said. “I hardly know you when you are like this.”

“I can’t say the same about you! I should have known better! You’re a lone wolf. That’s what Harper told me. If I’d listened to him, this conversation wouldn’t be taking place.”

Stung, he retorted, “Then maybe you
should
have listened to Harper.” He regretted the words as soon as they were said. “Rosamund,” he said, and reached for her.

She evaded his hands, and with a little cry picked up her skirts and hurried away.

He started after her, stopped, then slammed his hand against the trunk of a decorative palm tree.

When she pushed into the picture gallery, it was to find that Justin had been joined by her father and Caspar.
They were all standing about, smoking their cheroots.

She pointed a shaking finger at each one in turn. “You are responsible for this,” she cried. “You put him up to it.”

They exchanged uneasy glances. “No,” they chorused in unison.

“Well, you had better make him change his mind, or I shall never forgive you,” and she stalked off.

The duke blew out a stream of smoke. “I’d like to meet the person,” he said slowly, “who can make Richard Maitland change his mind when he has decided on the course he must follow. I couldn’t make him change his mind about marrying Rosamund, and I have no desire to embark on another futile exercise.”

“Do you regret the match?” asked Caspar.

“I regret the timing, but as we all know, there was a compelling reason to give my consent.”

Justin said, “Still, it’s a bit of a comedown, isn’t it? A few weeks ago, the papers were calling Rosamund ‘the perfect princess.’ She’s gone from the sublime to the ridiculous.”

The duke said,
“Ridiculous
isn’t a word I would ever use in connection with Maitland.
Single-minded
, perhaps.
Relentless
, certainly. He never gives up. But he is a man of honor. I respect him.” He thought for a moment, then went on. “I could arrange for a title. When he clears his name, I mean. They can be bought if the price is right, and the prince regent is always strapped for money. Baron Maitland. That has a nice ring to it.”

“Father, I wouldn’t,” said Caspar.

“What? Not even a knighthood?”

“Not even a knighthood. He won’t thank you for it. He’s more likely to take offense. He’s the kind of man who likes to earn things on his own merits.”

The duke studied his older son for a moment, then said, “You like him, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Caspar replied with a grin. “Let’s just say that he improves on acquaintance. Maitland is the kind of soldier you’d want standing beside you, shoulder to shoulder, in the thick of battle. Naturally, you’d want Harper on your other side.”

“What about me?” demanded Justin. “I was a soldier.”

Caspar watched the spiral of smoke he exhaled slowly dissipate. “Yes,” he said, “but you were spared Spain. It was a brutal, filthy campaign. That’s one of the reasons Maitland and I understand each other.” He looked at Justin. “Don’t look so glum, little brother. You acquitted yourself well at Waterloo. You earned your spurs.”

“But that’s not the same as fighting in the Spanish Campaign?” There was a challenge in Justin’s question.

“Spain is not something to boast about,” replied Caspar easily. He crossed to the fireplace and threw the stub of his cheroot into the grate. “It’s something most of us try to forget.”

When he came back to the others, he was smiling faintly. “It’s time,” he said.

The duke looked at the clock on the mantel and let out a breath. “Yes,” he said. “And I don’t think my son-in-law likes to be kept waiting.” He clasped Caspar’s right hand. “All this talk of war makes me uneasy. You will be careful?”

“I’ll be careful.”

Justin was next. He said simply, “Good luck, Caspar.”

With that, Caspar entered the conservatory and shut the door softly behind him.

There was a moment of silence, then the duke, uncharacteristically, threw one arm around his younger son’s shoulders. “Why don’t we repair to the library,” he said, “and console ourselves with a bottle of my best cognac.”

As they began to walk the length of the gallery, Justin said, “Father, what happened to Caspar in Spain?”

“Nothing,” replied the duke, “nothing that did not happen to every soldier. It was just the war.”

Rosamund lay in her lonely bed and tossed restlessly from side to side. Some hours had passed since her quarrel with Richard and she wasn’t feeling nearly as self-righteous as she had then. It was shock that had sharpened her tongue to a razor’s edge. She didn’t feel that she was in the wrong, though. What she wanted now was for them to sit down and talk about their differences like two rational, civilized people and reach a compromise.

She hauled herself up. Richard Maitland didn’t know the meaning of the word
compromise!
She held on to that thought to keep her wrath warm, but as hard as she tried, her wrath gradually slipped away. He had never pretended to be something he was not. The misconception was all on her part. From the outset, she had known that his good name was his most prized possession. There were some lines in Shakespeare that expressed it better than she could; but she couldn’t remember them word for word.

Then there was Lucy Rider.

You choose a woman who betrayed you over me?

She winced as her own words came back to her. How could she have been so unfeeling? “I’m sorry, Lucy,” she said into the silence.

This was her wedding night. What was she doing here, tossing in her chaste bed when her husband—she savored the word—was probably doing the same thing in his lonely cottage? This wasn’t how she’d imagined her wedding night would be, and neither had Richard. Whatever their differences, he didn’t deserve this.