The Rogue Prince (7 page)

Or to protest when her husband depleted them of their income, not to mention made a mockery of his vows?

Maggie was not dim-witted. She knew that a wealthy husband would certainly solve some of her problems. But she refused to endure yet another marriage like her first. She would allow no man ever to have the power to make a fool of her again as Julian had done.

“No. I am not ready.”

“You will never be ready at this rate, Maggie. I had thought marriage would have changed you. But you are still the willful hoyden you always were. Look at your hat. And your hair is still as untamed as ever.” Beatrice took hold of Maggie's chin and scrutinized it. “Your scar has not faded in the least.”

Maggie pulled away. “Miracles do not occur in our day and age, Mother.”

“There is no reason to be snippy with me, miss. Get dressed. Wear the pink—”

“Even if I were to agree to go, the pink is perfectly horrid. I cannot believe you would even suggest one of my old come-out gowns.”

Beatrice pinched her lips together with annoyance, and Maggie took her mother's arm and started to usher her out of the bedchamber. How she'd ever found herself up there with Beatrice in the first place was a puzzle.

“Mother, there is no reason for us to argue. I've only just arrived in Town and I—” She heard footsteps in the hall outside her bedroom. “Oh no, who can that be?”

When she heard Stella's shrill voice calling to their mother, Maggie remembered why she'd hidden herself away in Cambridgeshire for the duration of her mourning. She wished she could have remained there.

Maggie's sister pushed open the door and came into the room, dressed in sumptuous finery. Her maid was right behind her, carrying a long, sheet-draped parcel across her arms. Obviously, a gown.

“Stella! I am
so
happy to see you,” said Beatrice, the relief on her face all too obvious.

“Not that I had a choice in the matter,” Stella drawled, draping the gown across the bed. “Mother said you would need convincing. So, here I am.”

“Don't bother, Stella,” Maggie said. “I am not in a particularly submissive mood.”

“Really,” Stella said dryly and started for the door. “Then I should go. Horton will be waiting for me.”

“No, no! I need you here,” said Beatrice with panic in her voice.

Maggie felt Stella's exasperated gaze, and she felt resentment beginning to build. She should just pack up the children and return to Cambridgeshire now. Make do with what little they had.

“Talk to her, Stella,” said Beatrice.

“What happened to your hair?”

Maggie didn't believe they ever thought about the way they treated her anymore. They'd gotten into the habit after Chatterton's death, and criticizing her seemed to amuse them.

She dropped her hat onto the dressing table. “I've been out all day.”

“Mother wants you to come along with us to the ball, Margaret,” said Stella, unwrapping the gown she'd brought. “We brought the carriage, as Mother requested. Horton is waiting for us downstairs.”

“It'll be a good diversion for you,” said Beatrice.

“What makes you think I need a diversion?” Maggie asked, uninterested in being the unwelcome companion once again. It occurred to her to ask her mother and sister if they'd known of Julian's indiscretions, but she had far too much pride. Acknowledging her wifely shortcomings would give them just one more deficiency they could toss in her face.

Stella ignored Maggie's question and rolled her pretty blue eyes. “I should have brought some face powder. Your scar hasn't faded at all. And those freckles—”

“Where's your maid?” Beatrice demanded.

Stella pulled the bell cord before Maggie could do anything but mount a weak protest.

“Stella, please. You don't want my company at Lady Waverly's ball any more than I want to go.”

“Come now, Maggie,” her mother said, ignoring her plea. “Let Stella's maid help you.”

“At least you've finally filled out,” said Stella
coldly as the girl unfastened Maggie's bodice, the very fastenings Thomas had closed for her, so regretfully, only a short while before. “It must have been the children.”

Her sisters had developed full, lush figures early, and they'd teased a much younger Maggie for her knobby knees and flat chest. They'd described her hair as the color of mud, while they all had beautiful, bright, coppery tresses and lovely blue eyes, just like their mother.

“No doubt,” Maggie said tightly.

Stella shoved the pink gauze gown aside. “No, not this one. Margaret, what could you possibly be thinking? It would be hideous with your coloring.”

“I—”

“Here is the sapphire crepe that I wore once last year,” she said, pulling the drape off the garment. “It should fit well enough, though I doubt you will fill it out.”

In spite of Maggie's protests, Stella started to peel her dress from her shoulders.

“Luckily, it's not entirely out of style yet,” said Stella. “And it actually lends a little color to your eyes. Your friend, the prince, will be sure to notice.”

“Prince?” Maggie asked.

“The Sabedorian, of course. The man who saved your savage little son in the square, in case the incident has slipped your memory. You cannot be so countrified that you do not understand the importance of the prince's particular attention.”

“Of course not, Stella,” Maggie retorted, torn between chagrin and anticipation. She really did not wish to attend the duchess's or anyone else's ball. “I remember the prince very clearly.”

“Well, Horton said he's expected to attend the duchess's ball tonight.”

“Shefford thinks you should cultivate his favor,” said Beatrice.

No doubt he would
, Maggie thought as Stella's maid pulled the blue gown over Maggie's head. She was gratified to note that she actually
did
fill it out. Quite nicely, in fact.

T
homas made the circuit of the ballroom with Nathaniel on one side, and the duke of Waverly on the other. They were approached by a number of men with prestigious positions in government and society. Introductions were made as Tom considered how he'd have felt to be in such lofty company seventeen years before. Never would he have guessed his life would come to this.

He did not know exactly how many millions Duncan's treasure was worth. What he
did
know was that it had given him the wealth and status to pursue his scheme for vengeance. Without it, he wouldn't have had the blunt to build Thorne's Gate in New York and develop his stables. He never would have been welcomed into the finest drawing rooms of New York and Boston, where he'd learned the standards of behavior for the wealthy and powerful while he worked on his scheme to entrap Shefford and Blackmore.

Fortunately, Thomas would not be stuck in this country, having to abide by the rules of the
English
haut ton
for very much time. He would be glad to leave as soon as he dealt with the obnoxious aristocrats who'd tossed him away as though he were nothing more than a bit of offal in the street.

Tom hoped that when Sebastian Salim located Tom's family and brought them to London, he would be able to convince them to return to America with him. His parents could live a life of ease on his estate, and he would provide a generous dowry for his younger sister, Jennie. When he'd seen her last, she'd been a sweet, pretty child, and he had no doubt she'd grown up capable of attracting the most eligible bachelors in New York.

Lucas Reigi had orders to keep Tom's ships ready to sail immediately after the horse race, and Tom intended to spirit his family onto one of the ships as soon as it was done. Everything was to be kept in readiness for a hasty departure.

“Your Highness, it is a true pleasure to make your acquaintance,” said one of the white-haired lords, eyeing the emerald that rested on Tom's chest. “I trust your country and ours will find much common ground.”

“I have no doubt of it, Lord Branford.”

“Your English is near perfect, Your Highness,” said Lord Waverly. “I cannot help but wonder how that is possible.”

It was not an unexpected question. “A few Sabedorians learned your language under duress on the high seas, Lord Waverly, and brought it back to us. My own tutor was a man who'd been taken
in slavery by
English
pirates and kept for a number of years.”

Waverly covered his mouth as he cleared his throat, and changed the subject. Tom believed the less said about his command of the language, the better, and he hoped the mention of Sabedorians being victimized by English pirates would stem further questioning.

New guests were announced every few minutes, and Tom controlled the urge to turn his head toward the entrance with each one. He felt an eager unease at seeing Shefford again. He remembered the husky, dark-eyed boy well, and had bet all on the probability that the man had become as mad for horses as his sire had been.

It seemed that Tom's gamble had been dead-on. Shefford had recently purchased Paragon and Palmer's Gold, and Tom didn't think the marquess would pass on an opportunity to race the two Thoroughbreds in an unsanctioned contest. Tom's American horses were far superior to any horse Tom had ever seen, and his champion would deal the final blow to Shefford's fortunes, as well as to his reputation. Tom was counting on the bastard drawing all his cronies into the wager. They would blame him for their losses—profound losses, he hoped.

“Lady Beatrice Shefford,” the footman called out, and Thomas could not help but turn. He saw the older woman from Hanover Square—the harpy with white-tinged red hair. A sharp feeling of foreboding knifed through him when he real
ized she was the same shrew who'd shouted at Maggie when she'd run out of a nearby house to see to her child.

The woman moved forward into the room and the footman announced the next guests. “The Marquess of Shefford, and Lady Margaret Blackmore.”

It was her. Maggie.

He felt as though his belly had dropped to his knees. And yet the intense desire he'd felt when she'd left him returned full force, and battled with the reality of who she was. The only person who could be Lady Blackmore was Julian Danvers's mother.

Or his wife.

His mind raced as Waverly and Lord Branford continued discussing the issues that would soon be debated in Lords, and how Waverly intended to introduce a bill of alliance with the wealthy principality of Sabedoria. There would, of course, be mutual benefits, not the least of which would be Britain's exclusive right to trade for Sabedoria's highly superior flax.

Tom gave a noncommittal nod as he watched Maggie enter the ballroom on Shefford's arm. She kept her eyes straight ahead as she moved through the ballroom, following in the older woman's wake, and Thomas guessed that Lady Shefford was her mother.

If so, it meant that Maggie was Shefford's sister.

Tom refrained from jabbing his fingers through
his hair in consternation. But Good God, the woman he desired more than any he could ever remember was in the thick of it.

 

Maggie almost asked Lord Horton to turn his carriage around and take her home. But the thought of seeing Thomas had kept her firmly seated on the plush squabs of his carriage, in spite of Stella's disapproving glare and her mother's continued harassment.

Shefford was getting out of his carriage as they arrived, and insisted that Maggie take his arm to enter the ballroom. It was her first social event since Julian's death, and a fair number of people took note of her entrance and seemed to be whispering to their companions as they looked her over.

She hated this, feeling as though she were on display like one of the young debutantes, only this time, as the brunt of some harsh gossip. For once she was grateful for Stella's reluctant help. Dressed in her sister's lovely blue gown, she hoped everyone in the duke and duchess's ballroom would recognize what a fool Julian had been.

She tried not to be too obvious as she scoured the crowd for the tall, dark-haired man she intended to make her lover. On the morrow, she would know all that she'd missed—all that Julian had deprived her of—during her marriage.

It had been a taxing and bewildering day, and she should have stayed home that evening, if only to collect her thoughts. She was still angry with Shefford for his lack of care in agreeing to her feeble
marriage agreement with Julian, and his subsequent poor stewardship of her late husband's estate. He couldn't have been more negligent if he'd tried.

And then there was Thomas…

She took her hand from Shefford's arm and moved ahead without him, her stomach roiling with nerves. How did one approach a man—a near stranger—who had touched her so intimately, setting her blood on fire in a way her husband had never done?

“Margaret!” called Victoria, Lady Ranfield, and Maggie was relieved to see her friend's smiling face.

“Hello, Victoria,” Maggie replied as the young woman took her hand and drew her away from her family.

“Are you all right?” Victoria asked in a confidential tone. “I was so worried about you after…you know.”

“No, no. You were right,” Maggie replied in a confidential tone. “Julian's been gone two years. Whatever he might have done happened a long time ago and signifies naught anymore.” In Mr. Clement's office, she had come to the realization that Julian's past infidelities were the least of her worries. Her family was essentially destitute. Somehow, she was going to have to turn Blackmore into a productive estate, or else Zachary was going to inherit a worthless title.

She knew little of agricultural innovations and not much of estate management, beyond her own paltry duties. The steward that Shefford engaged
was supposed to have taken care of everything. And yet Maggie now knew that he had not.

“You're taking it rather better now,” said Victoria.

“Yes, well. I've had time to think about it.”

Victoria slid her arm through the crook of Maggie's elbow and started them toward the refreshment table. “So, you've begun your hunt for another husband?”

“Good heavens, no,” said Maggie. “You sound like my mother.”

“God forbid. Is she still throwing Chatterton in your face?”

Maggie shrugged. “If not for me, Beatrice would be the honored aunt of an eminent duke, and Charlotte would be his wife. As it is, she only got Aughton for Charlotte, a lowly baron.”

“Bosh.”

“Anyway, how could I compete for a husband here with all these debutantes? Young, innocent, beautiful,
rich
…”

“Maggie, you are—”

“I am going to take a lover, I think.”

Victoria gasped with shock. Then her face broke into a smile. “Oh, you. Having a jest at my expense.”

Maggie allowed Victoria to believe so. Her decision to engage in an affair with Thomas was probably best left unspoken. “Where is Lord Ranfield?”

“Hobnobbing with his parliamentary peers. They are all atwitter with this foreign prince.”

“Of Sabedoria.”

“Yes. Have you seen him?”

Maggie swallowed. She'd certainly seen him, touched him, melted in his arms. “He happened into Hanover Square two nights ago, and saved Zachary from being run down by a carriage.”

“What?”
Victoria said, pressing a hand to her breast. “You never said anything! Is Zachary all right?”

Maggie nodded, the shock of the incident having receded, replaced by a sense of anticipation and longing unlike anything she'd ever known. She couldn't believe she'd met Thomas only forty-eight hours ago. “Zachary is fine, but only because of the prince and his quick action.”

“Good heavens, Margaret. I cannot believe…” She put a hand upon Maggie's arm and turned to look at the crowd. “You know that he is here?”

“Oh?” She hoped so, since it was the only reason she had decided to attend.

“It's said he is unmarried,” Victoria remarked, bringing Maggie up short.

It had not even occurred to her to wonder if he had a wife and she was appalled at her own lack of consideration. After what she had just learned about Julian, it should have been her first thought.

“Perhaps he intends to take a bride back to Sabedoria with him,” said Victoria.

Maggie swallowed. She'd been an utter dolt in her dealings with him. Having intimate relations with a man who was actively seeking a wife was obviously not a prudent course of action. And yet—

“It seems impossible that he doesn't already have a wife.” Victoria clasped her hands to her breast and sighed. “He is Apollo with dark hair, Prometheus with gorgeous green eyes, Atlas with the weight of his country on his shoulders. I don't believe I've ever seen such a remarkably handsome man. And when he smiles…” She fluttered her lashes and rolled her eyes in a feigned swoon.

Maggie would have laughed at her friend's antics, but she caught sight of Thomas just then. He certainly was as beautiful as Apollo, and Victoria seemed to be right about the weight on his shoulders. A fierce crease split his brow, giving him the appearance of a man who carried a heavy burden.

She hadn't given any thought to his reasons for coming to England, but as he stood conversing with the most powerful men of the realm, Maggie knew there was a great deal more to him than the little bit—as earth-shattering as it was—that she'd experienced.

And she realized how foolish it was to think he would turn his entire attention upon her. She'd been reeling over Victoria's revelation when she'd encountered him that morning in the street, and he'd done nothing but attempt to comfort her. He'd been purely gracious at the tea shop, until she announced that she was a widow.

She took the proffered glass of ratafia and drank it down.

“Maggie, what is it? Are you…?” Victoria asked, and Maggie realized her faux pas. Thank
heavens her mother hadn't seen her gulping down the sweet, surprisingly potent drink, but she felt her cheeks burn, anyway.

“I'm fine,” she said. “Perhaps a little rattled. I haven't been part of a crush like this in years.”

“It's certainly crowded. There is naught to compare to a Waverly ball. I'm so glad you came.”

“Here comes your husband,” said Maggie.

Lord Ranfield arrived at Victoria's side, took Maggie's hand and made his bow over it. “Lady Blackmore, it's been much too long. I hope you are well.”

Victoria did not give Maggie an opportunity to answer. “Are the gentlemen going to monopolize the prince all evening discussing the price of corn, Ranfield? Maggie and I would like to meet the man.”

“The dancing will soon begin,” he replied, smiling down at his wife, at her mockingly petulant tone. He had always been a thoroughly engaging man, and Maggie knew that her friend had married him for love. Hers was a very different history than Maggie's and no one would ever believe Ranfield strayed from his wife's bed.

He turned to Maggie. “Will you do me the honor of a dance, Lady Blackmore?”

“Oh, I…”

“Maggie doesn't dance, Charles,” Victoria said quietly.

“I beg your pardon, my lady. Perhaps you'll sit with us at supper?” he asked, and Maggie warmed to him as he recovered seamlessly from his blunder.
He'd obviously forgotten about Maggie's lame leg, and she liked him all the more for it. “We would enjoy your company.”

“Thank you. I would be pleased to join you,” she replied. She knew how to dance, but her badly mended leg prevented her from moving gracefully, so she preferred to avoid dancing in public. It was bad enough having to walk with a limp before the elegant company here.

“The prince first, Ranfield,” said Victoria.

“Yes, my love,” said Ranfield, turning to scan the room for a sight of him.

“This way.” He took his wife and Maggie on each arm and started through the crowd as the musicians began to take up their instruments.