Duchess Diaries [2] How to Pursue a Princess

by Karen Hawkins

  He caught her gaze and smiled more broadly, a twinkle in his green eyes that she couldn’t help but like. Though not sure why he was so pleased, Charlotte found herself smiling back.

  “How dare you, you-you-you—” sputtered the grand duchess, her hands curling and uncurling as if longing for a weapon. “I shall—”

  “I think that’s enough of an apology.” Wulf took his grandmother’s arm and cocked a brow at her.

  She clamped her lips closed, her face puckered with fury.

  He bowed deeply to Margaret. “Your grace has been most gracious.”

  “Thank you,” Margaret said, though she seemed mollified. She sent a smug look at the grand duchess, then smiled and turned to the prince. “My dear Prince Wulfinski, I hope you and your grandmother will join us this afternoon. All of my guests, including Miss Balfour, will be visiting the folly on the island. We’ll be leaving in a few hours if the weather holds.”

  “I would be most pleased to join you. Unfortunately, my grandmother will be sleeping as she needs a nap.”

  “Pah, I do not need a nap! I’m—”

  “Tata, enough.” He didn’t raise his voice, but it was so icy that even Margaret’s eyes widened.

  Chastened, his grandmother merely muttered under her breath.

  With a final bow, Wulf tucked his grandmother’s arm in his and walked her to the door, Meenie trotting after them. As they reached the door, the prince looked at the small dog and said one word in his native tongue. To Charlotte’s surprise, Meenie instantly sat, her tail wagging as hard as it could.

  The prince gave the dog an approving look and escorted his grandmother out the door, MacDougal closing it behind them.

  Margaret collected the pugs that had overtaken her chair and sank down. “Well! That was the most ungracious apology I’ve ever enjoyed.” Her eyes sparkled with humor. “But I did enjoy it.”

  Charlotte watched as Meenie stared at the closed door, her expression despondent. The dog whined and then barked. “The prince has a way with animals.”

  Margaret followed Charlotte’s gaze. “Meenie, come!”

  The little dog didn’t even glance their way, but kept her gaze locked on the closed door.

  “That’s odd,” Margaret said.

  “She likes the prince.” Charlotte took her own seat and settled her knitting in her lap. “And I believe . . . no, I’m certain that I like him, too.”

  Margaret looked surprised. “Do you?”

  “Yes. He seems very resourceful. I like that in a man.”

  “He certainly brought his grandmother to heel.” Margaret chuckled. “Send her home in a trunk! No wonder she was cowed.”

  “You don’t think he’d really do that, do you?”

  “No, it was the threat of being sent home that brought her here. Mark my words, we’ll see more of that woman, and she’ll do what she can to keep Miss Balfour from Wulfinski.” A smile played about Margaret’s mouth. “You may think me petty, but it would almost be worth the trouble to put them together just to irk her grace.”

  Charlotte set her needles back into motion. “My dear Margaret, I can think of nothing that would amuse us more. Should we?”

  “It’s tempting . . . but then there’s Huntley, and he seems quite taken with our Lily. If I thought him suitable for another, I just might . . .” The duchess pursed her lips and stared without seeing across the room.

  Charlotte knew better than to interrupt when that faraway look settled in Margaret’s eyes, so she tugged her basket closer and continued to knit. As soon as the duchess had everything settled in her mind, she’d share her thoughts.

  All Charlotte knew was that whatever mischief Margaret was brewing, they would all be the better for it.

  Twenty-one

  From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe It had better not rain. That’s all I have to say about it.

  At one o’clock, the guests—all wrapped in shawls and coats against the overcast, rather threatening skies—rode by horse and carriage to the lake, then were punted across the gray water by enthusiastic footmen. The duchess had decided to chance the trip to the folly, declaring that in Scotland gray skies were far more normal than the beautiful blue ones they’d enjoyed over the last week.

  Lily rode across the lake in a boat with three young ladies who’d apparently known each other since childhood, judging by their whispers and giggles. Ignoring them, she enjoyed the beauty of the setting and tried to calm her emotions, which were still in turmoil from Wulf’s late-night visit. How had she so forgotten her sense of propriety to allow that to happen? But that was how it was: whenever Wulf was about, she forgot many things she shouldn’t do.

  The memory of her wanton behavior made her cheeks heat with a breathless excitement. She’d never thought about the physical aspect of a marriage before. It was assumed that a wife would do what was necessary; enjoyment was never a part of it. But last night, Wulf had shown her true physical pleasure.

  If Huntley and I marry, will I feel the same way? She couldn’t imagine even kissing Huntley, much less anything else.

  She’d never known such passion was possible, but, oh, how her body had come to life under Wulf’s touch. Even now, she yearned to feel that bliss again.

  But that was not to be. Never.

  Still, she couldn’t regret it had happened. Her only regret was that her enthusiastic response had given the prince the last thing he needed—encouragement.

  The man was impossible, demanding and unrelenting. And sensual and handsome and— No. She should be thinking about one thing only: Wulf had agreed to help her win Huntley.

  She reached out to trail her fingers in the cold water. Of course, Wulf first has to win his way back onto the duchess’s guest list. That will be quite a feat, if it’s even possible.

  “Ye’d best hold on, misses. We’re aboot to land.” The footman pushed the boat onto the island’s shore with a thud. Once the boat was grounded, he placed the pole back into its lock, then hopped off to help the guests climb out onto the hard-packed beach.

  Lily’s three companions hurried away, looking for other members of their party. Left alone, Lily gathered her cloak and walked to where more boats were pulling onto the shore.

  From where he was helping Miss Gordon from their boat, Huntley called to Lily, “Miss Balfour—Lily! Hold a moment, please!”

  He was obviously happy to see her, and grateful for his enthusiasm, she returned his smile. There, this isn’t going to be so hard, is it?

  Once Emma was safely on the shore, Huntley strode toward Lily. She watched him approach, aware of the envious glances of several other ladies. He was handsome and dressed as usual in the top of fashion, although today, because of the nature of their outing, he wore a long multi-caped coat, sturdier boots, and a simpler neckcloth.

  He reached her side. “I was hoping we’d be in the same boat, but you’d already left by the time Emma came downstairs. I’d promised her that I’d wait, but she had a broken lace on her boot and had to redo the entire thing.”

  “Had I known, I would have waited for you.”

  “No matter. We’re here now.” He took Lily’s arm and began to lead her up the low-sloped bank.

  “Should we wait for Miss Gordon?”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Emma’s already talking to someone—Mrs. Simpson, I believe. You know Emma; she’d rather one didn’t bother her too much. She’s very independent.”

  Lily sent him a side glance. Was that dismissal in his voice? She rather liked Emma’s independent nature. Or she did when Emma wasn’t using it to flirt with Wulf.

  Keeping up an easy flow of small talk, Huntley escorted Lily to a rise from which they could watch the other boats arriving. As she’d expected, none of the boats carried a large, black-haired prince with a devilish smile.

  “Ah, there’s the duchess now.” Huntley nodded toward the final boat. “I spoke to Lady Charlotte earlier, and she said we’re to wander down the main pathway and then on to the folly
. The servants came hours ago and put up a tent and brought a sumptuous tea for this afternoon.”

  “Good, for I’m famished.” Even under gray skies, it was a beautiful island, and it seemed that every blade of grass had been artfully planted. She caught glimpses of several statues here and there in the woods, some standing and some tilted as if disturbed by an earthquake or another natural disaster. Twined over it all ran ropes of flowers and vines.

  “It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Huntley said.

  “It’s amazing. Do many people prepare such elaborate follies?”

  “Some, though I know of none who’ve made use of an entire island. One part of Vauxhall Gardens in London is similarly plotted, although they’ve added water features.”

  “I’ve never been to London.”

  “No?” He smiled. “Perhaps one day we will be there together. You’ll enjoy it.”

  “I’m sure I will. My sister Rose loved her season there.”

  “Ah, yes, she’s Lady Sinclair now, isn’t she?”

  Lily slanted a glance at the earl, wondering at the repressive note in his voice. “Yes, she is.” For some reason she felt the need to add, “She and her new husband are deeply in love and are very happy together.”

  “Oh, I and everyone else heard all about it. Not to say anything untoward, but your sister and Sinclair were not very circumspect.”

  “They were very much in love.”

  He shook his head. “There are only two kinds of love stories—those that are well-bred and those that are not. One you will read about in lending-shop novels and features bloodstained knights as unlikely heroes who make public announcements in the most vulgar manner, while the other occurs properly in the drawing rooms of England’s best houses and are conducted as all private affairs should be—in private.”

  She managed a smile, though she was certain Wulf would disagree. But perhaps Huntley is right about one thing: not all love stories have knights—or princes—who slay dragons and kiss the princess senseless until she can no more think than breathe. Not real love stories, anyway.

  “I’ve often thought that— Oh, there’s the duchess. It appears that she is telling everyone to continue on to the folly, for she’s gesturing toward the path and shooing people along. Shall we lead the way?” He pointed to the path to their left. “Lady Charlotte said they placed servants along the pathway with umbrellas, in case the rain comes.”

  Lily took his arm. They’d only gone a few steps when a low branch hit his hat and sent it tumbling. He gave a low exclamation as he collected it. “Look at it! There’s mud on the brim.” He pulled out a handkerchief and carefully wiped off the mud, frowning as mightily as she’d ever seen him.

  He looked so serious that Lily had to bite her lip to keep from grinning. “Do you need another handkerchief?”

  “What I really need is some water and a stiff brush. I’ll have my man take care of it when we return.” Huntley tucked the hat under his arm and offered her his elbow again. “Shall we?”

  As they walked, Lily glanced at the earl, noting his calm expression. She’d never seen Wulf calm. He was too energetic, too vibrant. He couldn’t speak without revealing his passionate nature, and she wondered what he would say to Huntley’s observations about love and courtship.

  A stiff breeze made Lily tug her cloak tighter. “It feels as if the weather’s turning. I hope we find one of the servants who is handing out umbrellas before it rains.”

  He patted her hand. “We will.”

  For some reason, the same certainty that Wulf wore so easily was an irritant when employed in Huntley’s stiff fashion. She mentally shook herself and forced a smile. “If it rains before we find an umbrella, we’ll just take shelter somewhere.”

  He looked at her approvingly. “I told Emma this morning that one of the things I like best about you is your pragmatic nature. I knew you were such a woman the first time I met you.”

  She wondered uneasily how one looked “pragmatic.” “Huntley, I’m just curious, but . . .” She turned to face him. “What do you think about romantic gestures?”

  His brows rose. “What sort of romantic gestures?”

  “Oh, you know . . . climbing into a window or up a trellis or—”

  “Hold. How is climbing up a trellis or into a window ‘romantic’?”

  “Well . . . if you did it because you wished to speak to someone and there was no other way, then it could be romantic.”

  “Hardly. That sort of behavior is exactly what I was talking about. I can’t imagine how anyone would find it romantic to be forced to witness such foolhardy, crass behavior.”

  “Crass?”

  “Yes, crass.” He caught her expression and he laughed softly. “Oh, I see. You read such a scene in a book, didn’t you, and thought it excessively romantic? I’m sure it is—on paper. But in real life, would you really applaud someone for being so careless with your good name? I think not.”

  “It sounds as if I’m not the only person who is pragmatic in nature.”

  He chuckled. “That is quite a compliment. My wife used to—” His laughter faded, his sherry-brown eyes darkening.

  Lily put her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry. It’s still a fresh wound.”

  “It shouldn’t be, as she died more than two years ago.” He shook his head. “She would not have wished me to hide away and grow old alone, so I— Good God, just listen to me.” He chuckled ruefully. “Here I am, walking through a beautiful woods with an even more beautiful companion, and I’m being about as much fun as a dead horse.”

  “I’m sure it was an extremely difficult time for you.”

  He looked down at her with a warm smile. “You are very generous, Lily.”

  “I would think less of you for not caring.”

  He squeezed her hand, and they turned the corner and found themselves facing three divergent paths.

  “We face an intriguing choice, Lily. Which shall we choose?”

  She was about to suggest that they take the shortest pathway to tea when Wulf’s deep rumble interrupted her reply.

  “Ah, Huntley! There you are.”

  He stood on the path behind them, Emma on his arm. Wulf was dressed in buff breeches tucked into black boots, his deep blue coat open and his cravat carelessly knotted about his strong throat. His black hair fell over his forehead and framed his striking eyes.

  “What a surprise,” Huntley said, looking far from pleased to see Emma’s hand resting on the prince’s arm. “Your Highness, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “The duchess re-invited me.” Wulf’s gaze locked with Lily’s, a smile curving his mouth. “I had to row myself over, as I was late arriving, but I did so and now here I am.”

  “How fortunate for us all,” Huntley said. “Emma, I thought you were walking with Mrs. Simpson?”

  “She stopped to wait on Lady MacInnis, and the prince was coming this way, so I joined him.” Emma leaned against Wulf’s arm and smiled up at him. “Shall we continue on? It might rain on us if we linger.”

  “Yes,” Lily agreed. “I’m famished as well, and I hear that a lovely tea awaits.”

  “Then we go.” Wulf started toward the wider path to the left, Emma with him.

  Lily started to follow, but Huntley didn’t move. As her arm was tucked into his, she stopped as well.

  Wulf looked back, frowning. “Do you not come?”

  Huntley smiled. “You may take that path. Lily and I will take this other and meet you at the tent for tea.”

  Emma’s brow creased. “The duchess said to keep to the widest path.”

  Huntley’s smile dimmed. “We’re on an island. I’m certain that all of these paths eventually converge.”

  Lily half expected Wulf to argue, but he merely shrugged his broad shoulders. “Do as you wish. I must find this tea. I have not had lunch and I hear there will be apple and peach tarts.”

  Lily’s stomach rumbled at the mention of food.

  Huntley didn’t notice, for he
was already tugging her to the far path. Unable to say more without stepping on the earl’s pride, she went with him, aware of Wulf’s gaze as they disappeared in the forest.

  • • •

  The Roxburghe folly had been designed to look like a half-collapsed Grecian temple, complete with a crumbling portico, large fallen columns, and an ornate mural half hidden by vines. Trees surrounded the small clearing, where a large tent had been raised to protect the guests from inclement weather.

  Underneath the tent was a repast of hard cheeses, scones, tea cakes, cold duck, crusty bread, roasted beef, an assortment of jams and jellies, bowls of pears and apples, a platter of grapes, and an assortment of the promised tarts. A small table held eight kinds of tea, all in decorative pots, while footmen carried trays of chilled champagne across the lawn for the more adventurous.

  Ladies and gentlemen ate and talked, laughed and mingled, while a three-piece ensemble played off to one side, flooding the area with soft music.

  Emma, oblivious to it all, looked at the threatening skies. “Where can they be?”

  “Walking. While you fetched your scone, I asked one of the footmen about the path Huntley chose. It goes to the other side of the island and ends at a small cove on the lake. They will have to turn and walk back if they wish to join us for tea.”

  “Oh no!”

  He frowned. “Why are you so worried? A little rain will not hurt them.”

  “You don’t understand.” She glanced around and then leaned forward to say in a low, urgent voice, “If anyone realizes they are alone and in the woods together, it could cause a scandal.”

  “If someone mentions it, we will just say that we saw them near the temple. It is a large area, and there are many places they could be with perfect propriety.”

  Emma didn’t look convinced. “I wish you had demanded that they come with us.”

  “I didn’t know that the path Huntley chose to take wouldn’t end up here. Besides, I didn’t wish to antagonize him.”

  Emma’s brows rose. “That is a change of tune.”

  “I wish to win Huntley’s confidence.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I wish to, that is why.” Wulf regarded Emma over the edge of his champagne glass. “You may help me with that.”