“Prince Menshivkov, pray tell us about Oxenburg,” Mama said. “Is it cold there this time of the year?”
Bronwyn smiled. This was her chance. “Oxenburg experiences mild temperatures in the fall, but it’s not unusual for them to experience sudden snowfalls come September.”
Everyone looked at her.
Encouraged, she added, “Though the temperatures in the mountain ranges can be extreme, those on the plains are pleasant most of the year.”
Mama blinked. “I—I had no idea, Bronwyn.”
“Yes. Part of Oxenburg has heavy snows in the winter, and the mountain roads are often impassable except by horse and sled.”
Sorcha looked from her to Alexsey and then back again. “Really?”
Bronwyn nodded. “There are two major mountain ranges in Oxenburg, with four major peaks.”
She slipped a glance at Alexsey and caught him watching her with an odd smile.
What else? Ah yes. “There are seventeen rivers, and a number of flood plains, as well as”—she frowned, trying to remember—“was it seven major cities?”
“Six,” Alexsey offered.
“Six.” She gave him a grateful smile. “Oxenburg has no coastline, as it is entirely surrounded by other countries, but lakes are plentiful. There are more than a hundred and”—she squinted and bit her lip—“fourteen lakes, all of them surrounded by lush farmlands and—”
The prince stood, startling everyone. “Lady Malvinea, Strathmoor and I must take your daughters for a walk in your gardens.”
Bronwyn blinked at the urgent note in the prince’s voice.
Mama nodded. “Of course! Sorcha and Mairi would be glad to—”
“And Miss Murdoch,” Alexsey said.
Her gaze flew to his. He inclined his head, a faint smile curving his hard mouth. “Such a recitation. I am impressed.”
Her face flushed at the warmth in his voice, her entire body softening. And I only read the first chapter. How will he react when I read more? Will he—
A noise sounded in the foyer and Mama, who was looking none too pleased, brightened. “Ah! There’s tea now. The walk can wait.”
A scrambling sound came in the hallway, followed by a muffled thump.
Bronwyn frowned at the door. “What on earth is that?”
The door burst open and Scott galloped in, a red kerchief in his mouth. Hot on his trail was Mrs. Pitcairn, her mobcap askew, a broom in one hand as she swung unsuccessfully at the dog’s rump. “Bring tha’ back, ye bloody hellhound!” she snapped, her face as red as the kerchief.
Lady Malvinea rose, grasping one arm of her chair. “Bronwyn, get your animals under control!”
Bronwyn was already on her feet, stepping into Scott’s path.
Walter appeared in the doorway, his tail wagging as he watched the fray. With a loud bark, he ran in to join the fun.
“Scott, stop!” She grabbed at him as he raced by, but, spurred forward by the housekeeper’s chase, he was out of reach before she could grab his collar.
“Bring back them tarts, ye hellhound!” Mrs. Pitcairn screeched, swinging the broom.
Scott leapt over a small table with ease and Mrs. Pitcairn, perhaps thinking she could swat his rump while he was in the air, accidentally brought her broom down on a large vase of fall flowers, which flipped spectacularly in the air, scattering water and flowers all over poor Sorcha.
Wet stems clung to her head and face as she gasped in shock. Water dampened her gown and plastered one of her curls to her forehead.
Mairi and Lord Strathmoor both let out a whoop of laughter while, red-faced and furious, Lady Malvinea dug a kerchief from her pocket and rushed to Sorcha’s aid.
Bronwyn ran after Scott, who was trying to scramble under a chair to evade the whapping broom. But the chair was too small for such a large dog, and he only succeeded in moving it forward, his rump still in plain view and an easy target for Mrs. Pitcairn.
Bronwyn caught the broom just before it landed and tugged it away from the angry housekeeper. “Mrs. Pitcairn, please!”
Mrs. Pitcairn shoved her askew mobcap back onto her head. “Tha’ dog stole our tarts!”
“He shouldn’t have done that, but chasing him about the house isn’t going to help.” Bronwyn moved in front of Scott, who was now trying to wiggle free of the chair.
The cook’s hands curled into fists. “Miss, I jus’ want to gi’ him one good smack fer stealin’ my tarts! One smack, an’ no more.”
“No smacks, and no—” Bronwyn caught sight of Walter where he was licking spilled water from the floor. “Walter, out!”
The dog wagged his tail and gave the floor one last lick.
She scowled at him.
Seeing the steel in her eye, he lowered his head and trotted out the door.
Scott, finally free, scrambled to join him, and soon Bronwyn saw the two dogs racing past one of the windows. “You left the door open!”
“I was tryin’ to herd them oot the door when they stole me tarts.” Mrs. Pitcairn plopped a fist on her hip and leaned against her broom. “And now we dinna ha’ naught fer his lordship and the prince fer tea.”
Bronwyn glanced at their guests. Alexsey now sat in his chair, rubbing his chin as if to wipe his grin from his face, looking for all the world as if he were at a show of some sort. Lord Strathmoor was offering his handkerchief to a sputtering Sorcha, his eyes alight with laughter.
Bronwyn’s heart ached as she caught Sorcha’s mortified look as she wiped water from her face, one flower sticking out from her hair like a broken antler.
Mama pinned Bronwyn with a furious look. “Those animals are your responsibility!”
“I’m sorry they ate the tarts.”
“They’re hellhounds,” Mrs. Pitcairn cried, stomping out the door. “Hellhounds, I tell ye!”
Lord Strathmoor cleared his throat. “I, ah, think the prince and I should be going. We’ll return for that walk some other time.”
Alexsey stood, towering over everyone in the room. He bowed, his gaze locked upon hers. “I’ve enjoyed my visit very, very much.”
I’ll wager you did, Bronwyn thought with irritation. She’d worked so hard to make an impression, and for a wild moment, she’d thought she’d succeeded. He’d had eyes for no one but her. But now the moment was lost.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” Mama said. “I’m so sorry for the mess and—and everything. I assure you we are usually far more boring than this!”
Strathmoor laughed. “If anyone understands the demands of a dog, it is the prince. His dog is a monster.”
“Papillon is the worst dog in all of Oxenburg,” the prince agreed without malice. “Everyone says so.”
“Especially your grandmother.”
Alexsey nodded. “She would like Papillon to be a lapdog, but she is not accommodating.”
“I haven’t met this dog, though I’ve heard about it.” Mama cut a sharp glance at Bronwyn.
Alexsey offered, “Papillon is small, bred for hunting rats.”
“Rats?” Mairi looked fascinated.
“And the—what is the word?” His gaze flickered to Bronwyn. “Ah yes, ‘hares.’ ”
Mairi brightened. “I love small dogs.”
“But she is much trouble,” Alexsey said. “Like a woman.”
Strathmoor burst out laughing. “Now we really must go; we’ve other visits to make. But first, my uncle wished me to invite all of you to our house for a turtle dinner the day after tomorrow.”
Mama beamed. “A turtle dinner, you say? How elegant! We’d be delighted.”
“Excellent. At eight.” The viscount bowed. “We look forward to your visit.”
Bronwyn felt the prince’s gaze upon her as she made her obligatory curtsy, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of a single look. It was only when he was walking out the door, Lady Malvinea fluttering behind, that she allowed herself a long look at his broad shoulders as he disappeared from sight.
“Men.” Lucinda sighed. �
�Their wants are so simple, but their feelings are like a river, ever moving and oft deep.”
—The Black Duke by Miss Mary Edgeworth
As they untied their horses from the iron rings mounted on the posts by the portico, Strath grinned. “Well, that was entertaining.”
“Miss Sorcha would not agree.”
Strathmoor’s grin broadened. “To see her all wet and covered in stems—” He laughed.
Alexsey lifted a brow. “You are not usually so unkind toward women.”
Strath shrugged. “She’s been told her entire life how beautiful she is. It’s good for her to realize she’s a human once in a while.”
“She does not strike me as being overly focused on her own beauty.”
“Then why was she so upset at having water dumped upon her?”
“Because it was cold and uncomfortable. I daresay you’d have felt the same.” Alexsey swung up into the saddle.
Strath remained beside his horse, a questioning look in his eyes. “You really think that was all it was?”
“Da.”
“Hmmm. I think you’re giving her far too much credit.” Strath climbed into the saddle, and they turned their horses down the drive.
At the end of the drive, Alexsey caught Strath’s curious glance. “What? And don’t tell me it’s nothing, for I would not believe you.”
“Very well. You don’t have to answer, as it’s just idle curiosity. But what was Miss Murdoch about, spouting off nonsense about Oxenburg?”
Alexsey chuckled. “I think she was trying her hand at flirting.”
Strath gaped. “That was flirting?”
“Her version, I think so, yes.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. I never would have thought that.” For a moment they rode in silence. “And your demand to take the ladies for a walk?”
“I had the most unusual reaction to her flirting, bad as it was.”
“Oh?”
“I wished to kiss her. I was going to get her away from her sisters in the garden.”
“Ah, so I was to help you.”
“Wouldn’t you have?”
Strath grinned. “Of course.”
“You are a good friend, Strath.” Thinking about Bronwyn, Alexsey chuckled. “I like seeing her flustered. I get the feeling very little flusters her.”
“She seems very self-possessed.”
“Aye—but I can make her flush with one look.” It was odd, how much that amused him. Women often became flustered around him, trying far too hard to attract his attention. And today so had Bronwyn, but she’d done it in such an unusual, earnest way, he was charmed. More than charmed.
Strath said thoughtfully, “She was quite talkative today; she is usually very quiet.”
“Very true.” Because she wished to let me know she was . . . interested. That is good, because I am, too. Even eager. But I dare not progress too quickly. It is obvious she is new to this and if I startle her, she will retreat, as she did in the garden.
Aware of Strath’s questioning gaze, he said, “She is very capable. There she was, chasing that dog about the room, facing a furious housekeeper armed with a broom, and a nearly hysterical stepmother, yet Bronwyn was calm and collected. Not a whit out of breath. I find that intriguing.”
Strath shook his head. “You’re a strange one. Well, whatever your intentions are with her, have a care. In Scotland, even a prince can’t ruin a woman of good reputation and just walk away.”
“I have no intention of ruining anyone.”
Strath gave him a flat look.
Alexsey laughed. “Fine. I may have some ruination in mind, but only a very, very private one.”
“Good.” Strath sighed. “Scotland is stuck in ancient morality, while Europe gambols ahead. Why, just look at your grandmother. A Gypsy could never marry into the royal family in this country.”
“Things are different in Oxenburg.”
“Well, here things are run by an invisible court of public opinion, undeterred by common sense and fueled by the cruelest of gossip. Have a care you don’t end up prosecuted under their unwritten laws.”
Alexsey sent Strath a puzzled look. “You are full of heavy, unhappy advice today, my friend. Do not fear for me, or Miss Murdoch. We play a game, but I will make certain it stays within safe boundaries. I’ve no wish to harm her.”
“I’m sorry. I’m cross today, and I’ve no idea why.”
“You need a woman.”
“Most likely.”
“Find one, then. One who will offer you a challenge. Someone with enough fire in her soul to provoke, and enough brain in her head to win an argument. Beauty is easy to find. But interesting . . . ah, that is something to be treasured.”
Strath shook his head. “You know, for all you like to pretend that you’re a frivolous sort, you’re a deep one.”
Alexsey raised his brows. “Let’s see how ‘deep’ you think me once I beat your sorry nag back to Tulloch.”
Strath opened his mouth to protest, but the prince was already galloping away. “Bloody hell!” He kicked his heels and was off, chasing Alexsey’s dust.
Lucinda pulled her shawl tighter as the winds frenziedly whipped the moors. Swirling gray clouds filled the sky; there was power in the coming storm. She could feel it prickling along her skin, making her hair rise. Lightning snaked across the sky; thunder rumbled so loudly that it sucked all other sounds from the air. And with a great whooshing sigh, the skies opened and the rain poured down. . . .
—The Black Duke by Miss Mary Edgeworth
The next evening, Mairi turned away from the sitting room window, letting the heavy curtain cover the glass. “I hate rain. It’s so gloomy.”
Bronwyn, curled up on the settee with a blanket over her lap, looked up from her book. The steady thrum of the rain against the side of the house made her smile. “I rather like it.”
Sorcha held her stitching closer to the lamp. “It’s so cozy, being indoors while the weather rages outside.”
Mama, who’d been darning Papa’s socks, tied off the last stitch. “We’re lucky to have three candles this evening. We’re running short and will need to fetch some from Dingwall soon.” The clock chimed a soft melody, and she sighed and closed her sewing basket. “It’s late and we should go to bed.” Seeing Bronwyn rubbing her eyes, she asked, “Bronwyn, are you well?”
“I’ve just a headache. I’m sure it will be gone in the morning.”
Sorcha’s delicate brows knit. “Oh dear! I hope so. You won’t want to miss the turtle dinner at the castle.”
Mama came to touch Bronwyn’s forehead, her hand cool against Bronwyn’s skin. “You don’t feel as if you’ve a fever.”
“Of course I don’t; I’m not sick.”
“Don’t challenge fate, Bronwyn,” Sorcha warned with a smile.
“Indeed,” Mama agreed. “I’m quite excited about tomorrow’s dinner, though we’ve much to do to get ready for it. Sorcha, how’s that hem?”
“Almost finished.” Sorcha shook out the gown, showing her mother the neat stitches.
At her mother’s approving nod, Sorcha put her needle and thread back into her sewing box. “I will finish the hem in the morning, which will give us plenty of time to prepare for dinner at the castle.”
Lightning flashed through the window, and made a portrait of their lawn for a startling second before dropping a curtain of darkness. A loud crack of thunder rolled across the sky, sending vibrations through the floor.
Mairi rubbed her arms. “I hate thunder.”
“You can sleep with me tonight, if you’d like,” Sorcha offered.
“Yes, please!” She cast a cautious glance out the window.
“I rather like storms,” Bronwyn said. “It’s a good night to read in bed.”
Sorcha sent her an amused look as she closed her sewing box. “What night isn’t a good one to read in bed?”
Bronwyn smiled. “Very true.”
Sorcha carefully laid her new gown over a chair, then
turned to collect one of the precious candles. “Coming, Mairi?”
“Good night, dears,” Mama called.
“Good night!”
Once they were gone, Mama picked up one of the two remaining candles. “Be sure you go to bed soon; you don’t wish to have circles under your eyes at the dinner party.”
“Yes, Mama.” Bronwyn turned the page, the history of Oxenburg dancing through her imagination. Though small, the country had a colorful history. And the fact that she knew one of its princes made the read all the more engrossing. She could almost hear his rich honey-silk voice reading the words to her, telling her about his land and ancestors, sharing the vast—
“Bronwyn?”
She looked up.
Mama stood in the doorway. Her gaze flickered to the small tome in Bronwyn’s hands. “Still reading about Oxenburg, I see. Are you finished with Miss Edgeworth’s book, then?”
“Not yet. I am reading it slowly so it will last.”
Mama smiled. “I sometimes wonder . . .” She paused. “Bronwyn, you’re not interested in the prince, are you?”
Bronwyn’s face heated. “No! He’s far too frivolous for me.”
“So I would think, too. I’ve never seen you display the least interest in a gentleman before, but there are times I’ve seen you look at him. . . . And when he visited yesterday, you began to spout facts about Oxenburg, so I wondered if you were attempting to gain his interest.”
Should she mention the conversation she’d overheard between the prince and Strathmoor? No. It would anger Mama, and the rest of the visit would be socially awkward. Mama was horrible at hiding things. “It didn’t mean anything; I was just trying to make conversation. Besides, he’s not for me.”
The words sounded hollow to her ears, but Mama seemed reassured.
The Prince Who Loved Me (The Oxenburg Princes) Page 15
