Bertrice Small

by Unconquered

  “It would be my pleasure, Your Grace,” murmured the prince. Damn! It was going to be easier than he had thought, snapping up a virginal English heiress for his next wife. Like a wolf contemplating a rabbit, he wondered about the size of her dowry. He also wondered if the exquisite Lady Dunham of the silver-gilt hair would betray him. Could she do so without betraying herself? That was the question. He didn’t think so, and yet … It was really quite a marvelous story that they had invented to cover her absence.

  Dearest Sasha had been right. The lady had told the truth about herself. Alexei Cherkessky wondered how much her husband knew of her fate. He also wondered what had happened to the brat she had been carrying. If it lived it belonged to him, and God only knew he had precious little left anymore.

  It had been a terrible year. His estates in the Crimea had been utterly destroyed. He had been at the end of his resources, and the spring slave sale was to have refilled his coffers for the next year. The Tatar raid had ruined him.

  Soon after the raid, his meek little bride had walked in when he was with the charming boy he had recently taken. Tatiania had viewed the sexual scene and left without a word. He had thought little of it, assuming that she had accepted the revelation with good sense.

  Ear-splitting screams had roused him several hours later. The cause of the household hysteria was his wife’s suicide. Tatiania Romanova had hanged herself with the sash of her silk dressing gown, killing not only herself, but her unborn infant, his heir.

  He was financially ruined, widowed, without an heir. Because of his wife’s relationship with Tzar Alexander he had been forced to mourn a full year, and the only consolation was that he had not been held responsible for Tatiania’s death. No one knew what had really happened that afternoon. Their short marriage had been considered a successful one.

  His elderly in-laws passed away shortly thereafter, and his luck seemed to be turning for the better at long last. They had left him all they had, modest in comparison with what he had once possessed, but it was a start. He needed a wife, but he needed a rich one, and Russia was not the place to find one. He had decided to try England first, for the English were particularly susceptible to princely titles.

  Just as he was preparing to leave Russia, he had received another piece of lucky news. His prize stud, Lucas, had managed to survive the Tatar massacre! The prince intended breeding slaves again, but it would take time. This time, however, he would raise them on his Baltic estates, safely away from Tatars. The Turks, bless them, would never tire of blond women.

  He had brought Lucas to England as his valet, and together they sought out blond beauties to restock his new farm. He valued the man’s judgement. Alexei Cherkessky pulled himself from his thoughts at the sound of the duchess’s insistent voice.

  “Your Highness, may I present my daughter, Lady Georgeanne Marie.”

  The prince focused his glance on the lovely, elegant girl who stood before him. Never letting his eyes leave hers, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. Then he held it just long enough to bring a blush of color to her cheeks. “Lady Georgeanne,” he said, “my heart is already ravished by your beauty. I can only hope that you will spare me a dance.”

  Georgeanne giggled self-consciously. “Oh, Your Highness,” she said in her high, nasal voice, “all my dances are taken.”

  “Nonsense!” The duchess snatched her daughter’s dance card from her wrist, and quickly scanned it. “Here, child, is a free dance you can spare the prince. The supper dance is available.”

  “And I can only hope you will allow me to escort you to supper,” the prince interjected smoothly, wondering what young swain had been exchanged for him.

  “Of course she will allow you to escort her to supper,” said the duchess briskly, “won’t you, my love?”

  “Yes, Mama,” came the dutiful reply as Georgeanne replaced the card on her wrist, thinking that Lord Thorpe of Thorpe Hall, the gentleman bumped to make way for the prince, wasn’t very interesting anyway. She would be the envy of every girl in the room tonight, taking supper with the prince.

  She liked the way he looked at her, coolly assessing her, his eyes clinging to her well-filled bodice. Still she kept her eyes modestly lowered, for she knew that men, especially the experienced ones like Prince Cherkessky, liked innocence in young girls.

  “Lord Dunham!” the duchess called out as Jared and Miranda danced by. They were forced to stop. “Your Highness, may I present Lord and Lady Dunham, of whom I spoke earlier. This is Prince Cherkessky of St. Petersburg, and, of course, my daughter, Lady Georgeanne.”

  Jared bowed politely to Georgeanne, coldly to the prince. Miranda swept the group a graceful curtsey, every nerve raw, desperate to scream as Alexei Cherkessky took her hand and slowly kissed it.

  “I have heard of your miraculous escape, m’lady.”

  “I escaped nothing, Your Highness,” was the calm reply. “I was merely fortunate enough to be rescued from the sea.”

  “I meant your escape from the cold arms of Hades,” he fenced with her.

  “My wife was incredibly fortunate,” Jared said. “I don’t intend ever to let her out of my sight again. We are soon returning home to America.”

  “If Lady Dunham were my wife I should certainly not let her out of my sight, either,” was the prince’s mocking reply.

  The two men locked eyes for a moment. Alexei Cherkessky wasn’t surprised by the blazing hatred he saw in Jared Dunham. So Dunham did know! But he loved his wife and would protect her. So, concluded the prince, I am safe. They won’t say anything.

  “I only wish I could kill him,” Jared muttered as they danced away.

  “I wonder what he’s doing here,” Miranda said softly.

  “Emily Cowper or Dariya Lieven is sure to know. Ask them. I will find a moment to check with Palmerston to see if it is anything official, although I doubt it.”

  “My lord?” An elegant dandy was at his elbow. “I believe this is my dance with Lady Dunham, sir.”

  “Of course.” He stepped aside, and Miranda was whirled away.

  Actually it was Amanda, even more horrified than her sister at Alexei Cherkessky’s appearance, who found out why the prince was in England. They had all arranged to have supper together, and she was bursting with information.

  “His pregnant wife committed suicide,” Amanda said dramatically, her cornflower-blue eyes wide. “Now what made her do that, I wonder?”

  “Was there any scandal attached to it?” asked Jared.

  “None that anyone’s heard, but one cannot help but consider it. At any rate he is here in England looking for a new wife, and rumor has it that he’s singled out Georgeanne Hampton. And, her parents approve!”

  “My God,” said Miranda, “the man is a sodomite, a murderer, and a debaucher of women. That poor, poor child! Jared, is there nothing we can do to prevent such a match? The duke and duchess cannot know of his reputation or else he wouldn’t even be here. He is a devil!”

  Adrian Swynford shook his head. “It is impossible, Miranda, for us to expose Cherkessky for the villain he is without exposing you. It will embarrass not only you, but my family as well. I will not do that. Amanda and I now have a daughter to consider as well as little Edward. If I were now in Northampton’s position, seeking a good husband for our Arabella, I would damn well check him thoroughly—princely title or not. If the duke doesn’t get stampeded by his silly wife he will delve a bit into Cherkessky’s background. Georgeanne will be looked after. I’m not worried.”

  They were sitting at one of many little round tables that had been set up informally in the supper room to accommodate the buffet. The tables were backed by a screen of green potted palms in large yellow and white Wedgwood cachepots. Behind those benign plants Lady Belinda de Winter had heard all she needed to know.

  Belinda’s eyes secretly caressed the man she desired so desperately, lingering on the superb fit of his trousers. How often her eyes sought out that part of him. He was such a magnifice
nt animal! She longed to reach out and run her fingers down the outline of his manhood, fondling him until he burst through the constrictions of his marvelous tailoring and, maddened by desire, took her there on the ballroom floor. She sighed, nearly swooning at the thought.

  She shook herself. Dreaming would not bring Jared back to her. And he must come back. No one had ever denied Belinda, and no one ever would.

  The following day Belinda sent a note to Prince Cherkessky, who was staying at Pultney’s Hotel, one of London’s most elegant and discreet establishments. The note was quite to the point. It read:

  If you are serious in your quest of Georgeanne, then I can assure your success if you will but give me a few minutes of your time.

  She boldly signed her name, sealed the missive, and, handing it to her personal maid, told her to await a reply. She had no intention of being fobbed off. Not with victory so near!

  Chapter 18

  THE PRINCE REGENT WAS GIVING A MASQUERADE AT CARLETON House for two thousand guests. The occasion was the arrival of the vernal equinox—spring—and there was to be an appropriate pageant presented in the gardens. There wasn’t a dressmaker of note in London who wasn’t busier than she had ever been, and there were a number of up-and-coming modistes who hoped to make their reputation in one night on the masquerade costumes they were making for their wealthy clients.

  The Duchess of Northampton had decided on the costumes to be worn by her daughter Georgeanne and her godchild Belinda de Winter. They would be garbed as Roman Vestal Virgins, draped in white muslin robes with wreaths of hothouse roses in their hair, yellow for Belinda, pink for Georgeanne.

  The duchess could not have been more pleased with the season’s progress. Her two charges were doing beautifully. Prince Alexei Cherkessky had most obviously singled out her Georgeanne. He was paying the girl most ardent court, as were several other suitable young men from good families. Georgeanne, dear child, had asked her mama’s advice, and Sophia Hampton had carefully pointed out the advantages and disadvantages in all her child’s suitors. It hadn’t hurt that Belinda was so enthusiastic about the Russian.

  “It’s like a fairy tale come true, Georgy! Imagine having a prince come to carry you off to his castle. He is so distinquished, too. I find his eyes quite magnetic. I truly do! Oh, you are so lucky!”

  “Russia is very far away from England,” ventured Georgeanne doubtfully.

  “Pooh!” came the reply. “St. Petersburg is called the Paris of the North, and the summer nights go on forever in a sunlit haze. It is all too romantic! I would simply perish if a man as experienced and as dashing as Prince Cherkessky were seriously paying me court. Think of it, darling. You will be Princess Georgeanne!”

  “I will wear a diamond coronet all the time,” Georgeanne giggled.

  The duchess smiled indulgently. It was all going quite well. Perhaps she might plan a June or July wedding. It was going to be a triumph! Even her dear Belinda was doing much better this season. Darius Edmund, the Duke of Whitley, seemed to be quite serious in his intentions. If she ended the season sponsoring two fashionable weddings … she almost swooned with pure delight. Her daughter to a prince, her goddaughter to a duke. There wasn’t a mother in London who had ever done that well. She could already hear the congratulations ringing in her ears, and she lifted her chins proudly. Then her face fell. If she did this well for Georgeanne and Belinda, what would be left for her two younger daughters, Augusta and Charlotte? Anything short of heirs to reigning houses would be terribly disappointing. She had best start looking around. With all of Algie’s money, surely they could find an old but poverty-stricken title. Germany was full of them. Yes, they would look to Germany, and possibly to Italy. Algie’s title might have to go to his wretched nephew, but the money was theirs!

  In the meantime, one smaller problem on her horizon was getting Algie into the toga of a Roman senator to match her Roman matron. He really was so damned stubborn. After all, he would be more covered in a toga than he ordinarily was. Men!

  Amanda, Lady Swynford, and her sister Miranda, Lady Dunham, had hired an unknown but talented young seamstress to make their costumes. The girl was to live at Swynford House while she worked, and would not be released to return to her own home until the night of the masquerade. The word was already out that Lady Swynford would be coming as a medieval page boy, and her beautiful twin as a wicked witch. It was exactly what the sisters wanted everyone to think. They had decided to switch costumes. No one, not even their husbands, knew that it was Miranda who would be the page boy, and Amanda, the wicked witch.

  They wondered how to make up for the differences in their heights. The difference, they decided, would be corrected by Amanda wearing four-inch clogs beneath her long robes.

  “We shall both dress here at Swynford House and then we shall see if we can fool Adrian and Jared,” chuckled Amanda. “If we can fool them, we can fool everyone! I don’t know why Prinny insisted on everyone registering their costumes with his secretary. I don’t for a moment believe that nonsense about avoiding duplication of costume. That’s half the fun of a masquerade, knowing that your friend is coming as a harlequin, but being unable to tell which of the six or ten harlequins he is!”

  “Use your head, dearest,” said Miranda. “Prinny has had everyone register costumes with his secretary so he may know who is behind each mask. You know how he loves his little games. He will come up to one or the other and coyly guess their identity, at which point the costumed guest will be wise enough to congratulate his Royal Highness on his excellent guess.”

  “How can he possibly learn the identity of two thousand people?”

  “Oh, he won’t bother with everyone, just some of his friends,” said Miranda.

  “What if he comes up to one of us?”

  “Giggle, nod your head, and then run in the other direction,” Miranda suggested, and both young women burst out laughing with the hilarity the situation suggested.

  “I don’t think I can do much running in these clogs,” Amanda gasped. “It’s all I can do to keep my balance,” and she promptly fell into a heap on the floor.

  “You must practice more!” Miranda exhorted her sister. “It simply will not do if you fall on your face before the prince.” They laughed helplessly.

  Mary Grant, a pretty girl with a turned-up nose, was delighted to be part of the joke. She had done a beautiful job on both costumes, and had been assured of much additional work from both ladies. Miranda intended having an entirely new wardrobe to take back to Wyndsong, for she knew that she would not be seeing England again for a long time. As for Amanda, a society lady in the Prince Regent’s circle needed at least two full wardrobes a year.

  The witch’s costume was exquisitely sensual and romantic as well. Of flowing black silk, and black gauze chiffon, it had a neckline that was scooped low and edged in black swansdown. The sleeves were full from the shoulder to the tight wrists done in bands of heavier black silk embroidered in silver thread with stars and moons. The bodice was fitted straight down to just above the hips, where it flowed out in a swirling, graceful pleat of full skirts. The hemline was edged in black swansdown and concealed Amanda’s clogs. Her headdress was the typical steeple-shaped brimmed hat associated with witches, except that the brim was not as wide as usual, and soft black silk gauze flowed from the hat, making a long veil in the back and a short one in the front. Beneath the veil Amanda wore her mask, a creation of black silk and silver lace. From beneath the witch’s headdress there flowed a marvelous mass of silvery gilt hair, a wig that had been made in great secrecy, matched to a small lock of Miranda’s hair. Amanda wore a necklace of black onyx rounds set in silver, which lay flat on her chest above a marvelous swell of breasts.

  “My God, Mandy,” breathed Miranda. “You are simply splendid in that costume. There is no doubt that you will fool everyone! I would swear it was me!”

  Suddenly Amanda burst into tears. “In our whole lives we have never been able to play the kinds of tricks on pe
ople that identical twins do. Now, when we can, it is to be not only a debut but a farewell performance. Oh, Miranda, I don’t want you to return to America!”

  “Mandy dearest, Wyndsong is my home. England is not my home, America is. You are far more suited to life as an English noblewoman than I am. It is as if you were born for this sort of thing. You are gentle, and mannerly, and witty. You are content in this lovely, manicured land with all the silliness that attends the ton. But I, dearest, I am an American.

  “Oh, I have tempered my rashness, it is true, but beneath the veneer of the lady of Wyndsong is a headstrong and brash Yankee who thinks it is ridiculous to drive around leaving calling cards to say we have been at someone’s house when the woman in question knows damned well we were there because she peeked through the curtains and saw us coming up the walk. I have no patience for that sort of life, and neither has Jared.

  “The majority of the ton are useless, Mandy. Those who do anything worth doing are in the minority. Jared is not satisfied to lead the life of a butterfly and neither am I.”

  She brushed away her sister’s tears. “You are going to spoil that lovely costume that Mary has worked so hard to make. Stop now, Mandy. I will not put up with it!” She sounded so like the old, impatient Miranda that Amanda laughed. “Get dressed, Miranda! You shall make us late as usual, and then they will blame me, for I am supposed to be you!”

  Miranda laughed and bade Mary help her dress. As perfect as the witch’s costume was for Amanda, the page’s costume was equally effective for Miranda. Mary had made the dark blue silk hose herself, and incorporated into them a close-fitting panty of the same material. “You could hardly wear white muslin drawers, madam, they would show and spoil the whole effect,” was her comment when Miranda expressed reluctance. Next came a pale-blue silk shirt with a round neckline, and full sleeves with a tight wrist held together by tiny pearl buttons. Over this was a deep-blue sleeveless tabard that ended several inches above Miranda’s knees. It was banded on the sides and around the neckline in silver thread, and had a lion rampant embroidered in its center both front and back. The sides of the tabard were held together by silver frogs that closed over large pink pearl buttons. Miranda’s shoes were silver glacé kid with ridiculous turned-up toes, and upon her head, which was covered by a golden wig that turned under in pageboy fashion, was a lighter blue flat velvet hat with a single white egret feather. Her mask was of light blue velvet and silver lace.