The Princess and the Pea

by Victoria Alexander

  “American?” he suggested.

  “I was going to say democratic.”

  He shrugged. “I scarcely think there’s much difference. And I like Americans. Especially the way they think about inventions and creativity and forging ahead into the next century.”

  Millicent huffed. “Well, it’s simply not acceptable here.”

  “I’m half American, Aunt Millicent.”

  “I know that only too well.” She shook her head mournfully. “I have tried my best through these years to overcome that flaw.”

  “You’re American,” he said gently.

  She waved away his comment, her tone lofty. “That’s entirely different, my boy. I have adapted. Today, I am as thoroughly British as anyone, even if my family does not date back to the Crusades. If your mother had lived past your infancy, she too would have adjusted.” She narrowed her eyes and glared. “I have long suspected you use that claim of American blood merely to excuse unacceptable behavior.”

  “Aunt Millicent!” Again, he assumed a wounded look that belied the twinkle in his eye. “I’m shocked you would think such a thing of me.”

  She selected a scone from her plate and buttered it lightly. “No, Quentin, you would be shocked if I did not.”

  “Touché.” He saluted her with a crust of bread and an all-too-contagious grin. “Now, tell me about these friends of yours.”

  “An admirable way to change the subject. Very well. Let’s see.” She paused to sort and sift through the memories of what seemed a lifetime ago or, perhaps, only yesterday. “Phoebe and I met during my first season in London. We were both young and American and, while we were accompanied by our families, without the kind of female companionship one tends to take for granted until it’s absent. Of course, I had the company of your father, graciously presenting his American sister-in-law to society. I believe you were five that year.”

  “I was seven.”

  “What ever.” She waved away the interruption. “Where was I? Oh, yes. Phoebe and I became bosom chums. Even when she returned home we kept up our friendship. Scarcely a month goes by without my posting a letter to her or receiving one from her.

  “Shortly after her return she met and married Henry White. He made a fortune in cows or beef or something along those lines; I forget what exactly. I was introduced to him on their arrival last night, and he is as charming in person as her letters had led me to believe.” She grinned wickedly. “And still quite a handsome figure of a man.”

  “Aunt Millicent!” A note of shocked amusement rang in his voice.

  She cast him a withering glance. “I am no longer a sweet, young innocent but I’m far from doddering on my last legs. One can, after all, appreciate a fine specimen of horse flesh without an urgent desire to ride the beast for oneself.”

  He laughed. “Now, who is shocking whom?”

  “I suspect there are still lingering traces of America in my blood as well as yours,” she said curtly. “At any rate, Phoebe has come to give her daughters the plea sure of a London season, just as we had. I suspect the ultimate goal is to find the older girl, and possibly the younger one as well, a husband.”

  “What are they like?” he said cautiously.

  “Do not take that tone,” she said reproachfully. “They are not cross-eyed and splay-legged. In fact, I am rather perplexed as to why at least the eldest has not wed before now. Both girls are lovely. Cecily, or rather they call her Cece, in a somewhat striking, vivid sort of way, and Emily in a more delicate, graceful fashion.” She studied him thoughtfully. “They are heirs to a quite impressive fortune.”

  He stopped in midbite and stared. “I do not need an heiress.”

  “Stuff and nonsense,” she said airily. “Everyone needs an heiress.”

  “Then let me rephrase my comment.” He slanted her a serious gaze. “I do not need a wife.”

  “Wrong again.” She smiled pleasantly. “A wife is exactly what you do need and have needed for a long time. You are, how old now? Twenty-six?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “What ever.” She continued without pause, “It is high time for you to marry, time for you to accept the responsibilities of your position in society, and past time for you to give up this folly upon which you insist on squandering your life and my money.”

  “What kind of folly?” a lilting female voice asked. Cece and Emily stood framed in the doorway like a Renaissance portrait. For a moment, a long unfelt patriotic pride glowed in Millicent. American girls were indeed enchanting, the very picture of health and vitality. No wonder their British counterparts never seemed to warm up to these cousins from across the pond.

  “Good morning.” Quentin sprang to his feet, a look of appreciation in his eye. Excellent; there was hope for the boy yet.

  “Good morning, girls. Please, join us.” Millicent gestured to the food-laden sideboard.

  “Wonderful. I’m famished.” Cece headed toward the feast with a determined step. “I feel as if I haven’t eaten in weeks.”

  “She has, you know.” Emily smiled. “She tends to exaggerate, but—” she glanced at the sideboard—“it does look good.”

  The girls quickly filled their plates.

  “Now then,” Cece said as soon as they were seated. She fixed Quentin with a steady stare. “Who are you and what is this folly of yours?”

  “Cece!” Emily gasped in obvious dismay at her sister’s lack of restraint.

  Quentin grinned, and hope surged through Millicent. It was a rare woman who could resist the boyish charm of that smile. Or the blond, blue-eyed good looks of the man it belonged to.

  “I’m Quentin Bainbridge. Aunt Millicent’s sister was my mother. And my folly…” his eyes sparkled, “…I could show you, if you wish.”

  “Even I haven’t actually seen it,” Millicent murmured.

  “You’ve never asked,” Quentin chided. “Well, ladies?”

  Cece’s eyes widened with interest, her tone teasing. “Oh, I do so love a good folly. What about you, Emily?”

  Emily smiled halfheartedly. “A folly? How…nice. Don’t you think, Cece, we should perhaps find out exactly what kind of folly this is before we—”

  “Don’t be such a stick, Em.” Excitement rang in her voice. “What better way to start our trip to En gland than with a folly? Any folly.” She cast Quentin a suspicious look. “It is a good folly, isn’t it? Well worth our time, I mean.”

  Quentin nodded somberly. “If I do say so myself, it is an excellent folly.”

  Cece jumped to her feet. “Well then, shall we go?”

  Millicent groaned. “If you insist on going to see this creation of his, at least call for a carriage. He has arranged to use the abandoned stables of a neighbor for his project, just beyond the borders of my estate.”

  “Is it too far to walk?” Emily said hopefully.

  Quentin stood and shrugged. “Not for me.”

  Cece nodded. “It’s a glorious day out. A brisk walk will do us all a world of good.”

  Emily sighed and rose to her feet. “I hope you know what you’re doing. The last time you wanted to see some kind of folly we ended up—”

  “Emily!” Cece warned.

  Emily smiled innocently.

  Quentin quirked a puzzled brow. “You have seen follies before?”

  “Oh, once or twice,” Cece said lightly. “There’s nothing like a good folly, I always say.” She headed toward the door, Quentin and Emily trailing in her wake.

  “And there do seem to be no shortage of follies these days,” Emily said under her breath.

  Quentin ushered her through the doorway. “Well, my dear, it is 1895. We’re on the dawn of a new century. Think of all the wonders that lie ahead. This is the most exciting period in the history of mankind. And what is a folly today may well be commonplace tomorrow. By the by, tell me about that other folly you referred to…”

  They strolled out of sight and their voices faded.

  Millicent reached for her tea and smil
ed with satisfaction. Even if she had failed to make a match between Quentin’s father and Cece’s mother during that first season so long ago, perhaps, now, with the son and the daughter—either daughter—she had another chance.

  The doors of the old stables were opened wide. Cece stood on the threshold, dividing the sunshine of the day behind her from the dark shadows within, and squinted in an effort to speed her eyes’ adjustment to the change of light.

  “Gracious!” Emily gasped. “What on earth are those contraptions?”

  “My dear lady,” Quentin said, a teasing note in his voice, “they are not contraptions. They are what you so callously called my folly.”

  Before her stood three—or at least it appeared to be three—separate and distinct mechanical creations, all in various stages of repair or, possibly, disrepair. What on earth were they? All metal and wire and spokes…

  “Hell and damnation,” Cece said under her breath.

  “Cece!” Emily said sharply.

  Cece barely heard her. She moved forward without thinking, a hand outstretched to touch—“Horseless carriages! How wonderful!” She circled the center vehicle eagerly, an odd crossbreed of a small two-seater buggy and a bicycle. With wheels out of all proportion to its size, it appeared a fanciful confection of levers and gears and ingenuity. Excitement quivered through her blood. “Does it work?”

  “Of course it works.” A deep, laughter-filled voice sounded behind her. She whirled at the words and stared at the figure framed in the doorway. Bright sunlight behind him blinded her to anything but his silhouette; tall and broad-shouldered, he seemed to fill the space in the now somehow smaller stable. “Have you seen one before?”

  “I’ve seen pictures, of course, but only once in person. It didn’t look anything like this, though. The horse less carriage I saw was more like an old wagon with a motor.” She narrowed her eyes and peered at the dark form. “It was at the Exposition.”

  “Really? What Exposition? Where? How did they—”

  “Jared,” Quentin said with a laugh, “don’t quiz the girl unmercifully.”

  “Right; sorry.” She could hear a grin in his words. The shadowed figure stepped aside and sunlight dappled his strong and handsome face. A dimple danced in one cheek and his eyes sparkled as dark and intense as the nearly black hair that curled softly around his ears. The man seemed to shimmer with barely bridled energy. “I tend to get carried away by all this.” He waved toward the work.

  She pulled her gaze from his and studied the vehicles. “I can certainly see why. What part do you play in—” she repeated his gesture—“all this?”

  “This is my partner.” Quentin nodded at the stranger. “Jared Grayson, the E—”

  “The brains of the entire endeavor,” Jared cut in with a flourish and a bow. “At your service.” His words were for everyone but his eyes were on Cece.

  “Brains, hah,” Quentin said. “Don’t forget it was my idea to substitute the petrol powered—”

  “Quite.” Jared picked a rag off a wheel and wiped his hands casually. “It was also your convoluted design for a cooling mechanism that very nearly cost us our lives.”

  “My goodness.” Emily’s eyes widened. “What happened?”

  “Nothing of consequence. Little more than a minor inconvenience.” Quentin shrugged. “One has to expect to pay a certain price for progress.”

  Jared leaned toward Cece, bringing the warm scents of sun and wind enticingly nearer. He lowered his voice confidentially. “We blew up three motors before we got it right.” He glanced upward toward a nearby section of sloping roof with a less than modest patch of wood, scorched black and shiny. “Had a bit of a flame there one day. Petrol, you know; highly flammable.” He nodded at a back portion of the wall, covered with a huge canvas cloth. “There’s a lovely hole behind that, the result of a few difficulties with steering mechanisms.”

  Awed, Cece gazed from the canvas to the vehicle and back into the incredibly dark centers of his blue eyes. “You wouldn’t think something that small could do that much damage.”

  Quentin grinned. “It was bloody well impressive.”

  “It’s amazing just how much power we’ve managed to harness.” Jared’s eyes twinkled and a flutter of excitement settled in her middle. “Now if we can only learn to properly control it…”

  “How does it work?” Cece ran her hand along the rim of the wheel and cast him a glance of genuine curiosity.

  Jared raised a dubious brow. “Do you really want to know?”

  “Oh my, yes.” Cece nodded eagerly.

  “Don’t get him started,” Quentin warned.

  Jared ignored his partner. “We began working with steam power. It’s been tried for years and is moderately successful, but boilers tend to be cumbersome and heavy. Frankly, I think steam is outdated. Then we considered electricity. Battery-powered vehicles.” He warmed to his subject and his words came faster, his tone intense.

  Cece tried to concentrate on his words, but her mind kept getting lost, watching the movement of his mouth. What sort of man had a mouth like that anyway? Lips that were neither too full nor too thin. Kissed with a pale burgundy blush and corners that betrayed a propensity to smile.

  “Some designers have had moderate success running off a battery for as much as thirty miles. But again, you run into a weight and space problem. So we discarded that in favor of this.”

  Something about his enthusiasm stirred her, wrapped excitement around her, like the silken ribbon on an unexpected present, and left her breathless. Jared gestured at the exposed motor, the movement pulling the fabric of his shirt taut across the muscles of his broad chest.

  “We’re using petrol for fuel. There are a number of problems we have yet to work out. We are still undecided on whether to use one or two cylinders, but the beauty of this idea is that, in a strictly practical way of course, the…”

  It was interesting in a wonderfully boring sort of way. But she’d lost herself in the far more fascinating way his strong, expressive hands seemed to caress the lines and edges of his vehicle like a sweetheart. Far more appealing was the supple power apparent in the length of arm revealed beneath the rolled-up sleeves and the way his shirt opened wide at the collar for a tantalizing glimpse of muscled chest. And far more exciting was the rich timbre of his voice, the deeply textured tones that seemed to reverberate in the stable and wrap around her very soul.

  But it was his eyes that held her spellbound. As dark blue as the sky at midnight and just as endless, they flashed with a fire spurred by imagination, a passion born of creativity. This was no insipid English lord, no down on his luck aristocrat willing to sell his title for financial security. This was a man destined by sheer force of will alone to make his mark on the world. A man well worthy of loyalty and respect and love. If, of course, she believed in love.

  “…and the French are doing a bang-up job, making great strides. There’s a road race in Paris in two weeks. We’re not entered, but I shall be there just to get an idea of their progress.”

  “Paris? Two weeks?” Cece cast him her sweetest smile. “What a marvelous coincidence. We’ll be in Paris in two weeks.”

  “Paris?” Confusion stamped Emily’s face. “I thought we were next going to L—” A sharp jab to her ribs stopped her in midsentence.

  “Paris,” Cece said quickly. “Paris first, then London.”

  “Of course,” Emily glared. “How foolish of me to forget.”

  “I’m certain it simply slipped your mind.” Cece threw her a swift, appeasing glance, then returned her attention to Jared. “You’ve explained how it’s supposed to work, but does it?”

  “Naturally it works,” Quentin said with a huff of wounded pride.

  A slow smile spread across Jared’s face. “Would you care to see for yourself?”

  Excitement surged through her. “A ride?” He nodded. “I’d love it.” She turned to her sister. “Emily?”

  “No, thank you.” Emily shook her head vehement
ly. “I should think the most difficult horse alive preferable to that metallic beast.”

  Cece sighed tolerantly. “Em, you have absolutely no sense of adventure.” Cece often wondered how the same parents could have raised such different daughters. Her sister’s nature was no doubt the product of the finishing school both girls had at one time attended, although Cece had resisted all attempts to mold her own character into something considered more acceptable. And obviously Cece had shirked her duties as an older sister and failed to show her sibling life was far more interesting when one was not as concerned with behavior as excitement. She definitely needed to do something about that.

  Emily crossed her arms over her chest. “Perhaps not, but I have a highly developed sense of safety.” She eyed the vehicle skeptically. “Is that safe?”

  Quentin and Jared exchanged glances.

  “Relatively,” Jared said.

  “More or less,” Quentin added.

  “I suspected as much.” Emily stared pointedly at Cece. “Are you certain you want to risk your neck in that thing?”

  “This is to be my first venture in a horse less carriage and I—”

  “Automobile,” Jared said.

  Cece pulled her brows together in confusion. “Pardon me?”

  “We call it an automobile.” He pronounced the word slowly, as if he was unaccustomed to its sound. “Or a motor car.”

  “I see. Automobile.” She rolled the word around in her mind. “How appropriate. Very well. This is my first venture in an automobile and I’m not going to miss it.” Cece extended a hand to Jared. “Mr. Grayson?”

  He took her hand and helped her into the vehicle. His innocent touch sent a current of lightning skating up her arm and down her spine.

  “It’s Jared,” he said firmly, gazing into her eyes.

  “Jared,” she repeated, noting with surprise the somewhat airy quality of her voice. She drew a steadying breath that even to her own ears sounded more like a sigh, and reluctantly withdrew her hand. “Since we are obviously not going to be formally introduced…” She tossed Quentin a look of chastisement.