The Princess and the Pea

by Victoria Alexander

  Putting her behind him, figuratively and literally, also meant an end to his ambitions for his automobile. His own dreams were inconsequential compared to his family’s need for him to marry wealth and guarantee their financial survival. There wasn’t a chance in hell that the heiress he so badly needed to find and wed would understand her husband, a member of one of En gland’s noblest families, dabbling like a common tinkerer in the development of motorcars. Not like Cece.

  His resolve hardened and his step quickened. There would be no more delay in his marriage plans. Jared meant what he’d said to his mother; he would make every effort to win the next American heiress to come along, regardless of who she was or what she was like. It was past time to put away foolish dreams of automobiles and a tall, dark-eyed nymph.

  If nothing else, he had been fortunate to at least taste that curious, intriguing ache artists exalted and poets wept over. Fortunate…or cursed? He didn’t know and didn’t care. Each step carried him farther from her, and he acknowledged one searing truth.

  Jared Grayson, the twenty-first Earl of Graystone, would never be the same again.

  “Why didn’t you just tell them we were going to the Louvre again?” Emily gazed suspiciously at the canvas set before her.

  “Don’t be silly, Emily,” Cece said airily. “Even Mother and Father would have questioned yet another museum jaunt.” And it was imperative that she not arouse the suspicions of her parents at this point. Soon, perhaps, she would reveal everything to them. Well, not quite everything.

  She had decided to tell Jared of her feelings for him. It was what a modern woman, a woman headed firmly toward the twentieth century, a woman who believed in progress, would do.

  “But this…” Emily gestured helplessly at the artist’s paraphernalia confronting her.

  “This is perfect.” Cece’s tone rang firm. “I simply told Mother after all the masterpieces you had seen you wanted to attempt to paint yourself. To discover the artist within you. After all, you love—”

  “I know, I know.” Emily gritted her teeth. “I love art.” She shook her head. “I still can’t believe Mother accepted this farfetched story of yours about my sudden interest in smearing paint on canvas.” She glared at her sister through narrowed eyes. “She didn’t even ask me about it.”

  “I told her not to.” Cece beamed smugly. “I must admit it was quite clever. I simply suggested that she not make a fuss over your artistic endeavors until you knew whether or not you had any real talent.” She shrugged in a modest manner. “I told her it would embarrass you.”

  Emily’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. “Embarrass me? What could be more embarrassing than sitting here, in front of the Eiffel Tower—and all of Paris, I might add—and attempting to paint? I don’t know how to paint.”

  “Honestly, Em.” Cece sighed in exasperation. Why couldn’t the child be a bit more cooperative? And where on earth was Jared? He should have been here by now. “How difficult can it be? Lord knows, when I was incarcerated at Miss Rutherford’s Finishing School for Young Ladies they had us painting anything that didn’t move. We were forced to commit to paper for all eternity everything from that astonishingly ugly building to leftover fruit from the day’s luncheon. Didn’t they teach you to paint?”

  “Watercolors,” Emily said under her breath.

  “There, you see,” Cece said triumphantly. “I knew it.”

  It was Emily’s turn to sigh. “Perhaps you were unaware of this, but at Miss Rutherford’s I was far better known for spilling paint than placing it on paper.”

  “Oh, dear.” Cece drew her brows together in a thoughtful frown. “That could well explain Mother’s obvious astonishment when I explained your artistic aspirations.”

  “No doubt,” Emily said dryly.

  Cece brightened. “Be that as it may, you are older now and perhaps talent is something that can be developed even if one has no natural gift.”

  Emily tossed her a pointed stare. “I thought this was simply a ruse for this morning only, so that you would be able to meet your Mr. Grayson.” Her eyes widened with horror. “Surely you do not intend for me to continue with this cultural farce? This travesty against the very world of art itself?”

  “Only so long as is necessary. Now,” she said briskly, “why don’t you begin?”

  Emily turned helpless eyes to her. “How?”

  “How? Well…” Cece surveyed the materials she’d had the hotel concierge purchase for her. Emily had worried needlessly. These were oil paints, not watercolors. No doubt this would be much simpler, not at all difficult, easy as pie. And Emily needed to begin her efforts; otherwise Cece would feel at least a twinge of guilt when Jared arrived and she left her sister to her own devices. She wished he would appear. It grew increasingly difficult to concentrate on something as insignificant as art when her future with the man she loved was at stake. “Here.”

  She selected a tube of paint and squeezed a black glob onto a small wooden palette.

  “Oh, that is artistic,” Emily said sarcastically.

  Cece ignored her. She dabbed a brush in the rich, shiny goo and slashed several quick strokes on the canvas.

  “There.” Satisfaction rang in her voice. She handed the brush to Emily. “I told you it was easy.”

  “Easy, yes.” Emily’s tone was dubious. She stared at the elongated triangle. “But what is it?”

  Cece gazed critically at the attempt. “Why, it’s the Eiffel Tower, of course.”

  Emily crossed her arms over her chest. “If it is, it’s leaning.”

  Cece tilted her head. “Not if you look at it properly.”

  The girls exchanged glances, and then burst into laughter.

  “Mademoiselle?”

  Cece turned at the unexpected interruption. A young boy, slightly grubby and more than a little impish, thrust an envelope into her hands. The child tipped his hat, grinned cheekily and skipped off.

  “What was that all about?” Emily said curiously.

  Cece laughed. “Probably just a fledgling art critic.” She turned over the envelope. There was nothing written on it, not even her name. Odd. Who could…Jared.

  Jared was to meet her here even now. Why would he…? Her breath caught. Slowly, she ripped open the envelope, noting, in the back of her mind, the slight trembling of her hands.

  She withdrew a single folded sheet. The vague scent of bay rum drifted up from the paper.

  My dearest Cece,

  I regret the formality of a note instead of speaking to you directly, but it is perhaps for the best.

  Her heart fell.

  I have been remiss in not informing you of certain responsibilities and duties that weigh heavily in my life. Obligations I dare not ignore.

  Her throat tightened.

  You accused me of being an honorable man, and for the first time in my life it is a claim I regret. Honor demands truth, and truth dictates that I inform you that I can never offer you the future you so richly deserve. Therefore, our association is at an end.

  Pain stabbed through her.

  You will remain in my heart forever.

  Jared.

  She stared mutely at the words before her, then instinctively crushed the note in her hand.

  Emily’s brows furrowed in concern. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.” Cece struggled to keep her voice level, fought the hysterical desire to weep, to vent the ache that threatened to overwhelm her. “It appears my plans have changed.”

  Instant understanding shone in Emily’s eyes. “Oh dear,” she murmured.

  Cece blinked back insistent tears and forced a light tone, as if she hadn’t a care in the world, as if her soul had not shattered. “It’s quite unimportant. Nothing to worry about. Now,” she adopted her best businesslike manner, “why don’t you see if you can capture some of those lovely blossoms on canvas?”

  “But—”

  “No, Em, it’s fine,” Cece said with a firmness that belied the growing misery within her
.

  Emily cast her an appraising glance, tinged with sympathy, then silently turned back to her work. Cece watched her dab paint on canvas and the sisters fell silent for long moments. Cece murmured an occasional appreciative comment, but her mind was far from artistic pursuits.

  Never before had she lost her heart to a man. Never before had she even considered sacrificing her own dreams to support and encourage those of a man. Never before had she suspected the existence of pain like this.

  How could he? How could he callously toss her aside after they’d shared their thoughts, their hopes, their desires in life? And beyond that, how could she have been so completely wrong to believe, even for an instant, that he shared her feelings?

  Jared. His very name burned somewhere deep in the core of her being with a fiery ache.

  If this was the price one paid for love, she wanted no part of it. She squared her shoulders in an unconscious gesture and determination flowed into her. She would pursue her own desires of the in de pen dent life of a journalist. But first they would return to London, where she would do everything in her power to entice and conquer Marybeth’s earl in a duel of hearts.

  For a moment she almost pitied the man. He had no idea that an obstinate American was about to storm the castles of his life. No idea of the fury triggered by his arrogance to one woman and the arrogance of a fellow countryman to another. No idea he was the object of a complete stranger’s unrelenting ire.

  It was no longer a question of British snobbery toward Americans, nor even of her disdain for men who married for money. No, now it was a crusade for any woman who had ever been duped in the name of love, for every tear wept and every heart broken. She would make an example of the earl he would not soon forget.

  Her fists tightened by her side in an instinctive acknowledgment of her resolve. Only then did she realize that Jared’s crushed words were still clasped in her hand.

  And in her heart.

  Chapter Four

  “There she is. She’s the one I told you about.” Millicent nodded at the tall, walnut-haired beauty on the opposite side of the dance floor, surrounded by an impressive throng of obvious admirers. “She’s quite lovely, isn’t she?”

  “Indeed,” Olivia said, casting a speculative glance at the young American. “And you say she’s an heiress?”

  “Oh my, yes.” Millicent’s voice rose with enthusiasm. “Her father has a substantial fortune. Built a virtual empire on beef. They call him the meatpacking king.”

  “She does carry herself well,” Olivia murmured approvingly.

  “Doesn’t she, though?” Millicent sighed. “I had so hoped she and Quentin would make a match of it, but he seems far more interested in the younger sister—the girl standing beside her.”

  Olivia’s gaze swept the smaller figure. “She’s quite young for a gathering like this, isn’t she?” Olivia said, a touch of disapproval in her tone.

  “Not at all,” Millicent said defensively. “She is nearly eighteen and quite mature for her age.” She narrowed her eyes pointedly. “If I recall, there are somewhat legendary stories about another younger woman who, at approximately the same age, cut a rather wide swath through society, including balls like this one.”

  Olivia laughed and held up a gloved hand. “Please, don’t remind me. It took a great deal of determination and hard work to erase the provocative reputation of my youth.”

  “You’ve accomplished it quite well,” Millicent said mildly.

  Olivia cast her a sharp glance. “One does what one must.” She smiled ruefully at her friend. “It was all long ago, and talk of the past only serves notice of how very much time has gone by. For both of us.”

  Millicent sighed wistfully at the memory of lost youth; then, with a mental shake of her head, she returned firmly to the here and now. “At any rate, her mother, Phoebe, has decided she can make her official debut next month here in London, so the girl was permitted to attend to night. I am planning the event; a grand ball, I should think. Something wonderfully spectacular.”

  She leaned toward Olivia in a confidential manner. “I haven’t hosted a party like this in years. It should be great fun. Phoebe is, by the way, one of my oldest friends.”

  Olivia’s attention returned to the elder girl. “Well, her daughters definitely do her credit. The tall one; what is her name?”

  “Cecily. Cecily Gwendolyn White.”

  Olivia nodded in appreciation. “Very nice.” She studied Cece for a long moment. “She certainly appears quite composed. Not at all intimidated by this rather illustrious gathering. She does not strike me as having that flighty exuberance of so many young Americans.”

  “No, not at all,” Millicent said thoughtfully. It did seem extremely odd. Cece’s behavior since they’d returned from Paris last week had been quite restrained, nothing at all like the young woman who’d originally sailed into her breakfast room in eager pursuit of follies. Cece was now extremely subdued, preoccupied and positively listless.

  Emily, on the other hand, seemed to have undergone a transformation quite as dramatic as her sister’s. She was far more animated, enthusiastic, even downright chatty than before their trip. Millicent wondered if perhaps Emily’s behavior was an attempt to distract the older girl from what ever it was that seemed to prey so heavily on her mind.

  Millicent had, of course, mentioned her observations to Phoebe. But her friend had just shrugged helplessly and explained that she had long ago abandoned trying to understand the children she had given birth to. Either of them.

  Phoebe’s behavior, as well, had been a bit unusual. She seemed somewhat pensive and reserved, as if here in England, memories buried in the past were abruptly fresh and vivid. Millicent was not surprised. Returning to the scene of emotional turmoil, no matter how long ago, would surely give anyone pause.

  It was not as if Phoebe and Henry were unhappy with each other. On the contrary, the private glances exchanged between the two were more than enough to make Millicent sigh with envy.

  “I believe Jared should meet her,” Olivia said, steely determination underlying the offhand tone of her voice.

  Millicent brightened. An interesting suitor might be just what Cece needed to shake her out of her doldrums. “A wonderful suggestion. Although,” she paused thoughtfully, “now that you mention it, Emily had asked if he would be here to night.”

  Olivia raised a brow. “Really? Have they met?”

  “I don’t believe so.” Millicent shook her head. “Emily simply asked if the Earl of Graystone frequented gatherings of this nature. Apparently a friend of Cecily’s from Chicago is acquainted with him.”

  “Chicago?” Olivia frowned in concentration. “Of course; I remember now. The buxom blonde with the annoying giggle.”

  “I gather she did not meet with your approval?” Millicent said dryly.

  Olivia shrugged. “She would not have been a good match for Jared. But this one…” Her considering gaze returned to Cece, and Millicent’s followed.

  Cece did meet Olivia’s prime requirement for a daughter-in-law: a sizable inheritance. In that need, the Grayson family was not alone these days. Millicent was more than grateful that the economic conditions that left so many of En gland’s venerated families tottering on the brink of financial disaster had not touched the fortune amassed by her late husband.

  But for Olivia to seriously consider Cece as a wife for Jared was to pursue more than a mere heiress; it was to court disaster. Once the child snapped out of the strange mood she’d been in, Olivia would surely consider her anything but suitable.

  “You will introduce them for me, won’t you?”

  “I should like nothing better.” Millicent suppressed an impudent grin. She’d been friends with Olivia for years, and even though she loved her dearly, she could well see the other woman’s flaws. Prominent among them was a simple fact of Olivia’s nature: She was something of a snob, especially where her sons were concerned.

  In spite of her best efforts, Millic
ent’s grin slipped out. If Olivia settled on Cece as the next Countess of Graystone, she would get far more than she bargained for.

  And just what she deserved.

  Cece smiled politely at the young men surrounding her and murmured an occasional appropriate comment. She had no idea exactly what they said and cared even less. In spite of her love of excitement and the unexpected, Cece White was nothing if not well trained.

  Under other circumstances the glittering ballroom, handsome, formally attired gentlemen and beautifully gowned ladies would have captured her wholehearted attention and full-fledged participation. She would have sparkled with enthusiasm, flirted outrageously, danced every dance. To night, however, she couldn’t muster the minimal energy demanded for even the tiniest bit of fun.

  She glanced around the crowded room and sighed silently to herself. Even Emily’s information that the Earl of Graystone would attend the gathering to night failed to lift her spirits. While initially she’d directed every bit of rage, every morsel of fury triggered by Jared’s defection at the unsuspecting earl, her desire to wreak her revenge on him had vanished. It simply wasn’t worth the effort. Even her ambition to follow in the footsteps of Nellie Bly had lost its appeal. All she seemed to want to do these days was sleep. And, when finally alone, in the privacy of her own bed, to weep.

  The gentleman next to her proclaimed some bit of wisdom that the others of the group decreed humorous and she laughed lightly. What on earth had he said? Recent days were reminiscent of the time when she was twelve and had been thrown from a horse. The pain in her head had fogged her waking hours and turned sleep into a welcome escape to the nothingness of oblivion. The only real difference between then and now was that the pain today was not in her head but in her heart.

  “You are not having the least bit of fun, are you?” Emily frowned by her side and drew Cece a step away from those around them.

  “You’ve always claimed that I have far too much fun,” Cece said, faintly amused by her sister’s concern.