The Perils of Pursuing a Prince

by Julia London

  No one had come along, and Rhodrick had discovered carnal pleasure in darkened rooms with whores.

  After Nell married, his family struggled to make him a match, but it seemed that none of the young ladies deemed suitable to marry heirs and lords found him particularly suitable. As there had been several unmarried heirs at the time, his father had had a devil of a time scaring up a woman who would have him. A match was finally arranged with Eira, but the poor girl, who had the misfortune of hailing from the Marches, and therefore did not know of his less-than-desirable features, saw him only once before they took their vows. His father had seen to it that she had no time to reconsider.

  But if Eira found him repugnant, she never said so. She was a dutiful wife, as accepting of him as anyone could possibly have been. She had been good to him, and Rhodrick had loved her. He hoped he had been a good husband to her—he had certainly tried, harder than he had ever tried to do anything in his life.

  His wife had brought a softness to his life he’d never known. He’d spent most of his life living up to the Goliath moniker, and as a youth, he’d had a fierce temper, was quick to fight and prove his physical strength where his looks had let him down. Eira had helped him overcome that need, had taught him to be a gentle man.

  Yes, he had loved Eira dearly, but he’d not thought of her in years. He’d trained himself not to think of her—it was too painful to remember his loss. And the baby…Lord God, he couldn’t think of her, that tiny little thing who’d fought so valiantly to live without her mother, without feeling the wrench in his gut to this day.

  On occasion, he would see something in his house that reminded him of Eira, but as time marched on, his memories had faded and he’d learned to be content with his own company. It was too difficult for him to even contemplate starting again with another woman. Lord knew, his friend Meg had tried, but her acquaintances wanted someone more dashing than he and to live closer to society than his close ties to Llanmair would allow. He understood the main consequence of his choice to be alone—he would leave no heir—but he consoled himself with the notion that Nell had two healthy sons who would one day inherit.

  But then Miss Greer Fairchild had appeared on his doorstep and turned his world upside down, awakening desires he’d thought he’d long since buried.

  Rhodrick brushed a bit of lint from his shoulder, straightened his neckcloth once more, and quit his suite, destined for the dining room and the woman who had occupied more of his thoughts in the last week than Eira had in the last several years.

  His reluctant guest swept into the small dining room an hour later looking quite perturbed. Rhodrick rose from his seat instantly; she paused dramatically at the door, her long, elegant fingers on the jamb, her face flushed from her trek. The gown she wore—dark and shiny—hugged her bodice so tightly that he harbored an irrational hope her breasts would escape it completely. It was beautifully made, as exquisite as she was. “I am given to understand that if I am to be allowed food, I must take it with you,” she said, and glided into the room with the train of her gown drifting out behind her like a wisp of a cloud.

  The only color he could see with all clarity was her blue eyes, and they were flashing like rare gems with her ire.

  Rhodrick moved to her seat to the right of his place at the head of the table, pulling it out for her. “Supper is served in the west dining room.”

  She glared at him.

  He gestured for her to sit. “Are you hungry?”

  Miss Fairchild folded her arms across her middle and looked at him suspiciously. “What are you about, sir?”

  “Nothing at all. One supper is less onerous for my staff.”

  “Less onerous,” she said with a snort.

  He put his hands on the back of the chair. “Please do be seated, Miss Fairchild. When you are sitting here, I know you are not meddling where you ought not to be meddling.”

  “I don’t believe you for a moment, you know,” she said with a sniff as she took the seat he offered. “And I don’t trust you in the least.”

  Rhodrick leaned over her shoulder. “The feeling is entirely mutual, which is why I would prefer to have you in my sights rather than prowling about.”

  She turned her head away from him so that he could only see the smooth line of her jaw and delicate ear. But he was certain that on that porcelain skin he saw the dimple at the end of a smile.

  He took his seat and placed a linen napkin on his lap. He nodded to Ifan, and a pair of footmen were suddenly moving, placing crystal wine goblets before him and Miss Fairchild, pouring wine. “I suggest we call a truce, you and I,” he said amicably.

  That certainly caught her attention. “A truce?” she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

  “We are, for better or worse, trapped in this situation until a letter arrives. If you will agree to stop meddling, I will agree to feed you.” He smiled.

  Miss Fairchild returned it with an impertinent smile. “I will agree to stop meddling, as you put it, if you will agree to be less disdainful.”

  “Disdainful, am I?”

  “And proud. You are proud and disdainful.”

  He considered that. If he was guilty, he had no idea how to stop being either, but nodded all the same. “Done.”

  She smiled the way he imagined she would smile if she were just shown an entire trunk of new shoes. “Well then,” she said cheerfully. “Now that we’ve dispensed with that…do you always dine alone in such a big room?”

  Where was he supposed to dine if not in a dining room? “Yes.”

  “Hmm,” she said, as if that meant something.

  “Pray tell, Miss Fairchild, have you finished your examination of my home?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t rightly say,” she said breezily. “There are so many strange twists and turns and corridors that it is difficult to know. It seems as if there is a surprise at every turn in this castle.” She gave him a very pointed look. “Such as the portrait gallery. I was quite impressed with the number of portraits and the vast array of subjects. It seems as if you have commissioned a painting of every Welsh man and woman.”

  “Not all of them,” he said casually. “Only the prettier ones.”

  She actually smiled at that. “Where do you suppose so many subjects were found?”

  “I don’t know that they were found, precisely, but they are gathered like any collection—ancestors, family, and other notable personages.”

  “And some very lonely manors,” she said, and lifted her goblet. “And a stately white mansion that attracts the eye.” She smiled and sipped her wine. Her smile widened with pleasure as she lowered the goblet. “Oh my—that is a most excellent wine, sir.”

  At the mention of Kendrick, he eyed her suspiciously, but she seemed to be interested only in the wine. “Thank you,” he said. “We do manage to bring good wine to Wales.”

  “I had given up hope of it. I daresay I’ve not tasted better since I left London.”

  “Speaking of London,” he said, watching her sip again, “when did you leave it?”

  “Seven long months ago. Late in March.”

  “Seven months is quite a long time for an unmarried young woman to be away from her family,” he remarked. “I wonder, why would a distinguished family such as yours allow you to be away from home for so long? One would think they’d want you home so that they might make a match for you.”

  Miss Fairchild glanced at him sidelong. “They are just as keen to allow me to broaden my horizons, my lord. Nevertheless, I certainly never expected to be gone for so long. Would that I could return now.”

  “I daresay nothing would make either of us happier.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And I daresay that all the brooding looks in the world won’t hide your true meaning behind such a remark.”

  “I have stated my true meaning quite plainly. Seven months is quite a long time for a woman to be away from her home…and prestigious family.”

  “Aha!” she said triumphantly. “You said unmarried wo
man.”

  Rhodrick put down his wine goblet and looked at her. “Do you think I meant to impugn your honor?”

  She snorted again. “I don’t see how you could possibly impugn it any more than apparently I have done quite on my own. My reputation was ruined the day I left Bredwardine in the company of Mr. Percy.”

  That he could not argue.

  The sparkle in her eye dimmed a little, and she glanced at her empty plate as her fingers drummed idly on the stem of the wineglass. “Do you know that I intended to be gone for only one month? One month, I said. One month to Wales and back. Ha.” She shook her head. “I was a bigger fool than even you clearly believe.”

  “I do not think you a fool,” he said quietly, and it was true. He could not vouch for her moral character, but he thought her very clever on the whole—well spoken, capable of thinking beyond the weather. If she knew how truly intrigued he was by her, she would be appalled.

  Miss Fairchild smiled wryly, the dimples in her cheeks appearing once again. “Ah, but life has a rather grand way of intervening in the best-laid plans, does it not? Look at me—a full six months later, and here I am as you see me—ruined, impoverished, and rather well stranded.”

  Oh, but he saw her, he saw every inch of her. He smelled her, remembered the feel of her skin, the texture of the small curl of her hair he’d touched this afternoon in his moment of madness. But he looked away as a footman served a leek and cheese soufflé.

  “In London, I’d be partaking of the Little Season’s festivities, attending balls and soirées and assemblies. On the other hand, if events had not brought me here, I never would have had the opportunity to view your many fine portraits, would I?”

  The lady was, apparently, quite fond of art. “I suppose not,” he said simply, and took a bite of the soufflé. He glanced at his guest—her fork was poised above the soufflé, but she was watching him closely. Rhodrick swallowed.

  “Isn’t there anything you would say of your portrait gallery?” she demanded.

  “Such as?”

  “Such as ‘I wonder, Miss Fairchild, if you had opportunity to view them all,’ or ‘Perchance you viewed the painting of my father or grandfather, or whoever he is, and was diverted by all his Greek glory.’ Perhaps you might inquire as to which paintings I enjoyed the most, or which ones I found curious.”

  “Which, then?” he asked.

  “Which what?”

  “Which did you find curious? Which did you enjoy?”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but thought the better of it and dropped her gaze to her plate. “All of them, but most particularly the white house. I should very much like to visit it—”

  “Miss Fairchild—”

  “But I am certain I have been there!” she said quickly, before he could forbid her again.

  She confounded him. “Why would you ever have had cause to be at Kendrick?”

  “It is called Kendrick?” she asked excitedly.

  “Miss Fairchild, your family hails from Bredwardine, do they not?”

  “I did not lie to you, my lord,” she said, reading his thoughts. “And I don’t know precisely when I was at Kendrick, but I believe I was there with my mother.”

  “I think not,” he scoffed. “There has been only one tenant in twenty years, and that was Percy.”

  That silenced her, but her brow furrowed in thought. After a moment, she looked at him again. “But if I might see it.”

  “Miss Fairchild, please,” he said as politely as he could, “as I have told you, Kendrick is closed. It is not safe and you are expressly forbidden to go there.”

  She frowned. “Very well,” she said, and stabbed irritably at her soufflé. “Yet one cannot help but wonder what is the great harm as there is nothing to occupy a person’s time here,” she continued crossly. “Really, sir, Llanmair is so ghastly uninhabited.”

  “It is not so ‘ghastly uninhabited,’” he said. “Just because you have not been presented to any society here does not mean it does not exist.”

  “Oh?” she said, perking up at the notion of there being any society. “And where is the good society? I should think Rhayader, as there were really quite a lot of people milling about the day we drove through. I suppose you mean there, do you not?”

  Rhodrick had no idea where he meant, and frankly, only the Awbreys and Lord and Lady Pool came to mind. “There, and other parts.”

  For some reason, that response seemed to irk Miss Fairchild further. If there was one thing Rhodrick had learned in his thirty-eight years, it was that women could, at times, be very difficult to fathom. He’d also learned long ago that there was really no point in trying to make sense of them, for a man was quite incapable of it, and he did not attempt to do so now.

  “Don’t you enjoy society, my lord?” she inquired.

  “Not particularly.”

  “Oh? I adore it. I can’t think of anything more enjoyable than an excellent meal consumed in the presence of excellent company. Can you?”

  He looked at her beautiful face. “I can think of at least one thing that is more enjoyable.”

  Miss Fairchild shrugged and ate another bite of soufflé, put her fork down, and looked up at the ceiling as she chewed.

  “Now what has you displeased?” he asked idly.

  She turned her gaze to him. “I should like to know if you are always so taciturn, or is it just me who makes you quite opposed to conversing.”

  He put down his fork. “I suppose I might ask if you are always so verbose, or if I make you quite opposed to silence.”

  “I am not verbose, I am polite! I will have you know that I am quite renowned for my conversation in London. I am wanted as a partner at all the parlor games because I can be counted upon to be conversant.”

  “I am hardly surprised you are renowned for your conversation,” he said dryly. “One can hardly escape it.”

  “Perhaps I erred in my desire to fill this room with something other than cold silence, as you would have it.”

  “Your conversation is most welcome. But you might allow yourself a bite of food now and again between all the conversing.” He motioned toward her food. “Please do eat, Miss Fairchild. Cook has gone to a great deal of trouble.”

  She picked up her fork, took two more bites, put the fork down, and looked at him again. “Are you ever to London, or do you remain here, all alone, dining in solitary splendor with only paintings of closed estates to keep you company?”

  Rhodrick glanced at Ifan, who instantly moved to remove his dish. “I was once a frequent visitor to London,” he said, and paused to pick up his wine. “But I have not been in a few years.”

  “Oh!” she said, clearly surprised. “Did you not enjoy the society there?”

  “My work keeps me here. I am a judge and I have a great number of tenants who require my attention. I haven’t the time to be off in London practicing clever conversation over a parlor game.”

  “Clearly, that is true,” she said wryly, and picking up her fork, popped a bite of soufflé into her mouth.

  Rhodrick could not help but smile. “Perhaps you will astound me with your talent for conversation over a game of chess after we dine.” He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “You do know chess, do you not?”

  She laughed, the sound of it melodic and sweet. “I do,” she said, and smiled again as Ifan removed her plate. “And I predict you will be very sorry to have issued a challenge. My cousins stayed very annoyed with me for besting them time and again.”

  As she launched into a tale of how she had so handily defeated her cousins—which included one rather infamous row, apparently, with Cousin Ava—Rhodrick looked at Ifan and nodded, indicating he should prepare the red salon for the two of them upon the conclusion of supper.

  As he ate and listened to Miss Fairchild talk of her cousins, he realized it had been years since he’d looked forward to anything as much as he looked forward to their game of chess.

  Fourteen

  P erhaps, G
reer thought, she should have left the wine well enough alone—it weakened her resolve to be firm and aloof, and she put the blame squarely on the shoulders of an excellent vintage for her being in the red salon at all. Which was, she desperately wanted to point out, not red as the prince had suggested, but the color of ripe peaches.

  Earlier this evening, when Lulu had informed her she must dine with the prince if she was to eat at all, Greer had been determined to starve to death before she spent as much as a moment in his presence. But when the hunger pangs began, she had decided that perhaps when one’s back is against the proverbial wall, the best way to confront the enemy is head-on and without flinching.

  She was not flinching, but she’d hardly expected to end up seated cozily before a fire and across a chessboard from him, admiring hanging tapestries that did nothing to keep the cold drafts at bay.

  With her chin propped lazily on her fist, she watched him move a knight. When she glanced up, his dark eyes, which reminded her of a wet forest at the moment, were on her, and he raised a brow in silent question.

  “Are you certain of your play, my lord?”

  One corner of his mouth tipped up. “I am always certain of my play.”

  His expression suggested he meant something other than chess.

  As Greer studied the board, she wondered about his life and his loves—and his style of play in bed. Was he as rough and gentle as he had been with her the night he had kissed her in the corridor? A little shiver ran down her spine. Such thoughts were clouding her vision of the game, and with a sigh, she shook her head, moved a pawn, and settled back to watch him lose.

  He frowned lightly as he studied the board, his fingers drumming on the arm of the chair in which he sat. Cain and Abel, his ever-loyal dogs, lay on either side of his chair, their heads resting on their outstretched paws.