Royal Regard

by Mariana Gabrielle

  Until the maid’s head shot up when he asked, “May I call you Bella?”

  Bella didn’t even have to try to look censorious, nor did Wilson. “With no offense intended, Your Gr—Du—Your Grace, I think that inappropriate. I am certain my husband would not approve.”

  “Of course, Lady Huntleigh. I’m sorry if I’ve caused you discomfort.”

  Discomfort was hardly the word for what he was causing, but she was determined to see this meeting through without humiliating herself by begging his favor or giving him reason to hope she would accept his outrageous proposals.

  “Of course not, Sir. I am sorry Lord Huntleigh is away. I’m sure you have business to discuss, but he has gone to review his shipyards and will not be returning until a week Saturday.”

  Bella could have kicked herself. She had not intended to tell him she was alone, nor that she would be for two more weeks. She felt heat rising in her cheeks as he sat forward with his eyebrows raised and that enticing, predatory smile on his face.

  “You misunderstand, Lady Huntleigh. I have no pressing business with your husband. I’ve come purely to return your glove.”

  Bella found herself wishing, indecently, that he would put it back on as sensuously as he had taken it off. “How I wish it were your stocking I had just removed…” What she wished he would do to the back of her knee. Her mouth started watering again.

  “If Lord Huntleigh won’t return until Saturday next, might I assume you will be unaccompanied until then? May I offer escort?”

  She snapped her mouth closed, swallowing hard and clenching her teeth until she could speak without her voice shaking.

  “Certainly not. I thank you for the invitation, but I only rarely attend entertainments without Lord Huntleigh. But for the Pinnester’s rout, I will be here at home with Ivanhoe, preparing the house for Lord Huntleigh’s return.”

  She couldn’t seem to keep from telling him more than she should. Now she wished she hadn’t brought up the Pinnesters’ party, sure he would try to insist on his services as escort. Before he could, she added, “I will attend with Lord and Lady Firthley at my husband’s direction.”

  He shrugged off her refusal, “Of course. I understand,” but continued, “Ivanhoe is a wonderful novel. I quite enjoy allegorical and satirical fiction—more entertaining than political treatises or historical biographies. Are you far enough along we might discuss the subtext, or will I give away the plot?”

  “Oh, no, please don’t say a word. I have been interrupted at the start dozens of times. I haven’t even finished the first scene.”

  “Perhaps next time, then,” he said, with no question there would be a next time.

  “Perhaps,” she said, noncommittal.

  Before she had to find another topic, Hannah came in with the tea tray, dressed in a neat uniform that fit perfectly, her hair tidy and almost hidden beneath a mobcap, face and hands freshly scrubbed. Bella sighed with relief at the distraction, and that he wouldn’t be disgusted by a slovenly maid.

  Hannah placed the enameled Russian samovar in front of Bella and lit the coals, then set out the matching tea service and cups.

  “Thank you, Hannah. Please tell Cook…” Bella looked around for anything to say to draw out the maid’s presence a few more seconds, wishing it were appropriate to invite every servant in the house into the room, “…this looks splendid,” she trailed off ineffectually. “I’m sure the scones are delicious.”

  “Indeed,” Wellbridge added. “And I will no doubt do them justice, as I have had no sustenance since eight o’clock this morning.”

  Hannah curtsied belatedly, then asked, “Shall I bring something more, Your Ladyship? Or will His Grace be staying for dinner?” Bella wanted to discharge the girl on the spot. Now she almost had to agree, unless Wellbridge observed the conventions and declined anything but the offered tea.

  He stared expectantly.

  “Lord and Lady Firthley will be here with the children this evening.” She turned to Wellbridge and added, “We will be dining en famille. I’m sure you understand, Sir.” If she weren’t able to get rid of him before Charlotte appeared, she was afraid he would force his way into the dining room. And her cousin would help.

  “Of course. I have a dinner engagement myself.” As though she cared where he spent his evenings, he added, reassuring her, “My sister expects me at seven o’clock, but a sandwich to tide me over would be divine.”

  She should have known he would find a way to push in. She reminded herself no matter how he discomposed her, he was an investor of Myron’s, so must be shown every courtesy short of her own degradation. “You may ask Cook to send up some sandwiches, please, Hannah.”

  Hannah bobbed her head again, “Yes, Your Ladyship.” Then she curtsied to Wellbridge so deeply she nearly fell over. Bella suspected Hannah had more than a little interest in the duke’s green eyes. “I’ll be back in just a few minutes, Your Grace, in case you need anything else.”

  Bella told the girl as she was backing out, “His Grace will need nothing else, Hannah. You may have Mrs. Jemison bring the food. I’m sure Cook has plenty for you to do in the scullery.” Charlotte was miles off the mark to think Hannah could be trained as a proper upstairs maid.

  Now Bella would have to keep up the conversation for at least another half hour, more if he dawdled, which he probably would, if only to unsettle her more than he already had. Assuredly, he looked so self-satisfied because he had agitated more than one woman in less than a quarter-hour. What had she been thinking, hoping he would stay longer?

  Wellbridge ran his finger over the hot enamel samovar, jerking away quickly. “This is beautiful. I sent back a set from Russia for my sister, but it isn’t nearly so fine. Did you have it made?”

  Bella immediately set to serving tea, to give her hands something to do besides fiddle with her skirt. “The samovar was a diplomatic gift. The teapot and cups are only a close match, a lucky find in Canton. I never took up the habit of tea in glasses. No matter how fine the metalwork, it seems somehow undignified. You’ve visited Russia, Sir?”

  “I’ve visited every continent at least once, except the Arctics, of course. I travelled for more than ten years when I was young.”

  “I had heard that. It is most unusual. I thought it was always the Army or the Church for a second son. Weak tea or strong?”

  “A second son has as many options as he can afford, and my travels are not nearly as unusual as yours.” Glancing at the samovar, he said, “As strong as you can make it, please. Perhaps even as strong as a glass of brandy?”

  Bella almost dropped the silver tea caddy. “Of course, you’d prefer something more… manly. I’m sorry for the omission. I’m not accustomed to entertaining gentlemen without Lord Huntleigh.”

  Before he could finish saying, “May I serve myself?” Wilson was already halfway to the decanters. While the lady’s maid was demeaning herself performing the function of a footman, she slanted come-hither eyes at Bella’s guest. When he had his drink in hand, he visibly dismissed the maid’s inappropriate glances, and Bella seconded the notion, glaring Wilson back to her seat in the corner.

  While Bella went about the ritual of serving herself tea, the rich aroma filling the air, he crossed his legs at the ankle, stretching out as though he intended to stay all night. Bella caught Wilson peeking at him under her lashes without an ounce of disapproval at his familiarity, so glowered at her maid, wishing she could send the woman away without risking her reputation.

  When Wilson disregarded Bella’s silent command, lashes fluttering at him even though he wasn’t looking, Bella’s carefully controlled fury at unseemly servants reached its end.

  “Wilson, I’m sure the nursery needs cleaning before the children arrive.” She continued, by way of explanation, “Master Alex is still young enough to eat things off the floor, and Lady Julia isn’t old enough to tell him no, so you must scrub it quite thoroughly. And please remind Mrs. Jemison I brought some toys home yesterday and left t
hem with Mr. Watts.”

  Wilson stared at Bella’s hardened face, looking back and forth between her mistress and the duke, doing her best to silently point out the impropriety while still making calf’s eyes at him. Bella insisted, “You may go, Wilson.” As the maid reached the doorway, Bella added, “Please leave the door open.” Bella resolved to have a firm discussion with Mrs. Jemison about the possibility of the servants gossiping with anyone else, especially Charlotte.

  “Yes, Your Ladyship.” Wilson left the door open no more than a crack, and Bella wondered, not for the first time, whether her servants were under orders from Charlotte to encourage potential suitors.

  Wellbridge leaned forward as soon as they were alone, taking up her hand, absently massaging her fingers. “I wondered how long it would take you to send her away.”

  She pulled her hand away half-reluctantly. “You presume too much. I have not yet engaged the full complement of servants, so everyone is taking on extra duties. I’m afraid it is quite beneath Wilson’s dignity to sweep and dust, but my cousin’s children mustn’t be placed in danger so my maid can maintain her standing in the servant’s hall.” She turned her shoulder toward him in her chair.

  Wellbridge looked around the room, “I have never been entertained by a lady in her husband’s study. I am reminded of Lord Huntleigh at every turn.”

  From the confines of the plaster frieze-work hearth, the firelight flickered against the precious metal inlay on the teak Bible stand she’d had made in Barcelona for Myron’s sixty-fifth birthday, almost two years ago. Stuttering oil lamps and the newest gas wall sconces kept the room bright enough for Myron’s weakening eyesight, even late into the evening when he was restless with planning and endless note-taking. The overflowing candle box and blanket thrown across the chaise just reminded Bella her husband was now maintaining a separate bedroom to keep from disturbing her, for the first time in their married lives.

  She shook away her concerns for her marriage, well aware having Wellbridge here might do far more damage than separate bedrooms. Suddenly, she wished they were anywhere else but Myron’s inner sanctum. “I’m afraid there are preparations to be made in the drawing room for my cousin’s visit.”

  “Surely your butler told me a decorator would be coming to take measurements for new wallpaper and drapes?” He was laughing at her behind his twinkling eyes. “But no matter. This is quite comfortable, though neither the study nor the drawing room is where I would prefer to be entertained.”

  “I have no idea to which room you refer, Sir.” She set her lips firmly against his innuendo, wishing she could turn off the embarrassment like the lamp on the side table. She turned up the wick and the smell of kerosene made itself known above the apple wood smoke from the fireplace.

  “No?” He stretched out his legs again and sat back, his hands behind his head. “If that were true, my dear Bella, you would not be blushing like a virginal girl. And I have to admit, my sweet, I am insatiably curious whether you have decided where you would like me to touch you next.”

  Her mouth opened and closed, too shocked to respond; his use of her Christian name was the least of his offenses. His smile showed teeth, like a hungry dog on the prowl, and Bella suddenly felt like raw meat. Before she could gather her indignation and throw him out of her house, he sat up, wiped his face clean of everything improper, and said, “Excellent. My sandwiches. You must be Mrs. Jemison.”

  The housekeeper set down the tray, which held a plate stacked with a veritable mountain of bread, and another with a vast array of sweets, including a slice of the cake Mrs. Elliott had refused to serve Bella at nuncheon, saying it was being saved for after dinner. Mrs. Jemison bobbed a curtsey at Wellbridge, thankfully without undressing him with her eyes. “Yes, Your Grace, Nellie Jemison, at your service. I am happy to provide anything else you might require.”

  Now sensitive to the undercurrents among her servants, she said, “Thank you Mrs. Jemison. I’m certain the duke has everything he requires.”

  Mrs. Jemison asked Bella, almost as an afterthought, “Will that be all, Your Ladyship?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Indeed. Thank you,” Wellbridge added, “This looks delightful. I will be as fat as a tick when I leave.” He spread a cloth napkin across his lap and took up a plate, so focused on the food that he ignored the protocol of waiting for his hostess to offer. Mrs. Jemison’s brow furrowed and she pursed her lips, but he ignored her censure, too.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Jemison,” Bella repeated. “The duke seems quite capable of serving himself.” He looked up briefly, only slightly abashed, but when Bella gestured that he might continue, he turned his attention back to the sandwiches, all much larger than typically served in the afternoon. He picked out three, all cold meat rather than shrimp paste or cucumber-and-watercress or egg salad. Mrs. Elliott must have started preparing the tray as soon as he walked in, to offer such a selection. One of the benefits of being a duke, she supposed: the whole world contorting itself to anticipate your desires.

  She was relieved the housekeeper left the door wide open without being asked, effectively thwarting the most ignoble of his desires. At least one of her servants had a modicum of common sense.

  “Are you certain you wouldn’t prefer tea to whiskey with your repast?”

  He swallowed the food in his mouth, then agreed, “That would be delightful, Bella. Thank you. Strong please, two lumps, no milk.”

  Bella emptied the dregs into the slop bowl, rinsed the teapot, then measured out leaves from the tea caddy and tipped the samovar to fill the pot with fresh water. While she waited for it to steep, she said, “I hope you enjoy Ceylon. I know it isn’t preferred by most Englishmen, but I have this strain grown specially on my husband’s plantation.”

  He was almost finished with the first three sandwiches, but just before he took the last bite, he said, “I’m afraid my trip to India was cut short by rioting, so I only spent time in Maharashta. I had planned a much longer sojourn, but instead, a year and a half in Russia. I was in India long enough to develop a taste for Ceylon, though. Much more flavorsome than Assam, do you not agree?” He popped the end of the sandwich into his mouth.

  “Indeed,” she answered, watching his strong jaw working through the crusty bread and thick slice of beef. She was amazed that he could eat so much so quickly without sacrificing too many of his manners. Not that his manners were immaculate.

  “You can be sure you have never had this variety. It is a hybrid only grown for me.” When he was finished with the beef, his hand floated briefly above the platter to seek out more food; he passed up cucumber on Irish brown bread for some sort of fish paste on Mrs. Elliott’s fine-grained wheat.

  As she poured tea for him, adding sugar and handing him cup, saucer, and spoon, she asked, “Where else have you travelled, Sir?”

  He set down his plate and took the cup, responding, “Almost two years in the Orient and three in Africa. The South Sea Islands were lovely, at least in the wilds, though I found the penal colonies appalling. I stayed a little more than a year, traipsing about the wilderness. Only a few months in North America, I’m afraid, as no one there much likes Englishmen, but South America was quite my favorite continent. I even learned some Spanish, though it isn’t the thing to say so at home.”

  “No, intelligence isn’t fashionable at all in England,” she remarked, maintaining a deadpan expression.

  “A sad state of affairs, that,” he said, winking at her. “I stayed in the jungles far longer than I had planned, but by then, my brother’s health was deteriorating, so I had to return home. I admit, I considered disappearing on shipboard and never returning—just another adventurer lost at sea.”

  She laughed, for the first time not self-consciously, “I planned exactly that course. If Myron—Lord Huntleigh—hadn’t forced me to it, I would never have set foot in the civilized world again.”

  “Where would you have stayed, given the choice?”

  She thought back o
ver fifteen years of travel, having only rarely stopped anywhere for more than a few months. “My preference would be Edo, although I never would have been able to learn the language.”

  “I agree. Oriental languages were quite impossible, as was finding an interpreter who would take payment from a foreign devil. Without my index fingers and a pocketful of ready coin, I would have starved to death. I still don’t know half of what I ate.”

  She nodded her agreement. “It was simpler for me, as Lord Huntleigh almost always had associates expecting us who spoke one of the Romance languages.” She had often wished they hadn’t. The places where they knew no one had offered much more scope for adventure, and more often challenged her assumptions. “We both know French, Spanish, and Latin; he speaks more Russian and German; I have more Greek.”

  He watched her ruminating. “Are you unhappy you returned?”

  She considered his question before she answered, slowly and with deliberation. “Not unhappy, exactly, but I have never really felt at home in England.” When his brows rose in query, she continued, “I don’t fit in at all with the beau monde. My life is much simpler when I don’t have to follow someone else’s conventions. And it is much easier to play the baroness—now countess, I suppose—among people who don’t forever question the circumstances of my elevation.”

  He smiled conspiratorially. “I know a confidence when I hear one, Bella, and am honored by your candor. But surely, as the wife of a successful businessman, you were subject to every manner of convention in your travels? There is nothing like the petty provincial for enforcing proper behavior.”

  She grinned at him, finally enjoying herself. “Of course, but in other parts of the world, my eccentricities were most often excused, as I was a baroness unaware of local customs, who couldn’t be expected to entirely conform. And I had at least as much money as anyone else, more than most.”