Royal Regard

by Mariana Gabrielle

  “I can take you to the roses; I know the gardens well.”

  “I’m sure,” she said, her lips twitching. “Most especially the trysting spots?”

  “That is unfair, my lady,” he grinned, “I have taken pleasure in these gardens since I was a boy.” She raised her eyebrows at him, but he just maintained a look of innocence, rocking back on his heels. “I have destroyed hundreds—thousands—of blooms underfoot on these grounds, playing blind man’s bluff and hide-and-seek with the royal children.”

  “Ah, so that is how you came to know Prinny so well.”

  “To some degree. I was the playmate of his younger siblings, but yes, I grew up in the halls of the House of Hanover.”

  As they walked and talked, he occasionally reached down to pick a flower, holding them in his hand behind his back. He didn’t hope to surprise her, as she watched him each time, but he would wait to present the bouquet once they reached their destination and he might supplement his offering with the king’s spectacular roses. She much more rarely and furtively took up a bloom for the basket she had been given by a footman at the king’s direction and told to fill with flowers.

  “My mother had hoped to marry me to the Princess Sophia,” he explained, “but the young lady found me repellent from a very young age.”

  She stepped back, her mouth slightly open. Rather than remark on his proximity to royalty, however, she said, “Repellent? Quite a strong sentiment for a little girl. You must have been wretched.”

  “Ghastly,” he agreed cheerfully, eyes twinkling. “It may have begun when her brother and I beheaded all of the dolls at her tea party.” Bella questioning glance sought the rest of the story. “Playing Henry the Eighth, you see, and since Adolphus is the more direct descendant, I was relegated to executioner.”

  As they turned onto an avenue of ash trees, she smiled up at him, more warmly than she ever had before, and with a look he could assuredly identify as flirtatious. Until he realized she was turning her face up to the afternoon sun, drinking in the warmth after so much time under the canopy.

  “You sound a horrid little boy. I am surprised the king hasn’t long since thrown you in the Tower.”

  “He might yet, he assures me daily. In any case, Adolphus was sent to Hanover to school and became the Viceroy, and I to Eton, then Cambridge, then around the world, including a year in his viceregal court. When I returned to England, Prinny was curious about my travels, but as a child, I was well beneath his notice.”

  “Beneath the notice of the Prince of Wales. The privileged life of the ninth Duke of Wellbridge.”

  “One of—” The moment Nick realized he was nothing but a common braggart, he tried to stop himself, trailing off in a mumble, “eight titles…” He tried to salvage his honorable humility: “All earned by better men than I, you may be sure.” But the die was cast.

  “Eight titles? All right then, what are they?” She mocked him, somehow sweetly: “Or do you have a family retainer who does nothing but remember them all for you?”

  He now had no choice but to see it through. He cringed as he recited, “Duke of Wellbridge, Marquess of Abersham, Marquis de Taillebois, Earl of Baxton, Conte di Pietranego, Viscount Yoakefield, Baron Harbury, and Baron Ostelbrooke.”

  Her lips quivered. “Titles in three different languages. Did you learn them like a nursery rhyme when you were in dresses?” she goaded amiably.

  “No, my lady, my brother did.” He performed the list in an off-key singsong while she giggled at him. “David was the marquess. I was only Lord Nicholas.”

  “Oh, of course. Second son. And yet destined for a Princess?”

  “In all fairness, the fifth Princess.”

  “Well, obviously,” she scoffed. “Your parents wouldn’t have tried to marry you to the Princess Royal. That would have been a ridiculous plan.”

  He arched his brow, regaining his excess of self-regard, “At the risk of immodesty, my lady, the alliance might have been sealed had the queen not taken her daughter’s part against me. Still, my mother’s ambition outstripped her intellect or she never would have encouraged friendships with the royal offspring at all. The regard of royalty is fickle, even at the age of six.”

  “I daresay especially at the age of six.”

  He saw her face draw into itself as she considered, but did not respond in the usual way to the size of his influence and fortune—no broadening of her smile or fluttering of her lashes or proprietary touch of his arm. No hand to her throat considering the heft of the jewels he might place there. Inexplicably, she looked almost sad.

  “I’m not sure I envy you the royal regard. I certainly never had reason to be afraid for my life over Huckle Buckle Beanstalk.”

  She stopped at a group of trees, remarking, “Lychee fruit. I had no idea it was being cultivated here. I will have to be sure to return for the harvest. Lord Huntleigh has a particular fondness for lychee black tea.”

  She gathered several handfuls of bark from the tree, peeling off pieces randomly, looking around and over her shoulder, trying not to leave large blank spots on the branches. When he questioned her, she whispered, “The bark is good for the catarrh and for stomach upset,” she explained. “The roots as well, but I can do without digging up His Majesty’s garden.”

  This disarming habit she had of distracting him with intelligent conversation might prove Nick’s permanent undoing.

  While she collected the ugliest parts of the plant, he picked several of the strange blooms for his bouquet, hoping she would find them attractive, or at least useful in some way. Even as she furtively stuffed her takings underneath the collected flowers, she still seemed more preoccupied with some thought that had nothing to do with medicines. As they continued their leisurely stroll, she did not pick up the thread of conversation, only frowned when she occasionally looked up at him.

  Finally, she said, “Will you tell me about your brother?”

  He felt the blank mask fall into place that he had learned at Eton, the slightest ironic curve of his lip representing a wealth of unspoken emotion. He had less than no desire to discuss David, but within a few silent minutes, he found himself doing so anyway, admitting to jealousy, disregard, and neglect of his own flesh and blood, for which he had been ashamed his entire adulthood.

  Once finished with his droning, detached monologue, long since finished with her pitying looks, he stared at the lilies lining the leftmost path, the most direct route to the rosebushes. He took the turn to the right, a long row of multi-hued gladiolus. He gathered three deep purple stalks and asked if he might add them to her basket. “My sister loves them, and I will be seeing her in the morning.”

  To put further distance between the two of them and any more emotional conversation, he said, “I do love the crocuses, though it would not do for a gentleman to admit a preference for flowers, so I implore you keep my secret.”

  “I shall take it to the grave,” she teased. “I love them, too. They remind me of springtime.”

  He bent and added four to his collected bouquet of blooms.

  “Where is your estate, Duke? Wellstone Grange, is it not?”

  “Yes, but I have not visited since my elevation.”

  Without his knowing quite how she managed it, she kept him speaking of things he did not discuss. He had never in his life been led so easily into disturbing conversation by a woman, and he certainly had never enjoyed it so much.

  “Four years is a long time to stay away from home.”

  “It is not my home,” he answered shortly. “Wellstone is where Wellbridge lives.”

  She stepped slightly sideways, looking up to catch his eye. He was chagrined by his snappishness, but she didn’t seem to mind, only asking, “Would it go amiss to mention you are Wellbridge?”

  His steps fell heavier the longer the conversation continued.

  “That point has been made before now. It may be significant I enjoyed intimate acquaintance with the last three Wellbridges to die there.” Other than Al
lie, she was the only person to whom he had explained this, as he recognized his reaction to be entirely irrational.

  “I see.” He heard miles of sympathy in the two little words. “I should not have presumed.”

  As they moved away, she was, thankfully, distracted from his blatant display of madness, clapping her hands as they drew near a cluster of raised beds. “I thought the herb beds would all be nearer the kitchen. Lavender, thyme, yarrow, sage… It smells heavenly.”

  She picked a stem of lavender and crushed it between her fingers, holding it up for him to sniff, as though he hadn’t been inhaling the scent in her hair since he came upon her in the bluebells. She picked a goodly handful and dropped the stems in her basket.

  “I’m sure the bachelor buttons are only for prettiness, but I do think the purple just lovely.”

  “I believe,” he smiled, snapping two of the flowers at the stem, “the bachelor buttons are attributable to His Majesty’s wit. These beds are meant to catch the wind and scent the grove to the right.” He indicated a veiled alcove bordered with young Japanese maples, only visible by stepping off the path, featuring a waterfall, a two-person swing, and a tree that begged to shelter a picnic.

  She looked up at him, then eyed his trouser buttons, chuckling as she stepped back onto the circuitous path. “The king is so very witty.”

  Before he could turn Prinny’s raillery to his advantage, she confounded him again: “Oh, look at all the quinces! A veritable orchard!”

  She actually twirled a quarter-turn on tiptoe, like a five-year-old girl in a field of butterflies, before she stopped herself short, her body and face settling half-comfortably behind a suddenly adult woman’s face, a regretful compromise between the reckless innocent and the proper diplomatic lady.

  She stepped up to the trees like she planned to speak to them, letting her cheek fall against a branch.

  “Growing up,” she explained, “we had two on the edge of the cottage garden, and honey-poached quince was my father’s favorite sweet. I was always fair sick of quince by the end of the season, but always ready for the next year’s harvest. These are too dark to harvest, more’s the pity. The stones are good for gout.”

  She touched the branches lightly, testing the fruit, stroking the leaves in a way that left him breathless. He had to shake his head to lose the image of her using the same light touch against the fall of his trousers, testing the firmness of his—

  He stepped behind one of the shrubs. A grown man shouldn’t be sporting a cock-stand in the king’s garden. He had long since forgiven Brummell the five-hundred-guinea note he’d left Nick holding when he ran for the Continent, but he would never forgive the fiend for the fashion of high-waisted jackets.

  “I am not so noble as you might think, my lady.”

  She cut her eyes at him. “No? Do you pursue an honest living between shopping on Bond Street and supper at White’s?”

  He smiled apologetically. “Well, not so honest as that, but I am known as something of a radical in Parliament on behalf of those who are forced to a hard day’s labor.”

  She crouched down to investigate the mosses growing at the base of the plants, her shawl falling off her shoulder, giving him an unobstructed view of her bosom, even in her modest gown. At the sound of rustling in the bushes, she looked up almost at an angle to catch his eye, her lips just slightly parted, a position that did nothing to restore his trousers or heartbeat to a suitable state. Fortunately, her gaze followed the flight of an unwary swallow escaping their incursion, giving Nick enough time to remember what he had meant to say next.

  “My travels were likely more, shall we say ignoble than yours, my lady,” he said. “I, you understand, did not have to spend my time with wealthy merchants and ambassadors, and was not limited to areas offering accommodations for ladies.”

  “Touché,” she chortled as she stood, “though the stories I could tell about ‘accommodations for ladies’ would turn your hair white.” As they passed a formation of blackberry bushes trimmed in neat rows, she said, “Enlighten me as to your ignoble travels, then. Did you journey into the interiors? As you say, we spent most of our time on coastlines, unless there was a larger European presence inland, and always guests of the most prominent citizens. I longed to explore the jungles.”

  He cleared his throat. “The wilds are not at all the place for a lady.”

  She sent a grumpy look his way, narrowing her eyes. “So I am told.”

  He amended, “Nor the place for a man, if he is not a native or attached to the military, and I was neither. The natives I knew were already half-civilized, and I met them in whatever European settlement was closest. I never struck out into the jungles alone, and port towns held many attractions.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Where there are ships, there are most often better protections from hostiles and some sort of roof for let, and if you will forgive, pursuits typically outside the purview of the young English gentleman.” Once again, he found himself in a conversation he had not meant to initiate.

  He stopped his steps abruptly, bowing his head in polite remorse, even more contrite over his unspoken, hopefully unseen, bodily reactions. “I apologize if I’ve shocked you. Not at all the thing to discuss with a lady.”

  Her bark of laughter was the most improper he had ever heard. “Mercy. You believe you can shock me with gentlemen’s pursuits in foreign ports after I’ve lived fifteen years among sailors?”

  She moved away from the blackberries to take a small path to the left, leaving him no choice but to leave the concealment of the flora or admit why he couldn’t. He adjusted his jacket, wishing he were wearing a greatcoat, and set about thinking of gangrenous limbs, poisonous spiders, and roasted monkey entrails.

  She set his mind roiling about his indiscretion by studiously looking away from his obvious arousal—then back—then away again—and introducing an equally shocking subject, almost as though she hoped to relieve him of polite, appropriate conversation.

  “I understand from idle talk you learned fisticuffs in foreign climes, not at Gentleman Jackson’s. Knowing sailors as I do, I shudder to imagine.”

  “The rumor is indeed true, my lady, though I am chagrined it has reached the ears of a lady gently bred.”

  “You may spare the concern for my ears, Sir, as this gently bred lady learned blade play on shipboard and defensive combat from hardened soldiers.”

  She sucked in a breath as though knowing this was beyond the pale. In no world was this acceptable conversation. Her words fell over each other, suddenly trying to distance herself from the admission. “What did you find inland? Did you learn the native languages?”

  As kind as she had been to relieve his faux pas, he found himself disinclined to give quarter. “Blade play? Combat?” He was afraid his eyebrows might leave his forehead as she tried to pass off the comment as unremarkable. For some reason, the thought of her with a saber in her hand, dancing about a ship’s deck fighting pirates, was just as arousing as watching the teasing tip of her tongue.

  Her smile was at once rueful, disdainful, bashful, and teasing: “I am a dab hand with a foil and a short knife, though I beg you not make it known. I am quite notorious enough.”

  “‘Pon rep, my lady! I shall have to challenge you to a match.”

  “Lord Huntleigh would advise against it. Captain Johnson is a better fencing master than any in London, and I have a sailor’s balance.”

  He wondered if she had dressed in boy’s clothes on her travels, assuming lessons in swordplay would be hindered by corsets and petticoats, and her life on shipboard would have fewer social constraints. That led to thoughts of corsets and petticoats and the shape of her hips and legs in tight breeches and boots. Then he imagined her in the tropics, wearing very few clothes at all, wondering what she would look like in a sari woven in the same red-gold as her hair. He was becoming dangerously besotted.

  He choked out, “It is well-known the female of every species is more bloodthirsty t
han the male, so I yield to your more dangerous nature. I imagine you know guns, then? Do you hunt?”

  She shrugged carelessly, “I shoot well enough to hit a target at ten paces, but I am better with a blade. I am a good rider, though rarely side-saddle and never to hounds.”

  Lawks, the thought of her riding astride.

  She interrupted his continued reflections on her seat. “I never proved proficient at hunting, as I have difficulty butchering innocent beasts.”

  His laugh was low and raspy and incredulous, “But no trouble gutting a man?”

  “I cannot slay innocent beasts, Sir. By God’s grace, my ability to dispatch a human has never been tested.” She turned to him, her palm facing out. “May I use your penknife, Sir? I would like to trim some camellias, but had not think to bring shears.”

  He stepped away from her reckless admission, searching the pocket in the tail of his coat for his knife, twisting it in his fingers. He tried to rein in his desire, if only to minimize the chance of being stabbed by his own knife in a fit of feminine pique over his incredibly inappropriate bodily reactions. When he handed it to her, she flicked it open easily with her thumb and said, “I appreciate the courage that required.” He wasn’t sure if he wanted to kiss her, throttle her, run from her, or offer for her hand.

  Offer for her hand?

  He took three quick steps backward as she cut a few bright red flowers for the basket, setting it at her feet, holding out one small blossom. She motioned him toward her. When close enough to smell the lilac scent of her hair, he stopped short and she moved forward, tucking the spray of leaves under his cravat pin. “The flower matches the red silk of your waistcoat just perfectly, though the leaves are a bit darker than your eyes.”

  She stepped away and slapped the closed knife back into his palm, like a man shaking his hand on a deal. She curtsied, grinning, and said, “Thank you so much for the use of your knife. The rubies are exquisite.”

  She was toying with him—had to be toying with him—but flirting was so at odds with her nature he was unsure how, or if, he should respond. It was like speaking to a girl before her come-out, just trying her mettle as an adult woman; a gentleman wouldn’t want to take advantage or make her feel silly.