Royal Regard

by Mariana Gabrielle

  Huntleigh agreed, “I’ve heard you are perfectly discreet. The house on Harley Street is virtually unknown, and I could not identify any particular wife with whom you have dallied; only general agreement you have tumbled half the married ladies of the ton.”

  “Even assuming your research is half-fictitious, it is remarkable you are asking my intentions instead of my participation in a duel.”

  “I am far too old and sickly to reliably prevail.” Huntleigh waved his cup toward Nick to indicate continued attention.

  Nick was beginning to feel his ire misplaced. Huntleigh hadn’t meant to bring up a sore subject; he was only doing his best to protect his wife, and doing so politely. Admirable, really, now that Nick thought of it. It was a good thing someone was concerned for Bella’s good name, because Nick certainly hadn’t been. Still, his reputation as a rake had never sat well with him, even when he deserved it.

  “The reason you cannot find the hundreds of women I’ve supposedly toyed with,” Nick remarked, “is that most of them don’t exist. I have love affairs for a Season, maybe a year, one woman at a time, and not always married. I will restrain any further reflection, wishing to respect the privacy of the ladies involved, but you may be sure I do not keep a harem or arrange orgies in my country house or debauch innocents or force the unwilling or, most importantly, tell ribald tales about what happens in my bedchamber. I enjoy talking to women as well as tupping them. I just don’t want to marry one.”

  On that final note, Nick poured more brandy, doing his best not to count his drinks, nor to watch the level in the decanter, almost low enough to be of concern. If he were concerned. He took a small sip, rolling it around in his mouth as he tried to restrain his unreasonable irritation.

  When it appeared Nick would manage to keep his temper in check, Huntleigh asked, “May I ask for what reasons you question your intent toward my wife?”

  “Is that what I am doing?”

  “It would appear so to the interested observer.”

  An angry sigh escaped Nick’s nose, his back teeth ground nearly to dust. He took another sip of the brandy, then reconsidered and tossed the rest back.

  “My sister will not rest until I am wed to a brainless broodmare, and I have less than no desire for a schoolroom chit. I admit, I had decided to spend one last Season as a bachelor, seducing Lady Huntleigh for our mutual enjoym—” Huntleigh winced and Nick stopped, afraid that in his unwarranted anger, he had been too frank.

  “I knew that, Wellbridge, but I confess it painful to hear it spoken so plainly.” Huntleigh waved his hand. “Please continue.”

  Nick doubled the amount of brandy when he poured. He held the carafe out to Huntleigh, assuming it might be needed now, but the older man shook his head, holding up his half-full dish of coffee.

  Nick drank deeply before he continued, “I rarely meet women like Bella—excuse me, Lady Huntleigh—” Huntleigh nodded to acknowledge the correction. “—who speak intelligently on a variety of cerebral topics, rather than feigning silliness in pursuit of my fortune. She is at once world-wise and perfectly innocent, without artifice… refreshing, unaccountably pleasing. Not at all the kind of woman I am comfortable debauching.” He shook his head. “I cannot believe I am having this conversation with you about your wife.”

  “I admit I cannot credit it.”

  Nick continued, “It is a luxury to find such a woman, no matter her title or rank, and my intent has most recently been to engage her in the most correct of friendships. Rake I may be, but she deserves better than to be a man’s light o’ love.”

  Nick had no idea how he had come to this conclusion, but the more he had learned about her, the more awkward he felt about his usual mode of seduction. Not that she was ever at risk of believing his usual fustian. She had seen right through him from the start.

  “The long and short of it,” Nick admitted, “I question my intent because I have never before questioned my intent. Only one thing is certain. I no longer view Lady Huntleigh as a conquest, either as willing wife or widow, but rather a friend with whom I might converse about mutual interests—our travels foremost—in otherwise tiresome company. Should something… romantic… develop from our… communications, the… relationship… might be… reevaluated.” Nick wished he were choking on his drink. He brought the glass to his lips.

  “I have seen her face during your conversations,” Huntleigh admonished, “You have not been discussing your travels.”

  “We are both fascinating creatures of broad interests,” Nick stated quietly, finishing his glass, swallowing the drink along with his acrimony.

  “You are both that,” Huntleigh agreed.

  The chestnut-colored carpet he had shipped back from India years ago was suddenly far more interesting than continuing the conversation, until, with a start, Nick realized the copper tracing perfectly matched the henna markings of a Middle Eastern bride. He looked up at the print on the coquelicot wallpaper, wondering what had possessed him to redecorate the room in varying shades of blood-red when it had been so soothing in the greens his mother had chosen.

  Before he fell too far into recollections of his mother, which could only lead to further consideration of a marriage in which he did not intend to indulge—indulge?—he asked, “From things Lady Huntleigh has said—nothing purposefully indiscreet, of course—I believe she had a child? I know it is a source of great pain, and haven’t wanted to press.”

  Huntleigh turned away, looking into the fire. He grasped the silver globe at on the head of his walking stick, moving the cane from the end of the armrest, twisting it in his hands, pushing the other end further into the carpet. He looked as though he would push himself up off the sofa to leave the room, but only shifted his calf against the gout stool and tugged at his waistcoat.

  “Of course. You will need an heir. I should have considered.”

  Nick’s head shot up and his mouth twisted in both offense and commiserative pain. He repeated to Huntleigh the same thing he had been saying to his sister for four years: “I have an heir, though not a son, and have long since made peace with it. I merely prefer not to cause Be—Lady Huntleigh any additional distress by misunderstanding the history. Please forgive me bringing up such a personal matter. If you prefer not to discuss it…”

  “No, given my request, you have every right to know.” Huntleigh paused, letting loose a lengthy sigh. “I cannot entirely warrant her ability to give you children. Rather the opposite, I’m afraid. We had a daughter while we were in Edo seven years ago—Arabella—who only lived ten days. It took Bella many months to recover herself, if she ever has. Leaving her child buried on another continent was almost more than she could bear.”

  “The frigate. I had wondered about the name. I thought it was for Lady Huntleigh.”

  “No, my wife’s name is Isabella; our daughter—and so the ship—was named for my mother-in-law, who died when Bella was hardly old enough to remember her.”

  “So, there were no other—”

  Huntleigh cut him off before he could even ask. “Before then, two others, both miscarried early on, causing Bella some grief, but not nearly the same… unhinging. After our daughter died, I deemed my wife’s welfare more important than producing children, so have restrained myself where she is concerned. I was an old man by then, such pursuits not so important as they once were.”

  Nick sat back, watching Huntleigh thump his cane against the floor. “Are you not concerned with who will inherit your interests?”

  At the change in subject, Huntleigh’s grin danced a jig his legs could no longer manage. “Wealthiest widow in England, I’ll wager. I am rather proud of that.”

  Huntleigh set the walking stick back against the furniture, where it promptly fell over. When Huntleigh reached for it in vain, his leg’s position keeping him relatively immobile, Nick bent to replace it within arm’s reach, then returned to his seat.

  Huntleigh leaned the cane against his bad leg, continuing to twist his gnarled hand over
the handle.

  “Nothing I own is under entail, and I have no other family with any claim. It will pass to Bella entirely, and rightly so, after all she has done to help me acquire it.”

  Nick sat back, resting his hands across his waistcoat. “Most men would hesitate to make such an arrangement.”

  “That is unfortunate for their wives.”

  “And a boon to her next husband.”

  “Yes.”

  The oily smell of burnt coal reminded Nick to add a shovelful of slack to the fireplace. While he stumbled slightly to the hearth, he pondered how to politely decline the elderly man’s offer.

  “I am the perfect second son,” Nick said, shaking his head, possibly slurring his words. “I arranged everything in my life precisely for the freedom to go anywhere, do anything, and remain permanently unattached. I chose to come back to England and take on the oversight of this damned title in dubious deference to my father and brother, when I could have stayed in Santiago, never to be seen again. I still sometimes regret it. Deeply. I would be better off if the duchy had reverted to the Crown.”

  “No argument from me,” Huntleigh agreed. “I would rather be a Bedlamite in chains than a titled man in London—although a case could be made there is no difference. I would have hated playing Lord of the Manor, and so would Bella. We would have come home to raise children but were never forced to choose.”

  While he watched the anthracite ignite, warming his already warm hands, Nick continued, “I do not wish to regret a wife and children, nor for them to regret me if I cannot bring myself to stay in one place the rest of my life. I’d rather leave the dukedom to a chimney sweep than cause that kind of pain.”

  “I understand that, and in fact, respect it a great deal.”

  “You may be the only man in England who would.”

  “No, I think the late duke would have agreed. Well, the senior Northope, at any rate. I had very little knowledge of David.”

  With mention of his father, Huntleigh saw he now had Nick’s undivided attention, so indicated with his eyes that Nick might prefer to re-take his chair. Somehow without tripping over his own feet, Nick complied with the unspoken request, stopping at his desk on the way to retrieve the brandy carafe and his glass.

  As Nick poured more cognac, then a cup of cold coffee for his guest, Huntleigh started, “When I wed Bella, I was a not much older than you. You are six-and-forty?”

  Nick nodded, swirling the brandy in his glass.

  “I was just past fifty, and had sworn equally as adamantly I would never marry. Then, of course, I was granted lands and a barony to bequeath. It might take you as long to justify the decision, but if it does, Bella will be contentedly settled with another man.”

  Nick felt a lump in his throat and washed it down with a sip of his drink.

  “She will be just as fond of him as she is of me,” Huntleigh continued, “and if she is lucky, he will be as fond of her as her money. I think that a poor substitute for a man who might bring her joy.”

  “You are offering me your blessing?”

  Huntleigh shook his head, but did not reply right away. Eventually, he intoned, “I am offering you the chance to earn my blessing, and my fortune, before anyone else does.”

  Nick found himself once more unaccountably belligerent.

  “I don’t need your money, and I don’t need your sanction to fall in love with Lady Huntl—Bella—or to marry her. Or to take her off to sea with me, if it came to that.”

  Huntleigh leaned back, finally fully at ease, and stretched his arm along the back of the sofa. “I knew if you had a brandy or two, you might come to see the sense in it.”

  Nick had the feeling he had just missed something terribly important, but felt too bleary-eyed to see it. His confusion increased tenfold when he realized he wasn’t really bleary-eyed at all. He was remarkably clearheaded considering the amount he had imbibed.

  “I think I need less brandy and more coffee.”

  “I am certain you do. Shall I call for the butler?”

  “No.” Nick sat forward to take up the coffeepot, his hands less unsteady than expected. “I’ll drink it cold.”

  Once Nick had gulped down half a dish of tepid coffee, Huntleigh used both hands to drag his leg off the stool and set his swollen foot gently on the floor.

  “I have one other topic of concern before I leave you to the business I so rudely interrupted.” Huntleigh tipped his head toward the newspapers and account book on the desk, and Nick looked over, feeling as though they belonged to another lifetime.

  “Please, don’t stop now. Shall I open a new bottle?” Nick asked, tongue firmly in his cheek.

  “You may wish to. There is another man paying her court.”

  “Malbourne.”

  Huntleigh confirmed, “Malbourne. I’ve discouraged him every way I can, but to no avail. He pops up whenever she is out of my sight. Short of setting guards on her, I cannot stop him. And she is not immune.” Lines burrowed even deeper into Huntleigh’s forehead. His frown fell past his chin. “He has learned to indulge her opinions instead of flattering and flirting, quite astute, but he is a fortune hunter and a Frenchman, and his first marriage was disastrous for the poor girl.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I knew his first wife’s parents. Much as I did you, I dandled her on my knee when she was still in leading strings.”

  Huntleigh’s good knee bobbed as though he were currently playing horsie with Malbourne’s duchess. He once again took hold of his walking stick, intent more clearly to stand in the immediate future. Before he did, however, Nick stayed him with a gesture.

  “I don’t make a habit of listening to rumors, but I’ve sought information about him.”

  “Always best to understand one’s enemy,” Huntleigh concurred.

  Nick cleared his throat, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “The worst anyone can say is he is French. But still, family ties to the Bourbons, royalist to the bone, plenty of money, pays his vowels when he gambles, which is rarely, never drinks to excess, doesn’t frequent the bawdy houses, and the ladies say he is a superlative dancer and ever-so-handsome. Helped finance King Louis’ court-in-exile—entirely proper, given his position—and all of the French nobles have been restored.”

  “Not all. You forget, Wellbridge, I just spent the last six months in Paris. The court is no longer in exile, but Malbourne is still here. His title has been restored but is, for all intents and purposes, worthless unless King Louis reinstates or replaces the estate, which he seems disinclined to do. Something has set Malbourne’s king against him.”

  “Do you know what he’s done?”

  “No. Nor do I care to delve any deeper into the morass of French royal politics at this late stage of my life. It is enough to know a very wide rift exists.”

  “There are many worthless French titles—titles nonetheless. If that is the worst—”

  “I will not repeat my most vile suspicions because they make me want to lose my stomach, but they speak extremely poorly of his relations with women,” Huntleigh declared, “I can assure you my conjecture is borne out by what I know of Lady Amelia Dewhurst. Her father never again heard from his daughter once the duke took her to France, and only heard from Malbourne when he appeared at the door with news of her death in childbirth, purely to claim her small land trust—the estate in Dover where he now lives.”

  Nick shrugged, “As her husband, his right.”

  “According to people in a position to know, she was never enceinte, though I might be the only man in England with the information. Her death was in some way sinister, although I admit knowing few details. Only a handful of people in France knew he had married, and no one at Court, even the king. Just a few servants who were reticent—most often terrified—to speak of the duchess when I sought them out.”

  Nick’s feet thumped onto the floor, and he pushed away the carafe. “How is this not common knowledge?”

  “Servants’ accusations agai
nst a duke?”

  Nick nodded. Likely nowhere in Europe could a commoner offer up criminal evidence against a royal duke, no matter how egalitarian the political climate. Still, “No love of nobility in a French court of law at present, if the case were pursued.”

  “He is in England with no inclination to leave,” Huntleigh observed. “As for any rumors, her father was the last of his family and his line; the title and any English gossip died with him. It has been more than thirty years.”

  “Of course.”

  The wheels in Nick’s head were now not only turning, but screeching. He had been concerned about Malbourne’s attentions to Bella before, but only because he preferred to woo her with no rivals. This information made the wretch a much greater threat. Nick loved that Bella was still in some ways innocent, but he would wish her sadder-but-wiser if it would force her to see Malbourne’s true face.

  Huntleigh took in the gravity of Nick’s expression, nodding his head firmly, preparing to rise. At an offer of assistance, Huntleigh used both Nick’s arm and the cane to bring himself to his feet.

  “I do not know what the Devil Malbourne plans,” Huntleigh growled, his voice and language out of harmony with his usual demeanor, “but he is the first in a long line of ill-intentioned noblemen from whom my Bella should be protected.”

  “We are agreed on that, if nothing else,” Nick replied, his determination gritted between his teeth. “Although I am still not certain why I am not at the top of your list of dangerous men.”

  Huntleigh chuckled, but was silent for many long minutes. Eventually, he rested one hand on his walking stick and used the other to pass Nick the unopened bottle of brandy.

  “Because, my lord duke, you love her.”

  Chapter 14

  Michelle tugged absently on the sparse curls on Adolphe’s chest, her face on his shoulder, body tucked under his arm, while he gently stroked her hair. Their limbs were tangled, bodies and heat ensconced behind the forest-green tapestry bed curtains in one of his manor house guest chambers: not his room, nor hers. Both were nude, still sticky with sweat.