Royal Regard

by Mariana Gabrielle

  No matter what he had sent, or even offered on bended knee, Bella threw it back in his face—in the case of the pastries, quite literally. Even in childhood, he had never before needed to remove jam from his hair.

  He couldn’t buy jewelry, as her husband had deemed it inappropriate, no matter how much both of them would like to see this extended fit of temper ended. Huntleigh, however, made two trips to Rundell, Bridge, and Rundell, one in the company of the king, and Nick had retrieved and delivered the final commissioned pieces to Huntleigh to gift her from his periodic sickbed.

  Both Huntleigh and Charlotte had become allies of sorts in his abortive attempts to woo Bella, but neither had given him any truly effective advice, other than the belated intelligence that there was nothing shy about an angry Isabella Huntleigh. There was no way to end Bella’s tempers until Bella herself decided to end them.

  Which would, apparently, not be at the Chesfield’s ball. Without another word, Bella turned to the slimy Frenchman he now knew well enough to despise, smiled broadly and curtsied deeply while Nick’s nemesis bowed. Bella didn’t even turn her head to see how Nick reacted. If she had, he would know she was doing this purposely to make him jealous, which would be a much better state of affairs.

  “Bonsoir, Monsieur le Duc, I’ve been waiting all evening for our dance,” Bella said, as she offered her hand.

  “Lady Huntleigh,” Malbourne bowed to her, “I am slain by your beauty, as always.”

  He nodded curtly at Nick, and swept her onto the dance floor for a waltz. Nick restrained himself from kicking the wall. A blasted waltz. He had never before been opposed to any dance considered risqué, but at the moment, he was barely in favor of a cotillion.

  Nick wanted to plant the man a facer, but this was surely not the time and place. He nearly did it anyway, fists clenched tightly against his thighs when he watched in one of the wall mirrors as the scoundrel pulled her closer. When Malbourne leaned down and whispered in her ear, making her blush, Nick took a step toward them, but stopped when he felt a hand on his arm.

  “You’ll only make it worse, Nicky.”

  “Allie!” He bent to kiss his sister’s cheek, one eye still on Bella. She defied convention by returning the kiss.

  Lady Allison Nockham looked like a smaller version of her brother. The same green eyes, the same blond curls, the same square, stubborn jaw. She was much daintier, of course, her figure a twig to his solid oak tree, features more delicate, hair more orderly, manner more refined. She was all female as he was all male, but no one would ever mistake the familial bond.

  He welcomed the distraction from the brawl he was about to initiate, which would probably lose him every chance he had with Bella. Assuming he had any chance at all.

  Keeping his other eye on the Frog, he said, “Nockham told me earlier you had no plans to attend.”

  “I insisted we come when I heard the delightful on-dit about Lady Huntleigh finally putting you in your proper place. I had been given to understand it was a love match, but now I see the gossip is right. Not so much wooing as warring.”

  “So it would appear.” He tipped his head and raised one brow, still half a step from an altercation, but willing to maintain decorum for the moment. For his sister.

  He added, casually, “I am going to murder that damned Frenchman if his hand travels one more inch below her waist.”

  With no visible reaction to his abominable language, she remarked, “And you usually so charming. I hardly remember the last time you threatened murder. One can only hope you are losing your gift for seduction.” Her not-unfriendly censure was overset by the entirely-too-romantic music setting the chandeliers tinkling above the crowd. When she giggled at the look on his face, he barely heard it.

  Nick’s shoulders tightened and voice lowered. “Blast it, Allison. It’s not funny. She’s driving me mad.”

  “Goodness! You are in a pother. Damn, blast…? Next you will be invoking the Devil.”

  “I am going to invoke the entirety of Hell if she doesn’t stop trying to tug me about on a string. I’m not a damned dog to follow at her feet.”

  Her laughter was now too loud for polite company, drawing pointed looks.

  “I’ve heard you compared to a dog more times than I can count; it is about time someone leashed you. If you would only come to heel, you would find it all much easier to bear.”

  “Not helpful, young lady.”

  “Not meant to be, old man. If you wish me to be helpful, you will have to be considerably more attentive to my invitations. You’ve regretted my last two supper parties, and I won’t allow it to continue.”

  In his peripheral vision, reflected in one of the mirrors, he saw Bella laughing as Malbourne twirled her too quickly to be in step with the music. As though the bounder didn’t make her quite dizzy enough with his unseemly attentions.

  Unwilling—unable—to direct his growing anger where it belonged, he hissed, “Every time I attend your supper parties, you pair me with some vacuous debutante, and I end up smiling and nodding at drivel all evening.” To allay the keen looks directed their way, he smiled and nodded at her.

  She mirrored his raised eyebrow and twisted her lips sharply, tugging at her glove, “Shall I pair you with some other man’s wife, then?” He snarled, and she continued, “You may immediately cease taking out your tempers on me. It is not my fault you are a hopeless nodcock.”

  Before he could refute her charge, not that he had much evidence to do so, she continued her proposition. “If you give me your word of honor you will accept my next invitation, I will be happy to invite Lady Huntleigh and exclude Lord Malbourne, but I can invite them both without you, if you’d prefer. I’ve heard they are both partial to musicales, and I have the perfect soprano in mind to entertain.”

  “That is extortion!”

  “It is,” she answered, tapping his cheek with her finger, smiling at how quickly he had caught on, “and you have never stood up to my blackmail before. At least not since I was six. Papa took your horse away last time you crossed me; what will you lose now?”

  Nick found his fists clenching, followed by his jaw. “You are unspeakable. Mother should have beaten you twice daily with a stick.”

  She tilted her head and fluttered her eyelashes prettily. “Shall I arrange the soprano?”

  Nick growled and mumbled more curses under his breath, but eventually agreed. “Oh, very well. But I give you fair warning: if you pair me with a debutante—if you pair me with anyone under the age of eighty—my rudeness will make your parties the horror of London.” Not satisfied with this threat, he growled, “I’ll put it out you arrange orgies for Nockham and work in a brothel on Tuesdays.”

  “Very good,” she replied, just as calm as he was infuriated, “I will send your invitation in the morning.”

  He tried to bridle his temper, made nearly impossible when Bella laughed at something Malbourne said, then blushed again, the same pretty pink he liked so much. He could feel his face taking on the same expression as the time he’d killed a man in Santiago in a knife fight, an event to which no one in England would ever be privy, least of all his sister. His arms were so tight against his sides, they might shatter if used for anything but smashing a fist into Malbourne’s smug sneer.

  To forestall the volatile hotheadedness she knew well, eyebrows raised against the alarming grimace he’d never shown her, Allie placed her hand on his wrist, tugging it gently from his side.

  “Now, since my husband is boring Lady Adencard with the news that Charity has mastered the sidesaddle, yes, Your Grace, of course you may have this dance.” Nick slowly opened one hand and held out his arm to support her gloved fingertips. “I shall be delighted to hear all the perfectly valid reasons Lady Huntleigh has decided you are beneath her contempt.”

  “Witch.”

  “You’d better hurry, or the set will be over, and I will make you dance with me twice.”

  Chapter 19

  “Good morning, Madame la Comtess
e.”

  Bella sat up in bed and Michelle set the bed tray across her lap. A steaming pot of chocolate and a china cup, a currant scone with clotted cream and jam, and a budding pink peony in a glass vase.

  “This is just lovely, Michelle. I don’t know when I’ve been so pampered.”

  “Of course, Madame.” Michelle adjusted the new lilac silk drapes, letting the mid-morning sun shine through transom windows.

  “Is Lord Huntleigh awake yet?” she asked, hoping he would sleep late, all day if she could manage it.

  “Oui, Madame. The earl has left for Westminster an hour past,” Michelle said. “He has said he must meet with the First Lord this morning and His Majesty this afternoon, though Mr. Watts suggested he stay abed.”

  Although her brow wrinkled at this news, Myron would be incensed to think the servants had been discussing his infirmity. Bad enough he had to discuss it with her.

  His health was failing much faster since their return, no matter how often he insisted he was in fine fettle. When she saw him laid out, feverish, barely breathing, not a day and a half after their argument about Wellbridge, she had forgiven him all. Well, almost all.

  He had recovered within two days, but since then, good days were fewer and farther between. This must be one, if he were planning to attend The Lords, but his continued insistence on a regular schedule was wearing on her as much as it did him.

  She forced a fake smile. “I am glad he has taken himself away. After being out so late, I have barely enough stamina to face the day, much less a fractious husband.”

  It might very well be best to face this particular day alone, at any rate, or at least without men nearby to say the wrong thing and send her into a gale of tears. For today, try as she might to ignore it, she would turn five-and-thirty, an old woman by anyone’s standard. An ugly old woman besides. And barren. She must not forget barren, and now even too old for a miracle. Bella could hardly think of anything more depressing than the rest of this day.

  To “celebrate” the anniversary of her birth, Myron had surprised Bella with tickets to the stage version of Ivanhoe at the Adelphi the previous evening, but then left her in the company of the Pinnesters after the first act, his strength too taxed to continue the outing. Following the play, he had asked her to attend their small supper in his stead, because a handful of his other investors would also be present. She hadn’t returned home until half-past three. Five hours past the laudatory toasts to her accidental survival to this advanced age.

  “Shall I draw your bath or will you wait, Madame?”

  Bella sat up straighter as Michelle poured chocolate into her cup. As Bella stirred to cool the beverage, Michelle stood expectantly, poking at embers in the wood fireplace and adding an apple wood log, waiting for Bella’s answer.

  “A bath would be pleasant.”

  Bella broke open the warm pastry and spread fig preserve with the silver knife. Michelle waited quietly, but when Bella made no further requests, finally said, “I will have hot water sent up, if you have no need of me.”

  Bella looked up, finally aware she had rudely disregarded her maid, although Charlotte would say it was a maid’s job to remain disregarded.

  “Yes, that’s fine. Thank you.”

  “I will return for your tray in no time at all, Madame.” Michelle curtsied before she left the room. After more than a fortnight in her employ, Bella wished she could convince the woman to be at least slightly less formal. The more everyone treated her like a countess, the more she felt like a fraud.

  Bella enjoyed her breakfast, as well as her most frequent recent activity: daydreaming about Wellbridge. As Charlotte had predicted, Bella’s continued disdain had a remarkable effect. He simply could not stay away. Morning, noon, night, every party she attended, every shop she patronized, every amusement she planned with her niece and nephew.

  He joined the Huntleighs for church on Sundays, even holding no love for Myron’s Methodists. When she distributed baskets of food for the poor in the East End, he turned up with his own, acting as though he had been doing so all his life. At Hatchard’s, she nearly tripped over him in the sections related to architecture and botany. If she and Charlotte took Jewel to Gunter’s for ices, he appeared, saying he had been checking on a catering order for Blakeley. As though the Duke of Wellbridge needed to run errands for his servant. It was ridiculous, and in total, more than a bit amusing.

  While she had thought it would be difficult, the longer she played Charlotte’s game and the more she felt the force of his reactions to “the other duke,” the more fun she seemed to have. No man had ever written her poetry before, nor sent her flowers by the basketful or absconded with a text from the king’s own library.

  She had been quite touched by the pastries, as he had not only remembered how much she missed the pâtisserie near Myron’s new pied-à-terre in Paris, but also the mille-feuille she enjoyed best and which London bakery offered the closest approximation. She would have loved every bite, if she hadn’t agreed with Charlotte to toss the next gift right back in his face. She was only glad it hadn’t been the book. Custard and jam only caused injury to his pride.

  Even more shocking, at her advanced age, she somehow also claimed the attentions of a second duke. Two dukes! If Aunt Minerva weren’t already dead, she would fall into her grave at the thought her misshapen, timid, bluestocking niece was being courted by two dukes. Of course, the fact Bella was still married might cause a bit of a swoon.

  Monsieur le Duc de Malbourne displayed every inch of the legendary French charm. His striking face, alluring form, clever conversation, and smooth, sensual voice planting the wickedest thoughts into her head... If her heart weren’t already engaged with Wellbridge, she would be well on her way to accepting his offer first. Even though his offer had yet to include marriage.

  Bella had begun to feel the strain of the falsehoods, unaccustomed to feeling ashamed of herself, or lying outright to her husband, or showing a false face to a friend. Charlotte seemed to have no compunction about anything, with the capture of a husband at stake, but Bella was not made for such entrapment. Surely, if she were, the Lord would have provided her better inducements.

  Still, like all of Charlotte’s intrigues, the plan was working. For days now, Wellbridge had been leaving parties as soon as she declined his requested dance, so at Charlotte’s instruction, four nights ago, when Myron demurred at the invitation to Almack’s, she gave the first dance to the Duke of Malbourne, then the next figure, a waltz, risking what shreds of reputation she had left. But watching Wellbridge stride toward the door that night, when she knew Myron would have asked him to stay to ensure her safety—the idea that he couldn’t stand to remain in the same room because of her disgraceful behavior—was enough to make her want to cast up the scone and chocolate.

  The goal was to win his heart, she must remember, not make a jade of herself, letting the attentions of a gentleman overwhelm her good sense. She might as well be a woman for hire, collecting his gifts and giving him not a moment’s peace in return. And really, who was she to turn up her nose at a perfectly good offer from a perfectly good gentleman when she might as well be Methuselah’s mother.

  When Michelle returned to take away her tray, a huge bouquet of pink hydrangea, camellias, snapdragons, and roses preceded her through the door.

  “What is this?”

  “The Duke of Wellbridge has sent them, my lady. Madame Jemison suggests you might enjoy them here.”

  Bella pulled aside the thin satin blanket and rose from a bed so large she couldn’t reach two sides at once, even stretched out full-length. The gold brocade dressing gown over her embroidered linen nightrail was almost too heavy in the warm room,

  Once the bouquet had been stationed on the console table near the door, Bella drifted over to the flowers, hoping Charlotte wouldn’t insist she send them back. The pink was so pretty in her newly decorated lilac-colored room. And if the inherent messages were to be believed, he was pining for her and wishe
d nothing more than her trust in the sincerity of his affections.

  While Michelle tightened the ropes under the mattress and straightened the bed linens, pillows, and coverings, Bella immersed herself in the warm bath, taking with her one perfect pink rose.

  Once Bella had bathed and the tub removed from the dressing room, Michelle helped her into a fine lawn chemise, the tightest stays Charlotte would allow her to buy, a petticoat embroidered with a pattern of spring leaves, and clocked stockings with green garters. Partially clothed, she sat down in her dressing room and Michelle draped the combing-out cloth across her shoulders, to keep loose hair and powder from her linens.

  The mirrored dressing table in the sky blue room was Louis XIV, painted in gilt, detailed with oil landscapes to match the ceiling and walls, all covered in gold-trimmed murals from Grecian mythology. The Pomona-green jacquard morning dress she had requested lay across a soft armchair in the corner, taken from the matching French armoire reflected in the looking glass. Michelle poured another cup of chocolate, then started Bella’s morning toilette.

  Working swiftly and efficiently, Michelle used rose oil to remove Bella’s nightly Unction of Maintenon, and said, “The skin is lighter already, non? Only a fortnight and you can see your face is much more the fashion.”

  “Yes,” Bella agreed, turning her face from side to side to gauge the relative whiteness of her skin. “Much better.”

  Michelle took out a basket of other items, and Bella stuttered, “Oh! You… you bought all of those… I’m not…well… I’m not accustomed…”

  “So you have said, Madame. You have doubts? You are afraid, perhaps, I cannot make you as beautiful as I say?”

  “No. No. It’s not that. I’m just not…” Her voice grew smaller as she mumbled, “Will it not it appear strange if I suddenly look pretty?”

  “Every woman is a work of art, Madame. There is skill to make one pleasing to the gentleman’s eye. Like a picture, not so lovely with paint placed on the canvas pêle-mêle, no respect for the work, but the right proportions, a light hand, attention to the smallest detail, a masterpiece is created. And Madame, with all humility, I am a master artiste. Should you find I overstate my abilities, we may remove the cosmetics, and you will be just as always. Does this meet with your approval? Shall I begin?”