Francesca adjusted her shawl, avoiding his gaze. He realized she was concealing something. Miss Tesio was probably an extraordinary beauty, and it was Francesca's way to tease him into thinking otherwise and then surprise him with the reality. She opened the strings of her beaded bag and withdrew a letter.
"Here. Read this."
Alexander took the letter. It was from Baron di Rondo, an old friend of his father's. The man was ill and not expecting to see the harvest of almonds blossoming outside his window. He was sick at heart over the state of Trevigna. He described the bickering of the nobles, the disorder of the republican faction, and finally, the outrages of Ferruci and his bandits. This mild, gentle old man, a scholar, could make no sense of the chaos and suffering the new century seemed to bring.
Alexander folded the letter. Trust his aunt to twist the knife in his heart.
Lucca knocked at the door. "The carriages await, Majesty."
Alexander returned the letter to Francesca. He helped his aunt to her feet. "Let's go meet this paragon of Italian virtues
,"
he suggested. "But understand me, Francesca, no marriage before the banquet."
T
he sidewalks around Grosvenor Square were crowded with royalty watchers, awaiting the passage of their royal highnesses the Prince Regent, his daughter, Princess Charlotte, and her betrothed, Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg. One Italian prince and his entourage in their hired carriages could slip past without too much notice.
Cords kept the onlookers back from the entrance to Searle House, but once Lucca emerged to lower the steps in his magnificent livery, the crowd turned their way. Miss Tesio drew gasps and applause when she alighted. As Alexander had suspected, the girl was a beauty Botticelli would have been happy to paint, tall and stately, with a perfect oval face, gold
en skin, wide, lash
less amber eyes, thin brows, and honey-colored hair. Her serenity was so complete that Alexander doubted she had ever experienced anything so troubling as a thought. She moved with languid grace, and waiting for her to make her regal and somewhat glacial descent from the hired carriage, Alexander tried not to think of the quick flash of movement and wit that was Ophelia.
Sprite
, her brother had called her.
She was third in the receiving line, between her brothers and her parents, in a gown of celestial blue with silver brocade and virtually no bodice. Instantly Alexander was back in his bedroom in the moonlight, baring to his gaze and his touch what wasn't his and never could be. The moment he had the thought, she looked his way, in her eyes a flash of pain. Then she dropped into a deep curtsy before the guest she was greeting, showing Alexander only the top of her head. But he knew the feel of that delicate head in his hands, the texture of those unruly curls.
Sin was punished. If he'd ever doubted it, he knew it now. He shepherded his aunt and Miss Tesio forward to meet their hosts. Jasper clasped his hand and leaned close to tell him to watch for a signal as soon as the Regent arrived. To his right above the babble of greetings he heard his aunt presenting Miss Tesio as his betrothed.
In the next minute he was holding Ophelia's gloved hand while she turned to someone in line behind him. She wore a welcoming smile, but he could see the shadows under her eyes, the pinched look to her cheeks he'd detected on their morning rides. She was like one of those delicate pink flowers in the rock pools along the shore that closed at a touch. His touch had made her retreat.
Chapter 17
"
I
t's May Day,"
said Hetty, entering the Searle House ballroom on Jasper's arm. "How clever of your mother."
He expected the crowd in the ballroom to fall silent at her entrance, but he couldn't look away from her delighted eyes to note anyone's reaction. "Marry me," he whispered in her ear.
She sobered at t
he words, instantly self-
conscious, looking at the hundreds of guests, her steps faltering. Jasper had a sudden doubt about the glories of his world. It seemed not glittering and brilliant, but garish and overscented.
"Oh my, that's the Regent."
"Are you shocked?" Jasper thought she might be by the Regent's exaggerated girth, displayed in scarlet regimentals and white breeches, a parody of a soldier, the Prince of Whales.
Hetty shook her head, setting her golden curls bouncing. "He looks like a proud papa."
"Do you wish to be presented to him?"
Her gaze searched those around the Regent. "He's speaking with Prince Mirandola, isn't he? That means your plan is working."
Jasper grinned. Speech was beyond him. This lovely wise girl saw his triumph. They stood indiscreetly in the middle of the ballroom where his mother might see them, and the devil with it. When he considered everything that could have gone wrong, the delicate nature of the personalities involved, the careful timing required, the unpredictability of their royal guests, he wanted to shout.
"I owe this success to you," he said.
"Is Lord Castlereagh here?" she asked.
Jasper pointed out a sober-suited gentleman to the Regent's right.
"You must start your meeting soon," she said.
"As soon as you dance with me."
A set was forming to honor their royal guests. Saxe-Coburg was leading Princess Charlotte and Mirandola, his Italian beauty. Jasper manuevered Hetty into the line before she could protest standing up with royalty. He watched her concentrate on her steps until the pattern of the quadrille brought him near enough to speak for her ears only. "Marry me," he repeated.
"Your parents will never permit it."
"It's your father who might object. I haven't much of an income if my parents cut me off." The dance parted them, but Jasper could see the furrow in her brow. To defend her father, she would have to side with Jasper.
"Money will never weigh with my father." They joined hands again and passed into a square with the princess and her betrothed. Hetty fell silent.
When the dance shifted them to less exalted
companions, she asked, "Shouldn't you be thinking about the meeting?"
"Agree to marry me first."
"Impossible."
"Then tell me why you reject me."
"You know why." They came together, parted, and came together again.
"I don't. Is it because I'm not literary?"
"No, of course not."
"Perhaps I should present you to the Regent to further your literary career." He watched her color instantly at the suggestion, a lovely pink above her pale gown, like a blossom.
"You wouldn't."
"Then marry me."
"It will hurt your career to marry beneath your station."
"It will help my career to marry an excellent hostess, a woman of wit and sensibility and beauty."
"Do you truly believe that?"
Jasper managed a nod. "It will help my career to be happy and to have a woman of sense ask me clever questions when I'm off making an idiot of myself."
They moved into the last figure of the dance.
"You can't deny that you've helped my career already."
"Jasper, you'd best go to your meeting."
"Say yes and I will."
She dipped into the final curtsy of the dance and came up, saying "Yes."
The dance dissolved around them as he took it in, elation swelling in him. But as he moved toward her, uncertainty dawned in her eyes. He
was an idiot to ask her here, where everyone watched them and he could not seal their pledge with a kiss. Later, he would draw her out on the terrace, hold her, make her feel his confidence.
"You won't be sorry," he promised.
"Go to your meeting."
"Find Ophelia. She'll look out for you until I come back."
J
asper's plan to turn their mother's ball into a diplomatic mission guaranteed Ophelia misery. It was more painful than she'd imagined to watch Alexander open the ball with the Italian girl. The implications of her presence and the aunt's hovering attentions were not lost on Ophelia. It was only then, as she saw him there in black pumps and pantaloons, snowy waistcoat and careless cravat, with a black coat and a single starburst pin, that she realized the self he'd shown her was false in every way. His imperious aunt, the aloof beauty, and his magnificent liveried servant claimed him as theirs, the Prince of Trevigna, with a destiny far from her own.
She did her best to smile when Dent claimed her for the set. There was nothing to do but to get through this ball and the next one and the one after that. Sally Candover interrupted these gloomy reflections by asking who Jasper's mystery partner was.
"Everyone's dying to know," Sally said, as they crossed to opposite partners. "Such pointed attention to the girl."
Ophelia looked up the row of dancers and saw what Sally meant. Jasper leaned intimately toward Hetty, saying something in her ear that made her blush and protest.
"Miss Gray is an old friend of the family," she said, hoping the casual answer would turn aside curiosity. It wouldn't save Hetty from their mother's wrath, however. Lady Searle must already be aware of Jasper's indiscretion, and Ophelia would have to get Hetty aside as soon as the set ended.
As she extricated herself from Dent's cloying politeness, Sebastian took her arm. She found him wearing gold-rimmed eyeglasses that gave him an astonishingly intelligent air.
"Sebastian, you look much…
happier in spectacles."
"Yes, well, one must see." He turned her away from Hetty toward the little grouping of seats, hastily arranged for the Italian girl and the aunt, an imitation of the grander arrangements made for the British royals.
"As host I should ask Miss Tesio to dance, don't you think, Ophelia?"
"She's most li
kely intended for Prince Miran
dola, Sebastian. I don't imagine she cares to dance with anyone else."
Sebastian frowned, but his gaze remained fixed on the tall beauty as Alexander sent his servant on some errand, no doubt for the lady's comfort. "Actually, I don't think she cares for the prince."
"What?" Ophelia quelled a silly spurt of hope.
"She doesn't look at him." Sebastian sounded defensive. "She seems to be in a world of her own." He pushed his new glasses up the bridge of his nose.
"She doesn't speak any English. She probably feels utterly alone surrounded by strangers."
"Exactly
,"
said Sebastian. He cleared his throat. "One would expect her to turn to her countryman and engage him in conversation. But she doesn't. And she's not smiling."
"Sebastian, you're making something of nothing. She doesn't look like the smiling sort of girl."
Sebastian drew himself up. "As host I think it my duty to make her smile." He straightened his waistcoat and cravat. "I speak Italian, you know."
Without another word he started across the ballroom, bearing down on Alexander and his partner. Ophelia froze. Her snobbish brother was bent on exposing himself to a set down. He would be rebuffed, embarrassed. The prince's party saw him coming. Sebastian bowed to the girl, said something, and then to Ophelia's astonishment Alexander offered the girl's hand to Sebastian. The instant Sebastian clasped the girl's hand, Alexander's gaze found Ophelia's.
I'm coming for you,
his eyes said.
Her heart hammered in her breast. Her shameless body grew warm. She slipped into a knot of guests, threading her way through the crowd toward the tall terrace doors, and found Wyatt.
"Sprite, all grown up, in feathers no less." He caught her wrists. "Has Dent already driven you to distraction? I can help."
"Excuse me, Wyatt." She looked pointedly at his hands. "I have guests to attend to."
He glanced over his shoulder at the open expanse of the terrace. "On the terrace?"
Ophelia smiled. "I'm to see that all the torches are lit. My mother's orders."
Wyatt laughed. "You don't lie very well, Sprite." He leaned forward. "Who's waiting for you? Ayres? Haddington?"
"No one." She pulled free of him, but he caught her chin with one gloved hand.
"You've been kissing someone, Sprite. It's a thing I'm never wrong about, and I can find out who."
"Wyatt, you may be the only man who makes me wish I could change my sex." She smiled. "So I could plant you the facer you deserve."
"Brave words, Sprite, but a rumor about you could be ugly."
Without a further word she strode past him out onto the terrace, where all the torches burned bright.
She walked the length of house, returning to the ballroom by another door. Blocking her way was Alexander's man Lucca, magnificent in blue and gold satin, with a tray of glasses aloft in one hand. He bowed slightly.
"It is the lady who makes His Majesty so much misery and confusion. Here." Lucca pressed one gloved hand to his heart.
"I beg your pardon." Ophelia shifted course.
Lucca pursued. "Will you talk with him?"
"He made a game of me."
Lucca shook his head slowly. "His Majesty never makes games."
Ophelia, still retreating, bumped into a young gentleman from Miss Mercer-Elphinstone's set and accepted his arm, allowing herself to be pulled into their gossip and jests. When she was
sure Lucca had gone, she returned to her search for Hetty. Jasper, Alexander, and Lord Castlereagh had disappeared, so Jasper's meeting must be in progress. Sebastian was dancing with Miss Tesio, and the girl was actually smiling. But Hetty was nowhere in sight.
By midnight Ophelia was ready to conclude that Hetty had left, but in the middle of the last waltz before supper, as the tide of guests flowed toward the refreshment room, a subtle movement among those who remained made Ophelia glance towa
rd the dais. In the far corn
er she saw the plumes of her mother's headress bob vigorously. A cluster of ladies broke up, and Ophelia saw that her mother had cornered Hetty. Then Dent whirled Ophelia down the ballroom.
Alexander emerged from the quiet tension of the library, where care governed every word, expression, and gesture, into the bright ballroom and the mad whirl of a waltz. The ball had reached that stage where even the dullest sallies drew peals of laughter from those who heard them. The strange feeling of having two selves left him. Castlereagh had listened. He wanted to see Alexander crowned, but he did not object in principle to a constitutional convention or to the development of a parliament. He wanted to know only how Alexander meant to fund such a venture. They agreed to meet again. He had done all he could for Trevigna this night.
It took but a minute to find the particular celestial shade that meant Ophelia. It was the deep blue of the sky at dusk, glimmering with winking lights like the first stars. His night fairy. She whirled in the arms of a vapid-looking blond
gentleman, her face wearing its pinched, unhappy expression.
He studied the terrain. Between him and the girl were his fellow sovereigns, his aunt and her candidate for his hand, and even a few of his school friends. One of his aunt's favorite phrases came to mind.
Andare in brocca!
Aim straight for the mark.
While Ophelia spun down the far side of the ballroom, Alexander paid his respects to the Regent and his glowing daughter. The Regent's pleasure in his daughter's coming marriage made him expansive, but Alexander kept the conversation to a few brief civilities. As Ophelia and the blond gentleman turned up the near side of
the ballroom, he slipped past hi
s aunt with a smile and a nod. As Ophelia's partner bowed over her hand, Alexander promised the last of his school friends he'd meet him for dinner soon. Ophelia was unaware of his approach. She would not elude him. He started across the ballroom when she turned and with qu
ick steps headed for the far corn
er of the dais. Unnoticed, he came up behind her as she addressed Lady Searle.
"Mother, what are you doing?"
"I've asked Miss Gray to leave. For her own comfort, of course."
Ophelia linked her arm through Hetty's. "I'm sure she's perfectly comfortable here."
It was a patent untruth. Hetty Gray's pretty face was pale, and she clung tightly to Ophelia's arm.
Lady Searle's diamond choker sparkled. "This is your design, Ophelia, bringing Miss Gray here
to embarrass us. She's conspicuous in this company where the distinction of rank is so apparent."
"The only distinction here is in the material advantage of your guests. You've surrounded yourself with people who proclaim their consequence with rock collections and the plumage of dead fowls. There's no real merit or talent in any of them. Hetty is inferior to none."