Miss Burton Unmasks a Prince (8 page)

Rodrigo turned the horses back toward the road.

“I should return to the castle,” Meg said. “Lady Vernon expects me this afternoon for a gown fitting.”

“Has the issue with the apricot dress been resolved to your satisfaction?” Rodrigo hoped the change of subject would lighten the mood as he helped Meg back onto the horse.

“I am afraid not.” She took the reins from him, and once he was astride Patito, the horses began to walk side by side back toward Thornshire Castle. “Lady Vernon is quite adamant that I wear it to Lady Harrison’s musicale. She has even ordered a head dress with feathers for me. I shall either look like an Indian chief or a chicken.” Meg shrugged her shoulders, her eyes rolling.

Rodrigo fought the impulse to laugh at her sentiment. Even when she did not intend to, Meg managed to lift his spirits, but right now, she looked so unhappy.

“I wish we didn’t have to return so quickly,” Meg said. “I have enjoyed this more than any day since I arrived in England.” She rode with her gaze down.

They rode to the stables, and he helped Meg dismount. One of the duke’s grooms took Bonnie away but knew that Rodrigo preferred to care for his own horse.

Meg’s melancholy hung over them, and the air felt heavy. Rodrigo cast his eyes around, looking for something to say that would return her good humor.

“Did I tell you what
Patito
means?” Rodrigo asked as Meg patted the stallion’s nose.

Her eyes squinted in confusion. “I assumed it was simply a name.”

“In Spanish, it means small duck—duckling.”

A smile stretched her lips. It grew, lifting her cheeks and finally reaching her eyes, igniting the sparkle he had not realized had been so obviously missing until it was returned. “The prince’s white stallion is named
Ducky
?”

Rodrigo nodded. He smiled himself at the laughter in her eyes.

“How did such a powerful animal come to have a name that is so . . .”

“Sweet?” Rodrigo offered.

Meg giggled. “Yes. Sweet.”

“When Patito was a foal, he and his mother were housed in a large paddock that contained a pond. A duck built her nest near the pond, and when the ducklings hatched, they followed their mother in a line. Patito followed too.” Rodrigo smiled, remembering how comical it had looked to see the horse following along as if he were one of the ducklings.

“I adore that story.” Meg laid her hand on her chest, sighing. “Patito, you are a warrior with a gentle heart.” She leaned close and kissed the stallion’s nose.

Rodrigo would not have ever imagined a time would come when he was jealous of his own horse.

A bead of sweat rolled down Meg’s back as she took the dance master’s hand and allowed him to lead her from the floor. They had been practicing for hours, beginning directly after luncheon. Her feet hurt, and she was utterly exhausted.

“Much better, miss,” Mr. Crenshaw said. “But there is more to a dance than simply memorizing the steps. A lady should appear to glide across the floor.” He swept his hand in front of him with his palm down. “Effortless grace is one of her best assets.”

“I understand,” Meg said, hoping this little speech was an indication that their lesson was over. The steps in England were much more formal and complicated than what she was used to, and the idea of blundering the sequence in front of a ballroom full of elegant ladies and gentlemen made her insides shudder.

“You are such a beautiful young lady,” Lady Vernon spoke up from where she sat on a chair near the wall. “It is too bad that you clomp around like a . . .” She waved her hand in front of her, as if searching for the right word but apparently gave up. “Well, anyway, you shall simply need to practice. The ball is in less than two weeks, and I know you will want to demonstrate your proficiency for all the handsome gentlemen who will attend.” She smiled, obviously anticipating the event more than Meg.

Meg nodded. It had been an incredibly long and disheartening day, and she didn’t have it in her to pretend to be enthusiastic about anything at the moment. Least of all noblemen who were much more likely to be impressed by the accomplished young ladies with titles and large dowries than an American merchant’s daughter.

Lady Vernon had spent the morning listening to Meg pound out the repertoire of songs she knew on the pianoforte. The countess’s smile had been kind, but she had determined in only a few minutes that Meg would need to work with a music instructor if she was to prepare a song for Lady Harrison’s musicale.

“I do not think it is necessary for me to perform,” Meg had said. “Surely there are others who are much more accomplished to fill the time.”

Lady Vernon had shaken her head. “It is the custom for all the young ladies who will come out this Season to present. It gives the gentlemen an opportunity to view them in their best light.”

Meg did not think her pathetic attempts to play the instrument while wearing a gown that made her skin look pale and sallow was her “best light,” but she had learned to simply nod, discouraging further analysis of her shortcomings. She wished it were some other venue where she would not stand out as the least accomplished young lady.

The gown fitting that followed had been no better, and the feathers in her hair were the least of her worries as Lady Vernon and the modiste discussed the ways to conceal the freckles on Meg’s upper arms, where her gloves wouldn’t reach. It was decided that she would be better off wearing longer sleeves.

Serena had joined them and asked to see Meg’s Season wardrobe. “Oh, Meg.
Qué hermoso sera
. You will be so beautiful,” she said, holding up a cream-colored gown. “And this; you must try this on for me,
por favor
.”

“Thank you,” Meg said, smiling as she stepped behind the privacy screen and changed her clothes for what felt like the thousandth time.

Serena clapped and asked Meg to spin around and even spent some time admiring and discussing the bonnets, fans, gloves, and ribbons Lady Vernon had chosen. Serena’s presence had made the entire experience much less grueling, and Meg even began to feel excited about the gowns. It was refreshing to receive compliments instead of criticism, and Meg found herself laughing more than once.

Meg realized that Serena reminded her a bit of Carlo. Perhaps it was the way she listened to Meg’s opinion, instead of simply telling her what was best.
Or it might be her accent
, Meg thought.

Before Serena had left, she’d held up the dreaded apricot gown. “I do hope you’re not intending to wear this particular dress to the musicale,” she said. “My dress will be precisely the same color, and what a disaster that would be for us to arrive together.”

Lady Vernon and the modiste had immediately begun reassessing the gown choices for Lady Harrison’s musicale, and just before Serena left the room, she caught Meg’s gaze and winked.

Meg pondered on the meaning behind the duchess’s action. Did Serena know how she felt about the gown? But how could she? Meg didn’t have time to think about it for long before the dance master gave a small tug on her hand, and she was quickly transported back to the present.

“And now, miss, if you will demonstrate the five positions of dancing . . .”

When the dance instruction finally ended, Meg fled to the sanctuary of her window seat in the library, but her reprieve only lasted an hour until it was time to change for supper.

When she reached the top of the stairs with her hair arranged and wearing a fresh gown, she saw Lord Featherstone, Colonel Stackhouse, and Daniel standing together in the main hall.

Even though she could not hear what they were discussing, she could see by Daniel’s posture that he was uncomfortable. He stood rigidly with his arms folded and brows furrowed. Colonel Stackhouse was listening to Lord Featherstone, whose back was turned to Meg. The colonel’s face was unreadable.

Meg stepped quietly down the stairs, so as not to disturb the men, and as she approached, the earl’s words became clear.

“It is bad enough that cotton prices have risen in the extreme, but my steward tells me that we shall have to begin to find another source for sugar. I know I am not alone in my opinion that the former colonists owe us the courtesy of discontinuing trade with our enemies. Why, it is no secret that the Royal Navy has been forced to employ privateers to seize American cargo ships bound for France.”

Meg stopped with one foot in the air. The arrogant earl must know that the navy’s action was costing her father his very livelihood.

Daniel looked up, his gaze meeting hers. His face was pale with anger, and she saw lines of tension around his lips. He shook his head ever so slightly, indicating that Meg should remain silent.

Colonel Stackhouse’s eye darted to her quickly, but he continued to regard the earl without acknowledging Meg’s presence. “If I understand you correctly, sir, you are saying that the Americans should stop acting like an independent nation and work harder to serve Britain’s global interests.”

“Precisely,” Lord Featherstone said, nodding once. And even though Meg was behind him and could not see his face, she could tell by the motion of his arm that he was stroking his upper lip whiskers.

“And, Miss Burton, what is your opinion on the matter?” the colonel said without taking his gaze from the earl.

“I . . .” Meg didn’t look at Daniel but could see from the corner of her vision that he was attempting to catch her eye.

Lord Featherstone turned and stood aside as Meg stepped down the remaining stairs.

She looked between the two men. Colonel Stackhouse stood quietly, awaiting her reply, and Meg had fully decided to play the entire matter off as if she did not understand such issues and change the subject—until the earl blinked and lowered his chin. That slight movement portrayed such a wealth of condescension that Meg’s hands clenched, and a flood of words poured from her mouth.

“I believe that exact attitude, the British blatant disregard of rights, not to mention contempt for international laws upon the high seas is the reason that there will most assuredly be another war between Columbia and Britannia.” Meg turned her head from the colonel to the earl. His bright eyes were half-lidded, and he held a small smile as he appeared to humor her, and she could not help but continue.

“And if you would condemn American merchants for trading with the French, perhaps, England would care to explain how the Indians attacking frontier settlements have come to be supplied with British weapons.” Meg’s legs were trembling.

“Meg,” Daniel stepped toward her and placed his hand beneath her elbow. “This is hardly the—”

“Dear Miss Burton,” Lord Featherstone interrupted her brother, “I admire your loyalty to your homeland. It is quite adorable.” He shook his head from side to side slightly, his face still exhibiting that expression that looked as if he were speaking to a person of slow wits. “But you understand America has no hope of defeating His Majesty’s Navy.”

Meg pulled her arm from Daniel’s grip and turned her entire body to face the earl directly. “It is true, sir. Although the continual illegal impressment of Americans to serve in the British navy has provided many men with an excellent training in naval warfare, however unwanted it might be.” The issue of impressment had been a topic of heated discussion in Charleston ever since the Chesapeake-Leopard affair, and the thought of men taken forcefully from their families to serve for years aboard a foreign warship heated Meg’s blood further.

“I think you would be surprised, sir. The shipyards in Massachusetts produce top quality vessels. But even if America didn’t have the resources to attack the British fleet, the fact is, England’s soldiers are spread about the globe. Even now, more and more are sent to the peninsula, not to mention India and other holdings of the crown. I would not be surprised if the United States decided to put pressure on Britain by invading the Canadian colonies. Strategically, it is the perfect—”

“Margaret,” Daniel spoke more forcefully.

When she allowed her anger to abate to a simmer, Meg saw the horror on her brother’s face. This sort of topic certainly was not among those deemed suitable for a young lady, and she had undoubtedly offended the men. Colonel Stackhouse continued to study her, and Lord Featherstone’s lips had pressed into a look of such disapproval that they had almost completely disappeared.

She closed her eyes and released her breath, willing a pleasant smile to her lips. “But perhaps we should change the topic to one a bit more suitable for a dinner party.” Meg forced her arms to relax and tipped her head to the side. “Lord Featherstone, I have not yet thanked you for the lovely flowers that were delivered to my room this morning. And I believe your mother said you spent the day shooting in the duke’s forest. And did I hear that you are planning a fox hunt?”

***

Meg excused herself directly after supper, claiming that her long day had quite worn her out. She trudged up the stairs and down the hallway to her bedchamber. After she stepped inside and closed the door behind her, she sagged against it. Today had been one of the worst days she could remember. She had failed at every attempt to be an accomplished young lady, and even worse she had disappointed Daniel—again.

The dance instruction and music had been grueling. She had hoped for the time to go for a ride on Bonnie with Carlo or at least to read for a few hours. She didn’t care if she was being overly dramatic as she indulged herself for a moment, envisioning pulling on a cloak and wandering grief-stricken through the woods. But as tempting as the idea was, she knew it wouldn’t make her feel better. All she really wanted to do was sit on the floor and weep.

A knock sounded behind her, and she opened the door for Bessie to help her undress. Her lady’s maid chattered on as she unpinned Meg’s hair, pulling it back into a braid so it wouldn’t be so difficult to manage in the morning.

And finally when Meg was left alone, she found she was too tired to even cry herself to sleep.

***

Meg woke disoriented and looked around in the darkness, trying to discover what had awakened her. She listened for a moment and, finally deciding it had been nothing, turned over to go back to sleep when she heard it. A scratching on the door.