Authors: Beth Pattillo
“I didn’t know about her involvement with the reformers,” Crispin offered at last, “else I would never have concocted this scheme. But when I saw the two of you in Grandmama’s garden, that feeling I sometimes have came over me, and it occurred to me you would make a very good match.”
Nick saw his friend look at him closely, watching for any signs of forgiveness, and Nick was not sure that he would be able to produce them. Because despite his good intentions, Crispin had, in the space of less than two days, ruined Nick’s life. Compromising a duke’s daughter meant marriage. Marriage meant children, and children meant an heir for Santadorra, and an heir meant returning to the country he’d sworn never to set foot in again. Even he felt that much duty to the royal line.
A thought occurred to him, one that settled like a pool of lead in his stomach. “Has she known all along?”
“Known what?”
“My identity. Was her ignorance a ruse to trap me?” He thought of Lucy and her sensual response to his kiss. How sad to think it had all been playacting designed to capture a prince.
Crispin hesitated, this time reaching for the carnation that stood solitary guard in the small vase on the table. With careful, deliberate actions, he began to shred the flower into minuscule pieces. “Actually, Nick, she has no idea who you are. No, that’s not true. She thinks you’re one of my grandmother’s undergardeners. And a rather cheeky one at that.”
Crispin’s words eased some of the tightness that knotted the muscles beneath Nick’s breastbone. So, her response to him had not been feigned after all. He had always wondered how a woman might react to him as
simply Nick St. Germain rather than as the Crown Prince of Santadorra. Nick crumpled his napkin into a ball. Now he knew. She would abuse him, torment him, and force him to burn with desire, damn her eyes. And all the while she would believe him to be a gardener.
Nick threw his napkin onto the table with an oath. There was no question now that he would have to make an offer for the chit. Crispin had tied his hands. Nick slumped back in his chair. Still, there was one thing Nick could do. There was time to see if she might truly come to care for him, and not the crown he would one day wear. The deep appeal of that thought hurt. Would Lucy be willing to throw away her passion for reform for a mere gardener? And was Nick the man to persuade her to do it? The challenge of discovering the answer to these questions gave him purpose.
He straightened. “I believe, Cris, that Lady Lucinda must be invited to the ball at Carlton House.” He smiled, suddenly feeling much more certain of himself.
Crispin’s ears turned red. “Actually, she has been.”
Nick stared at his friend for a long moment. “You realize that when we leave here today, we are going straight to Gentleman Jackson’s and strap on a pair of gloves.”
Crispin blanched and then nodded. “Yes, Nick. Perfectly understandable thing to do, given the circumstances.”
Nick eyed his friend carefully. “And you’ve no objection to my pummeling the daylights out of you?”
Crispin smiled weakly. “Of course I object, but I doubt it will do any good.”
Nick nodded. “Quite right.”
They rose and quitted the room. As they stepped through the portals of the exclusive club and descended the steps, Nick turned to Crispin.
“You will see she has an appropriate gown? Given that her stepmother treats her like a servant, I doubt the woman will have her fashionable interests at heart.”
Crispin nodded in agreement. “I’ll visit Madame Paradis today. My grandmother mentioned that the Duchess of Nottingham patronizes her, much to the modiste’s dismay. With any luck, she may have Lady Lucy’s measurements.”
Nick halted.
Lady Lucy.
The title rang through him with the clarity of a church bell, much like the wedding bells that would seal his fate.
LUCY’S EXTRAORDINARY dress had been the last to arrive at Nottingham House the morning of the Carlton House ball. In fact, her stepmother barely noted the delivery of the fourth and final parcel from the exclusive shop of Madame Paradis. Indeed, the duchess and her daughters were too enraptured with their own mysterious gifts to pay any mind to Lucy’s delight. She had stood at the window of the salon as her stepmother, Bertha, and Esmie untied strings and ripped away brown paper to reveal three elegant ballgowns, far superior to the made-over gowns they’d spent the last few days piecing together. Other packages within had held fans, ribbons, and dancing slippers. Even Esmie could not keep from fussing over their largesse, and Lucy swallowed her disappointment while chiding herself for her vanity. She did not need a new length of silk, transformed at the cost of some poor seamstress’s eyesight, to accomplish her purposes at Carlton House. Her gray bombazine would serve.
But her high-mindedness had melted when her fingers pulled back the paper on her own parcel to reveal the most extraordinary gown she’d ever seen. She shook it out, and the gleaming folds of white satin streamed out around her. An overdress of silver filigree followed, as well as a white evening cloak trimmed with ostrich feathers. Silk dancing slippers and a pair of long white silk gloves, together with a rope of brilliants for her hair and an ivory fan, completed the ensemble.
“What is this?”
From her position on the floor, Lucy looked over her shoulder to find that she’d garnered her stepmother’s attention at last.
“Our mysterious benefactor has included me in his generosity as
well.” Lucy held her head high and looked the duchess in the eye. She could see her stepmother considering whether to reject the gifts, but greed overcame spite, and Lucy was allowed to keep the dress.
Now, as Lucy climbed the steps of Carlton House on trembling legs, she knew that when it came to advocating for reform, the extraordinary dress would have to work the magic that plain Lucy Charming could not, for she was frightened to death. When she glanced up to take in the overwhelming grandeur of the Corinthian columns that supported the porte cochere, the feathers on her cloak tickled the edges of her face. Heart racing, she clutched the ivory fan in her gloved hands and willed her nerves to depart.
“Keep your chins up,” the duchess advised her daughters as their party, which to Lucy’s dismay included the Reverend Mr. Whippet, entered the grand foyer. The black-and-white marble tile and heavy gilt furniture left no doubt as to the royal status of the house’s owner. Lucy trailed behind the others as they crossed the vestibule to the magnificent circular staircase and descended. The ball was to be held on the lower level in the huge conservatory that adjoined the Prince Regent’s massive dining room, overlooking the gardens. Liveried footmen lined the corridors and anterooms as they descended, and the sound of music and laughter grew louder.
“Dinner will have been served,” the duchess said in an undertone. “Several dinners, in fact. The Prince Regent had four dining pavilions erected in the garden just for this occasion.” She sniffed. “‘Tis a pity we were not accorded the honor of an invitation to dine. At the fête honoring his regency, there were more than one hundred dishes.”
“More than a hundred dishes? For a thousand people?” Lucy was aghast.
“Enough food to feed the East End for a fortnight,” Mr. Whippet boasted. “But I daresay tonight’s entertainments were scarcely less extravagant.”
Lucy blanched, thinking of the cost of this ball and feeling guilty for her anticipation of it, even if it were only a means to an end.
They had reached the dining room, and Lucy could see the entrance to the conservatory. They stopped just outside the doors where footmen took their cloaks, and then they moved forward, crossing the entrance to the conservatory cum ballroom. Mr. Whippet gave the majordomo their names.
The elderly, periwigged man nodded as
solemnly as if the clergyman had just conferred a knighthood upon him. “The Duchess of Nottingham, Lady Lucinda Charming, the Reverend Mr. Whippet, and the Misses Fortunes,” he intoned, his voice resonating over the raucous noise of dancers and musicians.
A few heads turned, and the duchess nodded to several acquaintances as they made their way into the ballroom. Lucy trembled at the sight of such costly elegance. Hundreds of people crowded beneath the high, gothic arches of the conservatory. The open-air reform meetings Lucy had attended with her father as a child had made her comfortable with crowds, but still her pulse skittered as her stepmother steered them around the edge of the room. A profusion of flowers, candles, and silks in the Santadorran royal colors of ivory and sapphire covered every available surface. Matching ribbons had been threaded through the orange trees, and even the birds in their cages sported sapphire and ivory plumage. Overhead, the fan-shaped wrought-iron and glass ceiling reflected the whirl of color and movement.
Lucy could feel the curious stares of the guests. The duchess drew Lucy to her side and whispered in her ear, “Stop staring. And try not to look mad as a hare. They’re all thinking of your father, you know.”
The duchess’s harsh words reminded Lucy that the Charming name was still the object of public speculation. The thought galvanized her. Lucy forced herself to relax and appear as
natural as possible, even though she was tempted to leap for one of the chandeliers and swing back and forth. How dare complete strangers gossip about her, or believe the worst of her father?
Her stepmother was gesturing to Mr. Whippet, but it was a moment before comprehension dawned. Lucy could hardly stand to look into his florid face, and she could not suppress the memory of him barking for Henny while she and Nick hid in the wardrobe at Madame St. Cloud’s.
“Lady Lucinda.” He bowed formally over her hand. “You will want to dance. Let me be the first to engage you.”
Lucy started to refuse, but her stepmother trod upon her toe. “Ouch! Very well,” she agreed and tried not to shudder when she laid her hand on the vicar’s arm. He seemed not to notice her distaste as he pulled her into the steps of the gavotte.
“You acquit yourself very well,” Mr. Whippet said after they had settled into the set. Lucy nodded and tried to discourage conversation, but Mr. Whippet would not cooperate. “I suppose your stepmother has given you the news.”
“News?” Lucy’s spine tingled. “What news would that be, sir?”
He smiled, only his expression was more like an eel writhing across his face. “I am surprised you have not been informed. But, I suppose the duchess saw no need to consult you, since it is really not your decision to make.”
“Decision? Pray, what decision would that be, sir?” Mr. Whippet’s pudgy hand caught hers as she pirouetted around him, and Lucy wanted to snatch it away.
His eyes dropped, and Lucy could feel him ogling her bosom. “Your stepmother has given me permission to pay my addresses to you, my dear. In fact, she has agreed that there is no reason the wedding cannot occur as soon as
the banns have been read.”
“Wedding? Whose wedding?” Surely not. Even her stepmother would not dare, but the thought did nothing to quiet the sudden pounding of her pulse in her ears.
The dance brought her into Mr. Whippet’s arms. “Why, our wedding, Lady Lucinda. It was rather difficult of your father to settle such a large dowry on you instead of leaving it to the duchess, but in the end it will not matter. Your stepmother and I will split the money between us. And I will have you, of course.” His hand slid down her arm and brushed her hip, making Lucy’s flesh crawl. “I’m sure you will provide ample compensation for the blunt I’ve sacrificed to Her Grace.”
Lucy was so horrified she could not speak. Instead, she looked up from the steps of the gavotte to find two sets of eyes watching her every move. The first set of eyes, a frosty gray pair, belonged to her stepmother. The second, a deep green, belonged to Lord Crispin Wellstone, his satisfied smile very broad.
CRISPIN HAD TO admit to himself that the trap had been neatly laid. And now Nick’s future bride danced with grace in the most exclusive ballroom in the land. Nick was watching from the shadows, where Crispin had banished him as soon as the majordomo had announced Lucy’s party, and Crispin could only hope Nick was appropriately befuddled by the sight of his scullery maid in all her finery. With her silver-and-white adornments, she looked exactly like a dove, the royal bird of Santadorra. The symbolism would not be lost on Nick.
At that moment, the music ended. Before the duchess could make a move toward her stepdaughter, Crispin approached the cluster of men that quickly gathered around Lucy and the odious Mr. Whippet. He arrived in time to hear Lord Eisley’s youngest pup requesting the honor of a dance.
“Certainly not,” Crispin said and planted himself between Lucy and the dandy in question. He nodded to Mr. Whippet. “Good evening, sir. If you do not object, I will steal away your young charge. She did promise me this dance.”