Authors: Beth Pattillo
Mr. Whippet sputtered in protest, but Crispin ignored him. He bowed to the lady in question. “Lady Lucinda.”
“Lord Wellstone.” Lucy looked uncomfortable as she placed her hand on his arm, but she accepted his invitation to dance with no resistance. That was good, for Crispin was afraid that shortly she would be putting up a great deal of resistance indeed.
Poor Nicky. It was said that truth was painful, and the Crown Prince of Santadorra was soon to find out exactly how much so when he revealed himself to Lucy Charming. With his free hand, Crispin rubbed his still-sore jaw. He for one planned to enjoy every moment of it.
IF LUCY HAD been any more mortified by the viscount’s notice, she would have turned to stone on the spot. Her stepmother would be furious. Even now, over Lord Wellstone’s shoulder, she could see the duchess hustling forward with Bertha and Esmie in hopes of catching his eye. Lord Wellstone led her into the country dance that was forming, and she had little thought to spare as
she was propelled up and down the line of dancers. Lord Wellstone did not try to converse when the pattern of the dance brought them together. Instead, he smiled as if to reassure her, as if to brace her for something unpleasant. Lucy’s spine tingled.
The dance went on forever, the fervor of the dancers increasing with each pass up and down the reel. When the final turns were complete, Lucy was breathless and face to face with her partner at the far end of the conservatory. A few steps away, the glass doors stood open. The gardens beyond were lit with a profusion of Japanese lanterns.
“I should return you to your stepmother, Lady Lucinda, but perhaps we could both use a bit of fresh air?”
If another man had issued the invitation, Lucy might have doubted his intentions, but the viscount’s interest in her seemed brotherly, not lover-like. Perhaps he felt sorry for her, for the complete jumble she had made of her life by involving herself with his grandmother’s gardener. Still, she didn’t need his pity: What she needed was an introduction to the Regent, and despite the risk of her stepmother’s displeasure, Lord Wellstone might be the key.
Lucy nodded. “A bit of air would be lovely.” The viscount offered her his arm, and they slipped, unnoticed, from the conservatory.
“I WILL TAKE the blame if the duchess scolds you,” Lord Wellstone reassured Lucy as they ventured across the lawn that sloped down to the gardens. “I’m quite adept at blame-taking, having had years of practice.”
His smile was really quite nice. If she had not met Nick, she might find Lord Wellstone very attractive. But somehow his well-bred English air paled next to that of Nick and his rougher peasant ways.
Taking her silence for acquiescence, Lord Wellstone led her deeper into the garden until they had passed the last string of lanterns. Lucy wondered if it might be a good time to broach the subject of the Regent. Her stomach rumbled, both from nerves and hunger, for she had been too nervous to eat earlier.
“Really, Lord Wellstone, perhaps this is far enough. I doubt the air could get any fresher.”
“Have you seen the maze?” He tugged her onward, and she thought about resisting, but her escort radiated affability.
“The maze?”
“Rumor has it that the Regent had it built so that he could hide from Princess Caroline if she ever called at Carlton House,” he said, referring to the prince’s estranged wife.
Curious, Lucy followed him into the twisting corridors formed by thick hedges. Lord Wellstone had clearly been there before, as he seemed to know his way quite well. She could hear the soft fall of water into a basin and guessed there must be a courtyard ahead. A few minutes more, and they stepped into the center of the labyrinth.
Several torches burned around the edges of the courtyard. In the center, a small fountain cascaded into a large marble base. Stone benches stood guard at precise intervals around the circle.
“Charming, isn’t it?” Lord Wellstone said and then winced. “No pun intended, of course.”
“It’s very pretty,” Lucy replied, her unease growing. She was realizing what she’d done. At the most fashionable party in the kingdom, she had left the ballroom with a man who was not her husband, and she was alone with him. Heavens, she would be a social pariah before she ever met the Regent.
“I should return to the duchess.” Lucy edged back the way they’d come. She glanced over her shoulder and eyed one of the openings into the courtyard. That was the way, wasn’t it? All of the portals now appeared frighteningly similar.
“Her Grace will not worry. She knows you are with me.” Lord Wellstone exuded patience, but Lucy’s instincts told her not to take his demeanor at face value.
“Of course she will not be worried, but I did so want to meet the Regent and his guest, the Crown Prince of Santadorra,” Lucy said. “Perhaps you could introduce me?”
Crispin smiled very strangely, which set Lucy’s nerves farther on edge. Lord Wellstone was up to something, she was sure of it. And yet she did not sense any danger.
“I suppose you wish to discuss reform with Prinny,” he said. Lucy winced. Clearly, she was a very transparent female.
“Yes,” she replied honestly. “I wish to persuade him to throw his support behind the Whigs. It was the only real way I could think of to help. Somehow yelling ‘huzzah’ at secret meetings seems rather ineffectual.”
Lord Wellstone smiled indulgently, as if she were a small child who deserved a treat. “My dear, women far more ingenious than you have attempted to persuade the Regent around to their way of thinking for years. What makes you think you will succeed where they have failed?”
Lucy refused to be cowed. “I doubt those women ever stood in the midst of a Luddite rally. I doubt they ever nursed wounds made by a soldier’s pike.”
Lord Wellstone nodded, more serious now. “Indeed, I’m quite sure they have not. As you know, I am not unsympathetic to your plight. Perhaps I can be of some help. If you will wait here, I will see if I can entice the Regent to take a turn in the garden. No promises, mind you, but I’ll do my best.”
Lucy could hardly believe it. His compliance seemed too good to be true. “Very well,” she said cautiously. “I will wait here, but no longer than a quarter of an hour.”
Lord Wellstone bowed. “A quarter of an hour it is, then.” He slipped from the courtyard, and Lucy noted the exit he had taken. She only hoped he would be successful in bringing the Regent to her, for she did not relish the prospect of finding her way out alone. She shivered, and, wishing that she’d brought a shawl, sank down on a bench to await her rendezvous with what was surely her destiny.
NICK STOOD behind the shrubbery and fumed. Why would Crispin make such a ridiculous promise to Lucy? Certainly his friend had no intention of fetching the Prince Regent and dragging him into the maze. Even if she was the most misguided female Nick had ever met, she did not deserve to have her hopes elevated when there was no chance of them being fulfilled.
Peering around the corner, Nick watched her as she settled onto a marble bench near the fountain. With her silvery gown and her hair piled high atop her head, she looked as if she had been spun from his recent dreams. He had still not quite recovered from his first glimpse of her in the ballroom, for in the midst of the pageantry and splendor, she had seemed the ultimate in feminine elegance. But, here, wrapped in a cloak of darkness, she appeared as ethereal and timeless as a moon goddess.
Nick snorted at that thought. He of all people knew how deceiving Lucy Charming’s appearance could be.
Cautiously, Nick stepped into the courtyard. His evening slippers moved noiselessly over the grass until he was within a few paces of her. He saw the exact moment she sensed his presence, for she tensed and then leaped to her feet.
“Good evening, princess.”
Lucy’s eyes reflected surprise, then shock, and finally bewilderment. “Nick?” She took in his attire, her gaze traveling from the sapphire stickpin in his snowy cravat to the ivory stockings and silver-buckled evening shoes. It was a far cry from the gardener’s smock and his old boots. “Oh, Nick,” she wailed, crestfallen. “What have you done?”
“Done?” he echoed, confused. Lucy was frantically looking about and wringing her hands.
“Nick, you’ll be caught. This is mad, impersonating a gentleman. Whatever possessed you to do such a thing?”
Nick stopped himself from grinning. Even though she held his heroism against him, she still didn’t want him to land in the soup. Definitely a good sign. He decided to play along for the moment. Pressing his advantage, he stepped closer.
“Would you believe me if I said I came so I might see you?”
She hesitated, and he saw understanding dawn in her eyes. “You know who I am.” It was not a question but a statement of fact. Her hands fluttered at her sides, reflecting the sudden panic in her eyes. “I suppose Lord Wellstone told you. The two of you seem to have an unusual bond.”
Not ready to reveal the exact nature of his friendship with Crispin, Nick sidestepped the implicit question. “Lord Wellstone thought I should know the truth.”
“Why? It serves no purpose.” She dropped her gaze. “We are nothing to each other.”
“Really, Lucy? Nothing?” Even if she hated him for his actions or his lack of sympathy for reform, he would hardly call the sparks they struck off each other “nothing.”
She turned away so that he couldn’t see her face. “Why did you come, Nick, especially after the trick I played on you? The risk is too great.”
The truth tumbled easily from his lips. “I came to see you.”
She was trembling. Nick’s chest tightened at the realization. “To see me?” She laughed. “How ridiculous. All you had to do was venture through the garden door. You’ve known where to find me all along.”
Nick instinctively rubbed the back of his head. “The last time I ventured near a garden door, you knocked me on the head with it. Besides, Lady Belmont’s gardener couldn’t very well mount the front steps and ring the bell of Nottingham House.”
Nick could only see her profile, but he couldn’t miss the deep blush that rose in her cheeks. Her embarrassment gave him hope. So, she was not adverse to seeing him again, even after the way she’d abandoned him in Lady Belmont’s coal cellar.
“What are you really doing here?” She repeated the question as if he were the village idiot who could not quite comprehend things on first hearing.
“I told you. I came to see you, and it was worth the risk. You are breathtaking.”
“This is all Lord Wellstone’s doing, I feel sure,” Lucy said defensively. “Someone sent gowns to Nottingham House this morning. Given the proper finery, anyone can be beautiful.”
Nick snorted. “Have you seen your stepmother and stepsisters this evening?”
“I said, given the
proper
finery.”
“Lucy, you could send those three to the finest modiste in Paris, and they would still look like a sow and her piglets rolled up in silk.”
Lucy didn’t laugh, but the tension eased from her shoulders, and Nick found that strangely satisfying. Beneath her bravado and derring-do and her misguided feelings about reform, she was surprisingly vulnerable. He knew he should use that knowledge to his advantage, but it was difficult to plot stratagems when he was standing with Lucy in the moonlight.
The light wind had shifted, stirring the tops of the shrubbery and bringing on its wings strains of music from the conservatory. “Have you enjoyed the dancing?” Nick asked, studying her face. Lucy was good at hiding things, and he wanted to know if she had at least gained some pleasure from the ball. If she was to become a part of his world she would need to be able to move comfortably in the
beau monde,
and despite her status as the daughter of a duke, little in her background had prepared her for such a role.
“I’m afraid I was too nervous to truly enjoy it,” Lucy replied. “I’ve never danced before.”
“What? Not even at home?” Surely she had been given lessons, for she acquitted herself well on Crispin’s arm.
“Especially not at home. I was only allowed to observe when the dancing master came.”
Nick murmured some choice imprecations in Santadorran.
“Did you say something?” Lucy asked. She had turned back toward him, and Nick took that as a sign to move closer.
“No, nothing.” He held out his hand. “Would you like to dance here? No one is watching, and I will not complain if you tread upon my toes.”
Lucy eyed him warily. “Where did you learn to dance?”
Nick was not to be so easily caught. “Why, from the same fellow who cured me of my country accent, of course.” He smiled at the memory of stumbling about his room at Eton as
Crispin showed him the proper English steps.
Lucy looked as if she might decline his offer, so Nick stepped forward and took her hand before she had the opportunity to refuse him. The feel of her gloved hand in his shouldn’t have the power to weaken his knees, but, alas, it did.
“It’s a waltz,” Lucy argued. “I’ve not been given permission to waltz.”
“Do you think one of the patronesses of Almack’s will see you out here?” Nick teased, referring to the society matrons who monitored the behavior of young women of good ton. “If so, I think they would be far more concerned that you were in the arms of a gardener than that you were indulging in the wicked decadence of the waltz.”