Authors: Beth Pattillo
As she’d worked on her dress, Lucy had convinced herself that the scandal would blow over, a seven-day wonder no one would recall past midsummer. The reformers would not ostracize her because of a bit of gossip in the
beau monde.
But her stepmother’s words brought her fears rushing back. She had not bargained on the duchess actually desiring her to accept Nick’s suit. “I care nothing for propriety or my reputation,” Lucy said to forestall her stepmother’s schemes. “You have already convinced the
ton
that my attics are to let. Given the gossip about my father, it will not be difficult to attribute my behavior to instability of mind.”
“Why on earth would I do that?” The duchess’s eyes held the gleam of a starving woman at a feast. “This is what I have waited for. Your ridiculous behavior will trap you a prince, and nothing could be better for Bertha and Esmie. Why, they will move in the very highest circles. I believe that a duke is not beyond reach for either of them, now that we are related to royal blood.”
She had seen that greedy look in her stepmother’s eyes before, and Lucy knew that once the duchess determined a course of action, there was little that could dissuade her. “I have declined Prince Nicholas’s offer, and the matter is at an end,” she insisted.
Her stepmother moved toward her. Venom, pure and green, shone in the duchess’s eyes. “I think not. By the end of the season, you will be married. In fact,” she paused and smiled coldly, “I will even grant you a choice of husbands. You may accept the Crown Prince’s proposal. Or you will marry Mr. Whippet.”
Lucy knew better than to show fear. She leaned forward and laid a hand on the scarred wood of the trestle table. “I will do neither of those things. We live in a more enlightened age. No one can force me to wed.”
Her stepmother smiled slyly. “I understand Mr. Whippet has already informed you he has my permission to pay his addresses. I wondered if you might be difficult about him, but I never dreamed that you would catch Prince Nicholas. How fortunate that I took precautions on the way home and sent one of the grooms to Whitehall.”
“Whitehall?” The name unsettled her, as the duchess had intended it to. “Surely the government could have little interest in this scandal?”
“They will not be interested in the scandal, but they will be delighted to learn that I have uncovered a plot to conceal radical reformers in my home.”
Lucy’s eyes flew to the door at the far end of the kitchen.
“I had no way of knowing when the information might be helpful, but it appears that time has come.”
With those few words, Lucy felt herself trapped as neatly as a hare in a gamekeeper’s noose, for even though the Selkirks had departed, they would not be difficult for Sidmouth’s men to find. She could never allow Mr. Selkirk and Tom to be arrested, for guilty or not of any crime, most reformers either met with the gallows or found themselves transported. The duchess held the winning hand, and Lucy’s fate was the prize.
Or was it? A sudden memory of Mr. Whippet barking like a dog filled her thoughts. The idea forming in her mind was risky, but perhaps it might work. “If I agree to marry, then you will let my friends alone?”
Lucy hated the look of satisfaction that spread across her stepmother’s countenance. Fortunately, the duchess would not be smug for long.
“Of course.” Her stepmother raised one hand to adjust her turban. “Though the government will trap all of the radicals eventually, I suppose. It is only a matter of time.”
“But their freedom from harassment requires only my agreement to marriage?” Lucy wanted the terms of their bargain to be quite clear.
“Yes. Haven’t I just said so?”
Lucy laughed. Her stepmother thought her neatly trapped, but the duchess had unwittingly left a loophole, an oversight that Lucy planned to use to her full advantage. “Then I consent. And thank you, madame.” Impulsively, she leaned over and kissed the duchess’s cheek.
The duchess jumped back in surprise and rubbed her face in annoyance, smearing the liberal application of rouge. “Whatever was that for?”
“Why, for helping me to make a sensible decision,” Lucy replied. “Good night, madame.”
Lucy bounced up the stairs, her earlier despair forgotten. She need not depend on Nick, or on anyone else, for that matter, for she herself could save the day. All was not yet lost.
THE NEXT MORNING, Nick stood before the Duchess of Nottingham’s town house, a bouquet of early summer roses in hand. His father and Crispin stood behind him like seconds at a duel. While it was early yet to pay a call in the fashionable part of town, the deed must be done, and Nick wanted it behind him as soon as possible. Despite Lucy’s protests and her abrupt disappearance the night before, she was not likely to refuse his suit. By now she would have had the opportunity to come to her senses, and he could not endure another episode like the one the night before. He’d been a hundred feet away when the footpad had pulled the knife on Lucy, and that old feeling of helpless panic had ripped at Nick’s gut. No, he was going to secure his ties to Lucy and then keep her under lock and key for the rest of her life. He was determined to find himself betrothed before luncheon, and one step closer to a return to Santadorra. The thought sent another swell of emotion through him. His attempts at heroism had led him full circle, it seemed, straight back to the past he’d been running from all these years.
“There’s naught to be gained standing here on the street,” his father said and nudged him forward. Nick’s feet seemed to have a will of their own, carrying him up the steps and into the waiting arms of fate. Crispin wisely said nothing, merely rubbed his jaw at regular intervals.
The butler escorted them to the formal drawing room. Again, Nick hesitated at the threshold, but his father, using his silver-tipped walking stick as a prod, prompted him forward. The butler, who looked as dry and withered as an autumn leaf, bowed to all three of them. “Your Highnesses, your lordship. I will inform the duchess of your presence.”
Nick’s father raised a hand. “It is not the duchess we desire to see, my man. We have come to speak with Lady Lucinda.”
The butler’s eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch, a flagrant display of emotion for the stolid servant. “Very well, Your Highness. She is entertaining a visitor in the morning room and will attend you shortly.” The butler disappeared, leaving the door ajar.
Nick wondered who else might be calling on Lucy at such an early hour. Probably one of her fellow radicals. He glanced longingly at the brandy decanter on the sideboard but decided against it. It was best to have all his wits about him when dealing with Lucy Charming.
“I have never heard of a proposal by committee,” he said, pacing around the room. “I daresay I could be trusted to do this properly on my own.” He cast a withering look at his father and Crispin. The king was studying the paintings along one wall, and Crispin had gone to prop himself against the fireplace, one hand on the mantel and one boot propped on the grate in a classic pose.
Crispin ignored his gibe. “I wonder who Lucy is receiving at such an early hour.”
The king frowned. “Not much burdened by propriety, is she? That will change, of course, when she is your wife, Nicholas. You will see to it.”
Nick thought the chances of making Lucy conform to propriety seemed remote indeed. He would rather try his hand at something simpler, like handling venomous snakes. “I have no doubt that Lucy and I shall suit each other, sir.” Especially after he had molded her impulses to his liking. “As for suiting the rest of the world, that is another matter altogether.”
The conversation was interrupted by the sound of a man’s voice in the hall. Curious, Nick stepped toward the doorway in time to see the butler handing Mr. Whippet his cloak, gloves, and cane.
“Who is it?” Crispin asked, but before Nick could answer, he was forced to step back from the doorway, and Lucy entered, trailed by that canine menace, Wellington. She lifted her chin and ignored Nick, going straight to his father. The little pug ignored Nick as well.
“Good morning, Your Majesty.” She turned and nodded at Crispin. “Lord Wellstone. Thank you, sir, for sending my old friend to keep me company.” She reached down and scratched Wellington behind his ears. Her greetings stopped there as she pointedly refused to acknowledge Nick’s presence in the room. “Would either of you gentlemen care for some refreshments?”
Nick stepped up behind her, and Wellington growled at him. “Hello, Lucy.”
She tried to conceal the shiver that ran down her spine. If she’d been facing him, he might never have seen it. The involuntary reaction lit a warmth in his midsection and gave him hope. Any emotion, even hate, was better than indifference, especially in a wife.
Lucy slowly turned. “Oh, it is you, Prince Nicholas.” She looked at him as if he were a particularly sticky glob of mud that had adhered to her half boots. “Forgive me. I did not notice you.”
Nick breathed a sigh of relief. If she were totally set against him, or if he had proved himself beyond redemption in her eyes, she would not be treating him to such a spectacular show of indifference. Apparently he still had hope of winning Lucy’s agreement to the marriage. Like most women, she was signaling her willingness to be coaxed out of her megrims.
“An understandable oversight, Lady Lucy, since I am standing behind you.” He reached out and took her hand, even though she had not extended it to him. Wellington growled a second time. Lucy wore no gloves, and her hands were like ice. So she was nervous, despite her smile and calm demeanor. He raised her fingers to his lips and brushed them with a kiss.
Lucy responded as
if he’d slapped her. She snatched her hand away and stepped back, narrowly avoiding Wellington as she fled to a nearby sofa. The little pug followed and tried to heave himself up onto the cushion.
“Very fine weather today, is it not, Your Highness?” Lucy asked his father brightly as she reached down and lifted Wellington to sit beside her. Crispin groaned and sank into an armchair by the fire. Nick’s father cleared his throat twice and stared at his future daughter-in-law in confusion.
“Ahem, ahem. Yes, my lady. Certainly. Fine weather, and all that, but we’re here to talk about—”
“Reform!” Nick interjected, and Lucy’s eyes snapped toward him. She paled, and when she spoke, her voice was low.
“Have you not humiliated me sufficiently? Must you come into my home and mock me here as well before your vanity is satisfied? I suppose this is all because I did not recognize you from the first for the
prince
that you are.”
Nick unclenched his jaw and tried to remember it was his behavior that had been in the wrong the night before, but Lucy had the ability to goad him into a temper when no one else could.
“Madame, this has little to do with my vanity and more to do with your conduct. We would not be in this situation if it were not for your total lack of decorum. Reform is a base business for a man, even more so for a woman.”
Her shoulders stiffened. “I beg to differ, Your Highness. We would not be in this situation if you did not feel the need to parade about in servants’ clothing!”
“Children, children,” Crispin interrupted. “Squabbling will resolve nothing. Lady Lucinda, Nick has come to say something very particular to you, and given the events of last night, I should think you would be eager to listen.”
Lucy shook her head. “It is not necessary. None of this is necessary.”
Nick moved forward and seated himself on the sofa beside her, Wellington standing guard between them. Lucy glared at him as if he were a plague carrier.
“Your hasty departure last night was unfortunate,” Nick said, leashing his own temper. Whatever Lucy’s failings might be, he was the one who had publicly compromised her, and it was up to him to set matters to rights. “We left an important matter unfinished.”
“Did we?” Lucy looked at him with wide-eyed innocence. “I don’t recall.”
Nick glanced at his father, who frowned and looked meaningfully at a spot on the floor in front of Lucy. Crispin coughed in a vain attempt to muffle his laughter. With a deep sigh of resignation, Nick slid from the sofa until he was kneeling in front of her. He thought about taking her hand again. It would certainly be a good strategy, in case she decided to slap him, but the feel of her hand in his was likely to wreak havoc on any good sense he still retained.
“Lady Lucinda, I have come today to ask you to make me the happiest of men.”
He had thought she would laugh at him or grow angry, but instead she smiled with satisfaction, and for a moment Nick wondered if she’d played him for a fool. Had she, in her perverse way, been angling for a proposal after all?
“What are you saying, Your Highness? I am not quite clear on how I might be the source of your happiness, but I will do whatever is in my power to send you into transports of joy.”
Nick hesitated. What did she have up her sleeve?
“You will make me the happiest of men, Lucy, if you will agree to be my wife and my future queen.” Nick was warming to his subject now, gaining confidence, for he had practiced this bit in the mirror several times that morning. “I can offer you everything that a woman dreams of: position, wealth, a title. I know that our
. . .
um
. . .
courtship has been rather unorthodox, but, well, surely we can manage to rub along quite well together.”
Rub along quite well together? Had he really said that? That was certainly not how he’d practiced it. He watched Lucy for any sign as to her thoughts, but her face was smooth as glass, her eyes politely interested, with a gleam of triumph in them. That gleam worried Nick, made his collar feel far too tight.
Lucy pulled Wellington into her lap. “What a charming offer,” she said, and then smiled. “No pun intended, of course.”
That was when Nick realized he was in a great deal of trouble, and his breathing became quite shallow. Lucy was far angrier than he’d thought.
Her blue eyes bored into his. “It is good of you, Prince Nicholas, to sacrifice your life, your happiness, even the future of your country so that I might not be burdened by a blight upon my good name. But, then, you are of a rather unique disposition, are you not? Rescuing damsels in distress—for that matter, anyone in distress—seems to be a rather integral part of your nature. Unfortunately, your attempts to rescue me seem to have had some rather disastrous consequences.”