Princess Charming (23 page)

She could tell from the way he resorted to sarcasm that she had wounded his pride. Men were so prickly about their precious honor.

“Then I will accept your word as
a gentleman, though other guarantees would not be amiss.”

“Very well. I will do this. I will swear out my intent in writing, and we may file it with a solicitor. That will be as legal an agreement as any in England.”

Her spine stiffened. “And only binding in this country, Your Highness. Such a paper would do your countrymen little good if you chose not to honor it.”

He nodded. “You have a point. Then let me take my offer a step further. If, within two weeks, you can convince me that the reformers are not a group of revolutionaries in sheep’s clothing, then not only will the men of Santadorra receive a grant of universal suffrage, but I will include the women of my country as well. Perhaps that would provide you sufficient inducement to accept such a risky wager, even if it has no legal recourse attached.”

Lucy gasped. He was a vile, low, dastardly fiend. “You mock me, sir. And that is unconscionable, even for you.”

She pulled back, but his hands still grasped her shoulders, and now they moved upward, sliding to cup her neck. She should have shaken off his touch immediately, but the warmth of his hands felt too good, and he had opened her heart and her dreams to the very core. She was afraid to move, lest she shatter into more pieces than could be put together again.

He willed her to look at him, and she did. “I will swear an oath, Lucy, on anything you like.”

“Anything? Then swear on what you hold most dear.”

His mouth thinned. Deep grooves stood out around his eyes. “I will swear on the memory of my mother and sister.”

She hadn’t known he had a mother. Well, of course she’d known he must have one somewhere, but she’d never heard her mentioned. Or a sister, for that matter. Clearly, though, they had been of great importance to him, for the look of pain that haunted his eyes could not be feigned.

He was so near and so intent that Lucy’s stomach knotted. “You are serious, aren’t you?”

“Indeed.”

“And all I must do is convince you of the worthiness of my cause?”

“It should be simple enough.” His thumb climbed higher, over the ridge of her jaw and upward until it lightly stroked her lower lip. “If you are so passionate about reform, it should not be difficult.”

But thoughts of reform were fast disappearing under the spell he cast with the touch of his thumb on her lips. The desire she felt surely shone in her eyes. She looked down, keeping her gaze level with his gardener’s smock.

“I will convince you,” she said, “if only to save us both from a mockery of marriage.” The words were meant more to strengthen herself than to warn him.

He laughed. “While I will try very hard not to be convinced. I will require you to be most persuasive.”

It was no use avoiding his gaze. He seemed to see into her soul even when she could not meet his eyes.

“Lucy.” He said her name softly. She heard the underlying question, but she did not want to respond. Just let him kiss her without asking for permission. Then she would not be responsible for her own heedless tumble into folly. Very sensual, very compelling folly.

She raised her eyes and met the look of desire in his. When she did not turn away, he bent lower, and his lips brushed hers, feather light at first, and then his mouth slanted open, and she grasped his smock to keep from falling.

Since her father’s untimely death, she had hidden from her feelings. The best antidote for grief was a vigorous crusade, and her father’s reformist leanings had formed a natural path for her to follow. Her suffragist activities isolated her from both the glittering world of titled aristocrats and the daily labor of the working classes. But here, in this moment, with Nick’s lips forcing her to feel alive, she could no longer hide. She was neither the put-upon stepdaughter nor the outspoken proponent of reform. Instead, she was simply Lucy. A young woman who had been lonely for far too many years.

She kissed him back. She couldn’t seem to help herself. His arms came around her and pulled her close. He whispered her name, and his light breath against her cheek sent shivers running the length of her spine. “Lucy, what have you done to me?”

His question echoed her own thoughts exactly, and that was disturbing enough to force her to lower her hands from where she’d clasped them about his neck. With one soft push, she was free of his embrace. They were both breathing heavily.

“If I’ve only a fortnight, then we best begin now.” Lucy struggled to present an unaffected front. She fought the urge to raise trembling fingers to her lips. “In fact, I’m late for a meeting.”

Nick nodded. “Let’s be off, then.” He looked as disturbed as she felt, but surely the kiss they’d shared would have to be classified as one of his milder endeavors in the pursuit of women. Lucy saw the smudges on his face that her own coal-blackened features had left, but she did not reach up to wipe them away. In the distance, bells chimed the hour.

“Follow me,” she said, and wished that she could not feel his eyes pinned on her as she led him out of the alleyway. The way he looked at her made her want to stay in the shadows and continue that kiss indefinitely.

NICK MEANT every word of the bargain he’d made with Lucy. It would not be a difficult promise to honor, since he knew she stood no chance of convincing him that reformers held any noble or sincere ambitions. In a fortnight, not only would she see the error of her thinking, but she would agree to become his wife. Propriety and his father would be satisfied, Lucy would be his, and his life could return to some semblance of normalcy.

In the meantime, however, he would have to endure fourteen days of a world he detested. The only thing that would make it bearable would be sights such as the one he enjoyed now. He smiled as he followed Lucy through the streets of London, her slim hips and bottom lovingly outlined by the trousers she wore. He would, of course, have to forbid her to wear them again, but today he was enjoying the view.

“How much farther?” They had reached the edge of Spitalfields, home to thousands of weavers. The spire of Christ Church loomed over the rows of houses thrown up to accommodate the influx of laborers. From these homes came some of the finest silks in England.

Lucy gestured toward the spire. “Orator Hunt will speak today, outside the church.”

Nick had not heard of the man, but clearly others had. The narrow lanes leading toward the church grew thick with people. He found himself hurrying to keep pace with Lucy, who moved nimbly amid the burgeoning throng. He lost sight of her, and the crowd pressed in on him, jostling and pushing. The great mass of people possessed an energy like a living creature, and the hairs on the back of Nick’s neck stood on end. He had felt this energy before, the night the crowd of Santadorran peasants, incited by French
provocateurs,
had stormed the palace.

Nick swallowed his panic and caught sight of Lucy’s cap a short distance ahead. He pushed against the crowd until he was near enough to grasp her shoulder. She looked back and smiled, her face flushed with excitement and anticipation, and continued. Nick held on to her as tightly as he could without betraying his feelings.

The square before the church was a writhing sea of humanity. Disguised in his gardener’s togs, Nick knew he had nothing to fear, but trapped in the midst of this ocean of peasants, he felt his royal title all but stamped on his forehead. He kept his cap pulled low and clung to Lucy.

Being Lucy Charming, she didn’t stop until she was within twenty feet of the platform that had been constructed in front of the church. The speeches had already begun amid a great deal of bunting and several large banners proclaiming the need for universal suffrage. When Lucy stopped, he tried to stop as well, but the crowd pushed against his back, and it was all he could do to hold his ground. Not sure how else to protect her, he put his arms around her waist, clasping them over her belly. Even his discomfort, though, could not shield him from the shock he felt when Lucy leaned against him and briefly squeezed his wrists, her fingers then resting on his forearms where they gently cradled her against him.

The speaker droned on, and Nick was satisfied to ignore the man. He worried about the crowd while still savoring the pleasure of holding Lucy in his arms. The man ground to a stop, and the mass of people offered polite applause.

“I remain unconvinced,” Nick whispered into Lucy’s ear. He smiled when he felt a tremor run through her body.

“You have not yet heard Orator Hunt,” she shot back over her shoulder. “Look, he is next.”

The man who strode to the podium was the epitome of an English gentleman farmer. He was tall, more than six feet, dressed in riding clothes, but his thin lips and pale eyes gave him an ineffectual air.

“This is the man who is to convince me of the error of my ways?” Nick chortled. “Perhaps you will concede right now, and we can make wedding plans.”

Lucy stiffened. “I will certainly be making wedding plans, sir. But not with you. Orator Hunt will see to that.”

Nick listened with half an ear as
the man spoke, but he was distracted by the disturbing image of Lucy standing in front of an altar with Mr. Whippet. Orator Hunt’s comments echoed the usual complaints—demands for an annual parliament, universal suffrage, and secret ballots, pleas for a repeal of the Corn Laws. “He would make a very good Frenchman,” Nick whispered in Lucy’s ear, but she shushed him, and Nick found there was nothing to do but actually listen to the man.

The reformer demonstrated more energy now. His gestures became larger, his voice growing in intensity. His pale eyes shone with an almost holy glow, like a martyr facing the lions.

“Let me ask you this question, my beloved friends and brethren,” Hunt bellowed as his gaze swept the crowd. “If all are to be sacrificed to the cause of our nation’s freedom, then should not all Christians enjoy the same rights?” Cries of “huzza!” filled the air. “Should not all who proclaim Christ be given the vote?” The crowd of weavers, largely French Catholics and Huguenots, broke into wild cheers. Nick shifted uncomfortably in his worn boots. Orator Hunt had chosen his subject well, for only men who were members of the Church of England enjoyed rights of suffrage. Because of their faith, even propertied immigrants had no voice in their own government.

“Should not all men of Christian faith participate in a government ordained by God?” Hunt’s question threw them into a further frenzy, and Nick refused to squirm. Blast the man for hitting the one sore spot in Nick’s love for his mother’s native land. While his mother had once been Church of England, she had converted to Catholicism to marry his father. Nick had been raised a Catholic. Though he had never put much stock in religion himself, at least not since he’d been rescued from the Santadorran forest at age twelve, Nick had often been on the receiving end of taunts and jibes at Eton.

“Should not all qualified men hold office and vote? Should not all taxpayers enjoy the right to own property, regardless of their house of worship?”

Lucy applauded and cheered with the rest of the crowd while Nick tried to push his disturbing thoughts away.

“An end to divisions!” Hunt cried, and the crowd echoed his roar. “An end to privilege!” The other speakers on the platform stepped forward and applauded enthusiastically. “An end to tyrannies that deny men their inherent rights!”

Orator Hunt stepped back from the podium, saluted the cheering crowd, and followed the other speakers as they disappeared behind the platform. Lucy turned in Nick’s arms.

“Well?” she asked, her face shining with the joy of the words that had washed over her. She was lit from within, as if a thousand candles had been placed inside her. “Confess that you were moved a little bit. No one could be indifferent to that, not even Sidmouth himself.”

And it was at that moment, at that very moment, that Nick felt his heart open with a great, resounding crack. She was so sure, so confident—more resplendent in her passion for reform than she had been in a satin ball gown. He could no longer deny the truth. He did not want her because she appeared so very beddable. He did not even want her for the fire she sparked within him each time his lips met hers. What he wanted her for was this—this innocence, this belief in the goodness of men, this hope for the future. He had lost his own so very long ago.

Around them, the crowd was dispersing in bursts of song and general merriment. Lucy’s eyes were still shining, and suddenly he could not stand another moment of the optimism and
bonhomie.

“Hunt is a fool, as are you,” he hissed. “You would give the vote to every criminal and lunatic who haunts the streets. All your dreams would lead to chaos, and who do you think would be the first person slaughtered in her bed? The daughter of the Duke of Nottingham, my dear. To believe anything else is a lie.”

The harsh words cut across her face like lashes, but he did nothing to call them back. Her eyes, her damned deep blue eyes, filled with pain. Nick knew he was striking out from his own well of grief, but he could not stop. His feelings ran too deep, and he would save Lucy from her folly if he could. Governments were ordained by God for a reason—so that people could sleep in their beds without fear of having their throats slashed.

“You will not even try,” Lucy accused him, and Nick agreed.

“No. Not when the stakes are the lives of men I know and respect.”

“It is not their lives that are at stake,” Lucy argued. “Only their livelihoods. That is the real issue. The Conservatives may argue on principle, but they act on gold.”

Overhead, the clock of the church chimed the hour. It was growing late, and dusk would soon settle. They still had a long walk across London ahead of them.

“Don’t despair, Lucy. You still have thirteen days left to change my mind. Perhaps you will yet succeed, but Orator Hunt leaves me unconvinced.”

“I will succeed,” she said, straightening her spine. “I know a little of your character. You cannot be as
indifferent as all that.”

Nick refused to respond. Instead, he took her arm and guided her away from the church. He could not answer her, because she was right. He was not indifferent. Not to her, not to the Catholics, and not to the sufferings of other people. But these feelings were ones he could not afford to indulge. Not and honor the past.