Shipmate: A Royal Regard Prequel Novella (17 page)

Bella reined in her movements, but continued
to eye the throng. “I merely—” She crumpled a ruffle near her hip
without noticing the fists she had formed.

“It was the only dress I had that could be
altered.”

Sighing, Bella capitulated, “You carry no
blame for my dreadful silhouette.”

Papa had always called her
sturdy
.
Unfashionably square in form, with rather broad shoulders, her best
feature lovely, long legs she had always wished she could use to
her advantage. While Empire styles flattered her figure as much as
clothing ever did, she had never fit comfortably into Charlotte’s
dresses, even with enough corseting to buckle her knees. These
scores of ruffles made her look more like an Egyptian column than a
woman.

Smiling more gently, Charlotte patted the
pink mark the fan had made on Bella’s forearm, reminding her cousin
yet again, “Even after fifteen years, they are the same people they
were when you left, and you are now a baroness with a goodly
fortune and a husband distinguished in the diplomatic service. You
may find you are made a countess before long. Alexander says
four-to-one at White’s.” Charlotte’s sharp eyes flashed, and she
spoke from the side of her mouth. “Prepare to pretend you are
civilized. You’ve been spotted.”

Reflected in the silvery glass behind
Charlotte, Bella’s eyes widened in alarm, and beneath her
unfashionably sun-warmed skin, her face paled. Pivoting, she
insinuated herself behind Charlotte’s right arm and ducked her head
behind the princess sleeve of Charlotte’s much lovelier gown.

Charlotte stepped away, leaving her no place
to hide. “Lady Lannedae and Lady Yarley are coming this way, and I
shall have to present you to the hostesses before long, or we will
be summoned. It is miraculous I could secure vouchers without an
interview.”

“Only so Lady Jersey can be first to tell
tales,” Bella grumbled in a higher-pitched voice than she had
meant, as she smoothed down the awful dress. Charlotte poked her
fan at Bella’s hand. “Stop it. You have to face the gossips
sometime.”

Charlotte and Bella both curtsied to the
much older ladies, and Charlotte made the introductions: “Lady
Yarley, Lady Lannadae, might I present my cousin, Lady
Holsworthy?”

Both ladies sniffed, as though they hadn’t
come over specifically to speak to her. Lady Yarley’s mouth
puckered like she was sucking soured food from her teeth, and Lady
Lannadae’s eyes snapped as viciously as a hungry crocodile. They
stood straighter than Bella’s hair, elbows tucked into their sides,
hands grasped tightly across their old-fashioned waistlines,
identical but for color—one lady in mauve with grey trim and the
other grey trimmed in mauve—both restraining themselves to the last
vestiges of pretended courtesy.

Bella knew the role she had to play, no
matter how unpleasant it might be. Her husband had always depended
on her gracious behavior and deference toward anyone with whom he
might do business, most especially men’s wives. It was very nearly
second nature, even in London, so she pasted on a simpering
smile.

“Ladies, I am so pleased to meet you. It has
been far too long since I have spoken to civilized people in the
English tongue. Lady Lannadae, I must say the lace on your gown is
lovelier than any I have seen, even in Brussels. I hope you might
tell me where you found it.”

Without so much as a how-do-you-do, Lady
Yarley ripped into her subject as a wild dog into a cornered coney.
“I’ve heard you and Lord Holsworthy have been in the most
disreputable places—the Dark Continent, the Spanish New World—”

Lady Lannadae broke in, “The penal
colonies!”

Eyeing her cohort coldly, Lady Yarley
continued, “I cannot imagine any well-bred young lady surviving
such a voyage.”

Both of the women’s eyes narrowed to exactly
the same slits.

Bella’s mouth twisted into a patently false
depiction of continued civility. “The blizzards of Siberia, the
monsoons of the Orient, the tropics of South America…” As the
ladies leaned in, intolerance dripping from their rabid fangs,
Bella abruptly decided to provide them fresh meat.

In a clear, uplifted voice, infused with the
ice of a Russian winter, she continued: “Some places, one can
hardly stand to wear any clothing at all. I have seen more natives
au naturel
than you might imagine exist on the planet.”

Lady Lannadae sucked in a breath, nearly
swooning.

Charlotte’s voice took on a shrill tone as
she laughed too loudly, “My cousin is such a goose. Of course, she
is joking.” Jabbing the fan into Bella’s side, she whispered,
“
Au naturel
… My heavens, Bella.”

Lady Yarley spoke to fill her companion’s
shocked silence. “No lady of my acquaintance would stand for such
immodesty.”

“Given the choice of standing for it or
being cut up and made into British-subject soup,” Bella returned,
“I learned to cope with the indiscretions of people who know no
better. I like to think I was a civilizing influence.”

Suddenly feeling her age and experience,
Bella determined to hide neither.

“Of course, we haven’t been without the
trappings of civilization entirely. We’ve just spent the last
half-year as guests of King Louis in Paris, though lavish
apartments in the Tuileries Palace were not our standard fare. Most
often it was riding astride on camels and bathing in river water
under tents. When we had tents, of course. And the food! Rancid
meat, offal, reptiles, insects; the retching alone might have
killed me. And obviously, only by the grace of God have I made it
back without being raped to death by hordes of barbarians.”

Judging by the matching pinched looks of
horror on their faces, if Lady Lannadae and Lady Yarley hadn’t
leaned against each other, they both might have fainted dead away
on the Aubusson carpet. Charlotte fumbled in her reticule,
presumably for smelling salts.

“It has been so lovely to meet you, ladies,”
Bella said crisply. “You must feel free to call. I will be
receiving Monday and Thursday afternoons.” Turning away from them,
Bella once more sought her husband through the crowds in which she
would soon be a social pariah. In that moment, she didn’t give a
whit, but was canny enough to know she would later.

Before the ladies could respond, even before
Charlotte could voice the horror crossing her face, a man stepped
up to introduce himself, ignoring the need to be presented, his
lips turned up at Bella’s pointed depictions.

“
Bonsoir
, ladies,” he nodded briefly,
but didn’t bow, to each of them. All of the women curtsied, though
Charlotte’s face fell still and silent.

“I had hoped to gain an introduction to the
celebrated Baroness Holsworthy.” He bowed deeply and kissed Bella’s
hand before she offered. “I have heard you are the most fascinating
creature to grace our shores in a century.”

Charlotte grimaced as she made the
presentation: “Lady Holsworthy, may I present Adolphe Fouret,
Monsieur le Duc de Malbourne?”

His dark hair was cut short, slicked back
with pomade from a widow’s peak, highlighting eyes and brows black
as coal and deep as a quarry. High cheekbones and a hawk-like
Gallic nose spoke of an aristocratic bloodline, and flawlessly
tailored evening clothes showed a likely fortune to perfection,
every inch in black but for his pave-diamond
fleur-de-lys
cravat pin, emblematic of the French monarchy. A lifetime of
haughtiness preceded him, thicker than the scent of bergamot
wafting from his hair.

“
Enchantée, Monseigneur
,” Bella said
in his native language. “Are you enjoying the party?”

“But of course, you speak French,” he
observed in English, “and with a perfect accent.”

“
Mais oui
. How could I entertain in
Paris otherwise?”

Lord Malbourne chuckled and his smile slid
like a fingertip up her arm. He continued the exchange in French,
excluding the other women by posture, if not conversation.

“I hope you will indulge me one day soon
with your impressions of Paris. It has been more than thirty years
since I last stood on French soil, almost too young to be called a
man.”

Bella considered his probable age and took
in his still youthful appearance: hair only slightly silvered at
the temples, face barely lined, spine straight and unyielding. His
frame was still powerful and athletic, more like a man twenty years
younger. More like a man who might attract a woman her age.

Lady Yarley and Lady Lannadae watched
closely, one with eyes on her, the other staring at the duke,
switching with every utterance. Realizing she had been considering
his body much longer than she should, Bella shook her head and
cleared her throat to return to the present moment.

“I would be pleased to engage in such
discourse, Your Grace, but I am afraid you will find my impressions
weigh heavily toward
le Jardin des Tuileries
and
le Musée
du Louvre
, not intrigues at Court.”

“Of course,” he agreed, shoulders held
straighter once he noticed she was looking. “But I have heard from
across the water that you are a most original hostess and patroness
of the arts. Your small suppers and
soirées musicales
are
very nearly legend. I will look forward to dancing with you this
evening, if you will permit.” His lips twitched. “Perhaps you will
share some tales of your travels. I have heard they are
très
amusants
.”

“You will have to ask my husband, Your
Grace, for I shan’t dance at all without his accord.”

It was her customary answer in any
unfamiliar ballroom, until she could discern the undercurrents of
the event, and until Myron advised on any men whom she needed to
impress with her flawless dancing and charming gentility. Once
finished with that chore, she could retire to a seat along the
wall.

Lady Yarley snapped, “It is a wonder your
husband—”

“I certainly understand,” Lord Malbourne
agreed, dismissing Lady Yarley with his eyes. “Although I shall be
bereft should he refuse. If you will forgive, I have other business
to attend, but will search you out as soon as I might speak to Lord
Holsworthy.” Bella felt her color rise as he bent over her hand
again; she dared not look at the elderly women who were sure to
pass on this even-better gossip. “Until then,
ma chère
.”

Hot, restless unease travelled down her
neck; her cheeks flamed when she felt it spread to the low
décolletage
of the loathsome dress, and then watched
Malbourne’s eyes follow. His lips turned up in a barely perceptible
leer—a subtle, momentary expression of raw desire and innate carnal
authority somehow even more French than his conversation.

His nod both acknowledged and dismissed
everyone in the vicinity but Bella, from whom he would not look
away. Dropping her gaze to the floor, her eyes swept the corners of
the room, searching an escape from his scrutiny. Finally, he
snapped his heels together and backed into the crowd.

Before she could take up the conversation
again, Lady Lannadae and Lady Yarley excused themselves, presumably
to tell everyone in London that the Duke of Malbourne had just
called her ‘dear.’

“Bella!” Charlotte snapped. “That was awful!
You can’t just talk about
naked barbarians
at Almack’s.”

“I’ll speak of anything I like to such
horrible old cats. They are lucky I didn’t come here tonight in
trousers with a dagger and pistol in my belt.” Bella said, tossing
her head, feeling more ringlets fall out of their pins. “They had
no liking for me fifteen years ago, nor I them.” Her voice revealed
a bit more bravado than good for her. “Myron is still a
parvenu
, and I am the daughter of a disgraced baronet. We
wouldn’t even have Strangers’ Tickets if not for you.”

“Myron has the king’s confidence, Countess
Peagoose, and you have Myron’s. As long as you both stay in
Prinny’s favor, you can dine out among the social set forever.”

“To my infinite dismay.”

Bella had never aspired to be part of the
social whirl. Her childhood had been spent entirely on Charlotte’s
father’s estate in Somerset. Charlotte, the viscount’s daughter,
resided in the sixty-room manor house. Bella lived with her
destitute father and brothers in a run-down cottage on the
outskirts of her uncle’s land: three rooms above, three below.

With no dowry to speak of, no firm foothold
in the landed gentry, and no semblance of a pretty face, it was
only by the sponsorship of her cousin and aunt that she had any
prospects at all. If not for them, Bella would have been married to
a country squire or a vicar with low expectations—or more likely,
never married at all. She couldn’t imagine what machinations must
have been required to gain her admittance to these exclusive
assembly rooms.

“I have no wish to be a countess, and it is
much simpler to act the baroness while wearing one’s own
clothes.”

“It couldn’t be helped,” Charlotte said. “It
is not my fault you were robbed. I cannot imagine why you stayed at
the Blue Bear. Everyone knows—”

“I am now well aware what everyone
knows.”

Bella wished she and her husband had never
stopped at the horrible roadside inn. They had woken to find a
sneak thief had stolen the night’s receipts from the innkeeper and
money and valuables from every traveler, including the Holsworthy’s
luggage and their coach from the stables.

The theft had been a real blow. They had
lost her only child’s christening gown, a gift from Charlotte that
had never been used; Myron’s war medals from the rebellion in the
American colonies; the miniatures that were the only remembrances
she had of her family; and the elegant Parisian gown she had
intended to wear to her first party in London.

Still, she could only find fault with
Charlotte for forcing her to be here, not for her own unreasonable
fear. She wished she had stayed at home, curled up with a novel in
the library.