Текст книги "I Married the Duke "
Автор книги: Katharine Ashe
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
“Sufficient for those fellows in Rome, perhaps, but not for the codgers in Parliament,” Captain Masinter muttered.
“Parliament?”
“Being the carousing naval hero that he is, dear Miss Caulfield, our delightful captain knows nothing of the laws of marriage. Don’t listen to him.” Lord Bedwyr met Dr. Stewart’s regard firmly. “Now, Father, your services are required.”
“I won’t.” Arabella clutched her cloak about her, but her hands were stained with his blood and she fought sobs. “You are all mad. Let his property pass to his brother. Oh, God. Let it.”
“But you see, madam, you have leaped to a spurious conclusion. It is not a quarrel that motivates my cousin’s last wish. Is it, Luc?”
“Not fit,” he bit off on a shallow breath.
“You see, Miss Caulfield. His brother is unfit to inherit.”
She gripped her fists. “Captain Masinter?”
“S’truth, ma’am. Sorry to say it. Worse than you imagine, I daresay.”
She swung to the priest. Dr. Stewart’s brow was tight. He nodded confirmation.
She couldn’t draw breaths. “But no one in England would accept such a marriage to be legitimate, done in such haste and by a Catholic priest. It is outrageous.”
“Do study the situation,” the earl said calmly. “If you do not shortly find yourself in—shall we say?—an interesting condition, then you might consider the entire thing a Roman farce and go about your merry way none the worse for it. But if you do, with the assistance of yours truly”—he bowed—“you could petition the Church of England for validation. Thereafter you and your child would want for nothing. My cousin’s property is . . . extensive.”
“But, even if there were a child—” Her mind grappled. “It would not be legitimate. This wedding—”
“Comes after the fact?” the earl supplied. “True. But Captain Masinter and I would never tell, would we, Tony? And the good father can adjust the date on the official record, as it were.”
Father Stewart frowned but said nothing. He was watching Luc’s face. Then he reached into his bag and drew out a book threaded with colored ribbons and a long, thin strip of cloth. He laid the stole around his neck and opened the book.
“What? No!” Arabella shook her head. “You cannot force me—”
“Dinna fash, lass. ’Tis anither sacrament.”
She shook her head. “Another?”
“Extreme Unction, Miss Caulfield,” the earl murmured. His attention on his cousin was sober now. “Last rites.”
“Good God,” Captain Masinter said in a strangled voice. He turned his face away and his shoulders heaved.
Arabella had never seen a man weep. They loved him—this sailor and nobleman and priest—because he was worthy of love. But her heart was cold, as she had known for years.
Then what was this desperate aching in her chest?
“Are ye sorry now for all yer sins, lad?” Dr. Stewart said. He pried the stopper out of a tiny glass bottle and pressed his thumb to the opening.
Luc’s gaze came to her. “All . . . but one.”
She fell to her knees beside him and reached for his hand. But she jerked back and did not take it. She dared not touch him.
“They are mad,” she whispered.
“I . . . pray . . . you.” Strain hardened his mouth.
“You will not even be able to say the vows.” Each word hurt to utter. She could not bear this.
“Beautiful . . . wife.” The lines about his mouth loosened. “I’ll . . . try.”
“You are a liar. Earlier or now, but I don’t care to know which.” Tears scalded her eyes, then her cheeks. “This is wrong.”
His cloudy gaze slipped to the earl. “Tell . . . truth.”
She could not see through the tears. “The truth that you are a madman, and not only for a moment?”
“Want you . . .” A labored breath, his throat working. “. . . to—”
“I will do it.”
“There we have it!” The earl clapped. “The lady is in fact amenable. Father, make it so.”
The Scot shook his head but he turned the pages in his book. Then he raised his hand and drew a cross sign in the air between them.
“In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti . . .”
In the warmth of the late summer dawn Arabella shivered. This was not a legal wedding. It was a farce for the earl’s benefit, and Luc’s. But now he watched her with hooded gaze and she could not regret it. When he might have abandoned her, he had helped. And when he might have hurt her, he had given her pleasure. She must give him this gift, however false it was.
She had not paid attention to the Reverend’s church lessons and had not studied like Eleanor; she understood nothing of the Latin incantations that preceded the vows.
“Lucien Andrew Ral—”
“Yes, yes, he knows his name,” the earl interrupted. “Time is short, Father. Move along.”
“Luc, will ye take this woman to be yer wife?”
“I will.” It was barely a breath across his lips.
“Lass, yer name?”
“Arabella Anne Caulfield.”
Luc’s hand unclenched, his broad palm opening. The priest spoke the words that asked her to commit herself in marriage to him, and she responded as they wished.
Abruptly, the earl got to his feet and walked swiftly toward the inn. As she watched, stunned and shaken, the priest returned to the earlier place in his book and began speaking softly and rapidly beneath his breath. He laid his hand on Luc’s brow. Captain Masinter stood with his back to them, his arms crossed tightly over his chest and stance wide as he stared at the sea.
Gray crept into the sky and the calls of gulls came across the morning wind. Arabella sat numb, only panic twining through her blood.
Dr. Stewart’s hand slipped away from Luc’s brow and the priest bowed his head.
No. No.
She sprang to her feet and whirled about, staggering on bandy legs.
Lord Bedwyr caught her arm. “Mustn’t neglect the formalities, my dear.”
She stared at the foolscap and ink bottle in his hand. “Why have you done this?”
“You must trust me.” He drew forth a pen from his coat. “Like your husband.” He returned to Luc’s side and knelt again, unfastened the cap on the ink bottle and flattened the blank sheet of paper on the doctor’s satchel. “Here will do.” He pointed to the bottom of the page.
With numb fingers she signed it.
“Arabella,” the earl murmured. “Beautiful name your wife has, Lucien. Shame you won’t have the opportunity to employ it.” He laid the pen in his cousin’s upturned palm. “Now it is your turn, old boy. Try not to stain it with blood.”
Arabella turned away.
“Excellent,” the earl muttered. “Now Tony, then Father. Must have witnesses and officiator.”
Captain Masinter’s face was white.
“New . . . gown,” Luc whispered. “Shoes.”
“You would like to be buried in a new gown and shoes?” the earl said. “Odd request, but a man’s last wishes are sacrosanct. I won’t tell a soul and neither will Tony,” he added, but Arabella saw the misery in his eyes now.
Impulsively, she gripped the earl’s hand. “He wishes me to have a new gown and shoes before arriving at the chateau. We made an agreement. Tell him you will help me purchase new garments and take me there.” Her voice rose. “Promise him.”
The earl’s mouth cut a line across his face and he cast a hard look down at his cousin. “Of course I will help her, you bastard.” He pulled his hand from Arabella’s. “Anthony, help me carry him inside.”
Captain Masinter came forward.
She could not look at Luc’s ravaged face, only at his outstretched hand. She longed to take it, to place hers in it and give him her life.
Chapter 10
The Widow
They would not allow her in his bedchamber. She did not protest; they had known him a lifetime. She went to her chamber, washed her hands clean of his blood, and her tears fell into the stained water.
She sat at the window, watching the sea. Footsteps and voices came and went on the stairs. After a time she wrapped herself in her cloak and curled up on her bed. Her body was bruised in the places the men had grabbed her and tender where he had made love to her.
Near dusk Captain Masinter came to her. His face was haggard, his knuckles white around the hilt of his sword.
“Miss– That is, ma’am, I– That is to say—” He passed the back of his hand across his eyes. “I’m dreadfully sorry, m’dear.”
“It cannot be.” She felt blind and breathless. “May I go in now?”
The captain shook his head. “Don’t think he’d care for that.”
She could not fight it. Whatever the paper she’d signed might say, in truth she had as much business with him now as a stranger. Since she had wished for precisely that, she supposed it was a fitting punishment.
THEY TOOK HER to the constable and showed her the still, white face of the man that Luc had killed on the beach. She recognized him. He had been one of the men in the alley that Luc fought.
“They attacked him in retribution for defending me,” she whispered numbly.
The burial would take place at sea the following day. Then, Lord Bedwyr said, he would settle his cousin’s affairs and join her at the chateau. Until then it would be best if she continued on to her destination. He handed her into the private carriage where Mr. Miles awaited her, and with a burly sailor from the Retribution riding on the box with the coachman, they set off for Saint-Reveé-des-Beaux.
THE CASTLE APPEARED before them abruptly through a parting in the woods. In Gothic magnificence it arose from the river itself, gleaming gold in the pale evening light with thrusting, pointed turrets and graceful arches, all trumpeting its aristocratic splendor and all reflected in the water’s mirror.
The weakness gripped her that she’d felt aboard ship when they had come to Saint-Nazaire. But now Luc did not stand behind her to assure her, nor did she feel the touch of his hand holding hers as she had then. Her only companion this time was an odd little man with stiff collars and high heels who had not spoken to her on the day-long journey except to offer her food and pillows.
She supposed Mr. Miles was mourning too, in his way.
Now he leaned to the window and said, “As you see, the chateau is French Renaissance at its whimsically elegant best, madam. Brilliant architecture. Exquisite artistry.”
It was a fairy-tale castle out of a storybook and it gave her no pleasure.
“The dowager comtesse’s charitable work in the area saved it from the Revolutionaries and maintained it in the family,” he continued. “She perished some years ago, but her younger son continues to reside here in his brother’s absence. Are you acquainted with his lordship or his royal highness?”
“No. The prince hired me by letter, and I know nothing of the comte except that he is a minor English lord who has been absent from home for some time. I heard nothing of him in society.” She stared at the castle. “The people for whom I typically work have no interest in absentee lords, only those in London who might take notice of their daughters.”
Mr. Miles’s lips were tight. “The comte is heir to a title and property of extraordinary prestige in England, madam.”
In two month’s time Prince Reiner intended to introduce his sister into London society for the purpose of finding her a suitable husband. Perhaps he now visited the comte’s chateau in the hope of allying their families.
“Is he married?” she asked.
Mr. Miles turned his attention to the window. “Quite recently, in fact.”
They approached the castle with its walls that swept into the azure sky from the silver river like a fantasy. Two men came from within, liveried in blue and gold and bearing swords at their hips. Another man appeared, his black coat corded in silver, perhaps a butler. He opened the carriage door. Mr. Miles climbed out, stepped back and said, “Miss Caulfield, cousin to Lord Bedwyr. She has come to take up her post with her royal highness. His lordship the earl will be along in several days, I believe.”
Arabella was now cousin to an earl. She had not given a thought to it.
She took a footman’s hand and stepped out.
The butler bowed. “This way if you will, miss.”
Within, the chateau was yet more splendid than without. The foyer glittered with a crystal chandelier and mirrors to either side that turned her reflection into infinite images. She snapped her gaze away and allowed the butler to take her cloak. He guided her up a magnificent spiral staircase carved of stone to a corridor lined with lush red and gold carpets and portraits of ladies whose coifs rivaled the castle towers and men draped in purple robes trimmed in white ermine. He opened a door figured with gilt onto a drawing room of perfect splendor.
Silhouetted by light from the window, tall and slender, a lady turned. Amidst Egyptian brocaded chairs and sparkling pianoforte and gilded harp, and gowned in plain white muslin and a drab lace shawl, she looked nothing like a princess.
“Miss Caulfield?” she said.
Arabella curtsied deeply.
The princess came to her with eager steps. “Why, you are so young! And beautiful!” She spoke perfect English with the softest turn of her tongue that marked her as foreign. She took Arabella’s hands and bent to offer her two kisses, one upon each cheek. “When Reiner told me he had hired the redoubtable Miss Caulfield of London, I commenced quaking in my slippers. For who other than a perfect termagant of a governess could place so many young ladies in advantageous marriages? But you are not severe and horrid at all. What great fortune this is for me.”
“The fortune is mine, your highness.”
“I am Jacqueline to my friends.” She appraised Arabella’s face with open, intelligent eyes. The princess was a plain girl, with black, straight hair, a long nose, and a wide mouth that smiled easily. Her only adornment was a pearl pendant upon a filigree chain about her neck. “We shall be fast friends, I think.”
“I hope so, your—”
The princess squeezed her fingers. “Jacqueline,” she corrected. Her dark brows bent. “Unless you are a horrid, wicked, villainous witch of some sort and hide it well behind your lovely face and pensive smile. Are you?”
Witch.
Arabella pressed down on the ache in her chest. “You will discover that in due time.”
The princess laughed again and drew her to a sofa. “You must be fatigued after your journey. But Reiner understood from his secretary that you were to have arrived days ago.”
“I intended to. Then, unexpectedly, I suffered the loss of . . . a close relation.”
“Oh, I am terribly sorry, dear Miss Caulfield. I saw the black drape upon your carriage and imagined it was for the old duke. I had no idea you were in mourning. Yet you came to help me. You are better than I even imagined.”
That the princess understood little of the obligations of the serving class did not bother Arabella. Jacqueline was bright and kind and her hazel eyes shone with sincere sympathy now. Arabella nodded and wished for her sisters, to whom she could have confided the truth. Tonight she would write to Eleanor and Ravenna.
“The old duke?” she said.
“The Duke of Lycombe, uncle to the comte. He died little over a month ago, leaving our host as heir to his unborn child, it seems. I have never known an English duke. I always thought they were all pale and gray and severe. But my brother says the comte is a fine man, so if he should inherit his uncle’s title, my notion of English dukes will be quite dashed away.” She smiled. “Of course, Reiner likes horses and hunting dogs better than most people, so I don’t know that his recommendation can be taken without sober reflection. In fact, my brother is off hunting at a neighboring estate at present and shan’t return for at least a sennight.”
“I understood you were to depart for the winter palace within days.”
“Reiner is having too splendid a time here hunting and riding. So am I. It is ever so nice a place to read and write. We have decided to go directly from here to London.”
She might not have hurried. She might not have taken passage with Luc, and he might now be alive.
She struggled to make words come. “Is the comte here now?”
“No. His brother was in residence until a few weeks ago when he went off with my mother and Reiner’s courtiers to Paris. Since then it is only me and Reiner and a few of my waiting ladies who are all quite nice and deadly dull. But what a lovely holiday Reiner and I have been having. I do wish it could go on forever.” She sighed. “It cannot, of course. Reiner intends to wed me away to some old stodgy English lord, and I suppose since I have expected this since I can remember, I mustn’t think anything of it.”
“It is the reason he hired me.”
“But he cannot demand that you work when you are in mourning. Miss Caulfield, I propose that we continue on holiday through the month of September. Then you might mourn in peace and I might delay the inevitable a bit longer. If you agree, I vow that come October I will learn everything you wish to teach me in half the time. Do you think I can do it?”
“That all depends on whether you are a very foolish pupil”—like her teacher—“or a very wise one.” Was this typical grief—regret and pain and longing at once? It was difficult to breathe. Difficult to speak. She had made a life of pretense and yet she had never suffered through it before.
Jacqueline cracked a grin. “Does it?”
“Oh, yes.” She forced her tongue. “I like the wise pupils best, of course, but I can make something of the silly ones as well. What they lack in character they typically make up for in a strident devotion to conformity. Since most of the gentlemen of the ton are likewise unoriginal and predictable, matches are rarely difficult to facilitate.”
“Oh, Miss Caulfield—”
“Arabella.”
“I do believe, Arabella, that we are going to get along fabulously.”
As fabulously as two friends could when one was hiding grief and the other was running from her future.
AFTER TEA THE butler, Monsieur Brissot, led Arabella to her bedchamber. She took one look at the sumptuous four-poster bed arrayed in ivory silks with golden tassels, the Italian marble fireplace and thick carpet of pale pinks and gold, and backed away from the threshold.
“I beg your pardon,” she said. “I thought you meant to show me my chamber.”
“Ça y est, madame.” He gestured within.
“No, monsieur. It must be a mistake.”
“It is no mistake. Lord Bedwyr’s instruction was quite clear.” He said this as though it meant nothing to him that a servant of lesser status than he was being assigned a bedchamber fit for a noble guest.
For four days Arabella kept largely to that bedchamber, joining the princess for walks in the park that spread to one side of the river and for tea and dinner. On the fifth day Prince Reiner sent the carriage to collect his sister for a party that was to be given in her honor by his host at the neighboring estate.
“I would beg your company, Arabella,” Jacqueline said with a kiss on either of her cheeks. “But I suspect you would rather remain here. Indeed, like I would.” She smiled ruefully and went off to the party.
Arabella went to the terrace overlooking the river and stared into the water, which terrified her even in its mirrorlike tranquility. She drew the ruby ring from her gown and ran her thumb over the symbols embossed in the thick gold.
When Jacqueline returned she would bring her brother with her: the prince. Arabella knew she should feel the same tug of anticipation that every step toward discovering her true identity had given her. But she felt only emptiness. She would have thought it was heartbreak, but she must have a heart for that, and she’d long known she no longer possessed one of those. Neither weddable maiden nor truly wife or widow, the notion that she might someday be a princess now seemed like an ambition from another woman’s life and foolish beyond measure.
FOR SOME TIME there were nightmares of dark and desert and thirst and more nightmares and more thirst. Then came moments of light and brief, godsent satisfaction on his tongue and in his throat. Following these came more thirst and more nightmares, punctuated by the screams of a boy then a woman. In the darkness, he could never find them. The thirst consumed him.
Then the light spread. It became pearly gray, then white.
“Ah, Lucien. Welcome back to the world of the living.”
“Wine,” he said.
His brow was heavy.
The heaviness vanished, and coolness replaced it. It was heaven.
“Wine.”
“Why, I believe he’s said something, Charles!”
“Of course he said something, Anthony. He is conscious. Thus the lucid open eye. Speak up, cousin, or I shan’t be responsible for what I pretend to hear you say.”
“God’s breath, Luc! You gave us a wretched scare for a bit there.”
His mouth was parchment, his tongue five sizes too big.
“Wine.”
“All right, all right. No need to shout, old fellow.”
“Fetch him a glass of wine, Anthony.”
He tried to rise. Pain seized his belly, then spasms. He gasped.
“It will be best if you refrain from movement.” Cam’s voice came beside him. “You’ve a nasty hole in your side and none of us wish it to open up again, least of all Gavin who has had to sew it back together twice because you are too strong to be held down in a raving fever by no fewer than all three of us at once, even as ill as you were, damn you.”
Luc closed his eye and concentrated on not fainting. Agony everywhere. He breathed shallowly, testing his limbs one after another.
A hand hovered above his chin. A hand with a cup. But his head was too heavy to lift.
“Damned wretched business,” Tony muttered. He reached around the back of Luc’s neck, tilting his head forward. “Drink up, old man. Must recover your strength speedily. Don’t want to leave that pretty wife of yours a widow for too long, now do you? A girl like that’ll find the fortune hunters beating down her door in no time.”
Luc sputtered out the wine. “Widow?”
“Now look what you’ve done, Anthony. You have confused him and he hasn’t even been conscious for ten minutes yet.”
“I’m alive.”
“Objecting to the widow part,” Tony said, and stood again. “See here, Luc, old man, it had to be done. Poor girl. Devastated, don’t you know. But it was better that way. Safer for her.”
“Throt—” Pain twisted his bowels. He gasped for air. “Throttle the both of you.”
“I dare you to try.” Cam’s voice was smooth.
Luc relinquished the struggle. From the bone-familiar lull of his body as he lay still and the smooth oak ceiling above he knew he was in the captain’s quarters on the Victory. He was weak and his bedclothes were cold and damp. He’d been in fevers before. Even muddled, he recognized the aftermath.
He closed his eye and let himself sink into the cool bed linens. “Tell me.”
“Wise man.” Cam’s voice came closer. “You have perished, Captain Andrew of the Retribution. Your remains were deposited at sea from the deck of your old naval vessel upon which we are now sailing up and down the Breton coast.”
He waited.
“Why, you might ask, have we staged your premature demise yet labored in secret for lo this sennight to make ourselves liars? Because, you see, we believe you are a marked man. Or, rather, that you were. The assassins, having done the deed, are now presumably off the job. Until you are once again revealed to be alive, you’ve nothing to fear in your weakened state. In short, we wish you to recover fully before placing yourself in the line of danger again.”
Luc’s hands curled into fists. The pain in his gut spiked with each breath of anger.
“Let’s wait to explain the rest, Charles. Old boy’s looking terribly white about the mouth. Father Stewart, do bring—”
“Where. Is. She?”
“At the chateau,” Cam said. “Miles accompanied her there the day after the attack and placed her in Reiner’s care. She is safe there, and until we discover who it is that sought your death no one need know anything of her elevation to the aristocracy, which we believe to be optimal and with which you will no doubt concur. For her part, she seems disinclined to accept the validity of your hasty nuptials, which is for the best until we have gotten to the bottom of this.”
His scar ached. His shoulder ached. Breathing hurt. It all made him atrociously tired.
“Cutpurses,” he mumbled, sleep tugging at him.
“Assassins.” A crinkle of paper unfolding. “Look.”
He cracked his eyelid open and tried to focus on the page Cam held before him.
His face stared back at him. It was a perfect portrait, including the scar and kerchief. And it was quite clearly his brother’s work. Even signed at the bottom: Christos W.
“Anthony found this on the fellow that you killed on the beach. The other two men have not been found, but we believe from tracing their lodging in Saint-Nazaire that at least that one was Sicilian. Mercenary left over from the war, perhaps?”
“Scum,” Tony spat.
“So you see, cousin, we have cause to believe that somebody wishes the duke-to-be dead.”
“Not Christos,” Luc whispered.
“He is not at the chateau, Luc,” Cam said. “I have had a message from Mr. Miles. Your brother departed Saint-Reveé-des-Beaux a month ago claiming that he was off to Paris. He has not been heard from since.”
Luc’s mind was fuzzy. “A month . . .”
“A month ago, after our uncle died, bringing you perilously close to the dukedom, and young, mad Christos next.”
“No.” Impossible. “Impossible,” he whispered, then sleep dragged him under.
HE AWOKE IN the dark and struggled to place himself, then to recall.
“Cam?” His throat was on fire.
“Abed, lad,” Gavin said by his side, then helped him to drink. “Ye gave us all a guid fret. He’s no’ slept in a sennight.”
“Guilt.” He would laugh if it wouldn’t plunge him into agony.
“Devotion. Luves ye like a brither. Always has.”
Which was probably true. And given the deed of which he had unjustly accused his cousin seven months ago, Cam had been forgiving to only cut out his eye.
“Christos?”
“Anthony’s sent a man to Paris to find him.”
“Wasn’t him.”
“Aye, lad. But we’ve got to be certaint, nou dinna we?”
“Cam must go—” Pain shot through his gut, gripping his lungs.
“To the chateau. Aye. He’s already packed to leave in the morn.”
Luc managed a grimace. “Seems I’m not needed for anything,” he whispered.
“Anly to heal up fast. There be a lass who’ll be happy to see ye hale.”
That, or discovering him snatched from the brink of death, she would finish the deed herself.
THE PRINCESS AND prince returned from the hunting party a mere hour after the housekeeper told Arabella that the Earl of Bedwyr had arrived at the chateau.
Arabella awaited her royal charge in the parlor. Jacqueline spared no time in seeking her out there. With the train of her riding habit slung over her elbow, she drew off her gloves as she hurried into the chamber.
“Dear Arabella, how I missed you! I feel quite like you are my sister already. That is how urgently I wished to tell you every little thing that happened while I was away.”
“You honor me, your highness.”
The princess slanted her a suspicious eye. “Don’t tell me you are to become all stuffy and governesslike now that my brother has returned.”
“I—”
“No! I told you not to tell me, and I fear you are about to do just that. Instead come with me to my dressing chamber while I do away with this awful habit. I simply loathe riding to hounds, but that was all anybody would talk of—this hunter and that bitch and of course the countless foxes bagged and strung up for decoration.”
Arabella smiled. “Was it dreadfully dull?”
“I swear to you, Bella, I had nothing whatsoever to say to anybody the whole time. But that really isn’t anything out of the ordinary. I am horridly shy in company.”
Her disbelief showed.
The princess shrugged her straight shoulders. “I am wonderfully comfortable with a book or pen, and not at all at my ease with gentlemen and ladies of society. My tongue ties.” She linked her arm in Arabella’s and drew her into the corridor. “That is one of the reasons I like you. You never say a thing that makes me want to retreat behind the tapestries.”
“I cannot believe you.”
“But it is all too true. Sadly. Reiner knows my trouble, you see, and I’m afraid he hired you under false pretenses. I suspect you imagined you were to have a pupil who could open her mouth in regular company, but instead you are saddled with a filly that balks at the merest glimpse of a dog and positively runs in the other direction when a fox is near.”
Arabella laughed. It felt awful and a great relief at once.
“Ah, the sweet laughter of a lady,” came the earl’s voice from behind them. “What balm to the weary masculine soul.”
Arabella turned. Beside her, the princess gasped.
Lord Bedwyr stood at the other end of the corridor before the drawing room door, typically resplendent, his linens snowy and a hint of lace dripping from his cuffs. His hair was artfully disarranged and his smile was gorgeous.
Beside him the Prince of Sensaire seemed downright ordinary.
Arabella had once seen the Prince Regent of England from a distance. He was a florid-faced man of enormous girth and flamboyant dress, and certainly above fifty. At that moment she had cast off any childish imaginings she’d had that the prince she would wed would be young, handsome, or dashing.
Prince Reiner was not handsome or dashing, but in appearance he was as far from the Prince Regent as he was from the Earl of Bedwyr. Quite tall, he was lean from jaw to leg, lending him a lancelike air. He wore a neat white coat with military epaulettes, his color was robust, and his face, though not truly handsome, featured a fine, laughing pair of eyes.
“Reiner,” the earl said, “may I make you acquainted with my cousin, Miss Caulfield?”
The prince bowed. “Enchanté, mademoiselle.”
Arabella curtsied.
“And, Bedwyr, I must introduce you to my sister,” the prince said. “Jackie, I am pleased to have you know the Earl of Bedwyr, Westfall’s close companion since childhood.”
“Your highness.” Lord Bedwyr offered the princess an elegant bow.
Jacqueline dropped her eyes to the floor.
The earl turned away from her. “Reiner, old friend, news has come from England. Westfall is nearly Lycombe.”
“I heard. The ducal uncle is dead.”
“God bless his damned soul.”
“Have you heard from our friend lately, then?” the prince said. “Has he hurried back to London to await his fate, leaving you to enjoy his chateau in his stead?”
“In fact he is in France and intends to pay a call upon our merry party here.” He smiled at her and the princess. “Now, until our host arrives, whatever shall we do with our time?”
“YOU MUST ATTEND me at dinner every night, Bella,” Jacqueline insisted. “Those foolish waiting ladies my mother chose for me cannot be counted on to make interesting conversation, and I . . .”
