Royal Regard (17 page)

The baby started screaming immediately, and
when the older woman beckoned to Jewel, she hid her face in Bella’s
neck and shrieked “Don’t want to! Want to thtay with Auntie Bella!”
nearly shattering Bella’s eardrum.

“Come along, Miss,” the nurse said firmly. “I
am told there are nice things waiting in the nursery.”

Mr. Watts nodded as Bella said, “Indeed there
are. Brand-new toys for you to play with when you visit, and if you
are a very good girl, I expect Mrs. Jemison might be convinced to
bring you cakes and milk.”

Jewel was unconvinced. “Cakes before
supper?”

“Cakes taste best before supper, don’t you
think?” Bella asked. Jewel nodded and reached out to Nurse, whose
arms were filled with Alex. Bella set her down and ruffled her
hair. “I’m sure such a big girl can walk upstairs with Mr. Watts.
You don’t need Nurse to carry you.” Nurse followed Watts out,
listing under Alex’s weight, almost dragged off balance by Jewel,
now impatient for the promised treats.

Charlotte sighed and mumbled, “I wish you had
children I could spoil until you tear your hair out.”

Instantaneously, Charlotte’s face crumpled,
“I’m so sorry, Bella… I didn’t mean…”

Bella’s throat closed, and she looked into
the corner of the room. She swallowed tears and tried desperately
to compose her face. “No need for apology, Charlotte. Thankfully,
it is years too late for pity.” Before she became maudlin, she
turned to Wellbridge, who was staring with more than a little
concern, but the sympathy in his eyes only made it harder to
maintain her composure.

“I am sorry Lord Huntleigh was unavailable to
entertain your requests, Sir, and I apologize for my cousin
burdening you needlessly with my family’s small tragedies. I hope
you will forgive me cutting your visit short.”

“Of course. Think nothing of it.”

“I will ask my husband to call on you as soon
as he returns.” Bella reached over to the bell pull to summon
another servant.

Wellbridge simply said, “That would be most
kind, Lady Huntleigh, but there is no particular urgency. Thank you
so much for tea. I hope I will see you and Lord Huntleigh soon.” He
bowed his head to the two women, but didn’t attempt to kiss Bella’s
hand. When Mrs. Jemison came in, Bella directed her to return the
duke’s coat and hat and show him out.

Bella saw her cousin take in the dry crusts
of sandwiches and crumbs of cakes, the almost-empty whiskey
decanter on the tea table, and the inches of dregs in the slop
bowl, but Charlotte didn’t say anything about how long Wellbridge
must have stayed.

She sat down on the sofa and pulled Bella
down after her. “Darling, I’m so sorry… I wasn’t thinking… I swear
I never meant… I can take the children home right now…” When Bella
declined emphatically, but began weeping, Charlotte held her cousin
in her arms and rocked her like she was still a child herself.

The intensity of Bella’s thoughts
nearly matched the colors and emotions of
The Triumph of
David
. Her trip to the Dulwich Gallery was long overdue, and
the solitude most welcome. She had only narrowly avoided Charlotte
accompanying her, which would have resulted in an entire afternoon
of whining about the much more fulfilling enticements on Bond
Street—the shops and the rakish men who patronized them, all of
whom, Charlotte said, Bella should be evaluating as potential
husbands.

As Bella looked down at her guidebook,
searching out any further information about Poussin, she heard a
low voice and steep French accent in her ear, sending shivers down
the neck of her gown.

“My dear Lady Huntleigh, how marvelous it is
to come upon you.”

“Your Grace,” she said as she turned and
curtsied to rank.

What was it about her that suddenly made
charming rakes want to sneak up on her in public, and what was she
supposed to do when they did? Didn’t they know she couldn’t be
coherent when they stood so close? She wondered if she could
convince a pair of dukes to wear bells on their watch chains.

“I see you have found the contributions from
France.” He gently guided her to the next painting,
Rinaldo and
Armida
. “Most probably stolen by Bourgeois and Desenfans, but
this I can forgive, as it allows me to remember sweeter times
past.” He looked Bella up and down as he added, “Were I a thief, it
would be my pleasure to pilfer such beauty.”

She slouched slightly to hide herself
inadequately from his boldness. No matter what she did, she always
felt a green girl in his presence, as though she had been caught
dressing up in her mother’s clothes. “I think you must be following
me,
Monsieur
.”

He chuckled. “But of course, my sweet,” he
said, tipping up her chin with his index finger to force her to
straighten her shoulders and look at him. “If I did not, I might
never be allowed to speak with you alone.”

“You are scandalous, Your Grace,” she
whispered, her eyes looking away, though her face couldn’t follow
suit, not sure what else to say to such a brazen admission.

He shrugged carelessly as he let her go,
explaining, “You are always surrounded by gentlemen hoping to
protect you from harm, and sadly, they believe my surname must be
Dégât, rather than Fouret.” He kept walking, forcing her to join
him or step away, rightfully secure in her decision.

“Perhaps if your name were ‘Harm,’ it would
offer some warning to the young ladies who find you so intriguing.
I would be reminded what will happen to my marriage, should anyone
come upon us.” Which surely had already happened, as the gallery
was hardly private.

“Indeed, young ladies do seem to follow in my
wake. It has always been so, but I give to you my word, gentle
lady, I shall keep you free of any hint of dishonor. Surely, there
can be no disgrace in an accidental public meeting. It is well
known we are both great lovers… of art… are we not?”

She blushed and looked away from him, just
catching the outline of his strong shoulders from the corner of her
eye. As usual, she was far too interested in engaging this handsome
and cultured man in conversation, but without any idea what she
should say.

“I’m not certain what it is you want from me,
Your Grace.”

He cast a sly smile like a fishing lure from
the side of his mouth. “This is simple,
mon ange
. I intend
to make you love me.”

She stepped back, her mouth fallen open.
“
Love
you
?”

“But of course,
ma chère
. Romance is
so much sweeter when it engages the heart, not only the body. Do
not mistake me; I find you most beautiful, and I know you find me
not so unattractive, and I wish very much to make love to you.”

She strangled on her response and coughed
until she thought she would cast up her accounts. Thankfully, she
did not, but neither could she think of anything to say that
wouldn’t result in a nasty public scene and months of humiliation
for them both, even more than tomorrow’s speculation about this
meeting—hopefully not in the newspaper.

Her hands shook when she considered his
feelings if she were to send him away. Even worse, she wondered
about her own. He might make her endlessly nervous, but she
couldn’t help her interest in his clever conversation. And the way
he so perfectly filled out his clothes. The bergamot that permeated
in his hair oil or his soap or his very person was an endless
source of titillation, even when he wasn’t in her presence; she’d
had to give up such infused Chinese teas altogether.

It must be sinful for a man his age to have
so few faults.

He continued, “However, my dear, your
thoughts, your intelligence, your quiet dignity, intrigue me as
much as your dazzling eyes and exquisite hair. In repose, my love,
you have the golden hair and blue eyes of an angel, but when the
ire is up, when your passion shows, your cat’s eyes glow green and
your hair reddens like the flames of Hell. Fascinating.”

As his gaze wandered lower, he added, “And
naturally, the beautiful breasts and the waist so sadly tortured in
that English cage. Still, your spirit is… unfettered.”

Skipping over her skirt, moving his eyes up
from the floor, he said, “The turn of your ankle is like music,
ma fifille,
and I wish to follow the melody to your inner
thigh, as I believe there I find the songs of Heaven.” He at last
looked deep into her eyes. “The two of us in bed, we are a
symphony,
ma mie.
A masterpiece.”

She had stopped in her tracks at the word
‘breasts’ and squeaked at ‘inner thigh.’ Rather than drawing even
more attention or giving him a further target for his musings, she
folded her arms across her chest and started walking again, the
heat in her face almost making her perspire.

“But of course,
ma minette
, so, too,
you have a gentle heart and kindly nature, most charming… Any man
could love such a woman.”

She racked her brain for anything to say to
rescue her sodden dignity. “Perhaps,
Monsieur le Duc
, you
have forgotten I am married.”

He laughed, “Perhaps,
ma petite
, you
have forgotten I am French.”

She stopped again when he ran his thumb down
her shoulder. She didn’t pull away, but did look around, startled
to see he had maneuvered her into an alcove, hidden from the other
patrons. Even though the commentary unnerved her in every way—and
well it should—she couldn’t decide whether the disturbance of her
sensibilities was good or bad. His eyes drifted down her throat
again, and when his gaze caressed her breasts, it might have been
his hands, as quickly as her breathing shallowed.

Once she was completely disoriented, he
shattered her nerves entirely with a self-satisfied smile, stepped
back, and offered his arm. She shrank into a small shake of her
head, but he moved not an inch, blocking her exit from the niche
until she took his elbow.

He waited patiently for her to step back to
his side and start walking again, apparently happy to remain silent
as she mulled over the idea of romance, not only chaste friendship,
but every minute she didn’t speak made it seem more and more as
though she were considering it. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t
suspected, but hearing him say it—in such
descriptive
language
—brought her conversational abilities to a screaming
halt.

When a few minutes had passed with no word
from her, Malbourne initiated an exchange Bella recognized as the
type a self-assured gentleman would use to draw out conversation
from a wallflower struck dumb. Not so far off the mark.

“Does your guidebook tell you about this
building? It is new, but for a fellow student of architecture,
perhaps as interesting as the paintings. Quite radical.”

“Two full pages,” she said, swallowing her
confusion along with the frog in her throat, “and I am fascinated.
The natural light from the roof windows is magnificent. I have
never seen galleries so perfect for displaying oils. Without the
glare…” she trailed off, not sure how to express what she had been
thinking just before he appeared to throw her thoughts off
balance.

“Without the glare, the paintings can
breathe,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“Yes. Yes, that is exactly right. Soane is a
master artist as much as any painter.”

He walked slowly beside her, not pointing out
what was obvious to her: they were now ambling right past the
artwork, more engaged with their conversation than its
subjects.

“Have you yet visited the British
Gallery?”

She smiled broadly, leaving behind any
question of his masterful seduction, certain now that forewarned
was adequately forearmed. “I attended an exhibition with Lord
Huntleigh last week and have been asked to become a trustee.”

“
Ma belle, c’est bien!
The Governors
are wise men to appreciate your taste.”

With a note of pride, she added, “I am the
first woman to be asked, and quite astonishing really, considering
I have no works to loan like the others. I have always wanted a
collection of my own, but we were never in one place long
enough.”

“I am sure you have seen many more
masterpieces than even the most ardent of collectors. Your counsel
can only advance their work.”

“Do you really think it so? I was certain it
was only to encourage Lord Huntleigh’s patronage, but His Majesty
says the Galleries need the Countess of Huntleigh more than the
earl. Prinny is a flatterer, though. One never knows when he is
sincere.”

“I have found in my time,
ma chère
,
questioning the motives of a king is best left to other monarchs. I
am certain His Majesty would not lie to you about such a small
thing, but one must always remember that princes are
capricious.”

She didn’t respond, but for her proud smile.
Other than with this man, with whom she might always feel uneasy,
she finally, for the first time in her life, felt as though she
might be able to manage herself in London. The aristocracy still
frightened her, but with every new perceived honor, every new lady
who deigned to call upon her, every new gentleman who requested a
dance, she took one step away from her constantly tongue-tied
state. She was learning, slowly, that her fear might be just a bit
misplaced.