Some Enchanted Evening (20 page)

"That must have been why I walked all the way out here." Amy's lower lip stuck out precipitously. "So I could be a model for your demonstration."

Guilt ripped through Clarice. Amy lived the life of a seamstress, sewing until her eyes ached, living in Mistress Dubb's minuscule bedchamber under the eaves, walking instead of riding the road to MacKenzie Manor. No wonder Amy resented Clarice.

Guiding Amy into the solitude of the small sitting room, Clarice said, "I realize you came for a reason of your own, and I want to hear about it without delay. It was just that you arrived right after I started the demonstration and I dared not tell them I had to stop and speak to you —"

Amy stared at her, hostility radiating from every pore.

"— my sister?" Clarice finished on a questioning note, trying to explain what didn't need to be explained.

"No, you couldn't tell them that. That would ruin everything. The whole ridiculous royal secret charade." Amy whirled away from Clarice's touch. "Look, Clarice, I'm tired of being a demonstration" — she took a deep breath and shouted — "and I'm tired of being a princess."

Hastily Clarice shut the door and for good measure switched to Italian. "What do you mean? You are a princess. You can't change that."

"Don't be ridiculous." Amy paced across the room. "We're not princesses. We don't have a country."

"We do have a country!" Clarice had explained this to Amy before. "We're in temporary exile."

"Temporary exile for the rest of our lives." Amy wrung her fingers until the knuckles turned white. "I'm not doing this anymore. I'm not riding into town ahead of you. I'm not fooling people into thinking you've transformed me from a witch to a beauty. It's over."

"That's fine." Clarice tried to take Amy's hands, to comfort her, but Amy would have none of her reassurance. "This time I'm going to make enough money to carry us back to Beaumontagne."

Amy mocked her. "I thought we weren't supposed to go back until we get the word."

"I've started to wonder if someone is sabotaging Grandmamma's attempts to reach us. That would make such a difference." Clarice tapped her fingers together. "I'm tempted to write Grandmamma."

"If it weren't for me, you would have already gone back to Beaumontagne. Isn't that right?"

Amy's astuteness made Clarice falter. "Why do you say that?"

"I know you. You're as brave as a lion. If you weren't worried about my safety, you'd have made the trip already and discovered the truth of what's happening there." Amy watched her far too closely. "Wouldn't you have?"

"You were only twelve when we left the school, and I deemed it unwise to go back so soon." Which wasn't an answer, but it would have to do.

Yet Amy wouldn't give up. "But later. You've been thinking about going back for a long time, I could tell. If you weren't responsible for me, you would have returned no matter how many difficulties you faced."

"I hardly dare cross Grandmamma's will." That wasn't an answer either, and Amy knew it. Clarice could tell by the derisive twist of her sister's mouth. "I have now resolved to write to Grandmamma, and when I do —"

"You don't understand." Throwing up her hands in extreme exasperation, Amy paced away. "It doesn't matter. I don't care. I don't want to go back to Beaumontagne."

Patiently Clarice followed her. "You don't mean that."

Amy whirled on her, eyes flashing. "Yes, I do. You've worked so we could go back to Beaumontagne, but you've never asked me what I wanted."

Bewildered, Clarice asked, "What
do
you want?"

"I don't care about some faraway country that I scarcely remember!" Amy took Clarice by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. "I want to find someplace in England or in Scotland where we can settle down and do real work — designing clothes or anything that makes the magistrate ignore us."

"Amy."
Amy didn't know what she was saying
. "I'm sorry you don't remember Beaumontagne as I do, and I blame myself for not keeping it in the forefront of your mind —"

Amy blew out an exaggerated, exasperated breath. "I remember it! I was nine when I left, not two. But what good are memories? You're so busy remembering Beaumontagne, you can't look at the landscape around us. You're so busy remembering our lost family that you don't notice the people we talk to every day. You can't live today because you're so eager to live when you get back to Beaumontagne. You're as above the day-to-day occurrences as if you were still living in that castle in Beaumontagne."

Dumbly Clarice stared at her sister. If only it were true. If only she lived merely for tomorrow.

Last night she'd lived for the moment. Robert MacKenzie had dragged her from her preoccupation with what was right and proper for a princess and into his life with its rage and its pain. She'd felt those emotions with him, had given herself to help him, and nothing would ever be the same again.

As the words boiled from her, Amy didn't notice Clarice's anguish. She kept talking faster and faster, as if she had dammed her sentiments for too long. "Me

— I'm tired of waiting for tomorrow to live. I want to live here, now, before I'm so old there are no tomorrows left."

"We can't be like normal people. We're not normal people. We're princesses, and all that that entails applies to us." Clarice was surprised to realize how rational she sounded, not at all like a woman who last night had betrayed her heritage in the worst manner possible. "We must remain above the common walk of life —"

Amy talked right over the top of her. "I've heard it all before. I don't care." Taking Clarice's cheeks in her hands, Amy looked into her face. "I refuse to be a princess any longer."

Clarice smiled, although her lips trembled. "Dear sister, I know how frustrated you must be, but I promise if you'll be patient for a few more days, I'll have enough money for us to travel cautiously and wisely back to Beaumontagne."

Amy looked down at the carpet. Traced its design with the toe of her sturdy boot. Looked up and smiled — and the sadness in her smile shook Clarice. "You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?"

In frustration Clarice said, "Yes, I've heard you, but I don't know what you want."

"You've heard me, but you haven't listened." When Clarice would have argued, Amy waved her to silence. "Don't worry, I really do understand. I only wish . . . well, if wishes were horses, the beggar would ride. Isn't that correct? I'll see you when the time is right. Remember, I'm older than you were when you had to begin caring for me."

"When I think how green I was —"

"I'm not green. I'm much more experienced than you were. Now, you must take care of yourself as well as you've tended to me. This is a volatile situation and I worry about you." Amy kissed Clarice's forehead, then stepped away.

"I'll be fine." Although Amy was right. The situation was volatile and would be more so when next Clarice saw Lord Hepburn. "I have everything under control."

"Of course you do. You can always take care of yourself." Amy smiled with what looked like admiration. "Just remember, I learned to care for myself watching you, and you're the best sister anyone ever had." She moved toward the door.

Amy's assurances alarmed Clarice as nothing else could, and she followed her sister. "Wait, Amy."

But as Amy reached for the knob, a knock sounded. She swung the door open wide to reveal a tall, young footman.

It was Norval, looking more nervous, if possible, than ever. "Yes?" Clarice questioned gently.

He bowed, his long legs awkward. "Yer Highness, His Lordship wishes t' meet wi’ ye in the library. He asks that ye go t' him immediately."

Nothing else could have diverted her from Amy's purpose as did that message.

Hepburn wanted to see her again.

Of course, she knew rationally that they would have to see each other again, but to have the moment defined shook her, made her want to run and hide . . , and at the same time, she wanted to rush to him.

Who was she? The princess she knew herself to be? Or simply a woman so foolish as to desire a man beyond sense and propriety?

Amy slipped around the footman and took a few steps down the corridor. "God bless you, Clarice."

Distracted, Clarice answered, "I'll come into the village as soon as the ball is over and we'll talk."

Amy nodded, smiled, waved. "Farewell."

Chapter Eighteen

The most interesting people are the people interested in you. A wise princess can use this knowledge to rule her world.

— The Dowager Queen of Beaumontagne

Clarice started down the corridor toward the library, Norval forgotten, Amy forgotten, the demands of the ladies and their complexions forgotten. Nothing mattered except the clench of her gut and the rising anticipation she experienced at seeing Hepburn again.

Then she noticed the footman's frightened eyes staring at her anxiously. She didn't care; she just didn't care what his problem was.

But the sight of his hangdog expression clung in her mind. Before she turned the corner, she found herself stopping. "Is there a problem, Norval?"

He shuffled his feet. "Yer Highness, the master told me t' immediately direct ye t' the library when ye had finished wi' the ladies, and . , . and I was working elsewhere." He flushed miserably under her inquiring gaze and corrected himself. "That is, I was speaking t' one o’ the maids, and I missed telling ye straightaway, like the master instructed."

"Then we won't tell him." She tried to leave, to go see him.

"The master sees everything, and he has a fearsome temper." Norval lowered his voice. "I hear that yesterday he killed ten rogues wi' his bare fists."

"Two men, and he merely beat them." She couldn't believe she was comforting Norval about an event that had awed and frightened her.

"They say in the kitchen that the master's mad," Norval whispered.

"He is most certainly not mad," she said with irritation, "and so you may tell them in the kitchen."

Norval bowed as she moved off at a brisk pace.

How ridiculous to think Hepburn was mad because he'd beaten those men! Yes, at one time she might have thought so, but last night had changed that. Last night. . .

She tucked a wisp of hair back with trembling fingers.

Last night she had hated him and loved him and feared him . . . and she had lain with him.

Oh, God. All the previous days of her sojourn in MacKenzie Manor she had feared his madness. Now she wondered at her own. She was going to see him again, and she didn't know what to say. Grandmamma had taught her how to act in every eventuality — except this one.

The bright sunlight coming through the windows should have given her courage; instead, she feared it would expose her thoughts for everyone to see.

An internal voice mocked.
Everyone
?

No one lingered in the corridors. She fooled only herself. The one from whom she wanted to shield her thoughts was Hepburn, because last night had been wonderful and awkward and too much to comprehend.

The door to the library loomed before her. Standing still, she stared as if it were a portal to another world.
He
was on the other side. Last night, when she'd made her way to her bedchamber, she had slept only with difficulty. Her mind had been a tangle of new revelations and old dreams, her emotions swinging from exhilaration to despair. Now she had to face him again, and she wasn't prepared.

She would never be prepared.

The rustle of silk and the patter of feet brought her head around. Larissa hurried toward her, her gimlet gaze fixed on Clarice with all the charity of an eagle spotting its prey. "Princess Clarice!" Her demanding voice was nothing like the sultry tone she affected before Lord Hepburn. "I require your attendance in my bedchamber at once."

How interesting. Larissa and her mother had made their opinions of her ministrations clear. "May I know the reason?"

A slow wave of crimson climbed from Larissa's low bodice to the top of her forehead. "Because I said so."

But Clarice could now see the reason. In public Larissa might say she wouldn't deign to wear Clarice's concealing creams, but a red spot glowed between her eyebrows.

"Just collect your royal secrets and meet me in my bedchamber!" Larissa snapped.

"I'm sorry, Miss Trumbull, but that's not possible. I have another appointment." Clarice remained civil, her voice steady. "Perhaps later?"

If anything, the color deepened on Larissa's face and the spot between her brows turned purple. "Princess Clarice" — she rolled the
r
in
princess
— "you do not know to whom you speak. I am the only child of Reginald Buford Trumbull of Trumbull Hall and of Ann Joann Stark-Nash of Castle Grahame, and we do not put up with insolence from mere peddlers." She smiled with tight haughtiness. "Not even peddlers claiming to be the dispossessed royalty of some mysterious unmentioned country, existing, no doubt, in the fevers of your brain."

Clarice had been insulted before, and by better people, but something about Larissa's snotty assurance got under her skin. Clarice's smile could be called only majestic, and her voice had a bite she normally reserved for yapping dogs and men who dared more than they should. "My dear Miss Trumbull, I am sure your antecedents are all that you claim. However, whether or not you believe me to be royal is a matter of indifference to me. What does matter is that I've given my word to go assist someone else, and I always keep my word." Her tone contained a whiplash of scorn. "I'm sure someone of your consequence realizes the value of keeping one's word."