Royal Regard

Chapter 2, Part 1

Nicholas Northope always took notice when a lady he had never seen entered the room. However, it had been months, perhaps years, since the ninth Duke of Wellbridge had been so intrigued. No spring miss, the newcomer's face fascinated him: openly emotive, not the customary painted-on mask of genuine boredom. Eyes too close-set, a nose with character rather than charm, and cheeks more rounded than most, taken in total, he still found her features captivating. She stuck out in the crowd of jaded aristocrats like a sunflower in a field of nettles.

She had assuredly spent time in foreign ports; he might assume Spanish or Italian blood if her hair weren't brighter than a fresh-minted copper ha'penny. Her unfashionably dark face was curious, intelligent, and by the set of her jaw, probably opinionated. Yet, her shoulders hunched just slightly, as though she were afraid the entirety of the British aristocracy would collectively slap her face as soon as she walked through the door.

He tugged at his tailcoat and straightened his gloves, feeling a perfect fool in knee breeches and dancing pumps, when he far preferred buckskins and boots. The conformist rules at Almack's were, to his mind, set by rancorous old women with nothing better to do than make everyone else's life miserable, but his sister had insisted this afternoon once more than he had managed to refuse.

A thick strand of blond hair fell out of his once-neat—if out of fashion—queue, curling at his temple, but he refused to be seen adjusting his hair like a woman. Bad enough Allie had forced lace at his cuff and diamond shoe buckles. He looked ridiculous—more dandy than duke.

Nick saw the lady across the room take a deep, fortifying breath as she was joined by the Marchioness of Firthley. From the way the two women put their heads together without so much as a salutation, they were well acquainted, possibly family. Good, he thought. Though he had never met Lady Firthley, he knew the marquess well enough to procure an introduction.

The woman's gown was uglier than Satan's Sunday suit: poor tailoring and endless rows of floating horizontal ruffles emphasized all the wrong parts of her body, and petal sleeves looked like the inadequate wings of a land-bound bird. The pastel-pink tulle made her dusty-rose skin look dirty and her bronze hair look brassy. He knew someone—no, everyone—in the room was calling her kaffir or coolie or gypsy by now.

When her shoulders periodically twitched, tensing her muscles under an uncomfortable skin, the awful dress gave the impression she would fly away from unwelcome obligations. Every time she so much as trembled, Lady Firthley tapped her on the arm with her fan, and the face Lady Holsworthy made when she was cross was fascinating, too, if only because ladies so rarely appeared peevish in public. Nick wished he were standing nearer, so he could listen to her witty set-down. He'd bet a year's income it was witty.

Turning away, Nick looked around for Allie, hoping she might not see him presenting himself to a woman she hadn't chosen. Daughter of the seventh Duke of Wellbridge and sister to the eighth and ninth, Lady Allison was the unquestioned arbiter of appropriate ducal matches. To Nick's chagrin, this meant enduring endless lectures when he refused to help her sort through eligible ladies, no small source of irritation. It was hardly his fault she had made a deathbed promise to their mother that he didn't intend to keep.

The sooner he could accommodate this evening's demands, the sooner he could leave. He was rather in the mood for a card game, and perhaps a visit to King's Place to spend his winnings on a willing woman, as he had given his mistress her congé two weeks ago, after one too many whiny demands on his time. Tonight, he would happily pay double for a lascivious woman who would entertain him without following him home afterward.