Royal Regard

Chapter Twelve, Part 3

Before he could turn Prinny's raillery to his advantage, she confounded him again: "Oh, look at all the quinces! A veritable orchard!"

She actually twirled a quarter-turn on tiptoe, like a five-year-old girl in a field of butterflies, before she stopped herself short, her body and face settling half-comfortably behind a suddenly adult woman's face, a regretful compromise between the reckless innocent and the proper diplomatic lady.

She stepped up to the trees like she planned to speak to them, letting her cheek fall against a branch.

"Growing up," she explained, "we had two on the edge of the cottage garden, and honey-poached quince was my father's favorite sweet. I was always fair sick of quince by the end of the season, but always ready for the next year's harvest. These are too dark to harvest, more's the pity. The stones are good for gout."

She touched the branches lightly, testing the fruit, stroking the leaves in a way that left him breathless. He had to shake his head to lose the image of her using the same light touch against the fall of his trousers, testing the firmness of his—

He stepped behind one of the shrubs. A grown man shouldn't be sporting a cock-stand in the king's garden. He had long since forgiven Brummell the five-hundred-guinea note he'd left Nick holding when he ran for the Continent, but he would never forgive the fiend for the fashion of high-waisted jackets.

"I am not so noble as you might think, my lady."

She cut her eyes at him. "No? Do you pursue an honest living between shopping on Bond Street and supper at White's?"

He smiled apologetically. "Well, not so honest as that, but I am known as something of a radical in Parliament on behalf of those who are forced to a hard day's labor."

She crouched down to investigate the mosses growing at the base of the plants, her shawl falling off her shoulder, giving him an unobstructed view of her bosom, even in her modest gown. At the sound of rustling in the bushes, she looked up almost at an angle to catch his eye, her lips just slightly parted, a position that did nothing to restore his trousers or heartbeat to a suitable state. Fortunately, her gaze followed the flight of an unwary swallow escaping their incursion, giving Nick enough time to remember what he had meant to say next.

"My travels were likely more, shall we say ignoble than yours, my lady," he said. "I, you understand, did not have to spend my time with wealthy merchants and ambassadors, and was not limited to areas offering accommodations for ladies."

"Touché," she chortled as she stood, "though the stories I could tell about 'accommodations for ladies' would turn your hair white." As they passed a formation of blackberry bushes trimmed in neat rows, she said, "Enlighten me as to your ignoble travels, then. Did you journey into the interiors? As you say, we spent most of our time on coastlines, unless there was a larger European presence inland, and always guests of the most prominent citizens. I longed to explore the jungles."

He cleared his throat. "The wilds are not at all the place for a lady."

She sent a grumpy look his way, narrowing her eyes. "So I am told."

He amended, "Nor the place for a man, if he is not a native or attached to the military, and I was neither. The natives I knew were already half-civilized, and I met them in whatever European settlement was closest. I never struck out into the jungles alone, and port towns held many attractions."

"Indeed?"

"Where there are ships, there are most often better protections from hostiles and some sort of roof for let, and if you will forgive, pursuits typically outside the purview of the young English gentleman." Once again, he found himself in a conversation he had not meant to initiate.