Royal Regard

Chapter Eighteen

"Might I have this dance, Lady Huntleigh?" Nick held out his hand to lead Bella to the floor in Lady Chesfield's ballroom. Supper was over, she had just finished a cup of lemonade, the musicians were preparing their instruments again, and Charlotte had gone to the retiring room with a significant stare in his direction, clearing the field for his invitation.

"I think not, Your Grace," Bella declined.

Nick wanted to beg but restrained himself in public. The five-hour candles were only half-burned, so there was still time to overcome the anger she had been leveling at him for almost a fortnight. Between "I-prefer-to-be-alone" and "No-need-for-apology" and "I-would-not-like-to-lend-credence-to-gossip," Nick might as well be an unwelcome stranger in her home, no matter how much latitude he had been granted by Lord Huntleigh.

"I believe the next set is promised to Lord Malbourne."

He dropped his hand and hissed, "Malbourne? You know perfectly well that is unacceptable. Huntleigh will have my—"

She kept her voice hushed and even and her face gentle, but not her tone. "Then you may go find Lord Huntleigh in the card room and the two of you may bloody well kill each other whilst I dance with Lord Malbourne."

Even Huntleigh had been unable to entirely control her actions since the ill-fated day Nick had proposed. Huntleigh confided she had softened somewhat toward her husband, as they never knew from one day to the next if he would be ill, seemingly on his deathbed.

The last time he had been unwell, Bella was so solicitous, she barely noticed Nick's uninvited presence, merely using him as a footman to carry basins of water, roll bandages, and prepare foul-smelling teas from roots and bark and dried flowers. However, on nights when Huntleigh was healthy enough to demand no special treatment, like tonight, she still behaved like both men were mud on the hem of her gown.

Huntleigh took the whole thing in stride, having managed her anger before, but she was driving Nick out of his mind. If he wanted to be treated like mud, he had a perfectly good sister. If he wanted to be thought a footman, he would close his account at Weston's and give up his membership at White's.

Flowers hadn't resolved the upset, nor grandiloquent poetry, French pastries, expensive books, even framed prints of her own floral sketches, pilfered from the king's library. Clothing of any sort, even hats or gloves, was entirely too intimate, and when he suggested to Lady Firthley he buy ribbons to remind Bella of the day they had met at Gunter's, she had shaken her head so hard she nearly dislodged her coiffure.

No matter what he had sent, or even offered on bended knee, Bella threw it back in his face—in the case of the pastries, quite literally. Even in childhood, he had never before needed to remove jam from his hair.

He couldn't buy jewelry, as her husband had deemed it inappropriate, no matter how much both of them would like to see this extended fit of temper ended. Huntleigh, however, made two trips to Rundell, Bridge, and Rundell, one in the company of the king, and Nick had retrieved and delivered the final commissioned pieces to Huntleigh to gift her from his periodic sickbed.

Both Huntleigh and Charlotte had become allies of sorts in his abortive attempts to woo Bella, but neither had given him any truly effective advice, other than the belated intelligence that there was nothing shy about an angry Isabella Huntleigh. There was no way to end Bella's tempers until Bella herself decided to end them.

Which would, apparently, not be at the Chesfield's ball. Without another word, Bella turned to the slimy Frenchman he now knew well enough to despise, smiled broadly and curtsied deeply while Nick's nemesis bowed. Bella didn't even turn her head to see how Nick reacted. If she had, he would know she was doing this purposely to make him jealous, which would be a much better state of affairs.