Royal Regard

Chapter Twenty, Part 2

"Bella, sweeting, it is only the fireworks." Wellbridge's voice emerged from behind his disguise.

When she stared, uncomprehending, he snapped his fingers in front of her eyes and pulled his mask up, settling it atop his head. "Lady Huntleigh, it is I, Nick. Wellbridge. Are you all right? What's wrong?"

She moaned, "Oh, God. Oh, dear God," and yanked herself away, her head turning left to right, trying to figure out where she was and the direction to Charlotte and Alexander's supper box. Before she could evade him, Nick took hold of her hand and firmly brought it to his arm.

"I'll take you back to Ch—Lady Firthley. She sent me to find you, and I'm glad I have." Searching her face, he frowned at her lips, which felt bruised and swollen. Touching them, she found they were, and now she had managed to call his attention to it. She knew the false hair must be askew, but now knew better than to check until he was looking the other way.

"You must assure me you haven't been hurt." He set his jaw. "No, I can see you have been hurt. You must assure me you can make it back to your cousin before I seek out a doctor."

Heartily embarrassed, she turned her burning face away, stumbling into step at his side.

"No. No, I am perfectly well, Your Grace. You can let me go." She tried to pull her hand away, but he held it fast at his elbow, appearing entirely circumspect to the crowds around them, but giving no quarter.

She tried to bring her breathing back under control, but shuddered every time she recalled what she had done. She reached up with her free hand to reattach her mask, so that no one who hadn't already would identify her, when she must look like she'd just been swived behind the bushes.

He tried to keep his tone light, but as usual, said the wrong thing. If they would make a go of things, she really must work on that. Except now they would never make a go of things.

"When Charlotte told me about your costume, I must admit wishing I'd come attired as the Sultan of Brunei—" He looked down at her dress. "Or the King of the Gypsies—but I would never choose a concubine afraid for her life."

"I'm not afraid for—Concubine? You are insulting." Her outrage was forced and insincere, a whine, not a roar.

"Lady Huntleigh, I am as worldly as the next man and have no reason to judge your knowledge of hareem girls, but I am certain no woman runs from a lover as though Satan himself were on her heels." She started and tightened the grip on his arm, but didn't otherwise respond. "Will you tell me what happened, or shall I have Prinny send his guards to investigate? It is his party, after all."

She paled even further, but hissed, "I am quite well. I was only... lost. Release me this instant, you filthy swine."

"Ah, now there is the lovely Lady Huntleigh I have come to esteem so," he smiled. "If you will promise you haven't run afoul of a footpad and won't dash away or have the vapors and fall at my feet, I will let you loose, but it won't stop me asking questions."

"Footpads at the king's gala." She managed to bring her voice back to a semblance of normalcy and stop her legs shaking. "What twaddle."

"Not so, my dear. Vauxhall is filled with miscreants, some rich, some poor." He leaned closer and lowered his voice. "Some might even say the king himself is one."

"You are quite bold, insulting His Majesty at his own party." She tossed her false hair back and set it even further askew. "I can only hope he hears you and sends you directly to the gallows."

He chuckled as he straightened the hairpiece and the gold chains, "He would be the first to admit he is a scoundrel. You are feeling quite well? You have your breath back?" He ran the back of his index finger along her temple and down her cheek, as though he would loosen the mask to kiss her. She gasped and choked and wrenched her face away, almost losing herself to tears.