Royal Regard

Chapter Twenty-Two, Part 2

He followed the butler down the hall to the library, where she was waiting quietly in a corner, almost hiding behind a red-gold pelisse that made the flame in her hair glint in the light of the honey-scented beeswax candles. She had removed the coat, holding it like a shield, arms crossed, shoulders hunched in the position she took up on occasions when she wished to become wallpaper.

Nick nearly drooled at the high-waisted, décolleté, curvaceous dress he had never before seen: heavy pomegranate satin under loose-weave gold muslin with gold tapestry trim and long, sheer, gathered net sleeves, just a bit too low-cut, a bit too formal, a bit too ephemeral for mid-afternoon. The dress fell to her perfect ankle above her red satin slippers, the dancing shoes hardly sturdy enough to walk on the street. Her reticule was gold, trimmed with red ribbons. She looked like gold inlaid into rubies set in gold.

He had told himself he wouldn't put up with her yelling again, but he might put up with anything if the reward were removing this particular gown. Soon.

He gave himself a mental shake, recalling seemingly endless anger directed at him for risking gaol, if not hanging, in her defense. But even before Vauxhall, she had returned seven bouquets of flowers and four books, including a rare signed copy of Mary Tighe's Psyche, not to mention enough of his own poetry to fill another volume. She had danced with Malbourne right in front of him, thirteen times on six different occasions, all but giving Nick the cut direct.

Finally, she had asked the Frenchman to meet her at Allie's musicale without an invitation, willing to defy every tenet of proper behavior if it meant thwarting him. Worse, Nick had paid for the clear field at his sister's party with all sorts of promises to Allie that he still had to keep, even though Bella had spent the whole time ignoring him to talk about the opera singer in French.

If Bella had appeared in his foyer a fortnight earlier, right after their first fight, he might have begged her forgiveness. A sennight ago, he would have been annoyed at her intransigence and therefore cold. Since Vauxhall, however, as long as she put up with him acting like her shadow, she could say or do almost anything she wanted, barring any threat to her own safety. Today, the best he could do was present a detached countenance and engage in the politest of discourse. At the worst...

He didn't want to think about the worst.

As soon as he saw her face, his detached countenance flew out the window as though Blakeley had left it wide open.

"Bella, what is it? Are you all right? You're pale." He reached out to touch her, to make sure she wasn't hurt, but pulled back his hand when Blakeley hurried in behind him, lighting more lamps and stirring up the fire.

"Enough, Blakeley. Leave us, please."

Nick remained standing, not wanting to be too comfortable, in case Bella were only here to scream at him and he had to find it within himself to send her away. He motioned her to a loveseat, and she started by answering his earlier question, "There is no need for concern, sir. No one has been harmed."

He stepped back, leaning his hand on the red flocked wallpaper to keep himself standing. Concern for her safety abated, he was left with no bones at all.

Her face crumpled. "Except you."

"What do you mean, Lady Huntleigh? I am entirely well." He couldn't help adding, "Setting aside the bruised knuckles and sullied reputation, of course."

"I have been a perfect beast to you, and for no good reason but my pride." She started weeping softly, placing her face in her hands. "I never meant... I mean, Myron explained once I... I had no idea... You never deserved..." Her observations were muffled behind her hands.