Royal Regard

Chapter Twenty-Three, Part 2

Nick held himself up against the doorjamb. "Dear God. Oh, dear God." He ran his other hand through his messy hair. "How am I supposed to go in there and tell her... right now?"

There was no way Bella would ever overlook him seducing her with her husband on his deathbed. She cared too much for Huntleigh's good opinion of her, so would feel the guilt of this the rest of her days. If only the man had chosen better timing. Nick could have waited the year of mourning if it meant he would have her afterward, but this might put paid to even his best intentions.

"She'll never speak to me again."

Blakeley straightened his shoulders and his face tightened. "Your Grace, if you will show yourself to another room, I will manage Lady Huntleigh."

Nick patted Blakeley on the shoulder. "No, old man, but thank you. I may regret it every day for the rest of my life, but this is for me to do. If you would just make sure Lady Huntleigh's maid has her things, I'll bring her downstairs in a few minutes."

He went back into the library, closing the pocket doors very quietly behind him. After pouring a brandy at the sideboard, he pulled a chair over to Bella and sat.

She was intensely shy again, having had a few minutes to consider her conduct, and looked away, blushing the bright pink he found so enthralling, matching the ribbons he had just seen underneath her dress. Dragging himself back from his wicked contemplation, he was more than a bit horrified at continuing this line of thought when the woman's husband was lying dead a twenty-minute carriage ride away.

He handed her the drink, then ran his hand through his hair, trying to think how to end her confusion without breaking the connection that had finally seemed secure.

Hand steady on her shoulder, he requested, "Bella, sweetheart, look at me. No, not at my shoes." He took her chin in his hand and tipped her face up. "Bella, it's Myron. He's... gone to his reward."

She yanked herself away. "What?! He was perfectly well an hour ago! He told me himself to come here, though I'm sure he didn't mean for—oh, no. Oh, no."

"I'm afraid he is not well now. Your maid is waiting with your carriage."

She stood and stumbled to the mantelpiece, trying to arrange her hair by her reflection in the pier glass, but unable to see through the tears welling up. He walked up behind her and turned her into his arms, holding her against his chest as she began to cry in earnest. At least he now had a vague idea what to do.

"He can't be—how could—"

"Hush, sweetheart. I can take care of everything, but we must get you home. Here, let me tie your hair up." While she stared at him in the mirror with a broken-eyed expression, he found a black ribbon in the drawer of his desk and used it to pull Bella's tangled hair back into a queue and hid it under the back of her dress. Suddenly, she turned and looked at him, then the chaise on which she'd been sitting. "Oh, no. I can't believe I—"

He took her hand and kissed it. "There is nothing wrong with two friends having tea, my dear."

"Tea?! Is that what you call it? Stay away from me." She backed away toward the door, face frantic.

"Bella, let me come with you."

Her face and voice hardened in a way he had never expected, had never even seen, no matter how angry she had been. "You may call me Lady Huntleigh, and no, Sirrah, you will not attend me again."

He pulled himself up to his full height and utilized his most intimidating ducal voice. "I am coming with you."

She responded with the tone that she had used to get her own way with hostile provincials worldwide. "Absolutely not. I will see you in Hell first."

A light tapping on the door proved to be Blakeley, whose hand had been forced by Michelle, following right behind.

"Madame, you must come now. I have your pelisse and have brought a hairbrush to make you tidy in the carriage, but you must come before there are questions about where you have been." She turned very briefly to drop a shallow curtsey in Nick's direction. "Your Grace, please forgive the intrusion."

"No," Nick said with no inflection. "Of course you had to come." He took a second look at the maid, wondering where he had seen her, sure it was not at the Huntleigh house, but there could be no worse time to start asking meddlesome questions.

Michelle clearly wasn't sure if she should keep speaking, mouth open, but emitting no comment, so he prodded, "Yes?"

"Your Grace, if you will forgive, I had not meant to hear, you understand, but it is best you do not come with Madame. There have been... insinuations. It will be best to give no one reason to think poorly of her."

Nick agreed, "You are right, of course."

Bella hissed, "Who has been—"

"Madame, we must go now."

Blakeley motioned to Bella and Michelle, preparing to lead them to the front door.

Nick waved them all away, and as their footsteps grew faint down the hall, Nick called quietly, under his breath, expecting and receiving no response, "Anything you need, Bella. Anything at all." He watched out the window as they strode to a town coach halfway down the street.

He walked heavily to the sideboard, feeling twice his age, and Blakeley had already returned and was pouring a brandy.

"We have gin?"

"Of course, Sir." Blakeley found it after a search and poured. "Might I say...?"

"Yes?"

"You did ask, should this occasion present itself, I remind you of your last encounter with Old Tom."

"Did I?" Nick raised an eyebrow. "Was I drunk?"

"As a wheelbarrow, Sir."

"Then we shall take no notice of such a foolish request." He reached for the glass.

As he handed his employer the gin much more slowly than Nick would prefer, Blakeley tried once more: "Sir, might I just point out, you heard your brother yourself. He did stipulate I should—"

"You may point out nothing. Especially anything my brother had to say about my drunkenness. I prefer gin to brandy tonight, even if I have to go to Seven Dials to find it. Anything you have stocked in my cupboard must be better than the flash-of-lightning I would find there, and I shan't leave the house before tomorrow, in any case."

He downed the drink in one swallow and held out the glass. "Another, please. Three fingers. And pour yourself something. We will recall our various adventures tonight, beginning with the story I will finally have from you: how you kept the riverboat gambler from killing me in New Orleans. No, Blakeley, I insist. I prefer not to think of myself as so piteous I must drink alone."