Royal Regard

Chapter Four

As was their habit after an early end to an evening out, the backgammon board lay open between Bella and Myron, the third game to determine the best three of five, Bella in the lead. Candles and lamps burned low in the library of their townhouse, thankfully leaving the dated, dull décor in shadow. Myron had stirred the fire up before he sat down. To Bella's mind, it was always too cold in England, and her husband was nothing if not solicitous.

Myron rolled a one and a two, closing a point, but still making little progress. Bella's lips twisted, as she had been hoping to hit at least one of the solo tiles on her next roll.

Instead of the two and six she needed to take one of his pips to the bar, the dice turned up a one and a four.

"Blast!" She now had no option but to break up a made point to leave two draughts vulnerable to his next move.

Myron's only reaction to her language was, "Captain Johnson is an admirable man, my dear, but his vernacular no example of propriety." She merely grinned at the long-established reproach, and eventually he followed with a sigh and a more productive topic.

"Two investors in the new cargo ship," he said, "and I won six hundred guineas for the alms box. Not such a bad evening."

Myron was forced to gambling to court the investment of wealthy gentlemen who spent their evenings playing cards, but always donated his winnings to the poor, since he considered gaming for money as sinful as adultery or imbibing spirits or making a business deal without a contract.

"According to the whispers," she said, pouring him a cup of tea and adding a splash of milk, "we will be the Earl and Countess of Huntleigh by daybreak tomorrow."

"Pinnester says the end of the week. Nevertheless, you mustn't succumb to the sin of pride, my dear. Earls and countesses are no closer to the heavenly host, and gossip does not signify. It won't do to count eggs before they are laid, especially when a capricious king must do the laying."

She tried to stifle her giggles at the thought of Prinny's bulk sitting on a bird's nest, riffling his feathers, forcing an egg from his nether regions. Myron chortled at her sniggering description before they both erupted into full-blown hilarity.

Eventually, she wiped a tear from under her eye and chided herself, "How unfeeling of me to poke fun at His Majesty when the poor man just lost his father. And he is so very kind to us. Surely such incivility must be more sinful than taking pride in my husband's many accomplishments." She patted his wrist.

Myron rolled a four and a six, miraculously missing both of her lone tiles, but bringing his first into the home board. He contemplated her suggestion, most likely measuring against biblical precepts, but only replied, "Perhaps."

Even while considering how to make amends to the king for a passing thought to which he would never be privy, she revived the conversation. "I am certain the card room was not nearly so awful as the ballroom."

"Which is why I can nearly always be found playing whist."

She snorted, and he gave her the mischievous smile of a ten-year-old boy, without the least bit of chagrin. He grasped her fingertips and rubbed them between his. "And I know you can be counted on to manage the ballroom much better than I."

"Not in London," she muttered, rolling a one and a three, but spoke more clearly when she followed with, "I am so sorry about the—"

He held her hand tighter and did not allow her to finish. "Is it a surprise your nerves might compel you to a slip of the tongue?"

She tugged her hand back, though only to more easily move one of her tiles to yet another open point, sighing at the sheer number of pips open to his solidly made points, most stacked with three or more draughts.