Royal Regard

Chapter Seventeen, Part 2

Just as Nick was finally going to get a bit of information on how to make Bella start speaking to him again, he heard Blakeley clearing his throat outside the door, then a sharp knock.

Nick rubbed the bridge of his nose between his fingers as he called out, "Yes?"

When the door opened, Blakeley entered with Nick's samovar filled with hot water, coals already glowing. Behind him, a footman was pushing a rolling tea cart with a silver tea service encrusted with enough fruit and flowers it took Blakeley two full hours weekly to polish, as well as an assortment of cakes and biscuits.

"Your timing is perfect, Blakeley. I believe we are about to run out of tea." Blakeley's sharp eye on Nick's full cup and empty glass spoke volumes.

"Shall I pour, Sir?"

Charlotte answered, "Thank you, no. I will manage."

"Very good. Your Grace?" Blakeley's nostrils flared. "Shall I bring more brandy?"

"No." Nick nodded a curt dismissal then crossed the room to shut the door completely. He would prefer to fight Firthley to the death over his wife's honor than have the servants, even Blakeley, listening to what might be said about the future duchess. Or rather, the potential future duchess, who might or might not ever speak to the duke again.

On his way back to his seat, he said, "You opposed my suit not so many days ago. Might I ask why the change?"

Her lips tightened and her fingernails tapped on the arm of the loveseat, face screwed up. Because he wanted to test the theory that Charlotte would speak to fill silence whenever it was offered, he said nothing. His hypothesis was borne out.

"You are preferable to Lord Malbourne, the only other suitor in contention."

"Malbourne!" he barked, standing before he could stop himself, lurching as though he might throw a muzzler at the invisible man. "That insufferable louse. I will commit murder before he sets one finger on her."

"Good," Charlotte said, filling the teapot with hot water and setting it to steep as Nick slowly reseated himself. "For her husband is perfectly correct in every respect, which means that to a lesser extent, you are, too. Bella is in love with you, and you with her. You are an excellent match, and I believe this marriage best. Provided you reform your wicked ways."

He sat up straight and choked down a mouthful of cognac. Even after he swallowed, his throat kept working. "I thank you, but am not entirely certain I would say," he coughed, "in love."

"Perhaps not," Charlotte said, "but you and Bella would be the only two in London to argue, and only because you are both as stubborn as Scotsmen."

He stood then to tie back the wine-colored curtains over the bow window, staring out over the garden his grandmother had planned and executed, a labyrinth of sorts, but the box hedges too symmetrical and trimmed too low to make it a game or a trysting spot.

This garden really was too small for such an installation, he thought, but a hedge maze might be a very nice addition at Wellstone. He could see himself chasing after Bella, the hidden prize, following the sound of her laughter, her lilac scent, the taste of her in the wind, to a magical, blind alley where they might lose themselves in the manner of the Ancients.

He stared at the brandy, then set it aside. Charlotte tipped her head to acknowledge the concession, but Nick was lost imagining Bella digging in this garden, planting the dead-looking bulbs he had once helped his grandmother bury every autumn until he turned seven, when his brother contracted a fever and Nick was sent away to school.

"Can you explain how she ended up with Huntleigh?"

Charlotte's color rose and her fingernails looked like they would pierce the horsehair upholstery. Her voice gained pitch even as she whispered, "You do not want to hear it."