Royal Regard

Chapter Nineteen, Part 1

"Good morning, Madame la Comtesse."

Bella sat up in bed and Michelle set the bed tray across her lap. A steaming pot of chocolate and a china cup, a currant scone with clotted cream and jam, and a budding pink peony in a glass vase.

"This is just lovely, Michelle. I don't know when I've been so pampered."

"Of course, Madame." Michelle adjusted the new lilac silk drapes, letting the mid-morning sun shine through transom windows.

"Is Lord Huntleigh awake yet?" she asked, hoping he would sleep late, all day if she could manage it.

"Oui, Madame. The earl has left for Westminster an hour past," Michelle said. "He has said he must meet with the First Lord this morning and His Majesty this afternoon, though Mr. Watts suggested he stay abed."

Although her brow wrinkled at this news, Myron would be incensed to think the servants had been discussing his infirmity. Bad enough he had to discuss it with her.

His health was failing much faster since their return, no matter how often he insisted he was in fine fettle. When she saw him laid out, feverish, barely breathing, not a day and a half after their argument about Wellbridge, she had forgiven him all. Well, almost all.

He had recovered within two days, but since then, good days were fewer and farther between. This must be one, if he were planning to attend The Lords, but his continued insistence on a regular schedule was wearing on her as much as it did him.

She forced a fake smile. "I am glad he has taken himself away. After being out so late, I have barely enough stamina to face the day, much less a fractious husband."

It might very well be best to face this particular day alone, at any rate, or at least without men nearby to say the wrong thing and send her into a gale of tears. For today, try as she might to ignore it, she would turn five-and-thirty, an old woman by anyone's standard. An ugly old woman besides. And barren. She must not forget barren, and now even too old for a miracle. Bella could hardly think of anything more depressing than the rest of this day.

To "celebrate" the anniversary of her birth, Myron had surprised Bella with tickets to the stage version of Ivanhoe at the Adelphi the previous evening, but then left her in the company of the Pinnesters after the first act, his strength too taxed to continue the outing. Following the play, he had asked her to attend their small supper in his stead, because a handful of his other investors would also be present. She hadn't returned home until half-past three. Five hours past the laudatory toasts to her accidental survival to this advanced age.

"Shall I draw your bath or will you wait, Madame?"

Bella sat up straighter as Michelle poured chocolate into her cup. As Bella stirred to cool the beverage, Michelle stood expectantly, poking at embers in the wood fireplace and adding an apple wood log, waiting for Bella's answer.

"A bath would be pleasant."

Bella broke open the warm pastry and spread fig preserve with the silver knife. Michelle waited quietly, but when Bella made no further requests, finally said, "I will have hot water sent up, if you have no need of me."

Bella looked up, finally aware she had rudely disregarded her maid, although Charlotte would say it was a maid's job to remain disregarded.

"Yes, that's fine. Thank you."

"I will return for your tray in no time at all, Madame." Michelle curtsied before she left the room. After more than a fortnight in her employ, Bella wished she could convince the woman to be at least slightly less formal. The more everyone treated her like a countess, the more she felt like a fraud.

Bella enjoyed her breakfast, as well as her most frequent recent activity: daydreaming about Wellbridge. As Charlotte had predicted, Bella's continued disdain had a remarkable effect. He simply could not stay away. Morning, noon, night, every party she attended, every shop she patronized, every amusement she planned with her niece and nephew.

He joined the Huntleighs for church on Sundays, even holding no love for Myron's Methodists. When she distributed baskets of food for the poor in the East End, he turned up with his own, acting as though he had been doing so all his life. At Hatchard's, she nearly tripped over him in the sections related to architecture and botany. If she and Charlotte took Jewel to Gunter's for ices, he appeared, saying he had been checking on a catering order for Blakeley. As though the Duke of Wellbridge needed to run errands for his servant. It was ridiculous, and in total, more than a bit amusing.

While she had thought it would be difficult, the longer she played Charlotte's game and the more she felt the force of his reactions to "the other duke," the more fun she seemed to have. No man had ever written her poetry before, nor sent her flowers by the basketful or absconded with a text from the king's own library.

She had been quite touched by the pastries, as he had not only remembered how much she missed the pâtisserie near Myron's new pied-à-terre in Paris, but also the mille-feuille she enjoyed best and which London bakery offered the closest approximation. She would have loved every bite, if she hadn't agreed with Charlotte to toss the next gift right back in his face. She was only glad it hadn't been the book. Custard and jam only caused injury to his pride.

Even more shocking, at her advanced age, she somehow also claimed the attentions of a second duke. Two dukes! If Aunt Minerva weren't already dead, she would fall into her grave at the thought her misshapen, timid, bluestocking niece was being courted by two dukes. Of course, the fact Bella was still married might cause a bit of a swoon.

Monsieur le Duc de Malbourne displayed every inch of the legendary French charm. His striking face, alluring form, clever conversation, and smooth, sensual voice planting the wickedest thoughts into her head... If her heart weren't already engaged with Wellbridge, she would be well on her way to accepting his offer first. Even though his offer had yet to include marriage.

Bella had begun to feel the strain of the falsehoods, unaccustomed to feeling ashamed of herself, or lying outright to her husband, or showing a false face to a friend. Charlotte seemed to have no compunction about anything, with the capture of a husband at stake, but Bella was not made for such entrapment. Surely, if she were, the Lord would have provided her better inducements.

Still, like all of Charlotte's intrigues, the plan was working. For days now, Wellbridge had been leaving parties as soon as she declined his requested dance, so at Charlotte's instruction, four nights ago, when Myron demurred at the invitation to Almack's, she gave the first dance to the Duke of Malbourne, then the next figure, a waltz, risking what shreds of reputation she had left. But watching Wellbridge stride toward the door that night, when she knew Myron would have asked him to stay to ensure her safety—the idea that he couldn't stand to remain in the same room because of her disgraceful behavior—was enough to make her want to cast up the scone and chocolate.

The goal was to win his heart, she must remember, not make a jade of herself, letting the attentions of a gentleman overwhelm her good sense. She might as well be a woman for hire, collecting his gifts and giving him not a moment's peace in return. And really, who was she to turn up her nose at a perfectly good offer from a perfectly good gentleman when she might as well be Methuselah's mother.

When Michelle returned to take away her tray, a huge bouquet of pink hydrangea, camellias, snapdragons, and roses preceded her through the door.

"What is this?"

"The Duke of Wellbridge has sent them, my lady. Madame Jemison suggests you might enjoy them here."

Bella pulled aside the thin satin blanket and rose from a bed so large she couldn't reach two sides at once, even stretched out full-length. The gold brocade dressing gown over her embroidered linen nightrail was almost too heavy in the warm room,

Once the bouquet had been stationed on the console table near the door, Bella drifted over to the flowers, hoping Charlotte wouldn't insist she send them back. The pink was so pretty in her newly decorated lilac-colored room. And if the inherent messages were to be believed, he was pining for her and wished nothing more than her trust in the sincerity of his affections.