Royal Regard

Chapter Thirty-Three, Part 1

Everyone else in the world understood, in fact expected, Bella would retire from society for at least a year, preferably two, to mourn her husband's death—perhaps forever, given the scandal. Charlotte, however, argued incessantly as long as she didn't marry in the next twelve months, a betrothal would bring no dishonor to Myron's memory.

In truth, there was no argument to be made that Bella hadn't told herself a hundred times. Just the memory of the afternoon a month past in Charlotte's drawing room made her want to sit on the floor and sob like a child. Since then, she had barely seen Nick, and she didn't expect she would before she left London. All that was left were memories of two men whom she still loved.

As the days went by, Bella's burden of guilt grew heavier. She was not the only person paying for her obstinacy. As she watched Nick descend into the worst version of the rake he had always been, she worried he would never recover himself.

Within hours of their final argument, Nick had thrown himself into the pursuit of pleasure with a sense of reckless abandon that frightened everyone who knew him. Bella refused to break faith with him. Even after she read in the gossip columns he was pursuing yet another married woman and had bought another house on Harley Street, that he'd lost almost fifteen thousand guineas in one night, that he was ejected bodily from Boodle's for trying to start a drunken brawl, she still sent long missives to Nick every day, never receiving a reply. She assumed he was burning them.

As time went on and the chasm grew wider, she heard from Alexander that even the king had tried to intercede, summoning Nick to a formal audience, bringing to bear both their friendship and the privileges of divine right. Demonstrating the remarkable tenacity of both cousins in tandem, Bella and Charlotte wore down Alexander's gentlemanly objections to disclosing all that had transpired.

Prinny had told Nick, "It is quite right she mourn her husband, you hopeless lackwit, and after everything she has been through, you must expect some feminine equivocation. If you cannot wait for her to regain herself, you don't love her as much as you say." Prinny looked at him with razor-sharp eyes. "Unless she is with child. You haven't been so loutish as that, I trust?"

"No, Sire, there is no chance of that."

"So, you've acted the gentleman a few months of your life, instead of the rutting hound; that is something. However, your mind and manners have now flown. If you persist in chasing after Seldon's countess, drinking blue ruin like well-water, and risking your entire fortune in the St. Giles hells, you'll be killed or Lady Huntleigh will rightly reject you."

"She has already done so."

"She has not! She has only asked you to restrain your passions while she pays entirely appropriate respect to her husband, an exceptional man. And lest you think to insinuate it again, I will not withdraw Sir John's commission because he offended your dubious sensibilities protecting his sister's interests."

"I will not abide his—"

"I will not abide your unruly tongue in my company! Attempt any revenge you like for the facer you deserved, but you may not impose upon your friendship with me to do it. And let me remind you, Sir John is a baronet whether he likes it or not, and you have already killed a duke. Persist in that direction and you will be executed, no matter how much money you lose to me at cards. Now, remove yourself from our royal presence until such time as you have regained your wits."

Prinny visited Bella at Charlotte's house to pay his respects and was indulgent of her grief, speaking with only mild censure. "My dear Lady Huntleigh, you are quite right to mourn your husband, but I urge you to accept Wellbridge's suit with an eye toward marriage a year from now. An informal understanding, if you will. I can insist you marry him, especially having sent the full force of the monarchy to your defense and involved myself in the inquiry, but knowing your temperament, you would only throw him from the ramparts."

"I might do that anyway, Sire," she grumbled.

Prinny ignored her outburst, but for arching a brow. "I will only say this: You and Wellbridge are as fine a match as I have seen, and I suspect the only one there will ever be for him, but you are a fool to make him wait. He very nearly died for you, my lady, and you should not take his life so lightly. The man has his pride, and he will impale himself on it long before he sees reason."

She snorted, looking away to avoid his glare. "His Grace, the exalted Duke of Wellbridge, see reason? When Beelzebub ice skates in Hell." She added belatedly, "Your Majesty."

Prinny sighed, but then straightened his shoulders, as though to say All men have trouble with women, but I am a king and you, Madam, are not mine. "Huntleigh made Wellbridge wait far too long—"

Unthinkingly, she argued again, unwisely interrupting a third time, "What, by living too long for the liking of the high-and-mighty duke?"

"Yes," he said, shutting down her brabbling with nothing but a look, "and by raising the man's hopes with a contract it will cost you dearly to break. Should you continue your intransigence, Madam, you may be sure I will see you feel the force of your late husband's last request."

Bella's unwelcome marriage contract specified an enormous payment to the duke if she were in breach, and in the event he chose to enforce it. The greater portion of Myron's cash accounts would be paid out by the estate, though she would keep the income-producing properties. She could apply for relief from Parliament, but it would go before The Lords, certain to rule against her in opposition to the king and a duke on a decision the body had already made for her benefit.

She was not sure which of the conspiring men had decided to force her hand in the event she resisted their intolerable scheme, but collectively, without her knowledge or approval, they had agreed she would pay a hefty penalty for having her own mind. For three men who all said they trusted her judgment and had her best interests at heart, it was beyond unforgivable.

"You may choose to be an ungrateful wretch with respect to Wellbridge's sacrifice, but not with respect to mine."

Her mouth opened and closed like a fish on a hook, at the royal tone she had never before heard. The king had always been unfailingly gentle and kind with her, against all accounts of his temperament. When she stared at him, her face paling, only just realizing how insolent she had been, he ordered, "You are dismissed, Lady Huntleigh. Next time we speak—should there be a next time—do not be so quick to gainsay your sovereign."

Since her meeting with His Majesty, Bella had hidden enough money in gold and jewels to provide a simple life for thirty years at two hundred guineas per annum, even if she lost Myron's entire fortune. If need be, she could find respectable employment, or for that matter, beg passage on one of her husband's ships to go somewhere it would cost less to live. She only hoped she would not be forced to leave England, and any hope of Wellbridge, behind.

The only thing in weeks to lift her spirits was a half-expected caller who appeared at Charlotte's door just before the dinner hour three weeks after the row with Nick. Corbel cleared his throat outside the door to Charlotte's sitting room, where the two women were embroidering a table runner on a raised frame in front of the green brocade loveseat.

Bella accidentally poked herself with a needle, and wiped the blood off on her black bombazine dress. When Charlotte handed her a handkerchief, raising a brow, Bella said, "It isn't as though anyone will notice. Black is very good for masking blood."

"I do not want to hear the story."

"Yes, you do. And you would rather listen to it now than the next time I have a caller." Even though Charlotte clucked her tongue, Bella only sighed, "I suspect I will be very, very tired of black before long."

Charlotte's forehead wrinkled with unspoken condemnation and commiseration, and a few moments after the sharp knock that followed the cough, while Bella was sucking on her fingertip, the butler made his presence known.

His long leg stretched into the room slowly, a stage player's larger-than-life tiptoe, allowing the grieving widow ample time to straighten her dress, dry her tears, or stifle her conversation. When his head finally drew parallel to his feet, he nodded to Charlotte, but addressed Bella, "Lady Huntleigh, the Viscountess Lady Allison Nockham to see you. I've explained you are in seclusion, but she is most insistent."