Scandal - COMPLETED

Chapter Twenty-Seven

"Your Majesty," I said, dropping into a deep curtsy.

Beside me, Marcus bowed low. We waited for the command to rise. For one heartbeat, two, ten. It didn't come. Marcus turned his head just enough to shoot me a wary look. The queen was displeased with one of us.

"Rise," she finally said.

I swept upward, taking in the scene before me. Queen Charlotte stood in the center of a large group of courtiers. She had never been a tall woman, and now that she neared sixty, her diminutive form was swamped by the layers of muslin she wore. Wigs were fading from fashion, but that hadn't stopped our monarch from donning an elaborate blonde confection to hide her graying hair.

While Queen Charlotte was born in Germany, her lineage was another matter. She descended from one of the darker-skinned branches of the Portuguese royal family, and if rumor was to be believed, that was due to Moorish ancestry. Of all the portraits I'd seen of her, only Allan Ramsay's bore a likeness to the woman in front of me. Her doctor once famously said that she was "small and crooked, with a true mulatto face".

It was true that with overly full lips, heavy lidded eyes, a nose that widened at the tip, and a strong jaw, she didn't fit within the current bounds of what was considered fashionably beautiful, but I had never thought her ugly, only different. Then again, between the innumerable foreign dignitaries John had hosted over the years and the diversity of our staff, my standard of beauty was a little broader than most of my peers'.

"Duchess," the queen said, all but ignoring my brother. "And where is your husband?" She spoke with a heavy accent. Still. After living for almost half a century in this country. Many said it was affected. How could it not be, when Amesbury's English accent was so flawless? I wondered, though. Unlike most of the courtiers gathered around us, I had been a personal guest in her household, where she'd spoken nothing but German unless forced to do otherwise.

"The duke was waylaid by our host, Your Majesty," I said.

Her gaze sharpened on me. "What's this I hear about a recital?"

The crowd around us stilled, sensing her displeasure. Ah, so it was me she was displeased with. Amesbury, that gossip-mongering snitch, loomed behind the queen, looking smugly satisfied. I needed to downplay my drawing room rebellion if I was to stay in Charlotte's good graces. Perhaps I could appeal to her love of music.

"You missed a stirring performance by a very talented young lady, Your Majesty," I said.

She sniffed. "A stirring performance? By a woman? Doubtful."

To argue with her would be lunacy, so I tamped down on my indignation and played the part of royal sycophant. "Of course, you must be right. Please forgive me. My own knowledge of music is far inferior to your own."

She opened her mouth to respond, but something behind me must have caught her eye, for the words died on her lips. As I watched, a rare smile spread over her face.

I turned to see John. He met my eyes, briefly, and then took in the crowd around me. While I prided myself on my ability to read the moods of others, John's skill still surpassed my own. He saw the open smirks worn by several nearby lords and ladies, the self-satisfaction in Amesbury's eyes, and marked the queen's shrewd inspection of me.

He strode forward and bowed deeply. "Please forgive my tardiness, Your Majesty."

"But of course. I know how Glover can be." She offered him her hand.

John unfurled from his bow only to press his forehead to her glove in supplication. "Your Majesty is the embodiment of Christian charity."

From the slight pink that appeared in the queen's cheeks, she was pleased by the compliment. "And you are just as charming as ever."