Chapter 1 #3
My chest constricts once more. In truth, I do not have a name for my fear—that some man shall challenge my prize? That the Heir will change his mind? Whatever the reason, the air around me swells with tension to the point that I struggle to pull it into my lungs.
The room is silent. I am acutely aware of my own ragged breathing, which is all my ears detect.
My eyes roam, and I am suddenly taken by the gold chain of Lord Carlisle’s pocket watch—for I can not bear to look at his drawn face.
My gaze flits to the Baron—there is no censure in his expression, but I cannot meet his eye, either.
Instead, I observe his coat. His attire has always been of the finest fashion.
My eyes cannot seem to stay on any object for long, and travel once more, this time to the rich mahogany wall. Affixed to the wall is a sconce, and it flickers with golden light.
“Well.”
The Prince’s voice draws my eye at once, and I feel my throat constrict, though I take great pains that no one present shall see it.
“Well done, Your Grace—Fortune has always favored you, even more than its Prince.” He gives a small, self-mocking smile as he taps the card on the table. “I should have known better than to enter into such a game with you.”
This time when I let out the pent-up air in my breast, I smile at His Highness. I cannot help myself. He has called me Your Grace and the words are better than any music I have ever heard.
“Well played,” Baron Sumtner murmurs, “Your Grace.”
“Indeed. My congratulations to you, sir,” Lord Carlisle says. But if he means to congratulate me, his face is unaware—every line is too taut, his gaze sharp. “I hope your luck holds, though I shan’t be here to see it.”
At that, the butler appears at his back, His Lordship’s coat held out in his hands.
Without taking his eyes off me, Lord Carlisle rises and allows the butler to help him into the garment.
Suddenly, an idea strikes me. “You did not have an arrangement with the lady, my lord? Surely you would have said.”
When his eyes flash, I know my instinct is correct. “No. No arrangement.” Though his tone is soft and befitting a gentleman, the way he glares at me is not.
He has likely wanted the lady for himself, and perhaps soon intended to try to come to an agreement with her father. I do not allow it to trouble me. Nothing can trouble me at present.
Lord Carlisle bids us goodnight, and Baron Sumtner does the same shortly thereafter.
He bows to His Majesty, and then to me—an ironic sweeping bend.
After which, all the gentlemen appear to wish to depart and file out, some in pairs, some singly.
No matter how they leave, there is the distinct absence of the usual parting conversation.
Every man seems struck silent by the game’s outcome.
I myself am quite at a loss for words. This moment is one that I fantasized about as a boy—even when I was young, I knew it for what it was: a flight of fancy.
Impossible. And yet… my lord father who sired a bastard off his mistress had seen fit to have his son educated as well as money would allow.
Through his efforts, I will marry far better than he ever dreamed.
And when I bed the Lady Freya, I shall rid myself of her enchantment at last.
Neither of us speak until we are alone, save for the servants.
“You may have made an enemy this night,” the Prince observes.
I shrug. “In this world, a man cannot strive to make a name for himself without amassing enemies.”
The Prince’s brow furrows thoughtfully. “Perhaps you are right.”
“Do you have enemies, Your Highness?”
His lips quirk into a smile. “What an impertinent question. I begin to wonder if I sit across from one.”
I chuckle and observe His Highness carefully, relieved to see he is pleased for me. “I trust you did not stack the cards to assist me?”
He lets out an ungentlemanly snort. “Indeed, no. I will be hearing the lords’ displeasure ringing through the streets for many a fortnight as it is, and you won honestly.
Can you imagine if I had been a cheat in the bargain?
” He shakes his head. “You are a friend dear to my heart, Gregor, and I love you, but I do not hate myself.”
I join my own laughter to his, excitement thrilling through me. Not only will I have the object of my ardent desire, once the sparkle of that jewel has worn off, I will have the finer lifestyle to console me that will allow me to afford a mistress should the desire strike me.
“I feel I must inquire: why the Lady Denham?”
A flippant answer leaps to my lips, and I nearly give voice to it, but a look at His Highness’s face makes me speak the truth. “I have felt deeply for some time for the lady. Ever since I first saw her, in fact.”
I can recall the day with the utmost clarity, though it happened nearly a year ago.
I had received an invitation to a party—a pity invite, I suppose, or perhaps they needed more men present for dancing.
I had turned up merely for the free food and drink, and had been in the midst of filling my plate when the Lady Freya had stepped into the room.
At the first glimpse of her—her dark head, her fair skin, her bewitching eyes… I was entranced in a way I have never experienced. Indeed, that has never been spoken of by any gentleman as far as I am aware.
Surprise arrests my friend’s features. “Truly? I did not know you to be given to romantic notions, Greyonyx.”
I shake my head. “Rest assured, I have no such fancies. I cannot explain it, truly.”
What I say to the Prince is true. That entire evening, I was scarcely able to draw my eyes from her.
I found myself aware of every movement—when she went to join the rest of the Beau Monde upon the dance floor.
Not one to join in such things myself, I somehow came to find myself on the edge of the party.
It was as though my feet had somehow wrested control from my brain, and I had quite forgotten I possessed the knowledge, but not the grace for dancing.
I could not tear my eyes from the vision she made on the dance floor with her quick, elegant steps in perfect time to the music.
Still in some trance she cast, I circled the room, far enough away so as to not attract her notice, yet close enough to hear the melodic sound of her voice.
The lilting tinkle of her laugh made my breeches grow tight.
“It certainly sounds like romantic notions,” Prince James observes when I share the tale with him.
“Surely not,” I deny at once.
“Forgive me for saying so, but one encounter where you watched a lady hardly seems cause for going to such extremes.” He gestures to the card table. “You have embarrassed your Crown Prince, and for what? To bed a lady you shall soon tire of?” He laughs.
“You are merely afraid of what your family will say.”
“Afraid?” His tone carries a lilt of indifference that is not uncommon when he speaks about his duty among people he can trust. “Nay. Do I wish every day they shall see fit to give the crown to my brother? Indeed. And if this wager brings about that very thing? Well, then we will both be winners, my friend!”
We laugh together, and I shake my head at him, then before our chuckles of mirth completely die away, we break into laughter anew. I have never understood the Prince’s detachment from his birthright. Perhaps now that I have a title of my own, I will in time understand him better.
“And so?” my friend asks at last, still chuckling. “Have you even spoken to the lady? Pray, tell me your proposal will not cause her to faint in shock.”
“Regrettably, I have not,” I admit. “I did endeavor to be in her company for some time. I made it known I was looking for invitations—” I grimace at the memory, causing His Highness further mirth.
“You can imagine how that delighted the Beau Monde. And yet, very few did not honor me with an invitation. I attended each one—every party, every ball, in hopes she would also be in attendance.”
“And?” His Highness leans forward, intrigued.
I shrug once more. “When she was not present, I stayed long enough to be polite, eat my fill, and take my leave. When she was, I watched her. I made note of whom she spoke with, her countenance, and such things.”
“It sounds to me that you are quite mad, Gregor.” He claps my shoulder in a display of mock sympathy.
“I thought so too. I still think so,” I admit, “but nothing I did seemed to make it stop. It was almost as though I had become taken by a fever. No matter how long I watched her, she was never far from my thoughts. The lady is nearly the first on my mind each morning, the last each night. It has been most disconcerting.”
“I can scarcely imagine.”
“And now, I know there is but one thing I can do to resolve the matter.”
“You think that to be marriage?”
I can hardly blame my friend for being skeptical. If I were in his shoes, I would no doubt feel the same.
“I cannot think of anything else,” I acknowledge. “If she were any other woman, I would bed her and be done with it.”
“Alas, she is a highborn lady,” the Prince remarks.
“Indeed.”
“Perhaps she will not wish to wed you. What then?”
I utter a laugh. “You are determined to vex me this evening, Your Highness.”
“Not at all. I merely suggest that perhaps a title is not all you need to win the lady.”
Whether he intends to vex me or no, he speaks the truth in this matter as well. My family is not as well-regarded as the Denhams, and the gift of a title does not change the fact of my lineage. My reputation of being something of a rake is also something to contend with.
“I have to hope it is enough,” I say at last. “I no longer enjoy the company of a woman for being besieged by thoughts of Lady Denham.”
“You mean to say you do not frequent the brothels any longer? I am impressed.”
I snort. “I did not say that I do not visit them any longer, only that I do not enjoy it.” At that, we both laugh.
It is most unusual—upon concocting what I believed to be a wild scheme to win the Lady Freya’s hand, I have thought of little else.
I have imagined if I ever managed to succeed at it, I would feel nothing but the purest of joy.
Or, relief at the very least. I have felt a flash of both, but those now pale in comparison to the stark reality that settles upon me.
As the Prince points out, having the title is but a first step.
Truthfully, I scarcely know what to do next.
I am not accustomed to feeling so ill at ease, and for the hundredth time, I feel certain I shall know peace only once I have wed and bedded the lady.
What a pity that she is highborn and I must seal myself to her in order to be free of the spell she casts.
“Send flowers,” the Prince says, breaking me from my thoughts.
“Flowers?”
“Yes, of course. It will make your intentions known, and who knows? Perhaps her parents will see to an introduction.”
I nod, relieved to have some semblance of a plan. “I am indebted to you once more, it seems, with no ability to repay your kindness.”
“Oh, I feel certain I shall think of something.” His smile flashes again, more impish than royal. “May I offer you a word of warning, Your Grace?”
“I shall consider myself most honored to hear it.”
His eyes twinkle, yet his tone is somber as he says, “Do remember your revenue is but twenty thousand pounds. It sounds a ghastly sum to you, perhaps, but do not let your wife spend it all, hmm? It would have saved my parents countless arguments had my father been given the same advice.”
His Queen Mother is a known spendthrift, and King Francis has often bemoaned that even as miserly as both his predecessors lived, there will be no gold in the coffers by the time his son takes the throne.
“Thank you for your wise counsel, my Prince.”
“Be sure you heed it, Your Grace.”
I nod, but I am already distracted once more by my thoughts. The lady seems sweetly-dispositioned, and there is no denying she is comely—perhaps the loveliest lady in the Beau Monde. I only hope that once we are wed, I might at last be free of this bewitchment.