“I’ll stay,” he said, and it was absurd how pleased she felt about that.
Striking men did not often offer Henrietta escort. The few who had paid her court at home were neighbors in Rossendale who had an eye on her father’s fortune, or neighbors in Bamford hoping to take possession of Birch Vale. When their suits were rebuffed, several of these gentlemen had taken pains to illuminate Henrietta as to the failings they had been so kind to overlook. The enumerations did not make her repent her decision, but they did leave her well aware she was not a woman to inspire admiration.
“Unless, of course, you have someone waiting for you.” The light, floating sensation vanished. A man this rich-looking and well-formed would have an equally rich and handsome wife and half a dozen offspring stowed somewhere.
“There is no one,” he said, a hard edge to his tone, his eyes tightening as if he were bracing himself against this confession. A small thread pulled tight in her chest.
She fastened the last of her pins and stepped out of the pew. “This is my first time in St. James,” she said. “Rather plain for a chapel, isn’t it? I read this is where Charles I spent the night praying before his execution.”
“This is the original chapel from the medieval hospital of St. James,” her companion said. “Henry III evicted the community of leprous women so he could have the site. George still comes here for services, though Charlotte finds it too cold in the wintermonths.” He pointed overhead. “The ceiling by Holbein is quite unique.”
Her eyes caught on the firm, strong neck that showed above his neckcloth as he tilted back his head. His look of concentration as he regarded the ceiling pulled another small, sharp twinge from her chest.
“Oh, my word. That is exquisite.” Holding her wig in place, Henrietta marveled at the intricate pattern of crosses and hexagons, all composed of tiny painted squares. When she lowered her chin, she found her rescuer regarding her with a strange expression, one that held self-mockery and appeal at the same time.
That self-consciousness stabbed her again. She gathered her train and draped it over one arm as Aunt Althea had taught her. “I suppose you can detect the pins.”
“Not if you hold it this way.” He stepped forward and rearranged the heavy green silk. “But your feather—if you will permit me?”
She inclined her head toward him, the errant ostrich feather dangling before her eye. He pushed the slender stalk into her wig, and a thrill of awareness moved through her at his nearness, his touch. The faint citrus tang of eau de cologne washed over her senses, cool as a breeze in summer. She sighed with relief and something else as he stepped back—disappointment, as if she had wanted him to move closer, rather than away. How absurd.
“You mustn’t be seen with me,” he reminded her. “Your reputation.”
“I suppose so,” she said, fearing to move her head by nodding in agreement. In the north, it would not be a matter of concern for an unknown gentleman to provide assistance. But the manners of the Londonhaut tonwere nicer and more obscure, at least where a knight’s daughter was concerned. She could notgive her family more reason to be distressed with her, not when they already forgave her so much.
“I don’t know how to thank you.” She gazed up into his face and blinked. “In fact, I don’t know your name.”
“That’s for the best.” He stepped away with a small bow, his sword swinging. “Go back through the Colour Court and take the grand staircase to the guard room. You’ll know it by the display of weapons. The Queen’s levee chamber is the third room in. Give your card to the attendant and he will unite you with your party.”
She held out her hand, sorry to leave him. She liked this quiet interlude, now that her immediate distress had been remedied. “I am very grateful, Mr.—”
“And here!” A gorgeously gowned lady surged into the room, a trio of meek girls in her wake. “This,” she proclaimed, “is the Chapel Royal, where King George and Queen Charlotte were married in— Oh, heavens. It’s got a ghost.” She gave Henrietta a stare that made her very conscious that her train was barely holding together, her ostrich feather did not want to behave, and nothing in between could be helped.
“We were just leaving,” Henrietta said.
“We?” The dowager arched one artificially dark brow.
How such a tall, striking man could make himself invisible, Henrietta couldn’t guess, but her rescuer was nowhere to be seen.
He’d stepped in like a knight of old, saved her from disaster on this most important day of her presentation, and then vanished before she could properly thank him.
The afternoon was bound to hold further disappointments, but the greatest, Henrietta already knew, was that she was unlikely ever to see her gallant, interesting rescuer again.
CHAPTER FOUR
His neckcloth itched, his breeches were too tight at the knee, the full skirts of his heavy coat were cumbersome, and the ceremonial sword knocked against his leg. Darien would rather be fighting a duel or wrangling with his father than stuck here attending Queen Charlotte at her levee.
But if he waited, the damsel he’d rescued would eventually appear, and he might learn who she was.
A second chair of state sat next to the queen’s throne under its canopy of crimson velvet and gold lace. Murmurs passed through the crowd as the door to the Royal Closet opened and his household guard escorted King George III into the room. Darien had heard George was being circulated now and again, brought out from his new residence at Buckingham House to prove to detractors and Jacobin sympathizers that the head of the British monarchy was yet in possession of his faculties.
Florid and breathing heavily, the monarch took his chair next to his queen. Darien fell in with the rest to make his bows, and as the son of one of the older marquessates in the realm, he was among the first.
“Langford’s son!” George barked. “What am I to call you now?”
Darien’s guts dropped straight into his heeled shoes. Did the sovereign think his father had disowned him? Would he demand it?
“They call him Daring,” the Queen replied. She studied Darien as he executed his bow. Darien had long ceased to find satisfaction in the power that his appearance had over others; his looks wrought more mischief than good. But he responded to the appreciation in the Queen’s eye with the same swagger he’d shown the girl in the Chapel Royal when she’d looked him over. He leaned back on one leg, rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, and gave her an insolent grin.
