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Celia’s heart pounded furiously, so that her mouth was quite dry and her knees were quivering when Harvey was greeted by the prince.
“Harvey,” was the affable acknowledgment, and large eyes turned toward her with an appraising stare. “Who is this exquisite creature?”
“May I present Miss St. Clair, the newest export from the Colonies.”
“From the Colonies, you say?” His brow lifted, but a smile curved his rather petulant mouth. “Indeed, if this is an example of American exports, I am very glad we are continuing our trade.”
Despite his bulk, there was an air of majesty to him that had nothing to do with his birth. An innate sense of position was evident in his tone and obvious expectation of command, though Celia had heard all the gossip of his excesses, his affairs and often ridiculous attachments to unsuitable causes.
Yet beneath that bloated form and face, she sensed a careless kindness.
Lifted from her deep curtsy, she returned his smile. “I am honored to meet you, Your Grace,” she said, and hoped that her address was appropriate. What was it that Jacqueline had told her she should say if ever she was introduced to the prince? Oh God, but she could scarcely think tonight, with all that had happened. And now he was gazing at her with obvious assessment, his eyes lingering on her bosom displayed in the scarlet gown.
“I find you enchanting,” he said, “and insist that you join our party for supper this evening.”
“Sire,” a tall, thin man at his side stepped close to say softly, “we have already made arrangements for you.”
“Mowry, you’re like a damned hound, always baying at the wrong moment. I wish Miss St. Clair to dine with us.”
A flash of resentment lit the man’s dark eyes, and his glance at Celia was speculative and not at all kind. But he inclined his head in agreement and stepped back, and Celia found herself escorted by none other than the prince regent.
Nearly giddy with apprehension, she saw Jacqueline’s astonished, ecstatic face, and was relieved when she was included in their party, a careless invitation issued by the man called Mowry.
Jacqueline was shaking with excitement, but was very charming as she chatted with a man introduced to Celia as Sir Skeffington, “a veritable fount of information about the theater, and he writes his own plays, my dear.”
Celia listened politely as Sir Skeffington regaled them with details of his works; she was fascinated to see he wore paint on his face, discreet rouge and powder, but startling nonetheless.
“Yes,” Jacqueline was saying, “I did indeed attend your production of The Sleeping Beauty, Sir Skeffington, and found it most delightful.”
“Alas,” he replied with a wry smile, “you are among the few in that case. It was not well received by most.”
“A damned dreadful play,” the prince said bluntly, “but with a lovely actress—what was her name again?”
“Siddons, sire,”
“No, not that one, the young one, the lively dark-haired chit.”
“Maria Wilson, sire.” Mowry’s smile did not reach his eyes, and gave him the appearance of a rather crafty fox, Celia thought. He was a bit unnerving, seeming like a dark presence hovering over them. “Before she wed, of course.”
It was an awkward moment when the king frowned, then Sir Skeffington tactfully observed that there were few actresses as talented as Sarah Siddons, though there was a new play opening soon with an actress who promised to rival any yet presented.
“Another actress,” Mowry said, “is just what England needs. We have far too many in politics alone.”
Celia felt the undercurrents, yet didn’t comprehend the meaning behind them. This lord Mowry seemed determined to be unpleasant, and he really did make her uncomfortable with his innuendoes. Why didn’t the prince reprimand him? Was Mowry so influential that he was above reproof?
“And you, Miss St. Clair,” Mowry turned abruptly to say, catching her off guard. “How did you come to visit Lady Leverton? A rather sudden decision, I presume.”
“No, not sudden. She is, after all, my
godmother. I have always longed to meet her.”
Hooded eyes seemed to seek out all her secrets, a penetrating dark gaze that was alarming. She suppressed a shiver as he continued, “How fortunate that you were able to arrive in time for the small Season. There will be weeks of celebrations to attend.”
“A most fortunate coincidence, Lord Mowry,” she said. He would not intimidate her with sly insinuations, nor would she give him any information about her reasons!
“Indeed,” he said smoothly, “and most welcome after your long voyage. I trust the accommodations aboard the Liberty were comfortable?”
“Fairly comfortable, thank you.” How did he know which ship had brought her to England? It was startling.
