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George remained on the dais, and his stillness could be confused for patience if one was unfamiliar with his temperament. He had taken note of the lady’s barbed intent as he did not bid either release their displays of respect. Arthur’s neck was beginning to suffer from fatigue; how was the lady managing? He suspected she would not waver and wondered what inspired her scorn.
The moment drew out, a demonstration of princely pique. Arthur raised his head to glare at George, who sighed and said, “Rise, ma’am.” She did so, as effortlessly as she lowered, and resumed her posture, gloved hands folded at her waist, fan and reticule dangling from a wrist, visage devoid of clues as to her thoughts.
“I find myself on the horns of a dilemma,” George announced. He paused for effect as if inviting his audience press him to continue.
Arthur dared. “Do you, Your Highness? And in those pantaloons?”
“I assure you it is no laughing matter, Arthur,” the Prince continued languidly but was betrayed by a slight flush beneath his ears.
“Horns, you say? Anyone we know?” In for a penny, and it was a pound of censure he would accrue for even obliquely alluding to their secret, given the presence of the human female.
“His Grace the Duke of Lowell is now betrothed, as you have both witnessed,” George said. “One hopes he and his lady will be fruitful and multiply, growing his estate in stature and consequence, as can only prove fortuitous for those of our kind.”
“The titled kind. Dukes and princes and such like.” Arthur tipped his head as subtly as he was able down to his left. His silly punning was one thing, but how did Georgie dare speak so loosely before Lady Frost?
“And yet the greater the strength consolidated by Lowell,” George continued, “the greater the need that it be matched by his betters. Such as we, Arthur.”
“We are cousins,” he said to the lady, who did not give the appearance of attending to a word he or His Highness had said.
“Are you unknown to one another? The Marchioness of Castleton, I am pleased to present to you Arthur, Duke of Osborn. Or is it Dowager Marchioness? Is that more in line if not entirely fitting?”
Only one paying as close attention as Arthur would detect the lady’s flinch.
“I do believe one is a dowager if widowed, despite a lack of progeny,” George went on, indelicate, thoughtless. Arthur’s bear lifted his head, as stunned as the man at their regent’s lack of manners. “There was, however, knowledge aborning.”
“His Highness refers to my awareness of the peculiarities to be found in his and Castleton’s unique…ancestry.” The marchioness flicked her gaze at Arthur for a heartbeat. “And yours, I presume. As his cousin.”
“Quite right, ma’am, quite right.” Georgie was always at his most dangerous when his voice softened as it did now, a bored whisper. It boded ill for the interlocutor.
“I marvel at yoursangfroid, Georgie.” Arthur noted the wince on his cousin’s face at the nickname and hoped he drew fire from the female.
“I am not fond of diminutives,” George said, and the air changed, a frisson of hisdominatumpriming the air like lightning about to strike. The prince dropped any pretense of indolence. “I am not fond of relations who do not uphold the family name, of high-ranking peers who do not do their duty to their nation and their species. I am not fond of secrets,” and here Arthur and his bear snorted in reckless unison, “nor of secret-keepers who are well placed to wreak havoc. I am especially not enamored of the thought of Lowell’s pack rising in status by the day.”
“I have no care for status.” Speaking of cold blood, the lady had apparently earned her sobriquet. She spoke as calmly as she would in turning down kippers for breakfast. “Nor for society, nor for threatening the royal slumber. I have decided to leave London and thebeau monde—”
“You have decided?” George lifted his brows in disbelief.
“I have, Your Highness.” Arthur moved closer to her side; she may know George’s secret, but she would not bait him if she knew the potential violence of the regent’s essential self.
“How very fortunate that our desires intersect.” The force of the prince’s will careered about the room. “As it were.”
“As what were?” Arthur remembered being similarly at sea the first time he sawHamlet. Disaster stirred underneath the exchanges, the words themselves anodyne yet sinister in intent.
“As my plans for the future and the parts you will play coincide.” George ran a hand over an embroidered lapel. “You enjoy the theatre, do you not, Your Grace? I have heard tell of your attendance at the most popular revues of our day, here and abroad.”
“Heard, had you? Have ears everywhere, do you?” Arthur felt his dormantdominatumrouse, unpracticed, raw, and he fought it down. His would make no match for Georgie’s, and he would not risk the female coming to harm.
“Oh, yes.” His Highness sighed. “For when my subjects near and dear to me fail to do their duty, it pains me, Arthur. Here.” He laid a hand on his chest. “And we know how vital it is to command from a strong heart. It is time you did so.”
***
The very large male—the Duke of Osborn—bristled and growled. Beatrice was well acquainted with the subtle change in the atmosphere that heralded the transformation from man to beast. It had emanated from the prince regent initially; she suspected the duke was not far behind.
“You have no say over the choices of the marchioness,” the duke snarled, and Beatrice almost laughed. Everyone in this room had more say than she. Even the orchids had greater value.
“The lady knows better than you, Artie.” The diminutive was delivered with pique. “And she knows her leverage over Us must inevitably come to an end.”
A shiver ran down her spine. It was true: she was not so foolish as to have thought her protection would stretch to the end of her life. She had suspected she would be killed by one of these creatures in due course. Would the prince see to her end himself, or would he require his cousin to dirty his claws?
