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That was another thing she remembered about him from before—he was so sure of himself, so full of conceit, and yet, at the tender age of seventeen, she’d believed he seemed to know her in ways she had not known herself. Perhaps more maddening, now that she was the wizened age of twenty five, it would appear that he still did.
She helped herself to another glass of champagne from a footman and continued to stew and sip as Sutherland pointed out this painting and that. She tried to see the Rubens, but the crowd was too thick. She agreed that everything was masterful and captured the essence of the subject, but she couldn’t really think or appreciate the beauty of it. She felt hot in her gown, and all the champagne was mixing sourly with her nerves. She thought it was a tragedy she wasn’t afforded the opportunity to simply walk through his gallery and absorb it all on her own. To see the Rubens! She did truly love art when she was allowed to look at it without having to seem a connoisseur, or be careful not to commend one over another, or even use her eyeglasses to take a closer look.
Where was Amelia? She’d lost sight of her sister, which was never good. But then she heard Amelia’s tinkling laugh somewhere in the throng. At least she hadn’t absconded with an Englishman. Yet.
At various intervals Sutherland expected a response to his speech and, she suspected, some recognition that she saw him for the art scholar he clearly wanted to be. Worse yet, the people gathered around them leaned in to hear every word she spoke, then fluttered like small birds behind their fans, whispering to each other. Did they agree? Disagree? Did they find her childish or urbane? Uneducated or sophisticated in her tastes?
Sutherland continued to talk, his gangly arms swinging in all directions as he spoke, his body swaying dangerously close and then away, until he paused to introduce her to “dear, close” friends. She was close to finishing an uncharacteristic third glass of champagne—oh, she knew better; she certainly did. Wasn’t this exactly what had happened the night of the infamous Christmas party in Mayfair?—when he introduced her to the Earl of Rotham.
Earl Rotham.Justine could feel a smile stretching across her lips. Perhaps the champagne had dulled her nerves, but she suddenly felt the fizziness in her bubble up a notch. Dear Lord, what a pleasing sighthewas. He was young, with a fine figure. He had an easy, sympathetic smile, curly gold locks and very blue eyes. “A pleasure, my lord.” She chirped those words like Amelia might have done, and it startled her.
“Ah,Rotham. You’ve returned to London.”
With that rumble of a deep voice, Justine was reminded that William Douglas was her keeper, and felt a flash of irritation. Did he mean to thwart any compliment “prettily given”?
“Douglas,” the earl said tersely, then quickly focused on Justine, taking the gloved hand that she hadn’t realized she’d offered, and bending over it, his eyes on hers as he touched his lips to her knuckles. “I beg your forgiveness for saying so, Your Royal Highness, but you are the most beautiful princess I have ever had the pleasure to meet.” He let go of her hand.
Justine felt herself bloom and her laughter trilled. Behind her she heard William mutter beneath his breath. “How very kind of you to say, my lord,” she said and imagined that she sounded gracious and queenly. “But surely you’ve not met many princesses?”
“On the contrary, I am certain I have met scores of them, and they are all forgotten in the light of your smile.”
“For the love of God,”William muttered.
Justine stepped away from him before she kicked him, and brought herself closer to Rotham, her smile beaming. He was indeed a beautiful man. Oh, she knew words like his were meant to ingratiate—she’d obviously learned that in the most unfortunate way by falling in love with Aldabert Gustav—but she was pleased to hear them all the same. Who didn’t like to be admired for her looks? Particularly someone who had spent her whole life being compared to Amelia? Her mother had always said Amelia was the beauty, and Justine would have the throne, as if those two things were somehow equivalent. So no, she would never tire of receiving a few compliments here and there, and she very much wanted to turn and explain this to Douglas. But she decided that she’d rather continue to gaze upon the very handsome face of Lord Rotham.
The earl knew he was being admired; she could tell by the way his own smile played at the corners of his lips. “If I may, Your Royal Highness? I don’t know if you’ve yet viewed the ceiling.” He shifted closer to her and turned his gaze upward.
Justine looked up, too.
“It’s Cupid,” he said, gesturing to a cherub with a bow and arrow hovering in the north corner. “And Venus.” He pointed to another figure. He spoke softly, as if he was sharing a secret with her. They viewed the elaborate allegorical painting together, Rotham pointing out some of the smaller details, such as the pair of hunting dogs in one corner, hidden behind a shadow, and in another part of the ceiling, a benevolent face in the cloud.
“My lord, pardon?”
A pair of women who had come up on Rotham’s right. The older one glanced anxiously at Justine and curtsied. But she quickly turned her attention to Rotham again.
He seemed unbothered by the intrusion. He smiled at Justine and said, “If you will excuse me, ma’am?” He bowed and stepped away, his head bent as he listened to the older woman speak.
Justine returned her gaze to the ceiling. She wanted to down the last of her champagne but felt too many eyes on her.
“How it gladdens my old, battered heart to see Rotham taking your art education in hand.”
William.She kept her gaze on the ceiling.
“You should know that he and Sutherland are in the business of steel and are looking for new places to build rail lines,” he said quite low. “You take my meaning, aye?”
Justine did not take her gaze from the ceiling. “I speak English, my lord, and understood every single word. And what I surmise from your words is that you are dangerously close to forming an opinion I forbid you from sharing.” She lowered her gaze and looked at him. “Was there apointto the opinion you’re not allowed to offer?”
“Aye, there is. Wesloria would be a bonny land for new rail lines.”
She leaned slightly forward, as his eyes seemed to have developed a particular shine. “Are you implying that the onlypossibleinterest the gentleman would have in speaking to me would be to gain access to build a rail?”
William’s shining gray gaze flicked to her mouth. “That is obviously no’ the onlypossibleinterest he would have in speaking to you, Justine. Even a blind man would want to speak to you. You’re as bonny as a rose, as elegant as a swan. But it is nonetheless a possible interest that you should no’ ignore.” He smiled, as if he had just graced her with superior knowledge that he reserved for only his brightest students.
“You are so...bothersome,” she said, exasperated. “And you are standing so close I can scarcely breathe. Incidentally, I have revised my opinion and I do like the way you say my name.”
“I know.”
She tried to take a deep breath, but her corset was too tight. Or something. She just couldn’t breathe properly. She looked at Rotham, who was still smiling charmingly at the women who had called him away. She noticed that when he looked at the younger of the two women, his smile was very similar to the one he had shown to her. “Who is that he’s speaking to?”
