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How old had she been then? Sixteen years? Maybe seventeen? Old enough that she’d accompanied her parents to London. Young enough that he recalled she’d said when she was queen, she would host a ball every weekend. That was what one could expect when children ascended to thrones—they thought of nothing but the number of ponies and balls they would have.
He would have this over and done. William set off with verve, striding toward the mansion’s entrance so abruptly he caused Ewan to stumble in his haste to catch up.
He’d first met the princess at a ball. He’d danced twice with her, two dances one right after the other, which had been scandal in and of itself. She’d decreed that she wanted two dances, and he’d not declined, as that would have been impolite. He’d been a bit amused by it, really, that girl telling him what to do. She’d worn a pale blue gown, cut in the body-hugging style of Alucia and Wesloria, which he found to be a very pleasing style on grown women, but on her girlish frame, too heavy.
He’d met her again at another soiree, this one at the same Upper Brook Street house where William had sallied forth into debauchery just last night. Beck had reminded him of the incident, a bit of a contretemps over a game of Chairs at a Christmas party. William was blamed for it, of course, and it might have been all his doing, but in his defense, his memory was made hazy by the absinthe he’d drunk. He’d brought the drink from France as a gift to his host, and it had flowed freely, and chaos had ensued with a delightful vengeance.
The game consisted of ten adults trooping in a circle around nine chairs as music played, and once the musicians stopped, everyone had to grab a seat. The person left without a chair was eliminated. A chair was taken away, and the procession begun again.
The dispute occurred during a round that had come down to William, the princess and one other person he couldn’t recall now. The princess had said some very insolent things in the course of the game, and he, in turn, had bumped her with his hip out of the way to win a seat in the final round. She had shrieked with indignation, and he had remarked that it sounded much like he imagined the cry of the banshee. Someone had to explain to the little foreigner what a banshee was, and then she’d turned a lovely little face full of murderous rage on him and they’d argued, and all right, allright,it was badly done. But he didn’t think Beck had to toss him out on his ear like he’d done.
William reached the steps and took them two at a time, each stride bringing him that much closer to the child. The sooner he had this over and done, the sooner he could retreat to his bath.
Ewan, who had struggled to keep up the entire way, probably because he was ten years older and five stone heavier, was still breathless from the exertion of chasing his employer up the steps. He reached around William and knocked on the door again. A liveried footman answered it. “His Lordship...the Marquess...of Douglas,” Ewan panted.
“Please,” the footman said, stepping back into the vast entry hall.
William stepped inside and handed his hat and gloves to the footman. Another one appeared and indicated that William should follow him down the long entry hall to a salon. The room was pink and white, with pink velvet curtains tied back with cheerful gold ropes. The palette reminded him a little of a marzipan cake.
A settee and two armchairs were centered in the room, covered with floral brocade. The carpet, he noted as he walked deeper into the room, was thick and a grassy shade of green. He looked up at the painting over a hearth that was taller than he was. It was a woman in a black-and-white gown, smiling coyly over her shoulder while a pair of spaniels romped at her feet.
A noise outside caught his attention, and he walked to a pair of French doors that were opened onto the terrace and green where he’d seen the fencers earlier. The observers had gone, and now the two fencers were on the terrace, the larger one clearly instructing the smaller one.
Another sound, this one in the room. William looked to his right and very clearly saw someone or something disappear behind the drapes on the east wall. What tomfoolery was this? He walked over and pulled the drapes aside, starting at the sight of a woman looking back at him. She looked familiar...but she didn’t have the golden eyes of Princess Justine. And her hair was gold whereas the princess’s had been dark brown. He frowned with confusion. “I beg your pardon.” Was it possible he had misremembered her completely?
The young woman rose up on her toes, uncomfortably close to him, tilted her head back and smiled coquettishly. “You don’t remember me?” she accused in a slightly accented voice.
He did not remember herpreciselylike this, and was, in fact, baffled that his memory could betray him so thoroughly. “I do, of course. But I—”
“My lord.”
William turned; a man had stepped through the French doors. He was a Weslorian gentleman, judging by the long coat and the small patch of green on his lapel. It was a curious habit of the Weslorians to always wear a patch of forest green, much like a Scotsman often wore plaid.
“Youdon’tremember me.” The young woman sounded perturbed, and spoke as if the man had not entered, and William reflexively turned back to her.
“We met when I was in London last. Do you recall me now?” She coyly lifted her lashes, her brown-eyed gaze meeting his.
“I think—”
“My lord!” the man said again, and this time when William turned his head, he was startled to see one of the fencers step into the room. And after a moment of hesitation, the fencer was suddenly advancing on him, and William braced himself, feeling as if he ought to prepare to defend his person.
But something stirred in a nether region of his brain, distracting him. It had to do with the fencer’s attire. Or rather, the curves in that attire. Or rather still, the figure heimaginedin that attire. The trousers fit loosely, but when the fencer moved, he could see the shape of a woman’s body. Hips that curved into slender legs. The jacket, fuller in the chest, narrowed at a trim waist. The épée bouncing against a shapely calf.
This person, this alluring figure, was...was the one he’d seen with an épée at the throat of the bigger opponent.
“If I may,” the gentleman said to the fencer, “Lord William Douglas of Hamilton, Marquess of Douglas and Clydesdale.”
The fencer, in response, removed the mask. A thick, dark brown braid of hair tumbled down the front of the fencing jacket. The streak of white—he would never forget it—was still as prominent as ever. But her hair looked thicker and more luxurious than he recalled. This was not the teenage girl who lived in the attic of his memories. This was a grown woman, with curves and swells and lips and dark brows that arched above her eyes with surprise, and Lord, something bothersome and distracting was fluttering in his chest.
That it was, in fact, Princess Justine in the fencing attire, caused him to smile from the sheer absurdity of it. A bit lopsidedly, to be fair, but a smile nonetheless. Look at how well she had turned out. Oh aye, that was Her Royal Highness—William would know her anywhere.
She said pertly to the gentleman, “I know who he is, thank you.” And she handed the gentleman her mask with such force that William heard anoofof breath escape him.
William bowed. “Your Royal Highness, welcome to England.”
The woman he’d found behind the drapes sauntered around him to stand by Princess Justine. The two of them blinked back at him. How could he ever have mistaken the other one for Princess Justine? The woman with fair hair was obviously the younger sister, Princess Amelia.
“You’re much grown now,” William said, the thought hopping onto his tongue before his head had even registered it.
