Princess Charlotte’s Choice. Ann Lethbridge

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СКАЧАТЬ The Prince Regent in finely embroidered coats over his gargantuan stomach, welcomed his daughter with royal affability. The diminutive elderly queen acknowledged her granddaughter’s curtsey with a warm smile. But everyone’s eyes were on the darkly handsome and slender Prince Leopold. The silver buttons on his dark blue coat and the star on his chest gleamed as he bowed with the grace of a courtier. His stern, almost sombre expression softened when his gaze rested on the princess. Isabelle was sure she heard the ladies around her sigh in unison and she smiled her pride as her royal mistress made her stylish curtsey, showing not a morsel of the nerves she’d evinced above stairs.

      One by one, the prince introduced his attendants to the princess. Isabelle’s heart faltered as she watched Count Nikkolae Grazinsky achieve an elegant bow for such a big man.

      Tall and dark, with sculpted features, she’d thought him beautiful the first time she saw him riding in Hyde Park with Prince Leopold two years before. Where the prince was slender, Nikki’s broad shoulders strained at the fabric of his dark blue uniform. While the prince employed exquisite manners honed in the courts of Europe, Nikki exuded power and energy and the sense he would take what he wanted. He observed the world from piercing blue eyes without revealing his thoughts; yet, in the few short hours they’d spent alone, she’d thought she’d seen the man behind the uniform, a man lost and alone. She’d been horribly mistaken.

      When the princess turned to introduce her ladies to the prince, Isabelle dared not look up, in case she should somehow lock gazes with Nikki and show her anger. Now was not the time or the place.

      When it was her turn to curtsey, she felt quite ill. Was the prince aware of what she’d done? How she managed to remain steady as she dipped her knees, she wasn’t sure.

      ‘Lady Isabelle,’ the prince said in his thick Germanic accent. ‘I am glad once more to make your acquaintance.’

      ‘Your Excellency,’ she said, painfully aware of the flush on her cheeks. When she glanced up, she found the prince’s expression kindly, even if his dark brown eyes were a little stern. She managed a hesitant smile before he turned his attention elsewhere.

      She studiously avoided any possibility of meeting Nikki’s mocking glance.

      The introductions over, the Prince Regent sank into his wheeled chair, his bulk clearly too much for his gout. The footman pushed him into the dining room alongside the queen. Lady Hertford, the regent’s mistress, a handsome if somewhat stout woman past the first blush of youth, followed along on Lord Castlereagh’s arm, leaving her long-suffering husband to escort Lady Ilchester.

      Lord Alvanley, the close friend of the prince’s assigned to escort Isabelle into the banqueting room, adeptly flicked open his snuff box and inhaled a pinch with practiced dexterity. ‘Such a bore, don’t you know,’ he said quietly. ‘No wonder you look depressed. I feel like crying myself. No doubt after dinner the queen will insist upon cards and backgammon for the meanest of stakes.’

      The portly dandy’s mock expression of agony made her smile.

      ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘No point in wearing emotions for all to see. Either you do something about your troubles, or suffer them cheerfully. Repining and sighing will do nothing but give people a distaste for your company.’

      Why his lordship had chosen her to receive the benefit of his advice, Isabelle wasn’t sure, but she mulled it over. Do something about it. All very well for him to say. He was a man.

      Still, he was right. A long face would be noticed by Lady Ilchester and reported to the queen and she’d had too many reprimands already. She pinned a smile on her lips. ‘This is the first time I have been to Brighton. The princess usually goes to Weymouth.’

      ‘Good girl,’ Alvanley said, escorting her down the long table to her place near the queen. ‘Do tell. What do you think of Prinny’s folly?’

      Everyone called the Prince of Wales Prinny, but never to his face. As for his folly, many people were angered by the money he’d spent on his home beside the sea. ‘It is like a visit to the Orient without the journey.’

      Lord Alvanley chuckled. ‘The prince would be delighted by your perspective.’ He frowned at the table. ‘I was sure my place was beside you.’

      ‘My seat, I believe.’ The darkly insolent drawl sent a shiver down Isabelle’s spine. Nikki.

      Someone had made a dreadful mistake. Blankly she stared at the place card bearing Nikki’s name beside her own.

      Lord Alvanley’s lips curved in a hard little smile. ‘My dear Count Grazinsky, I don’t suppose you know where I might be sitting?’

      ‘I think you will find your place next to Mrs Campbell, my lord,’ Nikki replied with a bow.

      ‘I expect to collect on a debt of gratitude next time we meet, Count.’

      ‘It will be my pleasure,’ Nikki said smoothly.

      Lord Alvanley sauntered away, seemingly unperturbed.

      The rapid beating of her heart made thinking impossible, so when the footman pulled back her chair, she sank down beside the elderly military gentleman on her left.

      ‘Poor Lord Alvanley,’ Isabelle said, trying to look severe instead of terrified as Nikki seated himself negligently on her other hand. She could not let him see how much he affected her. She would not make a fool of herself again.

      A waiter leaned between them and filled her goblet with wine. Isabelle kept her gaze fixed on the ruby liquid streaming into her glass, her heart pounding against her ribs, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. Not one sensible word entered her mind. Only the question that had haunted her all these long weeks. Why had he chosen her as his pawn? Did she really want to know the answer?

      This feeling of panic was ridiculous. Sooner or later she would have to face him, for he was a friend of Prince Leopold’s. What could he possibly do or say in such a public venue to put her to the blush? Apart from just being there, that was. She inhaled a deep breath and met his gaze.

      His face was grave. His blue eyes searched her face intently. For what? Signs of forgiveness? A wish to continue their flirtation? Never.

      ‘Count Grazinsky,’ she managed from a throat in sore need of moisture. ‘You visit England at a very chilly time of year.’

      There, that sounded cool enough. Distant. As if she barely remembered him. Father would be proud of her composure. Or he might be, if he ever gave her a thought. It seemed she only came to his notice when she’d committed some sin.

      ‘It is nowhere near as inclement as Russia at this time of year,’ Nikki murmured. His voice struck unwanted chords in her body, set them vibrating with pleasure and the pain of loss.

      His English was perfect. His English mother had insisted he attend school at Eton and Oxford, he’d told her. But it wasn’t his English heritage that fascinated her. It was the darker, more mysterious Russian side of his nature that made her heart beat far too fast and turned her into a besotted fool.

      He leaned close enough for her to feel his warm breath against her cheek. ‘Is that all you have for me after two long years, Isabelle? Platitudes about the weather?’

      ‘In England the weather is always a topic of interest between friends.’

      His СКАЧАТЬ