by Julia Quinn
“Royce, I am disappointed that you are not offering to help.” Meg crossed her arms, her gaze daggerlike. “I daresay you’re too busy flirting with some new inamorata to bother with poor Liza.”
“I never flirt.”
“What a whopper! What about last week, when you were making snow angels in Hyde Park with Lady Anne Bishop? Lady W put it in her column and everyone was talking about it. I was never so humiliated in my life.”
“Humiliated? By a snow angel?”
Meg squared her shoulders. “Royce, someone must discover Lord Durham’s intentions. This man could be a fortune hunter or worse.”
Shelbourne peered over his newspaper at Royce and mouthed the word “run” before retiring once more behind his paper shield.
Had Royce’s head not been pounding, he might have smiled. “What else could Durham want from Liza other than her fortune?”
“Her virtue.”
Blood roared behind Royce’s eyes. Damn it, there was no way he’d let any man take such advantage of Liza! As much as he hated to admit it, Meg had a point. Someone needed to see about this Lord Durham.
And that someone would be Royce. If he didn’t look into this Durham wastrel, Meg would, and God only knew what a mull she’d make of it. “Very well. I’ll see what I can discover.” And he would, too. He’d find out every blasted ugly thing that tainted the man’s mysterious past and show it all to Liza.
Yes, that should do the trick. To his relief, Royce found that he could almost smile again. “Never fear, Meggie. I’ll roust that rooster, one way or another.”
She beamed. “Excellent! While you don’t think Liza is attractive, other men—”
“Of course I think Liza is attractive.”
Meg looked at him curiously. “No one would ever know it to see the two of you together. In fact, I’ve frequently thought you act as if she were more your sister than I. You treat her abominably.”
Royce had been accused of many things in his life, but never of treating a member of the opposite sex like a sister. “Liza is my friend, so I daresay I do speak more freely to her than to other females. But that is all.”
“Yes, well, it doesn’t really matter. It’s not as if she finds you attractive, either. She has grown rather immune to you over the years.”
That stung his pride, so he straightened his shoulders and said in a lofty tone, “I should hope my relationship with Liza transcends such foolishness.” There. That sounded impressive, even to him. But he was still unaccountably irked. “How the hell did Liza meet this man, anyway?”
“Lady Birlington introduced them.”
“I should have known,” Royce said. Lady Birlington was Liza’s godmother. The old woman was brash, unconventional, and rude—the ton loved her.
No one could fault Lady Birlington’s sense of duty. From the first moment Liza had set foot in London, her godmother had garnered Liza invitations to all the Season’s most exclusive events, even gaining her a much-coveted voucher for Almack’s. And when it became evident that Liza did not fit the standard of beauty established by society, Lady Birlington had taken her goddaughter even further under her wing and informed her that if she could not be stunning, she should at least be interesting. Liza took that bit of advice to heart.
Her tendency to dress against fashion increased, she’d become known for her shockingly frank speech, and she’d purchased a scandalously high perch phaeton and drove it wherever she went. Tongues had wagged, of course, but she blithely ignored them, and soon the ton came to expect the unexpected of Miss Liza Pritchard.
Not only that, but some of her quirks had become the rage. Last summer, Liza had appeared with a tiny monkey on a leash. Everyone, including the Prince, had been entranced with the animal’s docile abilities. Within a week, every monkey in London was snapped up by women frantic to stay abreast with fashion, though they soon discovered that owning a monkey and keeping a monkey were not the same thing.
Mayhem ensued. Lady Rushmount’s ill-behaved creature bit Lord Casterland’s thumb. Casterland immediately took to bed for a week. Miss Sanderson-Little’s monkey continually slipped its leash and scrambled beneath the skirts of every nervous female in sight. And Viscountess Rundell’s pet showed a disagreeable tendency to swallow shiny objects, causing Lady Bristol to demand the return of a missing heirloom ring. After an elaborate search during which the ring was nowhere to be found, it was determined that the missing item must be resting in the bowels of the viscountess’s monkey. Some awkward moments ensued, causing the viscountess to decide that perhaps she wasn’t quite up to caring for a live monkey.
Royce sighed. “I hope this Durham fellow isn’t a fortune hunter. I’d hate to have to—”
A discreet knock sounded on the door. Burton entered and announced in a grand tone, “Miss Elizabeth Pritchard.”
A vision in crimson and green entered the room. No, not a vision, Royce amended silently. More of a sight. Liza had no clothing sense. Morning, noon, or night, she was always arrayed in the most outlandish colors. This morning, her crimson gown and matching pelisse were the height of simplicity, but the yellow half boots and the green turban were a shocking testament to the fact that she needed the advice of a good dresser.
Royce regarded her carefully, trying to see her as if he wasn’t already perfectly familiar with her every expression and feature. And what he saw surprised him; Liza was a very striking woman. She possessed fine green eyes and a swath of curly, light brown hair that seemed to have a life of its own. While she was taller than most females, she carried it well, her height complementing her exceptional figure. She was long limbed, with a slender waist and a curvaceous form. At some time or another over the years of their acquaintance, all her features had softened, and the mature humor that lurked in her green eyes combined with her own natural vivacity to make her an eminently attractive female.
Or she would have been attractive, had she been better dressed.
“Liza!” Meg exclaimed. “What is on your head?”
Liza put a hand to the turban, a huge white feather sticking straight from the top and adding a good foot to her height. “Blast it, is it crooked again?” She pushed it to one side, the feather now pointing directly to the rear.
“Where did you get that atrocity?” Royce demanded, amused in spite of himself.
She patted the side of her turban now, moving it even more askew. “I got it from Madame Bouviette’s on Bond Street. Do you like it?”
“It’s the most ridiculous hat I’ve ever seen,” Meg replied. “Only dowagers wear turbans.”
“No! What a pity, as I believe I’m rather fond of it.” She toyed with the feather, accidentally bending it almost in two. “I got it for an astonishingly good price; only ten shillings. I can’t imagine what Madame Bouviette was thinking.”
“I can,” Royce said without pause. “She was thinking, ‘I wager there isn’t a person in London silly enough to buy such an atrocious turban even for ten shillings; I shall have to give the stupid thing away.’ That, my dear Liza, is exactly what your precious Madame Bouviette was thinking.”
Liza tried not to smile, but failed. How could she not grin when Royce teased her? She loved the ridiculous just as much as he. “That’s quite enough merriment, thank you. It’s too early and I haven’t had my morning chocolate. Besides, I came to see Meg, not you.” She glanced at Meg. “Do you needed some help with the invitations for your Valentine’s ball? I have an entire afternoon free.”
James sighed loudly, his breath rattling the paper.
“Ah, yes,” Royce said. “Meg’s Valentine’s ball. I had forgotten about that.”
“How could you?” Meg asked, plainly horrified. “I’ve been planning it since Lady Prudhomme tried to steal the Season with her wretched little soirée!”
Lady Prudhomme was Meg’s archrival. The two had met in school and developed an aversion for each other that had been compounded over the years by the fact that they had married men of a similar station, had
the exact same number of children, and were both held to be extremely attractive. Had one managed to overcome the other in some way, the rivalry might have abated. As it was, it had increased over the years until the two could barely maintain a polite face in society.
“Never fear,” Liza said briskly, “once the world beholds the wonders of the Shelbourne Valentine’s ball, no one will even remember the Prudhommes’ paltry affair.”
Meg smiled, a beatific expression on her face. “Liza, it will be spectacular! I’ve ordered over two thousand red candles. And Monsieur DeTourney has agreed to make six of his famed ice sculptures for the entryway. Royce, you are coming, aren’t you?”
“Of course,” he said promptly. “And I will dance with every antidote in the room, even the squinty-eyed ones.”
Liza doubted that. Royce danced only with the most beautiful women. It was a depressing habit of his, and she wished he’d attempt to broaden his horizons a bit.
Meg shot a triumphant glance at the back of her husband’s newspaper. “I’m glad I can count on my brother, at least.”
“You can count on all of us,” Liza said, aware of a wistful pang as she watched Lord Shelbourne peer over the edge of the paper at his wife, amusement warming his gaze. Though he wasn’t one to show his feelings, Shelbourne could no more say no to his vivacious wife than he could fly. Meg and her husband were deeply and irrevocably in love. It would be nice to feel like that, that I belonged to someone and he belonged to me.
Of their own accord, her eyes were drawn to Royce. To her surprise, she found him regarding her intently, a question in his dark blue eyes. An instant prickle of awareness inched up her spine, a feeling she ruthlessly repressed. Heavens, that was no way to react to a mere look, especially not one from Sir Royce Pemberley, who gave intimate, intense looks to no fewer than forty females a day. Liza should know; she’d watched him do it for years.
Oh yes, Miss Liza Pritchard knew all about Sir Royce Pemberley. Far more than she should and certainly enough to keep her heart from leaping every time he cast a well-practiced glance her way. He was an atrocious flirt; notoriously unstable, his infatuations rarely lasting longer than a month; and circumspect only in public, where he was cautious never to cross the bounds of propriety in such a way as to cause him to lose his highly prized freedom.
That was why Liza thought she and Royce were such good friends—she knew him and accepted him without reservation. And she rather thought he did the same for her.
Of course, that didn’t mean she wasn’t aware of his charms. He was devilishly handsome, with dark brown hair that fell across his brow and contrasted sharply with his blue eyes. Eyes that laughed at one through thick, curling lashes in a way that could, if one was not careful, leave one quite breathless.
Worse, he was tall, broad-shouldered, and had a marvelous cleft in his chin that fascinated Liza in spite of her determination not to be fascinated. She rather wished he’d been born with a plain chin, and eyes a little less blue. And it would be nice if he had, over the years, managed to lose at least a little of his hair. Not all of it, mind you, but just enough to make it so that he wasn’t so damnably handsome.
Unfortunately, God did not have a sense of justice, and Royce remained as handsome at thirty-nine as he had been at eighteen, only perhaps a trifle more so. Liza decided it was a testament to her astounding strength of character that she remained friends with the ton’s most successful heartbreaker, and had done so in a way that protected both her own dignity and his sense of worth.
Just to reinforce her thoughts, Liza gave him a firm, friendly smile and then turned back to Meg. “How many invitations do you need me to do?”
“Hundreds. Thousands, even. I’m inviting absolutely everyone.” Meg bustled to the small escritoire that occupied one corner of the breakfast room. She collected a loose pile of heavy vellum invitations and then tore off the bottom of a long list. “Liza, thank you so much! You have saved me an entire day’s work.”
Liza took the invitations, straightened them into a neat pile, and tucked them under her arm. “We can send them out tomorrow.” She slipped the scrap of paper into her reticule and pulled it closed. “Well, I’m off. I’ve errands to run.”
“I’ll see you to your carriage,” Royce said with comforting promptness. He opened the door and stood to one side.
Liza pulled on her gloves, peering at him from beneath her lashes. Something was bothering Royce—she could see it in the way his gaze never left her, as if he were searching for something. Had Meg upset him? Whatever it was, Liza was determined to wrest it from him. After all, they were friends, and what else were friends for if not to worm every secret from each other?
“Of course you may escort me to my carriage. That would be very pleasant.” She wiggled her fingers in goodbye to Meg. “I’ll bring the invitations back in the morning.” With that, she swept out and into the cooler air of the foyer, then waited for Royce to follow.
Outside the house, the air sparkled with cold, frosting Liza’s breath to a puff of white lace. She glanced at Royce’s heavy greatcoat a little enviously. She had on her best pelisse, and while it was nicely lined and trimmed with swansdown, it didn’t ward off the chill nearly as well as thick layers of worsted wool. “I wish I could wear a multi-caped greatcoat.”
Royce glanced down at her as her carriage pulled to a stop before the stoop, a faint smile touching his mouth. “Shall I give you my coat? It would swallow you whole, but you’d be warmer.”
“And what would you wear? My pelisse? I don’t think so. Not even your good name could carry off that bit of foolishness.”
“Trust me, if you can get away with wearing that atrocious turban, then I can get away with wearing a pelisse.”
Liza grinned. “I’m beginning to get the idea that you don’t like my hat.”
“I hate it,” he said promptly. “Not that you care.”
“Of course I care,” she said lightly as the footman pulled down the steps to her carriage. “Are you going somewhere? May I offer you a ride?”
“I couldn’t trouble you.”
“Pshaw! It will be fun to have a companion. Besides, the streets are nigh deserted, and we’ll make excellent time.” As a further incentive, she added in a confidential tone, “Sometimes the carriage slides a bit on the corners, which is perfectly delightful.”
His teeth flashed as he grinned. “You are a complete hoyden. I suppose I should go just to keep you out of trouble.” He glanced at the carriage, then lifted his brows. “I don’t believe I’ve seen this carriage before.”
“It’s new and rides so smoothly that you won’t even know you are traveling.”
“How can I refuse such a tempting offer?” He sent her footman to dismiss his own carriage and then caught her elbow and helped her to get in, bending just enough so that his eyes were at a level with hers. “Come. You’ll catch your death standing in this weather.”
It was a simple gesture, one Liza was certain Royce had performed for countless other women without thought to the fact that he was making them feel special. Protected. Cherished, even. Fortunately, though Royce might not realize the effects his practiced gesture had on women who were not used to such, Liza did. She gently pulled her elbow free as soon as she was in the coach and busied herself with spreading a heavy wool blanket over her knees.
Royce seated himself opposite her as the footman shut the door. Within moments, the carriage sprang to life and they were soon on their way, comfortably ensconced, gently jolting over the icy paved streets.
“Very luxurious,” Royce said as he examined the interior of the coach, touching the velvet seats and leather and brass trim. “I approve.”
“I made a tidy profit on the market with my last venture, and I thought I was entitled to something nice.”
He shot her a curious look. “The Duke of Wexford was complimenting you just the other day. Said he didn’t know any other woman with a head so attuned to business.”
“He just said tha
t because I steered him in the way of a very profitable mining venture. He has a passion for gems.”
“Nevertheless, he was very complimentary. He is not a man to give praise lightly.”
“Nor am I a woman to take such nonsense seriously.” She settled her feet on a small metal box that rested on the floor. “Here. Put your feet on this. It’s delightfully warm.”
Royce did as she instructed, his large feet making hers seem small. “What an astonishing color,” he said, appearing amazed by the yellow boots that peeked out from beneath the edge of her crimson gown. “What bright shoes. I don’t believe I’ve seen them before.”
“They’re new. I paid a fortune for them.” She regarded her boot fondly. “I so love shoes. I have far too many, but somehow, it’s still not enough.”
He flashed a wide grin that made Liza’s heart tumble in place. “If you have too many shoes, then I have too many waistcoats, and I refuse to admit to such folly.”
She found herself grinning in return. One reason Royce had conquered so many female hearts was that he didn’t dither over the things most men dithered over. He accepted that women loved clothing, and fashion, and talking, and tea. He accepted their fascination with gossip and the fact that many considered giggling a form of communication. Royce did not judge—he understood, encouraged, and listened. All simple enough things, yet combined, they left a woman feeling comfortable and loved.
Liza cleared her throat. “Do you like the hot bricks?”
He looked down at where their feet rested side by side on the box. “Very much.” He hesitated for a moment. “Liza, I need to ask you something—” He broke off, looking so uncertain that she began to feel alarmed.
Something was bothering him. She could tell. “What is it?”