The Prince Who Loved Me Part 14

"He loves you," Bronwyn said softly. "There's no other reason he'd have done so."

Mama's smile quavered a moment, and she quickly bent to stir the coals, her face now hidden from view. "I do wish the maid would learn to make a proper fire."

Bronwyn wondered if she should say something else or perhaps even hug her stepmother, but the older woman wasn't comfortable with displays of affection. It was one of the many ways she differed from Bronwyn's mother, and perhaps one reason Papa had chosen her.

Mother had been bubbly light, the house filled with laughter, muddy shoes, and stories by the fireplace. When Mother was alive, the curtains and tabletops had never been free from dust, but the walls had been warmed by laughter. Lady Malvinea, meanwhile, kept Ackinnoull perfectly clean, the draperies ironed, the bed linens always fresh. No hint of dust was ever allowed to gather. The house was perfect, but colder.

Bronwyn thought her father felt that loss keenly. Once Lady Malvinea and her daughters had been installed in their home, he'd seemed to find more and more reasons to stay in his workshop, away from the family, leaving them to their own devices.

It's not fair. No matter Lady Malvinea's faults, she was capable of great love. Though Bronwyn had very little interest in the things that stirred her stepmother, she was deeply grateful for the older woman's efforts to include her.

Mama replaced the poker and came to join them. "Well, my dears! We must discuss the prince's visit." She sank into a chair, collecting herself enough to send a teasing look at Bronwyn. "We sadly missed you at breakfast. Reading another book, were you?"

"Yes, I was rereading some of my favorite scenes." Plotting the punishment of a certain prince.

"I would like to read The Black Duke when you finish." Mairi plopped down on the settee, her skirts billowing.

"Mairi, your manners!"

"No one is looking, Mama."

"As I've told you time and again, a lady never forgets her manners, even in private."

Mairi sighed. "I'll try, but I can't imagine everyone actually acts in private the way they do in public, never putting their feet up or talking about anything other than the weather and the latest gossip in London. Well, except old Mr. Grisham from MacCuen Hall." She grinned. "I'll wager he does exactly the same in private as he does in public, which is to fondle maids, belch loudly, and drink ale."

"Mairi, Mairi!" Mama pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers as if she had a sudden headache.

Sorcha and Bronwyn barely held their laughter.

Schooling her expression, Sorcha patted Mairi's arm. "Mama is right; please show some comportment."

"I'm showing comportment. Besides, I'm not the one wearing muddy boots."

All eyes turned to Bronwyn.

"I'm sorry. I went for a walk early this morning, and completely forgot about my boots."

Mama glanced at the clock. "Sadly, there's not enough time for you to change them. You'll just have to wear them as they are. Tuck them back under your skirts, please. That will have to do."

Mairi turned a pouting face toward Mama. "How come you never worry about Bronwyn's clothes?"

"Bronwyn is twenty-four, my dear, past the age to be wishful of a suitor."

Though she'd thought the exact same thing herself many times, the words. .h.i.t Bronwyn with a new force, her stepmother's tone d.a.m.ning in its casual finality. Good G.o.d, was she too old to ever have a suitor? Why did that stark sentence pinch so much?

Mama caught her surprised look and, with a concerned frown, added, "Not that you couldn't do so if you tried, but you seem content with the way things are."

"I am-I mean, I have been. I've never met a man I wished to marry." Just one I enjoy kissing.

That was a beginning, wasn't it?

Mama's expression softened. "Perhaps one day you'll meet someone who will change your mind."

And perhaps someone was well on his way to doing so. Or had been, until she'd seen his true colors.

Sorcha smiled at Bronwyn. "The truth is that you are too in love with the men in your novels to spare your time on mere mortals. How can one compete with Miss Edgeworth's Roland?"

Mairi clasped her hands together beneath her chin and stared dreamily into the air. "Oh, Roland!"

Bronwyn couldn't keep back a chuckle. "Fortunately, I am well aware of the vast difference between fact and fiction. And speaking of facts, Sorcha, it dawned on me last night that you've barely mentioned your dance with the prince when we were at the ball."

Mairi turned her attention to her sister. "Did the prince dance as well as Lord Strathmoor? It seemed to me the viscount was lighter on his feet."

"The viscount was the better dancer." She didn't seem at all happy about it. "Although his manners left much to be desired. I was glad when our dance was over."

"Viscount Strathmoor is not a concern," Mama said. "I asked about him, thinking he might do well for Mairi, but he has almost no income and, despite his close relationship to Sir Henry, does not stand to inherit in that direction, either."

"A pity," Mairi agreed. "I thought he had kind eyes, but-" She dusted her hands. "I shall focus my attentions elsewhere, for I'm determined to wed a wealthy man. I've books to buy and gowns to purchase, jewels to wear, and-oh, a thousand very expensive things."

Bronwyn had to laugh.

Sorcha smiled but said in her soft tone, "Mairi, a wealthy man will never consider you if you behave like a hoyden in public."

Mairi sniffed. "At tea, the prince laughed no fewer than four times when he spoke with me. I didn't see him so much as smile when he was with you. He even yawned. I saw him!"

"Now Mairi, that's not true," Mama chided. "The prince smiled quite pleasantly both at tea and the ball when he took Sorcha into the set. They made quite a pretty pair, too, if I say so myself. Several ladies in attendance said something to me about Sorcha's gracefulness later, and they were all very complimentary about her comportment, too, which is very telling. In general, women are much harsher critics than men."

Bronwyn had never seen her stepmother quite so happy.

Sorcha adjusted her shawl over her shoulders. "I'm cold."

"It's always cold in here," Mairi said. "The sun never warms this side of the house. We should add some more coal to the fire-"

"Here." Bronwyn picked up a lap blanket from where it hung over the back of the settee and handed it to Mairi. "This will keep you warm."

As she handed the blanket to Mairi, a sudden breeze burst down the chimney, puffing smoke into the room. Sorcha and Mairi cried out, coughing and covering their faces, while Bronwyn hurried to throw open the window.

Her arm pressed over her face, Lady Malvinea waved at the smoky air with her skirt. "I wish Murdoch would have that flue fixed."

The smoke slowly seeped out, replaced by colder air.

"Close the window!" Sorcha cried once the smoke had mostly cleared.

"Yes, yes," Mairi agreed. "It's even colder now!"

Bronwyn closed and latched the window and returned to their settee.

Sorcha shivered and looked longingly at the coal bin. "Mama, surely we can add more coal, with guests coming soon. Then the room will be the perfect temperature for a nice visit."

As if on cue, a horse neighed outside, the noise followed by the unmistakable sounds of male voices.

The women exchanged startled looks, and then Mairi and Sorcha leapt to their feet and raced to the window, peering through the curtains.

"It's the prince," Mairi exclaimed, "with Viscount Strathmoor!"

Mama was on her feet in a trice. "And the room is still smoky!"

She added coal to the fire and then began snapping out orders like a general in the heat of battle. "Sorcha, run and tell your papa we have guests and he must come immediately. And don't take no for an answer. Mairi, pull the shades a bit; a shaded room will hide the threadbare carpet, not to mention we will all look the better for it.

"Bronwyn, run to the kitchen and tell Mrs. Pitcairn we'll need tea immediately, and not to even think of using those hard scones she tried to serve yesterday. Tell her to fix a nice pot of the bohea, and not to be shy about the leaves, and to serve the apple tarts she was saving for dinner tonight. There are only four of them, so have her cut them in half. That will make eight, although none of us should ask for any, in case His Highness or Lord Strathmoor might wish for two."

Lady Malvinea waved her hands. "Off with you! It will take His Highness only a few moments to secure his horse and ring the bell, and everything must be perfect!"

Sorcha scurried off to do her mother's bidding while Mairi hurried to the curtains and started arranging them as she'd been instructed.

Bronwyn lingered by the doorway. "Must we sacrifice our dessert for mere visitors? I doubt they'll stay long enough to eat them, anyway."

"Bronwyn, these things-b.a.l.l.s and morning visits and even apple tarts-are all sacrifices we must make if we wish Sorcha and Mairi to succeed." Mama fluffed pillows and folded up the discarded blankets and shawls, leaving the faint scent of rosewater in her wake. "If we do things right and make His Highness feel welcome here, then we will see much more of him."

"And you think an apple tart would bring the prince back for more visits?"

"La, child, I've seen men climb cliffs for a side of beef, so yes. Just think what your papa would do for black pudding! Men have their favorite dishes, and they often hear better when you speak to them through their stomachs. Oh dear-do hurry, for I think I hear footsteps upon the portico! Have Mrs. Pitcairn answer the door, too, would you?"

Bronwyn hurried to the kitchen. Today she would smile, seem interested in whatever the prince had to say, and laugh at his jokes. I know a few things about Oxenburg, too, which should charm him. He'll believe I think it the most lovely of all countries and that by dint of being its prince, I think the same of him. In his weak mind, that will affirm what he's already decided: that I can easily be wooed with soft words.

She just couldn't allow herself to think about those dratted kisses. Talk about Oxenburg, let him think I find him fascinating, pretend to be interested, she repeated over and over as she headed down into the kitchen.

Gentle reader, never ask a woman for her thoughts. Some things are best left to the imagination.

-The Black Duke by Miss Mary Edgeworth Ackinnoull Manor was situated on a lovely knoll, the long green lawn reaching to a stand of trees that encircled it. Alexsey placed his hand upon one of the columns that supported the portico. "This is a lovely old house. Tudor, I should think, though not in the traditional style, since it's built of stone."

Strath, who stood in the drive, glanced at the house indifferently. "You think it's that old?"

"I know it is. Look at the windows. But these"-Alexsey patted the impressive column-"are newer. This portico was added in the eighteenth century, I would think, less than a hundred years ago." He shrugged at Strath's questioning look. "A good prince is a master of many useless trivial arts. That, and I read."

"You read far more than is healthy. You could go blind squinting at pages so much, you know." Strath tied up his horse, climbed the steps to the portico, and reached for the bellpull.

A deep, long gong sounded, echoing with a somber timbre. "Good G.o.d, that's a frightening sound. Exactly what one might expect to hear in a crypt." He glanced right and then left and then said in a much lower voice, "Which is not at all surprising, considering Lady Malvinea lives here. Gives me the shivers, that woman does. And her daughters . . ." He shook his head.

"I thought you found Miss Sorcha a beauty."

Strath shrugged. "She is, if one likes the insipid blond sort. By the way, I did some research for you about Miss Murdoch, and I have some very bad news. Horrible news, in fact. She's a demmed bluestocking."

"What is this bluestocking?"

"A woman who fancies herself a member of the intelligentsia." He lowered his voice. "It's against the laws of nature."

Alexsey lifted his brows. "Why are you whispering? Afraid of bluestockings, are you?"

"All smart men are. They like to argue. A lot. And often."

"Ah. Then yes, I think Bronwyn is indeed a member of this black-stocking group."

"Bluestocking. They're horrid. A man can't have a day's worth of peace with them about."

"Perhaps I do not want peace, but excitement. Perhaps I wish to play with the fire of her mind and stir the heat of her heart."

Strath blinked. "Good G.o.d, Alexsey, you make her sound attractive."

"She is."

"Hmmm." He sent his friend a sly side-glance. "Perhaps I should give her another look-see."

Alexsey's smile crashed into a frown. "That would not be wise-"

The door creaked open and a short, rotund woman with a mobcap smashed upon her iron-gray curls looked out onto the portico. She offered no greeting, but stared at them.

An awkward silence ensued until Strath cleared his throat. "Pardon me, but is this Ackinnoull Manor, home of the Murdoch family?"

"Aye." The woman opened the door a fraction of an inch more, her chins quivering as she looked head to toe at one of them, then the other, her brow knit in a frown.

Alexsey hid a grin. "I beg your pardon, but you are . . ." He lifted his brows and waited.

"Och, oy'm Mrs. Pitcairn, both cook and housekeeper." She released the door long enough to smooth her black gown. Now that the door was slightly more opened, Alexsey could see the flour scattered over one of her cuffs. As if in explanation, she added, "I dinna normally answer the door."

"Ah," Strath said, offering a charming smile as he whipped off his hat. "You are doing a fine job thus far. Well done, Mrs. Pitcairn."

She eyed Strath the way a cat might eye a snake. "It dinna take much in the way o' talent."

His lips twitched, but he managed to say with suitable gravity, "Very true. Still, it is not your usual duty and yet here you are, performing it as if you'd done it hundreds of times before."

The housekeeper looked at Strath from head to toe again. "Humph."

Alexsey hid a smile. "I do hope we've not come at an inopportune time?"

The housekeeper considered this. "Nay, I suppose no'."

Strath threw himself into the breach once again. "Excellent! I believe introductions are in order. Gentle lady, I'm Viscount Strathmoor and this is Prince Menshivkov. We've come to visit Mr. and Mrs. Murdoch and their lovely daughters."

"Prince?" The cook's eyes widened and she looked at Alexsey with renewed interest. "Ye're a prince? A real 'un?"

Alexsey bowed.

Mrs. Pitcairn opened the door a bit wider and said in a voice tinged with awe, "Lor' love ye, oy've ne'er met a prince a'fore. But guidness, ye do look th' part. All tall an' handsome and quite a set of shoulders upon ye. Ye look good enou' to eat, ye do."

Strath made a choking sound while Alexsey asked with caution, "I take it we may enter?"

"Och, o' course ye can enter." She stepped out of the way, swinging the door wide. "Come on in, and mind ye wipe yer feet, fer Miss Bronwyn mopped the foyer yesterday mornin' and oy'll no' ha' it marred, e'en by a pr-"