The Scoundrel and I - Katharine Ashe Page 0,24

exalted elite dressed spectacularly, every one of them laughing and chatting and looking each other over.

Elle’s hands shook.

“Now, Princess,” the captain said and took her hand to tuck it into the crook of his arm, “let me do the talking.”

~o0o~

She obeyed. At first.

“Wallachia?” she hissed as they moved away from the Duchess of Tarleton. “I know nothing about Wallachia.”

“Neither does anybody else here,” he said, feeling her fingertips pressing into his arm, her knuckles against his ribs, and in charity with the entire world. Jane Park had refused him categorically. He would find a way to help her and the little ones—help she would accept. But now he was free and the prettiest girl in the room was on his arm. “Occurred to me that Tarleton’d spent months in Russia after the war. Couldn’t chance it. And foreign princesses from tiny unknown principalities are all the rage these days, don’t you know.”

“I know nothing of the sort,” she whispered. “And I think Wallachia is actually quite a large country. Where is your uncle?”

“Just on the other side of that potted palm. Ah, here’s Lady B. Ma’am,” he said, sketching the matron a bow. “Outdone yourself with the festivities tonight, as always.”

“Captain, who is this goddess and why haven’t you brought her here before?”

“Princess Magdala of Hungary, may I present to you—”

“Ladee Bee,” Elle said with a generous roll of her tongue. Bending her head gracefully, she curtsied, a single, sublime dip of her lithe body garbed in diaphanous white fabric that clung to her breasts and legs and left Tony’s senses entirely muddled. Lifting her kohl-rimmed eyes to their hostess again, she said in soft, halting tones, “I am ’appy to be makeeng ov your ac-vaintence.”

“Well, what a lovely creature you are,” Lady Beaufetheringstone exclaimed, the peacock feather in her turban dancing. “Have you been introduced to the Duke of Frye? No? He spent any number of years in Bulgaria, or perhaps it was Bavaria. In any case quite near Hungary, I daresay. Come.” She linked arms with Elle. “I will make you known to him. My cousin thrice removed, of course. His wife is a darling thing . . .”

The throng of people separated him from Elle and Lady B, the orchestra commenced a set, dancers crowded the floor, and he lost sight of her. Some time later he found her surrounded by guests, stumbling through English phrases with a demure and gently smiling humility that her companions obviously admired.

“Princess Magdala, everybody is simply rapt with their correspondence,” one lady was saying. “He is obviously infatuated with her.”

“No, no,” a gentleman interrupted. “You mustn’t let the countess mislead you, Princess. Lady Justice is merely playing games with Peregrine, and he is fully aware of it.”

“If he knows she is playing games, my lord,” another woman said, “why does he continue writing letters to her?”

“He likes to tease her.”

“Dees Pere—” Elle said, her eyes innocently seeking assistance. “Pere—”

“Peregrine,” a gentleman offered.

“He iz—how do you say in the Eenglish—in love vif her, yes?”

“Oh, yes, Princess!” one of the ladies gushed. “Entirely.”

“He’s merely flirting with her,” a different gentleman said. “She has invited that nonsense by printing his letters for the public to read, after all.”

“She disagrees with his politics,” another said.

“Eloquent girl! Always knows precisely how to turn a phrase.”

“She is the equal to any man in Parliament.”

“Do you know what I wish?” a lady declared. “I wish I were the first person each month to read Peregrine’s letters and Lady Justice’s replies. Wouldn’t that be splendid? Then I could tell all of my friends before anybody else heard a thing. My drawing room would be the most popular place in London.”

Everybody chuckled. Elle’s eyes shone and her lips were a sweet arc of delight. Across the circle, she met his gaze and a soft pink flush stole across her cheeks.

“Forgive me, ladies, gentlemen,” he said, and stepped toward her. “Must steal the princess away.” She nodded her coiffure regally and moved away at his side. Her fingertips pressed into his sleeve and her eyes danced.

“I spoke with your uncle,” she whispered. “He is wonderfully diverting!”

“Diverting? Frederick Baldwin?” She smelled of roses or lilac or lavender. Flowers. And sugar. And perhaps lemons. Lemons with a lot of sugar in them. Amidst every perfume and cologne in the crowded ballroom, her scent was the only thing in his head and it made him thirsty. “Certain you got the right man?”

“Yes! He spoke to me in Bulgarian. Can you believe it? I hardly