“Please see to Mrs. Goldsmith’s comfort.” The maid’s blond curls bounced as she nodded, eagerly accepting the responsibility. Colin turned to Amy. “I’m going to take a nap. I suggest you do the same.”
With that, he was off, his long legs climbing the stairs two at a time. Ida showed Amy to a chamber and pulled back the covers on the bed. Amy still wondered about the house, but she hadn’t been anticipating a self-guided tour; she wanted Colin beside her, telling her all about it.
She lay down, and when she awakened from her fitful sleep, Colin was gone. On her way down to supper, Ida said something about him dining with Priscilla before making an appearance at some ball or other, but Amy listened with half an ear.
Although she’d had most of the day to get used to the idea, she still couldn’t believe that Colin had left her alone.
THIRTY-EIGHT
AS THE DANCE prescribed, Priscilla performed a graceful bow and pointed one square-toed shoe, chattering over the slow music of the minuet. Growing more impatient by the minute, Colin wondered what on earth had possessed him to squire her to Lady Carson’s ball. He hated balls.
And why hadn’t he ever noticed before what a gossip Priscilla was?
Her mouth was as mincing as the minuet. Perhaps if he backed her into that matron over there, who rather resembled the stuffed peacock on the buffet table, Priscilla might shut up.
“Excusez-moi!” The matron pinned him with accusing eyes.
“My apologies, madame.” He wrinkled his nose against the cloying perfume that wafted from the woman’s unwashed body. But his ploy had worked. Priscilla ceased babbling about Lady So-and-So and Lord Such-and-Such, and turned her attention to him instead.
“Really, Colin. You must be more careful.”
“How clumsy of me,” he said with an innocent smile, and quickly changed the subject. “You are looking quite well this evening.” It was true. Priscilla was eighteen and a beauty. Her shoulder-length silver-blond hair gleamed in the candlelight from the blazing chandeliers. Her figure was tall and willowy rather than curvy, but she carried herself with a regal air, and her ivory satin gown accentuated her pale beauty. The complete opposite of Amy’s coloring.
Criminy.
He deliberately pushed Amy out of his mind.
“Why, thank you.” Priscilla smiled at the compliment, but no blush marred her complexion. Sedate and proper at all times, she never blushed. Unlike Amy, who—
“Colin, are you listening?”
“I was admiring your complexion. You’re as flawless as a porcelain doll.”
“Oh.” She concentrated on the next dance step.
“And you dance so prettily,” he added for good measure as they both balanced forward in three-quarter rhythm. When he reached to skim his knuckles along her cheek, she flinched and pulled back. He frowned, wondering if the gesture had been overfamiliar…but they had kissed before. More than once. Although it had been nothing like kissing Amy—
“Colin?” Priscilla waved a hand in front of his face. “As I was saying, Lady Beauchamp—”
“Do you think we might discuss something else?”
“I beg your pardon?” Her eyebrows lifted as her toe traced a half-circle. But her voice held no emotion, not even annoyance at the interruption. Without knowing what possessed him, Colin found himself edging her closer and closer to the peacock matron, until—
“Oh!”
“Well, I never!”
As the matron stalked off, Priscilla righted herself and smoothed her skirts. She would have fallen flat on her behind if Colin hadn’t caught her at the last second.
He waited for a reaction. Anger. Indignation. Embarrassment. Anything.
There was nothing.
He frowned and mentally added to his list: She was as cold and passionless as a porcelain doll as well.
He would have to work on that.
“I’m so very sorry,” he ventured, watching her untangle an earring that had got caught in her hair. “I simply wasn’t looking where I was going. You must be furious…”
“It’s all right,” she said mildly.
And it was.
And there was nothing for it but to resume dancing with her, though Colin suddenly felt unaccountably irritated.
“As I was saying, Lady Beauchamp—”
“I don’t wish to discuss Lady Beauchamp,” he said bluntly.
“What is it you wish to discuss?”
“Something…relevant. Our families. Our future. History. Art.” He was steering her rather forcefully through the glittering, jeweled throng of dancers, though he was careful to avoid bumping into anyone. “What did you think of the play tonight?”
“Lady Scarsdale’s gown was horrendous. The orange girls were better dressed. And did you see the earl’s periwig? It had lice. I cannot believe we were forced to share a box with them.”
The music ended, and Priscilla glanced around. “Lady Whitmore has arrived. I have something to tell her.”
“By all means.” With a great sigh of relief, he sent her sailing from the dance floor. He regretted his bad behavior, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Why was he so out of sorts tonight? Was it just the prospect of spending every day of the rest of his life listening to Priscilla gossip?
Actually, the thought of that was rather depressing.
Could he find some way to discourage her habit before she drove him mad? Perhaps an instructive practical joke…
Ah…yes. He smiled as he caught the eye of a dear friend across the ballroom: Barbara Palmer, the Countess of Castlemaine and King Charles’s mistress these past six years.
Barbara would be the perfect co-conspirator, for she enjoyed a prank as much as he. He made his way over to her.
Though she was five years older than Colin, Barbara’s auburn hair and deep blue eyes made her the equal of any young woman at court. She was a rare beauty, which played no small part in her hold over Charles. Colin supposed he ought to be shocked and disapproving of Barbara’s wicked ways, but he’d known her so long and so well—and the king’s affairs were so universally accepted—that her behavior failed to diminish her in his eyes. She always remained the same old, marvelous Barbara.
“My Lady Castlemaine,” With a little bow, he took her arm
