The Leopard Prince

Page 13

Harry returned to his whittling. Women.
“They must’ve been enchanted, too.” Lady Georgina waved away the problem of faulty equipment. “So he went and got the Golden Horse—”
“What? Just like that?” He stared at her, an odd sense of frustration filling his chest.
“What do you mean?”
“Wasn’t there a grand fight, then?” He gestured with the wood. “A struggle to the death between this Leopard Prince and the evil ogre? The ogre must’ve been a tough bird, others would’ve tried to take his prize before. What made our fellow so special that he could defeat him?”
“The armor and—”
“And the silly glass sword. Yes, all right, but others would’ve had magical weapons—”
“He’s an enchanted leopard prince!” Lady Georgina was angry now. “He’s better, stronger, than all the others. He could’ve defeated the evil ogre with a single blow, I’m sure.”
Harry felt his face heat, and his words came too fast. “If he’s as powerful as all that, my lady, then why doesn’t he free himself?”
“I—”
“Why doesn’t he just walk away from spoiled kings and ridiculous chores? Why is he enslaved at all?” He threw down his whittling. The knife skittered across the table and slid to the floor.
Lady Georgina bent to pick it up. “I don’t know, Harry.” She offered the knife to him on the palm of her outstretched hand. “I don’t know.”
He ignored her hand. “It’s late. I think you’d better go back to your manor now, my lady.”
She placed the knife on the table. “If your father didn’t give you this, then who did?”
She asked all the wrong questions. All the questions he wouldn’t—couldn’t—answer, either for himself or for her, and she never stopped. Why was she playing this game with him?
Silently he picked up her cloak and held it out for her. She looked into his face, and then turned so he could drape it about her shoulders. The perfume in her hair reached his nostrils. He closed his eyes in something very like agony.
“Will you kiss me again?” she whispered. Her back was still toward him.
He snatched his hands away. “No.”
He strode past her and opened the door. He had to occupy his hands so that he wouldn’t grab her and pull her body into his and kiss her until there was no tomorrow.
Her gaze met his, and her eyes were deep pools of blue. A man could dive in there and never care when he drowned. “Not even if I want you to kiss me?”
“Not even then.”
“Very well.” She moved past him and out into the night. “Good night, Harry Pye.”
“Good night, my lady.” He shut the door and leaned against it, breathing in the lingering traces of her perfume.
Then he straightened and walked away. Long ago he had railed against the order of things that deemed him inferior to men who had neither brains nor morals. It hadn’t mattered.
He railed against fate no more.
Chapter Seven
“Tiggle, why do you think gentlemen kiss ladies?” George adjusted the gauze fichu tucked into the neckline of her dress.
Today she wore a lemon-colored gown patterned with turquoise and scarlet birds. Miniscule scarlet ruffles lined the square neck, and cascades of lace fell from the elbows. The whole thing was simply delicious, if she did say so herself.
“There’s only one reason a man kisses a woman, my lady.” Tiggle had several hairpins stuck between her lips as she arranged George’s hair, and her words were a bit indistinct. “He wants to bed her.”
“Always?” George wrinkled her nose at herself in the mirror. “I mean, might he kiss a woman just to show, I don’t know, friendship or something?”
The lady’s maid snorted and placed a hairpin in George’s coiffure. “Not likely. Not unless he thinks bedsport a part of friendship. No, mark my words, my lady, the better half of a man’s mind is taken up with how to get a woman into bed. And the rest”—Tiggle stepped back to look critically at her creation—“is probably spent on gambling and horses and such.”
“Really?” George was diverted by the thought of all the men she knew, butlers and coachmen and her brothers and vicars and tinkers and all manner of men, going about thinking primarily of bedsport. “But what about philosophers and men of letters? Obviously they’re spending quite a lot of time thinking of something else?”
Tiggle shook her head sagely. “Any man not thinking about bedsport has something the matter with him, my lady, philosopher or no.”
“Oh.” She began arranging the hairpins on the vanity top into a zigzag pattern. “But what if a man kisses a woman and then refuses to do so again? Even when encouraged?”
There was silence behind her. She glanced up to meet Tiggle’s gaze in the mirror.
The lady’s maid had two lines between her brows that hadn’t been there before. “Then he must have a very good reason not to kiss her, my lady.”
George’s shoulders slumped.
“ ’Course, in my experience,” Tiggle spoke carefully, “men can be persuaded into kissing and the like awful easy.”
George’s eyes widened. “Truly? Even if he’s… reluctant?”
The maid nodded once. “Even against their own will. Well, they can’t help it, can they, poor dears? It’s just the way they’re made.”
“I see.” George rose and impulsively hugged the other woman. “You have the most interesting knowledge, Tiggle. I can’t tell you how helpful this conversation has been.”
Tiggle looked alarmed. “Just so you’re careful, my lady.”
“Oh, I will be.” George sailed out of her bedroom.
She hurried down the mahogany staircase and entered the sunny morning room where breakfast was served. Violet was already drinking tea at the gilt table.
“Good morning, sweetheart.” George crossed to the sideboard and was pleased to see that Cook had made buttered kippers.
“George?”
“Yes, dear?” Kippers started the morning so nicely. A day could never be all bad if it had kippers in it.
“Where were you last night?”
“Last night? I was here, wasn’t I?” She sat down across from Violet and reached for her fork.
“I meant before you came in. At one o’clock in the morning, I might add.” Violet’s voice was a wee bit strident. “Where were you then?”
George sighed and lowered her fork. Poor kippers. “I was out on an errand.”
Violet eyed her sister in a way that reminded George of a long-ago governess. That lady had been well past her fiftieth decade. How did a girl hardly out of the schoolroom manage so severe an expression?
“An errand at midnight?” Violet asked. “What could you possibly have been doing?”
“I was consulting Mr. Pye, if you must know, dear. About the sheep poisoning.”
“Mr. Pye?” Violet squawked. “Mr. Pye is the one poisoning the sheep! What do you need to consult him about?”
George stared, taken aback at her sister’s vehemence. “Well, we interviewed one of the farmers yesterday, and he told us that hemlock was the poison being used. And we were going to inquire of another farmer, but there was an incident on the road.”
“An incident.”
George winced. “We had a bit of trouble with some men attacking Mr. Pye.”
“Attacking Mr. Pye?” Violet pounced on the words. “While you were with him? You might have been hurt.”
“Mr. Pye acquitted himself very well, and I’d brought the pistols Aunt Clara left me.”
“Oh, George,” Violet sighed. “Can’t you see the trouble he’s causing you? You must turn him over to Lord Granville so he can be properly punished. I heard how you sent Lord Granville away the other day when he came for Mr. Pye. You’re just being contrary; you know you are.”
“But I don’t believe he is the poisoner. I thought you understood that.”
It was Violet’s turn to stare. “What do you mean?”
George got up to pour herself some more tea. “I don’t think a man of Mr. Pye’s character would commit a crime like this.”
She turned back to the table to find her sister gawking, horrified. “You’re not infatuated with Mr. Pye, are you? It’s so awful when a lady of your age starts mooning over a man.”
Mooning? George stiffened. “Contrary to your opinion, eight and twenty is not actually in one’s dotage.”
“No, but it’s an age when a lady should know better.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You should have some sense of propriety by now. You should be more dignified.”
“Dignified!”
Violet slapped the table, making the silverware rattle. “You don’t care what others think about you. You don’t—”
“What are you talking about?” George asked, genuinely confused.
“Why are you doing this to me?” Violet wailed. “It’s not fair. Just because Aunt Clara left you piles of money and land you think you can do anything you want. You never stop to consider those around you and how your actions might affect them.”
“What is the matter with you?” George set down her cup. “I simply don’t believe a tendre I may or may not have is any of your concern.”
“It’s my business when what you do reflects on the family. On me.” Violet stood up so abruptly her teacup overturned. An ugly brown stain started migrating across the tablecloth. “You know very well it isn’t proper to be alone with a man like Mr. Pye, and yet you’re having sordid assignations with him at night.”
“Violet! That’s quite enough.” George was startled at her own anger. She hardly ever raised her voice to her younger sister. Quickly she held out a hand in appeasement, but it was too late.
Violet was beet red and had tears in her eyes. “Fine!” she shouted. “Make a fool of yourself over some baseborn yokel! He’s probably only interested in your money, anyway!” The last words hung horribly in the air.
Violet looked stricken for a moment; then she spun violently and ran out the door.
George pushed her plate aside and laid her head in her arms. It wasn’t a day for kippers after all.
VIOLET POUNDED UP THE STAIRS, her vision blurred. Why, oh why must things change? Why couldn’t everything stay the same? At the top, she turned right, striding as fast as possible in her voluminous skirts. A door ahead of her opened. She tried to duck away but wasn’t quick enough.
“You’re quite flushed, dear. Is something amiss?” Euphie looked at her worriedly, blocking Violet from her own room farther down the corridor.
“I… I have a slight headache. I was just going to lie down.” Violet tried a smile.
“How horrible headaches are,” Euphie exclaimed. “I shall send up a maid with a basin of cool water for your brow. Make sure to lay a damp cloth on your forehead and change it every ten minutes. Now, where did I put my powder? It’s very useful for headaches.”
Violet felt like screaming as Euphie went into a dither that looked like it might last for hours.
“Thank you, but I think I’ll be all right if I just lie down.” Violet leaned forward and whispered, “My woman’s flow, you know.”
If anything was likely to stop Euphie, it was mention of women’s matters. She turned bright red and averted her eyes as if Violet was wearing a sign proclaiming her condition.
“Oh, I comprehend, dear. Well, then, you just go lie down. And I’ll see if I can find my powder.” She half-covered her mouth with her hand and hissed, “It’s good for that as well.”