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 and drew her away from the group surrounding her. Barbara was always in the center of a crowd. Everyone was well aware she had the king’s ear, and she wasn’t a bit opposed to dabbling in politics.
For a price, of course.
“Greystone!” Barbara’s eyes danced. “You have my thanks for rescuing me. Where have you been hiding these weeks past?”
“Some of us have to work, you know,” Colin teased. Pulling her farther away from the masses, he dropped his voice. “I was wondering…might you be willing to help me play a little trick on Priscilla?”
“One of your practical jokes? On Lady Priscilla?” Barbara’s musical laughter tinkled through the ballroom. “Count me in! What do you have in mind?”
“Well…” His ideas were half-baked. But suddenly inspiration hit. “Would you mind pretending you’re with child?”
“How would that help?”
“I’ve discovered Priscilla is quite the gossip—”
“You’re just finding out? For heaven’s sake, I’ve known that for years.”
“Well, I was thinking to tell her you’re expecting again—Charles’s babe, naturally—but not to tell anyone. She’ll tell everyone, of course, and eventually someone will congratulate you. Then—here’s the part you may not like—then you’ll storm off, saying you are not with child but you’ll certainly never be wearing this gown again! And Priscilla will be mortified that she started this rumor.”
“I love it!” Barbara exclaimed. “It’s so mean!”
Colin frowned. He didn’t want to humiliate Priscilla; he just wanted to teach her a lesson. “Do you think so?” he asked.
“No, not really,” Barbara recanted.
He looked at her sharply.
“Most any lady here would spread the rumor,” she rushed to reassure him. “Lady Priscilla won’t be thought of unkindly. Besides, no one will know where it started. One request, though. Afterwards, we must tell the poor soul I take to task—and Lady Priscilla, of course—that we started the rumor ourselves.” She fluffed her skirts. “I quite adore this gown, you know.”
Colin nodded. “You’re stunning in it. And worry not—I’ll make certain everyone learns the truth afterwards.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary. It will do my reputation good for people to think Charles has come back to me again. He will, you know.”
“Of course he will,” Colin assured her. “He always has.”
“He’s made such a fool of himself over Frances Stewart.”
Colin had heard this refrain before. A tall, beautifully proportioned girl some eight years younger than Barbara, Frances had arrived at court almost four years ago, and King Charles had been head over heels for her ever since. His love was unrequited, however, since Frances was that rarest of creatures: a chaste courtier.
“I cannot stand her,” Barbara said. “She prances around in that man’s dress made fashionable by the queen—as though I could wear such garb after bearing five of His Majesty’s children!”
“Come now, such dress is ridiculous anyway. And no one could rival you in that gown.”
“Thank you,” she said as though such compliments were her due. “Charles wrote a poem about her, you know. ‘Oh, then ’tis I think there’s no Hell, Like loving too well,’” Barbara quoted in a sickly sweet voice. She rolled her eyes. “And still she wouldn’t share his bed.”
“There are those who think Frances must be simpleminded to persist in such virtue,” Colin consoled her—carefully skirting his own opinion on the matter.
“Oh, she’s a dunderhead, all right. Her favorite pastimes are playing blind-man’s buff and building castles out of playing cards. Grammont said it’s hardly possible for a woman to have less wit or more beauty.”
“Then she’s no true rival to you,” Colin assured her. He spotted his intended making her way across the ballroom. “Priscilla is headed this way. You agree to my plan?”
“Yes, it shall be great fun. I shall dazzle you with my performance.”
“Very well, then. I look forward to it.” He walked toward Priscilla nonchalantly, hoping she hadn’t noticed the long time he’d spent talking with Barbara.
After mingling a bit, he danced again with Priscilla, enjoying the jealous glances of the other men present. She was tall and graceful in his arms, and she wasn’t gossiping, for once. At the end of the dance, he was pleased to realize he hadn’t thought about Amy for quite a few minutes.
Coming off the dance floor, he said casually, “I’ve heard tonight that Barbara is expecting His Majesty’s sixth child.”
“She told you so?” Priscilla was more animated than usual, her interest piqued by the opportunity to be in on a juicy bit of gossip.
“No, it was someone else. You mustn’t tell anyone, though, for she hasn’t even told Charles yet.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t,” Priscilla said much too quickly. “But who told you?”
“I’ve been sworn to secrecy. I chatted a bit with Barbara to see if she’d let it slip, but she didn’t say a word.”
“She doesn’t look enceinte.” Priscilla slanted a dubious glance to where Barbara was surrounded by a new group of hangers-on.
“She’s only just had it confirmed, according to my source. She wouldn’t be showing yet.”
“Of course. I’m not well versed in such matters, since I haven’t had children myself—yet.”
Priscilla knew Colin wanted children; he’d made no secret of the importance he placed on family life. And she’d offered no arguments, he reminded himself now. She really was a good choice for him.
“Would you care for some spiced wine?” he asked, knowing it would be out of character for him to discuss such a gossipy subject too long.
“No, thank you,” Priscilla declined prettily. “I’m not thirsty.”
Colin saw right through her excuse: She couldn’t wait to get back to her friends. However, he enjoyed his jokes tremendously, especially the anticipation, so he wasn’t quite ready to let her get started.
“No, I insist.” He drew her over to the refreshment table and handed her a cup of wine. Taking one himself, he grasped her firmly by the elbow. “Shall we enjoy the garden for a while?”
“It’s freezing out there,” Priscilla protested.
Colin smiled to himself. “Just for a minute. It’s beastly hot in here.”
She couldn’t argue with that. Between the blazing fires on either end of the ballroom, the hundreds of candles burning in the chandeliers above, and the guests packed in elbow-to-elbow, it was difficult to breathe.
Priscilla reluctantly went with him, in no small part because he dragged her along physically, and he guided her through the crowd and outdoors.
“Ahh.” He inhaled deeply of the fresh air. “It’s pleasant out here, isn’t it?”
Priscilla drained her cup and crossed her arms in a most unladylike fashion. It was quite foreign to her nature, and Colin was pleased; perhaps she was becoming more human. “I’m finished. May I go back inside now?”
“Not just yet.” Colin drew her further into the formal garden, over to a low brick wall. He set down both their cups and leaned back against it, then wrapped his arms around Priscilla’s waist and pulled her close. Ignoring the startled look in her eyes, he brought his lips down to hers—just a little bit down, he realized, momentarily surprised at the reminder of her height. But her mouth was warm in the cold night, and he was pleased to think this statuesque heiress was his, so it was a moment before he realized she wasn’t kissing him back. Instead she was pushing away from him, her palms flat against his chest.
“Colin—not here.”
“Why? No one’s here to see.”
“It’s not proper. And there’s no one to see because no one else is mad enough to come out in this weather.”
“I’ll keep you warm.” Though taken aback by her reaction, he put on a smile and rubbed her arms encouragingly. She’d never seemed to mind kissing him before…
But Priscilla was ever well mannered and proper, and Colin realized with dismay that he’d never tried to steal a private moment with her before, that each of their kisses had had its customary time and place. But surely, with patience, he could teach her to enjoy a stolen kiss or two. Was there an instructive practical joke that might—
No! No. He quashed that idea immediately.
His arm lightly around her shoulders, he walked her back to the ball. In no time, she was gone. She’d spotted Lady Crowhurst across the room and said she just had to talk to her, and Colin let her go. He chuckled to himself when he saw her lips mouth the word “Barbara.” And he laughed out loud to see Barbara herself flitting about with a hand laid discreetly over her middle.
Not five minutes later, Colin would swear there was a new buzz in the room as gossiping ladies rushed to be the ones to spread the delicious rumor. And in the end, it was Priscilla herself who couldn’t resist approaching Barbara.
She waited politely until Barbara was free. “My Lady Castlemaine,” she said, pulling her aside, “I hear congratulations are in order.”
Colin sidled closer and concealed himself behind a post.
Barbara played her part to perfection. “Is that so?”
“I’ve heard in the strictest of confidence that you will be presenting His Majesty with another child soon.”
Barbara’s face tensed.
“Is something wrong, my lady?” At the sight of Priscilla’s panic, Colin had to choke back laughter. “Am I mistaken?”
Barbara’s cheeks blazed red—what an actress she was! “Do I appear pregnant, Lady Priscilla?” she said through gritted teeth.
Priscilla took an uncertain step back. “Oh, my lady, I didn’t mean—that is, if I’ve caused you any offense—”
“On the contrary,” Barbara hissed, her eyes flashing, “I’m all gratitude. How delightful it is when trim, younger women take the trouble to inform me that my figure is not what it used to be.” With a dramatic huff, she turned on her heel and marched from the ballroom and up the wide staircase, fuming all the way.
Priscilla followed her into the hall and watched her flight. She was still gazing up the sweeping stairs when Colin came up behind her.
“Is something wrong, Priscilla?”
She turned to him immediately, a frown creasing her beautiful forehead. “Oh, Colin, I’ve made the most dreadful error. I thought to congratulate my Lady Castlemaine, only to discover she isn’t carrying after all. Now she’s horribly angry, and everyone thinks she’s with child. What am I to do?”
“Whyever would everyone think Barbara is with child?” he asked with a glint in his eye.
“I told them!” Priscilla wailed. “And they told one another.”
“Priscilla! You promised you wouldn’t tell anyone!” he exclaimed in pretended disbelief.
“You mean to say you really meant that?” Priscilla protested. “Why would you tell me if it were a secret?”
“You mean to say I shouldn’t trust you? I shouldn’t tell you anything unless I want everyone to know?”
“Yes! I mean, no! Oh, Colin, I shouldn’t be such a terrible gossip, should I?”
Colin grinned—he simply couldn’t help himself. The scene was playing out even better than he had hoped.
“Why are you smiling?” Priscilla demanded. “I’ve ruined everything! Barbara’s never really liked me—she only invited us to her parties because of my father, and now she’ll hate me. We won’t be welcome anywhere.”
“Now, Priscilla, you know that’s not true. Barbara would never leave me off a guest list. We were in exile together—I’m one of her dearest friends. Besides, Charles is all but a big brother to me. He’d never allow her to snub us.”
He was right, and Priscilla knew it. Colin’s relationship with the king was her father’s primary reason for agreeing to the match. Lord Hobbs had been a fence-sitter during the war, and consequently, though he hadn’t lost his lands, he held no favor with Charles, either.
“I suppose you’re right,” Priscilla said with a sniff.
Just then, Barbara came back down the stairs, grinning from ear to ear, and Colin took one look at her and broke out laughing. Priscilla stared at Colin, then at Barbara, and back to Colin before bursting out, “What is going on here?”
Colin could do no better than sputter. “I—we—I—”
Barbara rescued him—sort of. “What Lord Greystone means to say, dear, is that we set you up.”
“Set me up?” Priscilla’s pretty brows furrowed in confusion. “You mean you aren’t truly angry?”
“Colin started the rumor with my consent.” Barbara chuckled. “He thought to demonstrate how gossip spreads.”
Priscilla stared at her, openmouthed.
“It was a joke,” Barbara finished weakly.
“A practical joke,” Colin put in.
“A practical joke?” Priscilla repeated in disbelief. “On me?” She snapped him on the arm with her folded fan. “How dare you play a practical joke on me.”
Colin rubbed his arm out of reflex, though it didn’t really hurt. Priscilla had put as little enthusiasm into the blow as she gave to everything else. “I play practical jokes on everyone,” he reminded her.
“You don’t play them on me, Colin Chase. They’re stupid and childish, and I won’t stand for it.”
“Don’t you think it’s funny?” The last of Colin’s laughter died. “Don’t you find it amusing that I know you well enough to devise a trap you would fall into perfectly?”
“No. I don’t find it the least bit amusing.” Priscilla turned on Barbara. “My lady, I find it difficult to imagine why you would play along with his trickery—now everyone thinks you’re with child.”
“It doesn’t signify.” Barbara waved a hand airily. “I probably will be with child by the time anyone could discover otherwise. I always am, it seems,” she lamented.
Colin laughed. “You’re a good sport, Barbara.”
“There are those who would disagree,” Barbara pointed out archly. More than one man had met his downfall at the hands of Barbara Palmer. Luckily, Colin and she had grown up together, so he knew her too well to make the sort of blunder that would turn her against him.
And he’d thought he knew his betrothed equally well, but all of a sudden he wasn’t sure. He’d spent all eve trying to get under her skin, and now that he’d accomplished that goal with his practical joke, he rather wished he’d never played it. His relationship with Priscilla had never been complicated—why, now, did he feel so confused?
“Please call for the carriage,” she requested calmly, breaking into his thoughts.
“What?” Colin blinked. Her face had regained its impassive expression. “The evening is still young.”
“We will forget this ever happened. I trust it won’t again. I wish to return home now.”
“Lost your taste for gossip, Lady Priscilla?” Barbara asked sweetly.
The barb went right over Priscilla’s head. “I merely find myself fatigued. Colin?” She took his arm and led him away.
Colin looked back at Barbara, shrugging his shoulders helplessly. She laughed and waved him on before gliding back into the ballroom.