Page 26 of A Tenuous Betrothal
“I’m certain of it.” Bartholomew turned back to glance at his wife.
Marc looked at them just in time to see the wink Bartholomew gave her.
When the men were fully out of earshot, Marc leaned closer. “Am I making myself ridiculous?”
“A bit, Your Highness.”
“Oh, stop with the Highness.”
“I was trying to soften the blow. But that’s what a beautiful woman can do to a man; it happens to the best of us.”
Marc thought back to the courtships of Layton and, most recently, Hayes. Had they also been ridiculous? Yes, at times. For a few days, Marc and Kristoff had been worried Hayes would throw it all away and refuse to make amends with Lady Elsie. And that would have been a tragedy.
“I think you’re right,” Marc said.
“About what?”
“I need to leave them be.” They both moved aside to allow all the women to pass for the after-dinner separation. “As soon as we are able.”
Bartholomew grinned. “At your service.” Then his attention turned, and it was as if Marc had become invisible. The focus of Bartholomew’s universe was his wife. He took her hand and bowed with a kiss on her knuckles. The look they shared, the pause before she exited the room, the love that seemed to shimmer and glow around them was too much for Marc to look at for very long. It caused his heart to pound, an unpleasant phenomenon right before he turned his attention to Miss Davies, offering his hand, almost in reaction to what Bartholomew had done.
But no romantic glow lit the two of them. She almost huffed as she hurried by, leaving her fingers in his palm for as little time as possible. But in her wake, an impression remained, a warmth that had never left its mark before. Long after she exited the room, he pondered what it could mean and told himself he must resist the urge to reach for her hand again to see if the feeling would return.
As soon as all the women left the men to themselves after dinner, their host passed out cigars and the servants brought in a large selection of whiskey, brandy, port, and several other containers Marc had never seen before. Cups were filled and passed around and cigars lit. Marc felt little like participating—his thoughts were directed toward the door where the women had exited—but now was a prime opportunity to learn more about the men this Season, Lord Carmine in particular, so he rallied.
“How’s the Season this year?” he asked.
His Grace, the Duke of Salsbury, chuckled. “You should know—the same as last Season. Are you Wilhelms coming to distract our ladies every year? One of you marries each time. Pretty soon, half the royals in your country will have English blood.” The duke laughed, mostly to himself. He didn’t seem opposed to the Wilhelm presence, and since he himself was already married, he couldn’t care who the princes married. The others seemed equally amused.
Marc laughed along with them. “Too true. My brothers are so pleased with their matrimonial bliss, I imagine we might indeed return again.” Emboldened by their responding humor, he continued. “So if a chap were here to find himself a wife, how does the Season look for that?”
Every eye turned to him with pointed interest.
“Is the unattainable Prince Marc determined to take a wife?” Lord Carmine asked.
“Unattainable? Has a certain reputation preceded me?” Marc wished the Englishtonhad better things to discuss.
“Not at all. You were discussed at White’s on my first day back though. Someone had heard you’d returned, and he was anxious to try his hand at another phaeton race.” Lord Carmine smirked.
“I would love a new memory of that event.” Marc tried not to think too much about last year’s race.
Lord Carmine downed his drink. “I heard you came off quite successfully, no?”
“We did, yes, though not as successfully as we all would have liked. But tell me more about where you have been. I hear you visitedallof Europe.” Marc had been waiting to find out the answer to this question.
“Well, not all, naturally. I’m afraid I did not travel as far north as Olden-burg, for example.” Lord Carmine placed his empty cup back on the table.
Triumphant, Marc simply nodded, a new perception of Lord Carmine taking hold. “So perhaps not much of Prussia either, then?”
“No, not there either.”
If that were the case, Marc thought the man had probably visited only about half of Europe or less. He decided he didn’t really care that much at all where this lord had gone, but that the man had exaggerated about his travels didn’t sit right.
“I, too, enjoy traveling. With Napoleon finally contained, I’m surprised you would have chosen now to return,” Marc said.
“Ah well, duty calls, so they say.” Lord Carmine held a cigar up to his nose and breathed deeply.
When Marc looked confused, someone called out, “Father tugged on the coattails. He’s got to find his new duchess.”
