Page 14 of The Secret of Flirting
“Obviously.” She dabbed at her bodice with the square of linen.
He took the handkerchief from her to do some dabbing of her gown himself. “You missed a spot.” He grinned as he dabbed all along her bodice. “And another. And this one. You missed a lot of spots.”
“You are incorrigible, especially when you’re foxed,” she said, but her lips were twitching as if she fought a smile.
He whispered something in her ear, and she laughed.
Gregory couldn’t stand it anymore. “Forgive me, but I see someone I must speak to,” he lied, and headed in the direction of the doors to the gardens.
Clearly he needed more bachelor friends. Thank God Hart had recently taken up permanent residence in town. The chap had bought out his commission so he could work for Gregory infiltrating the foreign community in London. Gregory’s sister-in-law, John’s widow, used to do some of that work for him, but now that she was in love...
Bah. So many damned people in love.
And Hart wasn’t here tonight, so Gregory was on his own with the happy couples. Ah, well, at least the delegates weren’t all married. The Princess of Chanay wasn’t, nor was her great-uncle, a widower. He would officially meet the princess tomorrow, but he knew the Count de Beaumonde from previous diplomatic situations, so he could probably finagle an introduction to the woman tonight. It wouldn’t hurt to observe her in a less formal setting.
It didn’t take long for him to spot the count coming in from Ambassadors’ Court with a tall young woman on his arm, who was dressed in a gown of pink silk with cap sleeves that left her arms bare.
The princess? Probably. And quite a pretty one, too—with voluptuous breasts and a surprisingly slender waist, given her slightly broad shoulders. Despite her height, she walked with grace and didn’t slouch, obviously not the least bothered by the fact that she towered over the shorter men in the room.
Something about the confidence in her walk nagged at his memory. Had they met before?
No, it couldn’t be. From what he remembered of his reports, she hadn’t been out in society terribly long, and she was famously reclusive to boot. Yet as they neared him, he realized she didn’t seem as young as he’d initially thought. Mid-twenties, perhaps? If she’d had her debut recently, he would expect her to be younger. But perhaps the people of Chanay didn’t toss their daughters out into the world as early as the English did.
Still, she looked the part of a debutante otherwise. Her elaborate coiffure—with curls the color of his favorite toffee piled atop her head and punctuated by a glittering tiara—was exactly something a maid on the marriage mart would wear. Oddly enough, the style reminded him of powdered wigs, though he couldn’t imagine why. Those had gone out of fashion decades ago.
When she came nearer and he saw her face full on, his sense that something was familiar about her deepened. Could he be thinking of the portrait Delia had mentioned? No. Delia had been right—the woman’s looks far exceeded that paltry image. Creamy skin, lush lips, a strong chin...
Her gaze narrowed on him with what he would swear was recognition, and he gave a start. Then she smoothed her features into politeness. It didn’t fool him. Hedidknow her, damn it. And she knew him, too. But from where?
The count spotted him then. “Ah, just the man I was hoping to see. Lord Fulkham, how are you? You’re looking very well.”
Bowing slightly, Gregory pasted a broad smile to his lips. “So are you, sir. I hope your accommodations are comfortable?”
“Quite so, I assure you. How long has it been since we last met—five years? Ten?”
“Ten! I’m not as old as all that. I believe we last saw each other in Paris at the Treaty of London, what, three years ago?” That was the trip when Gregory had stopped in at Dieppe to meet with Hart and gone to the theater to see—
His gaze shot to the woman.Her. Good God, she was Mademoiselle Monique Servais. He would swear it. Despite her bland smile and entirely different attire, he would know her anywhere. The jutting chin, the thick lashes... those glorious emerald eyes.
She certainly wasn’t the princess, so why did Beaumonde have her with him? Was she the old man’s mistress?
The count caught him staring, and said, “Forgive me, I should have introduced you sooner. Aurore, this is the Baron Fulkham, undersecretary to the foreign office, whose opinion is supremely important in deciding your fate. Lord Fulkham, this is my great-niece, Princess Aurore of Chanay.”
The words rang in his ears, so discordant and utterly wrong that he burst out with, “The devil you say!” When that made the count start, Gregory caught himself and added lamely, “You don’t look nearly old enough, sir, to have a great-niece.”
Beaumonde broke into a smile. “Be careful with this one, Aurore,” he joked. “He has a silver tongue.”
“So they tell me,” he muttered, his mind racing.
He must have been mistaken about the woman’s identity. Surely the count wasn’t mad enough to pass off a known actress as a princess. Experienced in politics, the man was highly regarded for his fine character. He’d realize that if he was caught proposing an impostor for queen of Belgium, it would be the end of his position of power in his country. Chanay would be made a laughingstock.
So perhaps it was mere coincidence that this woman looked and acted like the actress. After all, Mademoiselle Servais had been in costume. And three years was a long time. He might not be remembering clearly.
Then he noted how she was gripping the count’s arm, how she wouldn’t meet his gaze, how false her smile seemed.
No, shewasMonique Servais—he would stake his life on it. Though it made no sense.
“I’ll admit, Your Serene Highness,” he went on, “that I recognized you even without the introduction.” He waited until she paled, then added, “From your portrait in theLady’s Monthly Museum.”
