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Authors: Eloisa James
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sadly neglected in this respect. Clearly, Prinny—as Peter called the Prince of Wales—was important to her future husband, and so she fully planned to cultivate an interest in royal doings. If she found the exploits of this Prinny a trifle…well, a trifle wearisome, that was beside the point.
The important thing was that Peter was so lovely. Gabby had watched him surreptitiously as he explicated the royal family’s connections to German aristocracy, and she found him fascinating. His skin was as white as ivory. She had never seen another man like him. Even the Englishmen who frequented her father’s palace were invariably tanned dark by the Indian sun. Peter’s hair was a soft nut-brown, and it fell in perfectly ordered curls over his brow.
Gabby hopped out of bed and went over to the window. It was the beginning of November, and the garden should, by all accounts, be withered and brown. She had heard of English winters, how the wind whistled down the steely plains, and how icy rain sliced across one’s face for months at a time. How people fell asleep in heaps of snow and never woke again, and how ice balls as big as mango fruit crushed the roofs of houses, without a moment’s warning. Indian servants were full of tales of the English winter, stories that accounted for the bloodthirsty, formal, and rapacious nature of Englishmen. It was the cold, they told her.
But here—the garden was lovely, thick with great golden- and ruby-colored leaves and ginger-cheeked apple trees. It didn’t look cold outside. Gabby pushed the heavy weight of her hair back over her shoulders and leaned close to the window. Dawn had only just come, and the house was absolutely still. It couldn’t be much later than five in the morning. She listened for a moment. There was no sound at all, no distant tinkle of voices, no rumble of footsteps.
She could run outside for a moment or two and no one would be the wiser.
Quickly Gabby pulled on her night-robe and tied her hair back with a ribbon. She hesitated for a moment and then splashed water on her face and brushed her teeth. The garden was calling to her, but she abhorred the feeling of a sleepy mouth.
Finally she pulled on her half boots, which looked even more shabby and stained as they peeped out from her white nightdress. Then she tiptoed out of the room, down the wide stairs—and hesitated. How was she to find the garden? If she went out the front door, she would be on the street, and there was undoubtedly no access to the garden from the street.
At the bottom of the hallway was a braise door—the door where Codswallop had disappeared with their outer garments the night before. So that was likely to lead to the servants’ quarters. And she knew that the drawing room filled with tiger tables didn’t lead to the garden. Gabby silently turned the knob to the last door. A moment later, she pushed one of the tall garden doors ajar and slipped through, shivering a bit at the rush of cool air that greeted her.
The sky was a pale, pale blue, as unlike the hotly oiled blue of an Indian sky as possible. And the air smelled different. It was rich and watery, as if it breathed rain. Gabby drifted into the garden like a ghost, glancing down at her small boots, watching the toes become spotted and then drenched dark with dew.
Before her the garden curled off in three directions. She wandered down a path that was lined in flowers gamely hanging on to their last petals—brilliant cherry-red roses and seashell-pink, delicate ones that grew in clusters. The air smelled different here too, spicy, like the applesauce she had tried for the first time the night before. Gabby reached out to pluck a blossom, but they were so beautiful and, admittedly, so wet that she drew back her hand.
In the distance Gabby could just hear the sounds of London waking up. The rumbling of carts drifted over the high stone walls, mingled with the sleepy waking calls of birds. She walked farther, remembering the full-throated
The important thing was that Peter was so lovely. Gabby had watched him surreptitiously as he explicated the royal family’s connections to German aristocracy, and she found him fascinating. His skin was as white as ivory. She had never seen another man like him. Even the Englishmen who frequented her father’s palace were invariably tanned dark by the Indian sun. Peter’s hair was a soft nut-brown, and it fell in perfectly ordered curls over his brow.
Gabby hopped out of bed and went over to the window. It was the beginning of November, and the garden should, by all accounts, be withered and brown. She had heard of English winters, how the wind whistled down the steely plains, and how icy rain sliced across one’s face for months at a time. How people fell asleep in heaps of snow and never woke again, and how ice balls as big as mango fruit crushed the roofs of houses, without a moment’s warning. Indian servants were full of tales of the English winter, stories that accounted for the bloodthirsty, formal, and rapacious nature of Englishmen. It was the cold, they told her.
But here—the garden was lovely, thick with great golden- and ruby-colored leaves and ginger-cheeked apple trees. It didn’t look cold outside. Gabby pushed the heavy weight of her hair back over her shoulders and leaned close to the window. Dawn had only just come, and the house was absolutely still. It couldn’t be much later than five in the morning. She listened for a moment. There was no sound at all, no distant tinkle of voices, no rumble of footsteps.
She could run outside for a moment or two and no one would be the wiser.
Quickly Gabby pulled on her night-robe and tied her hair back with a ribbon. She hesitated for a moment and then splashed water on her face and brushed her teeth. The garden was calling to her, but she abhorred the feeling of a sleepy mouth.
Finally she pulled on her half boots, which looked even more shabby and stained as they peeped out from her white nightdress. Then she tiptoed out of the room, down the wide stairs—and hesitated. How was she to find the garden? If she went out the front door, she would be on the street, and there was undoubtedly no access to the garden from the street.
At the bottom of the hallway was a braise door—the door where Codswallop had disappeared with their outer garments the night before. So that was likely to lead to the servants’ quarters. And she knew that the drawing room filled with tiger tables didn’t lead to the garden. Gabby silently turned the knob to the last door. A moment later, she pushed one of the tall garden doors ajar and slipped through, shivering a bit at the rush of cool air that greeted her.
The sky was a pale, pale blue, as unlike the hotly oiled blue of an Indian sky as possible. And the air smelled different. It was rich and watery, as if it breathed rain. Gabby drifted into the garden like a ghost, glancing down at her small boots, watching the toes become spotted and then drenched dark with dew.
Before her the garden curled off in three directions. She wandered down a path that was lined in flowers gamely hanging on to their last petals—brilliant cherry-red roses and seashell-pink, delicate ones that grew in clusters. The air smelled different here too, spicy, like the applesauce she had tried for the first time the night before. Gabby reached out to pluck a blossom, but they were so beautiful and, admittedly, so wet that she drew back her hand.
In the distance Gabby could just hear the sounds of London waking up. The rumbling of carts drifted over the high stone walls, mingled with the sleepy waking calls of birds. She walked farther, remembering the full-throated
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