Read Online How to Propose to a Prince by Kathryn Caskie - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kathryn Caskie
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dance floor calls.” She giggled like a miss, to give Gallantine the impression that the Old Rakes’ matchmaking scheme was working, then allowed herself to be led to the dance floor.
They took their places at the lower corner of the square and waited for the French quadrille to commence. The selection of this particular dance as her escape from Sir Henry was most unfortunate. The dance had only just been introduced to Almack’s by Lady Jersey, which meant Elizabeth had to focus her attention entirely on each step so as not to accidentally back into another during the chaise anglaise. And so, for several wretched minutes, she found herself unable to survey the assembly room for her prince.
She was not entirely sure if it was the unnatural degree of concentration the dance required or the great number of guests in the assembly room, but by time the French quadrille concluded, she felt her cheeks glowing and damp with perspiration.
“Thank you, Mr. Manton, for the dance. I greatly enjoyed it,” Elizabeth said, and curtsied politely, “but I see my sponsor, Lady Upperton, near the door, and I require a brief interview with her before I lose sight of her again.”
Mr. Manton, his fine features looking uncharacteristically perturbed, bowed gracefully before her. “I do hope we may dance again before the event adjourns, Miss Royle.”
“As do I, dear sir.” With a quick nod and a fleeting smile, Elizabeth spun around and made her way from the dance floor and through the crowded assembly room in the direction of Lady Upperton, who was now speaking with Lord Gallantine and Lilywhite.
She glanced back at Mr. Manton to ensure he had rejoined Sir Henry and not decided upon pursuit of her. When she looked before her, another footman, holding a grand tray of goblets filled with wine punch, was only two strides away and headed straight for her. Blast! She’d had naught but ill luck this evening and was not about to chance being doused with wine. She would not tempt fate in summoning her own doom. Or her gown’s, either.
Sucking in a great mouthful of air, she carefully pinched the emerald silk skirt and lifted her hem from the floor. Spinning around to theleft, she charged into the clustering throng, but the footman skillfully turned into her wake and remained behind her.
Gorblimey! Did she have an archery target pinned to her back?
Suddenly, she slammed into someone. Cool trickles of what smelled like wine ran between her breasts and down her gown.
She gasped and looked low, fearful of what she would certainly see. A burst of wetness saturated the elegant bodice, changing it from brilliant emerald to the darkest of forest greens. The backs of her eyes began to sting.
No, not my gown. My beautiful gown.
But oddly, though she felt greatly saddened that her gown was ruined, the overwhelming feelings of fear and dread she had felt so strongly in her dream were absent. How could this be?
“I do beg your forgiveness,” came a deep, resonant voice. Elizabeth lifted her head and through her tear-blurred eyes perceived what, at first, she took to be a dark blue wall. She took a step backward as she renewed her breath in preparation to chide some idiotic man for ruining her gown.
Until she noticed the medals.
Oh, God. And the red sash.
“Miss Royle! I—I did not realize—” came the voice again.
Slowly, she turned to look upward, and forced down the huge stone that seemed to have risen in her throat. “Y-Your Royal Highness.”
There was a hand suddenly pressing down upon her shoulder. She glanced sidelong to see that Lord Lotharian was now standing slightly behind her. “Curtsy, Elizabeth,” he whispered in an overloud tone so she might hear him over the din of the crowd.
And so she did, wishing with all her heart that she could leave her gaze puddled on the floor so she would not have to look up again and allow Prince Leopold to see her cheeks, which were certainly glowing like red hot embers.
Damn it
They took their places at the lower corner of the square and waited for the French quadrille to commence. The selection of this particular dance as her escape from Sir Henry was most unfortunate. The dance had only just been introduced to Almack’s by Lady Jersey, which meant Elizabeth had to focus her attention entirely on each step so as not to accidentally back into another during the chaise anglaise. And so, for several wretched minutes, she found herself unable to survey the assembly room for her prince.
She was not entirely sure if it was the unnatural degree of concentration the dance required or the great number of guests in the assembly room, but by time the French quadrille concluded, she felt her cheeks glowing and damp with perspiration.
“Thank you, Mr. Manton, for the dance. I greatly enjoyed it,” Elizabeth said, and curtsied politely, “but I see my sponsor, Lady Upperton, near the door, and I require a brief interview with her before I lose sight of her again.”
Mr. Manton, his fine features looking uncharacteristically perturbed, bowed gracefully before her. “I do hope we may dance again before the event adjourns, Miss Royle.”
“As do I, dear sir.” With a quick nod and a fleeting smile, Elizabeth spun around and made her way from the dance floor and through the crowded assembly room in the direction of Lady Upperton, who was now speaking with Lord Gallantine and Lilywhite.
She glanced back at Mr. Manton to ensure he had rejoined Sir Henry and not decided upon pursuit of her. When she looked before her, another footman, holding a grand tray of goblets filled with wine punch, was only two strides away and headed straight for her. Blast! She’d had naught but ill luck this evening and was not about to chance being doused with wine. She would not tempt fate in summoning her own doom. Or her gown’s, either.
Sucking in a great mouthful of air, she carefully pinched the emerald silk skirt and lifted her hem from the floor. Spinning around to theleft, she charged into the clustering throng, but the footman skillfully turned into her wake and remained behind her.
Gorblimey! Did she have an archery target pinned to her back?
Suddenly, she slammed into someone. Cool trickles of what smelled like wine ran between her breasts and down her gown.
She gasped and looked low, fearful of what she would certainly see. A burst of wetness saturated the elegant bodice, changing it from brilliant emerald to the darkest of forest greens. The backs of her eyes began to sting.
No, not my gown. My beautiful gown.
But oddly, though she felt greatly saddened that her gown was ruined, the overwhelming feelings of fear and dread she had felt so strongly in her dream were absent. How could this be?
“I do beg your forgiveness,” came a deep, resonant voice. Elizabeth lifted her head and through her tear-blurred eyes perceived what, at first, she took to be a dark blue wall. She took a step backward as she renewed her breath in preparation to chide some idiotic man for ruining her gown.
Until she noticed the medals.
Oh, God. And the red sash.
“Miss Royle! I—I did not realize—” came the voice again.
Slowly, she turned to look upward, and forced down the huge stone that seemed to have risen in her throat. “Y-Your Royal Highness.”
There was a hand suddenly pressing down upon her shoulder. She glanced sidelong to see that Lord Lotharian was now standing slightly behind her. “Curtsy, Elizabeth,” he whispered in an overloud tone so she might hear him over the din of the crowd.
And so she did, wishing with all her heart that she could leave her gaze puddled on the floor so she would not have to look up again and allow Prince Leopold to see her cheeks, which were certainly glowing like red hot embers.
Damn it
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