The Raven Prince (Princes #1)(29)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

The sun had already set when the carriage drew up before a smart London row house. Anna was surprised at the luxury of the house, but then thought of Coral’s carriage and realized she shouldn’t be.

Coral must have noticed her gawking at the façade, because she smiled enigmatically. “All from the kindness of the marquis.” She made a sweeping gesture, and her smile turned cynical. “My good friend.”

Anna followed her up the front steps and into the shadowed entryway. Their footsteps echoed on gleaming white marble floors. The walls were paneled in white marble as well, leading up to a plastered ceiling with a glittering crystal chandelier. It was a very beautiful, but very empty entrance. She wondered if it reflected its current occupant or the absent owner.

Coral turned at that moment to Pearl, who was beginning to droop from the long ride. “I want you to stay here with me, sister.”

“Your marquis won’t like me staying here long. You know that.” Pearl looked anxious.

Coral’s lips twisted the slightest bit. “Let me worry about the marquis. He will understand my wishes. Besides, he is out of the country for the next two weeks.” She smiled almost warmly. “Now let me show you to your rooms.”

Anna’s room was a pretty little chamber done in a dusky blue and white. Coral and Pearl bid her good night, and she made ready for bed. Jock sighed heavily and lay down before the fire in the grate. She brushed out her hair and talked to him. She very firmly didn’t let herself think about the morrow. But as she lay down to sleep, all the thoughts she had tried to keep at bay rushed in. Was she about to commit a grave sin? Could she live with herself after tomorrow? Would she please the earl?

To her chagrin, it was this last thought that she worried over the most.

FELICITY LIT THE candelabra from her taper and set it carefully on the corner of the desk. Reginald had been particularly amorous tonight. A man of his age should have slowed down in his bed sport.

Felicity snorted to herself. The only thing that had slowed down was the time it took him to reach completion. She could’ve written a five-act play whilst he huffed and sweated over her. Instead, she’d pondered the reasons a provincial widow like Anna Wren might be journeying to London. The elder Mrs. Wren, when quizzed, had claimed the trip was to purchase materials for new dresses. A plausible excuse, true, but there were many other diversions an unattached lady might find in that city. So many, in fact, that Felicity thought it might be worthwhile to discover exactly what Anna did in London.

She pulled out a sheet of paper from her husband’s desk and uncapped the inkwell. She inked her quill and then paused. Who among her acquaintances in London would be the best choice? Veronica was too curious. Timothy, while a racehorse between the sheets, had, unfortunately, the same mental capacity outside the bed. Then there was… Of course!

Felicity smiled in self-satisfaction as she traced the first letters in her missive. She wrote to a man who was not quite honest. Not quite a gentleman.

And not nice at all.

Chapter Nine

The raven wheeled over the gleaming white castle, and as he did so, scores of birds flew from the walls: thrushes and titmice, sparrows and starlings, robins and wrens. Every songbird Aurea could recognize and many that she could not came to welcome them. The raven landed and introduced them as his loyal retainers and servants. But while the raven had the power of human speech, these smaller birds did not.

That evening, the servant-birds led Aurea to a magnificent dining room. There she saw a long table splendidly prepared with delicacies she’d only dreamed of. She expected the raven to dine with her, but he did not appear, and she ate all alone. Afterward, she was shown to a beautiful room and found there a nightgown of gauzy silk that was already laid out for her on the big bed. She dressed in this and climbed into the bed, falling immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep….

—from The Raven Prince

The damned wig itched like bloody hell.

Edward balanced a plate of meringues on his lap and wished he could poke a finger under his powdered wig. Or just take the cursed thing off. But wigs were de rigueur in polite society, and visiting his prospective bride and her family definitely qualified. He’d ridden all day yesterday to get to London and had arisen unfashionably early this morning, as was his wont. And then he’d had to cool his heels for several hours before it was deemed an appropriate time to go calling. Damn society and its asinine rules anyway.

Across from him, his future mother-in-law talked to the room at large. Or, rather, lectured. Lady Gerard was a handsome woman with a broad forehead and round, light blue eyes. She capably debated the current fashion in hats all by herself. Not a topic he himself would have chosen, and by the nodding of Sir Richard’s head, not one of the older man’s favorites either. It would seem, however, that once Lady Gerard started talking, only an act of God could stop her. Such as a bolt of lightning. Edward narrowed his eyes. Perhaps not even that.

Sylvia, his intended, sat gracefully across from him. Her eyes were as round and blue as Lady Gerard’s. She had the true English coloring: a healthy peaches-and-cream complexion and thick golden hair. She reminded him not a little of his own mother.

Edward took a sip of tea and wished it was whiskey. On the little table beside Sylvia sat a vase of poppies. The flowers were bright scarlet, and they perfectly accented the yellow and orange room. They, along with the girl perched next to them in her indigo gown, made a picture worthy of a master. Had her mother posed her there? Lady Gerard’s shrewd blue eyes flashed as she expounded on gauze.

Definitely posed.

Except poppies didn’t bloom in March. These must have cost a pretty penny because it was impossible to tell unless one studied the blooms closely that they were made of silk and wax.

He set aside his plate. “Would you mind showing me your gardens, Miss Gerard?”

Lady Gerard, caught in a pause, gave permission with a satisfied smile.

Sylvia rose and proceeded him through the French doors into the compact town garden, her skirts swishing behind her. They strolled silently down the path, her fingers lightly resting on his sleeve. Edward tried to think of something to say, a light conversational topic, but his mind was strangely blank. One did not discuss crop rotation with a lady, nor how to drain a field or the newest techniques in composting. In fact, there was nothing at all that interested him that he could safely discuss with a young lady.

He glanced down at his feet and noticed a small yellow flower, not a daffodil or primrose. Edward stooped to finger it, wondering if Mrs. Wren had one like it in her garden.