Royally Ever After by Loretta Chase Page A

realized, as a wave of dizziness nearly toppled her. Firmly ignoring it, she went on bracingly, “I was amazed to see how much champagne Lord Lovedon could pour down his throat and still stand upright. But you know what aristocrats are like: heads of oak, and hearts even harder.”
    â€œIt—it wasn’t a secret. Prince Louis told me he was poor—but he s-said he l-loved me.”
    â€œWhich he does, as everyone can see—except Lord Lovedon and his dimwitted followers. But you can’t expect them to recognize a love match when they see one. Defective vision, you know, thanks to centuries of inbreeding—and the pox, too, probably. And don’t forget the gallons of champagne they’ve swilled, or the fact that they do nothing but gossip because they lack the mental capacity to carry on an intelligent conversation. My love, you can’t possibly take them seriously.”
    â€œBut what if it’s true?” Althea said. “Only think of Prince Louis pining for the girl he loves, while having to pretend to care for me.”
    â€œIf there was such a girl, he forgot her the instant he clapped eyes on you,” Chloe said. “I was there, recollect, on the day His Highness came into Maison Noirot with Lord Longmore.”
    Mama had patronized the French dressmakers practically from the day they opened their shop. Chloe and Althea had been waiting in the showroom for her when Prince Louis and the Earl of Longmore entered.
    â€œOnce His Highness got his first look at you, he couldn’t see or think about anything else,” Chloe said. “He certainly didn’t know then that you were rich.”
    â€œH-he could have g-guessed, I wasn’t p-poor,” Althea said, “considering it’s the most expensive dressmaking shop in L-London.”
    Chloe dismissed this with a wave. “The point is, he fell over head and ears in love with you, and everybody knows it except this pack of drunken degenerates. How can you let a lot of strutting ignoramus blockheads make you wretched on your wedding day?”
    She went on in this way while she swiftly set about repairing the outward damage. Combining relentless mockery and mimicry of Lord Lovedon & Company with more practical remedies—the careful application of a handkerchief, readjustment of hairpins, and smoothing of wrinkles—she soon restored Althea to the state of glowing happiness she’d enjoyed only a short time earlier. By the time Althea returned to her prince—who lit up, by the way, at the sight of her—she was giggling.
    Bride and bridegroom disappeared into the mob of well-wishers.
    Chloe looked about her. All was in hand.
    Except for one small detail.
    She took a glass of champagne from a tray a passing footman presented to her, swallowed the contents, set the empty glass down on the nearest horizontal surface, then started back the way she’d come.
    T his time when Chloe opened the door to the picture gallery, the male laughter sounded farther away.
    As she entered, she saw them gathered at the great bay window overlooking the north front.
    He was easy enough to spot.
    The Earl of Lovedon was tall and dark, yes, but not handsome. His features were too harsh and angular for classical beauty . . . although from the neck down he was all too classical, like a Greek statue. That chiseled profile and athletic physique had claimed her attention all too often this day. The view had left her much too warm and breathing too fast.
    His big shoulders propping up a corner of the window embrasure, the usual faint, superior smile curving his cynical mouth, he stood with arms folded, one long leg crossed in front of the other. The casual stance displayed the highest level of tailor’s art: His fine wool coat skimmed the contours of his broad shoulders and chest, and his black trousers hugged his muscular legs.
    If he hadn’t had something to lean on, he’d probably fall on his