Stephanie Laurens Read Free Page A

argued against that.
    At the conclusion of the dinner, the entire company filed into the ballroom where the evening’s soiree was to be held. The dinner guests were augmented by additional guests invited to stand in the ballroom and be introduced, each in their turn, to their Prince’s soon-to-be bride.
    Frederick, proud as any peacock, escorted Frances around the huge room. With her hand on Frederick’s arm, Frances smiled, nodded, and acknowledged curtsies. She spoke easily, with natural charm; although her voice was lighter and lacked the warmth of Nell’s contralto, Frances made a respectable showing.
    But Nell, walking just behind Frances’s right shoulder, was on tenterhooks the whole time. Even when he wasn’t shoulder-to-shoulder with her in the press—a situation that raised tension of a different sort in them both—he sensed her focus, her unrelentingly fixed attention, the way she held herself in expectation of something going wrong . . . but what?
    Nell knew better than to imagine that they would escape the soiree without any difficulty, not when Frances’s uncertainty had already broken through once. Luckily, Frances managed to hold the whispers at bay through most of the event, and indeed, guests were starting to leave and the crowd about them was thinning before the problem resurfaced and Frances’s confidence wavered, then fell.
    With, finally, no one left to greet, Frederick turned to Frances and smiled. “Perhaps, now, we can stroll on our own and speak privately, liebchen.”
    And suddenly Frances was breathless. “Yes—no! That is . . .” Attempting to draw her fingers from Frederick’s, wide—wild—eyed, Frances glanced around.
    Nell stepped in, closer, using her body to physically block any move the slighter Frances might have made; heavens above, she could not bolt. Could not be allowed to, not here, not now, not ever. Sliding a supportive—anchoring—arm around her sister’s waist, Nell spoke to Frederick. “Your Highness, I regret to say my sister is dreadfully tired. What with the long journey and the subsequent full round of engagements, she’s sorely in need of a good night’s rest.”
    Frederick was instantly contrite. “Of course, dear Lady Cornelia.” He looked at Frances, then gently, if awkwardly, patted her hand. “My dear, I am full of apologies—it has, indeed, been such an unrelentingly busy day for you. We should have been more considerate.”
    With Nell’s arm tightening around her, Frances rallied. Lifting her head, she managed a wan smile. “No—it’s I who am full of apologies, sir. But I fear my sister is correct—I am wilting and in dire need of rest, and would like, with your permission, to retire.”
    “Of course, my dear. Of course.” Frederick raised Frances’s fingers to his lips, then bowed gallantly and released her. “Sweet dreams, liebchen—we will meet again in the morning.”
    Frances curtsied, as did Nell, then Nell looped her arm in Frances’s and together the sisters turned and left the now largely empty ballroom.
    Standing beside Frederick, Robert watched them go—watched Nell’s head tip toward Frances’s. It was Nell who was speaking to Frances, while all Frances did was nod.
    “Is anything amiss, do you think?”
    Robert glanced up to see Frederick, puzzled, frowning slightly at the pair.
    “Have we not done something we should, perhaps? Or have we been too demanding—”
    “It’s not that—nothing like that.” Robert clapped him on the arm; Nell’s earlier words—that Frederick might have concerns or questions—echoed in his head. “It’s tiredness and, at most, just nerves. Don’t worry.”
    Frederick’s frown lightened, but didn’t leave his eyes. “If you do learn that there is some problem, you will tell me, nein?”
    “Of course. But trust me, there’s nothing that’s going to come between you and Frances and your appointment before the altar in six days’ time.” Of that, Robert was quite