Miss Burton Unmasks a Prince (2 page)

“I do not care for the favor of an earl, a baron, a Spanish prince, or any other rich man!” she cried, hurling the stone with all her might toward an unbroken section of the ice she expected to shatter quite dramatically.

But the feeling of relief did not come, as the instant the rock left her hands, she saw that it was soaring toward a man holding the reins of a horse, who must have just emerged from the forest. The large stone hit the ice in front of him with a crash, breaking through and launching muddy water over the man’s breeches.

Meg gasped.

The horse startled.

The man quieted the animal and then turned. His expression was one of disbelief as he looked down at his wet clothing and then lifted his gaze to Meg.

For an uncomfortably long moment, they stared at one another until Meg collected her wits.

“I beg your pardon, sir. I did not see you.” She turned toward him, slipping again in the mud and tripping over her skirts. She scrambled to her feet and, looking up, saw the man’s gloved hand extended toward her.

Meg held up her hands to show her muddy palms, but the man did not withdraw his offer. He simply curled his fingers toward his palm twice, reopened his hand, and waited.

She brushed off the mud as well as she could, wishing she had remembered to wear gloves herself this morning. Didn’t Lady Vernon tell her a young lady should never leave the house with her hands uncovered? Why had she chosen today of all days to rebel against propriety?

Meg placed her hand into the man’s, and his fingers tightened around hers as he slid his other palm beneath her elbow and pulled her onto the path.

“Are you injured?” he asked, releasing his grip, and pulling a handkerchief from his jacket pocket.

She took the offered handkerchief and wiped her hands on it, wincing as the dark mud stained the white fabric. “I am not injured.”

“What is your name, miss?” The man stood unnaturally straight as he looked down at her.

Meg was startled. It was the very essence of impropriety for a gentleman to presume that she should wish to begin an acquaintance. They should be properly introduced. But, a quick estimation of his lack of social proficiency, unshaven face, wrinkled clothing, and care of the horse told her that he was no gentleman: a servant perhaps. And as such, it would do no harm to treat him kindly. Besides, he spoke with a foreign accent, which would explain his unfamiliarity with the British rules of decorum.

“Margaret Burton,” she said. “But everybody calls me Meg.”

“
Margarita
. It is a lovely name.”

Meg’s cheeks heated, and she lowered her face to hide the redness she knew was spreading in splotches over her fair skin. She had never considered her name lovely, but to be honest, it had never been spoken in a deep, accented voice by a handsome stranger in a mysterious forest. In fact, had a man who was not her relative ever used her Christian name? She shook her head at her preposterous thoughts and, in an effort to transfer the attention from herself, changed the subject.

“What are you doing here? I had expected to be the only one wandering the grounds at this time of morning,” she said more bluntly than she’d intended. She looked past him at the horse that had stepped closer to the pond. A white stallion. A pure-bread Andalusian, if she wasn’t mistaken. “Is this the prince’s horse?” she asked, admiring the beautiful animal.

The man regarded her flatly. His eyes squinted the slightest bit before he answered. “Yes, this is the prince’s horse—Patito—and he is thirsty. If you will move aside, Margarita.” He led the horse to the edge of the water and allowed Patito to drink. “How timely that we arrived just as you created a nicely sized hole in the ice.”

Meg stepped closer, running her hand along the stallion’s long neck. “Hello, Patito,” she said softly then turned to the man. “You surprised me as I was . . . uh . . .” She should have thought before she began to speak.

He raised an eyebrow. “You were . . . ?”

Meg looked back toward the pond. “I suppose I was relieving my frustration.”

“Is that what you call it in America? In Spain, it is known as throwing rocks.” When Meg did not answer, he continued, all traces of humor gone from his voice. “It appears we are both far from home. And longing to return, if I interpreted your ‘frustrations’ correctly.” He let out a breath and lifted his gaze to the sky, squinting and wrinkling his nose. “I have not seen the sun in months.”

The look on his face was so miserable that Meg’s heart went out to him, but she also felt a sense of relief and camaraderie. Here was someone she could relate to. In a matter of minutes, this Spanish servant understood her better than anyone she had encountered in England so far. “I imagine Spain is much warmer—and sunnier.”

He nodded his head once, and she noticed just how deep brown his eyes were. His dark hair was pulled back in a queue at the base of his neck but was not tidy.

She again directed her attention to the animal beside her, running her fingers over the raised bosses behind the stallion’s ears, characteristic of his breed. Patito regarded her with intelligent eyes as she continued to make conversation with his handler. “Do you tend His Majesty’s horses?”

The man’s eyes narrowed and an expression of annoyance crossed his face, but it passed so quickly Meg wondered if it had even been there in the first place. He studied her for a moment before answering. “
Sí
. Yes. I tend His Majesty’s horses.”

“And you did not tell me your name, sir.” Meg hoped to put him at ease; evidently, speaking about his employer was uncomfortable for him. The prince must be a cruel master, a tyrant. Further proof that he was someone whose acquaintance she did not seek. Americans had no tolerance for tyrants.

“Carlo.” He inclined his head. “Now, what could possibly upset a young woman to the point that she must relieve her frustration in such a violent manner?” His lips quirked as if he were repressing a smile.

Meg crossed her arms and looked back across the pond. “You’re mocking me.”

“I assure you, I am not. I only seek to understand and perhaps alleviate the source of your distress.”

She looked at him, trying to discern whether he was teasing.

When she did not answer, he said, “I believe you spoke of a particular gown and a ghost and, if I remember correctly, the prince himself. How have these things upset you?”

Meg’s cheeks heated again, and she looked down. “Of course I had not intended to be overheard. I do not wish to sound ungrateful when the duke has extended such a warm welcome and proven so amiable.”

When she raised her eyes, she saw Carlo was watching her. He nodded, encouraging her to continue.

“The duke’s sister has chosen some gowns for me to wear in London, but I’m afraid our tastes are a bit dissimilar. You see, Lady Vernon assures me an apricot frock will be the height of fashion this year, but with red hair, I . . .”

As she spoke, Carlo glanced up at her hair, which Meg knew was a wild, untamed mass. Why had she not at least tied it back in a braid?

She clamped her mouth shut, feeling foolish. These matters were certainly none of his affair, and a man would not be interested in such things.

“I would not describe your hair as red. It appears to me a beautiful shade of ginger—
bermejo
.” He tipped his head as if truly considering the problem. “Yes, such an exceptional color deserves special consideration. I fully understand your frustration.”

He must be teasing. Surely he did not take such a thing as seriously as he pretended. Meg decided she’d had enough of this conversation. The more she spoke with Carlo, the greater fool she was making of herself. If only she could start over. He could happen upon her as she stood in the gazebo, her cloak billowing around her, her hair blowing in gentle curls away from her face. She would appear pensive and beautiful and tragic . . .

“And the ghost,” he said, interrupting her thoughts.

“I do not think you are taking me seriously, sir. I should return to the castle. I have undoubtedly been missed by now.”

Carlo stepped across the path, picking up Meg’s book and looking at it before extending it toward her. “I wonder if your fondness for the supernatural extends from the books you read?”

“I do not have a fondness for the supernatural,” Meg said. “I was simply disappointed that my first visit to a castle turned out to be so ordinary.”

“A ghost or an ancient curse would make it less so?”

“Obviously. But there’s not even a skeleton in the dungeon. I checked myself. There is nothing but old dishes and damaged barrels. And the doors to both towers are locked.”

Carlo pressed two fingers over his twitching mouth, but it was not enough to prevent a burst of air from escaping his nose. He attempted to disguise it by coughing into the tunnel of his fist, but Meg knew he was laughing at her.

She snatched the book from him and turned toward the trees.

“I am sorry,” he said behind her. “I did not mean to laugh.”

Meg continued to walk away without looking back. She would have to visit the gazebo another day.

Carlo cleared his throat. “I believe you also mentioned the prince.” His voice was quiet, yet it carried through the clearing.

Meg stopped walking. Her heart sank. And her anger dispersed. She could not see Carlo’s face, but she imagined that all traces of humor had gone. If he said anything to the prince, His Majesty would surely be offended. He would likely tell his sister and the duke, and Meg would no longer be welcome at Thornshire Castle. When would she ever learn to watch what she said?

“I did not mean any disrespect to the prince.”

“Have you met His Highness?” Carlo asked.

Meg turned. “No. I have not had that pleasure.”

“Yet you said that you do not care for his favor. Or did I misunderstand?”

Meg wished the ground would open up and swallow her. She had made a blunder, and Carlo would report it to his master. She squared her shoulders, determining to explain herself. “I did say that. Of course, as I said before, I did not intend for anyone to hear.”

Carlo took a step closer, his gaze never leaving her face. She wished she could read his expression. Was he angry? Was he so loyal to his prince that he would expose her offensive words? “I should wonder why you so dislike a person you have not met.”

How could she possibly tell Carlo that she was annoyed with the prince because she was expected to ensnare him with her womanly charms? She could not bring herself to explain her family’s need for her to marry a man of wealth and her abhorrence of the very idea. It was humiliating. She settled upon her secondary reason for disliking His Majesty. “The prince has avoided our society since my brother and I arrived. I figured he must be either disagreeable or proud to slight us so.” She looked at Carlo and saw no censure, no anger, nothing but surprise in his expression.

She gave a small smile. “I am sorry if I offended you. My mouth often speaks before my mind has a chance to censor my words. The truth is I have never met a prince, and surely my attitude has been colored by my inexperience. Please do not tell him what I said.”

“I will not tell the prince of our conversation,” Carlo said, his eyes still upon her.

Relief flowed like a wave over Meg. She hadn’t realized how tightly she had been holding her shoulders. “Thank you.”

“Do you think you are being entirely fair toward His Majesty?” Carlo patted the horse’s neck, but he continued to watch Meg with an unreadable expression.

“No, I realize I am not. However, I do not think my opinion should matter if I am never to be acquainted with the man. And even if I do, it is highly unlikely that I will meet with his favor.”

“And what makes you believe that is the case?”

Meg paused a moment before giving her answer. She spoke slowly, still forming the thoughts as the words left her mouth. “The prince is surely used to always having his way. I am certain that in his entire life, he has never been told that he must do something he did not wish to do. Women undoubtedly fawn over him, agreeing with everything he says in an attempt to win his heart. But I do not believe a title makes a man more worthy of a woman’s affection, and I do not wish to pretend to be someone I am not in order to secure a rich man.” Meg was certain she would regret her words. She knew the time would come when she would have to do precisely the thing she dreaded—attempt to win over a man simply because he was wealthy. But she wanted Carlo to know how repulsive the idea was to her. In fact, it seemed imperative that he understood—that
someone
did.

She did not know why she worried about Carlo’s opinion, however. It could be because he was removed from the society she found herself thrust into. He had listened to her, even seemed to take her concerns seriously, aside from the ghost, of course. For whatever reason, the thought of Carlo’s disapproval saddened her. How silly, since he was only a servant and she would leave for London in a few weeks. But at Thornshire Castle, it would be nice to have a friend.

“I must go,” she said, gathering her cloak around her muddy dress and tucking her book back beneath her arm. She patted Patito and then looked at Carlo, who said nothing, only continued to watch her with his chin turned slightly to the side. The man had impossibly straight posture. What she wouldn’t give to know his thoughts. “I have spoken too freely today; please forgive me.”

Carlo nodded his head once, acknowledging her request. “
Margarita
, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Perhaps you will return to cast your frustrations into the pond another time?”

Meg blushed at the reminder of her ridiculous actions. “I love this spot. I hope to come back here another day to read.” She glanced past him at the perfectly situated gazebo. “If I have the good fortune of being able to escape my lady’s maid, elder brother, and Lady Vernon once again, I shall do it.”

The edges of Carlo’s lips lifted in a half smile, deepening a crease on his cheek into a dimple that created a tumbling feeling in Meg’s stomach. “I am certain that such an undertaking will not be a problem for you, Margarita Burton. I expect you are precisely the type of woman to succeed.”