Free By the King's Design by Christine Trent

voice coming from over her left shoulder. It was the tradesman.
    â€œOh, no sir. I was just admiring the room.”
    The man smiled kindly. “I would hardly call it admiration. Perhaps you see a problem in here?”
    â€œNot really a problem, no.” How horrifying that he may have read the distaste on her face. But it couldn’t hurt to pass the time talking to this man, though, could it? “I’m just not sure that these particular benches belong here.”
    He nodded. “I see. What about them is an affront to you?”
    â€œThey’re too ... bulky. They aren’t right for the airiness of the space.” She frowned. “And this shade of blue fabric on them just isn’t right inside a room with so much gilding in it. Not that I would have overdone the gold leafing in this way, either.”
    â€œYou have very clear opinions on matters of design. Is your husband perhaps an architect?”
    His words mocked, but the twinkle of his eyes suggested he meant no offense.
    â€œMy family owns a cloth shop in Yorkshire, so I’ve always been interested in fabric use in décor. I had some red and cream brocade that would be dazzling on these seat frames.”
    â€œHmm, I see. So, in your opinion as a draper, are there other fabrics in here that require changing?”
    She looked at the massive windows swathed with layered, fringed draperies. The marine blue draperies extended out to cover half the walls.
    â€œThe windows are covered in a way that is certainly grand, but look at the ceiling. It is painted in soft pastels to give the illusion of clouds gently floating past the room. It suggests light and cool breezes. The draperies are better suited for protecting the occupants against a gloomy thunderstorm, don’t you think? Whoever designed the room should have used a botanical print, to represent the green earth beneath the English sky, and in a much lighter fabric. This silk is too heavy. I would pull them off the ground more, perhaps tying them up more with tassels, to give a look of grandeur without depressing visitors to death.”
    â€œI believe the intent was to imitate a Roman tent.”
    â€œTruly?” Belle, don’t show your disbelief so obviously.
    The man was too lost in contemplation to notice her bad manners.
    â€œI presume you have other fabrics in your shop more suitable to the room?” he asked.
    â€œActually, the shop is why I’m here today to see the prince. Our new gig mill was destroyed by some Luddites, and I want the prince to help me.”
    â€œHelp you? How? Do you expect the prince to pay for your broken machinery?”
    â€œYes. And to force Parliament to take action against these gangs of wild men.”
    He looked at her thoughtfully, much like a loving uncle would at a wayward niece. “You’ve never actually met the prince, have you? Don’t know anything about him?”
    â€œWell, no, but—” Her words were interrupted when a cream and gilded door opened, and in entered a man whose cologne descended upon her before he had fully crossed the threshold. His girth explained the size of the benches.
    Next to her, the tradesman made a shallow bow. This must be the prince! She dropped into a curtsy, keeping her head down and hoping she was accomplishing it properly.
    â€œAh, Nash, welcome to the Circular Room. Think you that Mr. Holland does work as fine as yours?” the prince said.
    Nash? Where had she heard that name before? Belle rose when she sensed the man next to her doing so.
    The prince’s gaze turned to her. He must have been handsome in his youth, but folds of flesh obscured his past good looks, and instead revealed only blue eyes that squinted as he broke into hearty laughter.
    She dropped back into a curtsy.
    â€œThis must be the bewitching Miss Stirling. Please rise, my dear, so I can look at you. Why, you’re as exquisite as Lord Liverpool described you. I see