Free Blackstone's Bride by Kate Moore

hardly knew how the first half of the day had passed. Blackstone appeared when she emerged from her room. They’d left before her breakfast coffee cooled, accompanying the royal party to see the magnificent black horses the prince insisted on stabling nearby. They made a circuit of the usual London sights, churches, squares, and monuments. The prince never failed to admire England’s heroes when they appeared mounted. He seemed to view horsemanship as the chief quality of a monarch.
    Blackstone was at her side every moment, to offer his arm as they crossed cobbles, or his hand as she climbed in or out of the barouche. His body seemed to anticipate hers, to move in relation to her. Her hand felt the weight of his ring with every move. Violet, who had been climbing in and out of carriages, passing through doorways, and managing packages with no more than the alert assistance of a well-trained and well-paid footman, was made to feel helpless.
    The countess, on the other hand, seemed to relish Blackstone’s interference. His gaze followed her, and she threw him appealing glances and becoming blushes whenever they met a curb. The countess could turn a simple curb into an impassable country stile that required a strong male arm. Violet did not think she had ever blushed, not even when she had said the most preposterous things. She knew now, of course, that they had been preposterous, but then it had seemed that she could say anything to him and he would not scold or look aghast at her.
    The day seemed an endless dance in which she shared a reluctant partner with a more captivating woman. The music played on, and one was obliged to go through the figures over and over and never advance to the end of the ballroom. The government would no doubt commend Blackstone’s devotion to duty.
    In the hat shop the titled visitor roused the mercenary instincts of proprietress and staff alike. Madame turned to the countess and directed an assistant to help Violet with her coat, hat, and gloves. Violet allowed the countess to keep Blackstone’s arm and lead him about while she exclaimed over the cunning designs, madame’s staff trailing in her wake. In no time, she was seated on a silk bench, trying to win Blackstone’s approval for a youthful chip straw bonnet while the staff moved with quiet, swift efficiency to bring refreshments or new designs.
    Just once Blackstone shot Violet a look that promised vengeance for her escape from the role of fond fiancé. His suffering look inexplicably cheered her as she turned to admire a high-crowned chocolate silk bonnet, its peaked brim embellished with a pair of dusky pink roses. It would suit her, she thought, simple and expensive. She nodded to the one clerk assisting her that she would like to try the piece.
    An hour later as they made their purchases, Madame Girard’s mouth grew tighter and tighter. The countess explained in a gush of girlish breathlessness that her bill must be sent to her husband the count at the Milvert’s Hotel at the end of the week.
    “Is it not done in England so?” she asked Blackstone.
    The little shop bell tinkled, a lady stepped in, and Madame Girard abandoned them to greet her next customer. There was no mistaking the distinct countenance of Arabella Young, Lady Chalfont, friend of Penelope Frayne, and fellow patroness of Violet’s ball. Arabella nodded to Violet, but her gaze went straight to Blackstone.
    “Lady Chalfont.” He strolled over to take her hand with an easy charm. “Your presence here confirms our good taste. Let me introduce my companions. You know Miss Hammersley? And her guest, the Countess Rezina of Moldova.”
    The encounter was over in minutes. Blackstone managed to charm Madame Girard back into good humor, escort the frail countess from the door, and bid Lady Chalfont farewell. Violet calculated the amount of time it would take for the news to reach Penelope. Women did not wager on the relative speed of raindrops down a window or the life