“We can retrieve your belongings from the Pulteney on our way to Islington,” he offered. “My siblings will be delighted to meet you. And if you tire of them or me, we shall gracefully accept your goodbyes without fuss.”
Graham’s princess met his eyes in silence for a long moment, then took a deep breath. “Very well, determined knight. But only for a short while.”
7
Kuni stared out of the window as the hackney turned onto the gravel drive of a pretty three-story residence. The Wynchester home was not a palace, but it was wider and more beautiful than the celebrated hotel where she’d been staying.
Instead of the cramped terraced houses she’d observed huddled about a single shared square in Mayfair, Mr. Wynchester’s home in Islington was a pretty, freestanding residence amidst a sprawling garden. It looked like the sort of home indolent philanthropists might reside in.
Nonetheless, she kept her hands near her hidden daggers just in case.
Seated across from her, Mr. Wynchester nudged her boot with his own, his light brown eyes sparkling. “What do you think, Princess?”
“Is that the caretaker’s cottage?” she asked innocently.
Dismay contorted his handsome features for only a moment before he burst out laughing. “Now Iknowyou’re bamming me. I would install you in a castle if I could, but for now you must make do.”
From the moment Kuni had agreed to this temporary arrangement, Mr. Wynchester had either treated her like royalty…or he treated her to moments of such unguarded familiarity one could almost believe she’d known him her entire life.
The latter was not what she was accustomed to. Even as a Black woman, Kuni rarely found herself in a situation at home requiring interaction with someone of lower status. When she did, they would bow or curtsey from a respectful distance, and would certainly never dream of nudging her boot to get her attention. Even on the few occasions on which she visited her own brothers, their training kept them silent and distant rather than warm and gregarious.
Unpredictable Mr. Wynchester was entirely unsuitable for a mission like hers. Nonetheless, Kuni could not help but find his unflagging cheerfulness and unchecked enthusiasm infectious.
He leapt from the carriage before his servant could open the door and reached up to hand Kuni down himself.
“Vulgar manners,” she informed him as she placed her hand in his. “A Balcovian gentleman would never exit a carriage before a lady.”
“I’m neither Balcovian nor a gentleman,” he assured her, giving what she supposed was meant to be a lewd leer. The effect was spoiled by his irrepressible grin. “I’ve spent all afternoon devising a ruse to touch you. I’ll be damned if I hand this opportunity to my tiger.”
“Flatterer,” she scolded, but could not hide her amusement.
Kuni had danced in the arms of countless men during royal balls, but none would have dared to speak to her in such an openly flirtatious manner. They would have been tossed out of the castle by their ears.
She supposed Mr. Wynchester would have simply dropped back into the ballroom from the ceiling.
He placed her hand on his forearm and led her up a very pretty path to the front of the house, where the door was already opening to reveal a portly older man with white skin, impeccable if subdued attire, and a polite manner.
Mr. Wynchester murmured, “Mr. Randall, our butler, will take your coat and bonnet.”
“And my hand shoes?” she whispered back. “Or is it your custom to leave them on indoors?”
He stared at her. “Your what?”
“My…” Her cheeks heated.
Great gamboling cabbage, she’d got the words wrong! How she despised her lack of eloquence in this country. After a life of ease and high status, it was humbling to be so often in the wrong. She lifted her palms mutely.
“Oh, yourgloves,” Mr. Wynchester exclaimed. “Are they called ‘hand shoes’ in Balcovian? That is the most delightful thing I have ever heard. I cannot wait to learn all your other sayings.”
Kuni desperately hoped she would not make any further embarrassing misstatements.
She handed her…gloves…and her spencer to the butler without a word. It would be harder to put one’s foot in one’s mouth if one’s lips were closed.
Her tutors had insisted the trick was to think in the foreign language, which was all well and good when conversation was limited toHow do you do?andMight I have this dance?Now that she was actually here in England, Kuni had quickly discovered she didn’t have words for many of the new sights and situations, and even the ones she thought she knew were not always accurate. It was much easier to think in Balcovian.
Footsteps thundered down the wide marble stairs to the entryway. Her eyes widened in some shock at discovering their source: Not a herd of rampaging elephants, but a tiny slip of a woman with pale skin and flyaway blond hair bearing smudges of green paint.
As Kuni handed over her bonnet to the butler, the woman gasped as though she’d been struck with an arrow. She darted forward and snatched the bonnet right out of the butler’s hands.
