All that sounded fine, but not until she’d had a solid meal.
“It’s a lovely day for a picnic and for bathing, Your Highness,” she prompted.
“Isn’t it though? But then Brighton or as I first knew it, Brighthelmstone, has always been a delightful place. I think I love everything about it, the assemblies, the horse-races, promenading along our splendid English Channel, the weather.” The Prince Regent turned his pudgy face toward the seaside.
“The gambling, the loose blowsabellas, being so far from his stodgy parents,” Hargrove muttered in her ear.
She dug her elbow into his ribs to shut his mouth as Prince George turned back to them.
“The people here,” he continued, “are universally of wit and style, and the ladies such as yourself have all the beauty of a fine painting and the enjoyableness of—”
“Roast chicken?” Hargrove interrupted.
“What?” the Regent exclaimed. “Are you comparing lovely Miss Talbot to a piece of well-cooked fowl?”
Her stomach squeezed at the mention of chicken.
“No,” Hargrove said, “certainly not.”
Glynnis could hear the mockery in his tone.
“I was merely wondering what was on the picnic menu. It seems ages ago we were dining at your table.”
“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” Prince George said, sounding distracted. “And I am growing peckish, as I haven’t eaten since breakfast except for a small noontime snack. If you’ll excuse me, Miss Talbot, more guests are arriving. By the way, Hargrove, you’ll be at that table over there.”
And he pointed to one in the full sun.
“I hope you enjoy my picnic,” the prince said to her.
“Yes, thank you, Your Highness.” She curtsied again and watched him waddle off across the grass, using a sturdy cane. “That was rude of you,” she said to Hargrove. “You were mocking him.”
“He isn’t here for the wit and style, any more than his courtiers are. Being here makes him feel young again, like he’s twenty-one and seeing Brighton for the first time. Word has it, he came two decades ago to escape his father’s disapproval. Now, he’s here to escape the same sentiment but from most of the British people, and especially Londoners who don’t think he’s half the man his father was, except in size, of course.”
She frowned and stared after the prince. “It’s unlikely his father will recover, isn’t it?”
Hargrove nodded. “I think you’re correct.”
“Then Prince George will be our king and shall need to fill his father’s shoes.”
“He will try.” And Hargrove sighed, sounding weary. “While he empties the country’s coffers.”
She didn’t know anything about such things, but trusted Britain’s coffers would remain as plentiful as ever, along with those of her future husband, whoever he may be.
Hoping to start moving things in the right direction, Glynnis walked toward the table the prince had indicated, closed her parasol and leaned it against a tree.
Hargrove accompanied her. When her stomach grumbled loudly, her gaze flew to his.
“Good lord, woman,” he looked around as if he feared someone would think he’d made the noise. “You might wish to eat upon a more regular basis. It sounds as though you have an animal caged under your skirt.”
She grimaced and turned her back, and that’s when she saw servants setting up the croquet wickets.
“Oh, sweet Mary,” she muttered.Food first, food first, she chanted silently.
“We shall have a round of lawn croquet before we dine,” Prince George announced.
The Devil!
“Did you just mutter an oath?”
