Ian blinked. Surely he’d misheard.
“Presentation to the Queen,” Dolph clarified. “Of England.”
Ian forgot to be rude or respectful or even angry. “She’s what?” He gaped at Princess Cynde.
“You’ve heard me,” sighed the prince, leaning back.
Ian looked from his old friend, fat and self-important; to his petite wife, yellow hair framing her sweet face like curtains around a brightly lit stage.
“Thank you?” Ian ventured.
“You’re welcome,” chirped the princess, her first words. She had a twee voice that matched her ribbons.
Ian ignored her and waded through this wholly improbable offer in his mind.
Truth: he’d brought Ivy and Imogene from Dorset to host them in a London Season.
Truth: he’d intended to see the thing done properly, in the manner befitting a duke and his family.
Truth: returning to London was the absolute last thing he’d wanted to do, and he wasn’t certain, even now, if it was best for the girls.
Untrue: he’d expected Imogene or Ivy to be presented at court to the Queen of England.
It was a gross understatement to describe the girls as “raw.” They’d returned to Avenelle three months ago, and he’d yet to determine exactly what his sister had done to cultivate their strange combination of sheltered and wild. What was worse, he had no idea how to correct it. He’d brought them to London at significant personal toll; honestly, he’d been at his wit’s end. Wasn’t this what young women did when they turned sixteen? They embarked upon a proper London Season?
Ian’s vision for their Season had involved their makingthe acquaintance of other girls, fittings for new wardrobes, a handful of carefully chosen parties, and a modest debut ball. And nothing more.
The Lachlan title amounted to an inconsequential dukedom in Dorset. His own scandal had put a stain on the family name. The girls would not run into lofty circles or pursue life at court. If they were very lucky, they’d pick up one or two refinements in London and return to Dorset by summer.
The thought of Imogene or Ivy, God bless them, surviving a royal presentation without incident seemed impossible—as likely as him returning to parliament without inviting public scorn. At best, wildly aspirational; at worst, a disaster.
“I knew you would be ungrateful and difficult,” sighed the prince, selecting a sticky date from a bowl.
“Forgive me, Highness, I’m—”
“And that is why I intend to sweeten the deal,” continued the prince.
“The deal?”
“As part of the girls’ introduction to Mama, I will further facilitate a meeting between you and my brother George.”
“The prince regent?” Ian rasped. Surely he’d misheard.
“Of course the prince regent. That is your larger goal, is it not? To persuade George to release the export duties on your tenants’ lace? My brother, in turn, will pressure the Lords. George owes me a favor, and nowyouowe me one.”
“Highness,” said Ian, the only word he could manage.
If the regent could be convinced to support the eradication of export duties on textiles and lace, Ian wouldn’t have to return to the House of Lords. He wouldn’t have to navigate the gossip or endure public scorn and relive the riots in every paper in London. He could slink back to Dorset and never be heard from again.
But at what personal cost? Imogene and Ivy presented at court? God help them all.
Ian cleared his throat. “If I might venture an amendment. With regard to my nieces...”
“You may not,” cut in Dolph. “The offer remains exactly as I’ve said. Your nieces are important to my wife and therefore, they are important to me. I cannot guarantee an audience with my brother if we don’t combine it with your family’s introduction to the queen. I’m a prince, but I’m not a bloody miracle worker.”
“No,” conceded Ian. “I don’t suppose you are.” If nothing else, Dolph was honest.
“But why is Princess Cynde so very invested in my nieces?” Ian was honest, too, and this arrangement made no sense.
