“Don’t trouble yourself with the details,” Dolph drawled. “Take the bargain, Lachlan. Trust me that you won’t regret it.”
Ian stared at him, trying to comprehend the choice he was being forced to make.
His relationship with the Avenelle tenants hinged on the eradication of this export duty and the prince regent could be instrumental in making that happen. Regardless, one did not turn down an audience with the future king. It simply wasn’t done.
Perhaps he could also use the audience to explain himself. Salvage some part of his reputation at the highest level—God only knew what the prince regent thought of him or the riots.
He’d called on the prince with the dim hope of making some progress on the export duties. An audience with his brother, the prince regent, was so far and away better than his wildest dreams. If his nieces were also somehow tied to the deal—so be it. In Ian’s experience, very few things in life came easily.
“The next appropriate response, Lachlan,” lectured the prince, “is to ask the princess how you might repay this great generosity. What you and the girls must do to make her so very proud—both throughout their Season and on the day they meet the queen.”
“Right,” rasped Lachlan, snapping to. Of course he already knew. His nieces were only one half of the arrangement. There was also the young woman in the antechamber, her cheeks likely as red as her hair.
“Ian, for God’s sake!” shouted the prince, clearly annoyed.
“Ah, sorry, Dolph—ah, Your Highness.”
Ian looked at the princess. “But what can I do to best facilitate this great generosity, Highness?”
“Well, actually...” began the princess in her high-pitched voice. She raised her tiny hand and snapped at the footman standing sentry by the double doors. “I should like to introduce you to my dear sister...”
Chapter Three
Drewsmina Trelayne’s Rule of Style and Comportment #22: Making amends is an essential part of being a lady, but not in full view of a crowd. If an apology is required, find a private moment to discreetly say the words. Public groveling will only compound the offense.
With only one look, Drew would know. Cynde’s face would reveal what words need not.
Either the Duke of Lachlan had exposed her incredible rudeness or, by some miracle, he hadn’t.
The opportunity to train his girls was out, obviously; but the Throne Room could not be avoided. Drew braced for the worst and began to walk forward. Footmen swung the doors open with a whoosh. In the fuzzy distance, Cynde and Prince Adolphus sat side by side in overstuffed chairs.
The duke—oh God, he’d remained—stood before them, his posture radiating impatience.
Drew sought Cynde’s face. Her blond curls and pastel silk were easy to spot. And there she was, beaming...
... hope.
She appeared hopeful.
By some miracle, Cynde didnotknow.
Slowly, with measured steps, Drew advanced throughthe long, narrow room. She’d heard the notion of walking on air, but now she wondered if the opposite could also be true. She was tunneling into the ground.
Whathad she been thinking? After all of these years, all the progress. She’dtransformedhad she not? She’d transformed so thoroughly, she wasendeavoring to coach other young women to do the same.
And to charge money for it.
Except now—
“There you are, Miss Trelayne,” called Cynde, shooting her a look that said,What’shappened?
“I am here, Highness,” Drew heard herself reply.
Drew stopped before the dais and curtsied gracefully. If nothing else, she knew how to curtsy.
She glanced at Prince Adolphus. He nibbled dates from a bowl, watching his wife with lazy approval. Drew glanced at the Duke of Lachlan. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared stonily ahead, projecting displeasure.
“Your Grace,” began Princess Cynde, speaking to Lachlan, “may I present to you Miss Drewsmina Trelayne. My sister and dear friend. She is the answer to the debut of your nieces.”
