The Ring and the Crown (The Ring and the Crown 1)

“Excuse me?” Ronan asked. S

he wasn’t sure she understood what he was saying. What was all this talk about “we”? “Forgive me, my lord, but I’m not quite following you.”

“Now, now, you don’t want me to get down on one knee, do you? Knee’s a bit shot. But I suppose the ladies like it. Ferdie said you would, said I shouldn’t muck it up.”

“Lord Deveraux,” Ronan said firmly, forgetting that they were supposed to be on a first-name basis, “please explain what you are trying to say.”

Marcus sighed loudly and blew a raspberry in exasperation, as if she were a particularly slow or dim-witted child. “Here’s the thing, see? I’m supposed to pick a bride this season, or Mummy’ll cut off the dosh. And, well…you’re awful pretty, aren’t you? So, um, how about it?”

The pretty ones always go first.

Ronan stopped dancing and stood still in the middle of the ballroom. Several couples had to dance around them to keep from bumping into them. “Are you proposing to me, Lord Deveraux? Proposing marriage, I mean?”

“Yes, of course I am,” he said with a big smile, relieved to be understood. “So, what do you say? Want to give it a go? You’re a pretty American—I’m a single, titled Brit—it’s what you came to the season for, isn’t it? Why don’t we seal the deal, as you folks like to say? Get this done, right?”

Since it was so businesslike, Ronan was tempted to ask about the amount of his stipend, and for that matter, how much he would inherit—what the estate was worth, and exactly how much of his fortune was liquid. But she did not have to, as what had been presented was enough for her to make a few quick calculations. She factored in their great house on the square (which had been suitably updated with the latest modern conveniences), the fact that his sister would be a bridesmaid to the princess, and what she could remember from the issue of Debrett’s—that the Warwick country home was one of the finest castles in all of Franco-England, and they also kept a house in Paris. On paper, he was proposing a very good match indeed—one, he was right to note, that she had come to London for.

“I…”

“Yes?”

“Yes—I mean—no. No. I can’t,” she said. Ronan started to dance again, and he was forced to follow. She gave a small laugh. “I mean, we don’t even know each other! We’ve hardly said two words to each other! And this doesn’t count.”

Marcus’s shoulders slumped. “Ferdie said you’d say that. I suppose I’ll have to court you properly, then?” he asked gloomily. “Send flowers, pitch woo, moon about your eyes and such?”

She did not dignify that with a response. Instead, as the orchestra played the last strains of the piece, she curtsied politely. “I am very flattered, Marcus, but…”

“But?” he asked hopefully.

Ronan wanted to laugh. She couldn’t seem to walk in any direction without someone proposing marriage to her. But she said the same thing she had told Wolf on the boat. “I’m sorry, but the answer is no.”

Wolf couldn’t help but overhear the conversation, since old Deveraux had had to yell above the orchestra. He had to hand it to Marcus—full points for attempting to make his mark early. Claiming the prettiest girl in the room before the night was even over. Ronan Astor, that was her name. He savored it like a fine wine on his tongue. Unconsciously, he had spent the entire night shadowing her movements, watching her as she danced with his friends and acquaintances, making sure she didn’t see him.

Like everyone else at the party, Wolf had been impressed by Marie-Victoria’s entrance, amazed to have seen his friend transformed into some kind of magical bird. He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that—it didn’t seem very Marie-like to enter the dance in such a showy way—but he supposed it had to do with the Merlin, and the empire wanting to make an impression. During the mandatory dance, his brother seemed happy enough to see the princess transformed like that. After watching them for a few moments, Wolf went back to his regular pastime—tracking the movements of a certain American girl.

Right now she was dancing with the so-called Red Duke, although nothing about him was red, except his face after a few drinks. Hugh Borel. Wolf didn’t know him that well—French royals had been practically banned from court since their defeat—but he appeared a nice enough chap, polite to a fault maybe. One of those nervous types.

Wolf downed his glass of champagne and made a decision. It was almost four in the morning, long past supper. All the court insiders had abandoned the ball for the after-parties, and he himself had promised a few friends he would leave soon. He felt a pang to see that Ronan was still at the dance, not realizing that only the losers who had not been invited anywhere else (like Hugh Borel) remained.

Well, it was up to him then, wasn’t it? To rescue the fair maiden and all that. He finger-combed his hair and checked his teeth in the silver. Then he approached, silent as a leopard, as smooth as knife through butter. “Mind if I cut in?” he asked.

Hugh glanced at him. For a moment his eyes were icy, but they turned back to the warm, cloying obsequiousness he was known for. “By all means, she’s yours. Excuse me, my lady,” he said as he bowed to Ronan.

“You,” Ronan said. He took her hand in his, put the other around her waist, and pulled her toward him.

“Me.” He smiled.

“I don’t think what you did was funny.”

“Really? I thought it was a laugh. That Red Duke needs to learn his place around here.”

“Not that. You know what I mean. Back on the Saturnia. Pretending to be someone else. Getting me to play those games with you,” she said, her cheeks turning red.

“All right, so I never told you my real name. But Wuthering Heights is one of my favorite books. If you recall, Heathcliff is quite the anti-hero—so in that way, I never pretended to be anyone else. I told you the truth. I fight in the ring, my family herds sheep. Okay, so they herd a lot of sheep. My brother’s getting married. All truths. And it was just a game, love—we did nothing wrong, did we? As I recall, you enjoyed it too.”

Ronan’s face remained frosty. “If you say so, Your Highness.”

“Highness! You don’t need to mind your P’s and Q’s with me, girl.” He quite liked the way she fit around him. His hand almost spanned her small waist, and her hand was curled in his like a child’s.