Diana kept hold of her skirt, lifting the hem and moving to the base of the two steps.
The prince gave a small flick of his hand. “This is one of my goddaughters.” His voice reeked of ennui, but he remembered that much about her, at least, though he’d never laid eyes on her, to her knowledge.
“One of many. Too many, if you ask me,” the Queen said with a touch of asperity. She brought her attention back to Diana. “I believe I met your sister last Season? And did she find a suitable match?”
Heat prickled across Diana’s skin. What should she say? If she breathed a word of the scandal, her future in the ton was finished. Not to mention that her father had forbidden her to even whisper her sister’s name, much less her illegitimate child and her death. But she couldn’t lie to the Queen, could she?
A small stir behind her had the Queen looking up. Diana daren’t look over her shoulder, but whoever had caused the distraction had her gratitude, for the Prince Regent rose laboriously from his ornate chair, a smile splitting his face. The pleasant expression made him look almost handsome in a florid way—at any rate, better than he looked when he was bored.
“Ah, there he is.” The prince motioned to several of the courtiers, who seemed to have nothing more to do than wait to fulfill his wishes. The group of men stirred and separated, as if to some prearranged task.
The Queen nodded to Diana. “Perhaps we will have a moment to speak again later.”
Lady Cathcart gave a small jerk of her head to Diana and bobbed a quick curtsy. Diana followed her lead, dipping her knees and bowing her head again. “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Now the tricky part—backing away from the Queen gracefully without tripping on her train. In a maneuver she’d practiced at least twenty times, Diana took an infinitesimal step to her right and began to retreat. Lady Cathcart did the same, and halfway down the aisle of onlookers, she took Diana’s elbow and drew her to the side to stand amongst the peers.
Diana took a deep breath, or at least she tried to, but the boned panel of the stomacher thwarted her. She had survived her presentation without any major faux pas and without having to speak of Catherine. A sigh rose as far as her throat before she stifled it. Already her feet pinched in her satin shoes, and she had possibly hours to go before she could sit. One did not sit in the presence of the Queen unless invited to do so, after all.
“You did fine.” Lady Cathcart spoke behind the edge of her folded fan. “And the Queen spoke to you, so you have that in your favor. Now, just stand there and look decorative.”
Across the room, her eyes met her father’s. He wore a shrewd, calculating look, and he nodded once at her, sharp and short, which she took to mean do as Lady Cathcart had said. Stand still and look decorative. Beside him stood a portly man, balding, with his hair brushed forward on the sides and red cheeks that denoted either great excitement or a fondness for drink, she couldn’t decide which. The duke bent and whispered in his ear, motioning with his chin in Diana’s direction, and the man’s gaze sharpened on her, sweeping her from feathers to feet. Was this the man to whom her father intended to marry her off? Her stomach flipped. Surely not. The man had to be thrice her age. But if not him, then who?
A bitter wave swept through Diana. She had no power, no say, no rights in her father’s eyes. She was under his command, and he loved to remind her of that fact. Without being overt, without turning her head, she looked from one male face to the next in the room. Chances were excellent that her future husband stood amongst those watching. Having been isolated at a less-than-fashionable all-girls’ school for most of her life, she didn’t know a single face in the crowd other than her father and brother. Was there anyone whom she could trust? Anyone who might see her for herself and not as a means to an end?
Percival stood near their father, sneering, standing with his weight on one leg, his obnoxious cane in his hand. Beside him, another young man leaned in to whisper, though he stared at Diana the entire time, leering, actually. She tore her gaze away, flushing uncomfortably. Insolent man. Who was he?
The Prince Regent beckoned toward the doorway, and a man in a green military uniform came forward. His triple row of buttons winked in the light, silvery rather than brass, and Diana thought she might well be able to see her reflection in his tall black Hessians. He looked pale and thin, as if he hadn’t been well, but his bearing was erect, his black square-cut shako under his arm. The slight clanking of his sword echoed with each step.
Something in his face drew her. Dark hair, worn longer than current fashion dictated, the indication of a dark full beard if he weren’t clean-shaven, a straight nose, and heavily lashed eyes. But drawn skin, a tenseness about his mouth, and a hint of panic—or was it just wariness?—in the way that he held his head. Was he, too, nearly overwhelmed by the occasion?
When he reached the foot of the dais, he bowed low from the waist.
A movement across the way caught her attention. Percival had stopped slouching, his gimlet eyes trained on the soldier’s back. Perhaps they were acquainted? Percival had gotten the opportunity to join a delegation of members of Parliament to Spain six months ago as an aide. Father had ordered him to go because it was advantageous to Father at the time to have his son as part of the envoy, and somehow Percival had wound up embroiled in the Battle of Salamanca and had come home slightly wounded, looking for accolades and sympathy in equal measure. Whatever he had done there, her father had been furious, but neither had shared anything about the experience with Diana.
“Lieutenant Eldridge.” The prince spoke only to the soldier, but his voice carried to every corner of the room. “I trust you’ve recovered from your injuries?”
Ah, so he had been ill.
“Yes, Your Highness. Thank you.”
Diana wished she could see the soldier’s face again. He wasn’t a titled gentleman, for the prince had addressed him by his rank. Lieutenant. An officer, but barely.
“I am pleased to hear it. I imagine you’re wondering why you are here? Your actions on the battlefield deserve a reward. Some would say your deeds deserve a knighthood.”
A murmur went through the crowd.
The prince narrowed his eyes, scanning the room. “I, however, think such bravery on the battlefield, and doing such a service for your regent, deserves more. Kneel, young man.”
A collective intake of air happened amongst the onlookers.
“Oh my,” Lady Cathcart whispered. “He wouldn’t. Not again.”
Diana wanted so badly to ask what was happening, but she bit her lip, not wanting to be reprimanded or to miss anything.
The soldier knelt, slowly, as if it pained him, tucking his sword out of the way, his hat clamped against his side.
The Prince Regent accepted a sword resplendent with a jeweled hilt from a courtier and stepped down to place the blade on the kneeling officer’s shoulder.
“For bravery in the face of the enemy, and for saving the life of my godson, Percival Seaton …”
Diana’s eyes shot to her brother. This soldier had saved his life? What had happened to her brother in Spain, and why hadn’t anyone mentioned it before?
Evan knelt at the foot of the dais, wishing he were anywhere else. His thigh throbbed at the pressure of being on one knee. Every eye in the room seemed to be on him. What was he doing here? He never thought he might long to be back in the hospital, but that feeling teased the corner of his mind. The prince took a ceremonial sword and rested the steel against Evan’s shoulder. Was it really heavy, or was that his imagination? He’d never expected anything like this … whatever this was.