A marvelous feeling of euphoria enveloped Tony as she walked among the merrymakers, acknowledging their congratulations. All she could think of was Adam’s face when he learned she had won the great phaeton race to Richmond. Dolly had removed the wilted poppies, and without the clashing scarlet of her parasol, her red dress looked quite fetching. Tony’s euphoria was wiped away as she came face to face with Bernard Lamb.
“Hello, coz.”
She stared at him in disbelief. “What the devil are you doing here?” Dolly and Angela Brown were already having an animated conversation.
Bernard drawled, “Racing, same as you, cousin. Why else would I be here?”
That is precisely what worried Tony. She could have sworn she hadn’t passed him in the race, but then she hadn’t remembered passing Sherry and the others either.
Bernard’s lip curled. “I’d congratulate you, but it’s quite obvious it was superior horseflesh and not your driving skill that won the race.”
“Yes, blood will out,” Tony said pointedly, and had the satisfaction of seeing Bernard’s nostrils flare at the insult. She walked away, hoping Dolly would remain with her friends, but she trailed after Tony. There was no way she was going to miss being front and center when Lord Lamb was awarded the prize.
The Prince of Wales took the fat purse from his equerry, Lord Onslow, and prevailed upon Mrs. Maria Fitzherbert to make the presentation. As Tony came forward she was dazzled by the lady’s beauty. Maria had learned how to dress in France. Her complexion was like cream and roses and her glorious golden-blond hair fell to her shoulders in unpowdered curls. The magnificent swell of her breasts was breathtaking, even concealed beneath her modest neckline.
She pressed the purse upon Tony, who gallantly clicked her heels and raised the lady’s soft white hand to her lips. The crowd applauded that it was prettily done and Sherry immediately touched him up for a loan.
“Shove off! Find another pigeon to pluck.”
“You did say pluck?” punned Sherry.
Dolly giggled. “His Royal Highness is going to get plucked before the afternoon is out.”
“Nay, the fair lady refuses to be any man’s mistress,” Sherry informed her.
“He ain’t any man, he’s a prince. She’s very clever. She’s probably ’olding out for jewels.”
“Or something beyond the price of rubies,” Sherry remarked to Tony. Then he smiled at Dolly. “What leads you to believe she is clever, my dear?”
“She called ’er ’ouse Marble Hills didn’t she? That’s like advertising how beautiful her breasts are.”
“Like something out of a play, begod!”
Dolly looked at Sheridan with speculative eyes and confided, “I’m an actress.”
“Never!” Sherry said with a perfectly straight face, but Amoret slipped a possessive arm through his and steered him away from the ambitious Dolly.
His Royal Highness could not keep his eyes from Maria Fitzherbert’s marble hills, and he longed to hold them in the palms of his hands. The thought aroused and hardened him for the umpteenth time. In fact, he’d been up and down so many times this afternoon, it felt like a flagpole.
Prince George had expended every effort to lure Maria inside White Lodge so she could explore the rooms and so he could do a little exploring of his own. He’d driven to Richmond every day for a week. She’d given him tea and cake, comfits and kisses, but she had not put him out of his misery.
At first Maria had thought him just a boy. She was six years older and had been twice married and widowed. When she realized his feelings were of an amorous nature she was flattered. He was a new experience for Maria because both her husbands had been elderly gentlemen and quite easily handled. His Highness had such an impetuous nature, it quite excited her, yet she still felt worldly when she compared herself with her very royal, but very young, admirer.
The Prince captured Maria’s hand and squeezed it meaningfully. He drew closer and she could tell he meant to steal a kiss at any cost. She jumped up, at last amenable to his suggestion that they retire indoors. If she allowed him a kiss it would have to be in private.
“Sweet puss, pop your little paw in mine,” George pleaded.
Maria again bestowed her hand upon him and wondered if it was within the realm of possibility to bestow her hand upon him in marriage. She would be the Princess of Wales, then later on, Queen of England! It was impossible, of course, because of that wretched Marriage Act that had been passed. Still, if it was written in the stars, all things were possible.
George’s good manners prevented him from taking her to a bedchamber, so he led her to a private salon, elegantly furnished with brocaded chairs and settees. He closed the door firmly and drew Maria into his arms. She allowed him a kiss, then tried to draw away, but one kiss did not satisfy His Highness, indeed it barely whetted his appetite for this delectable female. His arms imprisoned her as his mouth descended. This time the kiss was not sweet, but hot.
“Your Highness.” She gasped, her breasts rising and falling with a growing excitement.
“Pussycat, don’t call me that. I don’t want us to be formal, I want us to be intimate.”
Maria blushed deeply. She had been intimate occasionally, but only with a faithful, elderly husband.
George kissed her again, but this time his lips forced hers apart slightly and he slipped the tip of his tongue into her mouth. Then he pressed his sex against her soft thighs to show her he was hard for her. “Don’t be cruel, Pussykins, don’t break my heart, Maria.”