Shall We Dance?. Kasey Michaels

      THE QUEEN’S hastily put-together residence at Hammersmith.

      Quite a crowded place.

      The queen, of course, caught between her broken dreams and an attacking husband bent on destroying her.

      Amelia Fredericks, practical, yet still harboring secret dreams, and utterly devoted to her queen.

      Perry Shepherd, Earl of Brentwood, sent against his will and better judgment to seek out scandal by his uncle, Sir Willard, a staunch Tory and thus aligned against the queen.

      And his faithful (and, at the moment, rather soggy) dogsbody, Clive Rambert.

      Georgiana Penrose, Amelia’s childhood friend, unaware of any intrigue, but happy to tell most any fib if it puts her in her friend’s company and, frankly, keeps her mother and Mr. Bateman away from her as much as possible.

      Sir Nathaniel Rankin, baronet, a young man who has reluctantly taken on one chore, protecting the queen on orders from his dotty aunt Rowena, only to find a second, much more enjoyable way of occupying his time.

      Mrs. Maryann Fitzhugh, a most unlikely housekeeper, both of her.

      Bernard Nestor, out to make any mischief, find any proof that would further his ambition…er, the queen’s case.

      And Esther Pidgeon, still pining for her Florizel, a woman for whom dreams have become an obsession, and willing to go to any lengths to destroy the upstart queen. Any lengths. Any.

      Let The Games Begin

      Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been?

      I’ve been to London to visit the Queen.

      —Anonymous

      AMELIA HAD SPENT a lovely half hour with her good friend Georgiana before an urgent summons from the queen’s maid had cut their visit short. With promises to see each other again as soon as possible, Amelia had hastened off to the queen’s chamber, expecting to find Her Majesty still abed, still playing at tragedy queen (not that she didn’t have good reason).

      Instead, she’d found Her Majesty at her dressing table, her eyes half-shut while a fussing maid applied rouge to her cheeks.

      As there was no sign that the bathtub had been employed, or even the pitcher and ewer on a dressing table to one side of the room, Amelia knew that the queen was in some sort of rush—and when the queen was in a rush, personal hygiene took a distant back seat to wherever the woman was in a rush to.

      “Your Majesty,” Amelia said, curtsying to the queen.

      The rouge pot and brush went flying when the maid, clearly unprepared for Her Royal Majesty’s abrupt about-face in her chair, turned on Amelia to ask in some excitement, “Did you see? Did you see?”

      “See, ma’am? I’m sorry—”

      The queen fluttered her ringed fingers toward the bank of long windows. “Oh, just go look—look! My people. My subjects! They come to bow to their queen, Amelia, in her hour of greatest need. I will win! You’ll see, you’ll see. For once in my life, I will best him. I will win!”

      Amelia had gone to the windows, knowing what she would see below her, in the water. Boats. Boats and more boats, of every shape and size. And then she leaned closer to the glass. “There are banners,” she said. “Signs.”

      “Yes, yes,” the queen said, returning her attention to her toilette. “I had someone fetch me a spyglass. See it? Pick it up, my dear, and read to me from the banners.”

      Amelia located the spyglass on a table and did as she was bid. “Long Live Our Queen,” she read, peering through the glass. “Hip, Hip, Hooray.” She saw two more: Kick His Arse, Caroline, and Show Us Some Bottom, Dearie, but those she did not repeat to Her Majesty.

      “You have so many admirers, ma’am,” Amelia said, sliding the spyglass shut and replacing it on the table. “In England, indeed, in the world. It is so very gratifying.”

      “Ha! It’s tweaking that miserable husband of mine, that’s what it’s doing. I can see him now, being told of what’s happening. Stomping his feet, weeping copious tears into the bosom of his latest fat, aged mistress, calling for his leeches so that he can be bled of his ill humors. My heart has not been so light for years! Oh, enough, enough. When I wave from the balcony all they’ll see will be their queen, not her wrinkles,” she said, batting away the maid’s hand. “Amelia, we must keep them coming here, hold on to their loyalty. Feed it.”

      Which was how Amelia had ended up donning a light wrap and picking her way down the flights of wooden stairs that eventually led to the small pier where she now stood with three footmen carrying heavy baskets of cakes and fruit, watching a pathetic man being pulled out of the water by the seat of his pants.

      “Gently, my good man, gently. We shouldn’t wish to crease him.”

      That voice, laden with amusement. Who’d said that? Who would say such a thing?

      Amelia tore her frightened gaze away from the unfortunate fellow just now coughing and gasping on the pier, and looked at the gentleman gracefully picking his way to the front of the lightly rocking boat, then onto that same pier. He planted his cane on the dock, pressed both hands on the knob and leaned forward slightly, to look down at the nearly drowned man.

      “Gad, Clive, all that spluttering. I warned you to be careful. Or did you think you’d spied out a mermaid?”

      The nearly drowned man choked on yet another cough and raised his face to the man. “I coulda drownded.”

      “Nonsense, my good man. If you had but stood up, I imagine you could have kept your chin above water. Hmm…perhaps your eyebrows. A pity. If only his legs were straight, he might not have drowned. Correction, drown-ded. How’s that for a sorry epitaph? Good thing I saved you.”

      “You did no such thing, sir,” Amelia declared, motioning for the footmen to put down their baskets and help the wet man to his feet. “If anything, I would say you’ve seen this poor unfortunate’s nearly fatal accident as…as some sort of joke.”

      The man—he was a man, surely; just a man; not some fairy-tale prince—immediately stepped in front of the wet man, removed his curly brimmed beaver and executed a most flamboyant leg in Amelia’s direction, his startlingly clear green eyes raking her from top to toe even as he straightened up once more, smiled a smile that all but took her breath away.

      “A thousand apologies, miss. A hundred thousand apologies. I am a cad, a heartless cad. But I did warn him.” His cool, green gaze still on Amelia, he asked, “Didn’t I warn you, Clive?”

      “Not near soon enough,” Clive admitted as he got to his feet on the slippery dock, then turned in a full circle. “My hat! Where’s m’hat? Here, now, somebody fetch up my hat. Three quid that thing cost. Feed me for a month or more, three quid.”

      “Control yourself, Clive, if you please,” the gentleman said, still looking at Amelia, who felt a sudden need to cross her arms over her bosom, for she felt stripped naked by that amazingly intense green gaze. “If I might introduce myself?”

      Amelia waved her right hand slightly, as though talking might very well be beyond her at the moment. Never had she seen anyone so…so nearly perfect. Like a dashing hero out of her dreams.

      “Thank you, dear lady. I, for my sins, am Perry Shepherd, Earl of Brentwood, delirious to be in your presence, as I had been racking my sorry brain for some paltry excuse to wrangle an introduction. You are Miss Amelia Fredericks, correct?”

      “I, um, excuse me?”

      “Yes, yes, use the oar, man. Snag it up with the oar. Oh, come on, now, lads, put some back inta it, the thing’s floatin’ away. Wait, never mind, it’s comin’ back this way. I can do it m’self. I’ll just…lean…out…and…reach for—”

      Splash.

      “‘Once