Princess Charming

Princess Charming

Beth Pattillo

May 2013 $14.95
ISBN: 978-1-61194-284-2

A hero's work is never done.

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Haunted by his past, Nicholas St. Germain, Crown Prince of Santadorra, has a penchant for rescuing anyone in distress—damsels as well as hapless canines.He has vowed to avoid heroism of any kind, but then Lady Lucy Charming barrels into his life, trailing trouble in her wake. 

Daughter of a Duke, Lady Lucy’s life is anything but charming. Forced into drudgery by her stepmother after the Duke’s death, Lady Lucy endures her lot while plotting rebellion. She foregoes the usual balls and Society’s marriage mart, leaving those pursuits to her desperate stepsisters. Instead, Lucy continues the clandestine and often dangerous work of her late father. But to be discovered aiding the reformation efforts could mean imprisonment for Lucy. Any man who thinks to rescue her from her dedication to the cause will find himself pulling a recalcitrant Lucy from one scrape after another. And when Lucy’s passion for reform places her in jeopardy, Nick finds that a dangerously enticing wager may be the only way to save them both.

When love requires the most daring rescue of all, what’s a hero to do?


"…an enjoyable, fluffy fairytale." -- Patsy Kelley, Netgalley

". . . high on wit, tension, and passion. . ." — Romantic Times

"Pattillo charms with a delightfully funny Regency tale . . ." —Bookloons



Once upon a time...

Santadorra, 1803

NICK ST. GERMAIN dug his fingers into a crevice in the rocky ledge. Beside him, his mother and sister huddled against the cold stone. He refused to give in to the tears that threatened as he searched for his mother's face in the darkness. The thick black night of the Pyrenees shadowed all but the outline of her form. His little sister, Josephine, sniffled in the crook of his mother's arm. Jo was only four, eight years younger than he, and still a baby. Too young to understand why they had fled the palace and now clung to an unforgiving wall of slate beneath the mountain's towering pines.

In the midst of the darkness, he felt his mother's hand on his shoulder. Her fingers trembled where they rested against his coat. "Your father thinks us headed for the northern coast of Spain. He cannot help if he does not know we've turned westward.” Nick could hear the indecision in her whispered words. He had pleaded with her for the last hour to let him return to the palace for help, but his mother had wavered, unsure of the safest course.

"I can bring the guards, Maman. They will have defeated the rebels by now. I will fly, fast as the wind.” The sounds of pursuit grew louder, the rustlings giving way to the clop of horses' hooves against the hard-packed earthen trail below. Nick shivered. "You and Jo must hide in the caves until I return.”

His mother's hand left his shoulder and moved upward to cup his chin. Tears stung his eyes as he fought for control. At that moment, the clouds parted, and a moonbeam penetrated the gloom. He could see her now, Her Serene Highness, Queen Eleanor, her blond hair gleaming almost silver in the moonlight, her expression fierce.

"Without the royal family, Nicholas, our people have no hope. They will fall into the hands of that tyrant, Napoleon. Santadorra is merely a stepping stone to Spain.”

Bile rose in Nick's throat. "‘Twas the peasants, not Napoleon, who revolted. Let the rabble suffer the consequences.”

"Nay!” His mother lifted his chin higher. "This was no people's rebellion. This night's work can be laid at the doorstep of the French provocateurs. Santadorrans will come to know that soon enough. They will need their king.”

Nick choked back a sob at the mention of his father and shook his head, freeing himself from her touch. "The people have chosen their fate, just as Father chose to stay and fight. I care only for you and Jo.”

Pinpoints of light appeared below, and sabres rattled mere yards away. Nick could hear the methodical thwack, thwack as the men began to search the undergrowth below the ledge. Jo whimpered again. Fear coursed through him; the hairs of his neck stood on end.

The look in his mother's eyes frightened him further, a look of love and longing and despair that scared him more than the soldiers below. "Oh, Nicholas.” Her words were thick with grief. "You are indeed our only hope.”

A cry rose from their pursuers, as if the men were hounds who had caught the scent of the fox. "Jo and I will find a hiding place in the caves. Run, Nicholas. By all that is holy, run.”

His mother's hands were pushing him, and he found himself on his feet. His legs must have had some will of their own. Without stopping to kiss his mother or sister, he shot off as fast as he could. The ground was a carpet of slick, wet leaves, but still he ran, stumbling to stay upright and grasping tree limbs and thick gorse bushes as he scrambled up the side of the mountain. His heart pounded in his chest. He would cross the ridge and then race down the valley on the other side. From there, he could follow the road, if he was careful and the other French patrols had made camp. How long? An hour? Perhaps two? He could do it, if he tried very, very hard.

And then he heard the screams. A high-pitched one: his sister. The other a low moan. His foot slipped, and he went down in the thick loam of the forest floor.

Oh, God, he must go back. He scrambled to his feet and began to slide downward on the slick covering of decaying leaves and loose stone.

A shot rang out. And then another, followed by shouts of triumph. Nick felt his blood turn to ice.

The cold, unforgiving darkness of the mountain closed around him like a thick, wet cape, and the Crown Prince of Santadorra knew he had failed, and that he was alone—except for the marauding French soldiers not a hundred yards below.

Chapter One

London, 1819

NICHOLAS ST. GERMAIN paused from his labors, leaned against the handle of the gardening hoe, and eyed the obese blond pug stalking him as a lion would an antelope.

"If you're going to savage me, Wellington, do it now. It will save me having to weed the rhododendrons.”

Wellington, who more resembled a wrinkled, overstuffed pillow than the famous general, sniffed with disdain.

Nick raised his eyebrows. "You took the idiotic notion to dart into the middle of Bond Street. Crispin wagered I could not go twenty-four hours without playing the hero, and, traitor that you are, you proved him right in less than twelve.”

Wellington growled in umbrage. Nick snorted and lifted the hoe to attack a weed. At least he thought it was a weed. "I should have let you be trampled by Coverley's grays.” He whacked at the offending stalk, and it broke off just above the ground.

Wellington barked in indignation.

"Don't look innocent, you mongrel.” Nick glanced down at his stained smock and rough wool trousers. "Crispin is no doubt peering down on us right now, enjoying the sight of me mucking about in his grandmother's garden.” He grimaced. "And talking to her dog.”

Nick looked toward the house and, as expected, caught sight of his friend waving heartily from the drawing room window. When the urge to throw down the hoe and throttle Crispin had passed, Nick wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

"I'm done with wagers, Wellington. And no more heroism. Ever. It's devilishly hard on my boots.” He surveyed his ruined hessians with dismay. The cards had not been falling in his favor of late, and his credit was stretched beyond hope of repayment. His father had said he would see him barefoot before he sent him another farthing, and the King of Santadorra's prediction might soon come to pass.

Wellington responded to Nick's declarations by sidling closer, lifting one leg, and relieving himself on the scuffed brown leather.

"The devil!” Nick cried.

Wellington shot off down the gravel path, and Nick sprinted after him. The dog veered around a statue of Diana, skirted a small fountain, then leaped through a bed of irises. Nick crashed after him, cringing at the destruction his hessians left in their wake, but he was determined to corner the blasted pug at any cost. Wellington reached the rear wall and skidded to a halt.

"You're trapped now, you overbred cur.” Nick stooped to grab the dog, intent on retribution. At that precise moment, the door in the garden wall swung open, and with a thwack, the weathered wood knocked the Crown Prince of Santadorra unconscious.

"AHH.” NICK winced at the light touch of a hand at his temple, and his stomach lurched. Stars danced behind his closed lids.

A female voice, light and airy, penetrated the haze of pain enveloping his head. "Drat! I've murdered a gardener.”

Nick wanted to object that he was in too much pain to be dead. The owner of the breathless voice, whoever she was, ran soft fingers through his hair—soft, that is, until they brushed the spot where his skull felt as if it might explode.

"Ow!” His eyes flew open. His vision was still a bit fuzzy, but his sight was clear enough to register the blue-eyed, blond goddess biting her lip and looking at him as if he were in need of last rites.

"Who the devil are you?”

The goddess bristled. "I might ask you the same thing, although I suppose you were hired by Lady Belmont to replace young Whitley, who ran off to sea. What an idiotic notion, putting your head in the way of the door. I could have killed you.”

Nick groaned. Self-righteous and dangerous. A complication he didn't need, even if the package included skin like Devonshire cream and pink, bowed lips. Wellington barked in agreement with the chit's scolding, and Nick winced. "Pipe down, both of you. My head feels as if it's been run over by a carriage wheel.”

"And well it should, if you intend to go about colliding it with doors.”

Nick stared at her. "If I intend? Colliding it with doors?” Was she a lunatic?

The girl rose, her limbs tensed for flight. She was small, a pocket Venus, the very kind of woman who always brought out his damnable protective tendencies. She was looking anywhere but at him, as if he were of less consequence than Wellington.

"Fortunately, you seem to have recovered, and I'm expected home. Good day.”

"Whoa!” He grabbed the much-turned hem of her skirt as she passed. Did she think he would let her trespass so blithely? "One moment, princess.” Princess? What bit of madness had made him utter that endearment, even in mockery? He cleared his throat. "You may leave the same way you entered.” He nodded toward the garden door, expecting the movement to bring sharp pain, but thankfully there was only a dull throb.

The girl hesitated, and then she glanced toward the door through which she'd come. Nick's eyes followed her movement. His sight was still a trifle bleary but not blind.

"Is someone following you?”

She jumped. "Following me? Certainly not.”

Nick lumbered to his feet, and to his surprise, the girl grasped his arm to steady him. The warmth of her touch penetrated the rough sleeve of his gardener's smock. He gained his balance, and she dropped her hold as if his arm was on fire. Their eyes locked, and Nick felt the ground shift beneath his feet. Surely not. Surely it was only his injured head, woozy from the door's attack. This girl was anathema to him—beautiful and obviously in some sort of danger. The Almighty had seen his vow to Wellington as a challenge and had responded immediately by sending the ultimate temptation.

Nick, though, would not be so easily undone. He had sworn an oath, even if it was only to the most irritating dog in Christendom, and by Jove, he intended to keep his word.

And yet the part of him that defied his best intentions made the damning questions tumble from his lips. "Have you run away from your employer? See here, if you're in trouble, I can—” He stopped abruptly. "No,” he heard himself mutter, as if watching the too-familiar scene from a distance. "No. Not—”

Before he could finish the thought, the garden door swung open, and a pair of burly ruffians stepped through the portal.

Wellington erupted into a frenzy of barking and made a dive for the boots of the closest intruder. The stocky man gave Wellington a kick that sent the pug flying. The girl cried out and started toward the dog, but Nick grabbed her arm and thrust her behind him. With his other hand, he reached for a scythe propped against the wall. He cursed his own stupidity, for he should have expected this from the moment he'd noticed her eyeing the door.

"Aw, look, ‘Ector.” The first man smirked, revealing a great quantity of rotten teeth. "She's gone and found ‘erself a protector.”

Nick's shoulders tightened in anticipation of battle. Two against one, and the one's head still felt as if it had connected with a cricket bat. Behind him, he could feel the tension thrumming through the girl as surely as he could feel his own pulse. The second man, larger than the first but somehow less menacing, cast an uncomfortable glance around the garden as he shifted from one foot to the other.

"Get on with it, Tully.” Despite his size, the brute ducked his head timidly. "Somebody might ‘appen along.”

Nick tightened his fingers around the handle of the scythe. "Whoever you are, you are trespassing on Lady Belmont's property. I suggest you leave.” His voice sounded firm even as he trembled with the effort of holding the unwieldy scythe as he would a rapier.

"All right, all right.” The stocky man turned toward the door. "C'mon, ‘Ector. ‘E's too much for the likes of us.” Suddenly, though, the ruffian whirled about and lurched forward, making a grab for the scythe.

Nick feinted and parried with his awkward weapon, thrusting the blade beneath his attacker's nose. Behind him, the girl gasped, for he had stopped just short of cutting the man. His attacker grunted in surprise and stepped back.

"‘Ow'd you learn to fight like a nob?” The ruffian wiped his nose on his filthy sleeve. "C'mon. Put up yer fives, and fight me fair, man to man.”

Nick looked down at the scythe's handle and groaned. A crack ran the length of it. Well, at least his luck was consistent. He tossed the scythe to the ground and squared his shoulders. "Man to man it is, then.”

Behind him, the girl bit back a cry of exasperation. The second ruffian sank down onto a nearby bench. "I'll just rest meself ‘ere a bit, Tully, until you're done with poundin' ‘im to a bloody pulp.”

The first thug shot his fellow blackguard a disparaging glance. "Demme, ‘Ector, you'd still be hanging at your mother's teat if she'd let ye. If you've not the stomach for a fight, make yerself useful and fetch a rope to tie her. This bloke won't take long to bash.”

"Aye, Tully. ‘Tis just what I'll do.” The squeamish giant looked delighted at the opportunity to escape from the garden, and in a moment, he was gone. Nick breathed a sigh of relief. The ruffian's arrogance had at least evened the odds.

The girl stepped forward and bent to retrieve the scythe, but Nick caught her arm. "No.” Despite his years away from the palace, the word held the imperial authority of a monarch's command. The girl flushed with fury.

She shook off his grip. "There's no need to play the hero.”

Her words caught him like an uppercut. She looked magnificent in her righteous indignation, despite her obviously laughable belief that she could fend for herself. "Princess,” he drawled, "where have you been all my life?”

Princess? Princess? If any of the matchmaking mamas that haunted London's beau monde ever heard him murmur that endearment to their daughters, he'd be wed within a week. Nick's stomach sank.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a sudden flash of movement. The ruffian had retrieved the scythe and now raised it above his head like an ax.

"Watch out!” the girl cried, and then she shoved Nick backward into the thug. The contact threw his attacker off balance, and they fell into a heap on the path. Nick felt the air rush from his chest with one quick whoosh. The scythe flew through the air and landed at the girl's feet, the blade mere inches from the tips of her half boots. Nick, truly afraid for the first time since the men had entered the garden, fought to regain his breath. The first thug, who lay beneath him, roared and shoved Nick aside as he came upright. The fiend spied the scythe at the girl's feet and lunged forward.

Just in time, the girl reached down and snatched the handle. The scythe wavered precariously in her grasp, but her expression showed not the slightest tremor. Breathless, Nick could only watch—fascinated, intrigued, furious—as she attempted to brandish the weapon.

"Well, wot ‘ave we ‘ere?” Blood trickled from the corner of the ruffian's nose, and his smile was truly evil. "‘Tis me lucky day. I like ‘em young and blond as a guinea.” He turned and spat, and Nick could have sworn he saw a tooth go sailing through the air. The girl shuddered at the vile words, but she held her ground.

Nick had dreamed such scenes before, in the haunting combination of memory and nightmare that stalked his sleep. Only this time he would not awaken to find himself in his own bed, the linens twisted and soaked with sweat.

"Back!” She waved the scythe as menacingly as she could, but Nick could see that her arms were tiring quickly.

"More like ‘on yer back,'” the man smirked. "‘Tis where you'll soon be, you—”

Nick sucked in a deep lungful of air and rolled to his feet. Glancing about, he spied a small stone urn on the potting bench along the wall. He grabbed the vessel and raised it above the ruffian's head. The thug, unaware of Nick's recovery, continued to advance on the girl. With all the force he could muster, Nick brought the urn down on the man's crown with a resounding blow. A second thud followed the first as the ruffian dropped to the ground.

The girl stood immobile, stunned by the violence and more than a little bit green beneath that creamy complexion. Nick looked down. At his feet, the thug lay in a crumpled heap, blood oozing from his crown. This skirmish was over, but how long until the other villain returned with a rope—or reinforcements?

Nick knew the best antidote for the shock of battle was practical action. "He'll come round before long. We should toss him out.”

The girl exhaled and then squared her shoulders, and Nick knew, from that one small movement, that she was tenacity to the backbone. She looked up, capturing him again in those clear blue eyes before she turned her attention back to the man at their feet. "Can we manage? He looks heavy.”

"He's not likely to grow any lighter.” Nick leaned down and grasped the thug under the arms. Without waiting for instructions, the girl took hold of his ankles.

"One, two, three.” In unison, they inched the man's dead weight across the path and to the door. With a grunt of satisfaction, Nick shoved the man's torso across the threshold and then set his hands on the girl's shoulders to slide her aside. The brief sensation of her flesh beneath his palms sent a flash of heat through him. Nick dropped his grip on her shoulders, grasped the man's legs, and swung them out the narrow portal. With a final shove, he rolled the thug onto the cobblestones and shut the door. The girl threw home the bolt and dropped the crossbar like a chatelaine preparing for siege.

Nick took a long look at his undoing and could only suppress a groan. Curse it, why couldn't she have been plain and wan? "Care to tell me why those two ruffians had you so firmly in their sights?”

The girl feigned innocence. "I have no idea why those men followed me,” she protested, and Nick had to allow that she was a credible actress, just not enough to fool him. Again, she squared her shoulders—those shoulders that had felt so right beneath his hands. "Men see a female servant alone and take a great many notions. Thievery. Or rapine.” She shuddered at the thought, and Nick did as well. He was all too aware of the vulnerability of a woman alone.

"Indeed,” was all he said.

She knotted her fingers in her skirt and shifted from one foot to the other. "I do thank you, sir, for your assistance and will trouble you no further.” She bobbed a curtsy, and her eyes darted toward the other door in the garden's eastern wall.

"Trouble?” He was irritated, intrigued, and foolishly reluctant to let the hoyden leave. "Pray tell, princess, what makes you think you've been any trouble?”

She flushed a becoming shade of pink, and Nick's body responded with alacrity to her beguiling combination of brazenness and embarrassment. She spread her hands in front of her in a gesture of apology.

"See here, I'm dreadfully sorry about your head, but how was I to know you were waiting just this side of the door? And I'm sorry for the thugs, too, but it's not as if I asked them to follow me. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be on my way, and we can forget this small incident.”

"Small incident?” Nick eyed her in disbelief. "I am struck unconscious, the most repulsive villain ever dredged up from the Thames attacks us, and it's a small incident? Remind me, my sweet, not to be present when you become ensnared in anything large.”

The girl bit her lip, her features white, and Nick cursed himself for a cad. While she obviously prided herself on her independence, she clearly wasn't accustomed to street brawls. An apology formed on his lips, but before he could utter a word, the girl burst into tears.

Blast and damn! Instinctively, Nick grabbed her and pressed her against his chest. With an awkward, hesitant motion, he stroked her hair, for he was far more used to fighting on behalf of fair maidens than comforting them. "C'mon, now, don't cry, princess. I abhor when women cry.”

For one long moment, she clung to him as if he were the only thing afloat in a stormy sea. Her need was a siren's call. Every inch of her pressed against him, and Nick fought the urge to turn his head and seek out her lips with his. The fierceness of the desire scared him more than the scythe-swinging ruffian. Rescue but don't respond, he had always pledged to himself. The words had never proved problematic before.

Suddenly, the girl shoved at his chest and stumbled away, leaving his arms empty and a strange, unsettled feeling in his midsection.

"I do not cry.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, her appearance at odds with her defiant words. "It is merely some dust in my eyes.”

He didn't argue further; he couldn't really, because his mind wouldn't form the proper sentences. Instead, he produced a handkerchief from his pocket and extended it to her. She frowned and then took it, careful not to let their fingers touch. Without a thought for feminine delicacy, she blew her nose with a resounding honk. She flushed when she realized what she'd done, looked about in embarrassed indecision, and finally shoved the handkerchief into the pocket of her worn dress.

Nick refused to be enchanted. If he wanted the truth about what she was up to, it was time to collect himself and take advantage of her flustered state.

"Do you really expect me to believe that you've no idea why those men were following you?” He stepped forward, and she instinctively stepped back. He didn't think he truly scared her, but if she was intimidated, he was not beyond pressing his advantage. "I'm afraid, princess, you give yourself away rather easily. You didn't appear surprised to see those thugs. No more dissembling. What intrigue are you involved in? Thievery? Smuggling?”

"Neither,” she protested. He continued to advance, and she fell back, step by step.


"Please don't call me that.” Her fingers twisted her skirt into knots.

"Why? Is it not every young girl's dream to be a princess?” She continued to retreat until her back met the stone wall. He had her cornered.

"Dreams of being a princess?” She laughed derisively. "Not for those of us belowstairs.”

"Belowstairs,” he murmured, and his eyes searched hers. Her speech was far too refined for a lower servant. "I would have thought you a chambermaid at least.” With a quick movement, he caught her hands from her skirts and examined them. Her palms were red and chapped, the knuckles scraped raw.

"You're rather a puzzle, aren't you?” He dropped her hands, leaned closer, and planted his own hands against the wall on either side of her head. Her breath was coming in tiny gasps, and she seemed as intensely aware of him as he was of her. Nick knew he should stop. He should let her go before he became any more involved than he already was. How many minutes had it been since he'd sworn off heroism? Ten? Twenty? But who would have expected temptation to be as entirely delectable and confounding as this mysterious girl?

"I'm no cipher,” she protested, but Nick wasn't paying attention to her words. He was leaning closer, drawn by the irresistible lure of a damsel in distress.

"The devil you're not,” he murmured as his lips moved toward her ear. He felt her breath on his cheek, and that soft caress weakened his knees far more than the blow to his head. "And unless I miss my guess, you're involved in some sort of hum all the way up to your delicate little neck.” His lips paused a mere inch from the neck in question.



In a flash of movement, the girl ducked beneath his arm and dashed across the gravel path. Nick cursed and turned his head to watch her, his hands clinging to the wall for support—and for the strength not to follow her. He watched as she found the pug beneath the small white blooms of the Solomon's seal, its little body motionless. She laid one tender hand on the dog's side, but the pug showed no signs of distress. Instead, he snorted in his sleep and twitched his hind leg.

"With any luck, he's frolicking in a heavenly meadow, but I suspect you couldn't kill him with an ax.”

She raised her chin in defiance. "Wellington is well, thank you very much for your concern.” She stroked the pug's round belly. "At least he tried to protect me.”

"That mongrel? Protect you?” Nick snorted. "And what do you call what I did?”

The girl's spine stiffened, straight as a poker. "Your actions were foolish. And unnecessary. Even the rawest recruit knows never to throw down a weapon. Honestly, I'd have been better off—”


The girl jumped as if she'd been slapped. Anger and frustration tightened his stomach like a vise. Nick was glad he'd not moved from the wall. His fingers curled in the ivy. He had to untangle himself from the girl, and he had to do it now, before it was too late. She was not his responsibility. She was not his mother. Or his sister.

"You don't have to stand like that. I'm not your prisoner anymore.” She glared with the defiance of the young and naïve.

"Princess, I'm holding on to this wall so that my hands don't decide to wrap themselves around your neck, which they are itching like the devil to do.”

"Oh.” She paled, which salvaged his pride a bit.

"Go.” He barked the word like a commanding officer. He needed her to leave. She was too vulnerable, too beautiful, too tempting. Saving this girl would never change the past.

"But—” She hesitated, and he realized with a shock that felt like a blow to his solar plexus, that she did not want to leave him either. Anger mingled with attraction in her eyes, and Nick swallowed an oath. Whatever sparked between them, the girl felt it as well.

Nick clung harder to the ivy. "Go! Or I'll not be responsible for the consequences.”

The girl stood unmoving for a long moment. Nick felt his knees sag, and he swayed toward her. His fingers flexed and then renewed their grip. Hang on, old boy. Hang on.

Finally, with a small sigh, she took a step backward. "Yes, of course. You're right. I should go.” She paused and bit her lip, which only drew Nick's attention to its fullness and delightful rosy hue. "Good-bye.”

His eyes met hers, and their gazes locked. A connection, almost a bond, arched between them, and the feeling shook Nick to the core. The girl turned and fled. Nick watched her go, not sure whether the tightness in his throat was evidence of relief or regret.

LORD CRISPIN Wellstone watched the entire scene from behind the shelter of the drawing room draperies and cursed his friend for a lucky dog. Nick never had difficulty finding female companions, and this one looked a fit match for the arrogant prince. As the girl ducked through the gate that separated his grandmother's garden from that of Nottingham House, the sun caught her golden hair. Crispin started, and the curtain almost slipped from his fingers. He had been mistaken. The chit was not a maidservant at all, but the seldom-seen Lady Lucinda Charming, daughter of the late Duke of Nottingham and stepdaughter to the aging schemer next door who styled herself the duchess.

Lucy Charming. Hmm. Crispin rubbed his chin and looked toward Nicholas St. Germain, Crown Prince of Santadorra, who was softly pounding his head against the garden wall.

Or might it be... Princess Charming? He smiled at the delicious irony. Just as Nick always played the hero, Crispin could never resist acting as matchmaker. He dropped the curtain and rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation. Any addlepated fool could see that Nick and Lucy Charming were a match made in heaven—or at least in his grandmother's garden. Now they only needed to realize it.

And perhaps a bit of help from Crispin.

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