The Prince Who Loved Me (The Oxenburg Princes)

by Karen Hawkins

  And with that kiss, her soul was set free. . . .

  —The Black Duke by Miss Mary Edgeworth

  Bronwyn couldn’t move, aware only of the firmness of the huntsman’s lips upon hers and the way her heart thudded as if in welcome.

  He slid his hand from her cheek to her neck and then tugged her forward until her chest pressed to his. Her book dropped from her nerveless fingers as she grasped his coat to steady herself.

  His mouth moved over hers, nipping softly, teasing, sending wave after wave of heated shivers through her. Her knees quivered and began to fold, but his arm slid around her waist.

  Without breaking the kiss, he lifted her to him, his body large and firm against her curves.

  No man had ever held her in such an intimate way; it was shocking—and surprisingly exciting. She slipped her arms about his neck, and he slid his tongue over her bottom lip.

  Her lips parted in surprise and instantly, his warm tongue slipped between them and stroked the tip of her tongue. A jolt of pure heat rippled through her, her nipples tightening in wanton reaction. She gasped and pulled back.

  With a reluctant sigh, he set her back on her feet. “I would like to kiss you more, little Roza, but I do not wish to overwhelm you.” His eyes twinkled devilishly. “Not yet, anyway.”

  She stared up at him, her fingers pressed to the corner of her swollen mouth. Her heart seemed unable to stop skipping in pure excitement, while her skin prickled with a deliciously heated yearning—a yearning for more kisses, more caresses, more everything. For one splendid moment, she’d lived a page from one of her beloved books, and she wanted more.

  He brushed his thumb over her mouth, sending new sensation rippling through her. “You see? ‘Chaste’ and ‘passion’ do not belong in the same sentence. And a woman with such tempting, plump lips must know the difference.”

  So true. A real kiss was far more thrilling than the book’s weak description.

  She suddenly realized that she was still gripping Alexsey’s coat with one hand and staring up at him in speechless wonder. I must look as silly as Lucinda. Flushing, she forced her clenched fingers to release his coat and, stiffening her weakened knees, she stepped back. “That—that was interesting.” Her voice, quavery and husky, sounded as shaken as she felt.

  Alexsey had been celebrating the unexpectedly passionate kiss, but at this, he lost his smile. Naturally he didn’t expect accolades, for it had been brief and gentle, but to call such a wondrous kiss merely “interesting”? “I do not accept that.”

  The girl blinked up at him, her spectacles making her brown eyes seem even larger, looking every bit the lush flower he’d named her. “Accept what?”

  “ ‘Interesting’ is what you call porridge when you do not wish to insult the maker.”

  Her lips quirked, amusement warming her expression, and his outrage softened. There was something fascinating about her, something that had caught him when she’d curtly demanded to know who he was. No one, especially women, spoke to him in such a way, and he found her a welcome diversion after what had begun as a rather boring day.

  He liked women. All women. And this one seemed more interesting than usual. She was small and round, like a flower in full bloom, with thick, shiny brown tresses, her skin dusted with dainty freckles, her moods flashing through her eyes and tripping off her tongue.

  But her strongest and most sensual feature was her mouth, so plump and ripe for kisses.

  Oh, how he’d loved kissing that mouth.

  Very little—and very few women—had the power to intrigue him, but somehow, with just one kiss, this bespectacled little maid had managed to do just that.

  He took her hand and uncurled her fingers, smoothing his thumb over the ink stains. Wherever she works, she obviously keeps the accounts. They must trust her. He smiled. “Ah, Roza, I know one thing and one thing only—that our lips were made for one another.”

  Her gaze flickered to his mouth, and then—her color high—she tugged her hand free. “No.”

  Alexsey’s smile slipped. “No?”

  “It was just a kiss—nothing more.”

  Her no-nonsense tone made him want to kiss the sensible thoughts right out of her head. She was so appealing in her grass-stained gown and bare toes. A flower hung from her hair, which was half fallen from its binding and hung about her face. Fresh-faced and stubbornly independent, she was a welcome change from his last mistress, an overly perfumed and powdered Italian opera singer who delighted in expensive presents and unending drama. No tight-laced woman of quality would be caught dead reading a novel on the forest floor, surrounded by dogs the size of horses, either. Despite her respectable air, this maid had returned his kiss with the wild passion of a Romany, clinging to him with both hands, her eagerness stirring his passion more than any skilled seductress.

  He traced a finger down her cheek. “Do you often come to this place to read?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Such caution. You didn’t display any when you were kissing me. “And to kiss strangers?” he teased, unable to resist.

  Her plump lips thinned. “Mr. Romanovin, as you must know by now, I don’t normally kiss strangers, or anyone else. It’s not proper.”

  “We are far beyond proper, little Roza. And call me Alexsey.”

  Delicious color again flooded her face, but she didn’t relent. “It’s better if I call you Mr. Romanovin.”

  Her voice lilted in an intriguing way, lifting his name and softening the ending. Alexsey liked a Scottish accent very well indeed. “You are very formal for someone not wearing any shoes.”

  She adjusted her skirt so that her toes were hidden from view. “I didn’t expect to meet anyone here.”

  “Nor did I. In fact, I came for some peace and quiet. They are readying Tulloch Castle for the arrival of Sir Henry and his guests, and it is very noisy.”

  Her gaze jerked to his. “Sir Henry is returning? With his nephews?”

  “Sir Henry and one nephew, aye.”

  “And more?”

  “I believe he brings twenty to thirty additional guests. Many rooms are being prepared.”

  “That’s odd; Mrs. Durnoch didn’t mention it when I spoke to her a week ago.”

  “Who?”

  “The housekeeper at Tulloch.”

  “Perhaps she did not know. This gathering, it is not long in the planning, I think.”

  “Ah. That would explain it. I’m—” Her gaze flickered over him, and then away. “It’s getting late; I should return home.”

  “Nonsense. It is early still.” He leaned a shoulder against the tree and crossed his arms over his chest. He wasn’t ready to leave this ink-stained charmer of dogs. “Besides, we have much to talk about. Such as whether we should attempt another kiss.”

  “That would be a very bad idea. No one has introduced us—I don’t even know you.”

  He spread his hands wide. “I am here, ready to become known. All you have to do is stay.”

  Bronwyn bit her lip. He made it sound so easy. All she had to do was stay, and this magical moment, in which a handsome man found her too fascinating to maintain a sense of propriety, would last.

  But she’d already allowed him to kiss her. What other liberties might she be cajoled into permitting? The thought both thrilled and terrified her.

  He pushed away from the tree. “Are you not even a little curious whether a kiss would be as good the second time? Perhaps the first was an aberration, an odd happenstance.”

  She fought a smile at his hopeful expression. “Curiosity killed the cat.”

  “You are no cat. You are a thinking woman. I can see it in your eyes.” His smile turned devilish. “Now, if you’ll just think about our kiss, and how we should try again . . .”

  Och, how she longed to, but her good sense clamored against it. Reluctantly, she stepped away to retrieve her book from the grass. “The kiss was lovely. You were quite . . . skilled.”

  His eyes glinted warmly. “So I’ve been told,
many times.”

  Wait. Many times? Did he just walk about looking for women, then ply them with charm until they agreed to kiss him? Was that the sort of man he was? Of course it was, her good sense whispered. That’s reality versus Roland. Aware of a deep and bitter flicker of disappointment, she shoved the book under her arm, then collected her shoes. “Good day. I have chores to do.”

  Alexsey’s smile faded. “Don’t go. You cannot—”

  “Come, Scott, Walter.” She stuffed her shoes in her pocket and headed toward a path on the other side of the clearing, walking as fast as she dared. “Good-bye,” she called over her shoulder.

  Frowning, Alexsey watched as she disappeared into the woods, her dogs following after.

  Papillon whined and looked up at Alexsey. “I am disappointed, too.” He wondered if he should follow her. Women didn’t usually dash away after he’d expressed an interest in their company. In fact, most of them threw themselves at his head in a rather annoying fashion. But not Roza.

  Of course, she didn’t know he was a prince, a fact he’d purposely avoided mentioning, since he hadn’t wished to turn her head in his direction using anything other than kisses. But now . . . perhaps he should have mentioned it. Would it have helped his cause?

  Somehow, he doubted it.

  He stifled an impatient sigh and made his way to where his horse was tied beside the path, wishing he’d spent less time talking and more time kissing that tempting mouth. Such lovely, full hips and breasts—he could still feel them pressed against him. Everything about her was lush and rich and made him think of satisfied, heated nights beside a roaring fire.

  She might well be the perfect woman for a few weeks’ tryst—passionate, promising, amusing, and unfettered by the societal rules of a woman of noble breeding. Plus, she wouldn’t tempt his Tata Natasha into a tizzy of hope for matrimony.

  For such were Tata’s ways. His grandmother, the Grand Duchess Natasha Nikolaevna, might think he was unaware of her reason for wishing him to accompany her to Scotland to attend Sir Henry Davidson’s out-of-the-way house party, but Alexsey knew all too well. Though she might think otherwise, he wasn’t about to let her dictate his selection of a wife.

  This is your fault, Wulf, Alexsey informed his absent younger brother. Last year, Father had convinced Tata Natasha to escort Prince Wulfinski to Scotland, where, against his grandmother’s wishes, Wulf had met and married the woman of his dreams. Though Tata Natasha had vehemently opposed the match in the beginning, that didn’t stop her from taking credit for it—especially once the entire family fell in love with Wulf’s new bride, Lily.

  Sadly for Alexsey and his other two bachelor brothers, that unexpected success had gone to Tata’s head. And now her sights were set on them.

  Alexsey mounted the horse and then turned it onto the path leading to the moors, Papillon trotting behind. He would eventually have to marry, of course. Even though his parents had blessed Oxenburg with four healthy princes, they were all expected to secure the family line with legitimate heirs. But he saw no need to rush things, especially when there were so many lovely and eager women to enjoy.

  Besides, he had things to accomplish, things that were growing increasingly urgent. His mother’s people, the Romany, needed him. At one time, Tata Natasha’s husband—Dyet Nikki—had been the savyet lidir, his position noted by a heavy gold kaltso, a large ruby ring he’d worn on his left hand that sparkled whenever he moved his hand. As the savyet lidir, he’d overseen the council that ruled the Romany; decided their route for the summer months; served as the spokesman for the people during troubles; officiated over weddings, funerals, and trials; and a dozen other important duties. He’d been king, counselor, priest, and father to his people, and under him the Romany had prospered.

  Alexsey had idolized his grandfather and had been closer to the old man than any of his brothers. As Alexsey spent time with his grandparents, sharing their colorful caravan with the Romany, he grew to love the people. Everyone assumed that he would follow in his grandfather’s large footsteps and one day wear the kaltso, but when he was only twelve, an unfortunate hunting accident had taken his grandfather away, and the kaltso was left in older, more experienced hands.

  Alexsey looked down at his bare hand, impatience curling his fingers into a fist. When I return to Oxenburg, I will address this, for the time has come. But I can do nothing now. He uncurled his fingers and stretched them, though his chest remained tight. I need a distraction. I shall find this maid whose kisses are like fire, and we will enjoy more time together. Someone at the castle will know her and I will find her through them. That should make the weeks pass quickly.

  With a satisfied nod, Alexsey lifted his face to the fall sun. All he had to do was avoid Tata Natasha’s scheme to throw every eligible well-born maiden in Scotland into his path. Though he was immune to her efforts, her determination could be annoying. Fortunately, he had much that would keep him from the castle.

  Papillon’s oddly muffled grrrr drew his attention, and Alexsey looked down to see the dog trotting beside his horse, a slipper in her mouth.

  Remembering the girl’s bare feet, Alexsey pulled his horse to a halt and swung down. “So she dropped one of her shoes, did she?”

  He took the slipper from Papillon, noting that it was well worn but of good quality, perhaps passed on by a generous mistress. The toes were scuffed and the heel worn down, but it showed perfectly the outline of the wearer’s foot. Each of her toes had made a pocket in the thin leather, and he could almost trace her foot. “Perhaps I shall order her a new pair of shoes. That would be generous and might make an impression. What do you think, Papillon?”

  Papillon sat on her haunches and cocked her head to one side.

  “Da,” he agreed reluctantly. “It is probably too much. She might feel she owes me something, which is not what I want.”

  As he went to tuck the shoe into his pocket, something fell from the toe—a small roll of paper that had been pressed into the front to make it fit better. “So even this little shoe is too large. Roza has a dainty foot, nyet?”

  Papillon yawned.

  Alexsey laughed and untangled the wad of paper. It was a piece of a letter written to a firm in London; something about a patent. Intriguing. This must be her handwriting, for it is like her—slanted against the normal way of doing things. He folded the paper into a neat square and tucked it and the shoe into his pocket. “I will find her again and then, there will be more kisses.”

  Whistling a merry tune, he returned to his horse, Papillon bounding behind him.

  Lucinda had no family, no gentle mother to teach her the ways of a woman, no strong father to protect her from the wiles of men. She was utterly and completely alone. More alone than any woman, man, or child should be.

  —The Black Duke by Miss Mary Edgeworth

  Something hit the side of Bronwyn’s book and then fell into her lap.

  She moved her book and looked down. Someone had thrown a roll.

  Faking a scowl, Bronwyn peered over the rim of her spectacles to find Sorcha and Mairi across the breakfast table, the picture of innocence. One of them was reading, while the other poured herself more tea.

  The decidedly virtuous looks on her stepsisters’ faces would have aroused her suspicion on the best of days.

  Bronwyn marked her place with a playing card and closed her book. “I suppose you two hoydens think that was funny.”

  Mairi giggled and then tried to turn it into a cough, but failed miserably.

  Sorcha gave her sister a half-exasperated look.

  Bronwyn had to grin. “I thought as much.”

  Mairi hurried to say, “It wasn’t me! Sorcha did it.”

  “Tattletale!” Sorcha couldn’t contain a gleam of humor.

  “Well, you did.” Mairi chuckled. “And it hit perfectly, right on the corner and then bop, straight into your lap!”

  Bronwyn smiled. She loved them dearly. They were both lovely, with blond hair, blue eyes, and graceful
figures. They were also the perfect height to wear the current fashions with ease. All things she was not.

  Still, they shared the important things. She smiled as her gaze fell on Sorcha’s novel. Mairi had just finished the book the day before and had handed it to Sorcha on entering the room. Despite their mama’s best efforts, they were both enthusiastic readers.

  Bronwyn could still remember the day they’d arrived and how agonizingly nervous she’d been to meet her new mama and sisters. Papa had courted Lady Malvinea for only a few weeks before marrying the younger widow and bringing her and her daughters to Ackinnoull.

  Bronwyn shouldn’t have been surprised; she’d known her father had been lonely in the years following her mother’s death. Still, during that time they’d settled into a comfortable pattern. She’d had free rein to run the house and to live as she wished, providing Papa wasn’t disrupted from working on his inventions. Her life had given her plenty of time for her books and dogs and roaming the vast woods that surrounded Ackinnoull, and she’d been happy.

  All had been well until a new vicar and his wife had arrived. The vicar’s wife hadn’t been happy with Bronwyn’s unmarried state and lone forays into the countryside. Her disapproval had turned into true dislike when Bronwyn had ignored the woman’s cow-handed attempt at matchmaking Bronwyn with that lady’s lack-witted brother. After that, the vicar’s wife had made it her business to criticize Bronwyn every chance she got.

  Bronwyn ignored the woman’s venomous comments, but Papa wasn’t so immune. The day after her sixteenth birthday, Bronwyn had returned from a long walk to find the vicar and his wife leaving Ackinnoull. Papa wouldn’t say why they’d come, but the effects had been immediate.

  After that day, Papa had seemed to see her differently, asking her silly questions: if she didn’t want to wear prettier gowns, if she missed attending assemblies and balls, and, strangest of all, if she ever thought of marrying. She hadn’t, for there were no eligible men about, and she was far too busy assisting Papa and reading every book she could find. Yet somehow, saying so hadn’t calmed whatever fears her father now had.