He’d liked that she was innocent and exotic at the same time, curved and welcoming. A man could sink into bed with such a woman and not rise for a week. He suspected she possessed the same innate natural passion as the Romany. Perhaps it was that which had drawn him to the beauty in the woods?
“I cannot believe it.” Strathmoor stood before Alexsey, a glass in each hand. “All these beauties parading by, and you’re making no effort to speak to a one. Are you ill, brother?”
Alexsey gladly accepted the proffered glass from his friend. Small and quick like a sparrow, Strath made up for his lack of height with his humorous outlook and generous spirit. Alexsey took a sip of the drink he’d been handed. “What ambrosia is this?”
“Good Scottish whiskey—a rich peaty one that you’ll like. It’s better than the sweet stuff my uncle favors.” Strath shuddered. “Pale and weak. I’d rather drink water.”
Alexsey took another drink. “Excellent.” Strath was a fine fellow. They had come to know one another when the viscount had visited the Italian court during his Grand Tour while Alexsey was the emissary from Oxenburg. The position was a lightweight training mission, and with no real duties he’d been bored out of his mind until Strath, with his ready laugh and his thirst for adventure, had arrived.
Strath and Alexsey had spent three glorious months drinking and carousing, enjoying the lazy Italian sun and beautiful women. Since then, they’d maintained a sporadic correspondence and visited one another every year or so.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Alexsey said, taking an appreciative sip.
“You should be. I came only because my uncle mentioned a few weeks ago that you and your grandmother were joining him here. The second I found out, I closed up my town house, packed my bags, and voilà, here I am.”
“I assume you were alone in that town house, or nothing could have pried you away.”
Strath sighed woefully. “It’s true I am between mistresses.”
“As am I.” Alexsey swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “This whiskey is excellent; I need some of this for my private stock. Is that possible?”
“Of course. Tell me how much you want, and I’ll have it delivered before you leave.”
“You are a good friend.”
Strath lifted his glass. “As are you. I hope you didn’t mind my assumption that you needed a drink, but I saw you talking to your grandmother, and you looked as if you’d like to throttle her.”
“Indeed. She is determined that I wed—and soon.”
“But now you have escaped and you are here, a drink in your hand, surrounded by a bevy of lovelies and no wedding in sight. I call that perfection.”
Alexsey shrugged.
Strath sighed. “Let me guess: you are still pining for your forest maiden.”
“I’m not pining, but I’ve yet to see any woman who would match her.” He sent a sour look at Strath. “I’d hoped you might know some of the local households who might possess such a maid, but you were next to useless.”
“I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been this far north. We should have asked my uncle for his help in identifying your mysterious beauty. Uncle Henry was quite the rakehell in his day and I’m sure he would have understood your impatience to find her.”
“Of course he was a rakehell; he wouldn’t know my grandmother, otherwise.” Alexsey looked over his glass to where Sir Henry was now talking to Tata Natasha. Plotting, more like. Sir Henry was tall, with broad shoulders and a head of distinguished white hair. He carried a bit of a paunch from years of good living, but it was easy to see that at one time, he must have been an impressive specimen.
There was something about the way the man looked at Tata Natasha, almost as if . . . Hmmm. “I believe there’s a history between my grandmother and your uncle.”
Strath’s gaze followed Alexsey’s. “It’s possible; they are close in age.”
“I doubt Tata Natasha cares for age. Over the years, she’s become far more concerned with pedigree.”
“Yet she was once a Gypsy, true?”
“She still is. And, as she’s quick to point out, she is the queen of the Gypsies. If you ever wish to see Tata Natasha angry—and you don’t—then suggest otherwise.”
A lady danced by, peeking over her partner’s shoulder at them. Strath wagged his eyebrows at her. She was a rather faded-looking woman with pale skin and watery blue eyes, her red hair the only colorful thing about her. “That’s Miss MacGregor,” Strath confided in a low voice. “The things she can do with that mouth . . . Lovely! I would dance with her, but I fear she might fall desperately in love with me. Women meet me and instantly offer their hearts. It’s a burden I bear.”
“How difficult for you,” Alexsey said drily. “I prefer it when there are no hearts involved, only willing bodies.”
Strath chuckled. “According to what your grandmother has told my uncle, that is the Romany way.”
“My grandmother also thinks her potions can turn princes into frogs.”
Strath’s smile faded. “Frogs? Are you teasing?”
“Sadly, no.” Alexsey swirled the remaining scotch in his glass. “Your Miss MacGregor has left her partner and is now trying to make her way through the crowd toward us.”
Strath brightened as he put down his glass and smoothed his coat. “Is she, indeed? I must answer the call, then. If you’ll excuse me?”
“Of course. After I finish tasting your whiskey, I believe I will retire to my room.”
Strath blinked. “But . . . you’re the guest of honor! My uncle will not be happy if you retire too soon.”
Alexsey hid a grimace. There were times when being a prince was onerous. The second people knew it, they instantly assumed certain things. If they were parents of an eligible maiden, they assumed he possessed a wealth that few princes could. If they happened to be eligible young women, they assumed a romantic bent to his character usually involving white horses and flowing red capes, neither of which he possessed. And if they were hosts or hostesses, they believed he not only enjoyed being their guest of honor, but would be offended if they did not make him so. “I dislike being a guest of honor.”
“But sadly, you’re a prince, and as a prince . . .” Strath shrugged.
“I will stay until midnight but no more. I was up with the birds this morning. I visited the place I met my maid, thinking perhaps she would be there at an earlier hour.”
“I take it she was not. She seems oddly determined not to be found. As much as it may hurt you to hear this, I can’t help but think perhaps you should find someone else to amuse you. But who?” As he spoke, Strath rose on his tiptoes, looking over the crowd to check Miss MacGregor’s progress.
“None of these women interests me.”
“Then you have not looked hard enough. All women are beautiful, you know.” He frowned. “Blast it, Miss MacGregor has been waylaid by Lord Dunn. I shall have to wait for her to break free.”
“She will arrive anon. And I must disagree with your belief that all women are beautiful.” Alexsey looked about the ballroom. “What about her?” He nodded toward a small, rather wispy-looking female with mousy brown hair and a receding chin.
Strath eyed her for a moment, and then said, “Her skin is like cream. She would glow by candlelight. Her figure is lovely, too. Lying down, you’d never notice she’s a bit short. Spread across a coverlet, her hair about her, candlelight caressing her creamy skin—you would not be able to keep your hands to yourself.”
“Hmm.” He inclined his head toward another woman, a rail-thin blonde with an overly large nose. “And her?”
“That hair, unbound, would reach her waist. I’d wager my last groat it’s soft as silk and would brush over your bare skin until you were eager for her touch. And note, too, her mouth. It’s wide, passionate, and as warm as—” Strath sighed. “You can see her beauty now, eh?”
“Indeed. An intriguing way to view the world, my friend.”
“Sadly, I am not a handso
me man. I’m neither tall nor dashing. My title is negligible and I have no fortune to speak of. So how can I expect perfection when I have so little to offer myself?”
“What of the truly beautiful women? The one society deems to be diamonds of the first water?”
“I avoid them like the plague. All they’ll do is use me as a partner for an empty dance, and when the dance is over, ask me to introduce them to my friend, the prince.”
Alexsey cocked an eyebrow. “That has happened?”
“Five times this evening alone. And if you weren’t here, they’d ask for an introduction to Loudoun or Portman. They’re both earls and spend more per month on their hunting horses than I have for all of my expenses for the entire year.”
“Not all beautiful women are as shallow as you think.”
Strath sent him an amused glance. “So they would have you think; I am allowed to view them in their more natural state. Most, if not all, beautiful women are spoiled, and think they deserve the best life has to offer without making any effort to win it. Give me a woman who is grateful for a smile, someone like—” He glanced about the room. “There, by the door. I’m not talking about the goddess in blue; that’s her sister, who is quite vain—you can see it in the way she holds her head. I’m talking about the one in pink who—”
“Wait!” Alexsey started. “That is her!”
Strath stared. “But . . . that’s not a housemaid at all. That’s Miss Bronwyn Murdoch, a member of the local gentry.”
“Nye za shta!” He scowled. That would make a flirtation far more difficult. Still, it was very good he’d finally found her. “Bronwyn.” He rolled the name over his tongue. “That suits her.” He put his glass on a nearby table. “Come. We must go to her.”
“But Miss MacGregor is—” Strath sighed. “Never mind. I’ll find her afterward. First, I must meet this woman. I— Hold, Alexsey. Wait for me, damn you.”
Alexsey didn’t slow down, his gaze locked on Roza.
Strath caught up and followed him through the crowded floor. “I can introduce you; I met the Murdochs in the receiving line.”
“They are a well-to-do family?”
“Not financially, but very much so by birth. Mr. Murdoch’s a rather eccentric inventor. My uncle implied that Miss Murdoch helps her father with his patents.”
Thus the ink-stained fingers and the letter wadded in the toe of the slipper. “And the others?”
“Her stepmother and stepsisters. The stepmother is Lady Malvinea, the daughter of an earl. That’s all I really know of the family. I wish I’d listened more closely when my uncle was telling me about them; you know what a gossip he is.”
It was a pity his Roza was a woman of good family, for it meant she was as trussed up by society as he. Perhaps more. As a prince, his behaviors were indulged. Society, never fair in its treatment of the gentler sex, wouldn’t be so generous regarding the actions of a female of good birth, and even less so regarding those of a female of good birth but no income. That lack of income explained her worn clothing, too. We will have to be very careful, Roza.
As he drew closer, he saw that the gown she wore now, while of better quality than the one she’d worn in the woods, was unfashionable and of a brownish pink color that did little to complement her warm skin and brown hair. “She does not dress as well as her sisters.”
Strath shrugged. “Miss Murdoch is on the shelf and is here tonight as chaperone.”
“What does this mean—on the shelf?”
“She must be—oh, I don’t know, twenty-five or so.” Strath nodded to a man who waved as they passed in the crowd. “She has passed the marriageable stage of life.”
Which made her even more perfect for a passionate affair. Things were looking up. A woman who was no longer considered of marriageable age would be much freer of the strictures of polite society, and less under the watchful eye of a concerned parent than a maiden of tender age. Perhaps her genteel birth will not be such a burden, after all.
Strath continued, “She seemed quite shy when we were introduced. She only said two words, and from what I could see, that’s all she’s said to anyone.”
Because she’s bored. I can see it in her expression. “That is all?”
“Yes. To be honest, I didn’t pay much attention to her. To any of them, really. I like women of more vivacious wit.”
If there was one thing Bronwyn Murdoch possessed, it was vivacious wit. She just didn’t bother to flaunt it at a boring ball. Strathmoor didn’t appreciate Roza because he’d never looked into her eyes when she talked about books, nor heard that funny gurgle she made when she tried to hide a laugh, nor felt the warmth of her lips when kissed. The man didn’t know how her brown eyes sparkled when she smiled, or how her mouth pursed when she was mad, as if she were unconsciously begging for a kiss.
As he drew closer, Alexsey eyed her with renewed relish. Her long brown hair was pinned up, but the unruly tresses were already fighting for their freedom, a few tendrils curling about her delicate neck. The regrettable gown did little for her lush figure. And she was outshone not only because of her dowdy gown, but because she lacked the sparkling jewels of the other women here.
Once she is mine, I will buy her jewels. He imagined her naked and aglow before the flame of a candle, rubies sparkling against her warm skin. She deserves rubies, to reflect the passion I’ve seen in her eyes. Yes. Definitely rubies.
“Oh, it’s the prince!” a woman exclaimed as he and Strath tried to navigate past a final knot of guests.
Like a wind rippling through a field of wheat, word of their approach arrived before they reached their goal. Alexsey saw the instant Bronwyn’s sisters realized who was coming to meet them. They smoothed their blond curls and wafted their fans, standing at attention in a way that pressed their bosoms into the bodices of their gowns, like preening peacocks on the strut.
The older woman with them—the stepmother, according to Strath—did much the same, her smile so wide, it appeared more a fixed grimace.
Roza didn’t even look his way. She was gazing as if searching for someone among the chaperones, an assortment of hopeful-looking mothers and older spinsters.
Of course she isn’t paying attention. What does she care for princes?
Smiling, he stopped with Strath in front of the group of women.
Bronwyn, still squinting toward the chaperones, lifted up on her toes and wondered where Miss MacTavish might be. I hope she’ll remember to bring the recipe; I wrote her yesterday and reminded her.
Sadly, the older woman was nowhere in sight. Bronwyn sighed. They’d been here less than an hour, but it already felt like days. And it was getting more and more crowded. Twice now, people had plowed into her without apologizing, even though one had spilled his beverage on her sleeve—
“Good evening.”
Bronwyn turned to find Sir Henry’s nephew, Viscount Strathmoor, bowing to Lady Malvinea. Yet as he did so, he slanted her a quick look, curiosity plain on his face. Bronwyn hid a surprised frown. He barely looked at me when we were introduced earlier.
His gaze turned politely to Mama. “Lady Malvinea. Allow me to introduce you and your lovely daughters to our guest of honor, His Highness, Prince Menshivkov.”
Oh, good, Sorcha will be so pleased. Bronwyn’s gaze moved past Sir Henry’s nephew to rest on . . . the prince?
No.
The breath left her body in a flat second.
It can’t be.
But it was.
As Lady Malvinea, Sorcha, and Mairi curtsied, Bronwyn’s world froze.
My huntsman is the prince.
Gentle reader, to say that Roland knew the depth of his love for Lucinda with his first glance would be akin to saying that one can know the depth of the ocean at a glance. It takes time, and a very long knotted rope, to work that particular measurement.
—The Black Duke by Miss Mary Edgeworth
Alexsey bowed to the group, his gaze locked upon Bronwyn. “Pleased to meet you.”
Bronwyn didn’t know where to look or what to say. All she could do was gaze into his green eyes, her mind whirling in disbelief.
How could this be? He’d been dressed so simply and had been carrying the gamekeeper’s quiver and arrows and— Good God, why didn’t he tell me? He must have been laughing at me the entire time. Her cheeks burned at the thought.
Unaware of her turmoil, her stepmother and stepsisters greeted the man with the greatest enthusiasm. “Your Highness!”
“Most pleased!” Sorcha, flushed with pleasure, dipped a curtsy.
Mairi followed suit. “Such an honor!”
He bowed absently to them, his gaze never leaving Bronwyn, possessive and hot. She felt every bit as exposed as she had in the forest—and more. Her heart thudded sickly against her chest and she felt as if she were caught in a horrible dream.
He looked so different in formal dress; lordly, prouder, and far less approachable. His perfectly cut coat fit across his broad shoulders and then tapered down to his narrow waist. His close-fitting knit breeches molded to his muscular legs and made her fight to breathe. Now he truly does look like Roland. “You are no huntsman.”
Lady Malvinea’s startled gaze flew to Bronwyn. “Bronwyn!”
Sorcha’s eyes widened.
Mairi gaped as she looked at the prince from head to toe. “This is your huntsman?”
Oh dear. I shouldn’t have said that aloud.
Alexsey took Bronwyn’s hand, his green eyes twinkling as he bowed. “I am indeed a huntsman. Since our meeting, I’ve done nothing but hunt”—he flashed a wolfish grin—“for you.”
She opened her mouth, but not a single word came out. This was not good. Not good at all. He was the prince, the very man Mama wished for Sorcha. And yet here he was, holding her hand.
He traced a circle over the back of her hand with his warm thumb, and she had an instant memory of his hands on her waist and hips, of his firm, warm mouth upon hers. Heat flooded her and her face burned yet again.
The Prince Who Loved Me (The Oxenburg Princes) Page 6
