Secrets for Seducing a Royal Bodyguard

by Vanessa Kelly

  “Dear me,” she said. “How could I have forgotten?” She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to look regretful. “Please forgive me, Prince Ivan, but I mustn’t disappoint the captain.” She finished on a firm note, hoping he would finally comprehend the message in her voice.

  The prince stared at her for a few seconds, his features pulled tight with disbelief and rage. Then he blinked slowly, twice, and the rage disappeared, leaving in its wake a flat, expressionless mask she found more disturbing than the rage.

  “Of course, my dear,” he said in a precise and chilly tone. “Young ladies must be allowed their little diversions and entertainments before taking up the responsibilities of marriage. I shall leave you to it.” He gave a slight inclination of the head and then was swallowed up in the throng—but not before casting a menacing, promise-filled glance at St. George.

  St. George watched him go with a thoughtful expression, then glanced down at her. “You certainly have some interesting suitors, Lady Vivien, I’ll give you that much.”

  She scoffed. “Don’t be an idiot. Of course he’s not one of my suitors.”

  He gave her a faintly skeptical smile.

  “Well,” she amended, “he is, but not because I want him to be. It’s not as if I have any control over the situation. What am I to do?”

  He reached out then and took her into his arms, sweeping her onto the crowded floor and into the first turns of the waltz. The heat and strength of him, the clean masculine smell of soap and starched linen enveloped her as she melted into his embrace. Her emotions took flight in a startling leap, matching her racing heart. Although they’d never danced, it felt wonderfully familiar to be in his arms again.

  Her breath left her in a whoosh as clarity struck. She’d spent the last five days and nights secretly wishing to be exactly where she was—in his arms, cradled against him.

  That understanding stunned her into silence as she stared up into his darkly intense gaze. Thank God her arms and legs knew what to do as she followed him in the graceful motions of the waltz. Or perhaps that was all him, guiding her down the room in flowing revolutions that swirled the rose-colored silk of her skirts around his legs as their bodies touched, separated, and touched again in the seductive figures of the dance.

  “He is a prince,” he replied in answer to her last question. “I doubt anyone would blame you if you did entertain his suit. In fact, I suspect there are any number of young ladies in this room who would trample you into the dance floor to capture even one iota of the attention Prince Ivan directs your way.”

  His words brought her thumping back to earth, as did the cool look on his face. If she didn’t miss her guess, he studied her with dispassionate interest, as if she were an interesting specimen to be observed or an equation to be solved.

  “They can have him,” she groused. “And I’m not sure, Captain St. George, what you expect me to do to rid myself of his attentions. Pistols at dawn, perhaps?”

  He laughed, a deep, husky sound that rippled along her nerves. But the laugh failed to reach his eyes. Instead, he watched with that disturbingly perceptive gaze, all while skillfully guiding them through a mass of jostling dancers. As annoyed as she was, she couldn’t help but admire his strength and control. Oh, yes, and the muscles in his shoulder that flexed beneath her fingers. They were most admirable too.

  “That might be one approach, but I suggest a simple no might do the trick,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she said sarcastically. “That had not yet occurred to me. Of course I told him no, but the blasted thickhead won’t listen to a word I say. Even a kick to the shins didn’t do the trick.”

  She could have bitten her tongue as soon as the words slipped past her lips. How humiliating to reveal that embarrassing incident, especially to him.

  He looked startled, then his hand flexed on her waist and he pulled her closer into his embrace. Vivien couldn’t repress a shiver as the tops of his muscled thighs brushed against her pelvis. She pulled in a deep breath, suddenly feeling a constriction around her ribs.

  His gaze flickered down to her bodice, then back up to her face. His eyes darkened with a raw heat.

  Oh, she recognized that look. She’d seen it before in more than one man’s eyes, but never had it affected her like this. Excitement and apprehension danced along her skin and she had to drop her gaze, biting her lip like a nervous child. All the while the dancers spun around them in a jewel-like whirl, the strings of the orchestra swelling to a crescendo. But she felt apart from all of that, every particle of her being aware only of him.

  When she finally worked up the courage to look past his white satin waistcoat, he had shifted his gaze over her shoulder. With a few deft turns, he moved her down to one of the corners of the room and to a door leading out to a side hallway. Quickly and efficiently he guided her out of the room and to a quiet window alcove, one that afforded them some privacy but was still well within view of anyone strolling in the hall.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, forcing the words out.

  “It’s all right,” he said in a soothing tone. “You needed to catch your breath. I was twirling you about in a rather vigorous fashion, wasn’t it?”

  She nodded, pretending to agree. But it wasn’t the dance that had robbed her of breath. It was St. George, and those looks had swept through her like a summer storm. He seemed to have a lethal effect on her emotions, turning her into a blithering idiot, and it was time she remembered that.

  He waited patiently while she took a few moments to steady herself. When a waiter passed by carrying a tray of crystalline goblets, St. George snagged one and handed it over. She sipped the icy punch, studying him surreptitiously over the rim of the glass.

  Heavens, he was a gorgeous man, especially in evening dress. The stark black coat and trousers set off his muscular build to perfection, and his white cravat and silk waistcoat enhanced his tanned features. He radiated masculine vitality and power, and a raw sensuality that set off an odd pinging sensation low in her belly.

  But there were other things that went along with all that power and masculinity, like the ability to knife someone to death without turning a hair. Generally speaking, not a talent one looked for in a suitor, although her recent experience suggested that having a man like St. George as an escort was actually rather desirable.

  He waited patiently while she finished her punch, then took the glass and set it on a little side table. “Better?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Good. Now, why don’t you tell me what happened with Prince Ivan. I believe you said you kicked him in the shins?”

  She should have known he wouldn’t let it go. “It was nothing. Really.”

  He leaned a broad shoulder against the curved wall of the alcove, as if ready to settle in for the evening. “He must have done something to elicit so forceful a reaction from a well-bred young lady.”

  She eyed him suspiciously but decided he wasn’t mocking her. Still, she loathed having to explain it to him. She still felt like a complete fool for allowing the prince to trap her like that in the first place.

  He sighed. “Vivien, you might as well tell me everything. I’ll just keep pestering you until you do.”

  She blinked, startled that he used her given name so easily. She supposed it made sense given what they’d been through together, but it made her feel shy. They barely knew each other, and yet their shared experience had created a level of intimacy she found both reassuring and disconcerting.

  It also seemed to tangle her tongue in knots.

  “Vivien?” he gently prompted.

  “Oh, very well. It happened a few weeks ago at Lady Templeton’s musicale. Prince Ivan managed to trap me in a secluded alcove, and he grew quite . . . quite amorous.”

  His gaze sharpened. “What exactly does that mean?”

  “What do you think it means? He tried to kiss me.” As hard as she tried, she couldn’t help blushing. The rude curse St. George muttered didn’t
help either.

  “And that’s when you kicked him in the shins.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”

  “Then what did he do?”

  Vivien eyed him uneasily. The polished aristocrat seemed to have disappeared, and in his place was the cold-eyed killer she’d glimpsed back in the smugglers’ cave. A chill skated up her spine, and she couldn’t help edging back an inch.

  Something like guilt flashed across his features, and then was gone. But so was the other man—the killer who unsettled her so deeply.

  He rubbed a hand across his forehead. “Vivien, you do realize I would never hurt you?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. I apologize if I frightened you, but I can’t stand the idea of that toad putting his hands on you.”

  She bit back a startled laugh at his description. That’s exactly how she’d always thought of Khovansky too. “I don’t like it very much, either, which is why I kicked him.”

  He gave her a faint smile. “Good girl. Then what happened?”

  She shrugged. “I got away from him and left the ball almost immediately. I didn’t see him after that. Not until the other day when you brought me home.”

  “Interesting. Khovansky made no attempt to call on you to make an apology? He didn’t send you a note?”

  “Nothing.” She frowned. “That is rather odd, now that I think about it. At the time, I simply thought he’d finally gotten the message.”

  “You’d rebuffed him before?”

  “More than once. He’s very persistent, even though I clearly told him I had no intention of accepting his suit.”

  “So, he actually did ask you to marry him.”

  “Yes.”

  “And then gave up, just like that?”

  “Y-yes,” she answered slowly, wondering what he was getting at. She studied him, but he’d adopted his impassive face. From the little she’d seen of him in action, it meant he was thinking.

  “What’s Khovansky’s relationship to your brother?” he finally asked.

  Blast and double blast.

  “Which one?” she hedged.

  “Lord Blake.”

  Relief weakened her legs. “They’re friendly,” she said with a vague wave of her hand. “Cyrus moves in political and diplomatic circles, like the prince.”

  He fell silent again, rubbing his jaw. Vivien tried not to fidget but her nerves got the better of her. She started tapping her toe, a habit she usually managed to keep under control. St. George had a remarkable ability to fluster her.

  “What are you thinking?” she finally blurted out. For a moment, she thought he didn’t intend to answer.

  “I’m wondering just how far the prince will go in order to win your hand,” he mused, half to himself. Or all to himself, since he wasn’t even looking at her. He stared down at his feet, as if some message were scrolled in the patterns of the marbled floor.

  She shook her head, more for her own benefit than his. “If you’re thinking he was behind the abduction, I think that highly unlikely.” No matter how much she loathed him, she simply couldn’t believe he’d go about kidnapping innocent women. The scandal around that sort of escapade coming to light would be earth-shaking.

  St. George cut his gaze up to her face. “And what does your younger brother think about the prince? Does he travel in his circles as well?”

  Vivien’s heart skipped a beat. The discussion was coming much too close to home, but she couldn’t let him see that. “He barely knows him,” she said with a dismissive shrug of her shoulders.

  “Really? I got the impression the other day that your younger brother knew him quite well.”

  She tried to force down her escalating panic, knowing she had to get away from him before she blurted out something that might further draw his focus to Kit.

  A handsome longcase clock behind them bonged out the approaching supper hour. She seized on the excuse to escape. “Goodness, look at the time,” she exclaimed. “I promised Mamma I would meet her for supper.”

  His gaze flicked down the hall and then returned to her. “Very well. I’ll be happy to escort you up to the supper room. I’d like very much to meet your mother.”

  The grim tone of his voice told her he wouldn’t like it at all, but wanted to add her mother to his list of suspects. And if there was one thing Vivien could count on, it was that Mamma would fold like a house of cards as soon as St. George began to question her. Her mother had no sense of discretion, nor could she ever resist the attentions of a handsome man.

  Well, any man, for that matter. But she’d surely dissolve into a compliant puddle once St. George turned his seductively dangerous eyes upon her.

  “That won’t be necessary,” she exclaimed in a dementedly cheery voice. “But thank you for helping me with the prince. I’m most grateful.”

  Ignoring his objections, she slipped past him and down the hall. Only when she fell in with a stream of guests heading toward the front of the house did she relax.

  She glanced over her shoulder. St. George stood where she had left him, fists propped on his lean hips and attention still fixed on her. His gaze bored into her, alert and perceptive, and far too suspicious. When he started toward her, a hunter intent on his prey, her courage failed.

  Vivien turned and fled as if a pack of baying hell hounds snapped at her heels.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Vivien, please stop twisting about like a top,” Mamma ordered. “I vow I’m getting dizzy simply watching you.”

  Flashing a guilty smile, Vivien faced her mother across the table in the elegant supper room. In all fairness, she’d been restless since she and Mamma settled in to enjoy a plate of sweets and a glass of champagne. But that wasn’t her fault, was it? She’d been forced to keep an eye out for St. George, praying that he and Lady Thornbury would find themselves too busy to visit with them.

  Apparently, they were. St. George was part of a noisy group ensconced by the fireplace, with his mother seated on one side of him and the over-endowed Judith Compton on the other. Judith—the worst flirt—appeared to be making a concerted effort to claim his undivided attention. She batted her eyelashes, trilled with laughter at his every word, and leaned forward in the most obvious way to give him an ample view of her impressive bosom. He didn’t seem to mind in the slightest, not even when Judith let her hand accidentally brush his thigh. He’d simply bowed his head even closer, all the better to hear her social inanities.

  Yes, St. George seemed quite taken with her, which struck Vivien as odd since Judith was not only blowsy and obvious but nasty-tempered as well. It represented the mystery of the male mind, although Vivien had the lowering feeling that the generous décolletage factored into the equation.

  She gave a disdainful sniff as she pushed a piece of iced pound cake around her plate. Not that she cared one way or the other where St. George bestowed his attentions. The more time he spent in Judith’s company, the less he could study her with those penetrating eyes or pry information out of Mamma. That had clearly been his intention when he offered to escort her up to supper, not the pleasure of her company.

  “Vivien, you mustn’t frown,” Mamma said with a gentle scold. “It wrinkles your brow, and nothing is more fatal to a woman’s beauty.” She peered across the small, linen-covered table. “In fact, you’re already getting a wrinkle between your eyebrows. You simply must start using that Denmark Lotion I gave you last month. You are no longer in the first blush of youth, my love. You cannot afford to neglect your complexion so dreadfully.”

  Vivien wanted to grind her teeth, but that would probably give her wrinkles, too. According to Mamma, just about everything did.

  “I shall be sure to use it before I go to bed,” she replied, trying to sound dutiful.

  Her mother rewarded her with a beatific smile, her blue eyes—so like Vivien’s—shining with maternal pride. “Thank you, darling. You are still quite the most beautiful and charming girl in London, and a great matrimonial prize. Eve
ryone knows it, too.”

  Vivien didn’t bother denying the fallacy of that particular observation, since she knew it sprang from genuine affection on her mother’s part. There were any number of girls in the ton both younger and prettier, and Vivien’s dowry was merely respectable. She often wondered if she’d ever find a man she truly wanted to marry. As comfortable as she was in her brother’s house, she still longed for a home and a husband of her own. A husband who would actually care about her needs, and who would help relieve her burdens instead of adding to them.

  “Will you be visiting the card room tonight, my love?” Mamma asked in a carefully matter-of-fact voice. Though she flashed a lighthearted smile, Vivien wasn’t fooled. Her mother’s eyes looked haunted, and she held her delicate lace fan in a convulsive grip as she tapped it on the base of her champagne goblet.

  But even looking so anxious, Vivien’s mother remained one of the most beautiful women in the room. In her fifties, she was slender and graceful of form with golden hair only just threaded with a few errant strands of silver. And when she cast aside her troubles, she sparkled with a youthful vibrancy that could charm any man under the age of eighty.

  Unfortunately, that youthful nature also extended to her temperament. In fact, the older Vivien got, the more her mother depended on her for everything, from running the household, to playing hostess, to paying off her and Kit’s foolish debts. There were days when Vivien felt crushed by the burden of familial responsibility, and more than once she’d been tempted to accept one of the proposals of marriage that had been made to her. But she’d never been able to do it. Her mother and Kit often drove her insane but she couldn’t abandon them, especially for a man she didn’t love. Her family truly needed her, and that had to count for something.

  Vivien nodded. “I was just about to go up. Given how deep the play always is at Lady Darlington’s affairs, I think I should do quite well.”