The Royal Conquest

by Stacy Reid

Mikhail tried to subdue his lurid thoughts. Probably he needed to step outside into the squall and endure the frigid rain to clear his head. Miss Peppiwell’s hair jerked from his grasp as she glanced at him quickly, then away to gaze into the fire. More than once she’d shifted to peek up at him while clutching the blanket to her throat, her exquisite heart-shaped face filled with desire…and uncertainty.

  The aroma of berries wafted on a gentle breeze to his nose, and he prevented himself from inhaling her scent further. She was already afraid of him. Her eyes flicked across the room in a quick assessment, and he noted her lingering gaze on the iron poker by the roaring fire. She heard his low chuckle, for she looked back to him, a cool expression hiding the fear she had flinched with earlier.

  She was no wilting miss. He saw the defiant courage and was impressed. Many young ladies would have been beyond hysteria by now, liberally indulging in swooning fits and the vapors, considering he was not successfully hiding the lust slicing at his self-control.

  The silence lingering between them, as he lifted the heavy mass of her hair to blot the final wetness from it, was tense. How could he put her at ease? First he had to rein in the blasted hunger twisting in his gut. He had more control of his passions than he was currently displaying.

  She sneezed into the blanket, three times in quick succession.

  There was no kitchen or parlor or a hearth for cooking. He vaguely remembered playing games in his youth here with Sebastian and Anthony when they had wanted to escape the main house. “We may have stumbled upon the cottage in which the Calydon children played.”

  “I think you are right.”

  Though she sounded relieved he had started a discourse, she was ramrod stiff in the chair.

  “Your hair will not fully dry, however, most of the wetness is dealt with. I’m regretful to say I see no teapot or any liquor to help you with the chill.”

  She graced him with a wobbly smile. “We will simply make do with our sparse accommodations. It was fortuitous you found the cottage when it was needed. The horse I rode, he is your stallion?”

  He hesitated. “Yes, I trained him as a gift to Calydon.”

  “He is a magnificent animal. I pray he will return safely to the stables.”

  “Sage will be fine,” Mikhail reassured. “He is well trained.”

  “That is what you do, train horses?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  Her gaze narrowed. It was hard to not miss the intelligence and curiosity lurking in her gaze. “You train horses, or you do not, there is no ‘in a manner of’ about it.”

  “It is one of the things I do.” Mikhail was careful to keep the amusement from his tone. He could imagine what it would be like if he revealed himself to be a prince. Miss Peppiwell would probably start to scream, if only to bring attention to their location to ensure she entrapped him for marriage. Not that he was foolishly tempted to reveal his identity.

  He’d sought his cousin’s estate to get away from the oppressive weight of society’s expectations, and the fact that he would soon be immersing himself in England’s haute monde, a place he had not entered since Madam Anya’s perfidy. He’d had enough vile rumors to deflect in his own homeland and had shunned the haute monde whenever he visited England, but now Mikhail had little choice. Everyone was expecting to meet the new Duke of Avondale.

  They would simply have to wait. He’d lived with depraved scandal for years and had just escaped another. The realization that, if he were not careful now, Mikhail could land himself back in the dark mire of vicious rumors and unending ignominy, set his teeth on edge.

  Hell. It had been an unpleasant shock to find Sherring Cross bursting at the seams with the very guests he had wanted to avoid until it became absolutely necessary. Lady Calydon was hosting a small, intimate house party, which unfortunately coincided with Mikhail’s arrival. He craved a few months of peace without the trappings of society, and he was not about to compromise it because of Miss Peppiwell’s unease, but he would do everything possible to make her relax.

  A sigh escaped her, drawing his attention to her lovely face.

  “And what else do you do?”

  “I sometimes advise others on estate matters,” he answered vaguely.

  A quick frown flashed across her face. “I see. Like a financial advisor?”

  “Yes.”

  She pushed strands of wet hair off her cheeks. “And you provide this service for the Duke of Calydon?” Her shoulders had relaxed a bit, but her eyes still glowed with wariness.

  “I have advised him on several estate and financial matters over the years.”

  Her direct stare was unwavering. “And you also do this for other lords?”

  Mikhail thought of his father, brothers, and other cousins. Even the recently crowned Tsarevich Alexander had solicited Mikhail’s expertise because of his acumen with money.

  “Yes.”

  “And were you invited to Lady Calydon’s house party?” Miss Peppiwell’s voice trembled, but her eyes were challenging.

  “No, my presence at Sherring Cross is a happy coincidence.” He doubted he hid the inflection of sarcasm from his tone, but she nodded, seeming satisfied.

  “I promise you no harm, Miss Peppiwell.” Mikhail kept his voice low and crooning, as if speaking to one of his horses. “As soon as the rain lessens, I will ensure you are returned to the main house discreetly before the guests rise.”

  It would not bode well if those in attendance realized he and Miss Peppiwell had been alone for any duration.

  Her eyes sparkled with rancor. “I have learned all too well the perfidy of promises; I have no faith in them.”

  Ah. Already jaded. For one so young, it was a pity. “You can have faith in mine.”

  A subtle tremor flowed through her limbs, and incredulity flashed in her eyes. “I think not,” she all but growled, then ruined her ferocity by sneezing.

  His fingers brushed against the exposed skin at her nape, and she flinched. Their conversation was not relaxing her at all. The awareness of how worried she must be killed all his longings of lust, attacking his resistance mercilessly. “You have no need to fear my presence, Miss Peppiwell.”

  She gave him an assessing glance, then lifted her chin a notch. “I am not afraid.”

  So her method was not to admit fear lest he saw it as a weakness. His admiration rose. He strolled to the fireplace and collected the poker. She watched him with a frown that broke into a cautious smile when he handed it to her.

  “I see,” she said, her eyes now dancing with humor. “This is you giving me permission to defend myself, if you should do anything untoward?”

  The transformation to her features when she relaxed was astonishing. Mikhail was used to beauty, but Miss Peppiwell’s unique charms had a delightful effect on his senses. The young lady also seemed unaware of her own desirability. There was no predatory calculation in her eyes, no smoldering glances from beneath lowered lashes. Was that because she was not aware of his wealth and stature? If he were to reveal himself, would she change? The thought left him cold. “Yes, I am granting you permission if you feel threatened in any manner.”

  Her lips twitched. “You are brave indeed, sir. I may think your provoking stares are untoward,” she said teasingly.

  It had been more than a decade since he had felt such an interest in a woman. But then, it had been years since any lady had looked at him without avarice glittering in her eyes. Belonging to one of the most prominent families in Russia was not as fortuitous as it seemed. He liked being able to pretend normality with her. It gave him freedom to speak and act in a manner in which he ordinarily would not allow.

  “Allow me to make amends for the unintentional impropriety of my actions. Will you picnic with me later today, if the rain stops?”

  “You want to take me on a picnic?” She queried with undisguised bemusement.

  Mikhail himself was startled when the words escaped his lips. He should be doing anything to place distance be
tween himself and this enticing female. His one true purpose should be to hide his identity, not compromise it by wooing a woman. It would not do for the scandal he left at home to follow him to London. She was destroying his common sense. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Your charm has delighted me, and I wish to spend more time in your company.” What the hell was he saying?

  She appeared nonplussed, before her enticing lips stretched into a wide smile. An irrepressible dimple appeared, and he wanted to kiss it. Mikhail almost snorted at his fanciful thoughts.

  “I would enjoy a picnic, but my parents will object to you calling on me.” A quick frown settled on her face. “I…please ignore what I said. I would be delighted.”

  He nodded, a curious feeling shifting inside him. He had not expected her to agree to his impulsive invitation. He tried to assess the need that had prodded him to ask her and was frustratingly blank. This was so unlike him, tension wove its way into his gut.

  “Please turn and go to the far corner. I need to make myself presentable.”

  After wrapping her hair in the second towel, he walked to the wall farthest from her and closed his eyes. Sounds shuffled in the cottage, and it was a testament to his needs that he could make out the distinct noise over the pounding rain. He bit back a groan when he heard the blanket slither to the ground. More rustles, and then a soft gasp from her, no doubt the shock of the wet clothes on her skin.

  “You can turn around.”

  Mikhail braced himself, and then faced her. She was the most ludicrous sight he had ever beheld, with the towel perched haphazardly on her head, a mass of tendrils rioting around her face, her shirt limp with dampness, and the blanket wrapped around her body at least three times to make a bulky toga. And yet she was the most refreshing woman he had ever laid eyes on, with her flashing defiant eyes and lopsided smile.

  Damnable nonsense to be so captivated by a female he knew nothing about. He was fully aware of the blackened and treacherous thoughts a bewitching face can hide. Perhaps it was incidental that she affected him so strongly. After all, it had been several months since he’d bedded a woman.

  “What do we do now?” she asked with a nervous chuckle, her eyes flickering to the narrow cot and then back to him.

  Christ.

  She was aware of the lust simmering between them, but from the dazed confusion in her eyes, Mikhail could tell she had never been exposed to passion. The knowledge should have urged caution, but it only captivated him further. She ought to have a buck tooth and be prone to vapors, he thought in pure disgruntlement, not trusting his fascination. Maybe then he would be able to resist her lures.

  “There is a card pack on the mantel and a second blanket on the bed. It is best you remain close by the fire to keep warm and dry your clothing. May I interest you in a game of Gusarik?”

  She repeated the word slowly, rolling it around on her tongue with her delightful accent. After a quick look toward the door still shaking under the storm, she graced him with a small smile of acquiescence. “I have never played, but I would learn to pass the time.”

  “I will happily educate you in the arts of Gusarik.”

  “I am a quick study.”

  Her eyes sparkled, and he wondered if she was aware of the heated invitation glowing in them. Against his own inclination, he stepped closer, and her eyes flared wide in alarm and undisguised intrigue. Do not do it, the saner part of him growled. He dipped his head, and she swallowed, but she did not retreat.

  For God’s sake, save yourself, Miss Peppiwell.

  Their mouths only scant inches apart, she wetted her lips. It was a nervous reaction to his nearness, but everything in him narrowed on her lips. He was starving for a taste of something new, something sweet and innocent, without the sly memory of depravity distorting its purity. He inhaled, then shuddered, so potent was her scent. This is madness.

  “Is this where I reach for the poker and bash you?” she asked huskily.

  He snapped his gaze to hers, and the wicked amusement dancing in her honey eyes pushed a soft laugh from Mikhail. “No, milaya moya.”

  Relief and disappointment flashed across her face. “What does milaya moya mean?”

  He hesitated. The endearment had slipped from him without thought. He was losing control too fast…too suddenly.

  “It must mean something dreadful if you do not wish to divulge,” she teased.

  Cold caution settled in his gut. “My sweet…it means my sweet.”

  Beguiling color dusted her skin. “Please refer to me as Miss Peppiwell, Mr. Konstantinovich. We are not intimates and ‘my sweet’…is outrageous and inappropriate,” she said with a glare that lessened the twinkle in her eyes.

  She was irresistibly fascinating.

  “You will call me Mikhail, and I will refer to you as Payton.” He waved to encompass the small cottage. “I feel our situation is intimate enough for us to dispel with pretentious formalities.”

  She pursed her lips, considering him. “You sound like a man used to giving commands…Mikhail.”

  “And you sound like an utterly delightful and challenging woman, Payton.” A challenge which I accept…mayhap to my detriment.

  Bald interest glowed in her eyes. “So should I release the poker?”

  It was then he noted her fingers were curled over the iron in a firm grip.

  His lips twitched, but he suppressed the smile. “Do you feel threatened?”

  “Most assuredly.”

  Yet he saw no anxiety in her. In fact, her gaze dipped to his mouth, and his bloody heart lurched. “Do you fear I will kiss you?”

  “No…I fear I would encourage you.” She sucked in an audible breath and lifted shocked eyes to his at her uncensored response.

  “I…I…”

  “Please do not apologize. I admire your honesty.”

  “You mean my unladylike utterances.”

  “I welcome any wicked words to spill from your lips.” Never had he spoken so to a lady, but it was as if their unusual situation gave him freedom to act without fear of judgment or entrapment. And it was more than evident to him, her enticing boldness was unnatural.

  The space between them heated, and his control wavered. Scowling at his undisciplined reaction, he stepped away from her tempting warmth, and a soft exhalation of relief puffed from her.

  Mikhail felt the weight of her gaze on him as he added a log to the fire. He wasted no time seeing to their comforts before the hearth. She settled on the blanket facing him, and he did his best to appear nonchalant. For certainly she would run from the cottage and brave the storm if she understood the ruthless will he was exerting on himself, still trying to determine if, before the dawn crested, he would pleasure her with his fingers, then his tongue and cock, breaking the rigid chain of control he had exercised over his passions for ten long years.

  In all his life Mikhail had never been so tempted by beauty.

  Tested by a smile.

  Beguiled by a scent.

  Enchanted by nervous laughter.

  He didn’t appreciate his visceral reaction to her; in truth it made him wary that someone was capable of making the walls he had so ruthlessly built tremble, but he felt helpless to stop the cravings erupting inside him. If he had believed in such nonsense, Mikhail would have thought the desperate clenching sensation roaring to life inside was him falling into love.

  An utterly implausible state he had no desire to suffer, considering he would never be able to allow one of the most crucial, intrinsic, and necessary desires between lovers.

  Mutual touch.

  Chapter Four

  “You wish to remain secreted from society for several weeks?”

  Prince Alexander Mikhail Konstantinovich, the Count of Montgomery and the Duke of Avondale—Mikhail to his close friends and family—stared at the surprised and irritated face of his most trustworthy confidant and cousin, Sebastian Thornton, the Duke of Calydon. It was not a common occurrence for Mikhail to surprise his norma
lly unflappable cousin. Far from it. But the expressions that raced across the man’s face suggested Mikhail had said he wished to visit a brothel—a place Mikhail had an acute distaste for. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Tension stole through Mikhail. “You know the reasons.”

  His cousin was aware of Mikhail’s aversion to scandal and the whispers that could sneak behind the rigid armor he’d built around his life and pierce him when he least expected.

  Calydon grunted. “You walked away from Princess Tatiana in a crowded ballroom with her clinging to your sleeves and crying. Heartless, cold, a miscreant, vile seducer of innocence, debauched rake are a few of the words Aunt Josephine told me you were called. The princess is shamelessly insisting you compromised her, and her family is expecting a wedding.” Calydon scrubbed a hand over his face, anger snapping in his eyes. “You are the Duke of Avondale, whom all of London is so blasted eager to meet. When you asked me yesterday not to introduce you, I thought you meant for a day or two, not weeks,” he ended on a near growl.

  Mikhail remained silent.

  “And what of your ambitions to find a wife? The mammas of the marriage mart will happily throw balls and parties in your honor, and the leading belles of the haute monde will present themselves.”

  Mikhail arched a brow. “I have no such ambition; it is father’s hope.” A humorless chuckle rolled through him. “In time I will marry. I know my duty to my lands and titles.”

  Though I may have very well found a woman I could marry. He stiffened, a jerk of shock punching him at his unbidden thought. It seemed Payton Peppiwell was firmly lodged in his subconscious. Never was it more apparent he could not blame the prick in his iron control on the two shots of vodka and three glasses of brandy he’d indulged.

  Calydon leaned forward, planting his elbows on his desk. “And what of Princess Tatiana? Your father’s health will not stand up to you not repairing the damage in your relationship. You know he has long dreamed of an alliance between the Konstantinoviches and the Kraznovses.”

  Mikhail’s father had a heart condition, and he used it to try and manipulate Mikhail shamelessly. While he normally indulged his father, he would not marry a woman simply because the Dvoryanstvo demanded it. “She is ruined by her own actions. She has claimed I seduced her when she knows it is not so. Father loves Princess Tatiana as he would his own daughter. Her brother, Prince Kirill, is one of my closest friends, but I will not be pressured into marriage because she tried to force my hand. She is insisting she is enceinte with my child, but I never touched her. I suspect she may very well be, but the culprit is without wealth and would be unsuitable.”