The Princess and the Pauper

by Alexandra Benedict

  The longing stretched and swelled until his chest ached and he gasped for breath.

  The movement inadvertently roused her. She wriggled and sighed and lifted her drowsy head, tousled, fiery tresses spilling over him. With her beautiful, lush lips, she murmured a good morning.

  It was a bloody awful morning, he thought in that wretched moment, when her honey-brown eyes captured him, held him, mesmerized him. The look of uncertainty, even fear, was gone, replaced with wisdom and confidence and something more . . . a sensual heat he hadn’t seen in her expression since they were younger and fighting dangerous passions.

  What in the bloody hell had happened last night?

  He was having trouble breathing again, his chest raw, and she leaned over him to collect a small bottle on the nightstand. When her soft hair and breasts slid across his chest, his muscles clenched, and he gritted his teeth in greater discomfort.

  She popped the cork and tucked the spout under his lips. “Here,” she said, voice hoarse with sleep. “Drink. It will help with the pain.”

  The sweet smell of opium filled his nose and lungs. “No.”

  No wonder he felt so weighted, immobile. She’d drugged him! Why? And why was he in such agony?

  Grey struggled to sit up, but she planted her palm on his chest and applied pressure. He grunted, then dropped back against the pillow.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “But you have to remain in bed. The doctor said—”

  “What doctor?” he snapped.

  “The one who treated you last night.”

  He searched his foggy memories for answers. Soon events unfolded in his mind.

  “Ah, that’s right.”

  “What’s right?” she asked. “What happened last night?”

  Her expression was questioning, but serene, and he suspected she wouldn’t really care if he confessed the truth or not, that she kept a much greater secret from him.

  He frowned. “I might ask you the same?”

  Her lips quirked, and a playfulness entered her eyes. His heart almost rent with the yearning to be her confidant again, to have her trust, and more than anything, even after so many angry and hurtful years, her love.

  He still desired that above all else. He still served her like she was a princess and he a slave. But he would never have her love. And he resented her teasing gestures all the more for making him hope.

  Grey struggled again to right himself, and this time he pushed her hand away when she tried to restrain him.

  “Rees—”

  “Leave me be,” he ordered.

  He heard her sigh in frustration behind him, but she didn’t touch him again. He swiveled and brought his feet to the ground, gripped by vertigo, but after a few labored breaths, his dizziness cleared and he pushed himself off the mattress.

  His first step was unsteady, but he regained his bearing and plodded across the room toward the winged chair by the window. As soon as he dropped in the seat, his vertigo returned, and it was a few minutes before he looked back across the room and found her sitting on the bed, knees pulled up to her chin, arms wrapped around her shins, hair in glorious waves over her shoulders, watching him.

  Just like when they were children, she seemed unperturbed by his pushing her away, as if she knew the gesture had nothing to do with his true feelings for her.

  Why she had such confidence in him, and why it disarmed him, troubled him beyond measure.

  “What are you going to do about your scheduled performances?” she wondered.

  “Cancel them.”

  “Your devotees will be disappointed.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “And why not? Why do you play, if not to share your music with others?”

  “I play to earn money. Music is my only talent.”

  “An unfortunate reason.”

  “And what reason would suit you, princess?”

  “One that makes you happy.”

  “I am happy,” he barked. “And why the hell are you suddenly concerned with my happiness?”

  “I’ve always been concerned with your happiness.”

  He looked away from her, his hands trembling. She said the sentiment with such earnest, he almost believed her, but he knew she was lying. She had to be. She couldn’t have cared for his happiness and done what she’d done to him.

  The sight of splintered wood captured his interest, and he focused on the broken violins, not doubting who had smashed them.

  “You have your father’s temper,” he said dryly.

  He wasn’t moved by the carnage. He didn’t care for any of the instruments. But when he noticed the pile of letters on the floor—her letters—he dropped his brow in his hand. Shit. So that’s why she looked at him so starry-eyed. She had found the letters during her fit and thought them meaningful keepsakes.

  “I should have burned those letters,” he grumbled.

  “But you didn’t.”

  “I forgot to burn them, is all. I forgot all about them.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Believe what you want, princess. I don’t give a damn.” But his heart drummed in his chest, and it took all his physical strength to keep his breathing under control. “Why did you destroy the violins?”

  “I was angry with you.”

  “And what right have you to be angry with me?”

  He had lost everything the night he had kissed her, the night she had denied him.

  “You and I were once friends,” she said softly. “Can’t we—”

  “No, we can’t.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because we’re not children anymore. It’s time to give up childish ways.”

  If the past couldn’t be erased or forgotten, then at least it could be contained, and talk of friendship, and heaven help him, love, was childish rot he’d not tolerate anymore, especially from her.

  The door busted open and Harry Hickox entered the room in typical dramatic fashion. Grey had issued his friend an open invitation to come by the house at any time, and the servants had been told to permit him without ceremony. He needn’t be announced, for Grey wasn’t one for etiquette. But he had always met his friend in the study, never in his room. And the man’s unexpected trespassing prickled Grey’s spine.

  Harry dropped his luggage on the ground and raised his hands. “I’m officially a vagrant.”

  “Don’t exaggerate, Harry.”

  “Exaggerate?” He glared at Grey. “She tossed me out of the house. I’ve nowhere to go, thanks to you.”

  “Why did she toss you out of the house?”

  “Because she’s angry with you, and she took it out on me.”

  Grey grunted and rubbed his bandaged side. “She took it out on me, too, Harry.”

  Last night, Lady Hickox had suggested they “have a little fun.” Her idea of fun was the yank the bell poll, summon her footmen, and have Grey soundly thrashed and thrown from her house.

  He would have saved himself a beating if he’d denied Emily. She certainly wasn’t his mistress. She bloody well tortured him with her presence and music. But he’d refused to renounce the rumor. He still wasn’t sure why.

  “Rightly so,” said his friend. “You’ve ignored her for a month, then gossip spreads you purchased a posh filly for twenty-five thousand pounds, and then you show up at her door in the dead of night.”

  “Ten,” said Emily.

  Harry turned around, bemused. “I beg your pardon?”

  “He purchased me for ten thousand pounds, not twenty-five.”

  Harry opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. “A steal, madam.”

  “Harry,” came an unbidden growl. “Go and find yourself a room.”

  Grey hadn’t meant to sound like a possessive dog, but the overtly approving look in Harry’s eyes, when he first noticed Emily on the bed, had an unexpected affect on him. He was suddenly seventeen again, watching Emily parade through the ballroom under the carnal stares of every male guest,
overpowered by jealously.

  “Of course, I will.” Harry took up his suitcase. “I’ve every intention of making myself at home.”

  As soon as Harry left the room, Grey shifted his gaze to Emily, still cocooned on the bed, her expression carefully bland.

  “Your mistress is his sister?”

  “Mother,” he corrected.

  “I see.”

  Her features remained impassive, but he sensed her naive dreams slipping away. He was grateful for that. While his affair with Lady Hickox had officially ended, he didn’t want Emily to believe an affair—or friendship or whatever she wanted to call it—would arise between them.

  “Do I offend you, princess?”

  She looked down at the bed. “Harry doesn’t mind that you’re . . . ?”

  “Bedding his mother? No, he doesn’t, so long as we’re discrete, and maybe not even then.”

  “And her husband?”

  “Dead. Propriety is for public, not private eyes. It’s just the way of the world. But you already know that, don’t you?”

  “I know I sold myself to you.”

  “As I did to Lady Hickox.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Grey remembered those first torturous weeks after losing Emily, his grandfather’s violin, his whole world. He’d wandered the city, taking irregular jobs, earning a pittance. He had even found himself one hopeless night on a bridge, staring into the black and inviting waters of the Thames. Emily had cried out to him from that abyss. He’d heard her ghostly call—play for me.

  He shivered at the stirring memory. He had pulled away from the water that night and with the money he’d received from Wright, purchased a second-hand violin the next day. Grey hadn’t intended to use the funds or ever play again, but he’d been compelled to chase after his dream.

  And as a traveling musician, he had earned a better wage. But his fortune had truly turned on a street corner in the West End, where he’d first met Lady Hickox. She had stopped to admire his music, to admire him, for later that evening her servant had come round to deliver an invitation he hadn’t been able to refuse.

  “Lady Hickox suspected I had a talent beyond music. And she was right.” He pushed out of the chair and approached her. “She supported my early music career, and I warmed her bed.”

  When he reached his own bed, he grabbed the wood post for support and looked down at Emily, who observed him with a thoughtful expression.

  “What’s the matter, princess?” He thumbed her chin. “You look unhappy.”

  “Will I warm your bed?”

  He took in a sharp breath. Damn, she was brash, still impulsive, even reckless, voicing such a sentiment out loud. But after undressing before the window last night and taking his breath away, he wasn’t surprised by her scandalous remark. She had never been a prim and proper lady.

  Still, what was she thinking? He had already assured her he’d take care of all her earthly wants, so she needn’t prostitute herself. There was no reason for her to offer herself to him, unless . . . unless she wanted him.

  He dropped his hand. “No. You will not warm my bed.”

  Grey turned away from her, his heart thundering. He wanted her now more than he’d ever wanted her as a cajoled youth. He’d dreamed of her for five bloody years, but he’d sooner eat glass than surrender to the temptation of being with her.

  She grabbed his wrist and pulled him back toward the bed. “Rees.”

  Head spinning, he seized the bedpost again. “Blast it—”

  She cut off his words, his thoughts, his very breath with a hot, hard kiss. Kneeling on the mattress, she pressed her warm body against his and slipped her fingers into his hair, holding him, ravishing him.

  The mixture of pleasure and pain as she bussed his bruised lips, embodied their entire history. He had never been able to resist her, however hard he’d tried. She had always won their battle of wills because his love for her had weakened him . . . but he didn’t love her anymore. He couldn’t love her anymore.

  He tore his mouth away. “No,” he rasped. “You will not break me again.”

  Her lips flushed with blood. She gasped for air. As she steadied her rampant breathing, the brightness in her eyes dulled and her fingers dropped from his hair.

  He almost pulled her back into his arms. Almost. But instead, he remained bone-still, resisting every self-destructive impulse to kiss her again.

  She slipped off the bed and headed for the door. “I won’t disturb you again.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, voice hollow.

  As soon as the door closed behind her, Grey sank onto the bed and shut his eyes. His head was spinning. His body burned with fever or desire, he didn’t know. One fact was clear, though. Emily still held great power over him. She always would, he feared.

  ~ * ~

  Grey sat beside the coal-burning fireplace, a glass of brandy in his still swollen hand. He swirled the amber tonic, a far more effective medicine than the opium Emily had tried to give him earlier in the day. Another glass or two and he should be steaming drunk.

  The bedroom door rolled on its hinges, and Harry poked his head inside the room. He looked behind the door, then scanned the rest of the space.

  “She isn’t here,” said Grey.

  “Jolly good.” His friend entered the room and joined him at the fireside. “I didn’t want to interrupt anything.”

  “Then knock. Or better yet, don’t come round here a’tall.”

  Harry settled in the opposite chair and snorted. “If you want privacy, lock your door.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Harry took another, more critical look around the chamber. “You know, apart from this morning, I don’t think I’ve ever been inside this room.”

  “Perhaps I’ve never invited you.”

  His friend ignored the subtle suggestion he wasn’t welcomed and continued, “It’s very . . . artistic.”

  “In shambles, you mean.”

  And like the broken violins on the ground, pile of childhood letters, and charred nightstand, Grey’s world was in shambles—ever since Emily had returned to it.

  “A maid might be helpful, you know.”

  “What do you want, Harry?”

  “Right.” He brought his attention back to Grey—and the bottle of Martell. “A tipple might be nice.”

  Grey downed the remaining brandy in his glass. “It is,” he confirmed.

  Harry sighed. “Business it is, then.”

  “What business?”

  “The chaos of last night, of course.”

  “I’m sorry about what happened with Lady Hickox.”

  “Pshaw! All affairs peter out eventually. Mama will find herself a new beau in no time. Oh, sorry, old chap. I didn’t mean to suggest you were disposable.”

  “Not at all, Harry. I’m not pining after her. And I sincerely hope she’s not pining after me.”

  “Mama isn’t one to pine, and since I’m here, cut off from her purse strings, and you’ve no furniture in any of the bedrooms . . .”

  Grey waved an assenting hand. He had to furnish the house anyway, now that Emily was in residence. A woman needed more than a bedroom to look after, especially his princess. She needed a house and a household, for she’d been raised from girlhood to rule another man’s roost.

  His friend beamed. “That’s jolly good of you, me old mucker. I’ll just get a few necessities. Don’t want to rob the vault or anything, especially after you spent a pretty penny on that filly. By Jove, she’s a looker! I’ve never seen such dark red hair on a woman. And her eyes! As bright as fireflies. She’d lead any man to ruin.”

  “She would, indeed.”

  And Grey had proof of it. His body, though battered and bruised, still burned with the memory of her passionate kiss. Even now, he tasted her, sensed the pressure of her mouth over his. The brandy had dulled the ache in his chest, but it had failed to blunt the impression of h
er demanding lips.

  “Not that I pity you,” from Harry. “She’s a real gem, you lucky bugger.”

  “She’s not my mistress.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I said she’s not my mistress?”

  “Eh?”

  Grey glared at him.

  “You don’t meant to say . . . ?” Harry trailed off, dumbfounded. “Why did you spend ten thousand pounds on her?”

  He shrugged. “She and I were once friends.”

  “You mean lovers?”

  “I mean friends, you blockhead.”

  “Well, why on earth would you be friends with a woman? How do you keep a friendship with a woman? Especially a woman with crimson hair and burning eyes?”

  “She was in trouble, is all. I helped her.”

  “How very noble of you.”

  “What are you insinuating?” Grey growled.

  “Me insinuate? Here.” He stretched out his hand. “Pass me that bottle of Martell. I think you’ve had too much to drink.”

  Not nearly enough, thought Grey, and poured himself another glass. “I trust you’ve found an agreeable place to sleep?”

  Harry sighed again and dropped his empty hand. “The divan in the study will have to do for now. But I, um, do have another question. When will your ‘friend’ be leaving?”

  Grey stilled. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, she can’t live here with two bachelors. I expect you’ll put her up in her own apartment. By and by, she doesn’t look like she grew up in the streets.”

  “I didn’t grow up in the streets.”

  “But Mama said she found you—”

  “Forget it,” he snapped, realizing he’d said too much about the past.

  “Well, where did you grow up?” wondered Harry, his brows pinched together in obvious confusion.

  Damn his friend’s hounding tongue. Another flurry of memories stirred inside Grey. An old shop in Clerkenwell. An old man hunched over a table, humming, whittling violin shells.

  Grey had loved to watch his grandfather work, more than going to school or romping about the streets between the breweries, printing and clockmaker shops. And when, at the age of four, he had picked up a violin for the first time and heard the startling cries of music, he’d believed the instrument alive and his grandfather a sorcerer.