Compromised by the Prince's Touch

by Bronwyn Scott

  Nikolay laughed. The band was starting up again, lively strains getting a cheer from the crowd as the cry went up, ‘Hopak!’

  ‘Nikolay, you must dance with us!’ The aproned man and another, younger, version of him tugged Nikolay out on to the floor where the men gathered. Klara grabbed another glass of vodka and found herself tugged into the circle of women on the perimeter.

  ‘The men will dance for us now,’ a young woman told her as the music began. The dance started traditionally enough, involving deep squats, and leaps in some organised fashion. As the tempo sped up, the dancing kept pace, the leaps becoming higher. One man turned a back somersault, earning applause. That was the key the dancing had become something more, a competition. Many of the men bowed out, but three remained. Nikolay and two others took over the centre of the room, each taking turns to display their skill. Nikolay went last, leaping into the centre with a front handspring and landing on his feet. He kicked high and leapt, and repeated it, leaping higher each time until the third leap where he did a mid-air split and touched his toes. He concluded with a series of backhand springs that had the crowd roaring their approval.

  ‘Nikolay is always the best,’ the woman beside her whispered. ‘He is a real Russian man, so strong, so virile. Every woman in here wants him, even the married ones.’ She giggled.

  Everyone wanted him, but tonight he was hers. She was bursting with pride as he strode towards her, sweaty and dishevelled, his hair falling loose from his leather tie, his shirt out of his waistband. No gentleman would ever dare to appear like this in public, but this was no gentleman. This was a Cossack warrior, a product of his heritage, and it merely added to Nikolay’s appeal, to the fantasy that somehow her life could be different. Klara felt her heart starting to pound at his approach. His steps were purposeful, his eyes on fire. He was on a mission and that mission was her. She was about to be claimed. Nikolay drew her to him and kissed her hard on the mouth, while the crowd around him took up the cry, ‘Za zda-ró-vye!’

  There was more vodka, more dancing. The evening was growing late and Klara began to fear leaving. She didn’t want this to end, but even the band was winding down. They played a slow mazurka and she and Nikolay were one of the few couples left on the floor dancing. He held her against him, murmuring something about this being a Russian waltz. She didn’t care, she only cared that he held her obscenely close, that she could feel his body move against hers. Intuitively, she knew this would be the last dance and she wanted to linger in it with him; her arms wrapped about his neck, her head against his shoulder. She doubted this was even the appropriate format for the mazurka. At some point form had ceased to matter.

  ‘We have to go,’ Nikolay whispered, sounding as reluctant as she as the music ended. He helped her into her jacket and shrugged into his own garments with far more dexterity than she possessed. She could not master her buttons. ‘We’ll get a cab,’ Nikolay whispered. Thank goodness. She could dance, but she doubted she could walk, although cold air would do her a world of good. Her head had been deliciously foggy the past hour, focused only on Nikolay and the music. Nikolay kept his arm tight around her as they said their goodbyes and exited into the night. Nikolay found them a cab and settled her inside.

  ‘I do think you’re foxed, Klara.’ He didn’t bother to sit on the other side of the carriage. He sat beside her, his body warm and inviting.

  ‘I am not. I’ve drunk vodka before,’ she insisted, but she was starting to wonder if maybe she was a teensy bit hummed.

  ‘Not that much at once, I’d wager.’ Nikolay laughed easily. ‘You’ll have a dragon of a head on you tomorrow. Are you sure you will want to ride?’

  ‘I’ll be fine by then.’ Klara yawned. ‘That’s hours away.’ She laid her head against his shoulder. ‘Tonight was wonderful,’ she said dreamily. This was nice, being with him without challenging one another, without constantly matching wits. She’d been to the other side of the mountain, she’d seen things, done things, thought things that had changed her. How could she possibly go back now? How could she be Klara Grigorieva again? ‘Nikolay, how do you do it? How do you leave it?’ It would be easier for him, of course, he had the promise of going back whenever he liked. She might not get another chance. Tomorrow, they’d be Miss Grigorieva and Prince Baklanov again, student and instructor again, their roles would be in place and their behaviours would be, too. The game would be there, too. ‘What happens next between us?’ They had shared a lover-like intimacy tonight, his hand always on her back, and that kiss, Lord, that kiss! That was not all. They’d also shared themselves, a few tentative peeks into each other’s souls that had left her changed.

  ‘We tell ourselves tonight existed out of time, a break with reality,’ Nikolay murmured. It was what she had told herself hours ago, a lifetime ago, stepping down from the cab.

  ‘Hmm. I thought you might say that.’ She was not so drunk she didn’t know what she was doing. If there was only to be tonight, she’d make it last as long as she could, drink from it all that she could. Klara settled herself on his lap, straddling his thighs.

  ‘What are you doing, Klara?’ His eyes were dark with desire, with dancing and vodka.

  ‘You said a woman should not shrink from a passionate nature,’ she whispered her words against his mouth as she took his lips. ‘You claimed me with a kiss in front of everyone. Now, I think it’s my turn to claim you.’ If this was to be a night out of time, so be it. She kissed him slowly, her mouth lingering on his lips, her tongue tasting him, aware that his mouth tasted her in return, that his mouth was devouring her in lingering bites; her earlobe, the curve of her jaw, the column of her throat. His hands were at her breasts, kneading them beneath the wool of her jacket. She moaned and moved her hips into him, feeling the hardness of him against his trousers as the want between them fired and burned in the dark of the cab. She had his face in her hands, kissing his mouth, his jaw, but it was his hand that slipped between them, his hand that pushed up her skirts and pressed against her mound until she wanted to scream.

  ‘Let me give you pleasure, Klara, just a little, just enough.’ His voice was hoarse with the need to do this for her.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her own voice hardly any better. She’d consent to anything to be touched by him, to be relieved of this ubiquitous sensation flooding her body, firing her veins. His fingers touched her then, finding the source of pleasure hidden in her secret folds. ‘More, Nikolay, more!’ She moved against him in her urgency. Dear Lord, no matter how much he touched her, stroked her, the pressure built, it wasn’t enough, until suddenly it was and she broke against him, positively shattered against his hand, her mouth muffled against his shoulder.

  The cab came to a halt. The short ride was over and she gave a groan of desperate frustration. It was time to go home. No, not now. Not now when she could barely think, let alone walk. Tonight had been a beginning, but the beginning of what? What would she do with all she learned about herself, about him?

  Perhaps she’d been wrong earlier. Wanting was enough. Maybe she’d just never wanted anything bad enough. Until tonight. She wanted more freedom, more solyanka, more vodka kisses, more Nikolay hot from the hopak. She wanted those things enough to think the unthinkable—she had to protect Nikolay from her father. If her father knew what she knew he would never let Nikolay go. Nikolay would not like that, would not like having choice stripped from him.

  Nikolay helped her out of the cab and she drew him close for one last kiss, fired by determination. It was doubly important now that no one ever know about tonight. Nikolay’s freedom depended on it.

  * * *

  Damn that bitch, making free with her favours past midnight in Mayfair with that Kubanian prince. Amesbury threw his opera classes on to the carriage seat. The so-called Prince didn’t even have the decency to debauch her in his own vehicle, but a rented public hack at that. Disgusting. From the looks of it they’d been out who knew where.r />
  He kicked at the plush seat opposite him and swore every vile curse he could think of. She was his! Grigoriev’s plans to sniff out the Prince’s politics could go to hell. He was sure Grigoriev didn’t intend for Klara’s efforts to stoop to whoring. Baklanov wasn’t even a real prince as far as he was concerned. Not any more. When a man ran away from his own country, he forfeited any right to call himself a prince. His anger started to simmer to a more controllable level. He pulled a knife from his ever-present sheath inside his boot and fingered the blade, the motion bringing calm. He wondered what Klara would think of her handsome prince if Baklanov sported a scar across his face? The bastard would have nothing then, not even his looks. He’d like to cut off the man’s balls while he was at it, too. Then he would not only not be a prince, but he wouldn’t be a man either, just a useless nothing.

  He watched Klara slip into the townhouse. As for her, she would not escape punishment for her infidelity, for making him wait outside in his carriage for hours after his men had told him she hadn’t come home from riding lessons. Hadn’t he made himself clear the other night? Hadn’t he hinted politely at what he wanted from her? Perhaps he’d been too polite. Apparently, Klara liked a bit of rough, preferring to hole up in rented cabs with Baklanov instead of the pristine elegance his wealth offered. Amesbury chuckled. Well, he could certainly oblige on the rough part. No knife for her, but a riding crop could work wonders. Not too soon though, not before the wedding night. He’d begin with her as he meant to go on, though. No sense in doing otherwise. Klara Grigorieva needed a stronger hand than he’d anticipated. But he was up to the challenge. He shifted on the seat and undid his trousers. He put a hand on himself and stroked hard. Oh, yes, he was up to the challenge in all ways.

  Chapter Ten

  He’d brought Klara Grigorieva to climax in a rented cab, her cries sobbed against his shoulder. It was the most erotic thing he’d done in some time if the lingering effects were any indicator. Such wicked behaviour was not well done of him and he was paying for it in a long sleepless night. Nikolay got out of bed and dressed, giving up entirely on sleep. He’d broken his word to Stepan. But that was not the least of what he’d done. He’d told her things about himself that he hadn’t told anyone since coming here, things only his closest friends knew about him. To be sure, he hadn’t told her the darkest part of his story regarding what had actually driven him to England. Even so, he’d said too much, exposed too much of himself when he knew better than to get too close to her.

  She had shared with him, too. He’d seen the shock of realisation on her face when she’d talked of being a prisoner to privilege, to her gender. But it wasn’t the same for her. She had nothing to lose. He could not hurt her with that information. Could she hurt him? Would she? They had determined it was to be a night out of time. Would she tell her father or would she honour their unspoken rule?

  Nikolay shoved his feet into his boots and palmed a small dagger. A good walk would soothe him. He was used to being up early with the workers, but a man didn’t go out into the London dark unarmed. He crept down the staircase, careful not to wake the others. Stepan would want to go with him and right now he wanted no company other than his own thoughts.

  Outside, the dawn was cold, precisely what his body needed to cool his thoughts. Despite his worries over what Klara might expose in the light of day, his mind persisted in lingering over the night as he walked, how Klara had been in his arms: the light in her eyes, the laughter as they danced, the wide smile on her mouth tossing back the vodka. He could still smell the vanilla-amber scent of her on his clothes where their bodies had pressed together, the way she’d shattered against him at the end.

  He’d been reckless last night. He chalked it up to cabin fever. That was the easiest answer. He’d obviously been too long without a woman, or perhaps he’d merely been too long without a project that claimed the attentions of his body and mind. In Kuban, his affaires had been a sort of entertainment, something he did after long days in the saddle with his men. Now, no matter how many hours he spent at the stable, he still had too much time on his hands—all the more reason he was eager to move forward with his ambitions. It was time to stop dithering and decide on a property. Which was why he was up early, walking in spite of the late night. It might also be because he couldn’t shake the memory of Klara, but it was harder to admit to that because it meant admitting to a host of other feelings as well—feelings he’d promised himself to avoid, feelings that had seen him betrayed before.

  The hair on his neck prickled. Nikolay halted, his hand slowly reaching for the knife inside his coat. He was being followed. His fingers closed around the hilt and he drew a deep breath. Let them watch, whoever they were. Let them come. The warrior in him was alert and ready. It could be nothing more than a common footpad, but, based on the events of the last week, it could be more than that. It could be Grigoriev’s men—if so, there was nothing to fear. Grigoriev would just be watching, studying. It could be Amesbury, though. His hand flexed around the hilt. Amesbury would be dangerous. Amesbury saw him as a threat.

  He started walking again. If he wanted to draw them close, it was best not to let on that he knew. Nikolay forced his thoughts to focus on his riding academy as he retraced the route back to Soho. A riding school would need a unique property, one that had mews and a riding house. He turned left towards one of his oft-walked routes through Soho Square, trying not to be paranoid. He altered his direction, taking a more circuitous route. No one going to Soho Square would find this route efficient in the least. The feeling persisted, yet when he turned around to scan the area, he could see no one out of the ordinary for this time of day, only workers and vendors hurrying into place before the city awoke fully. It was likely nothing more than Stepan’s worries carrying over to him.

  He reached the square. Whoever was following was still there, but further back. He quartered the area with his gaze, trying to pick a figure from the shadows. Whoever it was, they were good. He saw no one. Nikolay pressed on, pausing before a property. His mind sifted through the information almost by rote: Leighton House, Number Four Leicester Square, a large townhouse with impressive Georgian windows, an enormous rear space containing mews for horses, a riding house large enough for jumping and a small manège suitable for outdoor work.

  As a bonus, the adjacent mews were also for sale, that home’s owner no longer interested in keeping extensive stables in the city. Twenty stalls in all. He could expand. Once he considered boarders and the space his own schooling string would need, twenty stalls filled up quickly.

  The house and property were everything he could hope for in a city where land and space were at a premium. The newer homes deep in Mayfair and out by Regent’s Park were smaller. The gardens were too tiny to accommodate something as magnificent as a riding house. Only the older era homes still maintained some of those luxurious outbuilding features. But the problem with older homes was their locations.

  The hairs on his neck relaxed. His stalker was gone. Whatever he’d come to learn, he’d learned it. Nikolay let his thoughts loose, they were free to wander now and Klara was the first place they went. What would Klara think of the property? Would she come here to study? The thought was most unlooked for, not because it was about Klara—he’d been thinking about her plenty—but because it implied a desire for permanence, a desire to continue his association with her for an undetermined length of time. Maybe he was reading too much into the thought. After last night, she was simply on his mind. Likely, she would wear off like the others. He just had to give it time. No woman had been able to hold his attention for long. No one except for the deadly Helena, a perfect validation for no long-term attachments, especially those that commanded a modicum of his emotions.

  Nikolay shoved his gloved hands into the deep pockets of his greatcoat to ward off the morning chill. Even the cold was different in London. He wondered if he’d ever get used to it. In Kuban, the cold was crisp, shar
p and could be warded off with mufflers and fur hats. But London cold had a dampness to it that could find a man beneath his coats. He looked about and spied what he wanted—a salop vendor still out after a long night. A hot drink was exactly what he needed. Nikolay fished a coin out of his pocket and gave it to the woman, who handed him a small, steaming bowl in exchange.

  He breathed in the aroma, enjoying the smell of the drink and the warmth of the bowl as much as the taste on his tongue. He thanked the woman and stepped back from her stall to contemplate the house and her other early-morning customers, men and women going to work in the great houses that remained in this part of the West End, or to the small businesses that had sprung up. These customers spoke a variety of languages, greeting one another in French, Greek, German and his beloved Russian. The woman would work for another hour or two and then go home. Salop was a drink for the dark, cold hours between midnight and eight.

  Her customers would not be his customers. A riding academy did not cater to a working class of artisans and craftsmen. The families of physicians and bankers perhaps, but he needed the patronage of the wealthy. Therein lay the rub, the one thing holding him back from purchasing Leighton House. Leicester Square, like its neighbouring squares, Soho and Golden, had been fashionable once, sporting the residences of princes. But no longer. London’s elite had moved west to Mayfair, leaving their houses behind. This was now the neighbourhood of immigrants, at least those with the means to rent or buy. Would purchasing here be a deterrent to his potential clients? And yet where would he find another property so ready for him?

  Nikolay finished his salop and returned his bowl, standing at the woman’s stall long enough to indulge himself in speaking Russian with his fellow customers. It was nothing more than an exchange about the weather, but it was manna to his ears. Lord, he missed the sound of his native language. Did Stepan and the others miss it, too? They never mentioned it. Did they, too, have secret rituals, private things they did when they went out into the city that assuaged their need for home?