by Julia London
The prince looked, Greer thought, rather broodingly handsome and virile tonight. His thick hair was brushed back and tied in a queue. His clothing was of the highest quality, cut to perfection to enhance his muscular build. Indeed, he possessed naturally the sort of dashing figure that men in London could only achieve with padding and corsets.
She looked at the scar on his cheek and imagined the ugly brawl from which she was certain he had earned it. She could imagine him fighting off two or three ruffians at once.
At present, he was studying the board, his every move made to give her access to victory. But she had secretly countered his gentlemanly intention in her every move, making him work to lose, giving her more opportunity to study the room.
“Why do you call this room the red salon?” she asked after a moment.
He glanced up. “It is a salon.”
She chuckled. “I recognize that it is a salon, my lord, but it is not a red salon.”
“It has always been known as the red salon.”
“Perhaps you should rename it to reflect the color to which it has faded.”
He frowned slightly and glanced around the room. “What color would you name it?”
“Peach.”
“Peach,” he repeated, and returned his gaze to the board. “That does not seem to be the sort of hearty color worthy of a salon.”
“There is a room at Downey House, where I live in London, that was painted peach,” she idly mentioned. “My stepfather, Lord Downey, was very fond of the color and had every inch of that room painted peach. The ceiling, the walls, the wainscot, the doors. Even the mantel was painted peach. Aunt Cassandra demanded he have it redone, and vowed she could not rest easy in a room in which she was the pit.”
The prince smiled.
“Yet he refused,” Greer continued as the prince moved a bishop. He sat back, apparently satisfied with his play. “He is a very stubborn man,” she added absently. “And by the bye, that was not very well done at all,” she said with a cluck of her tongue, frowning at his move.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You are clearing a path to your queen so that I might win, and now you leave me no choice but to take it.”
He smiled a little, crinkling the corners of his eyes in a way that made him look rather charming. “Why in God’s name would I do that?”
“I don’t know, really,” she said thoughtfully, assessing him. “I suppose there is a bit of a good gentleman rumbling around in you after all.”
His smiled broadened, and the effect was unexpectedly mesmerizing. When he smiled fully, his teeth nicely white and even, he was really quite charming. And attractive in a ferocious sort of way. “Are you accusing me of handing you the win?”
“Not only do I accuse you of it, I accuse you of doing it very badly,” she said, and moved her bishop. “Check, sir.”
He glanced at the board and chuckled low. “My, my, Miss Fairchild. You show me no mercy.”
“Of course not. Why in God’s name would I do that?”
He grinned and nodded at the lone footman who attended them, who came forward to remove the game as the prince picked up his brandy and absently swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “In some quarters, it is considered unwise to call a man on his motives of play unless you are prepared and willing to defend your own. I should have thought your aunt might have mentioned as much.”
Greer laughed at that. “My aunt warned me that gentlemen, in general, were not to be trusted. At cards or with debutantes.”
His eyes glittered over the top of his snifter and he drawled, “That definitely depends on the debutante.”
A flush of heat swept through her. “And the gentleman,” she added softly.
His gaze was scorching now. He regarded her openly. “It sounds as if your aunt and uncle were happy.”
“Happy?” She shook her head. “They were compatible, I suppose, but I should not call them happy. I think there is so much more that must be present in a marriage for there to be true happiness.”
He seemed surprised by her answer. “Such as?”
“Love,” she said without hesitation. “Desire and passion. Respect.” She eyed the prince curiously. For whatever else he was, he’d once been a married man. “What is your opinion?”
“Mine?” He seemed surprised by the question. “I…I couldn’t say.”
“You were married, my lord—surely you must have some opinion.”
His expression changed instantly; the glitter gone from his eyes and in its place a hardness. “That was quite a long time ago, Miss Fairchild. My wife died at a very young age.”
There was something in the way he responded that kept Greer from asking more. “I am sorry to hear it,” she said.
“Your aunt and uncle?” he coolly reminded her.
“Well…I am certain that my aunt loved my uncle Bingley, her first husband,” she said. “Life was very gay for us all at Bingley Hall, and Lord and Lady Bingley were the perfect picture of marital bliss.”
He said nothing; he had retreated behind his aloof demeanor.
“But then Lord Bingley died,” she continued. “And Aunt Cassandra married Lord Downey, and Ava and Phoebe and I—”
Dear God, what was this? Just the mention of their names, and suddenly there were bloody tears in her eyes! “I miss them,” she blurted, surprising herself by the sudden burst of sentiment and feeling quite unable to stop it. “We have been inseparable since we were children, and I miss them terribly.” Good heavens, even more tears flowed behind the first batch and she could feel her face turning red. “Oh dear God, please do forgive me,” she said as one fat tear slid down her cheek. “I am not usually so slushy.”
He reached in his breast pocket and withdrew a handkerchief, which he handed to her.
“Thank you,” she said gratefully. “I seem to have lost mine.” She blew into it and daintily dabbed at her eyes. “I apologize for turning so wretchedly sentimental, but I do miss them, very much. I miss their counsel and their companionship…and Ava’s imperious ways, and Phoebe’s fashionable sartorial creations.” Another tear slipped out from the corner of her eye and ran down her cheek. “Oh Lord,” she said, appalled, swiping at the tear on her cheek.
The prince was silent and his expression, as always, very stoic. He surely thought her ridiculous, or worse, weak. And as much as she didn’t give a fig what he thought of her, for some reason, she could hardly bear him to think her weak. She glanced uncomfortably at her lap. “You must find these tears very tiresome.”
“No,” he said, so softly that she barely heard him at all, and she hesitantly lifted her gaze. “Quite the contrary. I find that you are quite possibly the most…delicate creature I have ever seen.”
The remark astonished her, unbalanced her. A flurry of emotions erupted within her, none of which were appropriate or wise. The prince had not moved, and his expression remained impenetrable—with the exception of his eyes. A shock of sexual desire instantly swept through Greer and she flinched at the intensity of it.
He was gazing at her now as if he’d not really looked at her before this moment. “And quite the actress,” he added calmly. “Are you a theatrical performer, Miss Fairchild?”
A sound of fury escaped her. “You are the most ill-mannered, uncivilized man I have ever had the displeasure to meet! Here!” she said, thrusting the handkerchief at him.
He reached for it, but instead of taking it from her hand, his fingers curved over hers, holding them tightly, and a current as strong as that of the Thames flowed between them.
He rose to his feet, pulling her up with him. They stood quite close, so close that Greer had to tilt her head back to see his face, so close that she could see the tiny flecks of gold in his green eyes and the dark red edges of his scar.
“Unhand me,” she breathed angrily.
He made no move to do so.
“You are the worst of scoundrels!”
“And how many scoundrels have you known?” h
e asked, his voice caressing and low.
Greer’s breathing quickened; she could feel a cauldron of apprehension and yearning deep inside her, weighing her down, keeping her from moving. “How dare you speak to me in such an ungentlemanly manner.”
“What irks you? Do you find the question offensive…or merely too personal?”
She gasped and tried to jerk her hand from his, but he held her firm. His gaze dropped to her lips; his black lashes formed tiny little crescents across his cheeks. He lifted his free hand, and carefully touched two fingers to her lips, as if he meant to see if they were real.
It was such a simple gesture, but it was the most sensual thing a man had ever done to her.
Greer found herself in a desperate moment—she had no idea how she had come to this point of desiring him. She was acutely aware that she was courting danger from which no good could possibly come, but her will to act sensibly had deserted her. Completely drawn in by a powerful craving, she locked her gaze on his, parted her lips, and drew the tip of his finger into her mouth, caressing it with her tongue.
“Too personal, it would seem,” he drawled.
She bit down on his finger.
The prince only laughed and shifted so that his lips were only a moment from her temple. She could feel his breath warm on her skin, skimming over her eyelids, down her cheek. He had not actually touched her, yet his nearness was blistering. “Surely you know the best way to entice a man is to provoke him,” he murmured as he removed his finger from her mouth and slipped his arm around her waist, drawing her into him, pressing her into his body, which was as hard as rock.
“Don’t touch me,” she said.
“I already am,” he reminded her. “But you can stop it, Miss Fairchild, if you so desire. Just a word—no—and I shall take my hand from your body.”
The word was on the tip of her tongue, but Greer was spellbound by the smoldering look in his eyes, the powerful feel of his body against hers, the silky caress of his hand against her arm.
She tried to summon the word, but could make no sound.
“One word,” he said again, his gaze on her mouth. “The very word you would not say to Percy.”
She gasped indignantly as he pulled her closer. “Envious?” she breathed.
He suddenly grinned. “Desperately so,” he said, and lowered his head, painting her lips with the tip of his tongue before pressing his mouth to hers and slipping his tongue between her willing lips.
Greer felt herself go weak and the strength of conviction leave her body. She had never experienced such seduction or anything as wholly irresistible as this man’s passionate kiss. She could feel herself sliding into an invisible trap, a pool of desire.
His kiss was remarkably demanding and tender all at once. There was potency behind it, a sense that he could crush her with his male appetite but that he worked to restrain himself, to touch her with care.
But he did not refrain from touching her. His hand began to move on the curve of her hip, then up to her waist, and to her breast. He caressed the flesh of her bosom, plunged his fingers into her cleavage, cupped her breast in his palm, leaving her skin burning with sensations she’d never felt.
His caresses grew more urgent, his kiss deeper, his struggle for restraint reverberating throughout his body and into hers.
A storm of prurient longing rocked Greer toward oblivion—she could feel every sinewy muscle of the prince everywhere they touched, every hard edge, every passionate caress of his big hands. He’d moved her backward, so that she was pressed against the high back of one of the chairs, and buried his face in her neck as he slipped his hand under her thigh, lifting her leg to his waist.
Greer leaned her head to one side, giving him better access to her neck, bracing herself against the back of the chair so that she didn’t fall when her knees finally buckled, which she was sure they would do at any moment.
With his other hand, the prince gathered the skirt of her gown, pushing it up and moving his body between her legs, brushing the hardest part of his body against the most vulnerable part of hers. He pressed against her, moving suggestively against her as his mouth found hers again.
An extraordinary pleasure was building in Greer, filling her up to the point of bursting. But when his hand slipped between their bodies, into the slit of her drawers, his fingers grazing hot, wet, skin, she somehow realized in that lustful haze what she was doing, what she was feeling, and panicked. It was impossible to feel the strength of his embrace or the yearning in his body without losing every last shred of propriety she had left to her, and in an alarmed moment, she tore her mouth from his, gasping for air and sobbing her dismay at once.
She pushed him and dropped her leg from his waist. “Oh my God,” she gasped.
Yet the prince would not let her go so easily. He wrapped his arms around her, put his hand beneath her chin and lifted her face to him, kissing her ardently again, nipping at her bottom lip. When Greer turned her head, he asked roughly, “Why so shy? You were enjoying my attentions.”
Greer shoved again, but he was relentless—this time he weakened her with a very tender kiss.
“No,” she moaned, twisting away. “I cannot, not with you.”
He stilled. “Do you find me so objectionable?” he asked low, and palmed her breast. “Your body betrays you, Miss Fairchild. Your skin is warmed by my attention. I feel your breast swell in my hand…my touch arouses you.”
“Only my fury is aroused,” she said low.
His hand still on her breast, he smiled knowingly. “There is scarcely anything more satisfying than a woman’s fury in a man’s bed.”
She shoved hard at him now; her heart racing dangerously at the mention of his bed. “You are obscene.”
“Nor is anything more satisfying than an obscene man in a woman’s bed.”
She dared not imagine what he meant by that, and struggled to draw a steady breath. When he casually pushed a strand of her hair behind her ear, she slapped his hand away. “Stop,” she said harshly.
“Stop?” he echoed, moving the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. “But it is no less than what you gave Percy.”
The remark wounded her—whether it was because of his audacity or because it was so distressingly close to the truth, she could not say.
Lord God, what had happened to her these last months? She hardly knew who she was any longer! In London, she had known her place, had known her personal limits of propriety. But here—she could not remember a time in her life she had been so unguarded or had allowed her emotions to rule as they had in the last two weeks.
She still held his handkerchief and tossed it, badly crumbled, onto the chair, and turned a cold glare to him. “Have you finished humiliating me?”
He dropped his hands from her body and shrugged as he studied her face. “I did not seek to humiliate you, if that is what you think.”
“Liar,” she said, shaking now.
He shook his head and then turned partially away from her, so that she could not see his face. “I am many things, Miss Fairchild, but a liar is not one of them.”
“I don’t know what you are,” she said angrily, and turned and walked out of the room, hoping desperately he would stop her with a single word or an apology; hoping just as desperately that he did not, for she could not trust her response.
She walked into the corridor, her hands balled into fists at her sides, and she had to blink to keep tears from clouding her vision when he did not call her back.
Fifteen
“I’ve been at Llanmair these forty years, and I still find myself turning this way instead of that. This way, if you please, miss,” said Mrs. Bowen, who was leading Greer through the labyrinthine corridors of the castle to the conservatory.
As they passed the prince’s study, Greer noticed that the door stood open and the hearth was cold.
A wave of relief rushed over her. She couldn’t bear facing him yet, not while she was still reeling from the effects of their torrid k
iss the night before.
They walked along another corridor and Mrs. Bowen pointed out the various rooms: the linen closet, the china room, and another set of doors that were the dry goods stores.
They climbed up a narrow staircase, and Mrs. Bowen’s steps grew leaden and her breath heavy as she told Greer how the stairs had once been used by the English to invade Llanmair.
Greer had read about it in the book she had borrowed from the prince. In the year 1283, Edward I had invaded Llanmair as he sought to quell the Welsh rebellion.
The walls still bore the nicks and marks of sword fighting.
When they emerged from the stairwell, Mrs. Bowen put a hand to her ample breast as she drew a deep breath and pointed to her right. “Just through there, miss, on the other side of the portrait gallery.”
“Thank you…but if you would, Mrs. Bowen, will you not take a moment more and tell me who are depicted in some of the portraits?” Mrs. Bowen glanced at the watch pinned to her breast. “I won’t keep you but a moment,” Greer assured her, and with her hand on Mrs. Bowen’s elbow, she didn’t give the housekeeper an opportunity to decline, and steered her into the gallery, stopping directly before the painting of a man in the ridiculous ancient Greek dress.
The two women tilted their heads back as far as they could to see the top of the man’s head.
“Ah yes,” Mrs. Bowen said, nodding. “His lordship’s grandfather. He’s been gone thirty years or more, but I’ve heard told he was quite fond of the Greek classics.”
And himself, Greer thought.
“He built the orangery in the Greek style. You might have seen it.”
“I have not, but I shall make it a point to do so. He resembles the prince, does he not?”
“Oh aye, he does,” Mrs. Bowen agreed, smiling proudly.
“And who is this?” Greer asked, pointing to a pair of children who looked to be from the sixteenth century.
Mrs. Bowen squinted at them. “I couldn’t rightly say.”
