Always a Princess

by Alice Gaines

  “Neither did I,” he confessed. “He must keep them hidden in a drawer somewhere.”

  “But you didn’t know they were in there when you told that Chumley person they were the reason we’d gone into the study.” He shrugged.

  She laughed, a deep and wicked sound that went right inside him and to his groin. There appeared to be two Eve Stanhopes—the prickly proper one who’d come to his house to attempt to extort money from him, and a hot-blooded little vixen who had grabbed his derriere the first night they’d met. The vixen enjoyed excitement as much as she enjoyed kisses, it seemed. He could give her plenty of both.

  And the evening was about to become even more stimulating, as the carriage approached the church where he’d collected her hours before. As they went past, she sat straight up in her seat and watched the church go by.

  “Stop,” she ordered. “We’ve gone too far.”

  “To the contrary. We haven’t gone nearly far enough.” He hadn’t meant to use double entendre in this situation, but since the opportunity had presented itself…

  “Lord Wesley, you were to see me to that church.”

  “But I prefer to see you to your home.”

  Just then the carriage turned the corner onto the dismal alley Hubert had indicated earlier, and recognition dawned in her eyes. “I didn’t want you to know where I lived.”

  “Under the circumstances, that couldn’t be helped.”

  “Of course, it could. You could have left me at the church.”

  “Miss Stanhope, no gentleman would leave a lady alone in this neighborhood at this time of night.”

  “And you’re a gentleman, I suppose,” she said.

  “I hope so,” he said. “At least where it matters.”

  She pursed her lips again, making him more than a little aware that he was a man, too. At least where it mattered. But that didn’t bear examination. She kept looking at him out of wide green eyes until he had to shift in his seat in an effort to get comfortable.

  “And do you think I’m a lady?” she said finally.

  “Of course,” he said.

  “But you can’t know that really, can you?”

  That question was a quagmire, judging from the soft intensity with which she asked it. Without any certainty of what she wanted to hear, he’d have to try honesty and hope for the best. “You’re a very beautiful woman.”

  That couldn’t have been what she’d wanted him to say, because she turned her head and looked out the window just as the carriage pulled up in front of the building in which she lived. The gesture gave him a view of the column of her neck—far too long for such a small person and as pale as the moonlight—but it also gave him the distinct impression that she’d frosted over with disapproval.

  “Any number of men would be more than willing to take advantage of you in a place like this,” he continued. Including me.

  She still didn’t say anything, but continued staring out the window at the disreputable-looking building she called home. If anything, she looked even colder. For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine what he’d said wrong. He’d called her a lady, and he’d called her beautiful. He’d expressed concern for her safety. How could she fault him for any of that?

  “You couldn’t bear for Hubert to stay in that church all alone,” he said for lack of anything better. “I couldn’t bear for you to be on these streets. Surely, that makes some sense to you.”

  “You’re right,” she said, reaching for the doorknob. “Thank you.”

  He reached for the knob, too, and his hand covered hers. “Oh, no. I’ll see you inside.”

  She looked up at him, and the action brought her face to within inches of his. She immediately pulled back. “Is that really necessary?”

  “Really,” he said. “I don’t suppose that building is any more savory on the inside than it is outside.”

  She sighed and let him open the door. After climbing out, he reached up a hand to help her. The cold and dampness hadn’t abated over the evening, and neither had the dinginess of St. Giles. The sooner he got them both inside, the better. He quickly ushered her up the stairs and into the building. When she indicated the floor above, he led her through the darkness up those stairs, too, until they stood outside the doorway that led to her suite of rooms.

  She turned to him then. “Thank you, and good night.”

  “Wait. Just a moment, please.”

  He could only barely make out that she’d cocked her head as if she couldn’t tell whether she should trust him or not. “Wait for what?”

  Wait for what? He stood there in a blackness so profound he almost couldn’t make out the woman standing only a step away. The dampness chilled his bones, and he imagined all sorts of sounds: the rustling of clothing from someone who shouldn’t be there; the scuttling of rodents, insects, all sorts of unpleasant creatures. He was imagining them, wasn’t he?

  He put his hands on Miss Stanhope’s shoulders. “I can’t leave you here.”

  “This is where I live.” She took a very determined step backward.

  “I know. I just…I can’t leave you here.”

  “Hubert’s inside. I’ll be safe.”

  He couldn’t help himself—he pulled her closer and wrapped his arms around her. She resisted at first, but he stroked her back and whispered into her ear, “Please.”

  The stiffness in her shoulders fell away, and she rested against his chest—a very warm and satisfying bundle. He stood and rocked her for a moment, fighting off the cold of this dreary corridor with his body. If only he could hold her like this all night. If only he could show her somehow that he cared what happened to her.

  Well, there was one way. He bent and placed his lips over hers. Softly, gently. She didn’t respond at first, but neither did she push him away. The ice princess won out for a moment, but then the female animal inside her took over. She slid her arms up his back and pressed herself to him as she parted her lips and sighed into his mouth. He groaned in response—how could he not?—and pulled her against him to take her mouth the way he’d wanted to all night.

  They continued that way for several moments. Clinging to each other as the heat rose inside and all around them. Such fire, such delicious abandon. His body reacted in the predictable manner, making itself hard and ready for her. She pressed against him everywhere, her skin setting fire to him.

  Finally, he managed to pull away before he lost his head completely and made love to her on the spot. He gasped for air and stood watching the frantic rise and fall of her breasts. What a woman.

  After a few erratic breaths, she raised her hand to her mouth and wiped her fingers across her lips. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to kiss you, at least not like that.”

  “How did you mean to kiss me?”

  “Well…sweetly,” he said. “Nicely.”

  “Nicely?” she repeated. “How do you kiss someone nicely?”

  “You do it gently. With respect and admiration.”

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” she said.

  “I might have managed it if you hadn’t responded the way you did,” he replied.

  “And just how do you think I responded?”

  “As though I were some joint of meat and you hadn’t eaten for weeks.”

  “Now you really are being ridiculous,” she said.

  “I? Ridiculous?” he repeated. “You very nearly ravished me right where we stand.”

  “I did no such thing, and I’m certainly not going to stand here and debate the point with you.” She fumbled in her bodice for a moment, in the valley between her breasts. The bank notes she’d taken earlier fell out and fluttered to the floor, but she appeared to take no notice of that. She finally produced a key, turned and shoved it into the lock in the door.

  “Eve,” Philip said.

  That only earned him a scowl from over her shoulder.

  “Miss Stanhope,” he tried a
gain.

  “Good night, Lord Wesley,” she growled as she finally got the door open and slipped into the flat. He tried to follow, but the door slammed in his face, almost flattening his nose. He knocked but got no answer.

  “You left the bank notes out here,” he called.

  Good God, what was he thinking? One didn’t stand in a hallway in this neighborhood shouting about bank notes unless one wanted to be robbed at knife-point. He bent and scooped up the money and then stared at it for a moment before bending again and slipping it under the door.

  How in hell would the woman make any kind of thief if she didn’t keep the proceeds of her thievery? And why in hell should he care?

  He left the building and headed toward his carriage and, with any luck, some sanity.

  “So, this is where you get the orchids.”

  Philip turned and found Eve Stanhope in the doorway of the glasshouse. He’d been so intent on the flowers of his latest acquisition—the veitchiana—he almost hadn’t heard her come in. “Indeed it is,” he said. “How did you find me out here?”

  “Your mother told me where you were.” She approached him slowly, walking between the benches and staring at the profusion of color in the blooms around her. She belonged here, in the middle of the splendor of the orchids, not in a dismal, soul-killing place like St. Giles. But how was he going to remove her from there?

  He’d spent a good bit of the night lying awake and pondering that very problem—and a few other things that would require some doing—before arriving at a solution just before dawn. A solution she most definitely was not going to like.

  “My mother’s grown quite fond of you,” he said.

  Her brow arched. “Fond of me or fond of the idea of you marrying royalty? Even if that royalty is foreign.”

  “My mother wants me to marry well,” he said. “Why shouldn’t she? She’s a good woman and wants me to be happy.”

  She studied him, skepticism clear in the green depths of her eyes. “How would your mother feel if instead of marrying a princess you married someone like who I really am?”

  He set down the plant and turned toward her. “And exactly what sort of woman would that be?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she settled her gaze on the veitchiana and stared intently at it.

  “Who are you, Miss Stanhope?”

  She still didn’t look at him but lifted a finger to the orchid. “It’s rather gaudy, isn’t it?”

  “What is?”

  “This flower,” she said. “It’s orange and pinkish-purple—a rather garish combination.”

  “The combination must appeal to the orchid’s pollinators, whatever they are,” Philip said. “I’m sure the plant doesn’t care about our opinions of its appearance.”

  “How fortunate for the plant.”

  “Did you have some purpose in mind for this visit, Miss Stanhope? Or did you only come here to insult my orchids?” he said.

  That brought a smile to her lips and a blush to her cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

  “You might give my mother the benefit of the doubt, too. She appreciated your kindness toward her last night.”

  That news seemed to surprise her, as she turned toward him and her brow rose again. “My kindness toward her?”

  “Offering to escort her home after her ordeal with the Orchid Thief.”

  “But I only did that to try to escape from the situation myself.”

  “Miss Stanhope,” he said and then sighed. “You extended yourself to a member of my family, and I’m trying to thank you. Would it be too much to expect a simple ‘you’re welcome’?”

  She curtsied. “You’re very welcome, your lordship, I’m sure.”

  Why was he even trying? But the truth was that his mother did like Eve Stanhope. And against his better judgment, he’d grown more than a little fond of her himself. A lot of that fondness had to do with the kisses they’d shared—that remarkable way she had of resting against him as lightly as a whisper and then turning into liquid heat in his arms. She’d done it both times he’d taken her in an embrace, and both times he’d lain awake with the memory—and with a very male reaction to that memory—for most of the night.

  If he wasn’t very careful he’d have that same reaction right now among his plants in the bright light of day. He’d need to keep his wits about him if he was to put his plan into action. If he succeeded at that, he’d have her nearby and available for lustful exercises whenever he wanted.

  He leaned against a bench and smiled amiably at her. “So, you haven’t come here to admire my orchids or to win my mother’s friendship. What have you come for?”

  She reached into her reticule and groped around for a moment. Finally, she pulled out her hand. When she opened it, the emerald earrings were resting on her palm. “I wanted to return these.”

  He glanced from her face to the earrings and back again. She had that look about her—that stubborn set to her jaw that told him dispute was pointless. Oh, why in hell couldn’t she just accept the things? He certainly had no need of a pair of emerald earrings. He sighed and took them from her, finally putting them into his pocket. “Was that all you wanted?”

  “There’s also the diamond,” she said. “And how to dispose of it.”

  Now, there they had a bit of a sticky wicket, because Philip had no intention of allowing that miracle of nature to be cut into baubles. He’d have to think of some convincing way of buying her off without being obvious about it. That would come after he’d another plan into action. After seeing the ghastly place she lived, he’d decided she would move in with him and his family. Now, he only needed to convince her to do it. No small task.

  Just when things might have become truly awkward between them, another person appeared in the glasshouse. Phillip looked over to find Constable Chumley. He’d expected the man to appear at some point. The fellow wasted no time investigating the latest jewel theft.

  Not someone a thief would normally welcome seeing, but a diversion, nevertheless, the constable looked about the space as though he’d happened on a clue but couldn’t quite fit it into his current puzzle.

  Eve spotted him, and her hand flew to her throat as she let out a nervous little laugh. As much in warning as comfort, Philip placed his hand at her elbow and cleared his throat softly.

  “Why, Chumley, what a surprise,” he said. “What brings you here?”

  “Orchids.” The constable placed his hands at his back and walked toward Philip, glancing from bench to bench as he went. “These are orchids, aren’t they?”

  “Absolutely.” Although none of them looked like the flowers he left as calling cards at the scene of his crimes. He’d hidden the cattleyas toward the back of the house that very morning in case the constable decided to visit after their encounter the night before. He’d especially hidden the plant that was missing one spectacular white blossom.

  Chumley stopped in front of him and looked up into his face. “I didn’t know you grew orchids, my lord.”

  “I would have told you if you’d asked. It’s not a secret.”

  “It’s an odd hobby.” Chumley fiddled with the end of his mustache. “Men aren’t usually fond of flowers.”

  “We all have our eccentricities,” Philip said. “Kent’s butterflies, my father’s interest in pigs. I had an uncle once who collected beetles. Startled my aunt more than once with his latest acquisition.”

  Chumley’s eyes narrowed as he leaned closer. “Did he now?”

  “The family thinks it cut short her life, all those little shocks.”

  “Humph.” The constable turned to Eve. “And the princess is here…the two of you, together…just like at the duke’s party.”

  Eve laughed again as she grabbed the veitchiana and held it between herself and the constable, rather like a shield.

  “Her Highness had this plant sent from Valdastok for my collection,” Philip said. “It’s their national flower.”

  Chumley peered into the blossom. “It doesn’t l
ook like an orchid.”

  In fact, most people made that mistake. Without knowing what to look for, the average person wouldn’t recognize the flower’s most important features.

  “It is, though, and very important to Valdastock’s culture and mythology,” Philip said.

  Eve straightened to her full height. “Do you question my native plant, sir?”

  “Not at all, Your Highness,” Chumley said. “I only meant…that is…well, it doesn’t look like the one at the scene of the crime last night.”

  “No, of course,” Eve declared, doing a fine impression of royal high dudgeon. “Our flowers do not go about with thieves, monsieur le constable. Careful that you do not offend our mythology.”

  That, at least, set Chumley back on his heels. “I meant no offense.”

  “Take care you don’t, old fellow. The last chap who questioned the honor of Valdastok…” Philip made a sawing motion of one finger against his throat.

  Chumley turned a bit pale around the edges. “I see.”

  “We harbor no prisoners in Valdastok,” Eve said. “None.”

  Philip clapped the constable on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t go about accusing these flowers of a crime, if I were you.”

  “But I didn’t,” Chumley sputtered. “I said the opposite. You heard me, Lord Wesley…”

  “Tut, tut. Think nothing of it. The princess forgives you, I’m sure.”

  Eve inclined her head toward Chumley quite regally. “Of course.”

  “Now, then, to your problem,” Philip said.

  “My problem, my lord?”

  “You’re looking for an orchid thief, and you don’t know the first thing about orchids.” Philip dug his fingers into the man’s shoulder. “I think I can help you there.”

  “How so?”

  “I think you should use me as an advisor. I can tell you about the latest shipments into England, who’s growing what, that sort of thing.”

  Chumley leaned toward him as though the two had become conspirators, if not outright chums. “The most likely culprits, eh?”

  “I’d start with the Royal Horticultural Society…any number of shady characters there.”

  Chumley shrank away from him. “If you’re joking, Lord Wesley, I must say it isn’t funny. Her Majesty’s horticultural society? Never, sir. Never.”