Always a Princess

by Alice Gaines

  “We need to face the truth of what’s happening between us,” he said.

  “There is nothing between us,” she said. “And there certainly is no ‘truth’ to be faced.”

  “Eve.” He bent and placed his head against hers, pressing a little kiss to her ear. “Why do you resist me?”

  The sound of her name shot right through her, vibrating through her very bones. She shuddered and sighed. Dear heaven, it was all happening again. The heat, the wildness—she had to fight them. Somehow, she had to resist.

  “You hold back,” he whispered. “Even though you want me as much as I want you.”

  “I don’t,” she lied.

  “Don’t lie to yourself,” he said against her skin as his lips traveled the length of her throat. “Don’t lie to me.”

  “Let me go,” she whimpered, even less convincingly than the first time.

  He pulled her hard against him and nibbled at her neck. “Liar. You’re far too honest to be false about this.”

  “I’m an impostor,” she said.

  “A small fault,” he murmured, as his mouth approached her ear again.

  “You don’t know anything but my name.”

  “I know what I need to know,” he whispered, again into her ear. His voice, rasping and soft all at once, connected with her hidden places until her knees went weak, and she leaned against him for support.

  “I could be a murderess,” she sighed. “I could kill you all in your beds.”

  “Oh, do,” he groaned. “Do kill me in my bed.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “You are killing me.” He slid his hands to her rear and pulled her body against his until she could feel the hard, male part of him. “You’re killing me by inches. Lots and lots of inches.”

  “Dear heaven,” she gasped. She twisted in his arms, but the movement did nothing more than to rub herself even more firmly against him.

  He shuddered violently, and Eve held herself as still as she could, even though her breasts rose and fell with her labored breathing. He straightened and stared down at her, the lamplight dancing in his fevered eyes. “Do you know what I did tonight?”

  “You drank a great quantity of gin,” she said. “Or ale.”

  “Besides that.”

  “No, I don’t know what you did,” she said. “And I doubt you’ll remember in the morning, either.”

  “I went looking for a woman. Several women.” He swayed, rocking her slightly along with him. “I couldn’t find any.”

  “You couldn’t find a single woman in the whole of London?” she asked. “That wasn’t very resourceful of you.”

  “This isn’t about resourcefulness, Miss Stanhope. It’s about infatuation.”

  “Infatuation?”

  He winked at her and gave a thoroughly endearing, thoroughly drunken smile. “I’ve grown quite attached to you, it seems. Quite smitten. Dotty. Daft. Out of my mind.”

  His confession made her skin heat to the roots of her hair. So, he’d gone dotty over her, had he? The hard ridge of male flesh still pressed into her belly told her that his infatuation was anything but platonic. She’d do well to remember that if he decided to spout any more tender pronouncements.

  “I left the house this evening with every intention of indulging Long Tom with as many skirts as he could handle. But the scoundrel only wants you, and so the two of us have come home to teach you a lesson,” he said.

  She tried to squirm out of his arms, but he held her firmly.

  “I don’t want to learn it,” she said.

  “But you shall. I’m going to torment you the way you’ve been tormenting me.”

  He kissed her then. He bent and placed his mouth over hers, stealing her breath and her sanity. Somehow he could move his lips over hers with just the right pressure to turn her into jelly. He did it now—teased her, toyed with her, made her lean in to him to answer. Her bosom crushed against his chest while she parted her lips to taste him fully.

  He moaned and rubbed her bottom, pulling her to him so that her body molded itself into his. This was torment. To feel so lost in his embrace and yet to want more, so much more. She moved her arms up and twined them around his neck so that she could kiss him back with urgency to match his. He parted her lips and slipped his tongue into her mouth to play against her own. Such delicious friction, such abandon, such need—she’d never felt anything like it. She answered, clinging to him, answering him breath for breath, sigh for sigh.

  He turned her so that he could press her back against his arm. The movement left her entire throat exposed, and he took full advantage—first kissing and then nipping at the flesh just under her chin. She ought to resist, but instead she arched her back, giving him access not only to her neck but to her bosom, as well.

  He moved a hand to cup one breast and squeezed gently. She’d become so sensitive there, so heavy and full, that she cried out. He pressed his thumb over the nipple, and even through the fabric of her dress, the friction sent darts of pleasure radiating through her.

  Too much. He was too much. His touch, the heat he generated, everything was too much. She had to stop, and in another moment it would be too late. She managed to straighten and place her hands at the sides of his head to push it away from her throat.

  “Stop,” she gasped. “Now.”

  “Stop?” he repeated, half question and half plea.

  “Please,” she cried. “You must stop.”

  “But I thought you liked it,” he said plaintively. “I thought you liked my kisses.”

  “I don’t!” He’d know that for a lie as well as she did. “That is, I do. I do like your kisses. But I don’t want any more of them. Not tonight. Not ever.”

  He straightened and looked at her, confusion and unspent passion clear in his eyes. “I don’t understand.”

  “I can’t explain. I won’t explain.”

  He stared at her for a moment more and then hung his head. “I’m such an ass.”

  “No, you’re not.” Well, actually he was. A perfect ass nearly all the time, but right now he was trying to do the right thing. At least, she thought he was.

  “I am,” he said. “I’m a cad. A bounder. The worst sort of bastard.”

  “No, really. You stopped when I asked you to.”

  “I’m pathetic,” he said. “Hopeless. Half a man.”

  Half a man? Not if the male organ she’d just felt against her belly was any indication. “Don’t you think you’re being just a bit too hard on yourself?”

  He straightened, just a bit unsteadily. “I’m a gentleman, Miss Stanhope. I don’t force myself on women against their will.”

  Fair enough. If he were sober, he’d no doubt realize that he hadn’t forced himself on her this time, either. He’d realize that she’d been as eager for his touch as he was for hers. In fact, he’d been well on his way toward seducing her thoroughly and not without some help on her part. With any luck he wouldn’t recognize that now and wouldn’t remember it in the morning.

  He put his hand on Eve’s shoulder and swayed first backward and then forward, balancing himself against her. “I’ve wronged you, dear lady, and I can only beg for your forgiveness. Abjectly.”

  “Yes, yes. I’m sure. Now, maybe I’d better help you get to bed.”

  His eyebrow rose. “Bed?”

  “Only to put you in it, Lord Wesley. Or to lay you on top. Whatever you can manage before you lose consciousness.”

  “Oh.”

  “Would you rather I call your man, Mobley?” she offered.

  “Thank you, no,” he said. “Mobley’s too dour to be endured under the best of circumstances. Tonight, I’d rather you take me to my bed.”

  “To your bed only,” she said. “Here, drape your arm over my shoulder, and let me help you upstairs.”

  He did as she instructed and leaned in to her. “A man can dream, Miss Stanhope.”

  “I’m sure.”

  He raised a hand in a flourish that almost stol
e his balance. “Take away a man’s dreams, and he’s nothing.”

  “I would never do that, Lord Wesley.”

  “Someday you’ll come to see that I’m offering you a gift. The most beautiful gift life can give, Miss Stanhope.”

  She guided him out of the library and across the foyer to the grand staircase. A large man, he made a rather heavy burden, but a warm and not altogether unpleasant one. His fingers gripped her shoulder but made no attempts at exploration to more sensitive areas.

  “And what might that gift be?” she asked.

  “Passion,” he declared. “Life without passion isn’t worth living. You may quote me on that.”

  “Thank you, but I don’t think it’s likely to come up in ordinary conversation.”

  “Oh, yes. Mock me if you will, but we’ll see who prevails. You can deny me, but you can’t fight your own nature forever, Miss Stanhope. You’ll come to me eventually, and you won’t regret it.”

  “Upstairs, Lord Wesley.”

  He gripped the banister and let her lead him toward the floor above. Another woman might laugh at his arrogant sureness that she’d eventually succumb to his charms. But Eve wasn’t laughing.

  “The criminal mind, ladies, is no more sophisticated than a child’s,” Dr. Kleckhorn declared in clipped Teutonic syllables. “The criminal becomes entranced by what is colorful and appealing. And what he cannot have by the sweat of his labor, he takes by means of stealth.”

  Eve took a sip of her tea and did her best to remain invisible to the doctor. If he knew anything about Eastern Europe, he might realize that her supposed first language was German and try conversing with her. She knew even less German than she knew French—which was to say none at all. How on earth had she ended up a founding member of the Ladies Society to Prevent Wayward Flowers or whatever Lady Farnham was calling it?

  “But surely, if a criminal is like a child, he can be salvaged by love,” Lady Farnham said from her seat near the window of the sunlit drawing room. “He can be guided. Molded to good.”

  “Oh, I don’t see how,” one of the ladies exclaimed. She was a pinch-lipped, waspish creature Eve had avoided since she’d arrived. “Children are nasty little creatures. Quite beyond anything good unless punished severely.”

  “I’ve never found that to be true,” Lady Farnham said.

  “Your two boys have always been well behaved,” the dowager duchess of Kent declared. “Even if the younger one is a bit odd.”

  “Philip is not odd,” Lady Farnham said. “He’s only traveled a bit, and he’ll forget all that nonsense now that he’s home.”

  He didn’t show any inclination toward forgetting “that nonsense” to Eve. What would his dear mother think if she knew that the slightly traveled and somewhat odd Lord Wesley was the Orchid Thief?

  “Redemption is not in the criminal’s nature, I’m afraid, Lady Farnham,” the doctor intoned. “His puny brain cannot be brought to enlightenment.”

  Puny brain, indeed. If the theories floating around the room weren’t so insulting, they’d be amusing. On the other hand, it might be fun to hear Lord Wesley’s reaction to the doctor’s assessment of his brain—or the duchess’s reaction, for that matter. But after his drunken state the night before, his brain might not be ready for further insult.

  “We’re not here to salvage the Orchid Thief,” the duchess said. “We’re here to keep him from stealing more of our jewelry.”

  “Quite right,” Lady Farnham said. She’d accomplished quite a coup in attracting the dowager to the group, but since she’d arrived, the woman had done nothing but criticize. First the servants, then the tea cakes and then the speakers. Her opinions of Constable Chumley had caused the little man’s ears to color a bright red.

  At least Chumley appeared to approve of Her Grace’s latest statement. He’d fidgeted in his chair through much of the doctor’s presentation, and now he rose and cleared his throat. “Like any criminal, the Orchid Thief is a simple creature. We don’t need any medical hocus-pocus to bring him to justice.”

  “We certainly need something beyond your efforts so far, Chumley,” the duchess said. “You’ve been to my home to humiliate my guests and interfere with my servants, but as far as I can see, you’ve yet to produce any results.”

  Chumley’s entire face reddened at that. “But, Your Grace…”

  “Precisely, Your Grace,” the doctor said. “A systematic approach is needed here, a scientific inquiry.”

  The duchess huffed and looked at the doctor with as much scorn as she’d recently given the constable. Chumley glared at Kleckhorn, too, and a titter of disapproval rippled through the assembled women. Only Lady Farnham smiled at the doctor.

  “Explain to us how modern science can help with our problem, Doctor, if you please,” she said.

  He bowed toward his hostess, clicking his heels together as he did. “Thank you, my lady.” He cleared his throat. “As I was saying, for many years past, England has carried out a most laudable campaign to rid itself of its criminal under-classes through such programs as transportation to the penal colonies.”

  “How can you say that?” the duchess demanded. “The more criminals are transported, the more arise to take their places. The vermin breed like rabbits, or those disgusting little insects that get on my roses.”

  “But now we know how to identify the criminal before he’s committed a crime,” the doctor said.

  “And how do you do that, Doctor?” Lady Farnham asked.

  “With phrenology, madam. Through the systematic study of the dimensions of the criminal skull.”

  Chumley gaped at the doctor as if he were speaking an unintelligible language. “His skull?”

  “You see, the criminal brain is notoriously deficient in the centers of noble thought and reasoning.” He raised his hand to his head, and pressed his fingertips to the top. “Here. Where the upper-class brow is a lofty, gracious height, the criminal’s head is squat and deficient.”

  Lady Farnham raised her own fingers to her forehead. “Here?”

  “Just so, my lady.” The doctor turned and placed his palm against the back of his head, just above his neck. “And here, where the baser drives are seated, we find pronounced bumps on examining the lower-class skull.”

  “And you can use those differences to predict criminal behavior before it’s happened?” Lady Farnham asked. Even she sounded skeptical about that last part.

  “With a great deal of certainty, my lady.”

  The duchess felt the front of her own head and then the back, scowling the entire time. “There are bumps at the back of my head.”

  “Of course, there will be some bumps there, Your Grace,” the doctor said.

  “It’s a lot of nonsense,” she said. “Besides, how are you going to measure the heads of all the scoundrels in London?”

  “Exactly,” Chumley declared, twirling the end of his mustache. “An impossible task.”

  A chorus of “tsks” went through the assembled ladies, accompanied by the bobbing of hats.

  “What I have to suggest is much more practical,” the constable said. He put his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels, looking quite satisfied with himself. “I propose that you ladies have counterfeit jewelry made up to look just like the originals. Then you can wear the fakes while the real gems are held safe.”

  “Counterfeit?” the duchess said, nearly snorting the word. “You expect me to wear imitation jewelry?”

  “Desperate times demand desperate measures, Your Grace,” the constable said.

  The buzz in the room increased at that declaration. All these fine ladies wearing jewelry made out of paste? The man might have suggested that they take a tumble with the footman too.

  “That’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard,” the duchess said, to murmurs of assent from the other ladies. “I won’t do it.”

  “But, Constable,” Lady Farnham said, “all the jewels have been stolen from safes. None have been stolen from around
our necks.”

  “Thank heaven,” the woman who hated children said. “The very idea.”

  “Our safes aren’t safe,” Lady Farnham said. “Oh, dear. You know what I mean.”

  “I’ve thought of that. You must all bring your most valuable jewels to the constabulary for safekeeping.”

  That brought the duchess out of her seat. “Now, that really is too much. Lady Farnham, I don’t know what you were thinking to invite this man here,” she said, gesturing toward Chumley. “But so far, it’s only been a waste of my time.”

  Lady Farnham rose, too, and stretched out her hands toward the duchess in a frankly conciliatory manner. “Please do sit down. I only wanted us to hear what the authorities had to say before we began our own deliberations. The whole idea was to bring our feminine reasoning to bear on the problem.”

  “Then why did you bring in a pair of men to address us?” the duchess demanded, to the ever-louder agreement of more of the ladies, several of whom had already risen to their own feet. “I never listened to my husband’s opinions—God rest his soul. I don’t know why I should pay any attention to these two.”

  “You mustn’t become agitated, Your Grace,” the doctor said.

  “I’m not agitated, Kluckhen or Klockhaven or whatever your name is,” the duchess said. “I’ve been robbed. I’m Wonder-less.”

  Lady Farnham placed herself between the irate dowager duchess and Kleckhorn, as if the two of them might come to blows. “I’m sure the doctor didn’t mean to be insulting.”

  Eve wasn’t nearly as sure of that as Lady Farnham appeared to be. In fact, the doctor looked entirely too pleased with himself and the dowager’s agitation. He gave her a frigid, Germanic smile. “A gentlewoman of your age, Your Grace, should not allow herself to become so exercised. It isn’t good for the womb.”

  A thunderous gasp went up among the assembled females, and the duchess straightened into a quivering tower of indignation. “Mention my womb again, and you’ll have bumps on the back of your own head, Klickhovel.”