Always a Princess

by Alice Gaines

  He could only sit and gape at her after that last pronouncement. Not care for her? Hadn’t he been watching over her since the night they met—helping her to steal jewels and protecting her from Chumley and his men? Hadn’t he moved her into the house with him and his parents? Hadn’t he spent days trying to give her some pleasure—and nearly driving himself mad in the process? Not care for her? How dare she entertain such a notion after all he’d done for her?

  “Don’t be idiotic,” he sputtered. “Of course I care for you.”

  “I’ll hold that tender declaration close to my heart, I’m sure,” she said.

  Bloody hell. No matter what the woman did, she managed to provoke him. She had a positive talent for it. Last night she’d provoked him to levels of lust he’d never before imagined possible. And then she’d satisfied him in ways no other woman ever had. She’d stolen his soul with her kisses, won his heart with her sighs. Now, she’d gone back to holding him away from her. Perhaps things were worse now, because they had grown closer recently, and now she seemed colder and more distant—and even more infuriating—than ever.

  Worst of all, he really was to blame for everything. He’d goaded her for days—doing his best to torment her the way she tormented him. He’d touched and kissed and teased until they’d both reached a frenzy of unsatisfied desires. No wonder all those desires had exploded last night, and it was all his own fault.

  “I do care about you,” he said more quietly than before. And he did, much more than he should. In fact, he might very well be falling in love with the impossible female. His mother expected him to find a “suitable” wife, and he’d fallen in love with the least suitable woman in all of London. What a mess he’d made of things.

  “It’s precisely because I do care for you that we need to discuss what happened between us last night,” he said.

  She looked down at her fingers where they toyed with the remnants of her wig. “You didn’t make me any promises, and I didn’t ask for any.”

  “You gave me your virginity,” he said.

  Her head shot back up again. “You didn’t think I’d be a virgin?”

  “At this point, that’s hardly important.”

  “You didn’t, did you? You thought that because I’d let you kiss me, let you touch me…” She stopped talking and her chin threatened to tremble. “Oh God, how I let you touch me.”

  “The fact that you’d let me touch you didn’t mean that you’re not…that you weren’t…” Weren’t what? Innocent? Pure? Unsullied? The world made such ugly assumptions about women who surrendered to their natural desires. Yes, she’d been a virgin until he’d made thorough, wonderful love to her. But she hadn’t become impure as a result. Quite the opposite—she was infinitely more precious to him now that he’d known her in the most intimate way possible.

  All of which meant that he was, indeed, falling in love with her. And she might be carrying his child. Dear God, what should he do now?

  “You assumed the worst of me,” she said.

  “No, truly I didn’t.” What had he thought as he deliberately set out to seduce her? That’s what he’d done, and he might as well face up to it now. He’d set out to cure her and had ended up hurting her even further. Well, he could fix that, and to hell with her unsuitability.

  “There’s a simple solution to this entire problem,” he said.

  She looked at him out of eyes that were already red and wet with tears. “What?”

  “We’ll get married.”

  “You can’t marry me. Not who I really am, and I can’t go through life pretending to be a princess I’m not.”

  “It will take some doing, I’ll admit, but we’re both clever, resourceful people. We’ll think of something.”

  “But I can’t marry you,” she wailed, letting the last sound trail off in a string of oo-oo-oo-oos. “More importantly, you can’t marry me.”

  “Don’t cry. Please. Anything but that. I can’t bear to see you cry.”

  She turned and stared out of the cab again, and her shoulders began to shake. She was crying silently, and he’d never felt so helpless—nor so vile and loathsome—in his entire life. He’d pull her into his arms, but the rigid set to her back advised against attempting it.

  “Eve, please. You’re breaking my heart.”

  She gave out one little sob and straightened. “Thank you very much for the gallant offer, Lord Wesley, but we both know any betrothal between us is out of the question.”

  “Difficult, yes,” he said. “But rich men marry governesses. You read about it all the time.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “All the time?”

  “Some of the time.”

  “You read about it because it’s a scandal.”

  She had him there. Tongues cluck, gossip flies, matronly relatives collapse of the vapors. His mother wasn’t the fainting type, as a rule, but who knew how she’d take the news that he’d taken it into his head to marry not only a governess but one who’d posed as a princess to gain entrance to her household? Of course, he’d persuaded Eve to move in, not the other way around, but would Lady Farnham ever believe it?

  “Besides, you’re not just a rich man, are you?” she said. “For heaven’s sake, you’re going to be an earl.”

  “Earls must marry governesses occasionally.”

  In answer, she stared at him as if he’d said something stupid.

  “Some earl must have married some governess,” he said, gesturing with his arms out of pure frustration. “Somewhere.”

  “I hope they’re very happy. They’re not us.”

  “Why not?” Damn, he was shouting now. “For the love of God, woman, what is it you’re keeping from me?”

  She didn’t answer that but went back to staring out the window, curse her.

  “I can’t marry you,” she said softly.

  “Why not?” he demanded. “I’m rich. I’m young yet. I’m not so bad to look at.”

  “You’re desperately handsome,” she said in a wobbly little voice.

  “There, you see?” he said. “I’m pleasant enough to have around, can keep up my end of a good conversation.”

  “I know.”

  “We suit each other well in bed. After last night, we can hardly doubt that.”

  She greeted that with an audible sob and a violent tremble of her shoulders. “I can’t marry you.”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense.” He barely kept himself from shouting, took a few breaths and tried to calm himself. Although any reasonable person could hardly remain calm in these circumstances. As heir to the earldom of Farnham, he was the bloody catch of the whole bloody season, but for some bloody reason he wasn’t good enough for a guttersnipe like Eve Stanhope. If she was a guttersnipe. He still had no bloody idea who she was.

  She stared down into her lap. She’d composed herself somewhat, but tears still dampened her cheeks. “I can’t marry you for reasons of my own,” she said quietly. “There’s something I have to do, and I can’t be married to do it.”

  He put his hand over hers and squeezed. “Whatever it is, we can do it together.”

  She lifted her chin and looked at him. “We can’t. I have to do it myself.”

  “Fine, then. We’ll be married afterward.”

  “You won’t want to marry me then.”

  “How can you know that?” he demanded.

  “Philip, it’s decent of you to want to do the right thing by me, but, I don’t require promises from you. Put the whole affair, liaison, encounter…the whole thing…out of your mind. It never happened.”

  At that moment, the cab arrived at the house and turned onto the drive. Soon they’d encounter someone—with any luck just a footman and not Mobley or his parents. They’d have to continue this conversation later, but continue it they would. He would not allow Eve to think he’d take her virginity and abandon her. And he would come to some decisions about how to make amends for what he’d done. And most important, they’d decide between them how they’d ra
ise his child, if indeed they’d created a child. He would not shirk his responsibilities.

  The cab stopped in front of the house, and the door opened. A footman appeared to help them out of the cab. So far, so good. Perhaps they’d manage to sneak into their rooms for a few quiet moments before they had to confront his parents.

  Eve hastily composed herself, straightening her shoulders and swiping at her eyes. She exited the cab, wig in hand, and began to climb the stairs. Philip jumped out after her and took her elbow to guide her inside. They’d just made it to the front door when Mobley greeted them. So much for getting inside without detection.

  Mobley wore the dourest of expressions available to any majordomo worthy of his salt. One look at Philip and Eve and it became even dourer. The slight arch to his brow and the faintest curl of his upper lip turned into a look of horror followed quickly by wide-eyed outrage. The man was apparently seething inside—a churning cauldron of butlerly disapproval.

  “Good morning, Mobley,” Philip said as nonchalantly as he could manage, given that he was still wearing rumpled satin breeches and Eve’s dress hung on her awkwardly.

  “My lord,” Mobley intoned. The butler glanced first up the street and then down to make sure no one had seen his employer’s ignominious arrival. Finally, he closed the door behind them and gaped at them. It would take some time for even as professional a man as Mobley to reconcile himself to their appearance, it seemed.

  “I’d like a bath if it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” Eve said quietly.

  “No trouble at all,” Philip said, despite the fact that she most likely wanted the bath to erase any taint of their night together from her body. He put his hand at her elbow, and she flinched visibly.

  “Let me help you upstairs,” he said.

  She didn’t look at him, nor at Mobley. Nor at anything specifically. “I’ll be fine.”

  Of all the empty phrases she’d uttered this morning, that one rang the most hollow. But he wouldn’t pursue it in front of Mobley.

  “Have a bath sent up to Her Highness,” he said to Mobley.

  “Certainly, my lord.”

  “Thank you,” she said, or rather sighed. She walked to the stairway and began a slow ascent. Philip watched her go, searching for any sign of the woman who’d cried out in her pleasure the night before. The woman who’d curled her body into his in her sleep. That woman had gone and left this block of ice behind. Ice he’d created somehow.

  “I’ll tell Ned you’ve returned,” Mobley said. “You’ll be wanting his services. And Marie for the princess.”

  Ah, yes. Ned and Marie. No doubt the two servants had gotten together first thing this morning to confirm that certain beds hadn’t been slept in. They would have repeated their stories to Mobley—strictly out of duty and concern for the family, of course—and might perhaps have let something slip to the rest of them below stairs. Including Hubert.

  Oh hell, the whole bloody staff would know by now that he and Eve had been out all night together. He didn’t have to answer to them, of course, but his parents were another matter entirely.

  “Lord and Lady Farnham will want to know you’ve arrived home safely,” Mobley said.

  “Don’t tell my parents just yet. I need to, um, wash up a bit.” And to think of something, anything to tell them about where he’d been. All night. With the princess.

  “But they’ve been worried, my lord.”

  “I’m sure they have, Mobley, and I’ll explain everything.” As soon as he figured out what everything was. “Only not now.”

  “You certainly will explain and right this minute,” his mother’s voice called from the top of the stairway. She hadn’t dressed yet but wore her dressing gown, and her hair was piled haphazardly on top of her head. She descended the stairs at a near-run and then threw her arms around Philip as though she hadn’t seen him for a month. After a moment, she stepped back and swiped some moisture from the corner of her eyes. “What have you been doing? You look a fright.”

  “It’s only a costume, Mother,” he said.

  “Perhaps we should discuss this in private,” she said, glancing pointedly at Mobley.

  The butler cleared his throat. “You’ll excuse me, my lady.”

  “Of course.” Lavinia waited until Mobley left and then grabbed Philip’s hand and dragged him into the sitting room. After closing the door behind her, she turned on him.

  “Where have you been, Philip? I’ve been sick with worry.”

  “You needn’t have been,” he replied.

  “How can you say that? That murderous Orchid Thief was right under our noses.”

  “I don’t think he’s murdered anyone, Mother.”

  “Right under our noses,” she continued. “They almost caught him, you know.”

  He knew that far better than he cared to. “Did they really?”

  “Chumley had him trapped in one of the bedrooms, but he escaped. Impossible, if you ask me, how a thief can slip into and out of bedrooms without being seen. It isn’t natural.”

  “Now, Mother, it’s done every day, and not for thievery. At least, not in the strictest sense of the word.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” she said. “And I wish you didn’t, either.”

  “Sorry.”

  “People know entirely too much these days, and just look at the state of the world as a result. Your father didn’t know anything when I married him, and almost forty years later, he still doesn’t.”

  “I’m sure you’re right about that,” Philip said, although he couldn’t quite picture his father never having found his way into a bedroom where he didn’t belong.

  “Marriage does that for a man,” she said. “But I wasn’t talking about that. What was I talking about?”

  “The Orchid Thief,” he supplied.

  Her eyes narrowed. “No, I wasn’t. I was talking about where you were last night. Or, where you weren’t. You weren’t here—I know that much.”

  “I was out.”

  “Obviously.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Where?”

  “Here and there.” He had to do better than that, but he hadn’t had any time to prepare for this inquisition.

  “And did you take the princess here and there with you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.”

  “Oh, dear heaven.” She pulled a handkerchief from her bosom and dabbed at her eyes with it.

  “I could hardly leave the princess behind, not with the Orchid Thief on the loose.”

  “It’s all my fault,” his mother wailed. “I’ve been too indulgent with you.”

  He stood and stared at the woman he’d called Mother for his entire thirty-five years on earth. What she said didn’t normally make complete sense, but it normally made some sense. How in hell could any of this be her fault? Still, if she wanted to accept blame for the fact that he’d disappeared with a princess during a jewel burglary and hadn’t returned until the next morning, who was he to object?

  “I let you run wild all these years, and now my chickens have come home to roost.”

  “Chickens?” he repeated.

  “Isn’t that the expression?”

  “Yes, absolutely. Chickens.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “This has nothing to do with barnyard animals. I want to know where you and the princess were all last night.”

  He cleared his throat, attempting to buy a bit more time. His mother wasn’t having any of it, though, as she made clear by tapping her foot against the carpet.

  “Ah, well,” he said finally. “That’s confidential.”

  “Nonsense. I’m your mother.”

  “How right you are,” he said. “But, you see, it’s the princess’s secret.”

  “How could she have any secrets? She just arrived in London.”

  “She’s an incredibly quick study, our princess.”

  His mother’s foot-tapping grew more vigorous, until the hem of her dress shook with it. “Go on.”

&
nbsp; “Well, you see, she’d grown very upset at being so nearly accosted by the Orchid Thief that she begged my assistance in seeking the only solace that helps when her nerves are shattered.”

  “And that is…”

  “Yes, well.” He cleared his throat again and searched his brain for someplace—anyplace—that might be acceptable for a young woman to be in the middle of the night in London.

  “A church,” he blurted finally.

  His mother’s foot stilled. “A church?”

  “Yes, a church.” Thank heaven he’d thought of that. “A Greek Orthodox church.”

  “Greek Orthodox,” she repeated, her eyes growing wide. “The princess is Greek Orthodox?”

  “Well, no, she isn’t, exactly.”

  “Not that your father or I would care that she’s something like Greek Orthodox, mind you. But not everyone is so open-minded.”

  He didn’t doubt that for a moment. In fact, if his mother’s mind got any more open, she wouldn’t be able to hold anything inside it at all.

  “I believe the princess is Church of England,” he said. Although asserting that royalty from Valdastok was Church of England would be a dicey proposition, indeed. “Or at least, I think that’s what she told me. But, you see, one of her ancestors was Greek Orthodox. Someone very famous. Charlemagne, I think.”

  His mother tipped her head and looked at him as if he’d gone quite mad. “Charlemagne was Greek Orthodox?”

  “Perhaps it wasn’t Charlemagne,” he said, tossing his hand into the air as though he might grasp something there that would get him out of this hideous mess. “Perhaps it was Alexander the Great.”

  “Alexander the Great?” she repeated. He’d done such a splendid job of confusing her, she’d started to sound like an echo.

  “Alexander conquered that entire part of the world, didn’t he?” Of course, he’d done it centuries before the Greek Orthodox Church ever existed. But why quibble at this point?

  “Yes,” she said softly. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “The crux of this whole tale is that the princess had a very powerful ancestor who was Greek Orthodox, and now any time she feels distressed, she seeks out this ancestor’s wisdom in the bowels of a Greek Orthodox church. As you can imagine, she was most distraught at her near encounter with the Orchid Thief.”