Prince of Hearts (Elders and Welders Chronicles)

by Margaret Foxe

  "You ... you..." she sputtered, trying to find words, but failing miserably.

  His hands squeezed her closer and higher so that he was practically carrying her in his arms. How strong was he? She was aware of warm, hard male, crisp tailored silk, the scent of sandalwood and leather and that other unidentifiable musk. She choked.

  "Shh, Finch,” he soothed. “Relax. See, no need to worry about falling on your face now."

  "Put me down," she muttered.

  He cocked an eyebrow.

  "I said...”

  He complied abruptly. Her feet hit the floor, and the momentum of the dance propelled her forward, right into the brick wall of his chest. Her cheek grazed his lapel, and her nose buried itself in his collar so that she was breathing his singular, exotic scent. His ruffled necktie tickled her nose, and she sneezed.

  "Still sick?"

  She felt his voice, rumbling through his chest, and it did strange things to her insides. She straightened and scowled at him. "I am quite recovered. It was your untidy necktie."

  "Yes, well, I lost my valet some time ago to a fit of pique."

  "Pique!"

  "Calm down, Finch. You are ruining my favorite Strauss waltz. Try to enjoy yourself for once. I doubt your Colonel Standish could manage your feet half so well on the dance floor."

  "His name is Charles Netherfield."

  "Ah, yes, the eminent archaeologist," he said, wrinkling his elegant nose as if smelling something distasteful in the air.

  "Yes. And we do not dance together, sir. As I tried to explain earlier, I do not dance."

  "You are a liar. I have seen you dance before."

  This conversation just kept getting worse and worse. "What?"

  "In my office. To the tomb scene in Aida. Lovely melody. But hardly appropriate for a waltz. You have no rhythm, Finch."

  "You were spying on me!" she breathed, feeling her cheeks flood with color.

  He grinned unmercifully at her discomfiture. "Hardly. It was my office. My phonograph. Ergo, not spying."

  "It was spying, and you know it. Is that all you’ve done for the past five years? Spy on me? And don’t think I don’t see Mr. Matthews following me around still."

  "You look very pretty when you are spitting mad, Finch," he murmured, leaning in to her, his cheek nearly grazing her own.

  She froze, which necessitated that he pick her off her feet once more. She hardly noticed this time, however, because her mind was suddenly back in her flat, the night he’d barged in, picked a fight, pinned her to her desk, kissed her, and barged out.

  She’d refused to let herself spend one minute thinking about that kiss – that wet, seductive kiss, lips and tongue and hands, searching, devouring, touching, that had made her legs turn to jelly and her stomach fill with a million butterflies. But it was suddenly all she could think about.

  He seemed to be thinking about it as well, for those strange eyes of his had turned the exact shade of yellow diamonds that they had been that night. She tried to think of something to say, but nothing came to mind. He was mocking her, toying with her, trying to provoke her, and she was being a very easy target.

  Suddenly exhausted, she gave up trying to battle with him and allowed herself to be carried across the floor. The dance would have been exhilarating, if she didn't feel so miserable ... if she didn't hate her partner so utterly.

  He continued to study her with his eagle eyes, never breaking his stare, and she wondered anew what his game was. Why had he kissed her that night, and why was he here now, staring at her as if trying to divine her soul?

  The waltz ended. He stood with her for a moment as the other couples left the floor, setting her on her feet and lowering his hands to his side with deliberate slowness.

  "Why are you tormenting me, sir?" she managed in a weak voice.

  His eyes narrowed. "You’ve no idea what torment is, Finch,” he replied softly, the barest of caresses.

  What was she to say to that?

  He stepped back and offered her his arm. He led her into the crowd and began to scan the room. "Now, where is this Standish fellow? I assume he's here."

  "Netherfield."

  "Whatever. Introduce me."

  She balked. The last thing she wanted to do was introduce Charlie to her ex-employer. "I don't see him,” she lied. “Now go away!”

  "Aline! There you are!" came a familiar voice behind her. She cringed and turned. Apparently, the Fates had cursed her this night.

  Charlie strode up to them with Theodora Hendrix on his arm – this just kept getting better and better! – and the Earl of Llewellyn trailing behind. Romanov faced Charlie with an impenetrable smile after giving Theodora an appraising look that made Aline grit her teeth.

  Despite her intentions otherwise, she found herself comparing Romanov to her fiancé. Charlie was considered a handsome man on most occasions, but standing next to Romanov, he seemed almost plain. Even the Earl, who was legendary for his good looks, faded away next to Romanov.

  "Professor Romanov, may I present Miss Theodora Hendrix, and Professor Charles Netherfield. My fiancé," she said reluctantly.

  Charlie smiled broadly and extended his hand. "No need for ceremony, what? I feel like I've known you for ages, Professor. Aline has told me so much about you," Charlie gushed. His obvious pleasure upon finally meeting Romanov made Aline want to scream. She prayed he wouldn't immediately begin to solicit Romanov for funds for the upcoming expedition.

  Romanov eyed her as he shook Charlie's hand. "Has she?" he murmured. "Only the good things, I trust?"

  The Earl snickered. Charlie looked startled. "Of course."

  "You come as a bit of a shock to me, Mr. Neverfeel,” Romanov continued.

  "Netherfield," she corrected.

  He ignored her. "Fin ... Aline ... didn't inform me she had a fiancé until a week ago."

  Charlie looked even more startled. He looked at her, and she was struggling not to blush. Romanov had never spoken her first name in the five years she had known him, most likely because he’d forgotten it. Hearing it now, spoken in such a low, languid drawl, made all of her insides knot.

  She lifted her eyes to discover the Earl glancing from her to Romanov with a thoughtful look on his face. That thoughtfulness gave way to cunning, however, and Aline groaned inwardly. Rowan Harker’s life mission was stirring up trouble.

  "I'm sure Aline intended to introduce you at the wedding,” his Lordship said with a devious smile.

  "Ah. The wedding. When is the happy day again, Aline?" Romanov asked, turning to her expectantly.

  "In a month," Charlie answered for her. "Then we set sail for Egypt."

  For a moment, Romanov was silent, giving her an incredulous look. He clearly remembered their journey across the Channel together. "Ah, an exotic honeymoon. Aline has always dreamed of traveling to outlandish places." A cat-like grin hovered at the edges of his lips.

  Charlie was nonplussed. "It's not quite a honeymoon. That is, I am heading an expedition to an area just below Luxor."

  Romanov's attention never faltered from Aline's face. "A not-quite honeymoon digging for old bones. How romantic." At last he shifted his glance from Aline to the extremely confused Charlie. "Do you know your fiancé quit without notice, sir? While I was abroad, no less. I came back to find my affairs in a complete shambles."

  Charlie hadn't known this, since she’d lied and told him she’d informed Romanov of her resignation over wireless tickertext. Which she had done. The Professor just hadn’t read it. He swung her a questioning glance. “Is this true, Aline?” he demanded.

  “Very true,” Romanov supplied for her.

  Charlie furrowed his brow. “Well, I don’t see why you couldn’t finish out the month, Aline.”

  What? Well, Aline could see why. And Charlie had been the one so adamant she resign as soon as possible in the first place. Evidently, Charlie was so unnerved by meeting Romanov that he was spouting nonsense. She glared at Charlie. “I have much to do before the weddin
g, Charlie,” she said as evenly as she could.

  “Like what?” Charlie asked the same time Romanov did.

  “I have … things to do,” she gritted out.

  Charlie looked unconvinced. The Earl looked as if he was about to explode with mirth.

  Theodora, of all people, seemed to take pity on her, for she laid a hand on her arm and faced the men. “An engaged lady has many things to do before the wedding. Preparing a trousseau. Planning for the wedding and reception, picking out flowers. Things men have no concept of.”

  “But we’re getting married at the registrar’s,” Charlie said, baffled.

  Theodora’s brow lifted in surprise. “Oh, well that certainly makes things … easier.”

  Aline heaved a sigh. Theodora was not helping.

  Aline was saved from further interrogation by the start of another Strauss waltz. Charlie cleared his throat and gestured to Miss Hendrix, who was staring at Aline so intently she didn’t see Charlie’s gesture.

  Aline had the uncomfortable sensation that Miss Hendrix was … well, sniffing her, as the Professor had done earlier. But that was ridiculous. She was just feeling overly sensitive at the moment and must be imagining Theodora’s strange behavior.

  “My, you smell nice, Miss Finch,” Theodora said. “What is that scent?”

  No, she hadn’t imagined it after all. And she wasn’t imagining the strength with which Theodora gripped her forearm. It was rather painful. What was the matter with the woman?

  “I don’t wear a scent,” she said, unable to hide her irritation, sending the Professor a glower.

  Just as she was about to jerk away from Theodora, decorum be damned, Charlie pried Miss Hendrix’s hand from Aline’s arm. Miss Hendrix seemed to come to herself at last and turned her attention to Charlie, smiling brilliantly.

  “We shall continue this discussion later, Aline,” Charlie said, after giving Theodora an odd look. “I have promised this waltz to Miss Hendrix.”

  Aline didn’t know what to make of that odd moment with Theodora. But it was, sadly, just one of many odd moments that seemed to be plaguing her life.

  And Aline was not jealous as she watched Charlie lead Theodora to the dance floor. She wasn’t.

  “An unromantic wedding at the registrar’s, followed by an unromantic honeymoon digging up mummies in the desert,” came a voice near her ear. Heat raced down her spine. She turned, gave Romanov her most contemptuous scowl, then bestowed it upon the Earl for good measure, and walked away.

  Moments later, she was outside in the Llewellyn gardens, breathing in the night air, and reining in her temper. Charlie was smitten with Miss Hendrix, and Romanov was in rare form at her expense. She tore down the garden path when Matthews, her ever present and unwanted bodyguard, appeared out of nowhere and winked at her before melting into the shadows once more. She barely repressed her shout of surprise.

  And then she wished she had shouted. The evidence that her life was no longer her own, and perhaps had never been, was fast-mounting. The night could not possibly get any worse.

  But it did.

  "I believe I have something that belongs to you."

  She spun around, her heart catching in her throat.

  Romanov smiled at her from the shadows and approached her languidly, tapping her spectacles against his lapel.

  She snatched at them, but he held them high above her head, out of her reach. She lowered her arms and glared at him. "Give them back."

  "Not until we come to an agreement."

  She crossed her arms. "No agreement. I am not coming back to work for you."

  "Inside, you gave me a month."

  "Charlie gave you a month. I did not."

  He tsked. "That's no way to begin life as an obedient bride, defying one's husband."

  He tucked her spectacles back into his lapel. She leaned forward to retrieve them and stopped cold, remembering what had happened last time she had fumbled about the area of his chest. Heat surged through her, and she backed away, nearly stumbling over the uneven bricks.

  As always, he caught her, but she shoved his hand away and continued to back up. A wall stopped her escape. He paced forward but stopped several arms’ lengths away. He had grown serious, thoughtful, which was more worrisome to her than his former mockery. She wondered if he too was remembering their outlandish encounter on her desk.

  "A month, and I return your spectacles."

  "No." She shook her head and turned away. "I am marrying Charlie and going to Egypt.”

  "Nonsense. You aren't going anywhere. No, you can come back to me. Of course we shall lighten your load, if that shall make you more ... obedient. And you may marry Standish ..."

  "Netherfield."

  "... if you like, though I have my doubts about him, Finch. Really, a honeymoon spent digging for bones in the desert? It's an absurd idea."

  "It sounds heavenly," she insisted stubbornly, hating that he had a point. Charlie hadn't even mentioned the possibility for a proper honeymoon, and she hadn't bothered to ask. She'd been too distracted by her decision to marry at all and her spectacular irritation at Romanov to even think what she wanted. At the time, a ceremony at the registrar's office and a swift ticket out of London seemed the perfect solution to her problems.

  Now she was not so sure she'd not been hasty. She'd always wanted a church wedding, even though that was rather old-fashioned, embarrassing sentimentality on her part. A small wedding in the quaint country chapel where her parents had married.

  But she'd never tell Charlie this. Or the fact that she wouldn't mind a few weeks' holiday doing nothing before digging in the desert for old bones.

  Romanov moved closer, his voice grew softly seductive. It was the voice of the devil. "Finch ... Aline. What shall you do without me?"

  She stiffened, stepped backwards. "I shall manage, sir."

  "Sasha."

  She snorted. She was not about to start calling him that. "I am marrying Charlie and settling down," she insisted.

  "How dull. How bourgeois."

  She ignored him. "We shall have a cottage together."

  "Ten children, three dogs?"

  "No dogs," she retorted.

  "You are not the housewife type," he pronounced.

  She bristled. "Some people rather like the idea of having a family. You might think it silly, but I want children."

  "You hate children."

  "I would love my children," she amended.

  "You'll be bored to death."

  "I will not be idle. I will write full time. But this is getting us nowhere. I will never be your secretary again. Not for all the tea in China.”

  He was silent, still. The music inside the ballroom hummed in the background. She thought about bolting for the doors, but something made her hesitate. Romanov made her hesitate. For five years, she had watched him waltz through life with one of two masks on his face. One was the intense, absorbed, driven mask he wore when playing his role as the professor. The other was the devilish one he took up when he flirted with women or played with his hellhounds … or teased her. Rarely had she seen those masks drop away.

  But they did now. He looked weary, soul-dead.

  It could have been a trick of the light in the poorly lit garden, but somehow she doubted it. He ran a hand over his face, through his hair, and sighed. "Please. Don't leave me now."

  It was a mere whisper on the wind.

  She clutched her hand against her traitorous heart, which had begun to beat dangerously fast in her breast, and turned away to face the garden wall. Beneath his masks, despite his success and wealth and perfect beauty, he was little more than a lonely man adrift upon a very large sea. And she hurt for him.

  Something had happened to him on this last trip.

  No, that wasn't right. Romanov's soul-sickness had always been there. He’d chosen to study killers, psychopaths, and all manner of deviants with a singular, unnerving focus. He relished in the hunt of the sickest of society's criminals when Drexler call
ed for his assistance, spent his days and nights trying to understand what drove men to murder and cruelty. A man like that had to be a little touched.

  Or extremely tortured.

  But she would not become mired in that world again. He would not draw her into his obsessions. "I can't."

  She turned back to him and nearly collided with his chest. He had approached her while her back was turned. Now he was much too close. She could barely breathe now, barely think.

  "Where do you think you're going?" he said gruffly.

  Her lips tightened with stubborn disapproval. "I am going back inside, to my fiancé."

  "We are not through, milaya,” he murmured.

  She sucked in a breath. First he called her Aline, and now … this Russian endearment. "Don’t call me that," she demanded, feeling her blush rise.

  "Yes, my pet."

  She growled at him, a fierce little noise that surprised both of them. His eyes widened, and something … hot … passed over them.

  “Just give me my spectacles, and let me go.”

  "You'll ruin your eyes, wearing them when you do not need them." He raised both hands and touched her temples, lightly caressing. "It is why you get so many headaches," he said in a low voice. "Trust me."

  "That is something I ... will ... not ... do," she murmured. Yet she stood fixed in place as his fingers massaged her temples. What was he doing? And why was she letting him do it? She worried her bottom lip with her teeth, and he stared at the sight as if it fascinated him.

  He stepped closer, and suddenly he seemed to be breathing as rapidly as she was. A fingertip grazed her lips, tracing them, pressing them apart at the seam. Oh God, it was her flat all over again. A bolt of electrified lust traveled down her spine, settling low, in unmentionable places.

  "If you kiss me," she whispered, "I’ll scream.”

  "I'm not going to kiss you," he whispered back. "You're imagining things, Finch."

  She gave him a look that told him exactly how little she believed him and attempted to say something further, she knew not what. But he silenced her by placing a finger on her lips once more. He let it fall down her chin, over her throat, to the top of the high collar of her dress. He eyed the bit of faded lace peeking over the top distastefully.