by Kate Bateman
She stepped closer, reaching out to touch it before she even realized what she was doing. It was exquisite, something Charlotte would wear, a gorgeous midnight-blue watered silk gown with little puff sleeves and a draped bodice.
A note lay on the fabric, the white card stark against the shimmering blue.
Your lavender gown offends me, as it would anyone with a modicum of taste. Wear this.
The sloping copperplate undoubtedly belonged to Wolff, despite the absence of a signature. Anya didn’t know whether to be amused or annoyed by his high-handedness. Did he think she wore the grey dress because she liked it?
The new gown fit like a dream. Wolff was doubtless well-versed in calculating a woman’s measurements. Anya shivered in guilty pleasure as the silk chemise that had also been provided slid against her skin. She’d become so used to rough cotton, it felt as sensual as a caress. Every nerve ending quivered in happiness. Temptation, thy name is satin.
Her well-washed stockings had been replaced by a pair of embroidered silk ones, her practical, mud-covered boots replaced by a pair of highly impractical slippers. She put them on without a moment’s hesitation.
The only omission had been a corset. Anya wondered if it was deliberate, or whether Wolff had truly forgotten that women needed such things. Perhaps the women with whom he consorted didn’t bother to wear them.
The girl who stared back at her from the mirror was a foreign creature, someone she hadn’t seen for over a year. With a jolt, she felt like herself again, like Princess Denisova, poised and carefree. Able to go anywhere, do anything. It was a lie, of course. She was Anya Ivanov now, trapped in this cage of her own making. What good did it do to pine for what was gone?
Mickey rapped on the outer door. “There’s dinner downstairs, miss.”
“Will his lordship be eating with me?”
“Not tonight. He’s dining out.”
Anya quashed a feeling of pique. She shouldn’t want to see Wolff’s reaction to her in these clothes.
She followed the giant down the curved staircase and into a room with a gleaming mahogany sideboard and matching table. A single place setting had been arranged at one end, and she ate in solitary splendor.
The lack of company was made up for by the exquisite food: salmon, beef, almond syllabub. Mickey offered her wine, and Anya took two glasses of a wonderful French burgundy.
There was still no sign of Wolff, so she placed her napkin on the table and went exploring. He hadn’t expressly forbidden her to do so, after all.
She discovered a salon and a billiard room, and the stairs down to the kitchens, but her steps drew her down a long picture-hung corridor with a door at the far end. The murmur of conversation on the other side of the mahogany indicated this was a way into the club, but she had no desire to open it. Instead, she followed a narrow staircase up, up, and found herself on a kind of minstrel’s gallery overlooking the main gaming floor.
The air was warm up here, near the roof. A carved fretwork screen shielded her from sight while giving an excellent view of the comings and goings in the room below. The tsar had something similar in all the royal palaces; spy holes, places to see, but not be seen. Dark corners perfect for clandestine assignations.
The club was a riot of color and noise. Green baize-topped gaming tables, cream playing cards, the spinning red-and-black of the roulette wheels. Most of the men were clad in dark colors, but the women flitting between them were like exotic birds, some more gaudy than others. Most of them had chosen to preserve their anonymity by wearing masks.
The excited hum of conversation, broken by the occasional cheer or groan, filled the place with a lively energy that made Anya’s nerves tingle.
A movement behind her had her heart leaping to her throat, and she knew without looking that it was Wolff. She kept her face to the front as he stepped close behind her, felt the disturbance of the air as his legs brushed her skirts. The subtle scent of his cologne made her suck in an unsteady breath.
“Who gave you permission to be up here?”
“No one. But then, no one forbade me either.”
He rested his hand on the rail next to her hip and leaned forward to look at the scene below. Anya sneaked a glance at him from the corner of her eye. The glow from the lamps lit his features while the fretwork screen cast a pattern of shapes across his face. He looked like a jungle cat, speckled by foliage, watching his prey from the shadows.
He was so tall, so evidently physical beneath those elegant clothes, but she didn’t find his size intimidating. Instead, she found it rather thrilling. He turned, resting his hip against the rail, and focused his attention on her. His gaze burned the side of her face.
“That dress is a definite improvement.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it. Although you must know that it will take me some time to repay you.”
He flicked his fingers in a dismissive gesture. “I don’t expect you to. It’s a gift.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but he placed his index finger over her lips and she was momentarily shocked into silence. He wasn’t wearing gloves. The sensation of skin on skin sent a shimmer of bright energy through her.
“Not a gift for you,” he said, and there was laughter in his voice. “For me. As someone who likes his guests to maintain a certain level of sartorial elegance.”
He dropped his hand, but her lips still tingled.
“So, tell me, what you were doing at Haye’s if you weren’t supplementing your income as one of her girls? I’m curious.”
Anya stiffened at the unexpected change of topic. So, they were back to that, were they? She should have known he wouldn’t let it go. He was a man who liked answers.
Would he believe her reasons for being there were entirely innocent? A perverse part of her wanted to see how he’d treat her if he thought she was a fallen woman, fair game. Would he try to proposition her again? Did she want him to?
She certainly wanted to be kissed again. The memory of it made her whole body thrum.
“I had some business there,” she murmured vaguely.
He reached out and touched the side of her neck, the faintest brush across her skin. Instant flames bloomed beneath his fingers.
“Business. Hmm.” His tone was dubious. It was clear he didn’t know what to believe. “Are you promised to another? A husband? A lover?”
Anya closed her eyes. Her body’s reaction to him was so unexpected. So strong. Princess Anastasia would never have had the chance to dally with such a charming rogue. But she was Anna Brown. Anya Ivanov. Unfettered by the restrictions of polite society. Why shouldn’t she seize the chance to experience a little passion?
“I’m promised to no one.” Her voice was almost a croak.
Some of the tension in his body relaxed, as if he was relieved by her answer.
“Then why did you say no?”
His thumb pressed lightly over the pulse in her throat, then trailed up to her jaw. He tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear, the gesture as casual as if he’d done it a thousand times before. “Even if you didn’t want my money, we could have had such fun.”
“I—” Words failed her. “I … don’t have much experience … with that sort of thing.”
“Look at me.”
Anya opened her eyes and was instantly caught in his gaze. He was so close, so tempting. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d been in such close proximity with anyone. She could see the black ring around his brown irises, the sinful curl of his lashes. A room full of people stood not fifty feet away, but for all intents and purposes, they were alone.
The corners of his mouth quirked upward. “That certainly explains something that was bothering me, Miss Brown.”
“It does? What?”
“Your kiss.”
“What about it?”
A teasing smile hovered at the edges of his mouth. “How can I put this? Although enthusiastic, it lacked … polish. Technique.”
Her mouth fell open, and he
chuckled softly. “Now, don’t get offended, but when it comes to kissing, I’m afraid you could do with a little practice.”
What conceit! Did he critique all his partners in such a way? Anya couldn’t decide whether to be insulted or entertained. She settled for sarcasm. “And I suppose you’re an expert on the matter?”
“I’ve had some experience, yes.” His gaze dropped to her lips and a hot flush swept over her skin.
“Are you offering to be my tutor?” She’d meant to sound dry and cynical, but to her dismay, it came out breathless instead.
His gaze flashed back to hers, and she found herself drowning in the abyss of his eyes.
“Yes,” he said, utterly serious. “I am.”
Anya threw caution to the wind. She lifted her chin in haughty, regal challenge. “All right then, Mr. Wolff. Show me.”
A flare of triumph flickered across his face. He lifted his hand to cradle her nape, his eyes never leaving hers, and a shiver skittered down her spine. He used the pad of his thumb to tilt her chin up, and Anya parted her lips in anticipation as he leaned closer. The sandpaper-roughness of his jaw as it brushed against her cheek was both alien and thrilling.
His lips found hers. When he skimmed the sensitive flesh of her lower lip with his teeth, Anya almost groaned. She felt him smile against her mouth. He kissed her again, softly to ease the sting, and his tongue slid out to taste.
Her heart gave an irregular jolt. She opened to his silent demand, granting him access to her mouth, and his fingers tightened on the back of her head in silent approval. Her eyelids fluttered closed.
He kissed her slowly, languidly, as if they had all the time in the world. His tongue tangled with hers, a glorious advance and retreat, a voluptuous slip and slide of breath and skin that made her feel like she’d had one too many glasses of champagne. In the small, still-functioning part of her brain, Anya dizzily acknowledged that Sebastien Wolff wasn’t just a good kisser; he was an expert, a virtuoso.
She surrendered to the red-hot darkness with delight. Excitement coiled low in her belly, stoked by his wicked, talented mouth. Who’d have thought his lips would be so soft, so delicious? She slid her arms around his neck and pressed closer, greedy for more. Her breasts squashed against the hard plane of his chest as she tangled her fingers in his thick hair.
With a groan that reverberated through her body, he dropped his hands to her upper arms and pulled away. He rested his forehead against hers.
“That, Miss Brown, is a definite improvement.”
His breath was as unsteady as her own, and Anya felt a little spurt of feminine triumph. The attraction wasn’t all one-sided, then.
“Come to my room.” His voice was an octave lower than usual, all gravel and smoke. It made her toes curl in her slippers. “Let me show you the rest.”
The pop of a champagne cork and a raucous cheer from below pulled her back from the brink of insanity. Anya took a step back, amazed and rather appalled by the fever he’d ignited so effortlessly.
“No! I can’t. I’m … Good night, my lord.” She turned and fled down the stairs.
To her relief, he let her go.
Back in her room, she cooled her burning cheeks with her palms. She’d been so close to saying yes. True, they were practically strangers, but there was no denying the attraction between them.
Anya fell onto the bed, utterly confused. Her whole life she’d cherished the romantic dream that she would save herself for a husband, for the man she’d choose as a lifelong partner. She wanted someone she could respect and love. Someone who would share the responsibilities of running the family estates, and who’d make her laugh during the mind-numbing ceremonial functions she was expected to attend at court.
Her pickiness in choosing a husband had been acceptable—even expected—of a wealthy Russian princess. But she wasn’t that princess anymore. She was an ordinary citizen, an exile. A twenty-two-year-old secretary-companion with little money and even fewer marriage prospects.
Sebastien Wolff could never be associated with permanence, but if she wanted an affaire, he was the perfect solution. He wasn’t pretending to have any deeper feelings for her other than a healthy physical magnetism. He was making no promises except to provide her with an unparalleled sexual experience.
Why had she refused him? She should have taken what he was offering and satisfied her curiosity to know the pleasure Charlotte’s girls insisted could be had between a man and a woman.
Anya expelled a long, frustrated breath and tried to calm her racing heart.
What was Wolff thinking now? Was he cursing her name? Would he go off to somewhere like Haye’s and slake his lust with a more willing partner?
She told herself she didn’t want to know.
Chapter 14.
Seb took a deep, calming breath and willed his iron-hard erection to subside.
“Anya Ivanov” was a walking contradiction. Prim and proper one minute, melting passion in his arms the next. Who was she? The inquisitive part of his nature, the one that fitted so well with his role of Bow Street investigator, demanded he find out. Knowledge was power, and he wanted every one of her secrets.
She was clearly well educated. No mere peasant would end up as maid to a princess, and her mannerisms and speech all told of an inbred familiarity with the haute monde. Maybe she came from an old but impoverished Russian family? She could be like Benedict, descended from a proud and ancient lineage, but hampered by a perpetual lack of funds. There were plenty like that in the ton. Estates were mismanaged. Fathers developed a fatal propensity for gambling. Anya struck him as someone who’d fallen on hard times.
Yet she was resilient. Instead of bemoaning her reduced circumstances, as so many other women of his acquaintance might have done, she’d realized that her mental faculties were a valuable asset and found work with his great-aunt.
Seb frowned. His aunt was no miser. Surely she was paid enough to afford a relatively decent lifestyle without the need to engage in whatever “business” had her visiting Haye’s late at night?
Did she yearn for the luxuries she’d once enjoyed with her former employer, the princess? Rich clothes, jewels, expensive perfumes? No. That didn’t fit. That well-worn travel dress of hers was evidence of a frugal nature. The only hint of luxury he’d seen was that fur-lined cape she’d been wearing—the one that made her look like a wintry fairy princess. But she could have been given that by her mistress. Or simply taken it when she realized the woman was dead.
Seb rested his hands on the railing and stared sightlessly at the gaming room below. Women had physical needs, sexual urges, just as men did. She was unmarried. She had no husband or permanent lover. Perhaps she’d been at Haye’s for precisely the same reason he’d been there? To scratch an itch. He hadn’t heard that Charlotte Haye provided for women as well as for men, but it was possible.
But if she had been there for pleasure, why hadn’t she chosen him? Not only wouldn’t she have had to pay, but he’d offered her the eye-watering sum of five hundred pounds for the pleasure.
Seb shook his head. No, that scenario didn’t fit either.
Perhaps she’d been there to gain some experience in a relatively safe environment? His heart gave a thump as a jolt of desire shot straight to his groin. God, he’d have been only too happy to have provided her with that service. The chemistry between them was extraordinary. He’d never felt anything quite like it. Why was she so reluctant to follow it to its natural conclusion?
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so obsessed with a woman. His dark good looks, courtesy of his Italian mother, meant he’d never had to work too hard for female company. Perhaps it was the mystery, the irresistible challenge of Anya Ivanov, that called to him?
With a slow exhale, he turned his attention to the gaming room below. The scene was familiar, and it filled him with the usual deep sense of accomplishment. He, Alex, and Benedict had made this, created it from nothing and made it a success.
He n
eeded to get down on the floor and show his face. Usually mingling with the guests was no hardship. He was naturally sociable; his charisma and easy wit gave patrons a sense of stability, and his genial hospitality convinced them to play deeper, stay longer, laugh louder. It was good for business.
After the brutal hardship of his years in the Rifles, it was good to be somewhere that catered for the enjoyment of life. To celebrate the simple human pleasures of decent food, excellent wine, diverting entertainment, and convivial company. He was profoundly grateful to have survived. It seemed like he owed it to himself, and to those who hadn’t been so fortunate, to enjoy life to the fullest.
Yet as he watched the assembled crowd, he was seized by a niggling sense of dissatisfaction. Before the war, he’d been just like all those other men down there, chasing an elusive high from a win at the tables or a night of heavy drinking. He’d been single-minded in his pursuit of pleasure.
It seemed like vacuous frippery now. There was more to life than whoring and cards, and thankfully he’d found an outlet for his energies in his work for Bow Street. He derived a great deal of satisfaction from working to prevent crime, or from catching those responsible.
His older brother, Geoffrey, might have inherited the responsibility of running their late father’s estates, but Seb could live his own life of integrity and worth by helping make the streets of London a safer place. He’d been blessed with a strong body and a keen brain; it only seemed reasonable that he use both in the service of those less fortunate than himself.
But still, professional satisfaction wasn’t the same as personal satisfaction. He’d witnessed the changes in his two friends, Alex and Ben, since they’d both married. There was a steady contentment about them both now, a sense of having found a true purpose in life. They lived to make their wives happy.
Was that what he was lacking? The reason for his strange dissatisfaction, despite his wealth and outward success? A partner with whom to share it? Seb shook his head. He lacked nothing, except physical release. He was just frustrated, that was all. As soon as the mysterious “Miss Brown” came to her senses—and into his bed—that frustration would be dealt with in the most pleasurable way.
