The Princess and the Rogue

by Kate Bateman

  “Did she leave it back in Russia?”

  “No. It was destroyed. A casualty of war.”

  A sudden flash of memory assailed her, her mother wearing the tiara to some great state banquet, laughing and carefree on the arm of her handsome father. She quashed a wave of sadness. Family tradition held that every Denisova bride should wear the tiara on her wedding day. She’d certainly put an end to that. Not that she had any plans to marry, anyway.

  Wolff accepted her explanation. He reached into his coat and withdrew a gold signet ring.

  “You recall that Russian I mentioned, murdered down at Blackwall? He was wearing this. There’s a crest. How do I find out which family it belongs to?”

  Anya studied the engraved central stone. The armorial showed a plumed helmet, a shield with a single dagger, and a crescent shaped dash. “As a matter of fact, I know. This is for the Orlov family. Count Grigory Orlov was a lover of Catherine the Great. He’s famous for presenting her with the Orlov diamond, a stone as large as half a chicken’s egg. It’s set into the imperial scepter. There are numerous Orlovs in Moscow and St. Petersburg.”

  Anya bit her lip, afraid she’d displayed too intimate a knowledge of the Russian court. Orlov’s grandson, Count Pavel, had proposed to her once, but he’d been several years younger than herself, and almost a foot shorter, and she’d declined his offer. She preferred tall men. Like Wolff.

  She gave herself a mental slap on the head.

  “Thank you, Miss Brown. That is most helpful.”

  He stood and glanced at the gilt clock on the mantelpiece. “Lagrasse is almost ready for our first taste test. I managed to procure a few recipes for him to try from the Austrian ambassador, Prince Esterhazy. His wife, Princess Maria Theresia, is a patroness of Almack’s.”

  Anya schooled her expression into one of polite interest, despite the fact that she’d met the prince and princess several times back in Russia. Plump, dark-haired Maria Theresia was only a year younger than herself. She’d been married at seventeen. Now twenty-one, she was already a fixture in London society.

  “Dinner will be served in half an hour. I trust you can be ready by then?”

  His expression suggested the same polite disbelief as Mr. Rundell. He clearly thought women needed hours of primping.

  Anya gathered her papers and stood. “Of course. Am I to expect the pleasure of your company, my lord?”

  “You can indeed.”

  “How nice,” she said with faint irony. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t change for dinner. I’m afraid my wardrobe is somewhat restricted.”

  She looked down at the blue dress she’d been forced to don again that morning. It was too extravagant for daytime; the bodice was scandalously low, but there had been no sign of her lavender gown. She had a horrible feeling Wolff had ordered Mickey to dispose of it.

  “I thought of that.” His smile was instantly suspicious. “I had to go to Bond Street anyway, so I visited a few modistes while I was there. You’ll find a selection of dresses in your room.” He brushed an invisible speck of lint from the sleeve of his already impeccable coat and lifted his brows in clear dismissal.

  Anya bit back a retort and swept from the room.

  She found no fewer than four new outfits on her bed. In addition to two day dresses, there were two more evening gowns, some scandalously sheer silk chemises, and a collection of accessories like scarves and gloves. The sight of the gloves made her heart beat faster. Was Wolff going to let her go out? She hoped so. She was sick of being cooped up indoors.

  She suppressed a groan of delight as she stepped into one of the new gowns. The deep claret color was flattering, the workmanship exquisite. What was Wolff’s game? Was he trying to buy her affection, her capitulation, with dresses? Did he, in his mind, already see her as a kept woman, a mistress he could dress—and undress—at will?

  The thought made her shiver, and she stiffened her spine. She would not accept charity. Nor could she be bought. Even if she had to sell every one of her remaining diamonds, she would pay him back.

  Chapter 17.

  Seb caught himself drumming his fingers on the table and forced them to still. What was wrong with him? He’d stayed out of the house all day to avoid being under the same roof as his irritatingly beguiling guest, but now he couldn’t wait to see her, to spar with her again. His blood pounded in anticipation.

  He shouldn’t have given into the impulse to buy her clothes, especially not ones that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a high society ballroom. But the sight of her in that shabby lavender gown had caused him something close to physical pain.

  He told himself it was purely aesthetic preference. A woman that beautiful shouldn’t be dressed in threadbare, styleless garments. It was an affront to the natural order of things.

  Thanks to his half-Italian parentage, he possessed an eye for beauty that stemmed all the way back to the Renaissance. His ancestors had doubtless patronized artists like Caravaggio and Donatello in the same way he enjoyed buying his boots from Hoby and his coats from Weston.

  He wasn’t a tulip of fashion, like the ridiculous dandies who flounced about town in pale satins and silks, but he made no secret of the fact that he enjoyed the sybaritic pleasure of a well-cut coat and a perfectly tied neckcloth. Benedict and Alex never stopped mocking him about it.

  His love of beauty extended to his choice of bedpartners too, but despite his reputation as a rake, he’d always been discerning. Beauty alone wasn’t enough to hold his interest. He required intelligence, a quick wit, and a sense of humor from his paramours too.

  His “guest” had all those things, and more.

  The dining table had been laid for two. With a start, Seb realized he couldn’t recall the last time he’d actually dined at home. He’d taken to eating with Benedict and his wife, Georgie, or Alex and his wife, Emmy, or grazing from the buffet in the public half of the Tricorn. More often than not, he’d asked Mickey to bring him a plate of food in his study so he could eat with one hand and read a report from Bow Street with the other.

  No wonder Lagrasse scowled at him. He hardly noticed what he was eating most of the time.

  Tonight he would savor every bite, just as he would savor the company of his guest. She was a woman of contradictions. She liked caviar and knew the tsarina’s favorite cake, but she was also friends with some of London’s most expensive courtesans. None of it made sense.

  He’d set Jem Barnes, one of Bow Street’s youngest informants, to the task of listening out for news involving any more Russians in the criminal underworld. If there were plans afoot to capture his reluctant houseguest, he wanted to hear of them.

  He sucked in a breath when she appeared in the doorway. Why in the name of all that was holy had he bought her a dress in such a provocative deep red? It was hard enough to keep his thoughts and his hands off her as it was. It would be well-nigh impossible now he’d seen her in that fever dream of a dress.

  The low-cut bodice displayed the perfect globes of her breasts and the soft architecture of her shoulders and throat. She’d piled her hair up on her head, but a few thick tendrils brushed her collarbone and skated temptingly close to the valley between her breasts, like a trickle of honey. One he wanted to trace with his tongue.

  Seb cleared his throat and gestured to the place setting opposite him. “Good evening, Miss Brown. Have a seat.”

  He did not rise or pull the chair out for her as he would have done for a woman of higher social rank. He watched her for a reaction, to see if she was irritated by the omission, but she didn’t appear to expect it. She seated herself without fuss and sent him a polite smile across the snowy white linen.

  “Good evening, my lord.”

  Her scratchy-yet-prim tones sent a jolt of desire straight to his groin, and he placed his napkin across the straining fabric in his lap. She took a tentative sip of her wine. Her throat dipped as she swallowed, and he wanted to taste her skin. He had a brief vision of sweeping everything to the floor, t
he flowers, the silverware, the glasses, the porcelain, of pulling her clean across the table for a kiss beyond all civilized bounds. Of putting his mouth between her breasts and—

  “This is excellent wine,” she said demurely.

  Seb coughed. Thankfully Mickey entered carrying a tray, followed by the tiny stomping figure of Lagrasse. The disparity in height between the two men was comical. Mickey could have used the chef as an armrest.

  “What do we have here?” Seb managed hoarsely. God, his voice was deep.

  Lagrasse ignored him and sent Anya a dazzling smile. “To begin, madame, I ’ave prepared you ze beetroot soup.”

  Her eyes gleamed as Mickey placed a small bowl of liquid the precise color of her gown before her. “Oh! Borscht! How clever of you! Are you serving it hot or cold?” She picked up her spoon and skimmed the surface away from her. Her manners were impeccable.

  “’Ot for you tonight, madame, wiz ze dill and a soupçon of sour crème.”

  Seb gave an inner snort. The soup wasn’t the only thing hot for her tonight. He was burning up.

  She took a delicate sip and closed her eyes. “Delicious.”

  The little Frenchman beamed in pleasure, and Seb quelled the impulse to tell him to leave so he could have her reactions all to himself. He wondered what else he could do to put such a satisfied smile on her face. Several depraved options came to mind.

  A polite silence reigned as they both sampled the soup, and Seb, to his surprise, discovered it wasn’t half as bad as he’d expected. He’d had some pretty disgusting meals during his time around France and Spain, including a revolting cabbage stew somewhere near Cadiz, but this was far better.

  At Lagrasse’s nod, Mickey uncovered a second dish.

  “As the lady requested, we ’ave ze blini. Wiz ’oney and crème.”

  The chef proudly placed a selection of the tiny pancakes on Anya’s plate and stood back to await her verdict.

  “I’ll serve myself, then, shall I?” Seb muttered, half amused, half irritated by the fact that he seemed to have been forgotten in his own dining room. Clearly his opinion counted for nothing.

  Mickey sent him a dry look and scooped some of the remaining blinis onto his plate. “’Ere you go, sir.”

  All three of them watched in rapt fascination as Anya ignored her knife and fork, picked up one of the little pancakes, and brought it to her lips. She ate it in two delicate bites then licked a smear of honey from her fingers.

  Seb almost groaned aloud. This was pure, erotic torture. He wanted to blindfold the other two men. But Mickey seemed impervious, and Lagrasse appeared more nervous than aroused. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  Seb ate his blini in one bite. It was bloody good, so he polished off six more in quick succession, which earned him a glare from Lagrasse, presumably for not taking the time to savor the things properly.

  He watched Anya eat another and a wisp of pleasure curled through him at her obvious enjoyment. Her happiness was like a warm cloud around her. He felt his mouth curl in an answering smile.

  She finally pursed her lips. “Hmm. Perhaps a tiny bit more salt to balance out the sweetness of the honey? But other than that, perfection, Monsieur Lagrasse. As good as any I tasted in Russia. Thank you.”

  Lagrasse let out a relieved breath. “De rien, madame. It is a pleasure to cook for someone ’oo appreciates the skill of an artist like myself.” He sent Seb a superior, chiding glare, apparently forgetting who paid his extortionate salary every month.

  “You may leave us,” Seb drawled.

  He took another sip of wine as the two men filed out and caught her gaze, making no attempt to hide the sensual hunger he was feeling. “Hold still.”

  He rose from his seat, reached across the table, and used his finger to swipe a smudge of honey from the corner of her mouth. She inhaled sharply. He held his finger in front of her lips, silently commanding her to take it into her mouth. Her eyes widened, but she parted her lips and he sent her a simmering smile of approval. She took the very tip of his finger into the hot cavern of her mouth and his cock gave an insistent throb as she flicked away the honey like a cat licking cream. His knees almost buckled.

  Her chest was rising and falling in sweet agitation, but she never dropped her gaze from his. He found himself falling, drowning in the fathomless blue of her eyes.

  Then she pulled back, breaking the spell, and sent him a demure smile, although her voice when it came was rather breathless.

  “Blini are extremely popular in my homeland. There’s a whole week, Maslenitsa, every year when we celebrate our love for them. Maslenitsa means ‘butter week.’ The little blini symbolize the sun; by eating them, people consume its warmth and energy.”

  Seb sat back down and took a fortifying sip of wine. “Fascinating.”

  Color rose to her cheeks as she realized he wasn’t referring to the information, but to her.

  Conflicting emotions warred in his chest. He wanted her with a hunger that was breathtaking. Would it be dishonorable to seduce her? Would he be taking advantage of his position? She was supposed to be under his protection—shouldn’t that also mean protecting her from himself?

  He’d never felt anything but contempt for men who dallied with their servants. A governess or parlor maid would fear for her job if she refused her master’s advances. He’d never manipulate a woman like that.

  But Miss Brown was not his servant. Technically she was an employee of his great-aunt, and heaven knew he had little enough influence over that old battle-ax. Even if he petitioned for Anya to be let go, he doubted Dorothea would listen.

  Besides, why should he feel guilty about wanting to sleep with her? She’d said she didn’t have much experience with men, but he doubted she was still a virgin. And while he usually preferred women who knew what they were doing in bed, he’d be more than willing to make an exception for her. The thought of continuing her education left him breathless. He’d start by addressing her woeful lack of experience when it came to kissing—

  “I have a favor to ask of you, my lord.”

  Seb raised his brows, his pulse pounding in anticipation.

  “How may I be of service, Miss Brown?” He could think of any number of wicked ways. God, he couldn’t wait.

  “I would like to go out.”

  “My pleasure. Wait—what?”

  Chapter 18.

  “You bought me gloves,” Anya said. She glanced longingly out of the window. The mews yard was in shadow, but it was still relatively early in the evening. “It won’t be dark for at least another hour, and I’ve been stuck inside these past two days. Can’t I take a quick ride in park?”

  Wolff opened his mouth, and she spoke quickly to forestall a refusal.

  “Hardly anyone will be out at this hour. I won’t be seen.” She sent him an imploring look and swallowed her pride at having to beg. “Please.”

  He frowned. “You can’t ride. I don’t own a sidesaddle.”

  “I don’t need one. I can ride astride.”

  “Not in skirts you can’t.”

  “Then lend me some breeches.”

  His brows lifted in either shock, disapproval, or interest. “Breeches?” He glanced down at his own athletic frame and his lips twitched in amusement. “I hardly think you’ll fit a pair of mine. Or Mickey’s.”

  She held his gaze stubbornly. “Well, you must have a stable lad. I’m sure a man who works for Bow Street can improvise at short notice.”

  She could scarcely believe she was suggesting something so scandalous, but Wolff already considered her the worst sort of hoyden anyway, so what did it matter?

  His lips twitched again at her challenge. “Very well. I’ll see what I can do.”

  He rose and she matched the move, unwilling to stay seated with him looming over her.

  “You may return to your rooms, Miss Brown.”

  Less than half an hour later, Mickey delivered a pair of clean brown woolen breeches, a white shirt, a shapeless b
rown wool jacket, and a pair of scuffed knee-high riding boots to her chambers.

  With a spurt of excitement, Anya put them on, remembering all the times she’d borrowed Dmitri’s clothes to romp around the forests with him when they were children. The boots were a little big, but not enough to signify. She plaited her hair into a single thick braid and pinned it in a coil to her head, then shrugged into the jacket. It, too, was too big, but it disguised her curves, which was the aim.

  Wolff was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. He glanced up as she descended and narrowed his eyes, taking a slow inventory. A simmer started in her blood and her step faltered. In contrast to her scruffiness, he looked impeccable. His boots gleamed, his greatcoat fell in heavy folds almost to his ankles. He held a black riding crop in his hand; he tapped it impatiently against his thigh. The sight made her pulse leap.

  She waited for some rude comment, but he simply nodded once and strode to the door. She followed him out into the stables where two mounts had been saddled. The dark horse was the one he’d been riding when he’d come to the rescue on Hounslow Heath.

  He indicated the second horse, a handsome grey with liquid eyes. “That’s Borodino, and this”—he patted the bay—“is Eclipse.”

  “Borodino? After the battle?”

  “Yes. I had him shipped back from the Peninsular. He’s so used to noise that nothing disturbs him, not barking dogs, brawling street vendors, or rattling carts. He never flinches. You’ll be safe with him.” He frowned down at her. “Are you sure you want to go? It’s cold.”

  Anya chuckled. “If you’d ever faced a Russian winter, you wouldn’t call this cold. I’m used to snow several feet deep, my lord. I’ll manage.”

  He plucked a cap from a nail on the wall and tossed it to her. “Cover your hair.”

  She tugged the peak low over her brow, then put her foot in the stirrup and mounted without his assistance. She caught a brief look of surprise on his face at her skill. Presumably he was accustomed to women who needed to use a mounting block or to be lifted up into the saddle by a man. Well, she was no damsel in distress.