The Princess and the Rogue

by Kate Bateman

  She let out a snort of irritation. “In that case, you look like hell. And the cut of your jacket is hideous.”

  “It is not!”

  “Aha! So you can hear me. You aren’t deaf in both ears. You’re just willfully ignoring me. Really, Sebastien, sometimes I think you use your injury as an excuse to avoid speaking to people you don’t wish to speak to.”

  He didn’t bother to deny it. “I’m certainly deaf to insults. And stupid ideas.”

  “You only hear what you want to hear,” she sniffed. “And there’s no need to be testy with me. You must see why I sent Anya with you. I was certain the two of you would get along famously. Was I mistaken?”

  He didn’t miss the glitter of curiosity in her eyes. He glared at her. “Yes. You were. Completely. I only helped her out of duty.”

  She seemed to deflate a little. “Hmm. Well, it’s my ball, and as the hostess’s close relative, it still behooves you to lead her out in the dancing. You’re an earl, aren’t you? She ought to have at least an earl for her first dance.”

  He ground his teeth.

  “If you won’t do it, I’ll ask Geoffrey—”

  Seb growled.

  Dorothea sent him a knowing smile. “Oh, never mind. Look, Prince Trubetskoi’s beaten you to it.”

  Seb’s head snapped around. Sure enough, Anya was accepting the arm of her fellow countryman and letting him lead her onto the dance floor. He made a conscious effort to unclench his fists.

  The prince was a good-looking bastard. Tonight, he was wearing full military uniform with a row of colorful campaign medals glittering on his chest. His eyes gleamed and his lustrous black mustache twitched as he laughed down at something Anya said.

  Seb never trusted a man with a mustache. Petrov had a mustache, didn’t he? And really, who wore full dress uniform to a private ball? Seb could have worn his own medals too—if he’d wanted to look like a vainglorious prick. Anya wasn’t impressed by all that military bollocks. Was she?

  He’d chosen a jacket of the deepest navy, so dark it looked black, and a diamond-and-sapphire pin for his cravat. The choice had been deliberate, a subtle masculine echo of Anya’s blue and clear gems. As if something so insignificant could bind them. He was a fool.

  He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the dance floor. Trubetskoi was holding her so close, he’d be breathing in her perfume, that gorgeous jasmine and rain scent. It would be swirling in his brain, making him fevered. How could he possibly resist her?

  His hand lingered on the silken skin of her back, and Seb tried not to scowl. Why should Trubetskoi get to touch all that creamy softness? He watched the Russian’s gaze linger on her alabaster smooth shoulders and her perfect breasts and quelled the urge to throw him through the nearest window, international diplomacy be damned.

  Dorothea sent him a shrewd, amused glance. “I’ve already heard several gentlemen announce their intention to offer for her. Marrying an Englishman would cement the ties of friendship between our two nations. But of course, with her connections, she could marry into any noble family in Europe.”

  Seb couldn’t hold back a grunt of annoyance. “She’s a woman, not a bloody peace treaty. And I have it on good authority that she doesn’t want to marry anyone. They’re all fortune hunters—even the gouty royal dukes.”

  Dorothea shrugged. “There aren’t many men who can match her fortune, it’s true. She has all sorts of commercial interests back in Russia. Textile mills, printing shops. Why, she even owns a vodka distillery!”

  Seb ground his molars together as Anya’s laughing voice echoed in his memory. I know a little bit about vodka. The wretch.

  “Having her tiara remade was a very generous gesture.”

  “She’s a princess. Society expects it.”

  “For someone who claims to have no feelings for her other than duty, I’d say it was above and beyond. You must have paid Rundell a small fortune to have it completed in such a short time.”

  He shrugged.

  “I suppose it would be vulgar to inquire how much it cost?”

  “It would. I can afford it.”

  Dorothea regarded him thoughtfully. “I’m sure you can. In monetary terms.”

  He didn’t even want to ask what she meant by that cryptic comment, so he pretended not to hear and disengaged himself as swiftly as possible. “Do excuse me. I think Alex is trying to catch my attention.”

  Dorothea’s derisive snort indicated she saw through his cowardly retreat, but she let him slip away without further comment.

  Ben and Alex were temporarily without their wives. Seb sidled up next to them and the three of them stood in companionable silence for a few moments. They’d stood this way countless times during the war, surveying the land or fortifications before them for possible danger. Seb felt a deep sense of gratitude that they’d survived to stand here now, as free men. The only terrain he needed to survey now was the ballroom, the only potential threat that of ambush from matchmaking mamas and enthusiastic widows.

  He ran his hand through his hair and his fingertips touched the raised ridge of scar hidden behind his left ear. He’d been so lucky. There were far worse injuries he could have received. Alex’s new brother-in-law, Luc Danvers, had lost the lower part of his leg at Trafalgar. At least Seb hadn’t lost a limb or received dreadful scarring. Other men he’d served with had gone mad, unable to reassimilate into civilian life after everything they’d seen. They tried to lose themselves in drink or gambling, ruined their minds in opium dens, or even ended up incarcerated in asylums like Bethlehem. He had nothing to complain about. No reason to feel so frustrated and dissatisfied.

  “You know,” Benedict mused suddenly, “Coleridge once said the happiest marriage he could imagine would be the union of a deaf man to a blind woman.”

  Seb gave an amused snort. “Sounds about right.”

  Ben levelled him a significant sideways look that made him lift his brows.

  “Do you have a point?” Seb asked.

  “You might be deaf, my friend—”

  “Only on the one side.”

  Ben continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted, “—but the princess isn’t blind to your faults. She sees them and likes you anyway. It’s inexplicable, but there you are. You’d be the greatest fool in London if you didn’t do something about it.”

  Seb frowned at him. “I already did something about it. I asked her to marry me. She said no.”

  Alex and Ben shared a look that made him want to bang their heads together. Smug bastards. “Since when did you two become the experts on matchmaking?” he growled. “God, you’re as bad as Dorothea.”

  “We’re not experts on matchmaking. We’re experts on you. We’ve never seen you like this with any other woman.”

  “Like what exactly?”

  “Irritable.” Alex chuckled.

  “Frustrated,” Benedict added with a grin.

  “Discombobulated. It’s a joy to watch.”

  Seb ground his teeth again. At this rate, he wouldn’t have any molars left with which to chew.

  “Ask her again,” Alex insisted. “It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind, after all.”

  “Not a chance. She’s given me her answer.”

  Seb glared across the room to where Anya still swirled in Trubetskoi’s arms. She looked gorgeous, happy. Perfectly at ease. Scores of men were hovering at the periphery, all eagerly waiting to claim her for a dance.

  None of them knew her. All they saw was that beautiful face, those glittering diamonds. Seb was the only one who realized her polite smile never reached her eyes. Who’d seen her laughing at the pelicans in the park, or downing vodka like a hardened criminal in front of the fire. He closed his eyes. He still wanted her. It was like a sickness in his blood. A constant, gnawing ache.

  “Fine. I’ll ask her to dance.”

  The crowd parted like the Red Sea before his glowering expression. He strode forward and waited, arms crossed, at the edge of the dance floor until T
rubetskoi swirled her to a laughing, breathless stop. A couple of idiots tried to step forward and claim her attention, but Seb fixed her with a determined glare, just daring her to accept anyone else, and shouldered them all out of the way.

  He held out his hand. “My dance.”

  Her eyes widened at his commanding tone, but she sent Trubetskoi a polite smile and grasped his fingers. The contact burned, even through her elbow-length gloves. Seb turned her as the musicians struck up a waltz and slid his free hand down to rest at the lower curve of her spine. With the faintest pull, he drew her toward him, and she inhaled sharply, as if the light touch heated her blood too.

  He swung her into the first turn.

  She trod on his foot.

  Her long skirts covered the misstep, but Seb enjoyed the hectic blush that flooded her cheeks. She wasn’t as composed as she wanted to appear. Good.

  “Quick!” she blurted out in a panicked whisper. “Now you have to step on my foot.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a Russian superstition.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Not another one. Don’t tell me, we have to sacrifice a chicken and spread its entrails in the street or something equally ludicrous.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Nothing so gory. The person who was stepped on just needs to return the favor.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if you don’t, we’ll be enemies forever.”

  He sent her an ironic look. “We’ve been at odds for the entire time we’ve been acquainted, Your Highness. Do you really think it would help?”

  She met his eyes, and he felt the punch right down to his gut. “Not the entire time,” she said softly.

  His body hardened to the point of pain. Bloody woman. As if he needed reminding.

  “Step on my foot!” she hissed again through her teeth, pretending to smile for the benefit of their interested onlookers.

  “I’ll hurt you.”

  “You won’t.”

  “It’s ridiculous.”

  “Just do it.”

  He exhaled a put-upon sigh. “Fine.”

  Using the cover of her skirts, he waited until the dance slowed and very gently pressed the toe of his boot onto the top of her foot, acutely conscious of the fact that she only wore the flimsiest of dancing slippers beneath her skirts. That, naturally, led to him imagining everything else she had on under there, from silken stockings to soft-as-a-snowdrift skin.

  Seb sucked in a breath. Dancing was a mistake. Just being in the same room with her was a mistake. He almost wished Petrov would appear and make his move and put an end to this torment.

  Almost.

  “You look very beautiful tonight,” he said, praying she didn’t hear the ridiculous combination of resentment and longing in his tone.

  She glanced up at him, and he had to remind himself to breathe. Her eyes sparkled. “Thank you. So do you.”

  “I don’t think a man can be beautiful, per se,” he countered sternly.

  She tilted her head, as if considering the notion. “How should I compliment you, then, Lord Mowbray? Should I call you handsome? Noble? Irresistible?” Her lips parted on a teasing smile and he resisted the urge to say: Mine. You should call me mine.

  “Any of those will do,” he said lightly. He cast around for a safer subject. “Have you been enjoying yourself with the dowager duchess?”

  She nodded, and he cursed the fact that they were reduced to speaking of such inane things. God, they’d be discussing the weather next, or the dancing. Inches separated them, but it might as well have been a hundred miles.

  “Geoffrey gave you a reticule,” he said, and could have kicked himself for sounding like a jealous fool.

  “He did. It’s lovely. Although I prefer the gift you gave me.”

  “The tiara?”

  She shook her head, making the item in question catch the light like hoarfrost in the dawn.

  “No.”

  She saw his surprise and hastened to explain. “The tiara is, without doubt, the most wonderful present anyone’s ever given me, but I wasn’t thinking of that.” She sent him a secret, confiding smile. “I meant the vial of sleeping potion you gifted me at the Tricorn.”

  Seb lifted his brows. “You prefer that to Geoffrey’s reticule?”

  “I do. Unless I hit someone over the head with the reticule, it’s of very little use in terms of defense. The tincture, on the other hand, makes me feel invulnerable. It is potential. A chance to control my destiny. It is freedom.”

  Seb tried to ignore the disproportionate amount of gratification her words gave him and failed miserably. The way she said it, so reverently, made him want to give her a vat of the stuff. Hell, he’d order Lagrassse to cook nothing but mandrakes for the next month. She could bathe in it if she wanted to.

  The sudden scorching image of her in the bath, flushed and dripping, assailed him, and he almost stumbled.

  “All that in a little bottle,” he managed lightly.

  She nodded, her eyes bright. “I carry it wherever I go.”

  “Even tonight?” he teased. His eyes flicked over her chest. “I can’t imagine where, in that dress.”

  “It’s in the pockets of my skirts,” she whispered.

  “Well, just remember you swore never to use it on me.”

  She laughed up at him. “Of course not.”

  They made another swirl around the floor, and Seb realized with a start how effortlessly they danced together.

  “I enjoyed meeting your friends,” she said. “They were extremely interesting.”

  Seb made a noncommittal sound.

  “I should like to meet them again.”

  He bit back a silent groan. That was all he needed. For her to be everywhere he went, laughing with his friends, posing an impossible temptation at every turn. Reminding him of everything he wanted and couldn’t have. Napoleon himself couldn’t have devised a worse torture.

  * * *

  The Harlands and the Wyldes stood to one side of the ballroom, watching Seb and Anya dance.

  Georgie took a thoughtful sip of her champagne. “No wonder Seb didn’t want to stay for dinner with us the other night. He had all that temptation waiting for him back at the Tricorn.”

  “They do make a beautiful couple.” Emmy sighed.

  “Like a fairy-tale prince and princess,” Georgie added, her eyes shining.

  Their husbands both rolled their eyes.

  “You’re blind,” Alex said. “And delusional. They’re arguing. I can tell from here.”

  Emmy tilted her head, studying them carefully. “No, I don’t think so. There’s tension there, but it’s not animosity. It’s more like … passion. Barely contained.”

  Georgie lifted her brows. “You think they—”

  “Failed to contain it?” Emmy chuckled. “Oh, come on, look at them. Of course they did.”

  “So, what went wrong?” Georgie asked. “They’re clearly at odds now. Do you think Seb got bored? Is that tiara his idea of a parting gift?”

  Alex shook his head. “He hasn’t lost interest, believe me.” He sent Benedict an amused glance over Georgie’s head. “He’s been like a bear with a sore head all week. Whoever said ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’ was way off the mark. In Seb’s case, absence makes the heart grow moody and irritable.”

  “Poor Seb,” Emmy chided. “You could be a bit more sympathetic.”

  Alex stifled a snort. “‘Poor Seb,’ my arse. He did nothing but take the piss out of the two of us when we fell in love with you two. He deserves everything he gets. It’s about time someone gave him a run for his money.” He caught Benedict’s eye again. “Do you remember what he said to me at Manton’s?”

  “What?”

  “He said he wanted to strangle her.’”

  Emmy looked mystified. “Is that a good thing? It doesn’t sound like a good thing.”

  Alex slid his arm around her waist and drew her into the cradle of his body. “Oh, it is, my little th
ief. It most definitely is.”

  Georgie and Emmy shared a look.

  “Men are incomprehensible,” Georgie declared.

  “We think the same thing about you women.” Her husband chuckled. He glanced over at Alex and raised his brows. “The question is, of course, whether the stubborn idiot is going to do anything about it?”

  Chapter 33.

  Anya’s heart was beating painfully fast as she and Wolff swirled around the dance floor. His proximity was playing havoc with her composure. Even his slightest touch enflamed her. Part of her resented it. Why him? Why not someone less complicated, more suitable?

  Still, she savored the sensation of being in his arms, even at such a frustratingly polite distance. The scent of him teased her nostrils, and her fingers tightened involuntarily on his shoulder. His muscles were reassuringly solid beneath the exquisitely cut coat.

  The warmth radiating from him sent tremors of recognition through her, and a blush rose in her cheeks as she vividly recalled the feel of his body within her own—the heat and abandon, the exquisite combination of friction and glide. His strong body shuddering in ecstasy.

  She wanted her gloves gone so she could feel the heat and the texture of his skin. She wanted to slide her hand up the slope of his neck, to thread her fingers through his hair and tug him down for a passionate kiss.

  She wanted to lead him out of this stuffy, overcrowded ballroom and into somewhere dark. A room, the moonlit garden, anywhere private, to slake the thirst and hunger she had for him.

  He caught her eye and gave her one of his lazy, intimate smiles, as if he guessed the direction of her thoughts. The strength of her own desire shocked her. It was something primitive, uncivilized. It came from somewhere deep within, a place where she was not a princess, but simply a woman.

  She couldn’t believe he’d had her tiara remade. Did he appreciate the enormity of it? Did he understand what it meant to her to have her family’s history restored? In one fell swoop, he’d erased her past misdeed in destroying it and had given her a new symbol of hope to pass down to future generations.

  She thought perhaps he did comprehend it. Then she reminded herself not to read too much into his gesture. He enjoyed beautiful things. Perhaps having the tiara reconstructed was no different from him demanding culinary excellence from Lagrasse or ordering the finest pair of dueling pistols from Manton.