The Prince

by Katharine Ashe

He wished he could justify to himself these visits more often. But he could not be seen entering and exiting brothels regularly. No whiff of licentiousness must mar the image he had cultivated in this city.

  Mrs. Coutts badgered him about his solitude, but he had crafted his presence in Scotland with intention. He was no dashing dandy from the East, no court jester to entertain the fashionable set enthralled by the exotic. Instead, Edinburgh society gossiped about the enigmatic “Turk,” and the mystery surrounding him made them always hungry to know more. Patrons clamored to commission his work and they paid him well. The portraits he did of individual women went for thrice the price of every other piece simply because he agreed to paint them so rarely. It was a dishonest scheme, but it had swiftly gained him both fame and gold.

  That gold went into coffers he would take with him when someday he departed this adopted land to claim his birthright. Every guinea was marked for a purpose: a strong guard to protect his family; arms to protect the people; a modern fleet to carry the goods of Tabir across the Caspian; gold to secure Aairah’s marriage to a strong ally and ensure his own alliances through marriage too.

  This was his destiny, delayed while the general held Aairah’s life beneath the blade, and the lives of her children and the people of Tabir. He would not jeopardize that to satisfy his desires now.

  Something tickled his ankle. He reached down and plucked a flea from his skin.

  “Allah, have mercy,” he mumbled.

  Tucking a banknote beneath his model’s slack hand, he went out into the blustery autumn afternoon. The sky was brilliant blue, a color he had only ever seen once, here in Scotland: in the eyes of a girl who had stood in his house a fortnight earlier and pleaded with him.

  What do you want?

  She was extraordinary, a young woman of infinite determination and mad purpose. Brushing aside all rules, she had come to him and begged the impossible.

  Güzel kız.

  And she was beautiful. Despite her disregard for proper manners, despite her plain dress and forthright conversation and intense vivacity—rather, because of those—because of her intellect, warmth, and clean confidence, she was appealing. Outrageously appealing. Compelling.

  And those lips.

  Most people are uncomfortable with nudity. As a student of medicine, of course, I am not.

  In the middle of the street, he halted.

  No. It was an insane idea. Ridiculous. Preposterous.

  I am not.

  Hailing a hackney, he instructed the driver to make haste.

  The Home of Miss Alice Campbell

  Port of Leith, Scotland

  “Miss Shaw?” Alice’s housekeeper poked her head into the bedchamber. “Have you no’ heard me knockin’, child?”

  “I dislike being called child, Marjorie,” Libby said, lifting her attention from the model pelvic bone in her palms. “For I am not a child, which should be clear to you by my fully mature breasts and my linens that must be sent to the laundress monthly for bleaching, if not by my ability to converse like an adult, not to mention my reminder to you any number of times that I am in fact not a child. So I can only surmise that you imagine me a child because I am unwed. But since I know many childish married women, that doesn’t make any sense.”

  “You’ve a caller, miss.”

  “Oh. Please send Iris up.”

  “’Tis no’ Miss Tate. ’Tis a gentleman.”

  “A gentleman?” Other than that dreadful young man from the party, she hadn’t spoken to a gentleman in a fortnight, none who would call on her at least.

  Except . . .

  “Does he walk with a limp?”

  “Aye, child.”

  Libby flew down the steps.

  He stood by the parlor window. As she entered he turned from the view of the street toward her with that marvelous stillness she had noticed on each of their previous three encounters.

  “You have decided to tell my father about my attendance at the dissection, after all,” she said. “Or you intend to tell the duke, perhaps have already told him. For you cannot be here to tell me that you have reconsidered my request.”

  “Rather, your demand,” he said.

  “I requested,” she said.

  “Employing the word must several times.”

  “Well? Will you tell them? Have you?”

  His gaze dipped to her hands. “What is that?”

  She still clutched the model.

  “A pelvis. Rather, a plaster cast of a pelvis. A woman’s, of course. See the wide distance between the acetabula and the wider and shallower true pelvis than in a man’s, not to mention the greater width of the sub-pubic arch.” She set down the model. “Tell me at once why you have come.”

  “If you are to reside in my home, you must practice better manners. While I am not in fact attached to all social conventions, I do appreciate politeness.”

  She jerked forward involuntarily, then caught herself.

  “Then . . .” She could hardly breathe. “We are agreed?”

  “We are agreed.”

  Air whooshed from her lungs.

  “Thank you! I shan’t cause you any trouble. I promise that I will be as inconspicuous as a mouse. You will hardly know I’m there.”

  “I doubt that. Nevertheless, I will require it of you. I must have quiet to work. And no interruptions.”

  “Of course, of course. And you will introduce me to Charles Bell?”

  “I will.”

  “This is perfect! Perfect. I will go pack my books and instruments immediately. Mr. Bell will only stay in Edinburgh briefly, so we must arrange for me to meet him immediately. And I should enroll in anatomy and chemistry courses, and acquire more clothing. There is much to do.”

  “Upon one condition.”

  Her singing nerves clumped into a ball.

  “I cannot tell my father. He would forbid it—for the obvious reasons. And I cannot tell Amarantha and the duke either. Out of concern for me they would certainly tell my father, or Constance at the very least. None of them can know. I beg of you, do not ask that.”

  “Begging again. It does not become you.”

  “Is that the condition? That I no longer say I beg of you?”

  “No.” His dark gaze now left her face to trail down her neck. Libby felt the caress of the perusal like the tip of a firebrand running between her breasts and down her torso to her belly, then lower. His warning returned to her, that she was unwise to voluntarily make herself vulnerable to a man about whom she knew nothing.

  With a flowering of heat between her thighs, disappointment curdled her excitement. She had not imagined this of any dear friend of the Duke and Duchess of Loch Irvine. But men were above all physical creatures, driven by animal urges more often than not, lust among the foremost. And she had already told him that she would tell no one else about their subterfuge. Under these circumstances, she did not blame him now for turning her need to his own advantage.

  She could do it.

  He was physically appealing—so much so that the idea of lying with him aroused her. And he seemed healthy, virile in fact. She probably needn’t fear disease. Pregnancy was a concern. Contraceptive methods were not always effective.

  Yet to follow her dream she must take risks.

  She set her shoulders back.

  “What is your condition?” she said.

  “Once each sennight you must sit for me.”

  “Sit for you? As a model? So that you can draw me?”

  “And paint.”

  Relief spilled through her. “That is all? That is your one condition? Nothing else?”

  “Nothing else.”

  He was so still, his gaze so intent upon her, as though he imagined she would object. But elation was filling up the holes drilled by anxiety.

  “I accept! For how many hours in each sitting? I cannot spare too much time from studying. I will be apprenticing at a hospital as well as attending lectures so I will be very busy.”

  “Shall
we agree to a minimum of one hour each sennight?”

  “Yes. That would suit me.” She went to him and thrust out her hand. “We must seal this agreement as gentlemen,” she added with a grin because it was simply too marvelous.

  He took the walking stick into his left hand and grasped hers.

  Palm-to-palm his hand swallowed hers in heat. His grip was much stronger than she had anticipated. Absolute. Powerful.

  “As gentlemen, Mr. Smart,” he said smoothly.

  Libby snatched her hand away and pressed it against her skirt. This was no doubt the reason that men and women did not often shake hands. She could not dwell on how Archie Armstrong’s clasp had not caused any of the sensations that were happening in her body now.

  Anyway, as a man she must become accustomed to shaking men’s hands.

  “I have one condition as well,” she said.

  “You are not in a position to make conditions.”

  “Be that as it may, I should like to know something about you. Amarantha and the duke do not gossip, and they have never even shared any tiny detail about you, not even the name of the country from where you come. I think if I am to live in your house I should know.”

  “Yet you will not. Can you accept that or is this agreement broken already?”

  Alarm skittered through her. “It is not. And one other matter.”

  “Another?” he drawled.

  “It would be best if there were no regular callers to the house. I will remain in disguise as often as possible, but my skin will not support the adhesive for the whiskers unless it is given relief from it each day.”

  “You have already noted that I am a hermit,” he said.

  “And you replied that you are not.”

  “I did not realize you heard me say that.”

  “You were standing right in front of me. There was no one else present.”

  “You were a bull running toward a red cloak.”

  “That’s new, to be sure. I have been compared to any number of creatures—a hummingbird, a magpie, a squirrel, a rabbit, even a monkey—but never a bull. I remember everything people say.” The words, phrases, sentences spooled through her brain on constant repeat. “It is what makes me such an excellent student of science, which requires quite a lot of technical memorization.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “The housekeeper visits daily except Sundays, and my manservant every other day. Otherwise, the house will remain free of callers. But you must devise whiskers that suit your skin and hair. The present offend me.”

  “Is that another condition?”

  “It is a request.”

  A smile tugged at her lips. “I will attempt not to offend you.”

  “Fine. Does this agreement suit you?”

  “Perfectly. I must go prepare.” She went toward the door.

  “Miss Shaw,” he said.

  She looked over her shoulder.

  He withdrew his hand from his pocket. “Your key to the house.”

  Nerves danced about in her stomach. This was real. Not a scheme or fantastical plan. Not a dream. For reasons of his own, this man was making possible the only thing she had ever wanted.

  “Have you no other model?” she said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I know you have plenty of commissions. Haven’t you a model to come to your house and sit for you too?”

  “I do not,” he said.

  She recrossed the room and reached for the key atop his extended palm. His fingers closed around hers.

  “Are you prepared for this?” he said.

  The brass was hard and cool, his strong hand imprisoning hers as though through this contact he meant to warn her too.

  “Prepared for—?”

  “Elizabeth!” Alice called from the foyer. “I have had a letter from your father, and again he mentions that flamboyant Frenchwoman.”

  He released Libby.

  “I am more convinced than ever that he has—Oh!” With gray curls encased in a plain cap and an emblem of the Edinburgh Women’s Abolitionist Society pinned to her collar, Miss Alice Campbell seemed the unlikeliest sexagenarian in Britain to have once been a London courtesan. Yet she had.

  “Well, I would say good day,” she said. “But it has suddenly become an excellent day. How do you do, Mr. Kent?” She curtsied.

  “Good day, Miss Campbell.” He bowed.

  “Elizabeth, why didn’t you warn me that a handsome young man would be calling on you this morning? If I had known, I would never have interrupted. At the very least I would have donned a more taking gown.” Her eyes twinkled.

  “He is leaving now,” Libby said. “Aren’t you?”

  “Regrettably, madam,” he said to Alice with a gallant smile that made hot little tingles erupt between Libby’s thighs anew. “Miss Shaw.” He nodded to her, and Libby knew that this was his manner of acknowledging silently that she was now—to him—a man.

  Excitement chased the tingles.

  When the front door had closed, Alice’s bright stare speared her.

  “You will explain immediately.”

  “There is nothing to explain. He—”

  “You were holding hands with him.”

  “I was not.”

  “You were standing brow to brow, with your hand in his. Dear girl, if there is nothing to explain, then I lose hope for you entirely! Is Mr. Kent courting you?”

  “No. Definitely not.” He barely tolerated her. “How do you know him?”

  “I made his acquaintance when we were all at Haiknayes. His portraits are shockingly in vogue. If that delicious man is not courting you, Elizabeth Shaw, what was his purpose here and why was your face full of guilt when I entered this parlor?”

  “My face was not full of guilt.”

  “Do not attempt to convince me that it was only a social call. Have you been meeting that man in secret?”

  “Please, Alice. Have I ever given you reason to believe I would engage in secret trysts with any man?”

  “Of course not! You have never shown interest in gentlemen. But let me assure you that if you were to find any gentleman interesting I would never stand in the way of it, no matter where he comes from. If he captured your heart I would accept even an Irishman, although naturally that would pain me.”

  “Alice—”

  “When a woman has entertained men from diplomats to dukes, she learns that they are all alike in the only manner that matters.” A pencil-thin brow rose.

  “The male sexual drive, I think you must mean. But I am sorry to—”

  “I will hear no apologies! If you have finally fallen over the moon for a man I could not be happier. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Yes. You have always been the best of friends to me. Now please allow me to tell you the truth. For I cannot do what I intend to do unless you agree to keep the secret too.”

  “Thank the blessed Lord!” Alice clapped her palms together. “I have been praying for this day since you sprouted breasts. You are eloping!”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  “You should. His manners are sublime and he is positively gorgeous.”

  “That may be, but my secret is something else entirely.”

  Alice lengthened her spine and pursed her lips. “Elizabeth, what are you planning?”

  “It is already planned.” Her heartbeats were strong. “I am to become a surgeon.”

  Chapter 6

  Mr. Smart Moves In

  Libby’s possessions were spread across her bedchamber. Iris packed books, models, and instruments into a traveling trunk, while Alice sorted through clothing. Almost all evidence of her femininity would be left at Alice’s for fear of his servants discovering it.

  “Alice, please pack one gown and undergarments.” She didn’t suppose he wanted her to pose in men’s clothing, and she could hide them in the locked trunk and wash the undergarments on Sundays.

  “I am not entirely resolved to leaving you alo
ne in that house with him, Elizabeth,” Alice said, placing in her traveling trunk a stack of newly purchased neck cloths.

  “But you were overjoyed when you believed I was eloping.”

  “Marriage, yes. Cohabitation is another matter altogether.”

  “Cohabitation?” Iris was peering at them.

  “In his house, I will be a man,” Libby said to Alice.

  Alice pursed her lips. “To everybody except him.”

  Her brain spun around his final question to her, as her brain always did. She had told neither Alice nor Iris about the terms of the bargain—about sitting for him. She wanted to confess it to them now. But he was keeping her secrets, and she must keep his.

  “Alice, I will be fine. He has told me he doesn’t wish to ever see or hear me, and I will be far too busy anyway.”

  “This is the most exciting adventure I have ever had,” Iris said, “and it isn’t even my adventure!”

  “Adventure indeed,” Alice said with a knowing eye.

  Three hours later, as the hackney coach approached the house in which she was to live until her father’s return to Scotland, Libby’s stomach was in knots, her palms uncomfortably damp, and the whiskers were already itching. But she ignored it all. For this was not an adventure, not a game played for amusement. This was real. Her life. Her dream.

  The coach halted and she jumped out, reveling in the freedom of movement trousers and no stays allowed.

  “This is the house,” she said to the driver, pitching her voice low. The more she practiced Joseph Smart’s style of speaking, the more naturally it came.

  She counted the five steps to the stoop. Not all houses in Edinburgh’s Old Town had stairs to the entranceway. He was either a glutton for punishment, or he had had a reason for purchasing this house that made the steps a necessary inconvenience.

  The door was polished oak set in an elegant sandstone façade. She lifted her hand to knock, then paused. She was not a guest. He had given her a key.

  Nerves tumbled through her stomach.

  Once the driver had deposited her traveling trunk in the foyer, she shut the door. Dragging the cap from her head, she allowed herself a thick exhale.

  “You have cut your hair.”

  His voice was fluid and smooth, like the depths of a creek rolling over rocks, rounding them as it passed. He stood in silhouette from light at the opposite end of the corridor, garbed in black and cloaked in stillness.