Why had he even bothered to come tonight? The last thing she needed was an irritated, erstwhile protector, snarling at the one man she needed to keep in a good temper. And St. George had gone back to staring at the prince again, that disemboweling expression once more gleaming in his eyes.
The prince, his frog lips drawn back in a vicious smile, looked equally hostile and just as inclined to shed blood. If this kept up, Vivien was certain she’d have to have the carpets cleaned first thing in the morning.
Lady Thornbury carried on cheerfully, ignoring the men. “I’m sorry you weren’t aware of the last-minute change to the guest list, Vivien. Your mother dashed off a note to me only a few hours ago asking me to bring Aden. Apparently you were short a man at the dinner table, so my son happily agreed.”
“It’s encouraging to know the captain serves at least one useful purpose,” the prince said, the insult sounding even worse in his heavy Russian accent.
Vivien pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth, holding back a blighting retort. She knew Prince Ivan to be a haughty, sharp-tongued man, but she’d never seen him react with such blatant rudeness. The prince had always ignored her other suitors—probably thinking them unworthy of his notice—but St. George evoked an altogether different response.
Fortunately, before the situation could deteriorate any further, Vivien’s mother came floating over, a softly sparkling vision in her sapphire-blue silk dress. Frowning, Vivien peered at her. She’d been too upset a few minutes ago to remark on Mamma’s attire, but now she realized she’d never seen this gown before. Which meant it was new.
Which also meant that Vivien had yet to see the bill.
Out of habit, she started calculating the likely cost, totalling the already horrific list of numbers that made up their mountain of debt. The imaginary mountain stretched up a few more feet now, and it took all her willpower not to gulp back her glass of champagne in one burning swallow.
That, or flee on the first boat she could book passage on to the Americas. With her family, who could blame her?
“Captain, I’m so pleased you could replace my naughty boy at the table tonight,” her mother exclaimed. “Vivien, I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t consult you.”
When Mamma flirtatiously batted her eyelashes at St. George, Vivien prayed for a sudden earthquake to swallow up Mayfair so she could escape this absolute nightmare of a dinner party.
The other four were all staring at her, waiting for her to answer.
“Of course, I don’t mind,” she managed. “I’m just a bit surprised. I didn’t realize we were short.”
Her mother fluttered her fan. “Kit told me this afternoon he had other plans. Something about attending a party with Mr. Tucker and Lord Heyworth.”
Vivien almost groaned out loud. Bertram Tucker and Viscount Heyworth were reckless gamblers who didn’t share an ounce of sense between them, and were the last people Kit should spend time with.
Mamma cast the prince a deprecating smile. “You must forgive my son, Your Highness. He’s the sweetest boy, if just a tad strong-headed. But he meant no insult.”
Khovansky smiled. “My dear lady, I am charmed by your entire family, as you must know.” He reached over and grasped Vivien’s hand, raising it to his lips and pressing a kiss moist enough to leave a mark on her glove. She tried to discreetly tug her hand away but he refused to let go.
“I understand you made your first visit to Oatlands recently,” Lady Thornbury said, tapping her fan on the prince’s arm. “You must tell me all about it.”
Khovansky’s eyes flashed with displeasure, but he finally let Vivien go.
As he and Lady Thornbury discussed the eccentricities of the Duchess of York, Vivien forced herself to meet St. George’s gaze. It remained dark, and this time she understood his displeasure was directed straight at her. Clearly, he thought she was engaged in some sort of flirtation with the prince. As much as she wished to deny the charge, she couldn’t take the risk of alienating Khovansky, not before she’d had a chance to dig her way out of her current predicament. But she hated the way St. George’s disapproval made her feel, and it took a good deal of discipline not to scowl back at him.
The doors to the drawing room opened and Darnell finally announced dinner.
“Goodness!” her mother exclaimed. “I must see to the ambassador and his wife.”
As she bustled off, the prince turned back to Vivien with a gracious smile, offering her an arm. “Lady Vivien, please give me the honor of escorting you into dinner,” he said, taking her hand.
The prince had very neatly backed her into a corner, and there was little Vivien could do without insulting him. So, she smiled and let him lead her from the room, feeling St. George’s angry stare scorching the spot right between her shoulder blades.
Dinner had been horrific. When Khovansky escorted her to the dining room, Vivien had been stunned to see that the little gilt place card bearing his name had been moved back to its original setting—next to hers.
Dumbfounded, she’d stared at it for several seconds, finally lifting her eyes to meet Cyrus’s triumphant gaze as he took his place at the head of the table. Mastering her temper, she simply raised an ironic brow and then turned her smiling attention to the prince. Cyrus might fancy himself a master at some chessboard game of politics, but Vivien had learned to fight in a much less civilized venue—at the card tables, where hardened gamesters battled over fortunes and even their lives. She still had a few tricks up her sleeve and she intended to play them.
But by the end of the second remove, her smile had frozen into a grimace as Ivan the Terrible engaged in a continuous, skin-crawling flirtation. By the dessert course, the prince became so emboldened he placed his hand on her thigh just as she put a spoonful of strawberry trifle into her mouth. Only with the greatest discipline did she manage not to spit the entire mouthful onto her plate.
Aghast, Vivien had slipped her hand under the table and firmly plopped his hand back in his lap. Prince Ivan hadn’t liked that, but fortunately, she’d had the presence of mind to borrow a trick from her mother’s book, batting her eyelashes at him in shy flirtation. The prince had eyed her suspiciously but finally chuckled, whispering that he would spare her maidenly blushes. Vivien had given him a vague smile, doggedly returning her attention to her plate.
But not before glancing down the table to see St. George watching her with an ironic eye, obviously thinking the worst of her. Their gazes had locked for a moment, searing her with the intensity of their shared glance. But then he’d turned back to his neighbor, the lovely young wife of a member of the Russian delegation who had done her best throughout dinner to keep his attention. St. George had seemed happy to comply.
Vivien gloomily inspected the elaborately detailed basket of candied flowers that served as one of the centerpieces on the long table. She’d spent the last ten minutes ignoring Prince Ivan—and couldn’t she just feel his ire burgeoning over that—and was wishing Mamma would rise from the table and escort the ladies to the drawing room. Vivien would give her another two minutes, and then she would do it herself, rudeness be hanged.
A rustle of silk called her attention to the head of the table. “Come, ladies,” Mamma said, rising to her feet. “We’ll repair to the drawing room and hope the gentlemen don’t linger too long over their horrid political discussions.”
The prince, like all the men, rose with the ladies. He seized Vivien’s hand and again pressed a kiss to her glove, leaving another moist smudge. At this rate, he would ruin every pair of her gloves before the week was out.
“Be sure to save a seat for me, Lady Vivien,” he murmured in a throaty tone. He sounded like a frog croaking and not the seductive cavalier he imagined himself to be.
“I’ll do my best, but I can’t make any promises,” she said in a bright tone, wagging a finger at him.
His rolled his broad lips in on themselves, as if displeased at her clumsy attempt at flirtation. Not that she could blame him.
She sounded a complete imbecile.
She fled the room, but not before she saw St. George’s dinner companion stretch up on tiptoe and whisper something in his ear, something that made him smile. Well, at least someone was having a good time.
Vivien followed her mother out into the hall, taking her arm and holding her back for a moment. Her mother peered at her with concern. “What’s wrong, my love? You’re looking flushed.”
“You’d be flushed, too, if you had an awful toad pawing at your leg all through dinner.”
“He didn’t!”
“I’m sorry to say he did.”
“I will speak to Cyrus as soon as the guests leave,” her mother huffed. “I know you have to be polite to the man, but I will not tolerate that kind of conduct at my dinner table.”
Oh, and wouldn’t that conversation go over splendidly.
“Don’t bother, Mamma,” she said with an artificial laugh. “I can handle Prince Ivan. I just need a few moments to myself. I’ll join you and the ladies shortly.”
Her mother chewed on her lower lip, then shrugged. “Perhaps you’re right. I suppose we can’t expect a Russian—even if he is a prince—to act with the same sense of decorum as an Englishman.”
Vivien refrained from pointing out how badly the average English aristocrat behaved on a regular basis, starting with the Prince Regent and moving down through the ranks.
Lady Thornbury came out of the drawing room to look for her. “Vivien, my love, are you well?”
“I’m just a little overheated. The dining room was rather stuffy tonight.”
Her friend gave her an understanding wink. “I quite agree, especially at your end of the table. Perhaps you should take a few minutes to gather yourself. I’ll help your mother pour the tea.”
Vivien smiled her thanks, trying for the thousandth time not to wish that Lady Thornbury was her mother, and headed toward her brother’s library. She was sorely in need of a brandy and she intended to have a generous one, no matter how indecorous that might be.
Even though it was now Cyrus’s domain, Vivien loved the quietly elegant room, little changed since the days of her childhood when she immersed herself in her father’s poetry collection and read the novels of Defoe and Fielding. Decorated in the simpler lines of the Queen Anne style, its pale green walls and inset shelves, crammed with books, reminded her of a happier time.
She poured herself a brandy from the drinks trolley and wandered over to the fireplace, gazing at her father’s portrait over the mantel. Superficially, neither she nor Kit resembled him, although when her little brother smiled Vivien could see traces in the curve of the lips and the dimple to one side of his mouth. Cyrus most resembled Papa, although her brother could not have been further in spirit from her father’s loving and generous nature.
Sighing, she let her fingers brush affectionately along the oak frame of the portrait. Nothing had been the same since Papa died. It was almost as if a light had been extinguished in her family, taking most of the joy with it. Sometimes she imagined that Mamma’s and Kit’s frantic gaiety was a desperate attempt to make up for his absence. As much as she sympathized with that impulse, it irked her, too. Her father would not have been pleased with the way their selfish behavior affected the rest of them.
She turned her back on the portrait. There was little point indulging in maudlin memories or wishing for things to be different. Life had dealt her a hand to play, and she would see it through to the best of her ability. The sooner she could begin her plan to do that, the better.
Discarding her drink, she started for the door. But when it swung open, she came to a surprised halt.
Surprise turned to dismay when Prince Ivan Khovansky walked into the room and shut the door behind him.
Chapter Seventeen
Khovansky leaned back against the door panels, his greedy eyes inspecting her. He didn’t really seem toadlike anymore. Now he seemed like a snake spotting a tasty little rabbit, wanting to swallow it whole.
Vivien refused to be the rabbit.
“Prince Ivan, you surprise me,” she said in a firm voice. “Have you lost your way?”
Peeling back his lips in a smile that was more leer, he advanced toward her. She took a hasty step back, tangling her heel in the ruffle that hemmed her dress and almost losing her footing.
So much for not being the rabbit.
In the few seconds it took to recover her balance, Khovansky rushed across the room to her side. He took her elbow in a hard grip, trying to pull her against him. Stepping back, her legs collided with her brother’s desk and Vivien smacked her free hand down on its polished surface to keep from falling.
“My dear lady, your delicate constitution has been overtaxed this evening,” the prince exclaimed. “You are most unsteady on your feet.”
“I’m perfectly fine, sir,” she responded, struggling to pull her arm away from him. “And I’m not the least bit delicate. You may let me go.”
She finally yanked her elbow free, although the movement tipped her back against the desk, offsetting her balance again. Smothering a curse, she slapped both hands behind her, gripping the edge of the polished walnut to hold steady.
The prince refused to back away. He crowded her against the desk, his barrel chest mere inches from her bodice. If she took a deep breath she would scratch herself against the display of unearned medals so ostentatiously pinned to his uniform.
He inched closer, forcing her to arch away from him. The lascivious gleam in his heavy-lidded eyes combined with the smell of creamed onions on his breath to make her stomach lurch.
Vivien wished she could hold her breath and talk at the same time. “Prince Ivan, I must insist that you step back. You are making it impossible for me to catch my breath.”
“But if I do, I’m quite terrified you will tumble to the floor.”
“I told you,” she said through clenched teeth, “that I’m perfectly fine.”
His gaze flickered over to the drink trolley, with her half-empty glass of brandy. “Then perhaps there’s another reason you’re so unsteady on your feet, my sweet lady. You appear to have gotten into your brother’s brandy.”
He leaned forward and sniffed her breath, so close that Vivien could see the black hairs in his nostrils. Her outrage was overborne by the smell of the onions, now mingling with the odor of his heavily scented snuff. She had to swallow hard against the impulse to gag.
The prince chuckled. “What a naughty young lady you are, but I’m devastated you didn’t invite me to join you. We could have enjoyed a brandy together, along with other more pleasurable activities.”
Khovansky finished off his insult by skimming his blunt-tipped fingers along her exposed clavicle. The touch of his clammy flesh on her overheated skin made her shudder.
Seething, Vivien placed her palms against his chest and gave a hard shove. He staggered back a bit, but as she tried to slip past him he grabbed her by the upper arms and wheeled her to face him. With surprising strength, he crushed her against his chest.
She gasped. “Unhand me, sir!” His fingers crushed the delicate silk of her sleeves, digging into her arms. “Your Highness, you’re hurting me!”
The pressure eased fractionally, but then he shoved her backward, slamming the back of her thighs against the desk. She grimaced. That bit of violence would certainly leave a set of bruises in its wake.
“It is not my desire to hurt you, Lady Vivien,” replied the prince in a strange, rasping voice. “But if you continue to defy me, you will give me little choice.”
Actually, she had the disturbing notion he would very much like to hurt her. His lips curled up with sadistic delight and his fingers squeezed and released in an odd pumping action he seemed to enjoy. Nor could she ignore the thrust of his pelvis against her belly or mistake the hard ridge of flesh pressing into her.
But it was the look in his eyes that truly unnerved her. They glittered with an unholy passion, staring at her with menacing promise, as if he would flay t
he very flesh from her bones if she challenged him. For the first time since she’d met him, she was terrified.
“You need a lesson in appropriate conduct toward those of higher station,” he continued, sounding eager to school her. “I told your brother that would be so, but he seemed reluctant to believe me. And now we see that I am correct.”
What? Cyrus and the prince had discussed teaching her a lesson?
She glared back at him. “I fail to see why my conduct should be any business of yours, Prince Ivan. Nor did my brother have any right to discuss it with you.”
He let out a harsh laugh. “We had every right, my lady, since I intend to marry you. It is a husband’s duty to school his wife in proper behavior. You will soon be a princess of Russia, and you must learn to conduct yourself obediently, and with proper decorum at all times.”
“I’d sooner marry a bloody chimney sweep than agree to be your wife,” she responded, unthinkingly snapping out the words.
His gaze went blank for a few seconds, then blazed with a demented-looking rage. In that moment, Vivien truly believed he might very well throttle her if she didn’t comply.
Her heart crashed against her ribs as she started back at him. “Prince Ivan,” she said, struggling to contain her fear. “I insist you let me return to my mother. This unfortunate interlude has gone on too long.”
He barked out a laugh. “Or you’ll do what, dear lady? Threaten me?”
“I’ll scream as loud as I can,” she said, already raising her voice.
To show him she meant business, she sucked in a huge breath and opened her mouth.
The prince moved with astonishing speed for such a bulky man. He lunged forward, crushing his body against hers, his fleshy lips smashing into her mouth. This time Vivien did gag and her legs started to slide out from under her.
Secrets for Seducing a Royal Bodyguard Page 16