The Royal Conquest

by Stacy Reid

“It is scandalous, that is what it is!”

  “I think she is an original.”

  This time the notes of admiration were filled with warmth.

  “I would say the Duke of Avondale has clearly declared who will be his duchess.”

  This tone was filled with envy.

  Payton did not care. She could feel Mikhail’s eyes on her; the swell of the gossip murmurings rose, but she was becoming immune to it all. It was freeing to know how little she cared for their opinion in this moment.

  “Payton!” The sharp call of her aunt did not deter her, and pure pleasure wrapped itself around her heart as she ignored the head of her family.

  She met the eyes of Connie, and a full-blown smile burst on Payton’s lips when the duchess raised her glass of champagne and gave her a mock bow. Payton winked, and Connie laughed, and the ballroom throng witnessed the byplay.

  Payton swept from the ballroom to the foyer, ignoring those who tried to signal her attention. She was one of the first guests to depart, and it took little effort for her carriage to be brought around.

  She waited until she was settled inside before releasing the laugh she had been suppressing. This night had been perfect…almost. The freedom to act on her feelings had been so rewarding. When she had returned to his arms, uncaring of the world around for the first time she could ever remember, she had felt the crack in the belief she could never fit in his world.

  She had soared in his arms, the desperate realization that while she did not want to be a part of the hypocrisy of high society, the easy condemnation and gossip, the desire to be Mikhail’s wife, his lover, his princess and his duchess, had rattled in her head, a hammer to her resistance. And when she took the plunge, society would be the one that needed to fit into her world. A society where there was kindness to the wallflowers, where it was acceptable to invite the bluestocking to her balls, where the gent who possessed two left feet would still be encouraged to waltz, and, if it was her wish, to ride in Hyde Park astride in trousers. The very title she feared had the power for her to act however she wanted, if she would but have the strength to reach for him.

  What about never knowing what it is like to touch him? How could she ever hope to defeat such demons?

  There was a lurch, and she slipped a bit forward. A few minutes passed, and she stirred. Mayfair, where her father’s town house was located, was not all that far from Connie’s residence. They should have arrived by now. Payton lifted her head and frowned. Was it her imagination that the horses were moving faster? She banged on the carriage roof, and a few seconds later the portal slid open.

  “Why have we increased our—?” What?

  Dozens of men on horseback surrounded her carriage, and the countryside they raced past was not familiar in the least. Pulling the watch from her pelisse, she gaped at the time. She had been woolgathering for almost an hour.

  Fear slithered along her spine. “Stop the carriage,” she ordered, her mind churning with confusion and determination.

  Why would the driver detour without informing her? She gasped when a horse trotted alongside the equipage, and she identified Vladimir. She opened the window. “What are you doing? Please order the driver to stop at once.”

  “Will you leave the carriage in the middle of nowhere?”

  She glared at him. “What is the meaning of this?”

  A slight smile quirked his lips. “I am being allowed to atone for my stupidity.”

  “By kidnapping me?” For the most awful precious seconds she had thought it could have been Lord Jensen, and she would have to endure a similar fate as Phillipa had when a man who had been obsessed kidnapped her.

  Relief pulsed inside, and then a thought occurred. “Are you planning to do away with me for Princess Tatiana?”

  Shock flared wide in Vladimir’s eyes to be quickly replaced by amusement.

  “No, Miss Peppiwell. Please be assured you have nothing to fear.”

  “I am not sure how things are done in Russia, but kidnapping here is a punishable crime.”

  The dratted man’s lips twitched.

  “I am taking you to Kent at Prince Alexander’s command.”

  Payton spluttered at the man’s gall. She slammed the window shut and tried to settle her thoughts. She rocked with the motion of the carriage with a steady sense of anticipation building inside her. Mikhail was being outrageous and so improper. A smile tugged at her lips. She did not want to even imagine the gossip there would be if this got out.

  Payton was infuriated. Mikhail really had the temerity to have the bounder Vladimir kidnap her. Was he aware the depth of scandal it could cause if it were ever discovered?

  Now, approximately two hours after she had left the ball in London, that he delivered her to one of the most glorious castles she had ever seen, did not detract from his outrageous action. The outriders had broken away from the carriage once the horses trotted into the driveway. Payton descended the carriage to be received by the servants awaiting her arrival.

  She felt mystified. The head housekeeper, Mrs. Claxon, took charge in quick order, and introduced Payton to the line of staff, then ushered her inside before escorting her upstairs to the loveliest of chambers, where an elegant maid modestly curtsied, awaiting her orders.

  Her cheeks burned. What must they be thinking? Only a woman of loose morals would be at the prince’s house at such a late hour, unaccompanied, yet they treated her with the utmost respect and kindness.

  The chamber was decorated in antique gold and blue, with six soaring windows facing the rolling expanse of the green castle grounds. A Parisian chaise lounge upholstered in golden silk stood in the far corner, and one of the most exquisite writing desks Payton had ever seen sat under the windows. She indulged in a bath to remove the sweat and dust of travel and dressed in a matching blue jacket and skirt trimmed in silver, and a soft peach shirt with ruffled sleeves that had been laid out. Payton did not question how her valise had been delivered along with her to the castle.

  It seemed he had planned this with great thoroughness.

  She marched to the oak armoire and wrenched the door opened. She had several day dresses, riding habits, and even a few ball gowns organized inside.

  Good heavens. Did he not plan to return her home?

  She stiffened her shoulders and exited the chamber. The majestic beauty of the castle took Payton’s breath away. She toured the lower rooms, seeking Mikhail in the parlor or drawing room. They were decorated in ornate elegance; if the ceilings had not been so high, the mass of detail might have seemed fussy, but the proportions were splendid, and yet the castle seemed very lived-in and comfortable. The rooms were all decorated with elegant furniture in Italian marble and carved mahogany. The windows were covered with sweeping curtains in brocade velvet with the ducal shield displayed in gold braid on each of the tassel-festooned pelmets. The walls were hung with some of the most exquisite paintings she had ever seen. Payton doubted that even the British Museum held such great works of art. The chairs and sofas were upholstered in silk in muted shades of silver and blue in one room and in crimson and gold in the next.

  Payton had never seen such a pleasing interior.

  She searched for the library or an office, for she refused to believe he would bring her here and not be present. She came upon a room where a faint light shone beneath the door. She rapped on the door, and when no answer came, she opened it and entered.

  It was a library. No—it was a world of fantasy and dreams where walls and walls of books rose in three stories of stunning splendor. It was the most magnificent library Payton had ever seen.

  “This is so glorious,” she gasped, unable to credit her eyes.

  “This is one of the reasons I brought you here.”

  She muffled the squeak and spun sharply.

  Good heavens.

  Mikhail stood in the doorway, obviously having recently emerged from a bath. He was dressed in formal trousers and jacket, complemented by a blue waistcoat and an expertly tied si
lken cravat. His black hair was neatly groomed, although slightly damp, without a strand out of place, his blue eyes were cool and distant; he was every inch the aristocrat. Against her own volition she was intrigued by this side of him. This man seemed cold and arrogant…more like a duke or prince than her Mikhail. She was overwhelmingly conscious of how much she had missed him, when only hours before she had been in his arms waltzing.

  She loved him utterly.

  An unbearable tension wound itself around her heart with the admission.

  She buried the flare of pleasure at seeing him and gave him a look of pure disgruntlement. “Did you believe seeing books would make me forgive your deplorable behavior? Disabuse yourself of the notion, Mik—your highness.”

  Regret flared in his eyes. “Please do not refer to me as such.”

  Her heart softened. “I won’t if that is your wish.”

  “I see you have refreshed yourself?”

  “Are we to ignore the elephant in the room?”

  His lips twitched. “I do not understand your phrase.”

  “Very well, are you going to ignore the deplorable behavior I just mentioned?”

  He grunted.

  “You had me kidnapped.”

  Silence stretched between them for a moment.

  “Escorted,” he finally said.

  She frowned. “To what end? You and I are—”

  “Will you dine with me? Dinner will be served within the next hour.”

  Oh. “I am not sure I can wait a full hour for you to tell me why you went through so much to bring me here.”

  “Maybe I wanted to show you just a bit of what you would be giving up. You would be mistress of all you survey.”

  She snorted and rolled her eyes. “You know I have no interest in your wealth.”

  A smile touched his lips.

  Then another bout of terrible silence. They stood in the library simply staring at each other. Shadows of torment lingered in his eyes, and he tugged at the cravat at his throat. The nervous gesture made her heart ache.

  “I would love to dine with you, Mikhail.”

  His eyes were cold, his expression icy. “I thank you.”

  So formal…so distant. Was now the time to tell him she loved him and wanted to be his wife? “Mikhail, I—”

  “I will see you at seven.”

  “Please wait.”

  He fisted his hands at his side and then faced her. The powerful emotions in his eyes made her heart flip, but in a good way. “Tell me, please, why did you bring me here?”

  “I am not able to let you go.”

  Was he saying he loved her?

  His eyes never strayed from her face. “I already have all the wealth and connections I could possibly want. I do not need a marriage to provide me with more. I want a marriage with a woman who respects me, trusts me, desires me, and above all, loves me.”

  “I do,” she said, walking toward him. “I love you.”

  For a heart-wrenching moment he did nothing. There was no reaction from his body or his eyes. And it petrified Payton. “Do you love me?”

  “Yes.” There was no hesitation in his voice.

  Sweet relief crashed through her, but there was a dark edge in his tone, and her heart squeezed in discomfort and slight fear. “You do not seem happy at the realization.”

  Without speaking he thumbed the latch on the door and leaned against the wooden frame. His penetrating stare never wavered. “I know I adore you. The utter wonder of meeting you and knowing you have taken a piece of my heart, although I’ve only known you for seven days, has not escaped me. I do not need seven weeks or seven years to know you are the woman for me, Payton. I know it now. I see it in your smiles, your kisses, the passion and joy you find in the simple pleasures of life. What I see I admire, and I can only grow to love and appreciate you more. And it is because I feel such a need for you, I would prefer to release you rather than bind you to a life of pain and unhappiness.”

  Fear, cold and dreadful, slithered through her, alarming in its extremity. “I do not fear your world.” She pushed past the lump in her throat. “The doubts are still there, and they may never leave, but I do not care. I want what you want, Mikhail. I want to be your lover, your friend, the woman you turn to when your nights are cold with nightmares, when you want to share a humorous anecdote, the person you turn to when you are angry and simply need to moan, the woman you want to have children with. I would desire this with you, even if you were a simple farmer. I want to marry you, and if I falter in the privileged world in which we will live, then I will make use of the power in the titles you so generously bestow.”

  “And if I never allow your touch?”

  She flinched subtly, and his eyes sharpened.

  “I do not believe it will be so.”

  He pushed from the door and slowly shrugged out of his jacket, then his waistcoat and shirt. She remained speechless as he removed his trousers, his unmentionables, and shoes, until he stood gloriously naked. Her breath caught at the sight of him, and her pulse started to hammer.

  Payton closed her eyes for precious seconds and then snapped them open. Mikhail was still standing there, his body perfectly chiseled, with an arrogant tilt of his head. But his eyes… Oh, they glowed with fear, determination, lust, and love.

  He prowled over to where she stood rooted, all sinewy grace and power.

  “I submit myself to your touch,” he said, his voice darker than the shades of midnight and sin.

  His meaning rocketed through her. No, her mind screamed even as she lifted a finger and glided it over the hardened flesh of his chest with the lightest of caresses.

  What if he allowed her touch and realized he could never want such intimacy with her?

  “Touch me,” he invited.

  She pressed firmer, and he sucked in a breath on a sharp hiss, and she dropped her hands.

  Payton lifted her eyes to his. “You honor me with such trust, Mikhail, but it is not needed. I can see the torment in your gaze, and it would ravage me to cause you more pain. I will marry you, and I will be patient, because I believe in the trust and love you have in me, and we will eventually entwine ourselves around each other and shout from the joy and relief of sliding skin against skin. But it will not be this day…and I am content.”

  A shudder passed through him, and he pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “I need to know I can bear your touch, even if only for a few minutes. I feel no hope, and I cannot suffer to see the pain in your eyes when I flinch from you. It is dull now, but it will only grow, until you start to hate me, until you will be forced to turn to another for something I can never give you.”

  She gasped. “This is what you believe of me?”

  “No…I can see the woman you are. I see your strength and honor, and the capability for love and forgiveness. But I would not bind us together with even the possibility that I may never be able to bear your touch.” He crouched with an animalistic grace and swiped his cravat from the parquet floor.

  “Bind me…touch me.”

  Bind him? The idea was so deliciously shocking and wicked, a pulse of wanton heat throbbed between her folds.

  He strolled and sank into the chair by the fire, and he was so beautiful he took Payton’s breath.

  The trust he placed in her was enormous; it humbled her and filled her with fierce pride and love. He was doing this for her. Facing the demons of nightmares past because he did not want to see her unhappy.

  She would treasure such a trust.

  Acting on instincts she began to remove her clothes, strolling over to him and accepting his aid to remove her laces and buttons. Then she, too, was unashamedly naked. A pleased smile curved her lips as his heavy-lidded gaze of appreciation roamed over her body. She purred deep in her throat as the thick length of his erection flexed eagerly.

  The broad width of the high winged-back chair made it impossible to bind his hands behind him. Instead, she rent her shift and used the strips to tie each of his hands to the
armchair. Payton was very conscious that with each touch, he tensed, and he visibly forced himself to relax.

  She leaned in, her breast close to his mouth and whispered, “If you want me to stop…call me Myrtle.” His brow lifted, and she straightened and dipped into a slight curtsy. “Miss Payton Myrtle Peppiwell at your command, my prince.”

  His fingers gripped the arm of the chair, a growl bursting free of his mouth. “Touch me,” he urged, blue fire of need sparking in his eyes. “Take me.”

  And God help her, she did, desperately wanting to experience the sweet burn of him sliding into her, possessing her body and heart, and knowing he bore her touch…even if it was fleeting.

  Mikhail trembled when she pressed the flat of her palm against his chest right above his pounding heart, the first such direct contact in years.

  Payton’s touch was fire and ice.

  Pain and pleasure.

  Dread and exquisite torment.

  Myrtle.

  From the amusement twisting her lips, no doubt she believed it was an unattractive name. But everything about her captivated Mikhail. He flinched, and she froze. Yet when she removed her palm he felt bereft.

  “Use your lips on me.” The command snapped from him almost against his own volition, but he had imagined too many times how the flick of her tongue would feel.

  She leaned forward and licked the very place her hand had been resting. Fire streaked through him, and his stomach roiled.

  He gritted his teeth, tipping back his head as memories of dozens of hands pinched and whipped his skin, biting and licking, forcing him to feel pleasure from their depravity.

  “Look at me.” Her calm soothing voice was a relief, and he snapped his eyes opened, directing his sole attention to Payton.

  The hum of memory receded, and all he could see was her.

  “Do not look away from me,” she said softly, her eyes devouring him.

  The pleasure she took in looking at him sent a thrill shooting through his heart.

  “I want to kiss you.”

  “Yes,” he growled.

  A shy but wanton smile graced her lips. She stroked her fingers through his hair, acclimating him to her touch. “But not on your lips…everywhere but your lips.” She stroked her fingers down over the sharp angles of his jaw, down over his shoulders, tenderly.