Compromised by the Prince's Touch

by Bronwyn Scott

  At the sound, he swore—something in Russian she didn’t need to understand to know what it meant: that their kiss had tempted him beyond comfortable boundaries. He drew back, his dark eyes obsidian-black, his voice ragged at its edges as if he’d found a certain amount of satisfaction and been reluctant to let it go. But there was only that glimpse before the words that indicated this might have only been a game played for her benefit, to show her what it meant to poke this particular dragon. ‘Forgive me,’ he began, ‘I did not intend...’

  Cold fury doused the newly stoked heat of her body. ‘Yes, you did. You’ve had every intention of kissing me since we met.’

  ‘Touché.’ He gave her a short, stiff gesture, more of a nod than a bow. ‘Then that makes us even.’

  His audacity angered her. She wanted to lash out in a fiery display of temper, to slap him for the advantages he’d taken, but he’d like that. It was what he expected, perhaps even what he’d been playing for—a wedge to drive between them, or even to drive her away. She had too much on the line to allow that, or anything that bore the slightest resemblance to victory. She played her trump card. ‘Hardly even. My father wants you to come to dinner.’ She gave him a look, part cold anger, part dare. If she’d learned anything about Nikolay Baklanov thus far it was that he wouldn’t back down, especially if he believed she thought he would.

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  She felt the guilt prick her again. Surely a small hint of warning would salve her conscience without betraying her father’s intentions in inviting him. ‘Don’t you want to know why?’ The words came out in a rush. She hadn’t much time left with him here in this quiet grove. The horses were getting restless. They’d have to leave soon.

  Nikolay gave her a frustratingly confident grin. ‘Don’t worry, kotyonok moya, I already do.’

  * * *

  ‘You’ve invited a potential viper to dinner,’ the Duke of Amesbury postulated from the comfortable arm chair in front of Alexei Grigoriev’s fire. It was hardly an original idea. Surely Grigoriev was already keenly aware of the risk he took in inviting the Russian prince to dinner. Amesbury’s sharp eyes watched the ambassador as he paced the long windows of his study to the gardens beyond.

  ‘Or,’ Grigoriev drawled with considerably more optimism than Amesbury felt, ‘I’ve invited the perfect solution. Serving Russia’s better interests is always a delicate proposition, never more so than now when the country’s better interests aren’t shared by its ruler. I think an exiled prince would be hungry for two things: revenge and regaining his place. We can give him that.’ Amesbury gave the idea a moment’s attention as Grigoriev went on. ‘He could be perfect. He’s a military officer, a leader of men. We can send him to St Petersburg with the arms when the time is right to raise and rally the troops.’

  Ah. A man to play the martyr. Amesbury could get his mind around that. Baklanov could be transformed into a scapegoat if anything went wrong. They knew from experience just how much might go wrong. The Union of Salvation, of which Grigoriev was a devout member, had been forced underground after the failed military revolt in 1821. They could not afford to fail again, but neither could they afford not to try again. Now, the Union plotted in secret and in safety, abroad in England and elsewhere. It was a sign of how great the discontent was that Tsar Alexander’s own military was willing to consider revolutionary action. Not that Amesbury was particularly interested in the principles of the revolt, only the profit. Selling arms to the upstart revolutionaries emerging throughout Europe after Napoleon’s demise had become lucrative in the extreme. Grigoriev’s revolution could be the most lucrative of them all.

  Grigoriev continued to proselytise from the windows. ‘The military will respect the Prince and he has knowledge of courtly manoeuvres. He can handle the politics.’

  ‘In theory,’ Amesbury drawled. ‘That has yet to be proven.’ He liked the idea of a scapegoat if the revolt failed. He didn’t like the potential, however, of Grigoriev liking this Prince more than him. He rather liked being the ambassador’s right-hand man. This arms deal was a sure pipeline to profit.

  ‘He is perfect.’ General Vasilev, the third member of their select group, gave his moustache a thoughtful stroking from the chair opposite him. ‘Have you thought of that, Alexei? When things are too good to be true, they probably are. Perhaps he’s been sent to smoke us out.’ Vasilev could always be counted to speak like a true Russian. In this case, Amesbury was quick to second him. It wouldn’t do for Grigoriev to go trusting the Prince too much.

  The ambassador fixed the General with a stern stare. ‘If it was a trap, he’d have come forward sooner and made himself known. He can’t entrap anyone from a distance.’ Grigoriev grimaced. ‘Besides, if we want to move forward, I don’t think we have the luxury of doubt. We need someone to go to Russia with the arms...’ he paused here with a dark look for each of them ‘...unless one of you two is willing to do it?’ The last was said with an obvious dash of challenge. Neither he nor Vasilev wanted to take that risk.

  Amesbury would rather talk about the Prince than his own reticence to accompany the arms to Russia. ‘Consider this for a moment,’ Amesbury drawled. ‘If Baklanov didn’t want to be noticed, it means he’s hiding something. That could be useful.’ He liked sowing doubt. Grigoriev and he both assessed people through their usefulness, but where they diverged was in motives. Grigoriev used people to promote his principles. He, on the other hand, used people strictly for personal gain. His motives were selfish whereas Grigoriev’s could, at times, be sacrificial. He’d prefer Grigoriev not discover he operated by a different code far more practical than the ambassador’s idealism. He would allow Grigoriev to include Baklanov in their plans, as long as it didn’t usurp his position until he could secure a more permanent station by the ambassador’s side, one such as marriage. He’d had his eye on Klara Grigorieva for quite some time now. He didn’t want new-come Princes destroying those plans.

  He could feel the hint of a contemplative smile twitch at his lips at the thought of Klara Grigorieva; firm breasted and feisty. She would be an asset on his arm. Every man in any room would want to look at her. He’d turn her out in the finest of gowns, bedeck her in the most expensive of jewels. Thanks to her father, he had the money to do that and more. In public, he’d celebrate her beauty, and his triumph in winning a woman other men had failed to claim. Behind closed doors, he’d enjoy taming that long, slim-legged spitfire. He hadn’t had a woman that wild in ages and Klara was the best kind of wild, the kind that would fight when cornered. He shifted slightly in his chair, crossing a leg over a knee to subdue the effects raised by such images.

  He loved a good fight, especially the sort that ended up with his belt lashing out victory against round, white buttocks. He would let her run, let her fight, let her think there was the possibility of escape until she ran the length of her tether. But she would never be able to ultimately resist him. Her father had ensured that just as assuredly as her father had ensured his wealth the moment Grigoriev had invited him into this little coven of Russian rebels. Grigoriev would need his protection before this venture was through and for Klara’s sake he’d give it, but, oh, how he’d make her pay for it; decadently, sinfully, naked and on her knees. Oh, yes, Alexei Grigoriev was too useful of an ally to lose to an exiled prince. But first, it seemed one more hurdle remained—ferreting out Nikolay Baklanov’s secrets. If the Prince had secrets, it meant he could be blackmailed into compliance. If they knew what those secrets were. Everyone had their price. There were only so many reasons a prince of wealth and status fled his country.

  Chapter Four

  There were only so many reasons an ambassador asked an expatriate prince to dinner, but Nikolay was uncertain which one had prompted Alexei Grigoriev’s invitation. He did, however, recognise an ambush when he saw one.

  This one was dressed in an expensive gown of dark blue silk that gathered enticingly beneath firm b
reasts and sparkled with discreet diamonds in the brunette depths of her hair. Klara was to be the distraction, the forward action upfront in the hopes that he’d leave himself open to attack from behind. It was not a bad idea. The sight of her formally dressed was a stunning contrast after seeing her in breeches and a riding habit. Tonight she rivalled, even surpassed, the beauties of Kuban. ‘This is classic military strategy,’ he said in low tones to Klara as she circulated the room with him making introductions.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ She moved them smoothly from the rotund, greying General Vasilev, who was in attendance with his wife and pretty daughter, to a group of young officers standing by the Italian marble fireplace.

  ‘Are you familiar with Hannibal’s ambush at the Trebia River?’ Nikolay murmured, liking the sensation of having her to himself in a room full of people. She was still bristly from their encounter in the park, having not quite forgiven him for the kiss. Or perhaps it was herself she hadn’t forgiven. She’d liked it well enough, had participated in it fully. Perhaps she didn’t like knowing he’d been the one to break it off.

  She gave a husky laugh as if she, too, was flirting with him. ‘I know who Hannibal is, but alas, I am not a student of military tactics like yourself.’

  They stopped between the two conversational groups and Nikolay took advantage of the privacy, his mouth close to her ear. ‘Hannibal openly engaged the Roman corps and, while they were distracted, they were ambushed from behind by the rest of Hannibal’s army.’ He spoke the words as if they were endearments. As close as their heads were, the words might have been just that to the onlooker—the opening manoeuvres of a sensual game.

  A coy smile crossed Klara’s mouth, ‘Am I the “distraction” in your theory?’ Her fingers discreetly played with the diamond pendant that hung just above her breasts, highlighting her décolletage and drawing his eyes downwards. ‘How am I doing?’

  ‘No gentleman can safely answer that,’ Nikolay murmured. He was in no hurry to distance himself from her. He was enjoying this far too much and they were attracting attention from the Duke of Amesbury, whom he’d met upon arrival, the only Englishman present. That interaction had been cool, the politeness glacial. ‘If I say you’re doing expertly, I’ve implied you have loose morals. If I say you’re doing poorly, I’ve implied you have no charms.’ He chuckled softly, aware that the low rumble of his voice and the nearness of his body had the pulse at the base of her throat racing steadily. ‘Either way, I end up slapped.’

  ‘Do you get slapped often?’ Klara teased wickedly.

  ‘Worse. Sometimes I get called out.’ He nodded discreetly towards Amesbury. ‘Should I be worried? He’s been watching us.’

  Klara hesitated only slightly, but it was enough to draw his notice before she dismissed his concern over Amesbury with an airy wave of her hand he didn’t quite believe. ‘We are in the middle of a drawing room surrounded by guests. He can hardly be jealous of that.’

  ‘Why would he be jealous at all?’ Nikolay prompted. ‘Does he have an interest in you, Klara?’ He found the possibility disappointing.

  ‘He has an interest in my father,’ Klara snapped too quickly. Ah, so there was some history in that direction. The Duke’s interest in Klara might not be formally acknowledged or reciprocated, but she was aware of him and how he thought of her. Nikolay shot a covert glance in the Duke’s direction. Amesbury would be a dangerous enemy. There was a coldness around the Duke’s eyes, even at a distance, that suggested one would not want to face him with pistols. Nikolay had seen that look before in the eyes of battle-hardened soldiers who didn’t know the meaning of mercy. Amesbury wouldn’t be the sort to delope.

  The butler announced dinner and Klara tucked her arm through his, steering his thoughts away from Amesbury’s firearm skills. ‘You are to take me in this evening.’

  ‘Of course I am.’ Nikolay laughed, pleased but not surprised by the turn of events. ‘After all, kotyonok moya, you are the distraction.’

  Nikolay surveyed the elegant setting of the ambassador’s dining room: the long, polished table set with heavy silver, multi-armed candelabra, an expensive, squat epergne filled with fruits that were hard to come by in winter and the equally rare Lomonosov porcelain made only in Russia with its distinctive cobalt and white pattern. The setting confirmed the tone. The evening was unmistakably Russian from the china place settings to the guests. The table could seat twenty-four, although tonight it had been arranged to seat an intimate twelve—Grigoriev’s inner circle and their wives.

  Nikolay helped Klara into her chair at the foot of the table and took his on her right, letting his gaze drift over the guests, assessing. Grigoriev would ambush him here. He would call him out surrounded by witnesses. The opening salvo would come from one of them, not Grigoriev himself. That would be too obvious, and contain no element of surprise. Would it be General Vasilev, who he’d already met? The young Count visiting from St Petersburg with his friend who had eyes for the General’s pretty daughter? Perhaps the two men near his own age in uniform, protégés of the General, whom he’d not had the chance to meet officially?

  It was a most intimate circle indeed, a circle that now surrounded him, a newcomer, and Alexei Grigoriev reigned over it all from one end of the table. Klara reigned from the other, dressed subtly but richly, diamonds twinkling at her ears, the blue silk of her gown nearly the shade of the dishes. There was no mistaking the Grigorievs lived handsomely in their Belgravia townhouse.

  They feasted handsomely, too. Dinner began with oysters on the half-shell and caviar from the Caspian Sea, followed by a clear soup—a Russian standard—and then fish as the guests made small talk, all in English despite their ability to do otherwise. Perhaps out of deference for Klara and Amesbury? Or perhaps to illustrate another, more subtle point? By the time the roast and vegetables were on the table, however, talk had changed to sharper topics. The polite conversation of the early courses had gradually meandered into the political. The ambush was coming. They wouldn’t wait until the ladies left the table.

  Nikolay ran through his options once more, reassessing why he’d been invited. To take his measure, of course, but as to what? He didn’t like where his conclusions led. An exiled prince might be angry enough to betray his country. Why would Grigoriev want to know that? To catch a traitor? Was this part of Kuban’s attempt to trap him and bring him home? The timing would be right. He’d been in England almost a year; long enough for news to travel north to St Petersburg and a correspondence to take place over a course of action. Was Stepan right? Was Grigoriev to be feared? Or was there something else at work? Did the ambassador have schemes of his own?

  He leaned close to Klara, aware that Amesbury was watching him and fingering his butter knife. ‘Is this why you’ve brought me here? Your father wishes to test my political loyalties?’ The ambassador might know who he was, but he didn’t yet know what he was; Should he be classified as a patriot? A traitor? Or something in between, something more dangerous than either, a revolutionary—a man who loved Russia enough to want to change it.

  Klara slanted him a look that would reduce a lesser man to an intellectual toddler. ‘Are you always so cynical? Perhaps it is the other way around. Perhaps tonight gives you a chance to test his.’

  Nikolay held her gaze, considering the truth of her statement. Was it possible? Or was it merely an attempt to disarm him? There was too much unknown to draw a solid conclusion. Did Grigoriev know what he’d done to warrant exile? Did St Petersburg care that a prince from a newly created ‘kingdom’ of the empire had essentially deserted? Kuban had only been firmly Russian for three generations of princes. Without knowing the answers to those questions, he could draw no definitive conclusion that this was a trap.

  He let his mind pick up the thread of Klara’s insinuation that her father wanted to test him for his own purposes. What might those purposes be? Treason? Rebellion? Matrimony possibly, given that there was
matchmaking underway for the General’s daughter based on the glances being tossed across the table. He had already contemplated compliance and treason. Why not contemplate matrimony, too?

  Nikolay considered Klara; the heat of her kiss, the sharpness of her wit. Had she been trying to tempt him for nothing more than marriage? It seemed a small thing compared to entrapment for treason. Alexei Grigoriev wasn’t the first ambitious ambassador looking to connect his daughter with a royal family of the empire. If Grigoriev thought there was a chance he would return to Kuban and take up his responsibilities in the military, it would be advantageous to have Klara in a position that could advance his own career. Such arrangements were made all the time in Kuban. Marriage was a political concern, romance was a personal one that was often expected to occur outside of that marriage.

  It stood to reason Grigoriev would be interested in Kuban. It was an area of growing political concern. As an officer, Nikolay understood how important Kuban would be in the next several decades. The Ottomans were weakening. Their empire would fall and Russia would want its piece of the spoils, as would England. The Crimean Peninsula stood, metaphorically speaking, between England and Russia in the west, the Khyber Pass of Afghanistan stood between them in the east, Russia’s gateway into British India. The time for war was not yet, but it was coming. Nikolay could feel it in his warrior’s soul. There would be a time, when the country he loved would square off against the country he’d run to. It would be a time for choosing, a time for testing loyalties.