Compromised by the Prince's Touch

by Bronwyn Scott

  This was her opportunity to get out. She could say she wasn’t up to it. But inwardly she baulked at playing the coward. It was not like her to shy away from a challenge. Still, she found herself looking for an excuse. ‘How? A riding lesson is quite busy. There’s not a lot of time to talk.’

  ‘You’ll find a way,’ her father insisted confidently. ‘Talk to him about Kuban. Talk to him about himself. Flirt a little. I’ve yet to meet a man who can resist the temptation to talk about himself with a pretty girl.’ Her father winked affectionately.

  The prospect of Tuesday’s lesson came with mixed emotions. The prospect of seeing Nikolay again filled her with a breath-catching anticipation, but it required she pay her father’s price—to play the game one more time. She had to consider how she felt about that, especially since those feelings came with the realisation that she was willing to protect a man she barely knew from her father’s intrigues, a man who might even be dangerous to them. Why should she give him the benefit of being innocent before proven guilty when her father’s precious game and her own usefulness to that game hung in the balance? She knew the disturbing answer: because Nikolay Baklanov kissed like the devil.

  * * *

  The devil was most definitely in the details. Nikolay stood in the darkened hall of Kuban House, wondering how he’d tell Stepan and the others about the evening without earning an ‘I told you so’ and without lying. He wasn’t fooled by the darkness. Stepan would still be up. Stepan wouldn’t sleep until he was safely home.

  As if on cue, somewhere down the hall Nikolay heard a match strike, saw the shadow of its flare against the hall wall as a lamp was lit. Stepan emerged from the study and stood in the doorway. ‘Come have a drink. Illarion and I are still awake.’

  It was best to get it over with, Nikolay thought, taking a chair by the fire and letting Stepan pour him a glass of samogon. Illarion raised his glass in a silent salute and they drank.

  ‘You’ve survived.’ Stepan sat back easily in his chair, one leg crossed over the other; a relaxed pose unless one knew Stepan very well. Stepan never relaxed. ‘Was it an ambush as you expected?’

  ‘Was she beautiful?’ Illarion asked, earning a scolding look from Stepan.

  ‘What does that matter?’ Stepan scowled.

  Illarion shrugged, unbothered by the rebuke after two decades of friendship. ‘Beauty always matters, but especially if one is putting himself at risk. One should always have a reward.’

  Nikolay laughed, enjoying the sparring. They’d been sparring since they were children, Illarion the poet and Stepan the pragmatist. ‘She was beautiful, Illarion. Her gown matched the china. Lomonosov, if you must know.’ He speared Stepan with a sober stare. Stepan would know the china was important. ‘It was an entirely Russian evening. Clear soup, Caspian Sea caviar and all. There were twelve of us in attendance including wives, an English duke and a general’s daughter.’ Stepan’s gaze sharpened as Nikolay had known it would. ‘I believe they are planning a little palace revolt.’

  Both were on alert now.

  ‘It is easy to plot from afar.’ Illarion was uncharacteristically pessimistic.

  ‘They want you to join them,’ Stepan surmised with deadly accuracy. ‘Palace revolts need princes.’

  ‘Perhaps. They wanted to test my loyalties tonight, to see if I held with traditionalists who stand against change or if I’m truly in exile because I hold more modern sentiments.’ When Stepan remained sceptically silent, Nikolay hastened to add, ‘There was no formal overture. They’re not sure I’m what they need.’

  Stepan scoffed. ‘Don’t be naïve, Nik. Revolutions need three things to succeed: military support, financial backing and leadership in high places. An English duke isn’t the same as having a Russian prince for a Russian revolution. You know what a palace revolt means.’ He knew very well what it meant. A change in leadership from the top down. Revolutions were serious business—business that didn’t end well if the rebels failed. ‘They’ll make you an offer as soon as they’re sure of you.’ That had been his assessment as well.

  Stepan kept his gaze even, his voice firmly quiet. ‘Don’t let them be sure of you. Cut all ties with the ambassador now. He’ll understand what that means.’ That he wanted no part of the revolt regardless of his sympathies. That had been his knee-jerk reaction, too, once he’d realised where the dinner conversation had been headed. His initial reaction had been one of horrified fascination. A revolt in many ways was something he’d longed for, been willing to participate in, should the situation ever arise when he’d been in Kuban. He’d realised over three years ago that, left to its own devices, Kuban would never change, regardless of the need to advance. That realisation had soured him. Three years ago, Nikolay would have been the ambassador’s man. He’d left those ambitions behind when he fled Kuban. They’d been put aside in exchange for his life the night a woman had come at him with a knife. How ironic that those ambitions had found him now when he could not be of use.

  ‘We came to England to avoid such contretemps.’ Stepan’s voice was steely with warning. Were his thoughts so transparent? He was losing his touch if Stepan could read his mind so easily, or did Stepan guess at the temptation? The temptation was definitely there, increasing the longer he thought about it. Nikolay could leave his home behind, his things behind, but principles and beliefs were as portable as the man himself. Kuban needed to change, Russia needed to change, not just because he wanted it, but because the people the nation served needed it. The old ways were, well, old, tired and worn out, unable to serve the needs of the people in a modern world.

  ‘Such contretemps nearly saw you killed,’ Stepan reminded him.

  Yes, and now here he was, living a half-life in London, a life that had him teaching spoiled rich girls how to ride horses, a life that was waiting to start. Frankly, he was bored—or he had been until Klara had come along with her breeches and long legs, her smart mouth and challenging eyes and his blood had thrilled in the old ways, despite the promises he’d made himself to be more careful with women. One night with any woman, that was all. No long-term attachments.

  ‘I’ll decline future invitations,’ Nikolay said. There could be no association with Grigoriev. There was no other choice. If he felt let down by that decision, it was simply because he was restless. He needed to move forward. The sooner he got his riding stable started the better. He would have something to do, something to distract him from temptation.

  ‘And the lovely Klara?’ Illarion asked. ‘Will you decline her invitations, too?’ Nikolay shot Illarion a disapproving look. He could have done without the mention of Klara. Apparently, his thoughts weren’t the only ones that had gone straight to her. The man in him toyed with the idea of keeping Klara as a riding student. But the realist in him recognised the impossibility of that. She was Grigoriev’s link to him. She could never be neutral. His initial instincts had been right. He had to let Klara go. It would be far easier to break things off when there was nothing to truly break off, just a baiting kiss in the park and bantering words. It would be for the best. He knew already just how dangerous association with the wrong woman could be.

  Chapter Six

  Nikolay had barely stepped out of the arena from his Tuesday lesson when the words assaulted him. Klara Grigorieva blocked his way, dressed in breeches, hands on hips. ‘You had me reassigned.’

  ‘Captain Crenshaw is an excellent instructor.’ He moved to the right to go around her. So did she.

  ‘I don’t want Captain Crenshaw.’ He should have known she wouldn’t go without a fight—perhaps that in itself was a reason he had to hold firm to his decision. If she was willing to fight for this, there must be something to fight for, proof that Stepan had been right in his concern.

  ‘What exactly is the problem with Captain Crenshaw? Doesn’t he let you wear breeches?’ He stepped left.

  She matched him. ‘He could let me ride n
aked and it still wouldn’t matter.’ Well, now, there was an image to keep a man up all night. Klara’s eyes blazed with a green fire. ‘He’s not you.’ Of course not. Crenshaw couldn’t help promote rebellion, further proof that she had ulterior motives to come back for more than a kiss.

  He kept his tone polite, aloof, treating her as if she were any other student. ‘I think it’s best that he isn’t.’ What couldn’t be gone around had to be gone through, a primary lesson of the cavalry. Nikolay stepped forward, forcing her to step back. This had worked once before with her, in the park. But then the outcome had been very different to the one he intended today. He stepped forward again and again, driving her back towards Cossack’s stall. He meant to ride tonight and there was no reason to change those plans, certainly not a reason with long legs and breeches.

  ‘For the best?’ She spoke fast, as if she realised she was giving up ground too quickly. ‘Who is it best for? Me or you?’ She was one step away from Cossack’s stall when she fired her next salvo. ‘You’re afraid of me, Nikolay Baklanov.’ Her eyes glinted, narrowing like a cat who’s playing with a mouse, her gaze somewhere between seduction and challenge. Her tongue flicked across her lips. ‘I didn’t think you a coward.’

  He bristled at the accusation even though he knew she was poking at him, wanting to get a rise of temper. ‘I am no coward. Simply because fire is good for cooking doesn’t mean a man should run into a blazing inferno with his steak on a stick. A smart man knows the difference.’ And a wise man would act accordingly. Nikolay knew what he should do. He understood the situation perfectly in theory. It was being wise in practice that was difficult, especially with Klara Grigorieva standing eighteen inches from him, eyes flashing, breasts heaving beneath the folds of her man’s shirt.

  ‘Blizok iokotok da ne ukusish,’ he muttered, reaching around her for the latch to Cossack’s door.

  ‘Don’t do that.’ She pressed back against the stall door, preventing him from opening it, her voice fierce. Did he imagine it or did her nostrils flare? Behind her, Cossack nudged her with his head. ‘Don’t say things I can’t understand.’

  Nikolay blew out a frustrated breath. ‘I will remove you bodily from here if I have to.’ The image of such an action hung between them, far too potent to be the deterrent he intended. The last thing his body needed was the temptation of hauling Klara over his shoulder, that delectable, round derrière of hers against his cheek, his arm wrapped across her thighs. The only reason he hadn’t done it yet was that he was sure she’d hit him for it. He could already feel those fists pummelling his back.

  ‘Tell me what you said and I’ll step aside.’ She crossed her arms.

  ‘Fine. I said, trouble never comes alone.’

  ‘Is that what I am? Trouble?’ She stepped aside, allowing him to lead Cossack out to the cross ties.

  ‘So much trouble in so many ways, if I may be blunt.’ Nikolay opened the trunk beside the stall and took out a grooming kit and began to brush the horse.

  ‘Please, do be blunt.’ Klara picked up a brush and started on Cossack’s other side.

  ‘Aren’t you leaving?’

  ‘I only promised to step aside. I didn’t promise anything else. Where’s your curry brush? He’s got some mud dried here.’

  ‘Just dig. It’s at the bottom of the box.’

  She flashed him a smile and he realised too late what he’d done: he’d given her permission to stay. He’d be saddled with her unless he took drastic action. Except that he already had taken drastic action by English standards. He’d walked through her, he’d insulted her with his directness, he’d kissed her. These were all brash behaviours that would have sent a typical English miss running for the protection of her mother and perhaps a pistol-wielding brother. But those efforts had only served to urge Klara on.

  Nikolay set aside his brush and patted Cossack’s side. This would only take a minute. He ducked under the cross tie, taking the curry brush from her. ‘I need you to leave and it is not up for discussion. The stable is closed for the evening. It is not appropriate for you to be here with me, or any instructor, unchaperoned.’ He hoped calling out the obvious consideration of her reputation would be enough, but it only encouraged the minx.

  A smile teased her lips. ‘Are you afraid I’ll compromise you?’ She slid her arms about his neck, her body flush against his without the protection of skirts, he might add. By Jove, she was bold and, heaven help him, he liked it, liked it enough to want to forget the decisions he’d made, the rules he needed to keep for his own safety and the safety of his friends.

  He unwrapped her arms. ‘Klara, this is unseemly.’ Lucifer’s balls, he sounded like a prude. Unseemly had never stopped him before. He’d done plenty of unseemly things, some of them in alcoves, shielded from hundreds of guests by only a curtain. But none of them seemed as dangerous as this, this game that was not only about the crackling, emergent attraction between a man and a woman, but also between a diplomat’s daughter, perhaps even a spymaster’s daughter, and a prince who might yet prove politically useful. Only the naïve would pretend this was a game that involved personal feelings alone.

  She leaned in, the spicy scent of her, vanilla with a note of woody amber, teasing his nostrils. ‘Perhaps I can put your mind at ease. I am not trying to compromise you, nor am I looking to be compromised.’ Then she pricked at his ego. ‘I thought you’d have more imagination than that.’ He had plenty of imagination, all right. Any prince who lived long enough at court did. It was that imagination that allowed him to see all the layers.

  ‘Next you’ll be telling me you just want to be friends.’

  She scoffed. ‘Why would that be so hard to believe?

  ‘I don’t think dinner was about becoming friends.’

  ‘That’s my father’s business and yours, should you choose to pursue it. That doesn’t have to be about us.’ The edge of her softened. ‘Is it so hard to believe that someone would want to be friends with a prince?’

  ‘No, that’s quite easy to believe.’ He made his cynicism evident. He didn’t want her pity, just her awareness. He was not a simple Englishman overcome by her beauty, a man who could be toyed with. He moved away, grabbing Cossack’s tack. He’d do best to stay busy and not invite any more wandering hands, arms, bodies, thoughts. There was an attraction between them, but it could not be acted on. Not for the first time, he was aware that she was fishing for something, something that went beyond his initial concern over political gain. She wanted something from him on a personal level. If she could be believed, that ‘something’ didn’t involve matrimony, which left his imagination a bit empty as to precisely what it was she was after. ‘Everyone wants to be friends with a prince. Everyone wants something. Why don’t you tell me? What is it you want from me?’

  * * *

  What did she want from him? More hard, rough kisses in the park, more barking orders at her in the arena, more matching of wits, more everything. Just being in a room with him was exciting, the anticipation of watching him the way she had at dinner, or wondering what he’d do next. He’d not been afraid of the Duke’s questions. Klara watched him throw a saddle pad over Cossack’s withers, considering how best to name her desire, how best to get him back. Training with Crenshaw would serve no one’s purpose, not hers or her father’s. She’d been furious when she’d shown up to the stable and discovered she’d been reassigned.

  She opted for boldness. He liked her bold even if he’d convinced himself he couldn’t acquiesce to it. ‘I want you.’ This was met with a querying look over the horse’s back. He started to give her a look full of assumption.

  ‘I thought we’d established that was not on the table.’

  Klara smirked. She would enjoy taking a little wind out of him. ‘You can stow your male arrogance. It’s not that kind of want.’ She drew a breath and prepared to dissemble. ‘I want you to teach me Russian. I want you to teach me about
Kubanian culture, Russian culture.’ The idea had come to her as she’d thought about how to engage him, how to uncover the secrets her father wanted. Nikolay seemed at his most vulnerable when he spoke of Kuban. But now, saying the words out loud made it more than a play for information. It was something she wanted, just for herself; to know, at last, that piece of her heritage.

  His eyes were on her, considering the statement. Weighing its truth. ‘Your father can teach you that,’ he said slowly.

  She shook her head. ‘He hasn’t, you know that, and he won’t.’ She paused. She had to give Nikolay more, allay his suspicions. How ironic that he was suspicious when this was something she truly wanted for herself. ‘I’m meant to be English. He expects me to marry an Englishman of rank at some point.’ That point was starting to panic her, however, since the dinner party. Had her father meant the Duke all along, or was that a contretemps entirely of the Duke’s making? But her admission wasn’t enough for Nikolay. She had to give him something more than compelling. ‘My mother died in Russia.’ She lowered her gaze, dissembling. ‘It’s why I’ve never been back. He has never forgiven the country for that.’ There was a long silence. She began to worry. Please don’t let him deny me. If this did not convince him, she wasn’t sure what would. This was something she wanted; not for her father, although she should want that, but just for her.

  ‘I deduce that your father would be displeased,’ he argued wryly, but he hadn’t said no. He was thinking about it, she could tell by the way he tightened Cossack’s girth with a certain determination. She had her answers ready.

  ‘My father doesn’t have to find out. How would he know anyway? And if he did find out, it would be too late. What could he do? He can’t take the knowledge from me.’

  ‘What did I tell you?’ he grumbled to Cossack, leading the horse towards the arena. ‘Blizok iokotok da ne ukusish.’ But a little smile pulled at his stoic mouth. Klara tamped down a trill of pre-emptory victory, not wanting to be thwarted at the last because she’d got cocky too early.