Compromised by the Prince's Touch

by Bronwyn Scott

  She’d roamed through London’s early-morning streets, seen the faces of those who went to work before the sun rose. That alone was shock enough. She was not naïve. She knew that she lived differently, that she was a child of privilege because of her father’s position. She did charity work with the wives of her father’s acquaintances, visited the orphanages, but those visits were sanitised to say the least, the children turned out in their best, a dutiful few called forward to show off a new poem they’d memorised. But to see the working class up close, to be part of it, was something else, much like it had been something else to join with the immigrants at the café.

  That had only been the beginning. Then there had been the pens... She shuddered, her mind less successful now in keeping the images at bay. It was easier to push those images aside when she’d had action to keep her thoughts moving forward. But now her mind wanted to rivet itself on them; each long face with soulful eyes, some desperate, some frightened, some resigned. Focus on what you are here to do. Nikolay’s words played through her mind, her only armour against being entirely overwhelmed, both then and now.

  Nikolay. If she hadn’t been intrigued with him already, she was fascinated with the mystique of him now. He’d played the poor immigrant carter to the hilt today in his shabby clothes and heavy accent, but she was hard pressed to think anyone was fooled for long by the disguise. He wore his power, his self-confidence, like a second skin, something that couldn’t be shed or hidden. She’d felt safe with him, amid the teeming masses of rough men, safe enough to challenge the brutes holding the stallion. She’d had no plan when she’d climbed over that fence except to save that horse, but part of her had been sure that Nikolay would be there when she needed him. And he had been. Among the images she’d always carry with her from today, was the sight of him coming over the fence, fierce and feral, ready to fight for her; there was the image of him crouched low over the neck of the mare, riding neck or nothing through the twisting, narrow streets of London, his hair flying. What possessed a man to free kill pen animals and set them loose in London? It was an interesting proposition, especially when she held that same mirror up to herself.

  What possessed a woman to do what she had done? She’d left her home, alone, dressed as a boy, to traipse around darkest London with a man she barely knew. The risk was extreme and yet there’d been no risk at all. She’d never once felt in danger. She’d trusted him and that scared her very much. The danger that came from Nikolay was an entirely different peril. What had started as part of her father’s game was quickly becoming something much more personal.

  Until now, it was easy to tell herself the intrigue was in the actions; she was in love with the adventure, the risk, the world he opened up to her. After this morning, she could no longer avoid the reality: she wasn’t only in love with the adventure. She was falling in love with him, the man he was beyond the powerful physicality of his body. Today, she’d seen his compassion, his tenacity, his protectiveness, not only of the animals, but of her. She’d been wilful, stubborn, disobedient even. She’d forced her company on him and still he’d protected her; still, he’d been willing to fight for her. She wasn’t fool enough to believe in some misguided notion that he’d done it because he’d fallen in love with her. He was not a man who allowed himself to love easily. He’d done it because his moral code demanded it and that had given her another glimpse inside his soul.

  Mere glimpses would not be enough. The more she knew of him, the less satisfied she was. Was this how an addict felt? Always craving? What would it take to satisfy those cravings? Admittedly, they were becoming less about the adventures and more about the man. She wanted more of him, more of his body, more of his mind, even though each touch, each glimpse put her at greater risk, forced her to hide even more from her father because exposure risked them both now.

  The warning came to her again: If your father knew the principles that lie in Nikolay’s heart, the hunger for change, he’d never let him go. A new warning added itself: If your father knew you wanted him he’d put an end to your association. Or would he? It would be a terrible dilemma for her father—to save her for the English marriage he’d promised her mother, at the expense of letting his revolutionary prince slip away. It provoked a deeper question that had begun to plague her since Soho. What was her worth to her father? Was she truly a daughter or merely a pawn? She had allowed herself to admit she played the game to earn her father’s attentions, but never had she allowed herself to think that was the whole sum of her value to him. That was a bold question indeed, just one more way in which Nikolay was changing the way she viewed her world and herself.

  Klara sniffed, catching the scent of herself for the first time. The only thing bold about her at the moment was the odour. She needed to wash and change. Her nightgown was still on the floor, validation that no one had missed her. All she needed to do was put it on and climb into bed, and it would be done—the great adventure over. Perhaps that was why it was so difficult to slip off her shirt and take off her muddied trousers. Removing them would be like removing the experience, packing it up to store away.

  Klara yawned and slowly, very slowly, she began to strip off her clothes, never dreaming she’d lie down to sleep only to be awakened by a nightmare.

  * * *

  ‘Miss, your father wants you downstairs right away!’ Her maid flew about the room, pushing curtains wide and flinging open her wardrobe. Klara squinted through one eye, taking in the clock on her bedside table. Eleven, already. An hour past the time she usually rose. It seemed like she’d just lain down.

  ‘Can’t it wait?’ Klara groaned and fell back on her pillows.

  ‘No, miss. The Duke is with him.’ The maid was in earnest, tugging at her covers. ‘You have to get down there right away.’

  Amesbury, here? She registered the maid’s anxiety. The maids didn’t like Amesbury. Klara threw back the covers. ‘What’s going on, Mary?’

  Mary shook her head. ‘I don’t know, miss. I only know that I am to have you downstairs.’ She opened the wardrobe and pulled out two dresses. ‘What shall it be? The teal with the satin stripe or the violet and grey plaid?’

  ‘Neither. I want the royal blue, the one with the white lace, and I’ll want my mother’s strand of pearls.’ She always felt in control in that gown and this morning she was going to need all the control she could get. She was already burning with resentment and anger at the summons. If Amesbury had threatened her maid, she’d skewer him. Somehow. She’d faced down three men for the sake of a stallion this morning, surely she could face down Amesbury.

  * * *

  Mary had her ready in record time, sending her on her way with a meekly whispered, ‘They’re in your father’s study.’

  Klara paused outside her father’s door, fingers resting on the handle as she drew a deep breath to calm her nerves. Secrets were terrible things. One spent an inordinate amount of time worrying over them. Was Amesbury here because he knew what she’d been up to? Who was in danger here? Herself or Nikolay? Both? Those questions wouldn’t get answered standing in the hall. Klara pushed the door open and went in, letting all her attention focus on her father, and deliberately ignoring the Duke. ‘Father, you wanted to see me?’ Her father could summon her. Amesbury could not.

  Her father was seated behind his desk as usual, but today there was a tension to him. The sight of him sobered her. His jaw was tight, his face hard and unreadable. This was the Alexei Grigoriev who struck fear into diplomats who crossed him on negotiations. ‘The Duke of Amesbury has brought me disturbing news, Klara.’ He gestured across the room, forcing her to acknowledge Amesbury’s presence.

  Amesbury stood by the window, straight-backed and tall, his face set in its impassive lines. ‘There’s been rumours this morning that wild horses were set free in Smithfield. Some reports put Baklanov at the heart of the mischief.’ His cold eyes lingered on her, watching for a reaction as he dropped his nex
t piece of information. ‘Rumours also say he had an accomplice.’

  She kept her features neutral, no mean feat considering the shock that was running through her. How could he know? ‘Freeing horses from kill pens sounds rather noble to me.’

  ‘Noble?’ The Duke’s narrow brows arched in supercilious argument. ‘I have other words for it, but your father and I disagree. What I call thievery, your father calls bravery. He thinks it bodes well for bringing our prince into the fold for the revolt.’

  Her father shot the Duke a scathing, impatient look. ‘The point of you being part of this conversation, Klara, is that the Duke and I both agree you’re not to see him again.’

  ‘Not see Amesbury?’ Klara knew the deliberate obfuscation would needle the Duke.

  ‘Not me,’ Amesbury interrupted, frustrated. ‘The Prince. You shall not see the Prince again outside of polite company. There will be no more riding lessons.’

  ‘That is ridiculous. He is the finest instructor in the city.’ Klara’s temper flared. ‘You do not have the ordering of me.’ She turned towards her father to plead her case. ‘I am helping you with the Prince.’

  ‘Not any more, Klara. Amesbury is right. The revolution can tolerate, even use, the Prince’s recklessness, but I cannot risk you. A woman’s reputation is everything.’ He pushed a hand through his hair with a tired sigh. ‘This is where I’ve failed you, Klara. I should not have allowed you to associate with him without knowing him better. Your mother would have known...’ Oh, she was furious now. She saw Amesbury’s signature all over this. He had talked her father into this, brought the memory of her mother into this, knowing full well the pathos that held for her father. She glanced Amesbury’s way and he smirked in confirmation.

  ‘I appreciate your time, Grigoriev. If you’ll excuse me, I have other appointments this morning.’ Amesbury made his farewell. ‘Klara can see me out.’

  She walked him to the hall, but she did not touch him, would not take his arm. ‘You are upset with me, Klara,’ he said in tones that hinted at amusement, boot heels clicking on the marble of the hall. ‘It will pass. What you feel for your Cossack Prince is girlish infatuation. You will get over it.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘Are you surprised I know? You owe me, really. I could have told your father you’ve been sneaking out with him.’

  Klara stopped cold, her insides churning. He could only know that if... ‘You had me followed.’ The words spilled out, an extension of her thoughts.

  ‘Not far enough, I’m afraid. I have no idea where you went the night he brought you home in a rented hack. But I saw the kiss you gave him and I know you were with him this morning in Smithfield. You disgrace yourself with such behaviour. You never know who is watching.’ Klara swallowed hard, anger and loathing rising in her. He’d been watching. He knew. ‘On second thought, infatuation might not be strong enough. Have you gone beyond that, Klara? Do you fancy you’re in love with him?’

  His eyes narrowed to icy flints. ‘At first, I wondered what he could possibly have to offer you that would make you lower yourself to such an indiscretion. Then I realised what it was. You have a fancy for some Russian cock.’ His face was close to hers now, a sneer on his mouth.

  ‘You have a filthy mind.’ Klara held his gaze. She would not beg him, she would not argue with him. He would like that too much. He liked to strip people of power, render them weak and reliant.

  ‘On the contrary, am I not generous? Am I not mercy itself? You should thank me that I’m not running to your father with your little perfidy. Stay away from Baklanov, Klara, or you will both be sorry. One knife in the dark and Baklanov’s body ends up in a Soho alley. One misplaced bullet during a palace revolt will do the same trick.’

  She stepped back from him in horror. ‘He won’t join you. He has no interest in your rebellions.’ But that wasn’t entirely true. She wasn’t sure he wouldn’t join them.

  ‘You’re so naïve, Klara. Of course he’ll join us. While I was waiting for you this morning, I shared a little finding of mine with your father. I think we are reasonably assured that Prince Baklanov will join us one way or another.’ Amesbury shrugged. ‘He’ll be receiving an invitation to your father’s Maslenitsa gathering. It will be the perfect opportunity to get to know him a bit better.’ That was the Duke’s euphemism for blackmail. ‘I think the Prince will discover new depths of patriotism for his former country.’

  ‘Are you threatening Nikolay?’ The horrors wouldn’t stop. What had she put in motion? A jealous man with a political agenda was a hydra indeed.

  ‘I’m hardly threatening him, my dear. I’m just using him as collateral against your obedience and his.’

  That was when she decided to run, the first chance she got, and she knew exactly who she was running to. She had to warn Nikolay. Obedience be damned.

  * * *

  Nikolay heard her before he saw her; the quiet rush of slipper-clad steps on stone, the susurration of silk skirts coming down the aisle, followed by the disbelieving gasp when those silk skirts came to an abrupt stop at the foal’s stall and found it empty. ‘No!’ There were layers upon layers of despair in the anguished hush of that single word.

  ‘Klara, we’re in here. All of us,’ he called softly, struggling to his feet. It was no easy feat to dislodge a sleeping foal from one’s lap.

  Her skirts were on the move again as she came to the door of the mare’s stall, the lantern hanging outside caught the relief on her face as she spotted the foal. ‘He’s all right,’ she let out a breath. ‘When I saw the empty stall, I thought...’

  Nikolay shook his head, not letting her finish. ‘It’s bad luck to say such things out loud.’ The foal would need all the luck he could get. ‘He was too cold to sleep alone. I thought the mare might take him in and she has. Your darling girl has quite the maternal streak.’ Nikolay smiled, holding up the empty improvised bottle. ‘I’ve been feeding him as often as he likes. But I could have told you all of that tomorrow.’ What was she doing here? She was clearly dressed for somewhere else. She was also clearly agitated about something more than the horses. Something had happened to upset her. Had someone found out about this morning?

  ‘It will be tomorrow in a few minutes. Then you’ll be right on time.’ Klara paced the aisle, a moon goddess come to life in a ballgown of starlight silver, her hair tricked out to match with brilliants that winked in its dark depths. She looked pristine next to his unkempt appearance, a reminder that he’d been up for eighteen nonstop hours. She also looked out of place.

  ‘Silk has no place in a stable, Klara,’ Nikolay observed. Neither did unmarried daughters of ambassadors.

  ‘I wanted to see the horses. I couldn’t wait until tomorrow. I’ve done nothing but think about them all day.’ He heard other unspoken words in those sentences. I wanted to see you. I’ve done nothing but think about you all day. At the last her gaze dropped almost shyly to her hands, a disposition he did not readily attribute to her, this bold wonder of a woman.

  ‘They are doing well.’ Nikolay stepped out of the stall, glancing up and down the aisle. ‘Are you alone?’

  Klara shrugged as if it were of no concern. ‘I told my father I was going home with a friend to spend the night.’ Her eyes glittered with mischief and something else that hovered between desperation and desire, a very potent combination. ‘We have all night. Let me help you with the foal tonight. You’re exhausted.’

  ‘In that dress?’ He should send her home. Stepan was right. Klara was trouble and not just political trouble. That seemed to be the least of his worries right now. She was the kind of trouble that saw a man marched up to an altar and legs-hackled for life before he could come to his senses.

  ‘I can change. Surely there are some clothes about that I can borrow.’ Holy St John the Divine, the last thing he needed was to undress her in the tackroom and pretend he was oblivious to her charms. The night was cold, but it wasn’t that co
ld, and he wasn’t a man used to pretending he was a eunuch.

  ‘That dress won’t come off by itself, Klara,’ he warned.

  ‘Would you like to bet on that?’ She shrugged an elegant shoulder and moonlight began to slide.

  Lucifer’s stones. Klara Grigorieva stood before him naked, managing to look more stunning out of her clothes than she did in them. Every part of him was in rampant agreement. Nikolay’s gaze swept the exquisite, sculpted length of her. She was all feminine angles and curves from the defiant point of her chin, to the high, firm breasts—two small, perfect globes with dusky rose centres, pointed and pouting, ripe for a man’s mouth to suckle them. Further down, her narrow waist gave way to the delicate flare of hips and a dark triangulation of thatched shadow between them, wet and silky even at a distance. And those legs, by God those legs! They could wrap around a man, hold him close and tight in passion’s vice. He should refuse. He should take off his jacket and throw it around her. There was a plethora of reasons he should not take her up on her offer, but at the moment, he couldn’t remember a single one.

  ‘Klara, what is this?’ But he knew what it was before she spoke.

  She raised her hands to her diamond-studded hair and began to pull out the pins one by one, her breasts thrust into high relief. ‘This is your seduction.’

  There were so many questions he should ask. What had prompted this? Did she understand the consequences? Was she here for herself or for the larger game? He should remind her of the consequences, mainly that there would be no consequences. He could not be her lover. He could not be her father’s political plaything. Whatever happened in the next few minutes could not be exchanged for those things. But the only word he could formulate was, ‘Why?’

  She moved towards him, against him, the open palm of her hand pressing his length, hot and hard behind the confines of his breeches. ‘Because I want you and you want me. That is reason enough.’ Her mouth toyed with his ear, whispering illogical temptation. ‘Nikolay, trust me. All I want is pleasure.’ But her tenacity already proved the words a lie. She wanted more than pleasure although he was damned if he knew what that was.