“I’m not mocking you. I’m honestly curious why you would dream of being a princess and not a queen.”
“Because queens are usually married by the time they reach the throne. Then they’ve got the entire country to worry about. They’ve no time to be courted. But a princess . . . she can spend her days helping people and her nights with her prince.”
“And how do you know so much about what a princess does with her days and nights?”
“Because when I was little, my mother used to read this story about a girl. She was very lonely. She used to work from dawn to dusk trying to help people so they would be her friends, until one day, she was so tired she couldn’t help people anymore and she fell asleep. Then a handsome prince found her and awakened her with a kiss.
“He made her his princess, and she had servants to help her with her duties so she wasn’t so tired, friends around her so she wasn’t so lonely, and a prince who loved her and held her each night so she would never have to be afraid of being alone.”
The lump in Troyce’s throat nearly choked him. He stood stock-still beside Faith, watching her watch the ball through the slats, her gaze wistful and almost . . . lost. It broke his heart and humbled his soul. Here was a woman who dreamed of all he’d taken for granted, coveted all he’d shunned, and longed for all that he’d disdained. He could have told her the unvarnished truth, shattered her illusions. That with all this glitter and gold came responsibilities that could crush a person’s soul. That no matter how many servants a person had, the day still ended with a body so tired and sore that no amount of rest would refresh it. And that love never entered the picture when a man took a wife.
Instead, he preserved what innocence had miraculously remained intact despite the rough life she’d led in the London underworld. She gave so much, asking so little in return.
Spotting a vase of orange blossoms in the corner beyond the underwell, Troyce plucked several delicate flowers from the container, and with deft fingers, wove them together. Once he had them circled, he returned to Faith’s side and tugged the mobcap off her head.
“What—what are you doing, milord?”
Her hair spilled free to her shoulders, tumbling curls of saffron and amber. “Every girl should feel like a princess at least once in her life.” He tossed the mobcap over his shoulder and set the makeshift tiara upon her head. Then, with a deep and courtly bow, he extended his hand and asked, “May I have this dance, Your Highness?”
Faith stared at him in speechless awe. “You want to dance with me?”
“Aye, very much.”
“But . . . I don’t know how to dance.”
“Then perhaps you will allow me to teach you?” She’d taught him so much these last weeks. Of devotion, of determination, and a strange sort of honor where thieves stole but didn’t lie and girls dreamed but didn’t hope.
With great hesitation, she set her work-worn hand upon his palm and allowed him to turn her so they faced each other. A sympathetic smile touched his lips as he took in her pitifully swollen eyes and reddened nose.
He slowly drew her to him, close enough to feel the heat of her body and nothing else. With one hand holding hers, the other placed at the center curve of her waist, he slid left, back, right, forward, a simple form of dance that resembled a waltz, but left out the intricate steps not permitted within such close confines. Faith caught on once she stopped looking at her feet and let him guide her moves. As he stared into her eyes, and she stared into his, the rest of the world faded to nothing but song and motion, until Troyce could almost believe that the fairy tales Faith had heard as a girl really happened.
“This is scandalous, you know,” she said, but she didn’t seem to care any more than he did.
“Indeed. But I fear I can’t resist. I’ve always held a fantasy to dance with a beautiful maiden beneath the moonlight.”
“And instead you’re stuck with me under the staircase.”
“Aye, and it exceeds my expectations.”
She came to a stop, and so did he. For a moment, all he could do was look into her eyes. Then her lips. His face lowered, tilted. Their breaths mingled, moist, seductive. “I want to kiss you, Faith.”
“You do?” she asked breathlessly.
“Very much.” He cupped her jaw, threaded his fingers through her silky hair, and tilted her face to receive him.
The first brush of his lips across her sent bolts of fire shooting through his veins. He brushed her lips again, then settled his mouth upon hers. Ah, God . . .
His arm came around her waist and he drew her close, relishing her soft curves against his hard planes. Her hand crept up to his chest, her palms sliding up the front of his coat, blazing a path of heat that would have consumed him if he’d allowed it. Instead, Troyce held himself tightly in check, fearing that any sudden moves, any outward show of the desire she created within him would scare her off. Slowly, leisurely, he glided his tongue across the seam of her lips and nearly moaned when they parted. She tasted of sugar, of spice. Of innocence and of mystery. He wanted to devour her. He wanted to push against the wall. He wanted to bury himself in her hot, sweet folds, again and again, until both were spent with exhaustion.
Instead, he forced himself to draw back, to kiss her cheek, her jaw, her neck.
“Oh, Baron . . .”
“Say my name,” he whispered hoarsely against her skin. “I want to hear you say my name.”
“Troyce . . .”
“Faith?”
They snapped apart like a broken twig, both glancing around in guilty surprise.
“Faith, where are you? Lucy, have you seen, Faith?”
“Bloody hell, who is that?” Troyce cursed.
With her fingers clutching his lapels, Faith whispered back, “It’s Millie.” She started passed him. “I must go.”
Troyce gripped her arm, stopping her. “Don’t. Stay with me.”
“I can’t. She’ll come looking for me.”
“If we’re quiet she won’t find us.”
“She needs me, Baron. I must go.” She smiled sadly, then drew her fingertips along his jaw. “Thank you for the dance. I’ll remember this night for as long as I live.”
And then she slipped from his grasp and hurried down the servants’ hall, her orange-blossom tiara bobbing upon her head.
Troyce watched her until she disappeared around a corner.
Then he turned and plowed his fist into the wall.
“You look like you could use this.”
Troyce accepted the tumbler Miles handed him and without inquiring as to the contents, downed it in one swallow.
“Ah, this requires a double, I see.”
And Troyce found another tumbler pressed into his hand. Though his first drink of this one was deep, he forced himself to conserve the rest, knowing from experience that getting drunk would served no useful purpose.
“What are you still doing here, Miles?” The dancing had long since concluded, and the guests who hadn’t been invited to stay the weekend were beginning to collect their coats and carriages. He’d figured his friend would have long since found himself a secluded spot in the gardens and had his hands up some willing wench’s skirt, not sitting in Troyce’s study, supporting his mission to drown his sorrows in spirits.
“Scouring the prospects for a bride, same as you. The more scandalous the lady, the better.”
Blast Devon’s wagging tongue. Soon it would be out all over the country that he’d put himself on the bloody market. “What reason have you to marry? You’re not the one about to lose your entire inheritance.”
“Someone must support my unscrupulous tastes.” He grinned. “Alas, no fair maiden seems taken with my empty pockets.”
“Empty pockets? You could buy England ten times over.”
“Ah, but I’ve naught but a courtesy title to impress the lasses.”
“It’s ironic, isn’t it, Miles? You’ve the money, I’ve the hereditary title, and neither one of us is worthy enough to c
laim.” It shouldn’t bother him; all his life he’d fought against the dictates of his parents and grandparents, shunning the society he’d been cursed with at birth.
Unfortunately, that was before his father had run him and all of Westborough into the ground. And of all those in attendance tonight, the ones who were suitably wealthy and titled enough to fulfill his grandfather’s expectations wanted nothing to do with him. Those who did want him had nothing he wanted.
Except Faith.
Troyce slumped back in his chair. Gads, the girl was turning him inside out. She was a pocket-swiping princess, who for all he knew was out to lift him of his title as easily as she lifted the coin from his coat. And at the same time, she was earthy and unaffected. She spoke her mind, she didn’t hide her feelings, and, oh damn, she aroused him like no other woman. And she looked at him as if he were her personal hero. Her dream prince. It made him want to protect her, cherish her, keep her safe from all the Jack Swifts she’d ever known in her lifetime. “She believes in bloody fairy tales, for God’s sake.”
“Who believes in fairy tales?”
“The one I want.” The one who didn’t even come close to fulfilling his grandfather’s requirements.
Miles sighed in silent understanding of his plight. “The perfect bride will reveal herself. Give it time.”
“Time, I’m afraid, is not something I have in excess. What am I to do while I wait for the ‘perfect bride’? Watch my villagers starve? Watch my castle torn from my grasp?”
Miles stared at him. “Your castle?”
“Never mind,” he grumbled into his cup.
“It’ll happen, my friend.” He clapped him on the back, winked, and smiled. “You just need to have a little faith.”
His gaze slid out the open doors to the gray-clad figure sneezing her way through the throng of departing guests. For once, Troyce decided, he couldn’t agree with his friend more. “I intend to, Miles. I intend to.”
The house was dark and blessedly quiet for the first time in twelve hours. It seemed to take forever for his guests to leave, and the welcome few who remained had been made comfortable in spare bedrooms in the west wing.
Troyce knew he’d had a bit too much to drink, not enough to be drunk, but enough to know that he shouldn’t be skulking the servants’ halls. He should just go to sleep, but his sense of reason remained clouded with the same woman who had occupied his thoughts all evening. Nay, all week. Nay . . . for months.
Faith.
Have a little . . .
Oh, aye, just a little. Just enough to rid himself of this gnawing hunger. Once he had her, she’d be purged himself of this deuced . . . obsession he seemed to have developed for her.
The doorknob twisted beneath his hand, and clad in gray breeches and a loose shirt, Troyce stepped out of his room. The floor was cool beneath his bare soles, and a single sconce provided the light guiding him down the hall. Not that he needed light. He needed only to follow his nose. Her scent pulled him to her, and he could have found her in pitch-darkness.
He had not realized how cool it got on the third floor until a draft hit his bare stomach. Faith slept with this chill. The thought disturbed him. A woman with her fire should never be cold.
Tonight, she would not.
Tonight, she would burn for him as he burned for her. The spark he’d felt between them the first time they’d kissed would burst into flames. He’d seen it in her eyes tonight, felt it on his lips and in his blood. She lusted for him as he lusted for her.
Tonight, they would both get what they’d been denying themselves for far too long.
He reached her door and stood, his hands growing damp with unaccustomed nervousness. Should he woo her slowly, tenderly? Or drag her into his arms in the way of a commanding lover? Bloody hell. Why so unsure all of a sudden? It wasn’t as if she was the first woman he’d bedded. He knew the ways of pleasing, and he intended on pleasing her as she had never been pleased before. And if she proved a satisfactory lover in return, he would persuade her into becoming his mistress until such time as he sold himself to the highest bidder.
With that decision, he let himself into her room.
The music surrounded her, flowed through her blood and bones, sweeping her away to a world of make-believe, where silks rustled and emeralds flashed. Where women were ladies and men gentlemen resplendent, and her world had merged, if only for a moment, with her prince of dreams.
She felt him now as she had hours before, the steely muscles of his chest beneath her fingers, the heat of his breath against her lips, his mouth upon hers . . .
The door creaked like an old man’s knees, and Faith came awake with a start. Her eyes popped open. Her heart stalled. Her fingers clutched the pillow beneath her head. A squeak of the floorboards alerted her that she hadn’t mistaken the sound of the door. Who would be stealing into her room at such an ungodly hour? Someone up to no good, certainly. The house was full of sotted gentry, and she’d found herself dodging groping hands more than once throughout the course of the evening.
Should she scream? She wanted to, God knew. The sound became a physical sensation, building in her throat, choking her. Would anyone hear?
Would anyone care?
The faint odors of spirits invaded the room, and she sensed the intruder drawing closer. Her breath was trapped in her chest. She let her eyes shut, hoping that if she pretended sleep, whoever it was would leave.
Another creak. Oh, God. She slipped her hand beneath the sheets, searching, seeking. For what she hadn’t a clue. Just something to make her feel less helpless. Even the tiniest of weapons would give her some measure of power. Finding nothing, she moved her other hand over the side of the bed and tapped her fingers against the floor, beneath the metal framing. Her fingers brushed against something long, solid, and slender. A handle.
The intruder reached her bedside. Faith didn’t give herself time to hesitate; she wrapped her hands around the handle and just as the bed dipped under the intruder’s weight, she swung. In the same moment she heard a familiar voice whisper her name, the weapon made contact with a clanging thud.
“Ow, bloody hell!”
“Baron? Omigod!” She scrambled for the matches on the bedside table. His groans of pain told her she hadn’t killed him, but she could have done some major damage.
“What did you hit me for?”
The match flared to life and she touched it to the candlewick. “I didn’t know it was you!”
“What did you hit me with?”
She glanced at the blackened, skillet-shaped object she’d dropped onto the counterpane. “A bed warmer.”
“Son of a—that hurt!”
She rose on her knees beside him and propped her hands on her hips. “Well, you shouldn’t be skulking about in a person’s room in the middle of the night!” She reached for his head. “Let me see.”
He shielded his head with his arm and shied away. “No.”
“Let me see—I don’t want you bleeding all over my blankets.”
When he dropped his arm, she parted the thick strands of his coal black hair and prodded the back of his skull. “You’ll have a goose egg to be sure, but you’ll live.”
“No thanks to you. If I’d have known this was the welcome I was going to get, I wouldn’t have come here.”
“You shouldn’t have come here anyway.”
“I know.”
She sat back on her heels and rested her hand on her knees. “Then why did you?”
“Because I couldn’t stay away.” He slanted his face toward her. “What are you doing to me, Faith?”
How was she supposed to answer a question like that? “You’ve been drinking.” She frowned.
“Aye, a little. Do you want me to leave?”
She fell silent and debated whether or not to answer. He didn’t look dangerous. Just lonely. And if truth be told, she was lonely, too. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“What you planned on doing when you came in
to my room.”
He was quiet for a moment. A tense heat permeated the air. Faith’s skin prickled with a premonition that she’d just entered forbidden territory.
“What if I told you that I planned on making love to you till dawn?” he said.
Her breath caught, her eyes widened. Her pulse began to quiver.
“What if I told you that I can’t stop thinking about kissing you?” His slumberous gaze fell to her lips, then dropped lower and her breasts grew heavy with remembered pleasure, her nipples hardening against her thin cotton shift.
“Or that the scent of you . . .” He moved closer, slowly, seductively, grazing her neck with his nose. “. . . drives me mad with desire?”
His lips touched the rapid pulsebeat at her throat. Her lashes fluttered down. Sensations, wild and mysterious, sped through Faith’s entire body. His mouth opened against her neck, his tongue caressed the sensitive flesh. And when he suckled, she felt as if her bones were melting. “Baron . . .”
“My name.”
“Troyce . . .”
He lifted himself from the bed and braced his hands on the mattress on either side of her. She knew she should tell him to stop. But the words somehow got tangled in her mouth, and her brain had stopped functioning.
Weightlessly, helplessly, she floated backward, the mattress cushioning her fall.
“What if I told you that I’ve dreamed of having you naked beneath me. . . .”
He hovered above her, his hands on either side of her.
“Of feeling your soft skin against mine.”
His voice was husky, seductive, as, with one deliberate, fluid stroke, he pressed his loins against her womanhood.
“Of sliding inside you . . .”
Every long, hard inch of him moved against her, nothing but her shift and his breeches preventing him from claiming her.
“Filling you . . .”
“Troyce . . .”
Before she could protest, his mouth covered hers in a kiss so hot, so greedy, so wild that Faith’s thoughts scattered. Her hand fluttered in midair before finally settling on his chest. His tongue tangled with hers, and she moaned at sheer pleasure of the taste of him. Brandy and chocolate truffles. Rich. Smooth. Completely irresistible. The kiss was long and deep and searching. His tongue thick in her mouth and his body hard against hers.
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