To Wed a Wicked Prince

by Jane Feather

  “His character, perhaps?” her father said mildly.

  “Do you not trust my judgment?”

  The Reverend Lacey had always encouraged his daughter to challenge him if she felt he was wrong, and now he smiled a little. “I trust your judgment, Livia. But passion can sometimes obscure clarity. By your own admission, you’re in love with this man. Can you be certain you know who it is that you’re in love with?”

  “Certain enough to satisfy me,” she stated.

  “And he’s not intending to spirit you away to Russia the minute the knot is tied?”

  “He says not, and I believe him.”

  He said nothing for a long moment, his faded gray eyes fixed upon her in quiet contemplation, then he shook his head briskly. “Well, at least I needn’t worry about how you’ll get your bread…these Russian aristocrats have unimaginable wealth, all amassed on the backs of slaves…or serfs as they call them.”

  His mouth twisted with disdain. “The feudal system is an abomination, Livia, and I can’t like the idea that you’ll be its beneficiary, however much your happiness might depend on this marriage.”

  Livia’s heart sank. Surely he wouldn’t refuse her his blessing simply because of a principled objection to a society that had been in existence for centuries. “Alex couldn’t change the system,” she said, hearing how lame it sounded.

  “He could free his serfs, and pay them a living wage to work his lands,” the Reverend Lacey declared. Then he sighed. “But you’re right. I can’t lay the blame for generations of abuse at the door of one young man. And, who knows, maybe he’ll come to see things my way. So be it, my dear. Send Prince Prokov to me, and I will do whatever it is a father does in these circumstances. Have you a wedding date in mind? I must enter it into the church calendar.”

  “The Saturday before Christmas,” Livia said, tears starting behind her eyes as relief swept through her, so powerfully that she realized only then how anxious she had been about this interview. Whether her father liked Alex or not on meeting him, he would not now withhold from her his blessing or his approval.

  “The Saturday before Christmas, then. So be it.” He came over to her and tipped her chin, kissing her lightly on the cheek. “You will be a most beautiful bride, my dear. Remind me to give you your mother’s jewels. There are some rather fine pearls, as I recall. They will look very well with your hair and your complexion.”

  Two days later, Alex was making his way to the mews to collect his horse for the journey into Hampshire when he realized that he was being followed again. He couldn’t see anyone immediately suspicious on the pavement either behind or on the opposite side of the street, but every nerve in his body had sprung to full alert. He’d had too much experience in the army not to trust this gut instinct for danger.

  He slowed his step, paused to brush a speck from his sleeve, glanced around. A man opposite had stopped and was looking up at the façade of a double-fronted mansion with every appearance of fascination. He wouldn’t be alone, Alex knew. He started to walk again, and this time picked up the sound of even footsteps some way behind him. The man opposite had begun to walk again, swinging his cane idly. These watchers had been around for over a week now. They seemed to pick him up the minute he left his house.

  So whose were they? Agents of the English secret service? Had he fallen under suspicion just because of the political rift between Russia and England? He would swear he had not made a false move since his arrival. None of them had. Nicolai played the disarming roué to perfection, easy enough for him since it was all too close to his natural character anyway. Fedorovsky carried his role as somewhat distracted scholar to perfection for the same reasons. And the same applied to the rest of their small band of revolutionaries. Only Tatarinov was different, but he didn’t mix in the same circles, and as far as Alex was aware, he kept very much to himself.

  Alex quickened his step and turned into the mews, but instead of collecting his horse, he took a small gate that led into a narrow side street lined with silversmiths. It would take them a while to realize that he wasn’t going to emerge from the mews on horseback.

  He glanced casually behind him and saw that for the moment the street was empty. He stepped swiftly through a doorway into the dark interior of the shop.

  The silversmith bustled out from a back room, smiling expectantly. “What can I do for you, my lord?”

  “I was looking for a sugar caster,” Alex said, stepping sideways so that he could look through the door to the street without being seen.

  The silversmith was moving around behind him, arranging a selection of the required object on the long deal counter at the rear of the shop. Alex saw the man who had been on the opposite side of the previous street enter the empty side street through the gate. Alex gave him full marks for quick thinking. It confirmed his gut suspicion that he was being followed, but by the same token it meant that his follower knew that his quarry was aware of the surveillance. But the game was growing tedious anyway, Alex reflected. The man started to walk quickly, stopping at each shop door to peer inside.

  Alex moved to the counter. He picked up a plain silver sugar caster and said, “I’ll take this one, but hold it for me. I’ll leave this on account.” He opened a billfold and took out twenty guineas. “Is there a back way out of here?”

  “Aye, m’lord.” The silversmith looked rather dazed at the speed of this transaction. He pointed to the door at the rear. “When will you be back for the caster, sir?”

  “In a week or so,” Alex threw over his shoulder as he moved swiftly to the door. “Keep this transaction to yourself, man, and I’ll add twenty guineas on top of the full purchase price.” He stepped through the door into the silversmith’s workshop and out through another door into a small yard with a noisome outhouse and a chicken coop. Another gate led into another, narrower lane.

  Alex stepped into the lane and took a minute to get his bearings. London was riddled with these passageways and alleys. They all connected in sometimes mysterious fashion, but it was very easy to get lost in them. This lane he guessed doubled back to the street of the silversmiths. He walked towards the point where the lane opened out and saw that he’d been right. He peered around and saw no one. Had they given up?

  He waited patiently, and then a man appeared at the head of the street. A very familiar figure. Tatarinov. Just what was he doing here? Following the followers? And if so, why?

  Alex stepped out into the street of the silversmiths and began to stroll towards Tatarinov. The Russian saw him and for an instant seemed to hesitate. Then he raised a hand in greeting and continued towards the prince.

  “Good morning, Prince Prokov. Buying silver, are you?” he inquired, his hard, sharp eyes scrutinizing Alex.

  “As it happens,” Alex said. “A gift.”

  Tatarinov nodded. “Well, I must be on my way. Don’t let me keep you.”

  “No,” Alex said coolly. “By the way, Tatarinov, have you noticed any unusual company on the street in the last half hour?”

  His companion’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of unusual company?”

  Alex shrugged. “It behooves one to be a little watchful these days, and I have the sense that a couple of people are taking an unwarranted interest in my movements.”

  “The English or our own people?” Tatarinov asked.

  “I wish I knew,” Alex replied. “Well, I have business out of town for a few days, so I’ll bid you farewell.”

  “Godspeed, Prince.” Tatarinov bowed and watched Alex until he’d turned out of the street towards the mews.

  Alex’s horse was saddled and ready for him in the mews. His groom held the reins of the Cossack black and his own mount, with Alex’s portmanteau fastened to the back of his saddle. The black pranced on the cobbles as Alex approached.

  “He’s impatient, Your Highness,” the groom said in oblique reproach.

  “Yes, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.” Alex swung into the saddle. “Let us ride.”

 
; They arrived in the village of Ringwood late afternoon the following day. Alex inquired at the inn, a modest establishment on the village green, for directions to the vicarage. He left his tired horse at the inn in the charge of his equally weary groom and strolled through the village to the vicarage.

  It was a square, stone, slate-roofed house next to the church, set in a small but well-tended garden, a pair of iron gates standing open between stone gate posts. He stood in the gateway, looking up at the house. Livia had clearly not been exaggerating when she’d told him of her aristocratic father’s loathing of ostentation. This modest property was most unlike the usual residence of an earl.

  An upstairs casement flew open and Livia’s curly head appeared. She raised a hand in greeting and then vanished.

  Alex walked up the path to the front door, which opened as he reached it. Livia stood smiling.

  “You made good time,” she observed, offering her hand, wondering why she felt suddenly shy and hesitant. She realized that it was one thing to meet him, to respond to him in the drawing rooms of London, where she was independent, a grown woman who controlled her own destiny and could give rein to the turmoil of sensation aroused just by being in the same room with him. Quite another here, in her childhood home, with her father in his study not twenty feet away.

  Alex found her momentary awkwardness endearing, and he could make a fairly accurate guess at its cause. He took her hand between both of his and brought it to his lips, murmuring huskily, “It’s been four days…and every minute a torment.”

  The tactic worked. Livia went into a peal of laughter, her strange moment of shyness banished. “You’re still doing it, Alex. Such flowery extravagance will never persuade me of your ardor.”

  “Then perhaps this will.” He was laughing even as he pulled her hard into his embrace. He pushed up her chin and the laughter died in his bright blue gaze. The sensual glow that never failed to arouse her took its place, and he murmured almost to himself, “God, how I’ve missed you.” He kissed her hard and she leaned into him, no longer aware of her surroundings, conscious only of the scent of his skin, his hair, the taste of his mouth, the hard length of him against her own softness.

  Finally he moved his mouth from hers, lingering for a moment on the tip of her nose before he straightened, smiling down at her flushed countenance, her languorous eyes. “Oh, dear,” he said. “We had best be a little careful. I would not like to fall foul of your father.”

  “No,” she agreed, straightening her crumpled bodice, reaching up to tuck a loose curl into its pins. “After all my hard work, that would never do.”

  “Hard work?”

  “He doesn’t approve of the feudal system,” she explained with an apologetic shrug. “But I don’t think he’ll bring it up until he knows you better.”

  “Actually, I would quite enjoy discussing it,” he said. “Believe it or not, my dear girl, I’m not blind to its faults…but other than that subject, will this be an uncomfortable interview?”

  “No,” Livia said. “He’s looking forward to meeting you.” She took his hand. “I just feel a little strange myself. It’s hard to explain…but I’m not the same person here that I am in London. You’ll understand if I don’t seem to—”

  “I will understand.” He laid a finger over her mouth, stopping her hesitant words. “My love, I already understand. It’s almost impossible to go back to one’s childhood home without somehow reverting to certain assumptions and aspects of that time.”

  “Oh, yes, that’s it exactly,” Livia said, relieved at the speed of his comprehension. “Russians aren’t that different from us, it would seem.”

  He laughed again. “No, I think certain kinds of human experience are translatable across cultures. Particularly those of childhood…so shall we beard the lion in his den?”

  “Yes,” she agreed, filled with an immeasurable sense of relief and anticipation. She stepped back into the hall. “Come in.”

  He followed her, casting his eye over the simplicity of the square hall, the austere oak staircase, the leaded casements. The sconces were pewter, an oak bench stood by the door, a plain pier table with a pewter plate was against the wall, the wooden floorboards were uncarpeted. Apart from a copper jug of silvery honesty on a windowsill, there was not a flourish or furbelow in sight.

  “It’s a vicarage,” Livia reminded him with a smile, having little difficulty reading his mind as his gaze roamed. “My father collects souls, not luxuries.”

  “Of course,” he agreed smoothly. He looked at Livia, a quizzical gleam in his eye. “I’m just wondering if this apple has fallen far from the tree.”

  Livia looked puzzled, then her expression cleared. “Oh, my dress, you mean. I don’t embrace my father’s frugality. But while I’m under his roof, I do nothing to offend it.”

  She brushed at the drab fawn gown. “I was helping Martha prepare dinner.” She reached behind her to untie her apron. “The dress is an old one that’s been lurking in my wardrobe.”

  “Ah.” He nodded gravely. “Perhaps it’s time to give it to some worthy cause.”

  Livia chuckled. “You may be right. It probably came from a worthy cause in the first place.”

  Alex reached out to reposition a hairpin that was coming loose from the knot on top of her head. “Will your father impose his frugality on the wedding?”

  “Good heavens no,” Livia said cheerfully. “Even the Reverend Lacey acknowledges that there’s a time and place for everything. He won’t stint on the wedding and then he’ll donate the equivalent to whatever cause he deems fit. Now, give me your hat and gloves and I’ll take you to meet him.”

  Alex followed as she led the way to the vicar’s study at the rear of the house. He was both curious to meet the man who had shaped Livia and fearfully anxious, afraid that he wouldn’t meet with approval. The feeling took him right back to his childhood and he had to struggle to regain his balance as Livia knocked, then opened the door. “Alex is here, Father.”

  “Then bring him in.” Reverend Lacey rose from his desk and came out from behind it, hand outstretched in welcome. His gaze was as shrewd as his handshake was firm when he greeted his future son-in-law.

  “I’ll leave you two alone, then,” Livia said once introductions had been made.

  “I hardly think that’s necessary,” her father said. “Repetition is a waste of time, and since this business concerns you most nearly, I can’t think why you shouldn’t be a part of the conversation from the beginning.” He gestured to the prince. “You have no objections to my daughter’s presence, I trust.”

  Alex shook his head hastily. He couldn’t imagine objecting to any decision of the Reverend Lacey’s. However unusual it might be for Livia to be present at the conventional interview between her suitor and her father, it wasn’t for him to point it out.

  “No, indeed not, sir, not a one.”

  “Then take a seat, and let us begin.” The vicar returned to his own chair behind the desk. “Livia tells me she would like to be married the weekend before Christmas. That seems to suit my calendar. I trust it suits yours?” He looked over at Alex, who, after a moment’s debate, had chosen an armless, tapestry-covered chair over the more comfortable leather sofa, into a corner of which Livia was now ensconced.

  “I am at your service, sir,” Alex said. “And entirely at Livia’s disposal, in this and all matters.”

  The vicar regarded him a shade sardonically. “Not entirely the best recipe for a successful marriage, if you don’t mind my saying so. It won’t do for either party to ride roughshod over the other.” He took off his spectacles and wiped them on his handkerchief.

  “That wasn’t quite what I was implying, sir,” Alex said. “I merely wished to convey a spirit of consensual decision making.”

  The vicar chuckled. “Ah, yes, consensual decision making. Nicely put. So, that’s agreed then. The wedding will take place the Saturday before Christmas in my church. The details I will leave in Livia’s capable hands, and
I suggest you do the same. Now…”

  He replaced his spectacles and leaned over the desk, hands clasped in front of him. “To the serious questions.”

  “Ah, yes.” Alex stood up, reaching into his waistcoat. “Settlements. I have drawn up these contracts, sir.” He laid a sheaf of papers on the desk. “As you will see, I have made provision for a quarterly allowance for Livia that I trust you will consider generous, and provision for any children. You will see on the last page a statement of my own fortune, which I trust you will find satisfactory.” He returned to his seat and sat quietly, legs crossed at the ankles, watching his future father-in-law peruse the documents.

  Livia remained curled in the corner of the sofa, intensely interested in the contents of the documents but curbing her curiosity until her father had finished. She could see from his noncommittal expression that he was prepared to say nothing about his principled objections to the source of the wealth that would benefit his daughter, and she knew the effort it cost him. But she also knew that nothing would get past that fierce intelligence. If there was anything remotely unclear or doubtful in the legal statements, he would pick it up.

  Finally, he looked up, tidying the documents in front of him. “This all seems perfectly satisfactory,” he said. “However, one thing interests me. You specify that the marital home should be Livia’s house in Cavendish Square. Isn’t that somewhat unusual for a man in your position, Prince Prokov? To move into his wife’s property?”

  Nothing in Alex’s expression gave an inkling of his thoughts. “It seemed a practical step, sir. I rent lodgings in London at present, and I had been intending to buy a property when one suitable came on the market. However, as you must be aware, such opportunities are few and far between, and the house in Cavendish Square is a very fine property.”

  He paused, then said, “I am not asking for a dowry, Lord Harford, and I will settle on Livia sufficient funds to keep her in comfort in the event of my death. The house in Cavendish Square will kill two birds with one stone. It will serve as a dowry that would of course revert to Livia on my death, and for the present will save me the time and expense of buying a suitable house.”