To Wed a Wicked Prince

by Jane Feather

  Livia felt a sudden chill. “Are you not coming to bed too?”

  “I’ll follow shortly, but I have a few things to attend to first.” He tipped her chin with a forefinger. “Have no fear, sweeting. You’ll not sleep without me.” He kissed the corner of her mouth, then took the empty glass from her. “Go now, it’s been a long day. Ethel is waiting for you.”

  And where were Hester and Jemmy? Daisy, of course, was at Mount Street with Aurelia and Franny, but why did she have this feeling of being in someone else’s house? Accepting someone else’s hospitality? She had left Morecombe and the twins, Jemmy and Hester with the dogs…and where were they? Why hadn’t they hurled themselves at her in a barking frenzy when she’d walked through the door?

  “What have you done with Tristan and Isolde?” she demanded, suddenly afraid of the answer.

  “I instructed Boris to bed them down in the mews for tonight,” Alex told her. “I couldn’t endure their yapping…not after such a long journey. You may let them in tomorrow, Livia. Bear with me, please.” His eyes were grave, but there was a flicker in them that Livia recognized from once before. A hint of flint, of resolution. It had chilled her the first time she’d seen it, and it had the same effect now.

  But she was too tired to deal with confrontation tonight. The dogs would be quite safe and comfortable in the mews. In the morning she would be renewed and she would tackle these issues before they became too contentious.

  “I’ll go up, then. You’ll come soon?” She turned to the door.

  “Quite soon.”

  Alone, Alex drank his port and swore softly. What had upset her so much? The house had been refurbished exactly according to Livia’s instructions. She’d made all the decisions and to a large extent supervised the work. But perhaps it was inevitable that she’d have a proprietorial feeling for the house. Unfortunately so did he, and he needed to establish his position, draw the lines in the sand immediately, otherwise matters would become very confused.

  He refilled his glass and made his way to the salon. The elegant room settled around him as he stood in the double doorway. Sophia Lacey’s amazing blue eyes looked directly at him. He raised his glass in a silent toast and an equally silent promise. One of these days he would learn her secrets. He was convinced that the house would have something to tell him. There was too much of Sophia’s spirit in its very fabric for it not to reveal something of the kind of woman she was.

  “I’ll lock up for the night, sir?” Boris spoke softly behind him.

  “Oh, yes…do so, thank you.” Alex turned away from the searching eyes. “Did you talk to the old man?”

  “He was already abed when we arrived, sir. He came out in his nightshirt waving a blunderbuss as soon as I’d opened the front door.” Boris looked a trifle pained at the memory of this reception. “And those noisy terriers too.” He shook his head. “But the old man didn’t fuss once he knew the princess was on her way here. He went back to bed.”

  “And the terriers are in the mews?”

  “Aye, sir. Quite snug they are. The lad Jemmy took them off, says he’ll sleep there with them.”

  “Good. The princess is very fond of them, she wouldn’t want them upset and uncomfortable. Good night then, Boris.” He nodded a farewell and took his glass into the library, which Livia had designated as his own private apartment.

  It was a pleasant room dominated by a massive oak desk, on which were laid invitingly a leather blotting pad, a tray of quills, a fine leather inkpot. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were filled with volumes that Livia had told him she and her friends hadn’t had a chance to examine. In fact, this particular apartment had been left in its original neglect until the recent renovation. Heavy velvet curtains now hung at the long windows that looked onto the small walled garden at the rear of the house, and matching velvet cushions were scattered with apparent randomness on the leather chairs and sofa. A small fire burned in the grate, and fresh candles glowed from the wall sconces.

  In the short time he’d had before their arrival Boris had somehow managed to make it seem as if the house’s inhabitants had merely been out for the evening.

  Alex went to the desk, the one piece of furniture he had chosen carefully for himself. He’d supervised its installation one afternoon after Livia had gone down to Ringwood to prepare for their wedding. One side of the desk held a series of small drawers and one key opened them all. He took the key from his inside pocket and sat down in the leather desk chair. He opened the top drawer. At first sight it was empty, but when he reached inside and pressed a small spring the back of the drawer slid back to reveal a hidden space.

  Alex took out the velvet pouches it contained and poured the contents on the blotter. Each drawer revealed its hidden space and the contents of the pouches glittered on the desk as he sorted through them, reassuring himself that the treasure was intact. The work that had brought him to London was an expensive proposition.

  He replaced the gems in their pouches and locked them away again, then he leaned back in his chair, staring into the fire. The czar had told him after the Treaty of Tilsit that Bonaparte had suggested to him that he should turn his territorial ambitions towards the Baltic. What had Bonaparte said exactly? Something about the lovely ladies of St. Petersburg must not hear from their palaces the cannons of the Swedes. Something along those lines, and it had certainly galvanized the Russian emperor into this foray against the Swedish province of Finland.

  A victory over the Swedes would be as cold and barren a triumph as the country itself, Alex thought with a flicker of derision. If the czar thought such a victory would appease his detractors in St. Petersburg, he was very much mistaken. And for those who were prepared to go further than mere talk of revolt, it would provide opportunity.

  He drummed his fingers on the desk for a minute, lost in thought. Then he pushed back his chair and rose wearily to his feet. He snuffed the candles and left the library. Boris had left an oil lamp lit on the hall table together with a carrying candle. Alex lit the latter before turning out the lamp and trod softly up the stairs, the light throwing his shadow on the wall ahead of him.

  He went first into his own bedchamber, where fresh candles burned on the mantelpiece and a fire glowed in the hearth. Livia had given much thought to the redecorating of this apartment and the blue and silver bed hangings were certainly handsome. He set his carrying candle on the mantel and stood still, absorbing the atmosphere of the room.

  His father, as the master of the house, would surely have occupied this chamber. Was there a hint of that austere and distant man? Some breath of his spirit lurking in the shadows? And just how had that vibrant woman in the salon connected with the lean aesthete that Alex had known?

  Had they made love in this room? Tumbled in the great canopied bed? Laughed and tickled and teased?

  Alex shook his head impatiently. The father that he knew could not possibly have indulged in such lusty romping. And the woman who had a lewd fresco above her dining room table surely couldn’t have found anything to please her in the stiff arms of his father.

  He undressed and put on a brocade dressing gown, then softly opened the door that led into his wife’s bedchamber. A candle was guttering on the night table and the ashy embers of the fire threw off a little warmth. But Livia was a small, motionless shape buried in the feather mattress beneath a thick quilted coverlet.

  He trod softly to the bed and stood for a moment listening to her deep, even breathing. She was sound asleep, her lashes dark half-moons on her faintly flushed cheeks, and he thought she looked much younger in sleep. He wouldn’t risk waking her. He turned away and went back to his own room, but he left the adjoining door ajar.

  He awoke in the morning to whispering caresses, his body stirring beneath the coverlets under unmistakable stimulation. He lay still, trying to keep his breathing even as if he was still asleep, while Livia worked her magic. She chuckled softly and murmured indistinctly, “Don’t pretend to be asleep, my prince.”

&nbs
p; He pushed a hand beneath the covers and twined his fingers in the curls spread across his belly. “Come up before you suffocate.”

  “I’m unlikely to do that,” she responded in the same muffled tones. “And I’m enjoying myself. Unless I much mistake the matter, so are you.”

  “Indubitably,” he agreed, and ceased his halfhearted protest.

  “By the way, you broke your promise,” Livia declared as she emerged rumpled and flushed from her exertions in the warm dark of the bedclothes. “Why did you sleep in here last night?”

  “Oh, my love, you were sleeping so soundly,” he said, seizing her under the arms and pulling her up so that she lay across his chest. “I was afraid to wake you.”

  “I doubt you would have done,” she said, kissing the point of his chin. “But I wouldn’t have minded anyway.”

  “Maybe not.” He took her face in his hands, pushing his fingers into the tangle of her hair. “I’ll not make the same mistake again.”

  “You had better not if you value your pleasure,” she declared, kissing the corner of his mouth.

  “Is that a threat, madam?” He rolled her onto her back beside him. “I don’t take kindly to threats.” He moved over her, propping himself on his elbows as he looked down at her countenance. Light danced in her eyes and she stretched her arms above her head, grasping the bed rail.

  “Do your worst, my prince.”

  “You might regret that invitation,” he said, pushing her thighs apart with his knee.

  “Oh, I doubt that,” she murmured.

  Livia was still in a lighthearted mood when she came downstairs, dressed for the day, an hour later. She headed directly to the kitchen, intent on finding Morecombe and the twins, and pushed open the door onto a scene that bore little or no resemblance to the kitchen she was used to.

  Alex’s cook was at the range, stirring pots; two minions were chopping vegetables; an unknown scullery maid was scrubbing pots at the deep sink. Of Morecombe, Ada, and Mavis there was no sign.

  Livia had not formally met the cook. There hadn’t been the opportunity in the lodge. They had not starved themselves in their three days of seclusion, however, so she’d eaten his food, and she certainly had no complaints. Although privately she considered Ada and Mavis to be at least as accomplished if not more so.

  “Good morning,” she said loudly when it seemed that no one was going to pay her any attention. And then she remembered that Alex had said the cook was half French and half Russian, so perhaps he didn’t speak English. “Bonjour,” she said.

  The cook turned from his stirring and looked at her as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “Bonjour, princesse,” he said after a second’s hesitation. There was a distinct question mark to the greeting and Livia began to feel unwelcome in her own kitchen. Before she could say anything further, however, Boris came into the kitchen behind her. He looked about as flustered as the unflappable Boris could ever look and she guessed he had come running at the possibility of a disturbance to his smoothly run household.

  “Princess, good morning,” he said, bowing low. “How may I help you?”

  “You can tell me where I’ll find my staff,” she said, keeping her tone moderate. Boris would have been obeying his master’s orders, he didn’t act unilaterally.

  “They’re keeping to their apartments, Your Highness,” he said. “As I understand it, Morecombe and the women feel that they should take orders only from you.”

  “I see.” Livia could feel her temper rising. “Did you perhaps presume to give them orders this morning, Boris?”

  “I am the majordomo, Princess,” he said, seemingly unperturbed by the flash in her eye. “It is my job to see to the running of the household and the ordering of the staff.”

  “Not in this instance, Boris,” she said crisply. “Morecombe, Ada, and Mavis are not subject to your authority. I want that understood right now.”

  “I would need to talk to Prince Prokov—”

  “That will not be necessary,” she interrupted him. “I will talk to him myself.” She turned on her heel. At the door she said, “I would like my dogs returned to the house, please. And I am assuming that Hester and Jemmy are still employed under this roof?”

  “The lad’s with the dogs, madam. The girl’s working with the laundress.”

  Livia could see nothing to complain about there, at least not at the moment; there were bigger battles to fight and at least they hadn’t been turned off. “See that Jemmy brings my dogs back without delay,” she said, and left the kitchen.

  In the hall she paused. Where was Alex likely to be? He hadn’t said he was going out this morning, so she made her way to the library and opened the door. “Alex, are you here? I need to talk to you.” She came into the room and then stopped. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had a visitor.”

  Alex felt a stab of irritation. He was not accustomed to being walked in upon without so much as a knock. But he controlled his annoyance and said pleasantly, “My dear, may I introduce Paul Tatarinov. Tatarinov, my wife, Princess Prokov.”

  Livia offered the nod of a bow. Instinctively she didn’t care for the man. He had a rough edge to him. His clothes were fine enough, but they sat ill on his bulky frame. His lips moved in the semblance of a smile as he bowed to her, revealing crooked and yellowing teeth. The skin of his hands looked chapped and rough. He was the very antithesis of her husband, so elegant in an olive-green coat, dove-gray britches, an emerald pin in his immaculately tied snowy cravat. His hands as her body knew full well were smooth as silk.

  “When you have a moment, I’d like to talk to you,” she said, and slipped quietly from the room. She had seen the flash of irritation in his eyes even though it had been quickly disguised.

  He had the right to expect his privacy, she acknowledged, going into the parlor. She would grow accustomed to the idea that not every room in the house was hers to enter at will, but it galled her nevertheless. She reached for the bell pull to ask for coffee and then hesitated. Who would answer the bell?

  With sudden decision, she stalked out of the parlor and made her way to the back stairs. Morecombe, his wife, and her sister had a small apartment tucked away on the second floor. She and her friends had never ventured anywhere near it before; it had always seemed sacrosanct. But now she had no qualms. She knocked vigorously on the door.

  “Who be there?” Morecombe’s voice rasped from within.

  “It’s me, Morecombe. Lady Livia.”

  The door opened the merest crack. “Oh, ’tis you,” he said as he always did when he opened a door to her. His rheumy old eyes were suspicious, however, and he kept the opening at a mere crack.

  “May I come in?” she asked.

  “Oh, let the lass in, Morecombe.” Ada took the door and pulled it wide. “Come you in. We’ve a need to talk to you.”

  “Yes, I can understand that,” Livia said, stepping into the room. It was a parlor, hot as Hades, with a huge fire blazing up the chimney. A lug pole hung over the fire with a kettle hooked to it. The room was crammed with pieces of furniture, knickknacks, overstuffed cushions, and china figurines. It was such an unlikely space to be inhabited by the angular, pallid twins and the monosyllabic Morecombe that she was taken aback.

  “What a pleasant room,” she managed finally.

  “Looks like you could do with a cup o’ tea,” Mavis said from a shadowy corner where she’d been sitting with Puss, the house cat, who jumped up from her lap with an indignant yowl as she stood up, brushing off her apron.

  “Thank you,” Livia said gratefully. She bent to stroke the cat who was now twisting herself around her ankles. “How are you, Puss?”

  “She’s right enough,” Ada said shortly, going to a Welsh dresser and taking down cups from the hooks. Mavis was pouring water from the kettle into a pot.

  “I’m sorry,” Livia said, “but I don’t know what you’ve been told…what’s happened since I left.”

  “We’re not wanted no more,” Morecombe declared
. “That Boris fellow told me straight, not an hour past. Too old, not suited to the new master’s way…out to grass. That’s us.”

  “And it ain’t right, Lady Livia,” Ada said. “Lady Sophia, she made it all clear in that will of ’ers. We was to stay an’ work as long as it suited us.”

  “Yes, I know.” Livia perched on a chair. “Thank you, Mavis.” She took the offered cup. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to Prince Prokov as yet, but I will straighten it out, I promise.” She sipped the tea.

  “Well, I’m not cookin’ along a that Frenchie,” Ada declared. “’Tis my kitchen. Always ’as been…mine an’ our Mavis’s.”

  “Aye,” Mavis agreed. “’Twas good enow fer Lady Sophia, I reckon ’tis good enow for the likes o’ some foreigner.”

  And that foreigner happens to be my husband. But Livia held her tongue. “I don’t think my husband fully understands the situation…the history…” she said. “I’ll talk with him as soon as he’s free and I’m sure we can sort this out to everyone’s satisfaction.” She finished her tea and set the cup on the table. “Are Jemmy and Hester all right?”

  “Oh, aye, daft as brushes, the pair of ’em,” Morecombe said, rumbling from his chair, where he was blowing on the tea in his cup. “Don’t know up from down. They do as they’re told.”

  “Well, that’s good then.” Livia stood up. “We’ll discuss this when I’ve talked to my husband. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.”

  “I doubt that,” Mavis said. “But if you can sort it, lass, we’ll be right glad.” She gave one of her rare smiles. “An’ ’ow’s the babbies doin’? That young Stevie’s all right now?”

  “Oh, yes, they’re all well,” Livia said. “And Stevie doesn’t seem to remember anything about his ordeal.”

  “Well, thanks be.” Ada went to open the door for her. “We’ll hear from you later, then?”

  “Yes, of course.” Livia managed a smile that she hoped was reassuring and turned back to the main part of the house. She was angry and also confused. How could Alex have given such orders without consulting her? They hadn’t even discussed the disposition of their various servants. He’d agreed that they needed to, but it seemed he’d acted unilaterally anyway.