Always a Princess

by Alice Gaines

  “You’d wash my hair?” she asked.

  “I’d be honored,” he said softly.

  “Thank you.” She rested against the tub and waited while he reached for the bar of soap that had fallen into the water. He had to move forward to do so, and his chest brushed her back. He continued groping around in the bath water far longer than necessary, given that several more bars of soap lay on the tray at his side.

  Then his fingertips grazed her thigh, and she jumped.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  She reached to the tray and picked up another bar of soap and passed it over her shoulder to him.

  “Right,” he said, as he brought the soap to his nose. “Roses. That shouldn’t clash too badly with the scent of heather in the water.”

  “Roses?”

  “Roses,” he said. “Now, wet your head for me, there’s a good girl.”

  She did as he asked, sliding down till the water covered her hair and then coming back up against the tub. He worked the soap into her hair and massaged her scalp with his fingertips. The perfume of dozens of roses surrounded her with a sweet haze, and she rested back and sighed.

  “Indian husbands are most solicitous of their wives in ways no Englishman would consider. Or at least, they say they are. You can never fully trust anything a husband says, in my experience.”

  “You’ve had some experience with husbands, I take it,” she said.

  “Now, now, Miss Stanhope,” he said. “Don’t interrupt me while I’m being solicitous.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “As I was saying, Indian husbands take great care to satisfy their wives’ carnal desires. It’s a point of pride among them. And I must say that all the wives I saw while I was there looked thoroughly satisfied.”

  “Come, now. How could you tell?”

  “A woman gives off a healthy glow when she’s being decently bedded,” he said. “When properly aroused, a woman’s needs are every bit as strong as a man’s, you know.”

  “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know.”

  “And there you have the problem. Thousands of Englishwomen don’t know their own needs because thousands of Englishmen haven’t the first idea how to arouse them.”

  “And you know how to do that, Lord Wesley?” she asked, turning to face him.

  “I like to think I do.”

  “Who taught you? Indian husbands or their wives?”

  He managed to look ashamed of himself at that, the scoundrel. “I’ve never practiced celibacy.”

  She rested back so that he could continue the pressure of his fingers against her scalp.

  “At least until now,” he mumbled so softly she wasn’t sure she’d made the words out completely.

  The sentiment shouldn’t have given her comfort. He was nothing to her except a source of stolen jewels. And yet she couldn’t quite bear to think of him being solicitous, as he put it, for another woman. Oddly enough, she could imagine him giving another woman a tumble—although she wouldn’t willingly conjure up the details. But to picture him behind some other woman’s tub with his fingers in her soapy hair would steal something from her. Something she’d never had from anyone, and something she didn’t care to lose.

  What a foolish notion. What a preposterous idea. She didn’t own him any more than he owned her. And yet…

  “Rinse now, my lady,” he said. He picked up the pitcher of clean water by the side of the tub. She closed her eyes while he poured it over her hair. Finally, he removed the towel from over his shoulder and scooped her hair up into it. He rubbed the strands briskly with the cloth, quite in contrast with the gentleness he’d used just before. He did the same for her scalp and then twisted the towel around the lot.

  “Finished,” he proclaimed. “Not as well as your maid would have done, but not a bad job on the whole.”

  “You underestimate yourself, Lord Wesley.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness, but I’ll send the maid up to dress your hair for dinner,” he said. “I have some talents in the boudoir—as it were—but that isn’t one of them.”

  “I’m sure your talents in the boudoir extend to anything you put your hand to—as it were,” she replied.

  “Perhaps some day we’ll find out.” He pressed a kiss to her shoulder and then rose. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

  She watched him leave. She watched the swagger in his step but also fixed her gaze on his hands—the hands that had felt so gentle and strong against her back and in her hair. He smiled at her once before letting himself out and closing the door behind him.

  Yes, he’d succeed at anything he put those hands to. And those lips, and any other part of him where his talents lay. The man was a walking invitation to ruin. Heaven help the poor woman who gave in.

  Philip poured himself a generous portion of whiskey and downed it on one gulp. If spirits dulled the senses, they had their work cut out this time. That little scene at Eve’s bath had cost him far more than he would have thought possible. What a woman.

  He poured himself another drink and walked across the sitting room to stare out the window. Outside, London went about its usual business. In the streets, merchants’ wagons gave way to the occasional stately carriage. Brisk foot traffic clogged the sidewalks as people headed toward their evening meal. The park was largely deserted now, with London’s finest having left much earlier to dress for dinner. Just as Eve was dressing now—upstairs in this very house, her bath completed.

  Her shoulders would be powdered to an impossible softness by now, but her skin might still hold the glow of heat from her bath. The maid, Marie, would be arranging her hair on top of her head and securing it with pins. No doubt her curls still held the fragrance of roses. The scent clung to his own hands from their sojourn in Eve’s hair—the perfume entirely too persistent for his peace of mind. Too lush. Too erotic.

  How in hell was he supposed to endure a polite dinner thinking of all that? How could he simply go upstairs and change into his formal clothes without dwelling on how she would have looked rising like his very own Venus from the steam of her bath? Even if he did manage to gain some control over his body—which he hadn’t managed thus far—how could he sit at table with her without becoming aroused all over again? Just one glance at the curve of her breasts, and he’d be lost.

  Dear Lord, her breasts. He took a swig of the whiskey and let it burn down his throat. The sensation made a pale comparison to the burning in his loins.

  Her breasts defied description. He’d seen breasts in his day—the pale breasts of more than a few country lasses and the occasional randy lady of the peerage, the nut-brown breasts of the women of India. Breasts came in all shapes, sizes and colors. They were all equally beautiful, except for Eve’s. Eve’s breasts deserved sonnets to their shape—gentle slopes to the upturned peaks, fullness underneath suggesting fruit just ripe for the picking. They deserved odes to their color—pale ivory with just a hint of blush surrounding nipples the hue of antique roses. They deserved a symphony of appreciation to their size—not too large, not too small, just right for the palm or the mouth of a lover.

  If he were a poet or a composer, he’d pen all sorts of accolades to her breasts. Alas, the only way he had to show his admiration would be to love them the way a man loves his woman’s breasts. With his fingers, with his lips, with every bit of devotion in him.

  He’d have done it, too, if she’d been truly ready for his lovemaking. She’d been close, what with that sibilant “yes” she’d given him after he’d told her about the erotic temple carvings. If she’d asked for more, if she’d offered herself up for a kiss or asked to touch him in return, he would have happily obliged. He’d have stripped himself naked and carried her to her bed so that he could take her while her skin was still slick and hot from her bath. He’d have licked every droplet of water off her until she was writhing and begging him to end the torment by driving himself home inside her.

  He closed his eyes in an effort to rid himself of the image, but that only all
owed him to see more clearly how they’d fit together. His body sliding over hers as he buried himself inside her as deeply as he could go. Her legs wrapped around him, urging him on. Their cries blending together. Higher and higher. Building to a crescendo.

  Bloody hell. He opened his eyes again and gulped for breath a few times. When that did nothing to calm the pounding of his heart, he swallowed the rest of his whiskey. But that wasn’t enough, either.

  He had to get out of here. If he sat across the table from Eve and had to look at her breasts all through dinner, he’d disgrace himself completely. He’d declare his undying devotion to her bosom. He’d start composing ditties about how his poor rooster was perishing of unrequited love for her kitty. He’d lift her bodily from her seat and ravish her up against his mother’s great-aunt’s sideboard with the entire staff looking on.

  Out of here. Yes, that was the ticket. To hell with tight collars and stiff cravats. No starch and stuffiness for him tonight. Tonight he’d find his way to a seamier part of town and lose himself to drink and anything else that caught his fancy. A willing woman would take the edge off his appetites so that he could face Eve and those perfect breasts again. He’d make that two or three willing women if he could manage—lusty wenches who knew a few games their mothers hadn’t taught them would ease the ache in his trousers.

  He’d plow his way through half the women in London if that was what it took to get the picture of coupling with Eve out of his mind. Then, he’d return sated and ready to proceed with her introduction to her own desires. In a game like that, the poor thing didn’t stand a chance. He’d almost feel sorry for her if he hadn’t planned the enterprise entirely for her own good.

  What a splendid idea. Why hadn’t he thought up such a capital plan before? Just a little relief of his own lust, and he’d come back prepared to arouse Eve’s passions even further.

  He set his glass on a table and headed toward the doorway. Before he got there, though, the door opened, and his mother entered. She spotted Philip and stopped in her tracks.

  “Why, hello, dear,” she said. “I was hoping to find Mobley.”

  “You’ll have to search elsewhere, Mother. He’s not here.”

  “I can see that, Philip. I should hope I can tell when a room has my own butler in it and when it doesn’t.”

  “You haven’t mislaid him again, I hope,” he said.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “One can’t mislay a butler the way one can, say, a parlor maid.”

  “Then I have every confidence you’ll find him.” He walked to her and planted a kiss on her forehead. “I’m off.”

  “And none too soon.”

  That brought Philip up short. “I beg your pardon.”

  “It’s well past time you were dressing. I’ve had Ned lay out your best suit.”

  And the starchiest cravat in all of England, no doubt. “I’m sorry, Mother, but I won’t be home for dinner.”

  “Not home for dinner?” she repeated. “Philip, how could you?”

  “Easily. I put one foot in front of the other, and I’m gone.”

  “But you can’t go out tonight. Not on the princess’s first night with us.”

  “There’ll be many more nights, I’m sure.” Besides, after their encounter in Eve’s bedroom, she’d probably be just as relieved as he that they wouldn’t have to stare at each other over dinner.

  He turned for the door, but his mother placed her hand on his arm. “Oh no, young man. You have responsibilities at home. You can’t just deposit relatives with us—especially foreign ones—and then go flitting off at a whim.”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “Because it isn’t done, and you need to learn how things are done,” she said. “You have to learn how to act like an earl.”

  He put his hand on her shoulder. “Father’s the earl, thank heaven, and I pray for his health every day.”

  “You’re a viscount,” she said.

  “Not by my choosing.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “If you won’t think of us, at least think of the princess.”

  “Believe me, I am.”

  “She’s a stranger here. You should see that she’s properly entertained.”

  But he had entertained her—thoroughly—that very afternoon. And if he stayed, he’d be in grave danger of entertaining her some more.

  “What will she think if you install her here and then disappear?” she said.

  “She’ll think that I’ve gone out.”

  “Really, Philip,” she said. “You’re impossible.”

  “Really, Mother. That’s why you love me.”

  “We’ve indulged you too much,” she said. She slipped her fingers into her bodice and retrieved a handkerchief. No mystery where that would lead. Sure enough, her eyes misted over, and she dabbed at them. “Andrew would have stayed.”

  “Andrew wouldn’t likely have stumbled over a foreign princess relative to begin with.”

  She sniffled a few times. “You’re heartless.”

  “Tell that to the princess. I’m sure she’ll agree.”

  She waved her handkerchief at him in a gesture of dismissal and utter disappointment. He took that as his cue to kiss her forehead one more time before heading out in search of strong drink and randy women.

  Chapter Ten

  Eve’s hunt through the library halted abruptly when the front door opened. She glanced at the clock on the mantel—well after midnight. Mobley had locked up some time earlier, and the family should all be in bed. She hadn’t seen Lord Wesley since that rather intimate encounter in her bedroom. She’d assumed that he’d come home and gone to bed long ago.

  Now, what? She certainly didn’t want to confront him now, all alone and late at night and with evidence of her hunt stacked here and there.

  At least she’d replaced most of the books as she’d looked behind them. And thank heaven she hadn’t had the courage to begin her quest for stolen jewelry in his bedroom. If she had, she’d be confronting him there now.

  Maybe if she was very, very quiet, he’d go to bed and she wouldn’t have to confront him at all. She turned down the lamp and held her breath, waiting for Wesley to climb the stairs toward the bedrooms. He didn’t, though. Instead, his footsteps approached the library where she stood. The tread was none too steady, but it was distinctly masculine—she could almost hear his swagger in the cadence—and it kept getting closer.

  After a moment, his figure appeared at the doorway. He entered the room—almost lurched into it—and leaned against the doorjamb.

  “What are you doing up at this hour, Miss Stanhope?” he asked. “And in the library, of all places.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.” She gestured toward the books around her. “I came looking for something to read.”

  He looked at the scattered volumes, but his eyes didn’t focus completely, so who knew what number of books registered in his brain? “You wanted something to read?”

  Maybe he believed her, and maybe he didn’t, but sticking by her story seemed her only choice. “You have so many wonderful books, I couldn’t make up my mind.”

  “Ah-hah. Well,” he said. “No matter. I won’t have to wake you.”

  “You’ve been drinking,” she stated.

  “How perceptive of you,” he replied. “But I’m not drunk. At least not drunk enough.”

  “Drunk enough for what?”

  He got a silly smile on his face and placed a forefinger against the side of his nose. “I’ll leave that for you to puzzle out.”

  Eve stood and stared at him. She’d never seen him drunk before. In fact, she’d never seen him in any state but complete control of himself. Ruffled and unkempt like this, with his hair in disarray and his collar open, he looked even more handsome than usual. Even more dangerous.

  Heaven knew she’d had a hard enough time resisting him that afternoon. But then, she went a little bit mad every time the man touched her. What sort of power did he have over her to make her res
pond that way? Certainly, no man had ever tempted her in the slightest before—what she’d seen and heard her mother endure was enough to put anyone off sexual congress forever. And if she’d had any inclination in that direction left after her childhood, Arthur had dampened it thoroughly.

  And yet, every time Philip Rosemont touched her, she forgot her mother, Arthur, good sense and everything else. Her body took control of her mind and transported her to places both wondrous and dangerous. Well, no matter how much her body might want him, her mind didn’t have to give in to it.

  “I’m glad you’re home safely,” she said, as she walked toward the door. “I’ll retire for the night.”

  She’d just gotten to the threshold, was almost past him and into the hall, when he reached out and grabbed her arm. “I think not, Miss Stanhope. We have business to settle, you and I.”

  Eve looked up into his face and immediately fell under the spell of his warm brown eyes. The fact that their heat had been artificially enhanced by drink did nothing to make them any less fascinating. He ought to reek of liquor, too. That musty odor men got after hoisting one too many. But he didn’t. His breath smelled of yeast and spices. Very tempting, entirely too tempting.

  “We have no business to discuss,” she said.

  “But we do.” He pulled her against his chest. “We need to discuss why you’re afraid of my touch and what we’re going to do to cure you of that fear.”

  She rested a hand against him and tried to lean backward. Unfortunately, the movement did little to put any distance between them but instead pushed her breasts against his chest. “Oh no, we don’t.”

  “Oh yes, we do,” he said. “We most assuredly do.”

  “Let me go,” she said. The words came out unsteadily. She’d never convince him that way that she wanted him to release her. But then, she’d best convince herself first, and the tender flesh of her bosom that rubbed so deliciously against his firmness. And somehow she’d have to convince her heart, which had taken up a staccato rhythm she could almost hear.