by Kate Bateman
“Hmm. The more I think about it, the more it makes perfect sense.”
“What does?” he asked warily.
“Well, clearly Anya needs more protection than a feeble old woman and a handful of servants can provide at Everleigh. She needs someone used to dealing with rogues and scoundrels. You must protect her, Sebastien. Take her back to the Tricorn with you.”
“What? No!” Seb said, at precisely the same moment the girl said, “Absolutely not!”
“I can’t let you carry on to Everleigh unescorted,” Seb protested.
The dowager waved her hand. “Oh, pish. I can’t imagine I’ll be held up twice in one evening. John is barely hurt, and I have lots of servants to coddle me when I get there.” She turned to the girl. “You’ll be vulnerable in the country, now they know you’re with me. Sebastien is the best there is. You can stay with him, under his protection, until those seeking you give up and go home.”
“Now wait just a minute—” Seb said.
The dowager sent him a wide smile, the faux-innocence of which fooled him not a bit. Dorothea was meddling, curse her, and he could only guess at her motives.
She wasn’t matchmaking, that was for certain. She wouldn’t foist someone of the lower classes at him as a potential wife, however beautiful she might be. Even before he’d been made an earl, he’d been expected to choose some talentless twit from the ton if he ever wanted to marry. Which he most assuredly did not.
Did she mean the girl for his mistress? He doubted it. Dorothea seemed genuinely fond of her. He couldn’t believe she’d willingly offer her up for ruination. Seb frowned, completely confused.
“You’ve been on your own at the Tricorn since Alex and Benedict found themselves wives,” the duchess continued reasonably. She turned to Anya. “He was only saying the other week how boring it was. You can host her in one of their old suites, Sebastien. You’ll barely notice she’s there.” Her rheumy eyes sparkled with devilry.
“A gentleman’s club is no place for a lady.”
Since when had he ever been concerned with propriety? Talk about the devil quoting scripture.
“She’s not a lady. She’s a lady’s companion. And really, is now the time to be quibbling over social niceties? Our lives were in mortal danger tonight.” Dorothea set her jaw and a militant light came into her eyes. “You wouldn’t deny me this one request, Sebastien, would you?”
Ugh. Seb felt himself caught, pinned like an insect on a naturalist’s board. He cast around for another argument, but the girl spoke up.
“The men are dead or gone, ma’am. There’s no reason for us to change our plans.”
“Do you really believe whoever sent them won’t try again?” the duchess asked.
The girl shot a panicked glance over at Seb. “But it wouldn’t be seemly for us to live under the same roof.”
“Who will know? It’s not as if you’ll be going out together in the ton. Indulge me, child. I won’t rest easy until the threat to you is gone.”
The edge of desperation in the girl’s tone made Seb feel a lot better. Indeed, the more he thought about it, the more he realized this was the perfect opportunity to install the defiant chit under his own roof and discover exactly who she was and what she was about. Why was he even arguing?
“On second thoughts, I believe your plan has considerable merit, Dorothea.”
The girl looked at him in dawning horror. Seb suppressed a smile.
“I can protect her far better at the Tricorn than at Everleigh.”
“No!” She shot a desperate, pleading glance at the duchess. “Who will read the papers to you?”
“Oh, I’ll get one of the other servants to do it. And I have plenty of friends to visit in Oxfordshire. I won’t be bored.”
She beckoned Anya closer to the carriage, and Seb strained to hear their hushed conversation.
“I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to you, my dear. You’re the granddaughter I never had.”
A suspicious sheen gathered in the dowager’s eyes, and Seb blinked in shock because Dorothea rarely allowed herself to exhibit anything as unseemly as emotions.
The girl sighed, then nodded. “As you wish.”
She shot a glance of pure dislike at him, as if this were somehow all his fault, and his body throbbed in response. Anticipation poured through his veins at the forthcoming challenge. Oh, this was going to be fun.
He maneuvered Eclipse forward. “You’ll have to ride with me. Put your foot on mine and give me your hand.”
With a huff, she did as he instructed, and he hauled her up to sit sideways in front of him, her legs draped over his thigh. The feel of her slim body in his lap made his head spin. Eclipse sidled sideways in protest at the additional weight, but Seb controlled him easily with a squeeze of his knees.
The fur trim of her cloak tickled his throat as he put his arms around her waist. Her hair whipped across his cheek and the scent of her filled his nose. She smelled delicious, like jasmine and rain, and he suddenly felt like laughing aloud. He felt positively barbaric, like a Viking raider returning home with his prize.
He wheeled them in a wide circle as Dorothea sent them a cheery wave. “Do be careful, my dears. Send word as soon as you can!”
Seb kicked his heels to Eclipse’s flanks. The horse started forward and triumph surged through him. Anna Brown, Anya Ivanov—whatever she wanted to call herself—was at his mercy. She was lying to him. And he wouldn’t stop until he’d uncovered every secret she was guarding.
Chapter 11.
Anya’s head was spinning. How had she ended up galloping back toward London in the arms of this handsome, arrogant stranger? A man who’d dispatched two of his fellows with apparent ease and even less remorse.
She couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d been saved from one set of kidnappers only to be snatched away by another. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. And the dowager duchess, her dear friend, had sanctioned it.
No, that was unfair. The dowager hadn’t betrayed her secret, not even to her own kin. And there was logic behind the decision to ask Wolff to guard her. The man was a literal hero. He’d received numerous medals for his service during the wars against Napoleon, and his recent ennoblement had, according to the dowager, been awarded for some invaluable service he’d provided for the Prince of Wales.
He certainly knew how to handle a rifle. The skill it must have taken to shoot the man who’d been holding her was astonishing. A wave of nausea rose up as she recalled the blood in the mud. She’d never seen a dead man before.
She was intensely aware of her captor. The wind was bitter, but his arms were strong and his warmth pressed against her side. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to absorb the sensation of simply being held. She hugged women—Elizaveta and Charlotte—all the time, but they were small and soft and sweetly perfumed. Being held in this man’s embrace was an entirely different experience. One that was, paradoxically, both comforting and nerve-wracking.
To distract herself from his proximity, she said, “You took a terrible risk shooting that man from horseback. What if I’d moved? You could have killed me, instead.”
That would have put an end to Vasili’s scheming.
He gave an arrogant snort. “Unlikely. Thanks to Bonaparte, I’ve had plenty of practice in shooting from that distance. It was a calculated risk.”
Anya raised her brows at his supreme confidence, even as a twinge of envy assaulted her. If only she possessed such a deadly talent. Vasili would think twice about threatening her if she could shoot the tassel from his boots at fifty paces. Unfortunately, rifle shooting hadn’t been part of her extensive education. She’d never even fired a pistol.
She readjusted her position. It was uncomfortable on his lap, both physically and emotionally. The hood of her cloak had come down; her face was cold, but she could feel the heat of Wolff’s breath against her neck. She shivered with an unsettling awareness. Sidesaddle was no way to travel any great distance.
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“Stop,” she demanded. “This hurts my—it’s too uncomfortable.”
Wolff reined the horse to a halt. “Giving orders, Miss Brown?” he said dryly. “You’ve certainly learned to emulate the imperious tones of your employer.”
Anya bit back the scathing retort that sprang to her lips. She was supposed to be a servant; she really should try to be more reverential. Even if it pained her.
“I was merely going to suggest that I ride behind you, my lord,” she murmured, trying to appear properly chastised.
“You mean astride?” His disdain was clear; ladies didn’t do that. They didn’t raise their skirts above the knee for modesty’s sake. Well, damn that. Let him think she came from peasant stock. They could ride much faster if she were behind him, and it would be far more comfortable for the horse.
She lifted her chin. “Yes.”
Anya restrained herself from telling him she could probably ride better than he could, skirts or no skirts. She and Dmitri had been taught by a pair of Cossack brothers who were masters of the skill and had once been part of a famous circus act. She’d learned tricks that would put an equestrienne at Astley’s Amphitheatre to shame.
With an indifferent shrug, Wolff let her slide to the ground, then swung her up behind him. Her face heated as she hitched her skirts above her knees and settled herself with him between her open thighs. It was an utterly indecent position. Thank God she was wearing thick woolen stockings and that her cloak was long enough to cover most of the exposed leg.
She tugged her hood up to protect her from the rain and with great reluctance looped her arms around his waist. The position drew her front against his back. Not an inch of space separated them. The sensation of his hard muscle against her breasts and stomach made her catch her breath. He was so big. So wide and so unmistakably male. There wasn’t a soft place on him anywhere.
He tensed at the sudden contact, then caught her hands and repositioned them higher up on the flat plane of his stomach. “Hold on,” he said gruffly.
Anya turned her head sideways and rested her cheek against his shoulder. She could feel the play of muscle beneath his clothes as he rocked gently with the horse’s gait, could smell the leather of the saddle and a faint masculine cologne rising from his wet greatcoat.
Her stomach gave a little twist. She’d never experienced such immediate attraction to another person in her life. It was highly disconcerting.
They couldn’t travel quickly, not with both of them on one horse, and she fell into a kind of dull stupor. The rain didn’t so much fall as envelop them in a grey mist. Wolff’s body was the only point of warmth in an otherwise frigid world, and she clung to him as to a lifeboat in a tempest.
At long last they left the lonely desolation of the heath and made their way back to civilization. Hamlets gave way to the outskirts of the city, then more populated streets, and eventually she spied the familiar green expanse of Hyde Park.
The Tricorn Club was situated in St. James’s Square, only a stone’s throw from Anya’s tiny apartment in Covent Garden. Anya heard a clock strike midnight as they finally arrived, but the lights and laughter emanating from the front of the club indicated that for the patrons within, the night was still young.
Wolff guided the horse around the back of the building to the private mews where they were greeted by a yawning stable boy. Anya slid easily off the horse without waiting for assistance, keen to put some distance between herself and her “host.” His nearness during the journey had been most disturbing. She wasn’t sure whether to think of him as a captor or as her savior.
Wolff hardly spared her a glance. She followed him up a set of steps, through a shiny black door, and into what she assumed was the private part of the club.
The faint hum of conversation filtered through the walls, and Anya looked around with interest. She’d never been inside a gentleman’s lodgings before. It didn’t seem all that mysterious. A tall tiled entranceway gave onto several rooms, but before she could peer inside them, a door at the end of the corridor opened and a giant of a man lumbered into view. He was as broad as a Cossack, with a square jaw and a nose that had clearly been broken more than once.
“Ah, Mickey,” Wolff said, greeting the giant with a smile that softened his face and made Anya’s heart catch in her throat. “We have a visitor. This is Miss Brown. She’s to be our guest for the next—” He glanced at her uncertainly, as if trying to decide on a suitable timeframe. “Few days? Weeks? For an indeterminate stretch of time, let us say.”
Anya didn’t like that. It sounded like a prison sentence being passed down by a judge.
The giant sent her a friendly nod. “Ma’am.”
“She’ll be staying in Benedict’s old rooms.” Wolff shrugged out of his greatcoat. “I trust they’re made up?”
“Yes, sir. May I take your cloak, ma’am?”
Anya nodded and allowed the manservant to take it from her.
She was wearing one of the three gowns she owned, the plainest of the ones she’d brought from Paris. After a year of almost constant wear, it was sadly out of style and had faded from the original cheerful lavender to a dreary dishwater-grey. The damp skirts clung to her, and she shivered despite the warmth of the hallway.
“Does the lady have any luggage to bring in?”
Wolff chuckled. “She does not. Miss Brown is that rarest of creatures—a woman who travels without a mountain of luggage.” He shot her a laughing glance, and Anya glared at him. She didn’t even have a dry change of clothes, curse him.
He seemed impervious to her disapproval. He strode forward and she followed him, peering into the various rooms as they passed. They all appeared to be tastefully and expensively furnished, although with a decidedly masculine flavor. No pastel ruffles or Meissen shepherdesses here. She followed him up a wide, curved staircase and along another corridor. He opened a door into a suite of rooms that contained a desk and chair and a pair of comfortable-looking armchairs grouped in front of an unlit fire. He gestured to an inner doorway. “Bedroom’s through there.”
Anya was so tired, she barely managed to nod. She had no energy to fight. The warmth of the house seemed to be leeching the strength out of her. She wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for a week.
He stepped back from the door. “If you need anything, I’ll be in the rooms next door. We’ll talk in the morning. I shall expect you in my study at ten o’clock. Good night.”
Anya frowned as she heard the key turn in the lock, then snorted in amusement. He clearly trusted her as little as she trusted him. No matter. For now, she rather appreciated the extra security. Where did he think she would go, anyway? She couldn’t risk endangering Elizaveta by returning to Covent Garden.
She made quick work of stripping off her damp gown; she’d learned to undress herself without Elizaveta’s assistance months ago. Shivering a little, she tugged the pins from her hair and slipped between the welcoming sheets on the large four-poster bed.
It galled her that she needed to accept Wolff’s protection. She didn’t like to be beholden to anyone, but it would only be for a short time. She would hide here for a week or two until Vasili returned to Russia, and then she’d return to her normal life.
Would Wolff expect payment for his hospitality? Anya frowned into the darkness. She could sell one of her few remaining diamonds if absolutely necessary. But as he’d said at the brothel, he already had plenty of money. He didn’t need more.
Would he exact payment for his protection in some other form? A curl of something that wasn’t exactly fear twisted in her stomach. The way he’d looked at her, as if he wanted to gobble her up, made her shiver. His opinion of her was ridiculously low. He thought she was a whore, a woman who would stoop to swindling an old woman. And yet, back at the brothel, he’d made no secret of the fact that he desired her.
No doubt she would discover his terms in the morning.
Chapter 12.
Anya awoke to an unfamiliar room. The previous occupant
—Benedict, Wolff had called him—had left no personal belongings. Only a faint tang of some masculine scent remained. She donned the dirty lavender-grey dress with a grimace of distaste and for one wistful moment, allowed herself to remember what it had been like to go shopping in Paris, able to buy whatever she wanted without considering the cost.
She’d had dresses in every shade of the rainbow and for every possible occasion, from velvet pelisses to sheer-as-a-whisper evening gowns designed to bring a man to his knees. She’d rarely worn a single dress more than once, let alone for six months straight.
She shook her head. She’d been a spoiled child, with no concept of hard work nor the value of money. Now, she knew the cost of a loaf of bread to the nearest penny.
Her new bedroom was certainly more luxurious than her sparse lodgings in Covent Garden. She’d had to sell one of her precious diamonds to pay for six months’ rent upfront, and although the rooms had been furnished, the pieces were practical rather than attractive.
The giant footman, Mickey, brought a tray of breakfast and a reminder that “his lordship” would see her in his study at ten. She sent him a sunny smile and watched his thick neck flush in embarrassment. Clearly the man was less confident with women than his master.
She found Wolff downstairs, seated behind an imposing leather-topped desk in a book-lined library. Her heartrate increased in anticipation of a confrontation, and she tried not to notice how the charcoal grey of his jacket and the white of his shirt were the perfect foils for his tanned skin and dark eyes.
He did not stand when she entered the room, as a gentleman would for someone he considered a lady, and Anya smiled inwardly at the subtle snub. He waved her to the seat opposite him, and she braced herself for an interrogation.
“Miss Brown—”
“Ivanov.”