by Kate Bateman
Tonight, Seb was as edgy as before a military push. Dorothea had done an excellent job of intimating that there would be some kind of revelation, and the ballroom was already uncomfortably crowded with guests all waiting to meet the silvery goddess in front of him.
The presence of so many people made him nervous. It would be difficult to protect the princess when Petrov made his move—as Seb was sure he would. The Russian would doubtless come to repeat his demand for the “evidence” he thought she possessed. Seb had sent Anya strict instructions to stay inside the ballroom, no matter how overheated it became. There would be no chance of the Russian getting her alone.
He’d had agents following Petrov all week, but the man had done nothing out of the ordinary. The runners watching this house had reported a figure lurking in Grosvenor Square yesterday evening, but the man had slipped away before he could be identified. Had it been one of Petrov’s minions? Seb had men stationed around the perimeter, just in case.
That Petrov might decide to silence Anya with a sniper was not beyond the realm of possibility. A good rifleman—one as skilled as Alex, Ben, or Seb himself—could hit a target through a window from a hundred yards away. The thought of a bullet passing anywhere near her made his blood run cold.
Anya turned as Dorothea announced him, and he watched the smile she’d given Geoffrey fade, replaced with a polite, wary expression, and for the first time in his life, he was conscious of being jealous of his brother. He’d never begrudged Geoffrey the title, or the responsibility of running the estate he’d one day inherit. But he hated him stealing a smile from Anya.
Geoffrey was a marquis. He’d be Duke of Southwick when their father died. He’d be a suitable match for her. Seb clenched his jaw.
“What have you there?” Dorothea glanced with undisguised interest at the leather-covered jeweler’s box he’d collected earlier from Ludgate Hill. Seb forced himself to step forward and offer it to Anya with a casualness that belied the emotional weight of the gift. Already he regretted the foolish impulse.
“If you’re going to go out in the ton, you should dress the part,” he said stiffly.
Their gloved fingers brushed as she took the box, and even that slight contact was enough to send a shiver of awareness through him.
A gasp escaped her as she opened the lid.
“I took your drawing to Bridge & Rundell,” he said.
The tiara was perfection, the physical embodiment of her elevated status. He’d meant it to serve as a reminder of the cavernous gulf that separated them—the Bow Street Bastard and the fairy-tale princess. A reminder of just how different they were. But his heart still pounded against his ribs as he waited for her response.
Tears sprang to her eyes. “Oh, I—” She seemed at a loss for words.
“You had one just like it, you said.”
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed a knot of emotion and blinked rapidly. “Yes. The Denisov tiara. I had to break it up to get enough money to come here.”
Her brows twitched into a frown and a wave of panic swept through him. Every other time he’d given a woman a piece of jewelry, it had been as a parting gift, a “thank you” for a few weeks of mutual pleasure. Would she think of it as a douceur? They’d only shared one night, but he prayed she wouldn’t interpret it as a crude attempt at payment. There weren’t enough jewels in the world for that.
But her fingers skimmed over the sapphires and diamonds like a lover’s caress, and he found he could be envious of inanimate objects too. Then her glistening eyes lifted to his and the rest of the world fell away.
“Thank you,” she managed huskily. “This means … so much to me. You have no idea.”
He had a fair idea. The yearning and rapture on her face was reward enough for the foolish, quixotic gesture, even if it revealed the depths of his regard for her to anyone with a pair of eyes. He wasn’t wearing his heart upon his sleeve—he’d put in it a bloody jeweler’s box and handed it to her with a roomful of witnesses.
Shit. He should have bought her a fan or a silver card case—some meaningless, less sentimental trinket that would have left him less emotionally naked. Less exposed. But he’d wanted to see that smile of hers, and restoring some small part of her family heritage had seemed like a good way to do it.
“It’s almost exactly as I remember it,” she breathed softly. “Except for the setting. The original was gold. I like this better.”
He managed a careless shrug, as if it weren’t the most expensive gift he’d ever given. As if he hadn’t paid a king’s ransom for it and bullied and threatened Rundell for the past week to have it ready by tonight.
She pressed her lips together. “It must have cost a fortune. How can I ever rep—”
“There’s no need for repayment,” he growled, and she flinched at his unintentionally gruff tone. “It’s a gift, freely given. Take it.”
Her eyes searched his, looking for God knew what, but then she inclined her head. “Then, thank you, Lord Mowbray. You’re very kind.”
His lips twitched. “That’s not my reputation.”
“Oh, my!” Dorothea sighed, craning her neck to peer at the tiara on its bed of crushed black velvet. She glanced approvingly at him. “I must say, Sebastien, whatever your faults—and they are legion—you do have the most exquisite taste.”
“Why thank you,” he said dryly. “But I can’t claim credit for this particular design. Rundell merely recreated what the princess had already drawn.”
“Come, let me help you put it on.” Dorothea dragged Anya toward a pier mirror. She stood motionless as the tiara was placed on her hair, then turned her head this way and that to inspect it from different angles. The diamonds flashed tiny rainbows across the room, and the dark sapphires threatened to suck all the available light into their cobalt depths. Fathomless darkness and eternal light, the entire universe in one glittering headpiece.
Seb exhaled softly and quelled the urge to applaud. Bravo, Princess. He’d never been much for poetry, but the fragment of a verse came to him, something he’d read a few years ago by one of those opium-addled fools like Byron or Coleridge.
She walks in beauty, like the night
of cloudless climes and starry skies,
and all that’s best of dark and bright,
meet in her aspect and her eyes.
It seemed entirely apropos. She was an ice princess brought to glittering life. Her upswept hair revealed the elegant nape of her neck. The delicate bumps of her spine looked like a row of natural pearls. He wanted to trace them, to undo the tiny buttons at the back of her dress and peel back the silk until he found the sweetly rounded curve of her—
No. No no no.
Business, not pleasure.
Princess. Out of bounds.
He cleared his throat, pasted a polite smile on his face, and gestured to the open doorway. “Our guests await. After you, Princess.”
He caught Geoffrey’s amused look, one that simultaneously appreciated and mocked the extravagance of his gift. It was a look that clearly said: Oh, you’ve done it now, little brother. And I will tease you mercilessly as soon as we’re alone …
Seb sent him an answering scowl, just daring him to comment. Anya and Dorothea filed out of the room. He quashed the impulse to catch Anya’s wrist and prevent her from entering the ballroom, to carry her up to the nearest bedroom instead. Nobody could hurt her if she were locked away with him. He could keep her safe forever in his arms.
He shook his head. What utter bollocks.
Mellors’s dulcet tones echoed through the hall as the doors to the ballroom were thrown open, and Seb glimpsed a sea of expectant faces all turned toward them.
“The Dowager Duchess of Winwick and Her Highness the Princess Anastasia Denisova.”
Seb blinked. Anastasia. He’d never even given her full name a thought. She was simply Anya. The girl who made him imagine ridiculous, impossible futures. The girl who drove him mad.
He had to get a hold of himself. The
private world they’d created at the Tricorn had been a temporary illusion. This was the reality. She was public property; he had to share her with the world.
He frowned, struck by a sudden revelation. Good God, was this what it felt like to be married? Was sharing your partner only made bearable by the knowledge that you were the one who got to take her home? The only one to receive her private smiles. The only one who got to see her naked. Did husbands savor those private moments, like a dragon hoarding treasure, just so they could endure evenings like these?
He’d never know. He was here for her protection, to do his duty.
That was all.
Chapter 31.
“Princess, may I introduce the Earl and Countess of Ware, Benedict and Georgiana Wylde.”
Anya tried to ignore the unnerving effect of Wolff’s hovering presence at her side and extended her hand to the couple who’d come over to greet them. “Delighted.”
The pretty brown-haired woman sent her a friendly smile which put Anya instantly at ease. “Please. It’s Georgie and Benedict. We really don’t stand on ceremony.”
Anya returned the smile. “Neither do I, usually. Please call me Anya.”
She’d seen Benedict Wylde often over the past week as he’d patrolled the house and gardens. He was tall and handsome, with brown eyes and hair a few shades lighter than Wolff’s. She’d thought him quite lofty and fearsome, but the softening of his features whenever he happened to glance at his wife made her revisit that opinion.
“Georgie runs Caversteed Shipping,” Wylde said. “It’s quite the international enterprise.” His expression of unashamed pride made Anya envious. “Her ships trade with Russia all the time. I’m sure she’s dying to discuss such boring details as international tariffs and shipping routes with you.” There was a teasing chuckle in his voice.
His wife elbowed him playfully in the ribs. “Benedict! You make me sound like the dullest woman in the room!”
He raised his brows with a chuckle. “Never. I love it when you talk commerce. It makes me feel more intelligent just by association. And it might not be a bad idea to look into expanding your trade in Russian spirits. I tried some of the vodka Seb trialed at the Tricorn last week, and while I can’t see it ever being more popular than our native gin, there might be a market here if you import it.”
“As a matter of fact,” Anya said, “my family have all sorts of commercial interests back in Russia. I actually own a vodka distillery.”
She felt, rather than saw, Wolff stiffen at her side, and suppressed a snort of laughter. She wondered if he was remembering her comments the night they drank together. She’d admitted to knowing a little about the stuff. He probably wanted to strangle her right now.
The thought brought a disproportionate amount of delight. For some reason, annoying Wolff was the most enjoyable thing ever.
She turned her head and slid him a teasing smile and enjoyed the way his eyes narrowed with the promise of retribution. Her stomach flipped. If he wanted to punish her, he’d have to get her alone. And she wanted that more than anything.
Georgie Wylde’s grey eyes widened in interest. “You do? That is fascinating. I do hope you’ll come and visit my warehouse sometime. I’d love to get your opinion on the quality of the Russian goods I’ve been importing. If you wouldn’t be too bored, that is,” she added quickly.
“It sounds very interesting. I’d love to come, thank you.” A warm glow settled in her chest at the olive branch of friendship the other woman was offering.
Another couple joined them; her second guard, Alex Harland, and a woman Anya assumed to be his wife. She was petite, with almost elfin features, and a smiling mischievous look about her. Anya liked her immediately. She looked like the kind of girl who would be a lot of fun.
Wolff shifted at her elbow. “And this is Earl Melton and his countess. Alexander and Emmeline Harland.”
“Alex and Emmy,” the girl said immediately. “Really, Seb, there’s no need to be so formal.” She turned back to Anya. “My grandmother, Camille, Comtesse de Rougemont, is good friends with the Dread Dowager Duchess.” She indicated a stylish older woman chatting with Dorothea across the room. “And my brother, Luc, is somewhere around here too, with his new wife, Sally. They just got married last month.”
Her gaze flicked to Anya’s tiara. Her eyes widened in appreciation and a smile spread over her face. “Those,” she said reverently, “are exceptionally fine diamonds.”
Her husband gave a little snort of amusement. “You would know, my love.”
She shot him a chiding glance and smiled back at Anya. “I’m a great lover of diamonds.”
“And emeralds and rubies and, well, most jewels in general, really,” her husband finished drily.
Benedict and Georgie both chuckled. Alex pulled his wife closer to his side and tucked a tendril of her hair behind her ear in an affectionate, unconscious gesture. “Do try to recall your promise, darling. What do we do with jewels?”
Emmy rolled her eyes. “We look but we don’t touch,’” she parroted, in the flat tone of one who’d repeated the phrase ad infinitum.
Alex smiled down at her. “Exactly.”
She let out a dissatisfied sigh. “Is it from Bridge & Rundell? It looks like their work.” She sent a sideways glare at her husband. “I haven’t been there in ages. I’m not allowed within thirty paces of the place.”
Anya frowned in confusion. “Because your husband’s worried you’ll bankrupt him with your purchases?”
They all laughed at that, and Anya had the feeling she was missing an inside joke.
“That’s not the reason,” Harland said.
Anya lifted her brows in question at Wolff.
“Emmy here used to have an unusual vocation,” he said softly. “She was, ah, an importer and exporter of precious stones.”
Anya turned to the girl in interest.
“What he’s too polite to say,” Alex added in low tones, “is that until recently, my wife was a criminal mastermind who ‘liberated’ certain jewels from their unlawful owners.”
Anya stared at Emmy in doubled fascination, and the other girl sent her a cheeky grin.
“Alas, my career was foiled by those dutiful gentlemen at Bow Street.” She laughed, her gaze sliding from her husband to Wylde to Wolff. “They put an end to all my adventures.”
Alex sent her a wicked, knowing look. “Oh, not all your adventures, surely?” he purred.
A pretty blush rose to her cheeks.
Anya smiled at the teasing and obvious affection between the two couples. It was refreshing to encounter some society marriages where the partners hadn’t married for either convenience or duty. Her own parents had looked at each other that way, and her chest ached in longing for something similar for herself.
She glanced around the room, looking to see if Vasili and the rest of the Russian delegation had arrived, but while she recognized Prince Trubetskoi and two of the men who’d been with him at the Tricorn, there was no sign of Petrov.
She sensed Wolff shift at her elbow. “Dorothea’s beckoning me. Excuse me.”
Anya watched as he crossed the room, admiring his broad shoulders and long legs. Halfway across, he was accosted by a stunningly beautiful brunette. He bestowed a wide, genuine smile on the woman and bent to kiss her hand, and Anya quashed the spike of jealousy that stabbed through her as the woman gazed up at him adoringly.
“She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?” Georgie said without malice.
Anya jumped, caught in her surveillance, and tried to brazen it out. “Who?”
The other woman sent her a dry, knowing look. “The woman talking with Seb. Her name’s Caroline Apsley. I believe the two of them were, ah, romantically linked before the war.”
Anya’s chest squeezed tight. “You mean she was his mistress? They’re still on friendly terms, clearly.”
Georgie nodded. “She’s a widow now. She has high hopes to reel him in.”
Anya tried to school h
er expression into one of polite interest. It was none of her affair. She had no claim on Wolff. But still, it felt like betrayal.
“He’s not interested, though,” Benedict murmured, having shamelessly eavesdropped on the conversation.
“Why do you say that?” Anya tried to keep the eagerness out of her voice. She was pathetic.
“Because I know Seb. I spent three years with him, day and night, all around the Peninsular. I’ve seen him smile at countless women like he’s smiling at Caroline right now. He’s charming and gallant, and it doesn’t mean a thing.”
Anya lifted a shoulder. “If you say so.”
“Ben’s right,” Alex added. “Seb smiles at every woman that way. Every woman but one.”
Anya turned to look at him, caught by his sly tone. “You’re right. He scowls at me.”
“And buys you outrageously gorgeous jewelry,” Emmy added on a laugh, her eyes back on the tiara.
“You know how particular he is about his clothes,” Anya said lightly. “He wanted me to be well turned out.”
“Well, if that’s what you get for Sebastien Wolff’s scowls, he can scowl at me any time he likes!” Emmy chuckled.
Alex swatted her playfully on the bottom. “Might I remind you that you’re a happily married woman, Emmeline Harland?”
Emmy twinkled up at him. “I don’t need reminding.”
Alex bent his head and Anya just caught his intimate whisper. “Leaving me, princess?”
“Never.”
Anya turned away. Alex’s teasing endearment for his wife was clearly another private joke. Anya really was a princess, but Wolff had never spoken it to her in that way, as an endearment. The Harlands’ easy laughter was a world away from what she and Wolff had attained.
Chapter 32.
“Sebastien, you must dance with the princess.”
Seb slid a sideways glare at Dorothea. She was in fine fettle tonight, enjoying her position at the epicenter of the social whirl. He hadn’t seen her so animated for years.
“Sorry,” he said blandly. “I can’t hear you.”