by Kate Bateman
He raked one hand through his hair as despair and blind panic churned in his gut. He wanted to marry her, more than anything in the world, but if he proposed now, she’d think it was only because he was trying to be noble, trying to protect her reputation if she should fall pregnant.
He didn’t want her to accept him because she feared the consequences of being an unwed mother. His own mother had married his father for precisely that reason—to legitimize him and avoid a scandal—and while he was very grateful for his position as a duke’s son, theirs had not been a successful union. Ben and Alex had been right—marrying for anything other than love was a surefire recipe for disaster.
He wanted Anya to marry him because she loved him too. Was that too far beyond the realms of possibility? He paced over to the fireplace then back to the desk.
Sod it. He couldn’t let her leave without at least trying to win her. He wasn’t a coward. If she refused him, so be it, but he couldn’t let her return to Russia without asking, couldn’t go the rest of his life wondering what if.
Yes, he was a selfish idiot to even ask. She was far above his touch, not just socially but morally too. She was a thoroughly decent human being. She taught harlots to read, for God’s sake, whereas he ran a gaming hell catering to despots and gamesters.
But he’d never met anyone with whom he was more compatible. She wasn’t a woman who needed constant coddling. She was utterly competent in her own right, a quality he found desperately appealing. And she kept her head in a crisis—an excellent skill both in battle and for dealing with the ton. She would be an unshakeable ally and a stalwart friend.
The door to the bedroom opened, and his heart pounded against his ribs exactly as it had when the order to advance had come at Waterloo. He could almost hear the tinny thud of the drums.
She’d commandeered one of his shirts—he could see the white linen peeking out from the edges of his robe—and brushed her hair. Her cheeks were flushed a delicate shade of pink, except for the purple bruise on her cheekbone where Petrov had walloped her.
Seb crossed the room until he stood in front of her.
He dropped to one knee.
He took both her hands in his, and cleared his throat.
“Anya. Anastasia. Miss Denisova.”
God, he wished he’d taken a tumblerful of brandy from the decanter from the sideboard. He forced his tongue to work.
“I love you. With everything I have and everything I am. I don’t deserve even the smallest piece of you, but—” He took a steadying breath. “Will you do me the very great honor of—”
Her fingers tightened on his. “No,” she said firmly.
He stiffened and lifted his head to look at her face. Her expression was almost pitying.
“I am a Russian princess,” she said. “You’re an English earl. This is not—”
He flinched as if absorbing a blow and felt his shoulders slump in defeat.
“I’m sorry,” she said briskly. “It’s protocol. I outrank you. There are rules.”
He almost laughed. Rules. He was sick of bloody rules. But she was still speaking, and he forced himself to listen, even if he only had one working ear. Oddly, she sounded far more composed than him. Perhaps she was so used to receiving and dismissing propositions that this was nothing new.
“You can’t propose to me,” she was saying. “A person of lower rank is not permitted to propose to a royal princess.”
“Yes. I understand. I should never have—”
She tugged at his hands to make him look up again. She was smiling, but there was a suspicious sheen in her eyes, as if she were on the verge of tears.
“No, you don’t understand.” There was a breathless laugh in her voice. “It is I who must do the asking.”
His heart definitely stopped. “What?”
Her voice quavered in a most un-royal way as she lowered herself until she was kneeling too. “Lord Mowbray. Sebastien. I love you. Will you do me the very great honor of—”
Seb pulled her toward him with a sound that was half laugh, half growl. “Yes! God, yes. I will.”
She threw her arms around his neck and plastered herself against his chest, almost knocking him to the floor. He tightened his arms around her, then cupped her face and fused their mouths together for a kiss that made his blood pound and his head spin.
After several heated moments, he pulled back and rested his forehead against hers. Her breath fanned against his lips as he let out a deep, relieved exhale mingled with a shaky incredulous laugh.
“Bloody hell, woman, you nearly stopped my heart with your refusal.”
She gave a soft chuckle. “One must observe the formalities.”
“Of course,” he said, mock-stern. “Never let it be said that we failed to observe the formalities.” He cocked a brow, his assurance returning in a rush. “So, does this mean I get to be a prince?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Will you have to give up the title of Princess if you marry me? You’ll still be the Countess of Mowbray, of course, but compared to Princess of Russia, I know it’s not—”
She pressed her fingers over his lips to silence him. “No. I’ll still be a princess. But being your countess will mean a great deal more.” She lowered her head until her lips hovered teasingly over his. “Being called your wife will be the very best title of all.”
He kissed her again to reward this excellent sentiment, and she groaned as his tongue slipped inside to tangle and taste. Then he pulled her upright, caught her behind the knees, and lifted her high against his chest.
“Come here, Princess mine. I’m sweeping you off your feet. Like they do in all the best fairy tales.”
He shouldered his way through to the bedroom and deposited her gently on the bed. As he looked down at her, he was filled with a whole jumble of emotions, foremost of which was a sense of disbelief. It mingled with pride and a relief so sharp, he caught his breath. Not only had he survived the war, but now—by some miracle—this gorgeous, vexing woman was his, to love and to cherish forever.
“I want to wake up next to you,” he said gruffly. “Not just tomorrow. But every morning. For the rest of my life.”
The smile she sent him melted his heart. He could swear he felt it dissolving in his chest like in one of her snow-filled fairy tales. Ridiculous.
“That sounds perfectly acceptable.” She held out her arms in invitation, and he crawled onto the bed next to her.
“Do you want to live here?” he asked. “Or would you prefer to go back to Russia? I don’t care where we go, as long as I’m with you.”
She stroked her fingers through his hair, playing with the strands, petting him as if he were a tame wolf, and Seb allowed himself an inward smile. He didn’t mind that comparison in the slightest. Especially if he got to gobble her up on a regular basis. Or whisk her away into the deep, dark woods and ravish her.
“I wouldn’t want you to leave your friends or Bow Street,” she said. “And it would be a shame to abandon the Tricorn, since it’s so popular. I’d like to visit Russia, of course, but we can live here in England.”
“In that case, I’ll buy us a proper town house. Maybe somewhere near Alex and Ben, in Mayfair. And a country house too, if you’d like one. You can choose it. Or we can build our own, if you can’t find one you like. Maybe not as big as a Russian palace, but still, I have plenty of money. You can have whatever you like.”
Anya chuckled at his steady stream of plans. She slid her palm over his chest, and he felt his blood heat in response. “I wouldn’t be averse to living here.”
He lifted his brows. “Here? At the Tricorn? In a gaming club? Scandalous Princess.”
“No more scandalous than marrying you,” she teased. “Besides, I like it here. The rooms hold fond memories.”
“Whatever you wish.” Seb gathered her into his arms then let out a groan as a dreadful thought occurred to him. “Oh, God, I bet there are all kinds of ridiculous Russian superstitions surroundin
g weddings, aren’t there?”
Anya’s laugh was a puff of warmth against his chest. “One or two. But don’t worry, I’ll teach you the most important ones.”
Chapter 41.
Sebastien Wolff, Earl of Mowbray, stood at the bottom of the steps leading up to his great-aunt’s front door and tried to quell an overwhelming sense of excitement and trepidation. He couldn’t remember ever being this nervous, not even on the eve of battle.
It was—finally—his wedding day. He’d waited, if not with perfect grace, then at least with reluctant impatience, for the three weeks necessary for the banns to be called.
He’d barely seen his intended over the past few weeks, stolen moments and sly kisses snatched at the various social events he’d had to endure just to catch a glimpse of her. Propriety had been observed, much to his disgust and increasing frustration.
The morning after he’d proposed—no, after she’d proposed—he’d kissed her a sleepy goodbye and sent her back to her own chambers. Then he’d asked her brother for her hand.
He would have married her with or without her brother’s permission, of course, but Dmitri had laughingly professed his delight that someone was finally taking his wayward sister in hand, and had offered his most sincere congratulations.
The ceremony would be performed in the dowager duchess’s drawing room at precisely eleven o’clock. Seb couldn’t wait. But first, he had to comply with Russian tradition and complete a series of ridiculous challenges set by his friends and relations.
“Would you please explain to me what’s going on?”
Dmitri, his soon-to-be brother-in-law, patted him on the shoulder. “You, the groom, have to prove yourself worthy of Anya’s hand. You must perform certain tasks or answer certain questions. Each correct answer will take you a step closer to your bride.”
Seb sighed. Loudly. “I’ve already rescued her from kidnappers. Twice, if you count that man in my stables. And I saved her from Petrov.”
“That doesn’t count. That was before you got engaged.”
Seb rolled his eyes. “This is positively medieval. You know that?”
Dmitri shrugged. “You must make a concerted effort to rescue her. You can’t simply waltz into her house and take her out.”
“Of course not,” Seb groused. “That would be far too sensible.”
At Dmitri’s insistence, he mounted the steps and knocked on the front door. A stony-faced Mellors opened it.
“Good morning, my lord.” The corner of his mouth curved upward in a most uncharacteristic smirk. “I hope you’re ready.”
He stepped back to reveal Dorothea stationed in the hallway seated on a straight-backed chair in front of the staircase, her skirts spread around her like some mythical Greek gatekeeper. His brother, Geoffrey, stood guard next to her, a broad smile on his face.
“Sebastien!” she beamed. “About time! We’re all ready for you.”
Seb glanced up the stairs. Elizaveta was waiting for him halfway up the first flight, and he spotted a grinning Benedict and Georgie on the first landing. Alex was leaning over the second-floor balcony railings.
“You must ascend the stairwell,” Dmitri said. “And pass all the tests. Anya’s on the very top floor.”
“Of course she bloody is,” Seb muttered.
“I’m the first obstacle,” Dorothea crowed. “As head of the family, I demand that you offer something of value, to show you prize her.”
Seb pulled a flat leather box from inside his jacket. “Well, that’s easy. Look. I bought her a wedding gift.”
He opened the catch and Dorothea sucked in a breath at the sight of the necklace, bracelet, and earrings he’d bought.
“Sapphire and diamond, to match her tiara!” she said in a congratulatory tone. “Clever boy.” She glanced at the gilt name stamped on the interior silk. “Bridge and Rundell, eh? I hear their waiting list is months’ long for new commissions.”
Seb felt a flush rise on his cheeks. The answer revealed that his love for Anya had existed even before he’d admitted it to himself. But what was the point in denying it? He’d probably been in love with her from the moment he’d rescued her in the rain. Maybe even before that.
“I ordered them at the same time I ordered the tiara.”
Dorothea sent him a pleased, knowing smile. “A lovely choice. You may pass.”
Seb kissed her hand, returned the box to his jacket pocket, and ascended the first few steps to Elizaveta. The pretty Russian smiled and bobbed a curtsey.
“My lord.”
“Mrs. Reynolds,” Seb said with a smile. Anya’s friend had recently married the sandy-haired barrister, Oliver Reynolds, the one Seb had threatened on the night of the ball. Both he and Anya had attended the small service in St. Martin-in-the-Fields only a fortnight ago.
Seb had managed to sit next to Anya in the church, despite the strict seating protocol. He’d enjoyed the feel of her shoulder pressing into his as they sat squashed in the uncomfortable wooden pews, and his heart had pounded with anticipation of repeating those same solemn marriage vows to her. The fact that he was so desperate for even the slightest touch from her was something he accepted with dry resignation. He doubted he’d ever get enough of her.
“As Anya’s oldest friend, I have a series of questions to see how well you know your intended.” Elizaveta said. “Firstly, what’s her favorite color?”
Seb frowned, trying to recall the dresses Anya had worn since she’d been staying with his aunt. She’d ordered a whole new wardrobe, as befitting her newly elevated status, but there was no one color she favored. In truth, he’d rarely noticed her dresses, except to note the number of buttons and hooks to estimate how long it would take him to remove them once they were alone.
Then he remembered her favorite cape, the one she’d brought from Paris, and the sapphires and diamonds in his pocket.
“Blue and silver-white,” he said confidently. “Ice colors.”
Elizaveta beamed. “Yes! Next question, where did you meet your fiancée?”
Seb was beginning to enjoy himself. “Well, if you must know, in a brothel.”
Her eyebrows shot up, and Seb distinctly heard Dorothea gasp and Benedict snort. He chuckled. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you all some other time.”
“You will indeed,” Dmitri growled from his shoulder.
“Next question.”
“All right. What’s her favorite book?”
Seb’s mind went blank. He and Anya had discussed many things, but her preference for literature hadn’t been one of them. He cast around and recalled the illustrated volume in his study. “I know she’s very fond of Russian fairy tales,” he hedged. “Especially ones that involve wolves and princesses.”
He couldn’t wait to recreate some of those in the privacy of their bridal bedchamber tonight.
Elizaveta narrowed her eyes, but seemed satisfied. “Close enough. Last question. When did you kiss for the first time?”
“Also the brothel. Haye’s in Covent Garden.” Seb ignored Dorothea’s grumble of disapproval and tilted his head up toward Benedict. “I think it’s only fair to point out that you, Benedict Wylde, once assured me that I’d never find a good woman to marry in a Covent Garden brothel. Take it back.”
“I stand corrected,” Ben shouted down. “I’m delighted to have been proved wrong.”
Seb nodded. “Any more questions?”
Elizaveta shook her head and stepped aside. “You may proceed.”
Seb arrived at the first landing to discover Georgie standing next to her husband.
“Did you know,” she said by way of opening, “that it’s about seventeen hundred miles from London to St. Petersburg?”
Seb blinked. “Is that my question?”
“No, it’s not your question, I just wondered if you knew. Benedict says you’re planning to take Anya there on your wedding trip. So if you sail at an average of five knots, it will take you around two weeks to get there by sea.”
Seb sent Benedict a confused glance, but his friend simply shrugged. He was, apparently, used to receiving this kind of unwanted nautical information from his better half.
“That’s, um, good to know,” Seb said. “I’ll bear it in mind. But if that’s not my question, what is?”
Georgie sent him a no-nonsense look. “My test is a mental one. A riddle. We need to make sure you’re clever enough to keep up with your wife. She’s very intelligent.”
“I know that.”
“Apart from the inexplicable lack of common sense she’s exhibited in choosing you as a life partner,” Alex heckled from the landing above.
Seb sent him a poisonous glance. “Go on, then,” he prompted Georgie. “Let’s hear it.”
“What flies when it’s born, lies when it’s alive, and runs when it’s dead?”
Seb frowned. What flew? Birds? Musket balls? What lied? Men did, all the time. At least in his experience. And what ran when it was dead? Impossible. He scowled at a grinning Benedict.
“I’ll give you a hint,” Georgie whispered. “It’s cold. And there’s plenty of it in Russia.”
Seb’s brow cleared as the answer came to him. “Snow!”
“Yes! Well done.”
Benedict stepped forward. “Right. My turn. My test is one of strength. To make sure you’re strong enough to protect your future wife.” He braced his legs apart and crossed his arms over his chest. “You have to lift me out of the way.”
Seb groaned. Benedict weighed at least the same as himself. He was all muscle. Still, it could have been worse; they could have made him wrestle Mickey.
He stepped forward, bent his knees, and wrapped his arms around Benedict’s waist. The fabric of his jacket stretched alarmingly across his back, and he heard an ominous ripping sound as the seams strained beneath his arms.
Bloody hell. He wasn’t dressed for picking up grown men. He was dressed to marry the woman he loved. But what was a new jacket compared to a lifetime spent with Anya? Nothing at all. He’d burn every item in his wardrobe if necessary.
Still, it was a damn fine coat.
“Wait.”