The Princess and the Rogue

by Kate Bateman

He let go of Benedict, stripped off his jacket, and folded it over the banister. Then he turned back, caught Benedict’s wrist in one hand, ducked, and shouldered him in the stomach so he folded forward over his shoulder. He braced his thighs and picked him up with a low grunt of exertion.

  “Damn it, Wylde,” he wheezed. “You never weighed this much when I dragged your scrawny arse out of that ditch near Badajoz.”

  A flash of recollection hit him, and for a moment, Seb wasn’t on the dowager’s landing in Mayfair, but chocking on the hot, swirling dust of a Spanish plain. He’d carried his friend in exactly this way when Ben had been wounded during the storming of the citadel. Seb had pulled him out from under a shattered cart and carried him back to the safety of the British lines, with French musket fire shredding the air all around them.

  Thank God they’d both survived.

  “Don’t break anything!” Dorothea’s panicked voice echoed up the stairs, interrupting his reverie. “Mind the china!”

  Seb staggered a few paces to the side, narrowly avoiding a side table perilously cluttered with Meissen figurines, and deposited Benedict back on his feet with a grateful gasp.

  He hoped he hadn’t strained anything. He intended to be in full working order for his wedding night. The thought brought an invigorating rush of blood to his head. And lower down.

  He straightened and used the wall mirror to smooth his hair back into some semblance of order, then shrugged back into his jacket. “Right, what next?”

  “Up here,” Alex called, and Seb mounted the stairs to the second floor. Emmy, Alex’s wife, was waiting for him with a mischievous smile on her elfin face.

  “Stand and deliver,” she said, with mock fierceness. “You must pay a ransom for your bride. A contribution to my favorite charity.”

  “The one she set up with her brother,” Alex added helpfully. “The Danvers Benevolent Fund. It helps wounded veterans find meaningful employment instead of being reduced to begging in the streets.”

  “A worthy cause,” Seb murmured. “So what do you want, my lady?”

  Emmy’s twinkling gaze dropped to the stick pin adorning his cravat. “Well, I do love diamonds.” She smiled. “And that is a particularly fine solitaire, Lord Mowbray. I will accept it as payment for your passage.”

  With an inward groan, Seb lifted his hand to surrender the pin, but Emmy stopped him.

  “Oh, you can give it to me after the ceremony. I wouldn’t dream of ruining your cravat.”

  “Decent of you,” Seb growled sarcastically.

  “All right. Last challenge,” Alex said. “Everything ready, Mellors?”

  “Indeed it is, sir,” Mellors replied calmly.

  The butler ascended the staircase, as stately as ever, and offered forward a porcelain bowl. Seb peered inside. It held what appeared to be a fist-sized lump of ice. A dark shape, like a tiny fish, was suspended in the center.

  “What’s that?”

  “The key to my sister’s rooms.” Dmitri chuckled, indicating the closed door behind them. “You have to open the door and claim your bride.”

  Seb scowled, wondering if it was supposed to be symbolic, a chipping away of the ice to reach the vital heart. He knew what it was like to shield himself by cloaking his heart in a protective layer. His mother had died of smallpox when he was a child, and he’d lost numerous friends and colleagues during the war. He’d found it easier to keep an emotional distance to lessen the potential hurt. He’d given a little less of himself away each time.

  Until Anya.

  “Maybe you can lick it?” Alex’s cheerful suggestion cut through his introspection. “You’ve got to melt it somehow.”

  “Or bash it with a hammer,” Benedict added.

  “That’s Anya’s preferred method,” Elizaveta said slyly.

  Seb picked up the slippery, icy lump. Pain shot along his fingers and throbbed in his palm as his skin reacted to the cold. He held his hands out in front of him so the water didn’t ruin his boots as it began to drip.

  “Hurry up!” Alex chuckled. “You’re making a puddle on the carpet!”

  “Why not take off your shirt and put it under your armpit?” Ben suggested.

  Seb scowled at him. “Do you know how long it took me to perfect this cravat? Six tries. I’m not undoing it for anyone. Unless it’s my wife,” he added with a grin.

  Mellors offered forward the bowl and held it while Seb cupped the ice and moved it around in his hands like a bar of soap. Then he breathed on it, using the warmth of his exhale to melt the ice chunk even faster. His fingers throbbed, but he persevered, and when it got small enough, he put the whole thing in his mouth. Cheeks bulging, he sucked it like a throat lozenge until he tasted a metallic tang.

  He withdrew the key with a shout of triumph and elbowed Alex out of the way of the door.

  “Anya?” he called through the wooden panel. “I’m coming in.”

  The key turned in the lock with a satisfying click and he pushed it inward. He stepped inside, caught a brief glimpse of Anya standing across the room, and turned to face the crowd in the hallway. They were all assembled: Dorothea and Geoffrey, Benedict and Georgie, Alex and Emmy, Dmitri, Elizaveta, and Mellors. His family, by blood or by friendship. He loved them all dearly.

  Seb sent them a wide smile—and slammed the door.

  Chapter 42.

  Seb turned to face Anya and his breath caught in his throat. She was a vision in pale blue and white. Her hair was pinned in elaborate curls and her eyes sparkled almost as much as the diamonds in her tiara.

  “You passed all the tests!” She laughed. “I knew you could do it!”

  “You look stunning,” he croaked.

  She crossed the room and fell into his arms. “You don’t look too bad yourself.” She lifted her face for a kiss, and he took her lips greedily.

  “God, I’ve missed you so much,” he breathed. “I can’t wait to marry you.” He pulled back and reached into his jacket. “Here, I got you a gift.”

  “Another one?” She sent him an amused, quizzical smile. “You’ve given me hundreds of gifts already. Gloves, scent bottles, fans. You know I don’t need things like this, Sebastien. I only want you.”

  “I know. But I like giving them to you, so you’re just going to have to get used to it.”

  She sent him a chiding smile and opened the box, then muttered something in Russian. Seb didn’t know exactly what she said, but it sounded gratifyingly breathless. He was going to have to learn her language at the earliest opportunity.

  “I thought we could start a new tradition,” he said. “Denisov brides might wear that tiara when they wed, but you’ll be a Wolff by the end of the day. These are for you, to pass down to future generations.”

  He fastened the necklace around her throat and pressed a kiss to her exposed shoulder. He enjoyed the way she sucked in a little breath at the contact.

  “Thank you.”

  “I think you’d better start teaching me Russian. What’s the word for wife?”

  “It’s pronounced zhena. Or you could call me lyu-bee-ma-ya. It means ‘beloved one.’”

  He enjoyed the movement of her lips as she shaped the words.

  “Or maybe daragaya,” she said. “That means ‘darling.’”

  “Da-ra-ga-ya,” he echoed obediently.

  “Very good. Or you could simply say, ‘moya.’”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “Mine.”

  “I like that.” He dropped a soft kiss on her lips. “Very much.” He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Are you ready to go downstairs? It’s almost eleven.”

  She nodded and squeezed his hand. “Yes.”

  * * *

  Anya felt as light as a snowflake as she descended the stairs on Seb’s arm.

  The feeling of buoyant happiness had surrounded her ever since he’d accepted her proposal. It was so unusual, so different from the state of anxiety she’d had for months, that she’d hardly dared to believe it at first. B
ut the longer it remained, the more she believed it could become a permanent state.

  Sebastien loved her. He’d shown her with his body when they’d made love, and with words and actions in the weeks since. Even though they hadn’t managed to do more than steal a few heated kisses, he’d been a most attentive fiancé. He’d danced every permissible dance, flirted outrageously with her at every function they’d attended, and made love to her with honeyed words so effectively that she’d been on the verge of throwing herself into his arms and doing something decidedly scandalous on any number of occasions.

  Now, at last, the torture was over, and she was thoroughly impatient to give herself to him. And to claim him in return.

  They entered the drawing room and she smiled in delight to see so many of her loved ones there. The dowager had stoutly declared that all of Anya’s friends, irrespective of their profession, were welcome in her house. Which was why Charlotte, looking utterly ravishing in seafoam silk, was seated next to Dmitri, and a shameless Jenny was flirting outrageously with Prince Trubetskoi.

  “I can’t believe you managed to persuade Father Barukov to perform the service,” Anya whispered to Seb.

  He chuckled. “I’ve paid for his passage home to Moscow. It’s the least he could do. And besides, I thought it only sensible to have our wedding sanctioned by both the Church of England and the Russian Orthodox church. I want to know you’re my wife on every single continent.”

  Anya accepted a bouquet of white roses from a beaming Jenny. The priest began the service, and her heart swelled with happiness as she and Seb exchanged rings and made their vows. She almost burst with pride when Tess stepped forward and in a wavering but clear voice read aloud a passage from the Song of Songs.

  She slid a glance over at Elizaveta, who sent her a supportive smile even as she swiped at her tears of happiness with Oliver’s oversized handkerchief.

  The dowager duchess, seated on Elizaveta’s other side, sent Anya a conspiratorial smile. Her satisfied, cat-who-got-the-cream expression suggested she considered herself fully responsible for orchestrating this particular happy ending.

  Dmitri, Anya noted with a secret smile, was barely paying any attention to the service; he seemed completely enraptured by Charlotte. He’d barely taken his eyes from her, and the two of them were deep in hushed conversation.

  Anya mentally crossed her fingers for them. That would be a sweet match. Both of them deserved to find happiness after everything they’d experienced. Dmitri would care nothing for Charlotte’s less than spotless past, being no angel himself. And Charlotte, for her part, would be the very best wife, loving, caring, and worldly wise. She would be just the person to help Dmitri heal.

  The priest cleared his throat and Anya returned her attention to the final part of the ceremony. Father Barukov placed a twisted crown of laurel leaves on her head, then gestured for Sebastien to bend down so he could do the same to him.

  Then Sebastien took her hand and extended it in front of them. His fingers clasped hers tightly as the priest wrapped the material of his stole around their joined hands, symbolically binding them together. With one last benediction, they were officially proclaimed husband and wife.

  A rowdy cheer broke out from the assembled guests, and Anya laughed up at Seb, glowing with happiness to see him looking so proud. His eyes caught hers and her stomach fluttered at the promise she read in them. She hoped he would bend down and kiss her, but everyone stood and crowded around to offer their congratulations. Mellors directed several footmen to distribute bubbling glasses of champagne.

  Dmitri came forward, holding a fresh loaf of bread in his hands, and Seb glanced at him in confusion.

  “Russian tradition.” Dmitri grinned. “Before we begin the toasts.”

  Anya let out a chuckle of delight.

  “This bread,” Dmitri declared loudly, “provided by the excellent Chef Lagrasse, will settle the delicate matter of who will give the orders at home.”

  A chorus of amused cheers and dry comments erupted from the crowd. Dmitri held the round loaf out at head height between Anya and Seb, forcing them to step apart.

  “Our newlyweds must bite off a section without using their hands. The one who takes the biggest bite will be the one who wears the breeches in the household.”

  Sebastien lifted his brows at Anya in distinct challenge. “I rather like you in breeches,” he murmured.

  Anya sent him a saucy smile. Keeping her hands by her side, she leaned in and bit into the loaf, taking the biggest mouthful she could manage. Seb did the same, and she could barely stop herself from laughing as their eyes met over the domed crust. He twisted his head to tear off a giant piece and she did the same, her cheeks bulging comically as she started to chew.

  She couldn’t possibly consume such a huge chunk. She caught it in her hands, recalling the way she’d swallowed her diamonds, back in Paris. How long ago that seemed. And what an unforeseen end to her journey.

  Dmitri inspected the bread to give his verdict.

  “It’s a close-run thing,” he said solemnly.

  Anya leaned forward. “Nonsense. My bite is clearly bigger.”

  “It is not,” Seb countered.

  Dmitri slanted them a teasing smile. “Oh dear, the first argument.” Everyone laughed. “But I’m afraid he’s right, sister dear. His bite is definitely bigger.” He shot Seb a laughing glance and thumped him on the shoulder. “I wish you luck, my friend.”

  All three of them took a glass of champagne from Mellors’s proffered tray. “And now,” Dmitri declared. “The toasts.”

  Seb caught her eye and they shared a secret smile that brought heat to her cheeks and a flush to her entire body. “Oh, I know how important toasts are to you Russians,” he drawled.

  “This should really be done with vodka,” Dmitri said. “But we can start with champagne, I suppose. The first toast is made to the newlyweds.” He raised his glass and everyone else followed suit.

  “The newlyweds!”

  Seb lifted his glass and Anya obediently took a sip of the tart liquid, enjoying the fizz on her tongue.

  “Now, we all know that alcohol leaves a bitter taste in the mouth,” Dmitri stated. “And a remedy to bitterness is sweetness. So for the next toast, the married couple must sweeten the drink with a kiss, because kisses are sweet, are they not?”

  “Here, here!” Alex cheered.

  Dmitri turned to the rest of the group. “And you must all shout Gorko! which means ‘bitter’ in Russian, to remind them of their duty.”

  Seb handed his glass to Benedict, and Anya handed hers to Elizaveta. He stepped closer, slipped his arms around her waist, and drew her forward. Anya held her breath as he bent and pressed his lips to hers in a kiss that stole her breath. It was a kiss full of promise and love, and it made her heart turn over in her chest. Cheers of “Gorko! Gorko!” echoed all around them, and they pulled apart with great reluctance.

  “Is that sweet enough for you, Mrs. Wolff?” her husband murmured against her lips.

  Anya smiled. “Perfect, Mr. Wolff. Just perfect.”

  Catch up on the Bow Street

  Bachelors series

  by Kate Bateman

  This Earl of Mine

  To Catch an Earl

  Available now from

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks

  ALSO BY

  KATE BATEMAN

  To Catch an Earl

  This Earl of Mine

  Praise for the Bow Street Bachelors series

  “Pure fun … Kate Bateman gives readers just what they’re looking for.”

  —BookPage

  “Genuine romance that shines through … delightful leads and sexy capers.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “An alluring cat-and-mouse tale between two deserving adversaries. For Regency romance fans wishing for thrills in their to-be-read list.”

  —Library Journal on To Catch an Earl

  “Full of intense emotions and dramatic twists. Intelligent,
affable characters make this fast-paced novel shine, especially for fans of clever women and the men who sincerely admire them.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review) on This Earl of Mine

  “Delicious, witty, and ripping good fun! Kate Bateman’s writing sparkles.”

  —USA Today bestselling author Laura Lee Guhrke

  “Dashing, daring, and deliciously romantic!”

  —USA Today bestselling author Caroline Linden

  “A riveting new voice for Regency readers! Kate Bateman is now on my auto-buy list.”

  —Janna MacGregor, author of The Good, the Bad, and the Duke

  About the Author

  Kate Bateman (also writing as K. C. Bateman) is the #1 bestselling author of historical romances, including her RITA®-nominated Renaissance romp, The Devil to Pay, and the novels in the Secrets & Spies series To Steal a Heart, A Raven’s Heart, and A Counterfeit Heart. When not writing novels that feature feisty, intelligent heroines and sexy, snarky heroes you want to both strangle and kiss, Kate works as a fine art appraiser and on-screen antiques expert for several popular TV shows in the UK. She splits her time between Illinois and her native England. Follow her on Twitter @ katebateman to learn more. You can sign up for email updates here.

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Chapter 1.

  Chapter 2.

  Chapter 3.

  Chapter 4.

  Chapter 5.

  Chapter 6.

  Chapter 7.

  Chapter 8.