Pleasuring the Prince (11 page)

“I am not welcome in your social circles.” Fancy shifted her gaze to the French lace curtains ruffled by the evening breeze. She could not force her way where she was not wanted. Getting the cut direct would humiliate her.

When the prince remained silent, curiosity got the better of her. She slid her gaze to him.

“I welcome you into my social circle.” Stepan moved his arm in an expansive gesture. “My brothers and their wives welcome you. The Duke and Duchess of Inverary welcome you. The duchess’s nieces and their husbands welcome you. My cousin—”

“I get the point.” Fancy had no defense against his logic and, for once in her life, accepted defeat with grace. “Purchase a blush pink gown, if possible, no ruffles or other adornments.”

“You give orders like a princess.” Stepan stood and gestured toward the parlor, asking, “Shall we?”

Fancy sat on the sofa and wondered how they would pass the hours between now and bedtime. That disturbing thought both frightened and interested her.

“I want to lock the door behind my men.” Stepan headed for the corridor. “Make yourself at home until I return.”

“This
is
my home.”

Stepan glanced at her over his shoulder and gave her an exaggerated wink, which made her smile.

When he returned, Stepan sat beside her and rested his arm on the back of the sofa behind her. Fancy stiffened, physical awareness of the man heightening her extreme nervousness.

The prince reeked of masculinity. His sandalwood scent, his body heat, and his muscled strength made her weak with longing. He was the handsome hero of her maidenly dreams and her worst nightmare rolled into one man.

Stepan dropped his hand to her shoulder. “Relax, songbird.”

“I am relaxed.”

“If you were any stiffer,” he said, laughter lurking in his voice, “you would already have been dead for several hours.”

Fancy looked into his dark eyes, anticipation flaring to life and flooding her body. Resisting his magnetic pull, she dropped her gaze to his lips. His hand on her shoulder began a slow caress, a delicious shiver tickling her spine.

She wanted to kiss his invitingly shaped lips.

She wanted to glide her fingertips across the warm flesh covering his hard muscles.

She wanted to forget her unhappy mother, who prevented her from losing herself in the prince.

“Do not think,” Stepan murmured. His handsome face inched closer, her nerves rioting in response.

Instinct surfaced, vanquishing her shyness and her resolve. She lifted her face, her lips meeting his, and pressed her body against him.

His arms surrounded her and pulled her tighter. Her arms glided up his chest to entwine around his neck.

Their kiss deepened. He flicked the tip of his tongue across the crease of her lips, coaxing them open, and slipped inside to taste her sweetness.

His lips were warm and firm, his tongue coaxing her surrender. His heat and his strength enveloped her, his gentle touch persuading her trust.

The world faded away. Her body and her mind and her soul centered on him, and he became her whole universe.

Fancy returned his kiss with equal ardor. They fell back on the sofa, his hard muscles covering her soft curves.

Sliding her hands inside his shirt, Fancy reveled in his unyielding planes, gloried in his strength. She became lost in the fog of exciting sensation, never feeling the cool air on her naked breasts.

Stepan worshipped her with his lips, sliding down her delicately boned throat to capture a pink nipple. He sucked and licked and kissed the nub and then lavished his attention on her other breast.

Fancy purred low in her throat. The sexy sounds of her own pleasure were a dash of cold water to her senses.

“No.”
She pushed against him.

His dark eyes glazed with desire, Stepan lifted his head and stared into her eyes. He groaned in unsatisfied protest but lifted himself off her.

Fancy yanked her gown up, covering her nakedness. He had broken his promise not to seduce her. Her violet gaze judged him guilty.

Stepan ran a hand through his black hair. “You promised not to seduce me,” he said. “Perhaps I should lock
my
door tonight.”

“What?” Fancy could not believe what she was hearing. How dare the royal swine accuse her of seduction when she’d never even kissed a man.

Stepan gave her a wolfish smile. “I apologize for getting carried away. I never meant…” He shrugged.

Fancy realized he had reacted to her response. Both shared the blame for being swept away.

“I forgive you,” she said, “and consider the fault partially mine.”

“You are too generous, love, because a man should exhibit self-control.” Stepan gave her a long look. “Surely, you can see from our behavior that we belong together.”

Fancy scooted back on the sofa, putting more distance between them. She did not understand what he wanted from her. “I-I don’t want to discuss this tonight.”

“Then I will respect your wishes. Shall we retire?”

“Together?”
She heard her own high-pitched squeak.

Stepan smiled at her panic. “I will sleep in another bedchamber tonight.”

After showing him to his room and bidding him goodnight, Fancy locked herself in her bedchamber. She changed into her nightshift and plopped down on the bed, her troubled thoughts keeping her awake.

She had almost succumbed to the weakness of loving a man and become her mother. She needed to guard her heart more carefully.

With a deep sigh, Fancy realized it was too late to save herself heartache. She’d done the unthinkable—fallen in love with an aristocrat.

All was not lost, though. She could still refuse him her body, saving an unborn baby from the anguish she had suffered.

Fancy lay back on the bed. Knowing the prince slept two doors down made relaxing difficult. She tossed and turned and fell into a light doze.

Until—Fancy awakened in the small hours of the morning. Darkness shrouded the world, and she realized a noise had disturbed her. Was the prince looking for a way into her chamber? Had a thief broken into her house? Even worse, was the intruder the one who had left the threatening flower message on her doorstep?

And then Fancy heard the faint sounds of weeping. With a heavy heart, she padded across the chamber and stepped into the corridor. The weeping grew louder here.

Fancy passed the prince’s chamber on the way to her mother’s. She inched the door open and stood on the threshold.

Gabrielle Flambeau lay across the bed and wept for her lost love, the sound of her mother’s heartbreak tearing Fancy into pieces. Her father may have loved her mother, but he had still abandoned her to misery.

A hand touched her shoulder, and the weeping ceased abruptly. Fancy jumped and whirled around. The prince stood mere inches from her. She slid her gaze from his face to his bare chest, her breath catching in her throat. A matting of black hair covered his magnificent muscles and ended in a
V
that disappeared inside his breeches.

“What are you doing?” Fancy demanded, her voice a harsh whisper.

Stepan cupped her cheek. “I heard you weeping and worried.”

First the prince had smelled her nanny’s cinnamon. Now he heard her mother’s weeping? He needed to know the truth. “This chamber belonged to my mother. You heard her weeping, not me.”

Stepan raised his brows at that, the hint of a smile touching his lips. “I do not commune with spirits, sweetheart. I drink them.”

“Loves me, loves me not…”

Dressed in formal evening attire, a tall gentleman stood on the deserted grounds of St. Bartholomew’s Fair at Smithfield Market. He gazed through the predawn mist at the woman lying at his feet, so peaceful in death. The man sprinkled a handful of rose petals one by one the length of her body from head to feet.

“I’m cold,” complained a hoarse voice.

Like a striking snake, the gentleman backhanded the short, plump woman who stood beside him. “Return to the coach. I need to make one more stop.” He grabbed another handful of rose petals.

“Loves me, loves me not…”

Fingers of gold-orange light in the eastern horizon reached for the world, announcing another dawn. Slashes of pink and mauve streaked across the sky, darkening to indigo in the west.

In spite of the early hour, Fancy sat in silence at the dining room table and sipped coffee. As dawn had neared, she’d risen from her restless bed and cooked the prince breakfast.

Stepan sat at the head of the table and devoured eggs and sausage and biscuits. He wore breeches, boots, and his unbuttoned shirt. Glimpses of his bare chest made Fancy’s mouth water for him, not food.

“Delicious,” Stepan said. “You are the only woman in thirty years who has cooked for me.”

“That distinction honors me,” Fancy said, her tone dry. “Your failure to have breakfast delivered surprises me.”

Stepan smiled at her humor and changed the subject. “I will see Madame Janette this morning. Later, I am engaged for a tea party.”

That brought a smile to her lips. The prince would make an excellent father, taking special joy in children.

“What will you do today?”

Fancy shrugged. “I suppose I’ll nap and then practice my slingshot.”

“You are not planning another revenge on Patrice Tanner?”

“No, I am following my baby sister’s advice.”

“Take
my
advice, love. Do not mention your mother’s haunting to anyone.”

“I would not wish to vacation in Bedlam.”

“Good.” Stepan lifted his cup for a last sip of coffee and then buttoned his shirt. “Life must be wonderfully private for commoners in love.”

Fancy rolled her eyes. “I doubt the wives who cook and clean feel especially blessed.”

“Harry will be waiting.” Stepan shrugged into his waistcoat without buttoning it. After slinging the cravat around his neck, he grabbed his jacket and hooked it over his shoulder.

“Walk me to the foyer,” he said, rising from the chair, “and lock the door behind me.”

When she stood, Stepan pulled her into a sideways hug and dropped a kiss on the crown of her head. Hand in hand, they walked down the hallway to the foyer.

The prince opened the front door. “Someone left you roses.” He bent to scoop them in his hand but then leaped up and shouted, “
Yadrona mysh’ svinya
.”

“What did you say?”

“I said, mouse-fucker pig.” Stepan pointed to the doorstep. “Someone gave you
decapitated
roses.”

Fancy gasped, her complexion paling to a sickening white, and raised her gaze to his. “You don’t think the rose-petal murderer did this, do you?”

“I do not approve of your living alone.” Stepan passed her the decapitated roses. “Either move to Park Lane or come home with me.”

Fancy dug in her heels like a donkey. “I will do neither.”

“I cannot live every minute of every day fearing for your safety,” Stepan argued. “You need protection.”

“I will report this to Alex later this morning,” Fancy promised. “Perhaps Constable Black will investigate.”

Stepan gave her an unhappy look. “I warn you, Fancy. I will not hesitate to put you in my protective custody.”

“I am no criminal.”

“I will not allow you to play a madman’s games. Now lock the damn door.”

He was late.

The sun raced across the sky toward noon by the time Alexander Blake unlocked his front door. He rubbed the dark stubbles on his chin. Shaving and changing his suit would make him even later. Leaving a few essentials at Genevieve’s would be wise.

Alexander opened the parlor window and inhaled the warm, spring air. A breeze flirted with the curtains. Exhausted from a night of lovemaking, he poured a dram of whiskey and dropped onto the sofa.

Did he love Genevieve? She was sweet and oh so sensuous. He had almost proposed marriage last night, but something had held his tongue.

Alexander sipped his whiskey, closed his eyes, and then regretted it. His mind conjured another image.

Ebony hair. Violet eyes. Ripe breasts, playing peek-a-boo beneath that flimsy nightgown.

Raven Flambeau was too young to consider. Good God, she was the baby sister he’d never had. If he truly loved Genevieve, why was he imagining Raven in her nightgown?

He would propose to Genevieve after they apprehended the rose-petal murderer. If she fell pregnant before then, he would marry her immediately.

Banging on the front door drew his attention.

Alexander rose from the sofa and, pushing the curtains aside, peered out the window. The Duke of Essex’s coach stood in front of his house. A visit from his grandfather foreshadowed a miserable day.

With great reluctance, Alexander opened the front door. Longtime adversaries, he and his grandfather stared into each other’s eyes.

“As I live and breathe,” Alexander imitated his late mother’s Irish lilt. “Top o’ the mornin’ to ye, Bartholomew Blake.”

“Do not be impertinent,” the Duke of Essex said.

“What do you want?”

“I want to come inside.”

Squelching the urge to slam the door in the old man’s face, Alexander stepped aside to allow him entrance. Then he slammed the door.

Leaning on his cane, the Duke of Essex limped into the parlor. He inspected his grandson from stubbled cheeks to wrinkled suit, unfastened shirt, and cravat slung around his neck. “You look like a bedraggled tomcat.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

The duke’s sharp gaze scanned the parlor, his expression saying he found it lacking. “I don’t understand him living here after
she
died.”

Alexander could cheerfully have smashed the cane over the old man’s head. Instead, he poured himself a dram of whiskey. “Would you care for a drink, Your Grace?”

“No.” His grandfather raised the cane and struck, sending the glass flying out of Alexander’s hand. “And neither do you.”

Alexander stood motionless, his gaze boring into his grandfather’s. “Would the cane be the same one that scarred my father?”

The Duke of Essex said nothing. “Soho Square is no proper residence for the Marquess of Basildon.”

“I do not acknowledge the title.”

“Your parents were legally wed.”

Alexander could not contain his bitterness. “You disowned my father because he married my mother.”

Regret clouded the old man’s eyes. “As my only living relative, you will inherit all one day in the not too distant future.”

“I refuse to acknowledge you,” Alexander said. “All you possess will go to the Crown. Remember my words on your lonely deathbed.”

The Duke of Essex banged his cane on the coffee table. “You will accept the title, the land, and the wealth even if I must cram it down your throat.”

Their dark gazes clashed, the resemblance heightened by their anger. The grandfather could still outstare the grandson.

Alexander shifted his gaze. “Is there a point to this visit?”

“You have no financial need to work with Constable Black.”

“I enjoy investigating crimes.”

“How bourgeois,” the duke drawled, his voice filled with contempt. “What is your relationship with this opera singer?”

Alexander raised his brows at the old man. “Genevieve is none of your business.”

“The girl is unsuitable,” his grandfather said. “Even one of those Flambeau sisters will do, especially now.”

Alexander drew a blank. “Explain yourself.”

“Inverary acknowledges paternity, has moved them into his home, and will be sponsoring them into society,” the duke said. “Those girls may have been born out of wedlock, but their mother was a countess. Aristocratic blood runs in their veins.”

“How do you know this?”

The Duke of Essex gave him a long look. “I know everything worth knowing.” He turned and limped toward the foyer. “You must take your rightful place, marry, and produce an heir. I won’t live forever.”

Making no promises, Alexander opened the door for his grandfather. Constable Amadeus Black stood there, his hand raised to reach for the knocker.

The constable looked from Alexander to his grandfather. “Good day, Your Grace.”

The Duke of Essex nodded at the constable and looked at his grandson. “When you change your mind—”

“I won’t.”

Alexander watched the duke hobble toward the ducal coach. His grandfather seemed so old and alone. He couldn’t help feeling sorry for the old man.

He could not imagine living with such weighty regret. No man should disown his son for marrying the woman he loved. His grandfather should have swallowed his disapproval for the young Irishwoman who had captured his son’s heart.

The old man had lived to regret his actions. Too late, though. Both his father and his mother were dead.

Amadeus Black followed him into the parlor. “What was that about?”

Alexander dropped onto the couch. “His Grace has decided I must take my rightful place in society.” He gestured to the broken glass and whiskey on the rug. “The old man has tantrums.”

“You should consider it,” Amadeus said, surprising him. “The Marquess of Basildon would have entrance into society and expand our investigation.”

“Do you believe Parkhurst is guilty?”

“Barney lost Parkhurst last night,” Amadeus said, sitting in the high-backed chair, “and we have another victim. The perpetrator made his first mistake by dropping the body near Smithfield Market. Apparently, the gentleman is ignorant of the early hours required of apprentices.”

Alexander perked up. “Do we have a witness?”

“An apprentice noticed a coach near the market,” Amadeus said. “A tall gentleman struck a plump lady, who then hid in the coach. When they left the area, our apprentice investigated and found the victim.”

“Can this apprentice identify the gentleman?”

“No.” Amadeus inspected his disheveled appearance. “Are you ill?”

Alexander flushed. “I passed the night with Genevieve.”

Constable Black smiled, “Ah, lovesick.”

Fancy Flambeau, appeared in the doorway, bringing both men to their feet, and gave them an apologetic smile. “Your door is unlocked.”

“Fancy Flambeau, meet Constable Black.”

“Look.” Fancy held the decapitated roses out. “Someone left these on my doorstep during the night. Could he be the rose-petal murderer?”

“Or someone imitating him.” Amadeus lifted the decapitated roses out of her hands.”

“You didn’t move to your father’s?” Alexander asked.

Fancy lifted her chin. “I refuse to forgive him.”

Alexander ran his hand through his hair. Her vendetta against her father could cost her life. “If your father is acknowledging—”

“I refuse to abandon my mother’s memory and do not acknowledge him.”

“I do not recommend living alone,” Amadeus warned. “Do you have a dog?”

“His Grace is acknowledging Puddles, too.”

Amadeus looked puzzled.

“Puddles is the Flambeaus’ mastiff,” Alexander said.

The constable’s lips quirked into a smile. “Very generous of His Grace.”

“Fancy, listen to reason,” Alexander pleaded. “You cannot—Whoever left those could have broken into your house and hurt you.”

“Prince Stepan passed the night at my house.” Fancy blushed. “Not in my bed.”

Alexander did not know how to make her understand the danger. She was more stubborn than a donkey and, if pressed, more cantankerous than a camel.

“Move with your sisters to Park Lane,” Alexander advised her. “I will worry myself sick if you don’t.”

“You sound like Stepan.” Fancy looked at the constable. “Did Alex tell you my sister could help with your investigation?”

“Fancy.”
Alexander’s tone warned her to silence.

“Your sister can help the investigation?” the constable echoed.

Fancy nodded. “God blessed Raven with special talents.”

Amadeus cocked a brow at her. “Explain.”

“Raven knows things.”

“The twit has visions,” Alexander explained, “but she did know certain unreported facts like the sewing.”

“Raven can touch objects to facilitate her visions,” Fancy added.

Alexander rolled his eyes. “She professes to move objects with her mind, too.”

“Schedule a meeting with Raven, preferably here,” Amadeus instructed. “I would not wish to inhibit her talents by meeting elsewhere.”

That surprised Alexander. “Are you serious?”

“Successful investigators keep open minds while other men solve fewer cases.” Amadeus Black turned to the opera singer. “Either move to your father’s or hire a bodyguard. Living alone is flirting with danger.”

He was late.

Stepan banged on the door. When his brother’s majordomo opened it a moment later, he brushed past the man, saying, “Good afternoon, Bottoms.”

“Your Highness, the princesses worried that you might miss today’s tea party,” Bottoms said. “They await your pleasure in the drawing room.”

Stepan smiled at that. They had begun their tea parties in the dining room, but his nieces had argued about who would sit at the head of the table. Keeping the peace, Bottoms procured a round table and set it in the drawing room each week.

This equality did not impede his oldest niece, though. Princess Roxanne dominated the proceedings in the tradition of her namesake, Roxanne Campbell, Duchess of Inverary.

Wearing an apologetic smile, Stepan rushed into the room and sat in his usual place across the table from Roxanne. The four younger princesses took turns sitting on either side of him. Lily and Elizabeth, the four-year-olds, sat beside him today while Sally and Natasia, the five-year-olds, sat on either side of Roxanne.

“You are late,” Roxanne said.

Stepan looked at each princess in turn. “I apologize for being detained elsewhere.”

Drawing their attention, Bottoms entered the drawing room with the tea cart. The majordomo placed cucumber sandwiches and lemon cookies on the table. He served each princess a glass of lemonade, brought the prince a pot of tea, and left the room.

Stepan ate a cucumber sandwich, sipped his tea, and looked around the table. Paying homage to the undisputed queen of these proceedings, he said, “Princess Roxanne, what is the gossip this week?”

Roxanne set her lemonade on the table, as did the other girls. “Captain Crude insulted Princess Sunshine.”

Stepan feigned horrified surprise. “What did the captain do?”

Roxanne glanced at her sisters and cousins. “I dare not say.”

Stepan chuckled at that. His watching nieces giggled.

“Darling, Princess Sunshine was not smiling,” Roxanne embellished, eliciting more laughter. “The Earl of Goodness defended her, of course. Goodness and Sunshine are an item, if you know what I mean.”

“Uncle,” Lily whispered, “what does she mean?”

Stepan leaned close to his niece. “Goodness and Sunshine love each other.”

“Lady Snoot gave Princess Sunshine the cut,” Natasia told them.

“How shocking,” Stepan exclaimed.

“Uncle,” whispered Elizabeth, “what is the cut?”

“Lady Snoot refused to speak with Sunshine.”

“Lord Vexing danced with Lady Fast
five
times,” Elizabeth said.

“Is Lady Fast ruined?” Stepan asked.

Elizabeth shrugged. “I’ll tell you next week.”

“Appearances mean everything in this town,” Roxanne drawled.

Stepan grinned. “Who told you that?”

“Aunt Roxie.”

“I thought so.” Stepan looked at Viktor’s daughter. “Do you have any news for me?”

Sally nodded. “Lord Badboy and Lady Reckless ’loped to Greta Green.”

“You mean
e
loped to Gret
n
a Green?”

“Who’s Greta Green?” Lily asked, her expression bewildered.

Stepan chuckled. “Badboy and Reckless ran away to marry in a town called Gretna Green.”

Lily’s expression cleared. “I know gossip.”

Stepan leaned close. “What is your gossip, sweetheart?”

“The Earl of Rotten bought a ticket to Tyburn!”

Stepan shouted with laughter. “Who told you that?”

“My daddy told me,” Lily answered. “My daddy knows everything.”

“Do you have gossip for us?” Roxanne asked.

Stepan looked at each of his nieces. All five were staring at him with rapt attention. “I was late today because I needed to purchase a gown for my friend, Fancy Flambeau.”

“Is she a princess?” Lily asked.

“No.”

Elizabeth tugged on his sleeve. “A duchess?”

“No.”

“She must be a countess,” Sally said.

“No.”

Natasia spoke up. “A baroness?”

Stepan shook his head. “No.”

Roxanne lifted her chin, secure in her superior knowledge. “Are you saying she is merely a lady?”

“No.”

“What the blue blazes is she?” Lily demanded.

“Did your daddy teach you about blue blazes?”

“My mummy taught me blue blazes,” Lily answered. “My mummy knows more than my daddy.”

Stepan grinned at her. “Fancy Flambeau is an opera singer.”

“Do you love her?” Lily asked.

Stepan scanned the five faces watching him. “I suppose I do.”

“Did you tell her?” Elizabeth asked.

“No.”

“Why not?” Natasia asked.

Stepan shrugged. Typical females, his nieces adored gossip and love stories.

“Does she love you?” Sally asked.

“I do not know.”

Lily touched his hand. “Ask her.”

“Then you will know,” Elizabeth agreed with her cousin.

“Uncle Stepan will never ask her.” Roxanne shook her head in disapproval. “Aunt Roxie said silly boys need to be handled, and Uncle is a boy.”