Pleasuring the Prince (16 page)

Alexander could not mask his shocked expression. “Would he stoop to murder?”

“Only the wealthy can afford to divorce,” Amadeus answered. “The rest of us are stuck with
until death do us part
.” The constable rubbed his darkly stubbled cheek in a weary gesture. “We must find our rose-petal murderer, or we could be flooded with imitations.”

Alexander nodded in understanding. If one unhappy husband had copied the rose-petal murderer, there must be hundreds of others considering the same action.

“We need to investigate Parkhurst,” Amadeus said. “I want you to accept your grandfather’s offer and take your place in society.”

Alexander opened his mouth to argue. Constable Black placed his hand on the younger man’s shoulder.

“Your pride refuses to acknowledge your own flesh and blood,” Amadeus said, “but your instinct urges a different action. Believe me. Whatever emotional pain you inflict on the old man is nothing compared to what he inflicts on himself. You needed a reason to make amends, and now I give you one.”

Nothing created inner conflict better than divided loyalties. He needed time to gather his thoughts and stifle his guilt at betraying his parents’ memory.

Walking to Park Lane instead of riding, Alexander paused when he saw the Duke of Inverary’s mansion. Raven deserved his apology. He hadn’t meant to be so rude. How could he explain his reason for his bad behavior? Keeping her at bay cooled the heat he’d been feeling for her.

Park Lane smelled like money. Hyde Park and impeccably maintained mansions lined the street. The mingling scents of myriad flowers and manicured grass wafted through the air. Indeed, life was good for the wealthy.

And then Alexander stood in front of his grandfather’s mansion and told himself making amends with the old man was necessary to catch a killer. More important, the old man had hurt his parents and ended by hurting himself more.

The Duke of Essex was a lonely old man. His own father would understand making amends.

Alexander took a deep breath and climbed the stairs. He banged the knocker on the door and waited.

The door swung open, revealing an older man, his grandfather’s majordomo. “Good afternoon, my lord. Do come inside.”

The welcome and easy admittance surprised Alexander, who’d never ventured near this mansion before today. “Do you know who I am?”

“Don’t
you
know?” the majordomo drawled.

“I know who I am.” Alexander gave the man a lopsided grin. “And you are?”

“Twigs.” The majordomo gestured toward the stairs. “Come along. His Grace is taking tea in the parlor.”

Alexander followed Twigs up the stairs and down a corridor to the informal family parlor. Along the way, he noted the decor’s understated elegance. Nothing garish for old money like his grandfather’s.

“Your Grace,” Twigs announced, “the Marquess of Basildon requests—”

“I can see who is there,” the duke interrupted.

Twigs looked decidedly unhappy. “The killjoy could have let me finish,” the majordomo muttered, turning to leave. “I hadn’t announced anyone in months.”

Alexander looked from his grandfather to the departing majordomo. “Twigs?”

The majordomo paused and turned around. “Yes, my lord?”

“Bring me a cup of tea, please.”

Twigs burst into a smile. “Yes, my lord.”

Alexander crossed the parlor. Without waiting for an invitation, he sat in the high-backed chair opposite his grandfather.

“You should not coddle him,” his grandfather grumbled. “The attention will go to his head.”

Alexander suppressed the urge to laugh in his grandfather’s face. Instead, he said, “I’ve changed my mind about the inheritance.”

“Humph, I deduced as much.”

“Would you prefer I didn’t?”

“Did I say that?”

Twigs returned with the tea. He lifted the porcelain cup and saucer off the tray and then set the small pot on the table, too.

“I’ve brought you cucumber sandwiches,” the majordomo said, and set that dish on the table.

“Thank you, Twigs.”

“You are very welcome.” Twigs leveled a disgruntled look on his employer and left the parlor.

Alexander sipped his tea and lifted a cucumber sandwich off the plate. “I warn you,” he said, “I plan to marry Genevieve Stover and will not listen to your rantings about that.”

The Duke of Essex gave a weary sigh. “I don’t give a damn if you marry the flower girl at Covent Garden.”

“You accept my wishes?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

“I traveled that road with your father and lived to regret it,” his grandfather admitted. “Do not marry the girl to spite me, though. You will be married a long time, Alexander. If you make the wrong choice, you will suffer for it.”

“Genevieve Stover is not the wrong choice,” Alexander insisted. Thoughts of an ebony-haired, violet-eyed witch popped into his mind, but he banished her to the shadows.

“Take yourself to Bond Street tomorrow,” his grandfather was saying. “Purchase more appropriate clothing.”

“There’s nothing wrong with—”

His grandfather banged his cane on the floor. “Your attire is appropriate for investigating murders, not society functions.”

Alexander inclined his head. “I stand corrected.”

“Humph, it’s about time you admitted a lack of knowledge,” his grandfather said. “Now, tell me how the investigation is going.”

“Are you interested?”

“Would I ask if I weren’t?”

Alexander smiled at the old man. “You would have made an excellent criminal.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You have acquired a habit of answering a question with a question,” Alexander said. “We could never trick you into a confession.”

The hint of a smile touched his grandfather’s lips and then disappeared. “If I didn’t need this cane, I might embark on a life of crime.”

“Speaking of crimes,” Alexander said, “I came here from Mill Bank near the Vauxhall Bridge. We discovered a body covered with rose petals. The husband tried to rid himself of his wife and blame the rose-petal murderer.”

“Did the man confess?”

Alexander shook his head, “Constable Black will have no trouble when he questions the man.”

“The Earl and Countess of Winchester are hosting a ball this week,” his grandfather said. “I want you to attend with me.”

“Very well.” Alexander stood to leave.

“May I ask why you changed your mind about accepting the inheritance?”

Alexander stared at his grandfather and saw a lonely old man who had lived with regret for many years. The choice between hurting him with the truth or glossing over it was no choice at all.

“Constable Black advised me to make peace with you.”

His grandfather inclined his head. “I am grateful for his interference.”

“I will see you tomorrow after I visit Bond Street.”

His grandfather narrowed his gaze on him. “Drop the pity. I dislike that emotion.”

Alexander gave his grandfather a cold stare. “Why should I pity the no-good son of a bitch who hurt my father?”

The older man gave him a broad smile. “You do remind me of me.”

Alexander returned the smile. “If you insult me like that again,
I
will disown
you
.”

His grandfather threw back his head and shouted with laughter.

Fancy paced her bedchamber at midnight while the household slept.

She had misjudged the prince. True, Stepan was not the most responsible man in England in terms of employment. Outrageous compliments slipped from his lips like sweets given to children.

The prince was no aristocratic rake as her own father had been. He liked women; his compliments were designed to make the recipient feel special, whether duchess or maid. Saving time each week for tea with his nieces was extraordinarily loving, and his gentle patience with his mother tugged at her heart.

Fancy paused at the window and gazed at the night. A full moon shone against the backdrop of a black velvet sky, casting the world into light and shadow. In the distance, the treehouse waited for its children to return.

The scent of cinnamon filled the bedchamber. Fancy knew her nanny was near to guide her, and those famous words popped into her mind.

Listen to your head, child, but follow your heart.

Her head was warning her to keep her distance from the prince lest she become her mother. Her heart was urging her to rush into his arms, trusting his love to keep her safe.

Fancy knew one thing for certain. She did not want to die without knowing love.

Dare she sneak into his bedchamber? Should she wait for the morning and tell him—

Tell him what? She loved him? She hoped he loved her? She wanted what she had previously refused, a place in his bed?

Fancy stared out the window, uncertainty riding her hard. She would follow her heart, but which path should her heart take?

And then she saw him. Wearing only breeches, the prince sauntered in the direction of the treehouse.

Fancy watched him climbing the twisting stairs until he disappeared inside. Desire loved darkness as much as she loved the prince.

Wearing only her nightgown, Fancy padded on bare feet across the chamber and slipped out the door. Shining through the window panes, the full moon lit her way to the stairs.

Fancy reached the first floor without mishap. Again, the moon lit her path to the door. She lifted the bottom edge of her nightgown and dashed across the lawn until the twisting wooden staircase stood in front of her.

Pausing a moment, Fancy took a deep breath and then climbed the stairs. She reached the top, stepped into the treehouse, and hesitated.

The prince stood with his back to her. She savored the sight of his naked back. Broad shoulders. Strong, sinewy muscles. Tapered waist. Lean hips.

“Stepan?”

He whirled around.
Mon Dieu
, his naked chest with its matting of dark hair was even more beautiful than his back.

“What are you doing here at this hour?”

“I-I…” Fancy flicked her tongue and wet her lips. “What are
you
doing here at this hour?”

“I was trying to avoid temptation,” Stepan said, “but you followed me.”

Fancy heard the smile in his voice. Summoning her courage, she crossed the treehouse until mere inches separated their bodies.

“Do you love me?”

Her question surprised him. “Do you want me to love you?”

“Yes.”

Anticipation surged through him. “Why?”

“I love you.”

She loved him. She was his. He had won her love.

Stepan slid the palms of his hands up her bare arms. “I love you more than my own life.”

In silent answer, Fancy slid her palms up his naked chest to entwine around his neck. Their bodies touched from chest to thigh.

“Kiss me,” she breathed.

Stepan dipped his head, his lips claiming hers. Mingling with sensual amber, her soft rose scent and her promise of love seduced his senses.

Their kiss was long and langorous. His tongue caressed the crease of her lips, which parted for him, allowing him entrance to the sweetness of her mouth.

Fancy trembled in response, her tongue swirling with his in a mating dance. She pressed herself against him, her breasts heavy and her nipples tightening with the wanting.

His arms encircled her body, one hand holding the back of her head steady. One hand cupped her buttocks through the gauzy nightgown, pressing her against his arousal.

Stepan had never known a woman could be this sweet. She was an innocent, and he did not want to frighten her.

“Will you make love with me?” Stepan gazed into her hauntingly lovely face and willed her to acquiesce.

Fancy looked at him through disarming violet eyes. “I thought we were making love.”

“There is more,” he whispered. “So much more, princess.”

“I want all your love, my prince.”

His mouth captured hers in a slow, soul-stealing kiss. That melted into another. And another.

Lifting his lips from hers, Stepan stepped back a pace and rested his hands on her shoulders. “You are certain you want this?”

The full moon bathed her face in light, showing him the love in her expression. “I am sure.”

“Belonging to a prince means forever,” he warned her.

“I want you. Stop wasting time.”

That made him smile. When his little songbird made a decision, no one could persuade her otherwise.

Stepan slipped the straps of her nightgown off her shoulders, letting it pool around her feet. His breath caught in his throat at her beauty, his hands drifting from her shoulders to her breasts down her body to her waist and hips. Gently rounded hips, fashioned to carry his babies. His hands retraced their path up her silken body. His thumbs teased her nipples, aroused into buds.

For the first time in her life, Fancy felt a man’s hands on her body, and she liked it. She loved the strength and the gentleness of his hands gliding across her flesh, worshipping her softness. Her breath caught raggedly when he caressed her aroused nipples. And the hidden place between her thighs began throbbing.

“Undress me,” Stepan whispered.

“You want me to—?”

Stepan heard the surprise in her voice. “Draw my breeches down and touch me.”

“Where shall I touch you?” she squeaked, her panic rising.

Stepan ignored her alarm. “Wherever you desire.”

Fancy touched the waist of his breeches, dragging them down until they pooled at his feet. Bypassing his privates, she slid her fingertips across his chest, feeling his muscles. Pressing herself against him, she rubbed her breasts back and forth across his matting of black hair.

“You feel good,” she whispered. “Your hair teases my nipples.”

“Why do you not touch below my waist?”

“I’m afraid.”

The prince did not laugh as she’d expected. He offered her his hand instead. “Come to my bed, and I will cure your fear.”

She hesitated.

“Trust me, princess.”

Fancy placed her hand in his. Stepan closed his fingers around it and drew her toward the daybed.

They lay facing each other, their flesh and lips pressing together. She looped her arms around his neck, and he held the back of her head while caressing the slender column of her back and her rounded buttocks.

Stepan rolled her onto her back and gazed into her face. Lowering his head, he teased the crease of her lips with his tongue and then kissed the corners of her mouth.

“Beautiful songbird,” he murmured.

Stepan sprinkled feathery light kisses on her cheeks, her temples, her eyelids. Sliding lower, he flicked his tongue across her delicately boned throat and heard her purr of pleasure.

“So much more, princess.” Stepan kissed the swell of each breast. His mouth latched onto one nipple while his fingers played with the other, catching it between two fingers and running his thumb across its tip.

Flaming sensation shot from her beaded nipples to the folds between her thighs. She held his head against her breast and arched herself into his mouth.

“Your breasts are sensitive.” And then Stepan slid his hand across her fluttering belly and slid one long finger down and up her moist crease.

Fancy gasped at this new, even more exciting sensation. How could she ever have imagined such exquisite torment?

Stepan slipped a finger inside her, whispering, “Easy, princess.”

Fancy moved her hips, meeting his finger’s rhythm. “I want you.”

Stepan claimed her lips, pouring all his love into that stirring kiss. “Shall I make you mine, princess?”

“Please…” Her whisper pleaded for his possession, telling him she would die without it.

Stepan spread her legs and knelt between them. Lifting her buttocks, he positioned himself and pushed the head of his shaft into her moist heat.

Feeling her tense, Stepan stopped and let her become accustomed to him. Then he pushed forward an inch.

“All your love,” she whispered.

And Stepan thrust deep inside her, breaking her maidenhead. She gasped in surprise and then relaxed, arching her hips in silent invitation.

With long strokes, Stepan fanned her passion into wild flames. She met him thrust for thrust, holding him while he rode her hard.

“Deeper,” she panted.

“Like this?” Stepan ground his groin against hers. His strokes became fierce. “And this?”

Paradise caught her by surprise. Throbbing waves of exquisite sensation washed through her, and she cried out.

Stepan’s strokes became shorter, faster, urgent. Then he shuddered, spilling his seed, his groan of pleasure mingling with hers.

Stepan floated to earth first and rolled to her side. Intending to cuddle, he tried to pull her against him.

Fancy turned her back on him. Then she burst into tears.

“What is this?” Stepan forced her to face him and held her close while she sobbed against his chest, a wrenching sound that tugged on his heartstrings.

“I am sorry, princess.” Stepan stroked her back to soothe her. “I did not intend to hurt you, but a woman feels pain when she gives her virginity.”

The word
virginity
made her sob harder. “Y-You d-didn’t h-hurt m-me.”

Stepan felt confused. Was she crying because he didn’t hurt her? Or was she crying because she had given him her virginity, never to be reclaimed?

“Why are you weeping, sweetheart?”

“I have become my mother,” Fancy wailed.

Stepan squelched the urge to laugh. She would never forgive him if he laughed.

“You are not your mother.” Stepan tightened his hold on her. “I love you, princess.”

“M-my f-father t-told my mother he l-loved her,” she sobbed.

“Your father told my mother he loved her, too.”

Fancy wailed louder at that.

Stepan swallowed his laughter. His little songbird was the strongest-willed woman he had ever met. Yet, engaging in sexual relations had reduced her to weeping insecurity. Which benefited his plans for her.

“You are not your mother or mine,” Stepan assured her. “I want to marry you.”

“What?” That stopped her tears.

Stepan planted a kiss on the crown of her head, rose from the daybed, and then knelt on one bended knee. “Miss Flambeau, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Fancy said nothing, merely stared at him. For one awful moment, Stepan thought she would refuse.

“I promise to love and to honor you each day of my life,” he coaxed her, “
and
I will let you shoot the apple off my head.”

Her smile could have lit the whole island. “Yes, Your Highness, I will marry you.”

Stepan lifted her hands to his lips. “Which swayed you, the apple or my love?”

“Both.”

Stepan growled and pushed her back on the bed. Hovering above her, he smiled and dipped his head to claim her lips in a lingering kiss.

He would impregnate her before returning to London. His songbird could not change her mind when faced with the prospect of a child.

“Some day in the future,” Stepan said, “you will tell our grandchildren how I knelt naked before you and proposed marriage.”

Fancy laughed. “I don’t think that would be proper.”

“Forget proper.” Stepan yanked her into his arms and kissed her again. “I want a dozen daughters and one son.”

“Thirteen is an unlucky number.”

“A baker’s dozen daughters,” he amended.

She traced her silken fingertips down his stubbled cheek. “You have all of London fooled, Your Highness, but you are no rake.”

“I do enjoy cultivating that false reputation.” He turned his head and kissed her hand. “Rakes are more interesting than family men in the making.”

Stepan sat up and dragged his breeches up his legs. Then he reached for her nightgown and drew it over her head.

“Come, princess.” Stepan stood and offered her his hand. “I want to sleep beside you in bed and promise to return to my chamber before anyone awakens.”

Fancy placed her hand in his and let him pull her off the daybed. She hesitated and glanced over her shoulder. “Take the blanket, and I will wash the blood spots off.”

“Leave it,” Stepan said, drawing her toward the spiral stairs. “Someone will wash it in the morning.”

Fancy felt her face heating with embarrassment. “I do not want the maids to see my virgin’s blood.”

“I work in the hothouse during the early hours,” Stepan told her. “I will take care of the blanket then.”

Fancy awakened alone the following morning. She yawned and stretched and smiled, her thoughts on her prince. Before dawn, Stepan had kissed her and returned to his own chamber.

Rising from the bed, Fancy looked out the window at another glorious day. Her spirits soaring with the prince’s marriage proposal, Fancy dressed and shoved the slingshot into her pocket. She walked downstairs to the garden room and poured herself a cup of coffee.

“You eat egg?” Boris asked. “Feliks cook special egg for songbird.”

Fancy shook her head. “I’ll wait for lunch. Where is His Highness?”

“He work flower house.”

Fancy finished her coffee, pocketed an apple, and walked outside. She strolled around the manor to the hothouse.

The extreme humidity hit Fancy when she stepped inside, followed by mingling flower scents. The sight of the prince’s bare back halted her in her tracks. She paused to admire the well-honed muscles moving as he worked. And then he spoke.

“That did not hurt,” Stepan told the rosebush, plucking its dried leaves. “Don’t you want to grow as big as your family and join them outside next summer?”

The prince treated the plants as gently as he did his mother, his nieces, and her.

“Stepan?”

He turned around. The warmth in his smile registered, but her gaze fixed on his muscled chest. Memories of the previous night melted inside her and made her ache.

Fancy walked down an aisle lined with potted plants and stepped into his embrace. She looped her arms around his neck and drew his face toward her, capturing his mouth in a hungry kiss.

“I missed you.”

Stepan smiled. “I missed you more.”

“You were talking to that rosebush.”

“Were you spying on me?”

“I was admiring your naked back.”

“Oh, stop…you will make me blush.”

Fancy gave him a flirtatious smile. “If you didn’t blush last night, you will never blush.”

“Have I told you today how much I admire your wit and your beauty?”

“I would prefer hearing you profess your love.”

Stepan nuzzled the side of her neck. “I love you, princess.”

“And I love you, my prince.”

“Then we are even.” Stepan hooked an arm around her waist. “I want you to meet some friends.”

“Would these friends be plants?”

Stepan pointed to a plant with nodding violet blossoms. “The Persian violet reminds me of your beautiful eyes.”

“I will think of your compliments whenever I see a Persian violet,” Fancy said.

“I hope you will think of me more often than that,” he said.

“I promise to think of you every minute of every waking hour of every day.”

Stepan looked disappointed. “Is that all?”

Fancy laughed. “I will dream about you, too.”

Stepan slid his hand up the front of her body to cup her breast. “Then we are even.” He gestured to the potted rosebush and changed the subject. “This rose is a temperamental queen. Did you know that every culture since ancient times has valued the rose?”

She shook her head. “I know nothing of flowers.”

“I will teach you,” he said, “and you will help me in my own hothouse.”

“If I were you, I would never let me near your plants.” Fancy gave him a mischievous smile. “My touch murders plants, but my voice can heal them. What a wonderful way to practice for the opera.”

Stepan stared at her. His beloved could not be serious, could she? Singing in the opera was unsuitable for his wife. Not only would she become a princess but the mother of princes and princesses.

“Is there something wrong?”

Grabbing his discarded shirt, Stepan stalled by pulling it over his head. Did he want to argue about this now? Getting her with child before returning to London would be wiser than arguing. Once she had a babe to nurture, Fancy would forget about the opera.

“The woman I love loves me.” Stepan winked at her. “What could be wrong in God’s universe?”

When they left the hothouse, Fancy saw the treehouse and remembered the blood-spotted blanket. “Do we need to wash the blanket?” She blushed. “My virgin’s blood, you know.”