Pleasuring the Prince (2 page)

Someone in the audience tossed a rose at her feet. Another followed that. And then another.

“Encore,” someone shouted.

And the audience took up the chant. “Encore, encore, encore.”

Fancy looked around in confusion. She saw the fury etched across the prima donna’s face, and then the director walked onstage.

“Sing something else.” When she nodded, he ushered the others offstage.

Fancy had never felt so alone. She stood in silence for a long moment, wondering what to sing, and the audience quieted.

Somewhere in this theater sat the aristocrat whose emotional neglect had killed her mother. Thrusting a symbolic dagger into his heart appealed to her, and she seized the chance to let him know the damage he had done.

“As a child, I always begged my father for a ride in his coach,” Fancy told the silent audience. “Papa said we needed to wait for a sunny day. When I grew older, I realized my father visited on rainy days only.” She heard the audience chuckling. “I never did get that coach ride, but I did write a ballad about a magical land beyond the horizon where raindrops were forbidden from dawn to dusk.”

Without musical accompaniment, Fancy began singing about the land beyond the horizon. Her perfect voice and bittersweet words transported the audience through time and space to their own childhoods. Her lyrics recalled long-forgotten dreams and heart-tugging disappointments.

When the last word slipped from her lips, Fancy walked offstage and ignored the wild applause. Tears rolled down her cheeks, leaving her stage cosmetics streaked.

“How touching.” The sneering voice belonged to Patrice Tanner. “Did you really believe an aristocrat would take his bastard into society?”

Fancy ignored the prima donna. She shut the dressing room door and leaned back against it, needing a few minutes of privacy after baring her soul to those strangers.

What had her father thought of her song? She hoped—

What did she hope? Her father would beg her forgiveness for his neglect? Would remorse return her mother to life? A man she hadn’t seen in fifteen years would feel nothing for her or her sisters.

And that damn prince expected to meet her. Bed her, more likely. How much of a royal pain in the arse would His Highness become?

Fancy caught a lingering whiff of cinnamon. She thought of her beloved nanny and knew her advice.

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

Her mother had followed her heart and paid the price. Seven daughters.

No husband. No love. No prospects.

From outside the dressing room door came the unmistakable sounds of relief. Performers and stagehands talked and laughed as they went about the business of closing shop for the night. On this side of the door, traces of cinnamon mingled with fragrant theater cosmetics and the musty wood smell from the floorboards.

Fancy knew only she could detect the cinnamon scent. Of all seven Flambeau sisters, she was the one physically sensitive to the unseen. She saw, heard, smelled, and sensed what others could not.

Fancy practiced caution, though. She had no wish to be locked in Bedlam.

Her sisters possessed their own special talents. Which she admired more than her own at times.

Fancy pushed away from the door. Moments were ticking by, and she did not want the prince to catch her undressed.

Growing anxiety urged her to hurry. She scrubbed her face, leaving her complexion flushed.

Fancy stripped the boy’s clothing off and donned her simple gown, its violet shade matching her eyes. She grabbed her black shawl at the same moment someone tapped on the door.

Whirling around, Fancy stared at the door. She needed to reject the prince without insulting his pride or risk losing her job. How could she do the impossible?

Men were incredibly proud, stupid creatures. The fatter the purse, the bigger the pride, the emptier the head.

Another knock on the door.

Her heartbeat quickened. Her only experience with men was Alexander Blake. What the blue blazes could she say to a prince?

“Fancy?” the opera director called.

She took a fortifying breath. “You may enter now.”

The door swung open. Director Bishop stepped aside.

Temptation walked into the dressing room in the shape of a Russian aristocrat.

Prince Stepan Kazanov stood a couple of inches over six feet, his imposing presence filling the tiny dressing room. He possessed the dark good looks that women found intriguing. Broad shoulders, lean hips, and solid muscles showed to best advantage in his evening attire.

His good looks caught Fancy by surprise, igniting a flame in the pit of her stomach. Jet-black hair framed an angular, high-cheekboned face. A dark intensity burned in his black eyes, fringed with sinfully long lashes and straight brows. His nose was long and straight and his lips thin but perfectly shaped.

Unexpected humor gleamed at her from his black eyes. His lips quirked into a boyish smile that said he did not take himself too seriously.

Uh-oh.
Fancy knew she was in trouble. She needed to reject this disturbingly attractive aristocrat. She wished the prince were a common laborer because she did not want to send him away.

Having seen her from a distance only, Stepan was no less surprised by Fancy. Violet eyes framed with long black lashes, generous lips, and a heart-shaped face lent her an air of sultry vulnerability.

Uh-oh.
Stepan knew he was in trouble. Her innocent beauty screamed commitment. Every instinct shouted at him to bolt out the door, but a stronger force refused to let him turn away.

Stepan stepped further into the room. Fancy shrank back against the table.

“I do not bite, Miss Flambeau.”

Fancy gave him a wobbly, embarrassed smile.

“Your Highness,” Director Bishop said, “I present Fancy Flambeau.”

The prince caught her hand and bowed over it in courtly manner, surprising her. “
Bonsoir
, Fancy.
Enchanté
.”

She snatched her hand back. “Speak English and call me Miss Flambeau.”

Prince Stepan raised his brows at that. Director Bishop coughed. Fancy shifted her gaze from the prince to the director.

Stepan glanced over his shoulder. “You may leave, Bishop. Miss Flambeau will not insult me into withdrawing my financial support.” He looked at her again. “I find her prim formality refreshingly sweet.”

“Leave the door open on your way out,” Fancy ordered, making the prince smile. “I mean no insult, Your Highness.”

“Call me Stepan.”

Fancy considered refusing the familiarity but then inclined her head. “As you wish, Stepan.”

“Your voice makes my heart ache with emotion.” He inched closer, staring at her upturned face. “Your eyes are exquisite Persian violets, and your beauty steals my breath.”

“Steals your breath?” Fancy was not buying what this aristocrat was selling. “Leave now, catch your breath, and live.”

Stepan gave her his boyish smile. “A sharp-witted woman is a rose with layers of petals to peel away.”

“You have too much leisure time,” Fancy said. “Instead of wasting your days creating outrageous compliments, try getting a job.”

The prince grinned at her insult. He looked like a boy caught in a prank.

Fancy felt her heart twist at the beauty of his smile. Her peace of mind demanded she get rid of him, but her lips refused to speak words of rejection. Had her mother felt like this when faced with her father? Gawd, she hoped not.

“Your biting wit will not insult me,” Stepan told her. “I have developed a thick skin from suffering years of my brothers’ teasing.”

Fancy had never considered princes would tease each other like commoners. She gave him an unconsciously flirtatious smile. “Oh, drat.”

“You should use your lovely smile more often,” the prince said, “and your eyes
do
remind me of Persian violets.”

“Thank you.”

“I would like to celebrate your success with supper,” Stepan invited her.

“My sisters are waiting for me outside,” Fancy said, refusing him.

“Do you have your own coach?”

“No, I have my own legs.”

Surprise registered on his expression. “You and your sisters cannot walk home at this hour. We will escort your sisters home and then go to supper.”

“I don’t want to sup with you.”

The prince looked perplexed. Apparently, he could not comprehend any woman refusing him.

“I met you in order to keep my job,” Fancy told him. “Otherwise, I would not speak with you.”

“Do you dislike foreigners?”

“My mother was French.”

“Do you dislike Russians?”

“No.”

“Do you dislike me?”

“I do not dislike you personally,” Fancy tried to explain, “but you are an…
aristocrat
.”

“Your lips say
aristocrat
, but your tone says
leper
.” Stepan cocked a dark brow at her. “Before tonight, I had never felt inferior because of my wealth and title.”

“I am honored to add to your life experience.” Fancy wanted him to leave before she changed her mind.

He lowered his voice to a seductive tone. “I know more pleasant ways to increase my life experience.”

His remark shocked her. Her back stiffened at the insulting suggestion. He would never say that to a society lady.

“I should have expected no respect from an aristocrat.”

“
Aristocrat
is not the name of a fatal disease.”

Fancy lifted her chin a notch, her gaze cold on his. “I have experience with the aristocracy.”

“You are referring to your father.” Stepan inclined his head in understanding. “Like commoners, aristocrats are not all the same. Please consider my supper invitation for tomorrow evening. We may have more in common than you realize.”

“I doubt that.”

“Come.” Prince Stepan held out his hand as if asking her to dance.

Fancy wanted to place her hand in his, but her distrust proved too strong. She would allow no man to do to her what her father had done to her mother.

“I will escort you and your sisters home.” Stepan took her hand in his. “I will worry for your safety even though you dislike me.”

His sentiment made her feel like the meanest creature in London. The prince seemed like a decent man, and she had hurt his feelings.

“I will sup with you tomorrow evening,” Fancy relented, “but I refuse to become your mistress.”

Amusement gleamed at her from the black depths of his eyes. “I did not ask you to become my mistress.”

Fancy blushed, embarrassed by her presumption. She was the product of an illicit liaison between a duke and an opera singer. What other reason could he have for wanting her company?

“Trust me.” Stepan lifted her hand to his lips. “I would never seduce a reluctant innocent.” He gestured to the door. “Shall we?”

With her hand in his, Fancy walked in silence through the deserted theater to the lobby. She felt self-conscious, her mind blanking at a topic for conversation. Gawd, tomorrow evening’s supper promised a veritable dumb show.

They stepped outside the theater onto Bow Street, which should have been nearly deserted. Instead, coaches lined both sides of the street.

Fancy looked at him in confusion and tightened her grip on his hand. “What is happening?”

“Your admirers are offering you the coach ride you never had.”

Stepan gave her hand a gentle squeeze and smiled at the surprise on her upturned face. She was disarmingly lovely, her spirited innocence an irresistible siren’s call.

“Why would they do that?” she asked.

“There are as many motivations as men,” Stepan answered, “but the main reason, I suppose, would be stealing your virtue.” Her expression became disgruntled. “You do possess attractive…
etcetera
.”

Fancy blushed. “Thank you, I think.”

“I will protect you from these would-be thieves of your innocence.”

One ebony brow arched. “And who will protect me from you, Your Highness?”

Before he could reply, six young women surrounded them, budding beauties who resembled the opera singer. “Introduce me to your sisters.”

“Introductions are unnecessary,” Fancy said. “You will never see them again.”

“I am Prince Stepan Kazanov,” he introduced himself, his smile easy.

“I’m Belle,” the nineteen-year-old said.

“You were aptly named for your beauty.” Stepan bowed over her hand, making her blush and the other five sigh.

“Meet Blaze,” Belle said, “and this—”

“What glorious hair,” Stepan said to the only redhead in the group. “Gentlemen will be drawn to you like moths to a flame.”

Eighteen-year-old Blaze gave him a dazed smile. She gestured to the dark-haired girl standing beside her. “Bliss is my twin, though you would never guess it from our different hair colors.”

“What sweet bliss your beauty will bring to a lucky gentleman.” Enjoying his own outrageous flattery, Stepan glanced at the opera singer and warned, “Be careful, Fancy, or that grimace will freeze and mar your lovely face.” Giving her no chance to reply, he turned to the next sister. “And you are?”

“Serena, Your Highness.”

“Serene and beautiful are a rare combination.”

The seventeen-year-old blushed. “Are you a
real
prince?”

“You don’t look like a prince,” Blaze interjected.

Amusement gleamed from his dark eyes. “How does a real prince appear?”

“You should be wearing a crown.”

“All princes do not wear crowns.”

Bliss touched his forearm and then announced, “The gentleman is a true prince.”

Stepan fixed his black gaze on her. “How do you know I am not an imposter?”

Bliss gave him an ambiguous smile. “I know things without being told.” She gestured to the girl standing beside Serena. “Sophia and Serena are twins, too.”

“Sophia means
wise
,” Stepan said. “Are you wise as well as beautiful?”

“
Mon Dieu, la nausee
,” Fancy muttered.

Stepan slanted an amused glance at her. “Your nausea will improve once I find gainful employment and no longer waste my time creating outrageous compliments.”

“My stomach and I await that day with eagerness.” Fancy gestured to the last sister. “Meet Raven, Your Highness.”

“I believe Raven is the cossetted baby of the family.”

The sixteen-year-old inclined her head. “One baby recognizes another.”

“How do you know I am the youngest?”

“I am the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter.”

“I see.” Stepan had no idea what that meant, but would never consider admitting he didn’t know everything. He did know that, armed with these introductions, he would court the singer by winning the sisters’ approval. Yes, it was a tad devious, but all was fair in love and—

“Miss Fancy Flambeau?” The voice belonged to a liveried coachman.

“I am she.”

The man gestured to a nearby coach. “The Duchess of Inverary wishes to speak with you.”

Stepan suppressed a smile. For a woman who disliked aristocrats, she had chosen a profession that would surround her with those she despised most. Poverty did not promote the arts. With the six sisters following behind, Stepan escorted the singer to the ducal coach.

“Your Graces, I present Miss Fancy Flambeau,” he made the introduction. “The Duke and Duchess of Inverary are my brother’s uncle- and aunt-in-law.”

“You sing like an angel,” the duchess said.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Fancy peeked at the duke and then told the duchess, “My mother sang in the opera.”

“Though her career was short, I remember Gabrielle Flambeau,” the duchess said. “Stepan, you did not take long to stake your claim.”

“This surpasses your own record time, Kazanov.” The duke sounded gruff.

“The lady and her sisters are safe with me.”

“We are in danger of nausea,” Fancy qualified.

Stepan smiled at her wit. “A rose with petals and thorns.”

The Duke of Inverary looked at Fancy. “You seem unhappy despite tonight’s success.”

“Since I have never met you before tonight,” Fancy replied, “you cannot know if I seem happy or not.”

“No offense to us,” Stepan told the older man, “but Fancy dislikes aristocrats. If I ever chance to meet her father, I will call him out for giving her a bad opinion of men like us.”

“Perhaps men like us have earned the bad opinion.”

“Introduce us to your friends,” the duchess said.

“These are Miss Flambeau’s sisters,” Stepan informed the duke and the duchess. “Belle, Blaze, Bliss, Serena, Sophia, and Raven.”

“We would be honored to escort you and your sisters home,” the Duke of Inverary invited them.

Fancy dropped her gaze. “Thank you for the offer, Your Grace, but—”

“The lady is riding with me,” Stepan said. “Her sisters will ride with you, though.” He looked at the sisters, who were bobbing their heads.

The coachman opened the door. Chatting with excitement, the sisters climbed inside the coach.

“You will be escorting Miss Flambeau directly home?” the duke asked.

Stepan gave the older man an unamused look. Rudolf had put the duke up to this in order to embarrass him.

“Well?”

“Yes, of course.”

Without another word, Fancy turned away and heard Belle telling the duke, “We live in Soho Square.” She watched the coach drive past her, waved to her sisters, and rounded on the prince. “I have decided to walk home.”

“I will walk with you and my coach will follow.”

His announcement surprised her. “Princes walk?”

“I learned walking early in life.”

“I meant, you are a prince.”

“Alas, even princes exercise to keep their etcetera in good shape.” Stepan winked at her. “Where do you live, my lady?”

Fancy narrowed her gaze on him. “Are you insulting me?”

“I would never do that.”

“You called me
my lady
.”

“And so you are my lady.” Stepan looped her hand through the crook of his arm and started walking down the street.

Fancy didn’t know what to think. She was the bastard daughter of a French emigré, yet this prince had called her his lady. Was this a ploy to gain entrance to her bed?

She was stepping dangerously close to liking the royal rascal. He was charming and handsome, a deadly combination.

Excitement and attraction mingled with cautious anxiety to keep her nerves in riot. Should she believe his gallant words? After all, she would never have imagined a prince walking her home from her debut. Perhaps she wasn’t so different from her mother. That fear sent her spirits crashing. Surely, one evening walk could not alter her life?

The journey from the opera house to Soho Square was twenty minutes as the crow flies, slightly longer otherwise. At the end of Bow Street, Stepan and Fancy veered left and passed Covent Garden. Then they walked north on Charing Cross Road.

The crowds thinned gradually until the street was nearly deserted. Only the sounds of the prince’s coach and horses broke the night’s silence.

“I never realized the beautiful sights I missed by riding in a coach.” Stepan looked at the night sky. “Like that crescent moon.”

A smile touched her lips. “Miss Giggles’s moon.”

“I do not understand.”

“Banana-shaped. Miss Giggles is the prima donna’s capuchin monkey. Her sole trick is the hear, see, speak no evil gesture. She dislikes the Tanners.”

Amusement gleamed in the prince’s eyes. “Did Miss Giggles tell you that?”

Fancy shook her head. “She told Blaze.”

Stepan laughed at that. “Tell me about your family. Do you live with your mother?”

“No.”

“Just
no
?”

Fancy sighed, suspecting the prince would not allow her retreat until he heard her entire life story. “My mother died five years ago, and Nanny Smudge passed last winter.”

“Who was Nanny Smudge?”

“My father…I mean, the man who sired me…sent Nanny Smudge to help my mother when she was carrying me,” Fancy told him. “My mother’s whole family died in the Terror.”

“You and your sisters live alone?” He sounded surprised.

“We own a guard dog.”

The prince slipped his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close against the side of his body, but kept walking. “Do you know your father’s identity?”

Fancy gave him a sidelong smile. “Do you intend to call him out?”

Stepan answered her smile with his own. “I will if it pleases you.”

“The others cannot remember him, and I will not reveal his identity. He stopped visiting after Raven was born. I wonder…” Fancy hesitated and then asked, “Do you think circumstances would have been different if we had been boys?”

“Producing males is the goal of most men, especially aristocrats,” Stepan said, “but I would prefer a house filled with females to cosset. Little girls are more wondrous than unicorns.”

His sentiment surprised her. She had assumed that all wealthy gentlemen wanted sons.

“I adore their tea parties.”

Fancy shifted her gaze to his. “Tea parties?”

Stepan nodded once. “One day each week, I collect Mikhail’s and Viktor’s daughters and attend a tea party hosted by Rudolf’s daughters. The under-ten gossip entertains me.”

Fancy could not have been more surprised. “You attend a little girls’ tea party every week?”

Stepan cocked a brow at her. “You are surprised?”

“You must admit that attending tea parties scarcely fits with your reputation.”

“What do you know of my reputation?”

“Nothing.”

“Would you like to know more about me?”

“No.”

Stepan said nothing.

Guilt for her rudeness swelled, forcing her to stop walking and face him. “I am sorry,” she told his chest, “and I do want to know more about you.”

With one finger, Stepan lifted her chin. He leaned close and planted a chaste kiss on her lips. “I will enlighten you tomorrow night at supper.” He gestured to their surroundings. “We have arrived in Soho Square.”

The Flambeau residence was a three-storied, red brick structure with three steps leading to an arched doorcase. The north-facing front door had been painted a vibrant blue with white trim.

“Sophia painted the door,” Fancy said. “Blue in the north brings the household good luck. Or so Nanny Smudge always said.”

The prince appeared amused. “And doors facing south?”

“Red is the most auspicious color.” Fancy hesitated for a millisecond, worried the prince would find her home deficient.

“Fancy!”
A man jogged toward them. In his midtwenties, the man stood as tall as Stepan.

“Alex.” Fancy laughed in delight when the newcomer hugged her.

Stepan felt the unfamiliar pangs of jealousy. He had no idea who this was, only that he disliked him.

“Your Highness, I present Alexander Blake,” Fancy introduced them. “Alex, meet Prince Stepan Kazanov.”

Stepan stared at the other man. Alexander returned his stare. Neither offered his hand.

Alexander Blake did not appear pleased. “Have you forgotten your vow after one night only? Do you want to end like your mother?”

Fancy stiffened at the rebuke. “I have forgotten nothing.”

“I am thinking of your welfare.”

“I appreciate that.”

“What vow have you made?” Stepan asked.

“Fancy vowed never to associate with men like you,” Alexander answered for her.

Stepan narrowed his black gaze on him. “You know nothing about me.”

“We know your type.”

“Enough.” Fancy gestured toward the door. “Please, come inside for a glass of wine.”

Alexander led the way, his familiarity with the house irritating Stepan. Inside the foyer, Stepan paused to close the door.

An enormous dog leaped at him, catching him off guard, pinning him against the door. Standing on its hind legs, the mastiff licked his face, making him laugh.

“Sit,” Fancy ordered, her voice stern.

The brindled mastiff with its black-masked face obeyed in an instant. It grinned at Stepan while its long tail swished back and forth across the polished wood floor.

“You call this big baby a guard dog?” Stepan asked. “Does he kill intruders with kindness?”

“Puddles protects us when necessary.”

“Apparently, Puddles approves of me. How did he get his name?”

Fancy gave him a pointed look.

Stepan grinned. “I will use my imagination.”

“I didn’t realize aristocrats had any imagination.” Fancy gave him a sweet, thoroughly insincere smile.

Stepan followed her down the hallway in the direction of female voices. “What is your relationship with this Alexander Blake?”

Fancy stopped walking and rounded on him. “That is not your business.”

“You consider him your friend,” Stepan said, “but he considers you something more.”

The kitchen was spacious and inviting. The freestanding cabinets and wall shelves were made in solid oak, and the floor was green terra-cotta tiles. The main focal point was a marble-topped table with enormous iron legs and lion’s feet.

“What an unusual piece.”

“My father bought my mother that table.” Fancy led him into the dining room.

Stepan noted the expensive furniture. A fine linen cloth topped the table set with porcelain plates, cups, and saucers as well as crystal glasses. A French ormolu candelabra sat in the center of the table. One wall had a large mirror and another a sandstone mantel over the fireplace. A French armoire stood in a corner, and the sideboard was a paneled elm coffer.