Pleasuring the Prince (21 page)

The sound of pelting rain awakened Fancy on Thursday morning. She opened her eyes and found her husband peering down at her.

“Good morning, Princess.”

“Good morning, Prince.”

“I am beginning to like the rain.” His smile was boyishly charming. “I hope the sun shines tomorrow on the men’s golfing and the duchess’s luncheon.”

“I wouldn’t mind another day or two of rain.”

“So, Princess, what would you like to do on this third morning after our marriage?”

She gave him an inviting smile.

“You naughty, naughty girl.” Stepan leaned close, dipping his head to her breasts, his lips latching on to her sensitive nipple.

Fancy purred low in her throat. “I love indoor activities…”

Dressed in her robe, Fancy sat on the edge of the bed and nibbled her bread. Silently, she cursed the sunshine, a feeling of gloom settling on her shoulders.

Stepan stood across the chamber at the porcelain basin and looked into the mirror while he shaved. Even from this angle, her husband was incredibly sexy wearing only black breeches. She missed the sight of his chest, but his back was muscular and his buttocks rounded.

“I am sorry the sun is shining,” Stepan said, without turning around.

“So am I.” Perhaps she should feel grateful that nausea had not draped her over the chamber pot.

“After the golf match, my brothers and I will stop at White’s,” Stepan told her. “Wait at your father’s, and I will fetch you on my way home.”

Four days married, Fancy thought. Four days without their important discussion regarding her career.

“Don’t bother about me.” She forced a light tone into her voice but fixed her gaze on the floor. “I will take a hackney to the opera.”

The razor dropped with a clink into the basin. Her husband’s black shoes appeared in front of her.

“You are my princess and the mother of my child and will
not
sing in the opera.”

Well, now she knew what he thought of her continuing career. If only he had not commanded her, she could have negotiated their differences, allowed him to persuade her to his thinking.

She loved her husband and their baby, but refused to feel cornered into her mother’s dependency. Misery lay at the end of that road.

Yes, Stepan loved her. Her father had loved her mother, too.

Fancy stood, meeting his challenge. “Why didn’t you mention this preference
before
we married?”

“I gave you an order, not a preference,” Stepan said. “You would have refused to marry me if I had made stipulations.”

“You’re damn right about that.”

“Guard your tongue.” Stepan ran a hand through his hair. “I would never permit the stigma of bastardy to stain my child. Of all people, you should appreciate how hurtful bastardy is.”

Fancy felt as if he’d struck her. He tossed the word
bastard
at her at the first dissent.

“You tricked me into conceiving,” she accused him.

“
I
tricked
you
?” Stepan laughed without humor. “Your memory is failing if you cannot recall that
you
followed
me
to the treehouse.”

“I did not follow you to the treehouse,” Fancy lied, needing someone else to blame, her voice rising in anger. “I
found
you there.”

“You offered yourself to me,” Stepan reminded her. “You were not thinking about the opera that night. Or do you consider cries of pleasure soprano practice?”

Fancy felt the telltale heat of scarlet embarrassment. What he said was true, but she would never admit it.

Fancy turned her back on him, her lip quivering with the struggle to control her emotions. She could never win with him. Why trouble herself trying?

“Fancy, please—”

“Do not bother to fetch me,” she cut off whatever he would have said. “Even a dog can find her own way home.”

“Then I will pass the entire evening with my brothers.”

“I don’t care.”

Silence filled her ears. She wondered what he was doing. The door clicking shut echoed louder than cannon fire.

Fancy longed to throw herself on the bed and weep herself to sleep. She squelched that urge lest her husband return to their chamber and catch her in a weak moment.

After calming herself with a deep breath, Fancy decided she would do what she wanted. And damn that conniving cock.

White’s Gentlemen’s Club on St. James Street was a bastion for London’s elite. Oversized sofas and chairs cushioned wealthy posteriors, bringing peaceful refuge from flighty female company.

Stepan slouched in a leather chair, drank whiskey, and listened to his brothers’ conversation with half an ear. His thoughts had never left his wife all day, wreaking havoc on his golf game. How ignominious to win the championship one year and to place dead last the next.

“I suggest daily practice,” Mikhail needled him.

“Someone needed to place last,” Viktor said.

“Did you know the Lord Mayor is calling for an investigation on how you managed to win last year?” Mikhail asked.

Viktor looked at Mikhail. Both men laughed.

“Do not let them bother you,” Rudolf said. “I explained to the Lord Mayor your muscles were sore from riding your bride this week.”

Now the three oldest Kazanov brothers laughed.

“My brain is sore from your combined babblings,” Stepan growled, eliciting more chuckles.

“Why are you sitting with us while your bride—?” Rudolf shouted with laughter, drawing the room’s attention. “You have already argued with your wife?”

Viktor turned to Mikhail. “Check the Betting Book.”

Mikhail crossed the room to the Betting Book. He found the entry and wrote something that drew laughter from those around him.

Though he appeared relaxed, Stepan felt every nerve and muscle coiling in preparation for attack. His morning irritation had heated to noontime aggravation and then late-afternoon anger. The taunts of his brothers had ignited simmering anger to the boiling point.

“You win,” Mikhail told Rudolf. “I will pay you tomorrow.”

Viktor sent Stepan a look of extreme disappointment before turning to Rudolf. “So will I.”

Stepan bolted out of his chair. “You wagered on when my wife and I would argue?” He looked at each brother in turn. “You sicken me.”

Without another word, Stepan walked away. He had almost reached the door when his brother caught him.

“Give over, brother.” Rudolf grabbed his right arm. “We mean nothing by it.”

Stepan whirled around, his left hand clenched into a fist. He struck hard, catching his brother’s right cheekbone, sending him crashing to the floor.

All conversation ceased. Heads swiveled to watch this unusual and interesting scene.

“I bet a hundred pounds Kazanov raises a black eye,” a voice said into the heavy silence.

“Who wants to bet the youngest is a dead man?” asked a second voice.

“Kazanov won’t kill his brother,” a third voice said.

“Want to wager fifty pounds on that?” the second voice asked.

Stepan looked at his fallen brother. “Stay away from me.”

Cupping his injured cheek, Rudolf gave him a confused stare. “Are you left-handed?”

“Ambidextrous.”

Stepan sent his coachman away and walked to Grosvenor Square. He needed time to cool his anger before he saw his wife. Making peace would be impossible unless he calmed himself.

Bones opened the door. “Welcome home, Your Highness.”

Stepan grunted a greeting and walked toward the stairs.

“Her Highness has not returned,” Bones said.

Stepan stopped short and turned around. “Did Harry drive her to Inverary’s?”

“I believe so, Your Highness.”

Stepan retraced his steps across the foyer. “Tell Harry to bring the coach around.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

A few minutes later, Stepan climbed into his coach. Driving two blocks to Park Lane seemed obscene, but he did not want Fancy walking after being up and about all day. Her pregnancy exhausted her, and he would not risk her health or their child. Hopefully, the duchess had persuaded her to nap.

Tinker opened the door. “Good evening, Your Highness.”

Stepan nodded at the majordomo. “Fetch my wife, please.”

“I don’t believe Her Highness is visiting.”

Stepan took the stairs two at a time and marched into the parlor. “Where is my wife?”

The Duchess of Inverary stood in alarm. “Fancy never came to the luncheon. I assumed the babe had sickened her.”

The Duke of Inverary stood beside his wife. “Are you thinking foul play?”

“I am thinking Royal Opera House.”

Walking into the theater’s lobby, Stepan saw Director Bishop, who gave him a helpless shrug. Wild applause and whistles erupted inside the auditorium.

“She just stepped onstage for the first time,” Bishop said.

Stepan walked upstairs to the Kazanov opera box. He sat in the back out of sight, watching his wife’s every movement, listening to her voice.

Fancy sang like an angel, a voice the world should hear. She was more than a perfect voice, though. She was a woman, his wife, a mother-to-be.

Stepan knew his wife needed this almost as much as he needed her love. The cruel reality was that she could not be all things to all people.

Fancy had chosen wife and mother when she had come to him at the treehouse. She knew that, too. Struggling against fate would not change the truth.

And he would not allow her to forget her duty to their child.

Fancy sat in her dressing room, exhilarated and exhausted. Before stepping onstage, she had not realized how much the babe depleted her energy.

She wished she could put her head down. She wished she were home in bed. She wished she had listened to her husband.

The door crashed open, startling her. She whirled around and saw her husband advancing on her.

“Who is the
sneak
now?” Stepan asked.

Fancy bristled at his tone. Instead of admitting he’d been right, she refused to back down from his challenge.

“You are a pregnant princess and have no business prancing around on that stage,” Stepan said, his tone scathing. He leaned close, backing her against the dressing table, and placed his hands on either side of her, his arms effectively imprisoning her. Almost nose to nose with her, he asked, “What if that bitch trips you into the orchestra pit again? Are you willing to risk our child?”

A ferocious pounding began in her temples and spread to the crown of her head. She was miserable enough without his interference. “Go away.”

He straightened and looked down on her. “Will you come with me?”

Fancy wanted to leave with him more than anything else. Unfortunately, leaving in the middle of a performance was unacceptable.

“I can’t do that.”

“So be it.” Stepan looked at her for a moment longer and then headed for the door, adding, “I may never forgive you for this.”

Fancy stared at the empty doorway. Then she put her head on the table and wept.

A hand touched her shoulder. She looked up and saw Genevieve Stover.

“I heard the prince,” the blonde said. “Are you all right?”

“I will survive.” Fancy reached for a linen to dab at her tear-streaked face. “Will you and Alex drive me home?”

“Yes, of course.”

Fancy finished the performance, but the audience’s enthusiastic applause sounded hollow now. Her husband was correct. Audiences were notoriously fickle. Hadn’t they adored Patrice Tanner at one time? Applause could warm her heart but never keep her warm at night.

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

Her head told her that security lay in independence and an operatic career. Her heart insisted only her husband’s love could bring happiness.

Fancy walked with a weary step to her dressing room. She wiped the cosmetics from her face and changed into her gown, pausing to look around her dressing room for the last time.

Patrice Tanner stood in the open doorway. Behind the prima donna stood Sebastian Tanner holding a diapered Miss Giggles.

“I heard about the prince.” Surprisingly, the hate had vanished from her expression. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you sorry or worried I will be named the ‘Maid of Milan’?”

“Never mind.” Patrice turned away.

“I apologize.” Fancy touched the other woman’s arm. “The babe upsets me.”

“You’re pregnant?” The prima donna looked stunned. “No wonder the prince was madder than a hornet.” She shook her head and made a sweeping gesture with her hand. “This is illusion. Go home, make peace with your husband, be happy.”

“Thank you for the advice.”

“Come, Sebastian.” Patrice paused, asking, “Do you need a ride home?”

“I’ve made arrangements.”

Fancy watched the Tanners walk away. Perhaps Patrice wasn’t as bad as she had thought. The prima donna had no children and had buried three husbands. The only constant in her life was the opera.

Fancy did not want merely to exist. She paused for a brief moment and stared at the stage. Then she walked down the deserted auditorium’s aisle and never looked back.

An hour later, Fancy climbed the front stairs of the Grosvenor Square mansion. And then she realized she had no key.

How humiliating to feel like a guest at her own door. Or was it really her door? The prince might toss her out. Perhaps she should walk to Soho Square where she belonged.

The door opened while Fancy stood there and wondered where to go. Bones stepped aside to allow her entrance.

“Welcome home, Your Highness,” Bones greeted her. “His Highness was looking for you.”

“He found me.”

“Your Highness?” Bones followed her across the foyer to the stairs.

Fancy turned around. “Yes?”

“His Highness left you a message,” Bones said.

“What is the message?”

“Do not wait for his return.”

Let his wife worry about his whereabouts.

Stepan climbed out of the coach in front of the Flambeau residence in Soho Square. He held a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other.

“Harry, return for me at noon tomorrow,” Stepan called to his driver. “Do not tell anyone where I am.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Stepan set the bottles down and searched his pockets for the key. After unlocking the door, he reached for his bottles and shut the door behind him with his foot.

The house was dark, but Stepan managed to find his way to the parlor. After setting the bottles on the table, he lit two night candles and then dropped on the sofa.

Without the Flambeau sisters, the house seemed sad yet oddly welcoming. He leaned his dark head back and closed his eyes for a moment.

This was a good house. One need never feel alone here.

Stepan stood and, taking a candle along, headed for the kitchen. He found two shot glasses and returned to the parlor.

Opening the two bottles, Stepan poured vodka into one glass and whiskey into the other. First he gulped the vodka and followed that with a whiskey chaser.

Stepan shuddered from the alcohol’s kick. Then he repeated the process. Several times.

Damn her. How could she have chosen the opera before him and their child’s health? Had his tone been too forceful? Accustomed to ordering her sisters about, his wife disliked taking orders from anyone herself. Perhaps he should have tried gentle persuasion.

Stepan felt the hair rising on the back of his neck like hackles. Someone else was here. He shifted his gaze to the doorway, almost expecting to see a ghost. Alexander Blake stood there.

“How did you get in?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” Alexander dropped his gaze to the bottles. “The Flambeaus gave me a key in case of emergency. I saw the light from your candles and decided to investigate.”

“I am punishing my wife,” Stepan said. “Fetch a couple of glasses and join me in a drink.”

Alexander grabbed a night candle and left the parlor. He returned a few minutes later with two shot glasses and sat in the chair opposite the sofa.

Stepan poured vodka and whiskey into the glasses. “Drink the vodka in one gulp and chase it down with the whiskey.”

“You’re kidding?”

“I do not kid you.”

Alexander gulped the vodka and then downed the whiskey. He shuddered like a dog shaking off rain.

“Well?”

Alexander nodded. “I like it.”

Stepan refilled their glasses and then raised his vodka in toast. “
Za druzhbu
…to friendship.”

Alexander raised his vodka. “To happiness.”

Both men gulped their vodka and immediately chased it down with the whiskey. Then they smiled at each other.

Again, Stepan poured the vodka and the whiskey. “
Za zhenschin
…to women.”

Alexander added, “To health.”

Again, both men drank the vodka in a single gulp and followed it with whiskey. Dizzy with drink, Stepan looked at Alexander, who gestured for another refill.

Stepan obliged him and raised his own glass. “
Za yadrona mysh’
…to mouse-fuckers.”

Alexander shouted with laughter. “To mouse-fuckers.”

“I did not like you the first time we met,” Stepan said, refilling their glasses.

“I didn’t like you, either.”

“Everyone loves me,” Stepan said, surprised. “Except my wife.”

“I worried that you would hurt her.”

“You should have worried about her hurting me.” Stepan burst into song. “There was a girl from London
town
. At all aristocrats Fancy did
frown
. I gave her a wedding
gown
, but she let me
down
…”

Stepan stared into space for a long moment, and when he spoke, drink had deterioriated his English. “I gots big problem.”

“Wass problem, princey?” Alexander asked, his own words slurring.

“I gots no more word rhyme wit
town
.”

Alexander laughed and gestured for more drink. Stepan grinned and obliged him…again and again and again.

“My anger punch brother,” Stepan told him. “Never hit man before.”

Alexander shrugged. “Tings…sappen.”

“Rudolf gots black eye.”

“He will rec-rec-get better.”

Stepan made a fist and demonstrated. “Smash him.”

Alexander nodded in understanding. “Very angry.”

“Nobody forgots Rudolf on floor…
in White’s coco-common room.”

Alexander threw back his head and shouted with laughter.

Fancy awakened at midmorning. She rolled over and saw the bed beside her had not cushioned her husband. No slice of bread awaited her awakening.

Stepan was punishing her by sleeping in another chamber. If her husband had bothered to speak to her last night, there would be no problem now.

Rousing herself, Fancy washed and dressed in a white morning gown. She opened the connecting door before going to breakfast. Her husband had not slept in that bed, either.

Masking her pain, Fancy breezed into the dining room. “Good morning, Bones.”

“Good morning, Your Highness.”

Fancy walked to the sideboard and chose scrambled eggs, a ham slice, and dry toast. “Bring me tea, please.”

She sat at the table and looked at the majordomo when he served her tea. “Has my husband eaten?”

“No, Your Highness.”

Fancy arched an ebony brow at the man. “Is he gone out or still out?”

Bones hesitated. “Still.”

“He never came home last night?”

“No, Your Highness.”

Fancy wanted to put her head down and weep. Instead, she gave the majordomo a brave smile of dismissal.

She sat for several long moments trying to compose her emotions. Since that long-ago day in Hyde Park when her father had rejected her, she had never allowed others to see her pain and would not give her husband the satisfaction by starting now.

What had her husband said last night?
So be it.
Which sounded like an appropriate motto to live by.

Fancy wondered if the gossip column in the
Times
would give any indication of where her husband had gone after leaving the opera. Unfortunately, she did not possess the inner strength to read the worst possible scenario.

She stood to leave.

“Your Highness, you haven’t eaten,” Bones said. “Are you ill?”

“I am not as hungry as I thought.” Fancy forced herself to smile at him. “Thank you for your concern.”

Upstairs, Fancy walked into the connecting bedchamber and took her bag from the dressing room. She packed a few simple gowns, a shawl, and other necessities.

Fancy felt surprisingly calm when she walked into her husband’s bedchamber. She knew what she wanted and where to find it.

Peacock blue silk drawers.
A souvenir from her one and only late marriage.

Fancy slipped her wedding band off her finger. She crossed the chamber to the marriage bed and placed it on her husband’s pillow.

Downstairs, Fancy approached the majordomo, whose gaze had fixed on her bag. “I thank you for all your help. Please tell His Highness I left him something on his pillow.”

“Is that all?” Bones looked alarmed. “Where shall I tell him you’ve gone?”

“Do not concern yourself with me.” Fancy opened the front door and walked out. In the background she heard the majordomo calling, “Boris! Feliks!”

Soho Square or Royal Opera House?

Fancy decided to go to the opera house first. Once she made herself comfortable at home, the babe would put her to sleep, and she needed to speak to the director.

The walk was long, but the day was fair. Brook Street would take her to Regent Street and then Piccadilly Circus and Covent Garden.

An hour later, Fancy entered the Royal Opera House and headed for the director’s office. Wearing a puzzled smile, Bishop rose from his desk when he spied her and then checked the time on his pocket watch. “Auditions for the new opera don’t begin for a couple of hours.”

“I am quitting the opera,” Fancy told him. “I will not perform again.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” Bishop said, “but you are making the correct choice.”

“I must think of my child first.” Fancy hesitated for a moment and then forged ahead. “My sister Serena sings if you are searching for the perfect maid of Milan.”

“Does Serena sing as well as you?”

“Much better than I.” Fancy felt her heart breaking, but losing the opera was nothing compared to losing her husband. “Serena plays the flute, too.”

Director Bishop could not quite mask his excited expression. “Serena is living with the Duke of Inverary?”

“You will need to appeal to my father in order to get to her.” Fancy stood on tiptoes and planted a kiss on the director’s cheek. “Thank you for giving me the pleasure of performing.”

“Best wishes to you and His Highness.”

“I am quitting His Highness, too.”

Fancy turned her back on the director’s shocked expression and, without another word, left the opera house to walk to Soho Square. She and her baby would live in the Flambeau residence. The Seven Doves Company provided her with enough money to live comfortably, if not luxuriously.

She would never sing again. Nor would she give her heart to another man. She had indeed become her mother but, unlike her mother, refused to allow the pain to crush her.

So be it,
Fancy thought, unlocking the door to her home.
So be it.

Fancy dropped her bag in the foyer and walked down the corridor to the kitchen. There would be time enough later to unpack. What she needed was a pot of tea and a nap.

How would she ever fill the empty hours until her baby arrived? Next week she would begin to decorate a nursery. Perhaps her father would loan her a coach when she shopped for baby necessities.