Pleasuring the Prince (24 page)

Mikhail stared at his plate, his grim expression mirroring his mood. Instead of beef, the prince saw his former sister-in-law’s coy eagerness. The roasted potatoes bore a striking resemblance to his former mother-in-law’s determined look.

He felt hunted.

His year of mourning had ended the previous month. Lavinia, his late-wife’s younger sister, had made her come-out two weeks earlier and immediately targeted him for her husband.

Even his former mother-in-law had become dangerous company. At the opera the previous evening, Prudence Smythe had reminded him that Lavinia had come of age and then proceeded to extol her virtues.

He had barely escaped entrapment. Thankfully, his brother Rudolf had seen his panicked expression during intermission and interrupted the woman’s dialogue.

Lavinia and Prudence Smythe were not alone in their matrimonial ambition. Every maiden and widow in London desired a prince for her husband.

He wanted a wife to give him an heir, and his daughter needed a loving stepmother. The society ladies of his acquaintance were shallow and greedy, unfit to mother his daughter.

“Daddy, your elbows are resting on the table.”

“Excuse my lapse in manner, Bess.”

Mikhail sliced a piece of beef, raised it to his lips, and then glanced at his daughter. Elizabeth had stabbed a piece of beef with her fork and raised it to her lips.

He winked at her; she winked in return. Slowly, he chewed the beef and swallowed. His daughter did the same.

Mikhail set his knife and fork on his plate and reached for his wine goblet. Elizabeth set her fork on the plate and reached for her lemon water.

Lifting his napkin, Mikhail dabbed at each corner of his mouth. His daughter lifted her napkin and dabbed at her mouth.

Mikhail leaned close to her and puckered his lips. Elizabeth puckered her lips, too, and gave him a smacking kiss.

“Thank you, Bess. I needed that kiss.”

Elizabeth gave him a dimpled smile. “You are welcome, Daddy.”

“What should we do before visiting Uncle Rudolf?”

“I want to go to Bond Street.”

Mikhail smiled at that. “What do you want to purchase?”

“I want a mummy,” Elizabeth said, her disarming blue eyes gleaming with hope. “Cousin Sally got a new mummy, and I want one, too.”

His heart ached for his only child. “The Bond Street shops do not sell mummies.”

Her expression drooped.

Mikhail lifted her tiny hands to his lips and proceeded to kiss each of her delicate fingers. Then he pretended to gobble them, eliciting her giggles.

“Daddy, does the stork bring mummies?”

A smile flashed across his features. “Who told you about storks?”

“Cousin Roxanne said storks bring babies so I thought—” Elizabeth shrugged.

“Come Bess, sit on my lap.” When she did, Mikhail wrapped his arms around her. He wanted to protect her and make her dreams and wishes come true. “Tell me about this mummy you want.”

“The best mummies know lots and lots of stories,” Elizabeth said.

“Bedtime stories
are
very important.” Mikhail nodded in agreement. “Anything else?”

“My new mummy will like laughing and playing in the garden.”

Except for his brothers’ wives, no lady of his acquaintance played in the dirt. Finding this mythical mummy could take years.

“My mummy will make tea parties for me.” Her blue eyes sparkled with excitement as she warmed to her topic. “And happiness cakes, too.”

“Happiness cake?” he echoed.

“Cousin Amber makes happiness cakes for her little girl.” Elizabeth placed the palm of her hand against his cheek. “Mummy will love me.”

Mikhail turned his head and kissed the palm of her hand. “I love you, Bess.”

“I love you, Daddy.” She smiled into his dark eyes. “Mummy will love you, too.”

Julian Boomer, the prince’s majordomo, appeared in the doorway and hurried to his side. “Your Highness?” The man shifted his gaze to the little girl and then arched a brow at him.

“Bess, tell Nanny Dee you will be leaving in a few minutes.” Mikhail kissed her cheek and let her slip from his lap.

“Nanny Dee is gone for the day.”

“Tell Nanny Cilla to wash your face,” he instructed her. “I will wait in the foyer.”

Mikhail watched his daughter disappear out the door. Then he looked at the majordomo.

Boomer passed him a calling card. “Ladies Prudence and Lavinia request an interview.”

Mikhail groaned, his expression long-suffering. He was not safe in his own home. His daughter’s mythical mummy had better appear soon, or he would fall prey to the hunters.

Boomer cleared his throat. “I told them you had left for a business meeting, and Princess Elizabeth had gone with you to her tea party.”

Mikhail grinned at the man. “You are worth your weight in gold.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” the majordomo drawled. “Would that gold be literal or figurative?”

Mikhail laughed, rose from his chair, and clapped the man on the back. “Boomer, I do see a hefty raise in your future.”

Belle Flambeau sat alone in the coach that Sunday afternoon and fumed, her anger directed at the baron and his mother. Charles knew she felt nervous but had opted to send his coach instead of escorting her himself, and Belle had no doubt his mother had done this purposely to prove her influence over her son.

Shallow, insensitive, and disrespectful were the most appropriate words to describe Charles Wingate at the moment. Sending his coach insulted her. She would tell him that when they were alone.

Knowing she had one chance to make a good impression, Belle had taken more than an hour to dress for the occasion. Her high-waisted, white gown had been embroidered with pink flowers beneath her bosom and around the hem. Her sisters had decided she appeared pleasingly virginal.

Belle ran her palm across the worn leather seat cushion. She wondered why the baron did not refurbish his carriage or purchase another.

The coach halted in front of a town house in Russell Square, a section more familiar with barristers than barons. The liveried coachman opened the door and helped her down.

When she banged the knocker, the majordomo opened the door. He stared at her, his expression haughty.

“I am Miss Flambeau,” Belle said. “Baron Wingate is expecting me.”

The majordomo stepped aside to allow her entrance. “The family is taking tea in the drawing room.”

Belle gave the foyer a quick scan. She had expected something more lavish, but this foyer was lacking when compared with her own. She followed the servant to the stairs.

“You will wait here,” the majordomo ordered, whirling around.

Belle looked at him in surprise. The servant’s attitude stoked the flame of her simmering anger.

Would the Wingates keep a countess, a duchess, or a princess waiting in the foyer? The baron’s mother had engineered this to make her feel inferior, and if that was true, she doubted this meeting would have a happy outcome.

Making a good impression did not seem so important now. Self-respect demanded she return insults in kind.

“Come now, miss,” the majordomo said, returning to the foyer. “Do hurry. The baroness dislikes waiting.”

“
I
dislike waiting, especially in foyers.”

When she stepped inside the doorway, Charles smiled and crossed the room. “I’m glad you’ve come.” He escorted her across the room. “Meet my family.”

A man resembling the baron sat in a highbacked chair. His long legs stretched out, and a cane rested against the side of the chair. His expression registered boredom.

The middle-aged, blond woman on the settee was another matter. Mild distaste had etched across her face.

“Mother, I present Miss Belle Flambeau,” Charles introduced them. “Belle, my mother and Squire Wilkins, my half-brother.”

“I am pleased to make your acquaintances.” Belle looked from the mother to the half-brother who was perusing her body.

Lifting his gaze to hers, Squire Wilkins rose from the chair and reached for his cane. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Flambeau.” With that, he left the drawing room.

“Please be seated.”

Belle glanced at his mother and then chose the highbacked chair. Charles sat beside his mother on the settee.

The drawing room held an air of genteel shabbiness. Age had yellowed the armchair’s doily, and the chair beneath it appeared threadbare. Even one of the teacups was chipped.

The Flambeau residence was more comfortably and expensively furnished. Her anonymous father had taken good care of them.

“My son did not exaggerate your beauty,” the baroness said.

“Thank you, my lady.” Belle sent Charles a serene smile, masking the knot of nervousness gripping her body.

“Beauty fades,” the baroness said, “and couples—”

“Indeed, beauty does fade,” Belle agreed, giving her a pointed look. She knew the baroness would not appreciate that comment, but the woman’s expression screamed disapproval. Belle did not appreciate being treated like an inferior, and self-respect demanded reciprocity. Perhaps she should leave now before the situation worsened.

The baroness flushed but quickly regained her composure. “As I was about to say, couples need more than love for a successful marriage.”

Belle flicked a glance at Charles and wondered at his silence. “I would agree with you,” she said, “but riches do not guarantee a happy marriage.”

The baroness gave her a frigid smile that matched the coldness in her eyes. “Tell me about your family.”

Belle had prepared herself for this particular topic. “My late mother was a French countess, and my father is an English duke.”

“Can you prove that?”

Belle had not prepared herself for that unexpected question. “I do not carry birth or baptismal certificates in my reticule.”

“How about a marriage certificate?” the baroness asked, her tone sneering.

“Mother, I object to this,” Charles found his voice. “She cannot help—”

“Be quiet, Charles. This needs discussion.” Then the baroness looked at Belle. “Your parents never married which makes you—”

“—the daughter of a French countess and an English duke,” Belle interrupted.

“Please Mother,” Charles whined.

The baroness ignored him. “I mean no disrespect.”

“Of course you don’t,” Belle drawled, her voice dripping sarcasm. She could not decide who was more despicable, the mother or the sniveling son.

“Mother,” Charles whined again, “I asked you to—”

“Be quiet,” Belle snapped, surprising him. Ready for battle, she refused to cower or retreat. “What about your family, my lady?”

The baroness dropped her mouth open in surprise.

“I mean no disrespect,” Belle said, “but my blood is a mingling of the French and English aristocracy, which I would not wish to dilute.” She looked at the baron. “Didn’t you tell me your maternal grandfather was a vicar and your mother’s first husband a squire?”

The older woman found her voice. “You impertinent piece of baggage. How dare you—”

Belle bolted out of her chair, startling the other woman. “Charles, I want to leave.
Now.
”

“The coachman will drive you home,” his mother said.

Charles had stood when Belle did. “
I
will escort Miss Flambeau home.”

The coach ride to Soho Square was completed in silence. Belle stared out the window without seeing anything. She had expected the baroness to oppose the match but refused to be intimidated. The baron’s behavior was an entirely different matter. His failure to defend her had been a surprise, and she should reconsider their relationship. His mother would never accept her, and a less than loyal husband was unacceptable.

“Darling, we have arrived.” Charles walked her to the front door and raised her hand to his lips. “I apologize for Mother. You should not have argued with her, though. Now we will need to placate her before moving forward with our betrothal.”

Belle managed a smile but refused to apologize for her behavior. The baron would need to choose—her or his mother.

“May I come inside?” Charles asked.

“That would be too tempting,” Belle said in refusal. “My sisters are gone for the day.”

“I did mention to Mother that Prince Stepan was picnicking with your sisters.” Charles gave her a wry smile. “I hoped that would impress her.”

Belle unlocked the door. “Good day, Charles.”

He grabbed her hand again. “I promise to speak to Mother.”

Belle stepped into the foyer. Turning around, she smiled at the baron once more before closing the door.

Someone grabbed her from behind. When she tried to scream, a hand covered her mouth, and only muffled squawks came out. Her attacker yanked her against his muscular frame, and she kicked out wildly.

Something sharp stung her cheek, and she bit the massive hand covering her mouth. With a masculine yelp, the man pushed her away, and she landed facedown on the floor, the breath knocked from her body.

Unable to move, Belle turned her face in time to see her assailant hurrying down the hallway toward the rear of the house. When she tried to stand, Belle saw the droplets of blood where her face had hit the floor. She touched her right cheek and stared in a daze at her bloody fingers.

The bastard had sliced her cheek.