Pleasuring the Prince (4 page)

Stepan gave her a long look. “Violence solves nothing.”

“When someone hits me,” Fancy said, “I hit back.”

“Thank you for the warning,
ma petite chou
,” Stepan said, laughter lurking in his voice.

“Please refrain from referring to me as your little cabbage.”

“
Excusez-moi.
You do look adorable contemplating your revenge.”

Perhaps the prince could help her. Fancy gave him a flirtatious smile and rose from the sofa. “Would you consider helping me practice?”

The prince stood when she did. “I would love to assist in your practice.”

Stepan followed her through the French doors into the dining room, where she grabbed an apple from the bowl on the table. He smiled at the sway of her hips as she led him outside.

Pausing a moment to scan the garden, Stepan noted the forsythia and pansies. Several shrubs and an oak tree also called the garden home.

A loving hand tended the flowers, plants, and tree. He would bet the Kazanov fortune that the object of his interest did not possess the patience for such a pastime. She seemed too passionate to appreciate the solitude of gardening.

“Hold this, Your Highness.”

Stepan looked at the minuscule paper target. “You are joking?”

“Please?” Her voice became a silken whisper. “Do it for me?”

His lips twitched with the urge to laugh. The minx was trying to seduce him into holding her target. Subtlety was not her forte.

Stepan inclined his head. “I would do anything for you,
ma petite
.”

Fancy blushed and passed him the target. “Lift your arm and hold it out to the side of your body.”

After counting off ten paces, Fancy drew a white marble pellet from her pocket. She placed the pellet on the flexible tubing and aimed at the target. His smile made her hand tremble, and she closed her eyes to compose herself.

“You will not shoot with your eyes closed, will you?”

Fancy couldn’t concentrate with him staring at her. “Please, Stepan, close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“Your gaze is making me nervous, and my nerves are shaking my hand.”

Stepan smiled, pleased with himself. Her nervousness meant she was attracted to him. Not that he had doubted the outcome of desire.

“Your Highness?”

Stepan closed his eyes.

Fancy placed the pellet on the flexible tubing, aimed, and…paused.

The prince seemed to have stepped out of every maiden’s dream. Glossy black hair and an intriguing face conspired with his warrior’s body to wreak havoc with her innards. Her pulses quickened, and a melting sensation flowed from her belly to other, private regions.

Stepan opened his eyes. “Why are you waiting?”

Fancy blushed a vibrant scarlet. Was her heat caused by her embarrassment or her admiration of his masculine beauty?

She lifted the slingshot again and aimed for her target.
Whoosh!
The pellet flew like a homing pigeon toward its target.

Feeling the strike, Stepan opened his eyes and laughed with relief. “You hit dead center. Where did you learn to shoot with such accuracy?”

“Alex taught me.”

He was sorry he’d asked. Irritation replaced lighthearted humor. “I should have known,” he muttered. “What else has this paragon taught you?”

Fancy walked toward him, pulling the apple from her pocket. “Balance this on top of your head.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I want to shoot the apple off your head.”

“Like William Tell? I think not.”

Fancy looked at him through enormous violet eyes, her expression guileless. “You don’t trust me?”

Stepan grinned. “I trust you as much as you trust me.”

“Touché.”
Fancy rubbed the apple against the sleeve of her gown and then offered him the shining apple. “Take a bite.”

“Ah, an English Eve offering forbidden fruit from her Garden of Eden.”

“I did not pick this apple from the tree of knowledge, Adam.” She gave him a long look. “Or are you the serpent?”

Fancy bit into the sweet, succulent apple. A dribble of juice dotted her stubborn chin.

Her generous lips and the enticing drop of juice conspired against Stepan. He felt his privates hardening and nearly groaned with frustration.

“I never thought to be jealous of an apple.” His voice was husky. She blushed, but her expression told him she had no idea what he meant. “Where did you get an apple out of season?”

“My father sometimes sends us hard-to-find items.”

“Perhaps this anonymous aristocrat cares for his daughters?”

“Do not confuse a guilty conscience with genuine love.”

Stepan did not want himself associated with the much-despised parent and opted to change the subject. “I surrender to temptation.” He lifted her hand to his lips and bit the apple. “I must leave you now but will see you after tonight’s performance.”

“Is this tea party day?”

“No,
ma petite
. I leave you in order to seek employment.”

That made her laugh.

“I almost forgot.” He reached into his pocket and produced a small, paper-wrapped package. “For you.”

Fancy looked from his dark eyes to the package and then opened it. Her gaze snapped to his. “Cinnamon sticks?”

“I knew you adored cinnamon. Your dressing room reeked of it.”

Fancy stared after him in surprise. The prince had scented Nanny Smudge? Even her sisters were unable to do that. No doubt, her beloved nanny was sending her a message. Listen to her head? Or follow her heart?

Standing in the wings, Fancy listened to the main characters performing the opera’s final song. With her stood Genevieve Stover, who played the role of Barbarina.

“You look pale.”

“My brother has been escorting me home since the rose-petal murders began,” Genevieve told her. “Tonight is impossible for him, and walking home alone frightens me.”

“Is that all?” Fancy smiled at her. “Prince Stepan and I will gladly drive you home before going to supper.”

The other girl’s expression cleared. “I will meet you and the prince in front of the theater.”

Fancy listened to the music and singing, her gaze following the stagehands communicating with hand signals. Satisfied that no one was watching, she slipped her slingshot from the waist of her costume’s breeches and took a pellet from her pocket.

This is wrong,
she thought, and then promptly ignored her conscience. The prima donna had tripped her, and she refused not to hit back. Turning the other cheek invited abuse.

“I would not do that if I were you.”

Fancy shifted her gaze to her new friend. “Patrice Tanner cannot trip me and expect no retribution.”

Lifting the slingshot, Fancy placed the white marble pellet on the flexible tubing and aimed for the prima donna. The pellet flew through the air and hit the woman’s cheek, escalating the war between them.

Startled, Patrice Tanner lost focus and pitch. Her voice cracked, eliciting murmurs from the audience, but she regained her composure and kept singing.

Clearly displeased, Director Bishop hurried to the wings. Sebastian Tanner joined him a moment later.

Her face a mask of fury, Patrice Tanner marched off the stage. She halted in front of Fancy. “I’ll get you.” The prima donna glanced at Genevieve, adding, “And your friend, too.”

Fancy gave the older woman an amused smirk. “You are the one who’s bleeding.”

Patrice Tanner lifted her hand to her cheek and then stared in horror at her bloody fingertips. She swooned dead away.

Sebastian Tanner knelt beside his wife. “Patrice cannot tolerate the sight of blood.”

“Genevieve, you may leave,” Director Bishop said, and then looked at Fancy. “Do not move from this spot.” He helped the prima donna rise from the floor and return to her dressing room.

“Good luck.” Genevieve sent Fancy a commiserating look and hurried away.

What did the director expect? Fancy thought. She could not let the prima donna’s action pass without reaction. That would be committing professional suicide. She would have passed her operatic tenure flying into the orchestra pit.

Director Bishop reappeared a few minutes later and began his lecture. “If you ever pull another stunt like that, you will find yourself without employment. Which, I dare say, would suit the prince’s purpose.”

“Patrice started this war,” Fancy defended herself.

“And I am finishing it.” Director Bishop paused a moment, his cold stare making her uneasy. “A word of advice, Miss Flambeau. Do not believe everything you read about yourself in the newspaper. No one is indispensable.”

“Thank you for the advice, sir.” Fancy lifted her chin a notch, proud even in her defeat. “I will consider your words before taking further action.”

“An apology to Patrice would be wise.” Without another word, Director Bishop turned his back on her and walked away.

Her confidence waning, Fancy retreated to her dressing room. Director Bishop had taken the self-righteous sails out of her revenge voyage. He was correct, though. She had behaved badly. The opera was a business, not a game, and she needed to manuever around the prima donna until her own star shone more brightly than the other woman’s.

Sabotaging her operatic career would ruin all her plans. Without income, she would be forced to marry, and a man could trap her into becoming love’s victim. Like her mother.

A whiff of cinnamon scented the air, reminding her of Nanny Smudge.
Listen to your head, child, but follow your heart.

Was avoiding marriage listening to her head? Or following her heart?

Leaving her dressing room to take her final bow, Fancy noted the prima donna’s absence on stage. Guilt for what she’d done filled her, and she determined to apologize to the older woman before departing the theater that night. Perhaps they could begin their professional relationship again.

Fancy scrubbed the cosmetics from her face, leaving her complexion flushed. Her eyes sparkled with nervous anticipation as she dressed for her supper with the prince. She had chosen a forest green gown with gold embroidery, its neckline high, more modest than any sophisticated society lady would wear.

A tap on the door drew her attention. “Enter.”

The prince stood in the doorway. Once again, his masculine beauty startled and delighted her. He smiled then, showing his straight white teeth, adding to his perfection.

Fancy decided he could charm the chastity out of a nun…but not out of her.

“I passed Director Bishop backstage,” Stepan said, sauntering into the room. “He grimaced when I said your name.”

“The director has given me a severe set-down and a warning.”

“I advised you against rash action.” Prince Stepan bowed over her hand, his warm lips touching her skin, sending a delicious shiver of excitement down her spine, weakening her resolve to abstain from men. “You are perfection, an English Aphrodite…the goddess Kalliope.”

“I gather your job hunting was unsuccessful?”

“How did you guess?” Stepan winked at her. “Do you possess unworldly powers?”

“Something like that.” Fancy slipped her hand through the loop of his arm, the action feeling as natural as breathing. “I would stop at Patrice Tanner’s dressing room to apologize and ask that we give Genevieve Stover a ride home.”

“Your wish is my command.”

“Only if my wish does not include your leaving me alone.”

Fancy tapped on the prima donna’s dressing room door. No answer. She knocked louder. Still no answer.

Patrice and her husband had left the theater. Well, she would apologize the following evening.

Fancy saw her friend waiting for them. “Your Highness, I present Genevieve Stover.”

Prince Stepan bowed over the girl’s hand. “I recognize pretty Barbarina.”

Genevieve gave him a shy smile. “I hope—”

“Escorting you home pleases me,” Stepan interrupted. “I would worry for your safety otherwise.”

“Fancy.”

She turned around.

Alexander Blake stood there. “Your performance was outstanding.”

Fancy smiled at her neighbor. “I am pleased you took a few hours off work.” She looked at her new friend. “Genevieve, I present Alexander Blake, my oldest friend. Alex works with Constable Amadeus Black, who is trying to catch the rose-petal murderer.”

Fancy saw Alex’s interested gaze fix on the blue-eyed blonde. She recognized the blonde’s answering look of interest.

“The rose-petal murders frighten me,” Genevieve said. “My brother cannot escort me home tonight as he usually does. The prince—”

“I will escort you home,” Alexander said, offering her his arm. “I will protect you with my life.”

Genevieve looked from him to Fancy, who nodded. Then she slipped her hand through the loop of his arm and walked away with him.

Fancy smiled with satisfaction. She liked Alex, and she liked Genevieve. They appeared to like each other.

“Nicely done, mademoiselle.” When she gave him a blank look, Stepan explained, “You got rid of Blake without insulting him.”

Fancy gave the prince her sweetest smile. “If only I could work that same miracle with you.”

The prince assumed a disappointed expression. “You do not mean that.”

With the prince’s assistance, Fancy climbed into his coach. He sat beside her and gave her a wolfish smile. Which told her that, from his point of view, things were progressing satisfactorily.

Fancy masked a disgruntled grimace by turning her head to look out the window. She slid the palm of her hand across the leather seat. Softer than a lady’s lap. Royalty certainly enjoyed luxurious accommodation.

“Where are we supping?” If he answered
his house
, she would leap out the door now.

“Belle Sauvage.”

“Beautiful Savage?”

“
Belle Sauvage
is a riverside establishment attached to a coaching inn,” Stepan told her. “I thought a taste of your mother’s native France would appeal to your appetite.”

Fancy gave him a sidelong look. “What do Russians eat?”

“Opera singers.”

She laughed at that. And wished the prince were not so charming.

Belle Sauvage
perched on a beautiful stretch of the Thames, its three-storied terraces facing the wooded and secluded Eel Pie Island. A bay window beside the front door overlooked the street and added decoration to the structure’s white-painted front.

Dark wood and shadowy nooks lent the interior a private atmosphere. Guests spoke in hushed tones while sitting at the candlelit tables squirreled into small alcoves.

Prince Stepan ordered
moules marinieres
, mussels cooked in wine and served in shells. Then he gave her his full attention. “Tell me what happened with Director Bishop and Patrice Tanner, my sweet Kalliope.”

“Who is she?”

“Kalliope means ‘she of the beautiful voice’ and was a daughter of Zeus, one of the nine muses,” Stepan explained.

Fancy smiled at his compliment. Flattering a person’s accomplishments was acceptable.

“Director Bishop advised me that no one is indispensable.”

“Are you planning to heed his advice?”

“Yes.”

“A wise choice,” Stepan said. “Tell me about yourself and your family.”

“Gabrielle Flambeau was the youngest child and the seventh daughter of a French aristocrat,” Fancy said. “She and her nanny arrived in London without funds, the only Flambeau survivors of the Terror.”

“Nanny Smudge?”

Fancy shook her head. “Nanny Smudge came later. When her own nanny died, my mother auditioned for the opera. The promise in her voice would never be fulfilled because she met my father, who insisted she retire. Then she became pregnant.”

Stepan lifted his goblet and sipped his wine. “And then Nanny Smudge arrived?”

“As the youngest Flambeau, my mother had become accustomed to having others care for her,” Fancy said. “Nanny Smudge, her own nanny, my father.”

“Nanny Smudge helped your mother raise you and your sisters.”

“My mother helped Nanny Smudge raise me and my sisters,” she corrected him.

Stepan raised his brows at that. “So, Nanny Smudge was like a mother to you.”

“Quite so.” Fancy lifted her wine goblet and, under the guise of sipping her wine, gazed at his mouth. She wondered how his lips would feel pressed to her own. How would he taste? And how would those strong hands touch her body, his long fingers caressing her flesh?

“Fancy, where have you gone?”

She forced a smile, attempting to bury this unfamiliar yearning, and covered her discomfit with conversation. “Nanny Smudge was a Highlander from Scotland who had married and buried her husband.

“Nanny adored cinnamon.” Fancy rolled her eyes, making him smile. “We ate cinnamon sticks, cinnamon cookies, cinnamon bread, cinnamon buns, cinnamon biscuits, cinnamon scones…” She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Nanny believed cinnamon was the meaning of life.”

Stepan laughed at that, delighted with her. Fancy Flambeau was a captivating mix of strength and vulnerability, sensuality and innocence, intelligence and beauty.

Fancy deserved more than mistress status. Her endearing qualities demanded an honorable marriage.

The prince and the opera singer? The gossips would chew on that for the next decade. On the other hand, two of his brothers had chosen mates unsuitable for society’s approval. Rudolf had married his pickpocket, albeit the daughter of an impoverished earl, and Viktor had married the merchant’s daughter. Both had pleased themselves.

Fancy studied the prince, lost in thought. He was no longer a nameless, faceless, despicable aristocrat. Stepan was simply a man, charming and attractive. Very attractive.

How could she prevent herself from falling in love with this irresistible man? She doubted she could discourage him. The prince had the tenacity of a bulldog and refused to take
no
for an answer.

“Tell me about your sisters.”

Fancy wondered if telling the brutal, bizarre truth about her sisters and her would discourage him. Either he would dismiss her as a liar or see her as a candidate for Bedlam. In any event, he would trip over his expensively booted feet in his haste to put distance between them. Which was what she wanted. Wasn’t it?

Stepan raised his brows at her. “I thought my request rather simple.”

Fancy blushed. “Do you want the real truth?”

“I do not want the unreal truth.”

“Will you promise not to tell another person?”

“I will respect your confidence.”

“So be it, Your Highness.” Fancy set the fork on her plate and gave her lips a dainty dab with the napkin. “The truth is my sisters possess special talents, unusual gifts from the Almighty.”

His lips twitched. “Explain yourself, please.”

“Belle has a gentle soul as well as great beauty,” Fancy began, watching his eyes for a sign of disbelief. “Her hands are healing, which makes her an excellent gardener.”

No expression of doubt appeared on his face. She was warming to her subject, as her sisters’ talents were becoming progressively harder for most people to believe.

“Blaze can communicate with animals and—”

“Is that how she knew Miss Giggles disliked the Tanners?”

“Yes.” The prince was not reacting as she had expected. “Bliss loves numbers and sometimes knows what people are thinking, especially if she touches them.”

His dark gaze narrowed on her, but he said nothing. Was the prince deciding if she was a liar or crazy?

“God blessed Serena with a perfect operatic voice, a talent for flute playing, and an affinity for the wind,” Fancy told him. “Sophia, the painter, can judge people by the color of their auras.”