Pleasuring the Prince (5 page)

A black brow arched. Was he thinking liar or crazy?

“As the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, Raven has many talents.” Fancy gave him her sweetest smile. “She can move objects with her mind.”

Stepan burst into laughter. He ceased abruptly, seeing her disgruntled expression.

“You don’t believe me?”

“I do not disbelieve you.”

Drat.
The prince was more tenacious than
two
bulldogs.

“And what about you, Fancy? What hidden talent do you possess?”

“I see and hear and smell and sense what others cannot. And so do you, I think.”

“What do you mean?”

Fancy gave him an ambiguous smile but said nothing. Only a special man would still be sitting here instead of running away. Was this a sign from Above? Or Nanny Smudge?

“Tell me about yourself,” Fancy said and resumed eating.

“I have led an unremarkable life,” Stepan told her. “I am the youngest of five sons, one having remained in Moscow. Princess Amber, my cousin, married the Earl of Stratford.”

“What about your life in Russia?”

“I was born, educated, grew into adulthood, and moved to England.” Stepan shrugged. “My brothers and I hold interests in many businesses, which allow us a luxurious life. As the youngest, I suffered greatly from my older brothers’ teasing.

“My father had no time for us, but an older cousin took us hunting in the wilderness quite frequently. Vladimir, my brother in Moscow, always remained at home with my father, but the four of us enjoyed cooking over a campfire and sleeping beneath the stars.

“One time, Mikhail and I were lying on our backs and gazing at the night sky. He asked me if Moscow or the moon was closer. Of course, my brothers will never let me forget that I chose the moon because we could see it, not Moscow.”

Fancy laughed, his amusing reminiscence tugging at her heart, changing her opinion of the man. She had never realized that aristocrats were people with hopes and fears and families. She had never considered aristocrats were human.

“Who is your father?” Stepan asked without preamble.

Her good humor vanished. “A cold-blooded aristocrat.”

Stepan reached across the table and covered her hand with his own. “Your father cared for your mother and his daughters.”

“My mother loved him,” Fancy said, “and he hurt her.”

“What about you?”

She gave him a blank look.

“Did you love him, too?”

“I suppose so, but he rode away one day and never returned.”

“Your anger stems from your pain,” Stepan ventured. “There are worse—”

“I never missed him,” Fancy insisted. “He broke my mother’s heart, not mine.”

“You are prevaricating.”

“Je t’emmerde.”

Stepan gave her a crooked smile. “You would need to lift your skirt if you wanted a kiss there.”

Fancy blushed a vibrant scarlet. “Do you always seduce women by naming them liars?”

“Seduction is the furthest thing from my mind.”

“Who is prevaricating now, Your Highness?” Fancy sighed, reluctant to ruin the evening by bickering. “My father has been generous with his money but not his love.”

Stepan shrugged. “If you say so.”

“I do.”

“Tomorrow evening we will be attending a ball hosted by the Earl and Countess of Winchester, my sister-in-law’s relatives,” Stepan told her.

“You may attend,” Fancy said by way of a refusal, “but do not count on my presence.”

“You will accompany me.”

“I won’t go where I am not wanted.”

“I want you with me.”

“I meant, society will frown on my accompanying you.”

Stepan grinned. “Darling, I am society and promise not to frown at you all evening.”

Fancy could not decide if she should smile or grind her teeth. And then an age-old excuse popped into her mind. “I have nothing appropriate to wear.”

“Is that all?” The prince patted her hand. “I will take care of that.”

“You will
not
buy me a gown.”

“Yes, I will.”

“Do you always get your own way?”

“Poor, first-born Fancy.” Stepan gave her his most winning smile. “The youngest always gets what he wants.”

The tenacity of
three
bulldogs: Fancy amended her earlier opinion. On the other hand, the prince would leave her alone once he witnessed society’s snub.

“Very well, Stepan. I will attend the ball with you.”

“I never doubted it.”

A short time later, the royal coach halted in front of the Flambeau residence in Soho Square. The prince climbed out and then lifted her down.

Fancy hesitated, wondering how to end the evening. “Thank you for a surprisingly enjoyable evening.”

“I will walk you to your door.” Stepan grasped her hand and led her up the three steps. “Hand me your key, please.”

“That is unnecessary.”

Stepan cocked a dark brow at her and held his hand out. “Give me the key.”

Fancy passed him the key. Once the door had opened, Stepan stepped aside to allow her entrance and then followed her into the foyer.

As he’d done the previous evening, Puddles raced into the foyer and leaped at the prince, pinning him against wall. Stepan laughed as the mastiff licked his face.

“Sit,” Fancy ordered.

The black-masked, brindled mastiff obeyed, its tail swishing in a warm welcome.

“Good boy, Puddles.” Stepan patted the dog’s massive head and turned to Fancy. He planted a kiss on her hand and dropped the key onto her palm. “Good night, mademoiselle. May your dreams be pleasant.”

Without another word, Stepan slipped out the door and disappeared into his coach.

He had not kissed her good night.

Fancy sat on the stool in her dressing room the next evening and studied her image in the cracked mirror. Why hadn’t he tried to kiss her? What was wrong with her?

She had expected the prince to kiss her—respectfully, of course—when he’d delivered her home the previous evening. Though kissing her hand was romantic in the extreme, she had assumed she would be experiencing her first kiss.

For a notorious rake, the prince was taking his sweet time getting down to business. Unless—?

Fancy cupped the palm of her hand in front of her nose and mouth. She inhaled, exhaled, and sniffed her breath. She couldn’t smell anything foul, but tried the experiment again just to be sure.

“What are you doing?”

Fancy whirled around. Genevieve Stover stood there.

She gave the other girl a rueful smile. “Checking the scent of my breath.”

“I want to thank you for introducing Alex and me,” the blonde said. “He is escorting me home tonight, too.”

Fancy was pleased for her newest and oldest friends. And then she thought of her baby sister. Raven nurtured an enormous crush on Alex and would be unhappy.

“I am happy you have found each other,” Fancy said.

“How was your evening with His Highness?”

“Surprisingly enjoyable. Stepan insists I attend a society ball with him after the opera.”

The dressing room door opened, drawing her attention. Director Bishop stepped inside, but a furry creature rushed past him.

Fancy scooped the capuchin monkey onto her lap. “How is Miss Giggles tonight?” The monkey covered its ears and eyes and mouth in turn. “We need to teach you another trick.”

Director Bishop lifted the monkey off her lap and passed it to Sebastian Tanner, waiting outside. Then the director beckoned to someone else. A middle-aged woman appeared, followed by two younger women carrying boxes.

“Madame Janette has arrived with tonight’s evening attire.” The director smirked before leaving. “Isn’t that exciting?”

In a flurry of movement, Madame Janette rushed into the room and unwrapped the gown. Created in violet silk, the gown matched Fancy’s eye color. The assistants showed her the slippers, stockings, undergarments, shawl, gloves, reticule, and fan.

“Oh, you are the most fortunate of women,” Madame Janette gushed. “His Highness has spared no expense on his gift.”

“I am certain the prince drops many coins in your shop,” Fancy said.

“His Highness has never purchased a gift for another woman in my shop,” Madame Janette told her. “He insisted your eyes were Persian violets, and he demanded a shade to accentuate their rare beauty.”

“He said all that, did he?”

Madame Janette nodded.

“Thank you very much.” Fancy gestured around her, saying, “I am preparing for my performance, as you can see.”

Madame Janette and her assistants left. Genevieve gave the gown a longing look and followed them out.

Like a woman standing on the gallows, Fancy could feel the prince’s noose tightening around her. She refused to relinquish control of her life and end like her mother, a victim of love.

Apprehension about stepping into society swelled within her, making her hands shake. What would she do if her father was also a guest?

Dwelling on this would ruin her performance. Fancy grabbed her Cherubino hat and headed in the direction of the prima donna’s dressing room.

Sebastian Tanner opened the door and looked at her in momentary surprise. Then he stepped aside.

Reluctant to enter, Fancy stood on the threshold and waited for the older woman to acknowledge her. Patrice Tanner turned away from her mirror which, Fancy noted, was larger than her own. No cracks.

“What do you want?” The hatred in the woman’s gaze matched the frost in her tone. “Have you come to see the dressing room you covet?”

“I came to apologize,” Fancy said. “My behavior was inexcusable, and I hope you will forgive me.”

Patrice Tanner stared at her for uncomfortably long moments, inspecting her from the top of her head to the tips of her shoes. Before turning her back in dismissal, the prima donna said, “I will consider it.”

Fancy leveled a deadly look on the woman.
Je t’emmerde,
she thought.
Kiss my arse.

Fancy stared at the violet silk gown, insidious insecurity stealing her confidence. After her last song, she had returned to her dressing room to await the opera’s ending and ponder her unwelcome reception into society. No one would accept her and, least of all, the prince’s family.

She felt trapped.

She felt bought.

She felt the urge to escape.

The world closed around Fancy. Her panic swelled to a sickening proportion, making breathing almost painful. Her hands trembled, and nausea gripped her.

I’m sorry, Nanny Smudge,
she thought,
but tonight I need to follow my head.

Fancy changed into her own gown and grabbed her woolen shawl. She peeked outside the dressing room door to verify no one was lurking near and then hurried away, escaping out the stage door.

Suppressing the urge to run, which would only bring her unwanted attention, Fancy distanced herself from the opera house and prayed no one gave chase. The night’s sky was clear and the springtime air chilly, neither of which she noticed.

Once past Covent Garden, the crowds grew thinner and thinner. She reached deserted Queen Street but paused at the corner.

The street was eerily silent. The rose-petal murderer popped into her mind, her senses alert to any unusual noise. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, and her heartbeat quickened. She almost cried out in frightened surprise when a coach materialized beside her and halted.

“Here, girl,” a man called. “Do you want to make good money?”

Fancy ignored him and started walking. Unexpectedly, a hand grabbed her wrist and whirled her around.

Dressed like a gentleman, he was tall and well built and passably handsome. He reeked of gin.

“What’s your hurry, girl?”

“Release me, villain.”

He laughed. “Say, aren’t you that—”

Fancy tried to yank her hand away, but his superior strength held her immobile. She kicked out, aiming for his groin, but fell when he sidestepped to elude her.

“You’d better come with me.” The man started to pull her toward his coach, ignoring her shouted protests.

“Release the lass.”

Fancy heard another voice and saw two newcomers standing there.

“Eddie, ye dinna need to drag lassies off the street,” the second man said.

Her captor released her as suddenly as he’d grabbed her. He climbed into his coach and fled the scene, leaving her alone with her rescuers.

“Are ye all right, lass?” the first one asked.

His friend helped her off the ground. “Ye shouldna be walkin’ aboot at night.”

“I’m Douglas Gordon, the Marquess of Huntly,” the first man introduced himself.

“And I’m his cousin, Ross MacArthur, the Marquess of Awe,” the second man added.

“We canna allow ye to walk home alone,” Douglas Gordon said.

Ross MacArthur agreed. “Ye’ll need to come with us, lass.” He held his hand out to her.

“No, thank you, my lords.” Fancy shook her head. “I will be fine now.”

Douglas Gordon spoke up. “Our consciences will bother us if we let ye walk aboot alone.”

“Aye, ’tis dangerous,” his cousin said. “Ye dinna need to fear us, lass.”

“Miss Flambeau belongs to me.”

Fancy whirled around at the sound of the prince’s voice and, breaking free, flew into his arms. Relief surged through her body, weakening her, and she clung to him as if she would never let him go.

Thank God, he had come looking for her. There were worse things in life than stepping into society.

Stepan folded his arms around her. “Are you injured?”

Fancy shook her head.

“Ross and I rescued her from Crazy Eddie,” Douglas Gordon said. “Ye shouldna be so careless with yer possessions, Kazanov.”

MacArthur nodded. “Aye, Crazy Eddie was draggin’ her into his coach when we happened by.”

Stepan inclined his head. “I thank you for your assistance.”

“Yer a verra bonny lass,” Douglas said, looking at Fancy. “Do ye have any sisters?”

“Six.”

The Scotsmen looked at each other and laughed.

“Yer da shoulda done the deed with his boots on,” Ross said.

Douglas Gordon nodded in agreement. “Aye, that’ll turn the trick every time.”

With that, the Scotsmen climbed into their coach and continued on their way.

His expression grim, Stepan looked down at her lovely, pale face. “What am I going to do with you, mademoiselle?”

Fancy gazed at him through her enormous violet eyes. “Kiss me…”

Stepan obliged her.

Fancy closed her eyes, savoring his sandalwood scent. She felt his heartbeat, his heat, his unyielding strength.

“I have waited forever for this,” Stepan whispered, his lips a hairsbreadth from hers.

And then their lips touched, meeting in a gentle first kiss. His lips were warm and firm, undemanding but masterful, stealing all rational thought.

Stepan caressed her back and the nape of her neck, eliciting her sigh. And then he changed the tempo of the kiss, moving his mouth on hers, encouraging her to follow his lead.

Wrapped in his arms, Fancy was powerless against his irresistible invitation. A melting sensation spread throughout her lower regions, inciting her to return his ardor.

Their kiss was long and langorous, the prince capturing her whole being. The world faded away. His body and his lips became her universe.

Stepan flicked his tongue across the crease of her lips, persuading her surrender, staking his claim. She parted her lips, and he slipped his tongue inside her mouth to taste her sweetness.

And then he ended the kiss.

Stepan traced one long finger down her petal-soft cheek. Fancy stared at him in a daze, having had the most erotic experience of her life…
her first kiss
.

Stepan held her against his body, and she rested her head against his chest.

“I-I was frightened.”

“You are safe now.” Stepan looked down at her. “Trust me?”

Fancy stared into his black eyes. The corners of her mouth turned up in a faint smile, and she nodded.

Keeping his arm around her shoulders, Stepan guided her toward his coach but noted her wobbly walking. “Are you injured?”

“My legs are shaking like an earthquake.”

“You did experience a frightening misadventure.”

“My nerves are running riot from your kiss.”

Stepan helped her into the coach and sat beside her. “Miss Flambeau, you should use more coyness in your dealings with the opposite sex. A woman should never give her suitor the advantage of complimenting his kisses.”

“Why not?”

“Burgeoning conceit would give the fellow a fat head.”

Fancy waved her hand, dismissing that particular problem. “No matter, you already have a fat head.”

Stepan grinned. “I appreciate your keeping me humble.”

“Soho lies in the other direction. Where are you taking me?”

“My home.”

Fancy shook her head. “I refuse—”

“I will feed you supper,” Stepan interrupted, “and then we will discuss your actions this evening. Nothing more, I promise.”

Ten minutes later, the royal coach halted in front of a mansion in exclusive Grosvenor Square. Stepan climbed out first, helped her down, and called to his driver, “Harry, I will be going out again in an hour or so.”

An unfamiliar pang of jealousy shot through Fancy, but she tried to keep her tone casually unconcerned. “Where are you going after supper?”

Stepan took her hand and led her up the stairs. “I plan to escort you home.”

Her face warmed with embarrassment. Thankfully, the night hid her blush.

The front door opened, revealing a tall, dignified, middle-aged man, who stepped aside. The man flicked her a curious glance and murmured, “Good evening, Your Highness.”

“Though he gives himself airs, Bones is my opinionated majordomo.” Stepan winked at her. “Bones has the most amusing dry wit.”

“Better dry than scattered,” Bones said, the corners of his mouth twitching with good humor.

Fancy decided she liked the older man. He wasn’t the least bit snooty as she would have expected.

“Tell Feliks I want
zakooska
and vodka served in the drawing room.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” The majordomo disappeared down the corridor.

Fancy flicked a measuring glance around the reception foyer, which was larger than her dining room. The floor was marble, and a graceful staircase twisted to the upper floor.

Stepan gestured toward the stairs. “Shall we?”

Shades of blue with white trimming colored the second-floor drawing room. A Persian carpet covered the floor. Its blue, cream, and gold complemented the various hues of blue throughout the chamber. Oversized sofas and wingbacked chairs sat in small clusters, old friends gathering for a bit of gossip. A round oak table stood in the center of the drawing room, and upon it perched a huge vase of lilacs.

“Did you grow those?”

“We Russians believe lilacs are Heaven’s first gift of the year because they signify deliverance from a harsh winter.” Stepan led her to the sofa in front of the black marble hearth.

Sitting in the prince’s drawing room made Fancy uncomfortable. She had never ventured inside a man’s home, and her virtue had been guarded as diligently as that of any society debutante.

Appearances meant everything. Society believed that sitting alone in the prince’s home was as immoral as lying in his bed. Her reputation would be ruined if anyone discovered her presence here.

“Relax.” Stepan reached over and patted her hand. “Did you apologize to Patrice Tanner?”

“I wasted my time.”

“What did she say?”

“Patrice asked if I’d come to see the dressing room I coveted.” Fancy gave him a disgruntled look. “I noticed her mirror is much larger than mine and crackless.”

Stepan smiled at that. “I am proud of your apology,” he said, “but I thought the person receiving the apology was required to accept it.”

His puzzlement surprised her. “Your Highness, have you ever apologized to anyone?”

“Hmmm…” The prince stared into space for long moments before answering. “I do not believe so. At least, I cannot recall any apologies.”

Fancy smiled at his admission, and he returned her smile. She knew he had no idea what was amusing her.

Bones and two men of gigantic proportions marched into the drawing room. All three carried trays, which they set on the table near the sofa. One tray held a bottle of clear liquid, two tiny glasses, and plates with silverware. The other two trays contained bite-sized morsels of food, none of which Fancy had ever seen before, except the bread, cheese, and sausage.

“Thank you, Bones. We will serve ourselves.”

“Ahem…” One of the men cleared his throat, drawing the prince’s attention.

“Fancy, I present Feliks, my chef, who traveled from Russia.” Stepan introduced them, and then gestured to the larger of the two. “And this is Boris, Feliks’s brother, my sometime bodyguard.”

“I am pleased to meet you.” Fancy gave both burly Russians a polite smile.

Feliks grinned. “Prince say you sweet songbird, huh?”

Stepan chuckled at her blush. “Miss Flambeau does sing at the opera.”

Boris spoke up then.
“Krusseevy dyevuchka.”

“He said ‘beautiful girl,’” Stepan whispered, leaning close. “Tell him
spasseeba
, thank you.”

“
Spasseeba
, Boris.”

The big Russian grinned at her and nodded. “You good pronounce.” Then he followed Feliks and Bones out of the room.

“How difficult life in England must be for Feliks and Boris.” When he raised his brows, Fancy added, “I mean, their lack of English limits communication.”

Stepan burst into laughter. “After living in London for five years, Feliks and Boris speak English very well. They pretend otherwise when it suits them. Which allows them to eavesdrop on gossip.”

“This is vodka.” Stepan poured the clear liquid into the tiny glasses. “The food is
zakooska
.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means—” The prince shrugged. “Vodka means vodka, and
zakooska
means
zakooska
.” He passed her a glass, instructing her, “Do not sip the vodka. Gulp it down in one swallow.”

She lifted the tiny glass to her lips, but the prince stopped her. He passed her a wedge of Swiss cheese. “Eat this after you gulp the vodka.”

Fancy drank the vodka in one swig, and then regretted it. She coughed and wheezed, the liquid fire stealing her breath and burning a path to her stomach.

“Eat the cheese.”

Eat the damn cheese?

Fancy looked at the smiling prince through vision blurred by tears of distress. The coughing and wheezing ceased, but the fire inside left her gasping.

“The vodka does not agree with you.” Stepan patted her back solicitously until her gaze cleared and he recognized the murderous glint in her eyes. “Are you hungry?”

Her violet gaze narrowed on him. “Dead women do not eat.”

“I apologize for failing to warn you about the vodka’s strength.” Stepan gave her his most charming smile. “I make amends by giving you the first apology of my life.”

Fancy giggled, the vodka relaxing her mood. “I am honored to be the distinguished recipient of your first apology, Your Highness, and will cherish this noble gesture forever.”

Stepan spooned pate on a small piece of brown bread and lifted it to her lips. She took a bite of the unknown food.

“Do you like it?”

“Delicious.” She ate the remainder of the pate and bread. “What is it?”

“Caviar.”

Fancy gave him a blank look. “I don’t understand.”

“Sturgeon roe.”

She arched her brow at him.

“Fish eggs in ovaries.”

Her hand flew to her throat as she fought the nausea down. “Do not eat that,” she ordered, her gaze on his hand.

Stepan set the pate and bread on his plate. “Caviar is a delicacy.” He stared at her a long moment and then asked, “Will you try the jellied eels?”

Her appalled expression was his answer.

“Do you mind if
I
eat the jellied eels?”

She curled her lip at him.