To Wed a Wicked Prince (26 page)

Alex took half a step in her direction and then turned back as Boris knocked at the door and came in. “Visitors, Your Highness. Duke Sperskov—”

“Yes, yes,” Alex said more brusquely than he intended. “I was expecting them.” He moved past Boris, extending his hand. “Come in, gentlemen.”

Livia reentered the house through the kitchen and went up to her bedchamber. She was troubled. Every now and again in the two months they had been in London this strange thing happened to Alex, his mood would shatter and he would withdraw. She shrugged it off much of the time, but this afternoon was the first time it had happened at such a moment of intimacy.

Did it have anything to do with the visitors he was expecting? For some reason she was never invited to the library when he had visitors. Even though she was slightly acquainted with Duke Nicolai Sperskov and Count Fedorovsky after their meeting at the Bonhams’ all those months ago, Alex never included her in their visits. If she happened to pass them in the hall, they always greeted her with impeccable courtesy, just as they did if they met at a social event, but that was as far as it went. And after the one occasion when she had disturbed Alex with the rough-looking Russian, whose name she couldn’t now remember, even when she was sure he was alone in the library, she always knocked and waited for his permission to enter.

Presumably, keeping wives separate from their husbands’ friends was another strange Russian custom. But it only seemed to apply to
his
Russian friends. He was a very different man with the English and the French royalist émigrés who had fled to England after the revolution. A charming and attentive husband, an impeccable host, and an equally delightful guest.

All in all, her husband was something of a puzzle, Livia decided. And she was in no mood to sit at home and brood on the puzzle. She would visit Nell and Ellie in Mount Street. They’d be highly amused at this latest evidence of Sophia Lacey’s proclivities.

She rang for Ethel and then went to the armoire to select an afternoon gown. “Ethel, would you run down and ask Morecombe to summon the barouche for me?” she said as the maid came in. “Jemmy can drive me to Mount Street.” She laid a gown of striped muslin on the bed and unbuttoned the sadly mistreated dress she was wearing.

Jemmy jumped down from the box of the barouche as Livia came out of the house. The dogs, who were sitting on the box proud as peacocks, their feathery tails fluffed, ears pricked, let loose a crescendo of excited barks when they saw her.

“Yes…yes, I’m delighted to see you too,” she said, stroking their heads as Jemmy held the carriage door for her.

“Where to, m’lady?”

“Mount Street, please.” She climbed in and Tristan and Isolde clambered into the back to sit beside her, tails wagging, tongues hanging out. “How are you managing with the dogs, Jemmy?”

“Oh, we gets along very well, ma’am,” he said, solicitously arranging the lap robe over her knees. “I like the company, if truth be told.”

Well, that at least had been a potential problem easily resolved, Livia thought. Alex seemed willing to tolerate them if they weren’t permanently underfoot.

Her friends were in Cornelia’s sitting room with their children when Livia arrived in Mount Street, the dogs running in front of her. They were as at home here as in Cavendish Square, and the children adored them.

“Liv, what a lovely surprise.” Cornelia embraced her warmly. “We’re having tea.”

“Lovely,” Livia said, kissing Aurelia. She greeted the children, but they were too busy playing with the dogs to respond with more than a monosyllable.

She cast aside her muff and shrugged out of the fur-trimmed spencer, tossing it over an ottoman. “So, how have you both been?” She sank into the corner of a chintz sofa and with an appreciative smile took the cup Cornelia offered.

“Well enough. What of you, Princess Prokov?” Aurelia regarded her with a quizzical smile.

“Oh, well enough,” she responded carelessly, taking a macaroon from the plate of sweet biscuits.

“You still have a very satisfied glow about you,” Cornelia observed with amusement. “A little love in the afternoon, perhaps? I do believe I’m jealous.” She heaved a mock sigh. “Ah, the first flush of love, there’s nothing like it for the complexion.”

“And I suppose that’s a thing of the past for you?” Livia retorted, not troubling to deny her friend’s accurate statement.

“Well, I’ve been married for almost a year now, and you know it’s really not fashionable to live in one’s husband’s pocket,” Cornelia said solemnly. “The gloss does wear off eventually.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Aurelia said, laughing. “You and Harry are as head over heels in love as you ever were, and you’re so smug about it, Nell, don’t deny it.”

“I won’t,” Cornelia said with a grin.

“Well, there’s little fear that I’ll be living in my husband’s pocket,” Livia said, dipping her macaroon in her tea.

Her friends looked at her sharply. “Is something the matter, Liv?” Aurelia asked.

She shook her head. “No, it’s just that I’m having to learn Russian ways. Russian men do seem to expect to rule the roost. In fact Alex told me so himself, although he was making a joke of it…or at least, I think…I
hope
…he was,” she added.

“You didn’t mind when he managed things before you married him,” Aurelia said, a worried frown creasing her brow. “Is this different?”

“A little,” Livia conceded. She hadn’t intended to be having this discussion, but she should have known she would end up confiding in her friends. “Before, it was amusing and rather exciting, the way he swept obstacles from his path, doing exactly what he wanted and somehow persuading everyone else, me in particular, that it was what they wanted too. I liked it then, only now…”

She chewed her lip. “It’s one thing to be swept off your feet in the game of courtship, quite another to feel that your wishes
have
to come second simply because it’s a husband’s prerogative to take precedence.”

Cornelia’s frown was a fair replica of Aurelia’s. “Alex doesn’t bully you?”

“No…no, of course not,” Livia denied vehemently. “He’s charming and funny and gentle, but just adamant about certain things. It’s as if he couldn’t imagine doing anything differently from the way it’s always been done in his experience.”

“Well, he does come from a different culture,” Aurelia said. “It’s inevitable that his experience would be different from yours. Is he willing to compromise?”

“Up to a point,” Livia said, feeling suddenly disloyal. “It’s nothing serious, really it isn’t. I was just a little put out this afternoon.”

She set down her teacup, intending to close the conversation, but found herself confiding the other thing that puzzled her. “It’s odd, but he never invites me to join them when his Russian friends come to visit. I meet them at other social events, just to bow to anyway, so it would seem natural that he would include me, even briefly, when they come to the house. But he never does. Why would that be?”

“Perhaps they only speak in Russian,” Aurelia suggested. “Perhaps it’s a part of his world that he thinks you won’t understand. Men are just as bad as women when it comes to closing ranks. Look at their clubs. I mean a woman daren’t even be seen in St. James’s Street.”

“True enough.” Livia nodded. “Although I don’t think it has anything to do with language. He told me once that only peasants speak Russian, at court everyone speaks French or English. But you’re right. I’m making a mountain out of a molehill. It’s probably just like an extended port-and-brandy postdinner gathering, with the women safely out of earshot over the teacups.” There was some sense to such an explanation and it would have to satisfy her.

“But you don’t have any regrets about this marriage?” Cornelia asked, leaning towards Livia anxiously.

“No, none at all.” Livia shook her head vigorously. “I love being married to him. These are just little niggles, and I’m probably being childish letting them upset me.”

L
IVIA LEFT SOON AFTER, GOING
out into the frigid February dusk, hoping that Jemmy had remembered to warm up the brick again while he was waiting in the Mount Street kitchens. He had and she snuggled into the lap rug, settling her feet on the brick, the dogs on her lap for an added layer of warmth.

Somehow, confiding in her friends hadn’t brought her the relief it should have done. She was still uneasy about something, and she was having difficulty putting it into words. It was something to do with the glimpses of a different Alex that she’d caught once or twice. A touch of flint that hardened his eyes into a diamond brightness; a feeling of ruthlessness, of determination about him quite at odds with the generally easygoing, genial public face of Prince Prokov, and totally at odds with the lover whose slightest touch made her blood sing.

But then, as she was always telling herself, she had a lot to learn about the man who was her husband. So why didn’t that realization ease her vague perturbation? Did it have something to do with the formless inkling that she had somehow been the object of that ruthless determination?

Had that relentless pursuit and courtship been stimulated by something other than the headlong tumble into lust and love that she’d believed in? The unthinking passion that had swept her along with it on a glorious tide of emotional turmoil?

It was ridiculous to entertain these doubts about her husband, ridiculous and disloyal, Livia told herself as the carriage turned into Cavendish Square. She had no evidence of deception. He had never treated her with anything but loving tenderness. And she was in the mood for a little of that now, she decided firmly.

She stepped out of the barouche and went into the house, hoping that Alex had not gone out or if he was in, was no longer with his friends. The library door stood open but the room was empty. “Has Prince Prokov gone out, Boris?”

“I don’t believe so, Princess.” The majordomo spoke tonelessly.

“Do you know where he is?”

“Above stairs, I believe, my lady.” He didn’t meet her eye, speaking to some point over her head, but Livia had long decided she wasn’t going to attempt to conciliate him, so she thanked him pleasantly and headed for the stairs.

Perhaps Alex was dressing for the evening. She couldn’t remember his saying anything about going out for the evening, but his plans could have changed after his afternoon with his compatriots.

She went up to her own bedchamber and stopped on the threshold in surprise. Alex in a brocade robe was lounging on her bed, ankles crossed, hands behind his head, a picture of relaxation.

“Ah, there you are, madam wife,” he said somewhat plaintively. “I’ve been waiting for you for hours.” A lazy smile curved his mouth and his blue gaze was positively lascivious as it drifted over her. “I had it in mind to further the education that we began this afternoon, but when I came hot foot in search of you, you weren’t anywhere to be found.” His tone was mock plaintive, but his gaze burned with a quite different emotion.

Livia’s body responded as it always did to the sensual promise in his eyes. She unpinned her hat, trying to make her movements tantalizingly slow. “I was in Mount Street,” she said, carefully laying her hat on the dresser before unbuttoning her pelisse.

“I know,” he said. He crooked a finger at her in invitation. “Come here, wife of mine.”

Livia pursed her lips, as if she needed to think about whether she would or not. She remained standing at the dresser, regarding him with narrowed eyes.

“Must I come and fetch you?” Alex swung himself off the bed and took a purposeful step towards her. Livia gave a feigned squeal of fright and darted behind a chair.

His eyes gleamed. “Ah, so that’s the way it’s to be, is it?” He lunged for her and she pushed the chair towards him, slowing him down as she dived behind the daybed. She watched him warily, her eyes dancing with mischief.

Alex set the chair straight again and surveyed her thoughtfully. Her cheeks were pink, her gray eyes aglow with anticipatory excitement. He took a step towards her and she grabbed a cushion from the daybed and tossed it at him. He caught it with one hand and threw it aside.

Livia backed away and, laughing, he stalked her around the room, effortlessly catching the series of missiles she threw at him to impede his progress. There was nowhere really for her to go, but the game made her blood run hot and swift, and her pulses race. She tried to sidestep and found herself backed into a corner.

“Now where are you going?” he teased, putting his hands on the wall on either side of her.

Livia didn’t answer. She ducked suddenly beneath his arm, surprising him, and nearly made it to freedom, but he moved swiftly, catching her around the waist, swinging her against him. He held her tightly, one hand pushing up her chin. “Got you,” he declared with satisfaction.

“So it would seem,” Livia agreed, catching her breath, gazing up at him.

“I have a great need for you,” he said softly, running his free hand over the swell of her breasts, down to the curve of her hip.

“Then you must win me, sir,” she said, her eyes narrowing as an idea came to her.

“And how must I do that?” he inquired, more than willing to play her game. Livia was nothing if not playfully inventive when it came to lovemaking.

“By playing chess with me,” she stated. “Russians are expert at the game, but so, I should tell you, am I. I have been wanting to play with you since we first met, but somehow the opportunity never arose.”

Alex looked a little taken aback. “Must we…right at this moment?”

“Yes,” she said firmly, reaching up to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Trust me, you
will
enjoy it.”

He took her face between his hands and kissed her hard, his tongue driving deep into her mouth in a statement of clear possession. Then he released her. “That’s a promise,” he said softly, “to be redeemed very soon.”

Livia grinned. “I’ll make sure that it is, my prince.” She went across the room to the secretaire and dropped the leather desktop. She drew out a chessboard and a box. “Now, where shall we set it up?…Here, I think.” She put the heavy board on a low table in front of the fire. “If you win, then I will be your slave for the evening…on the other hand, should I happen to prevail…” Her gaze sparked sensual mischief.

He pulled at his chin, appearing to consider the offer, and the atmosphere grew taut with anticipation. “An interesting proposition,” he said finally. “And not one any self-respecting Russian could refuse. Set it up, madam wife.”

An hour later he was beginning to wonder quite what he’d let himself in for. He surveyed his side of the board. Something of a wreck, really. The ranks of his lost pieces far exceeded those remaining on the board. He considered himself to be a more than passable player, but Livia played like a demon.

“Just where did you learn to play like this?” he inquired, watching her as she considered her next move.

“My father taught me,” she told him. “The chessboard is his metaphor for life.” She looked up with a quick smile. “Always look before you leap, and always consider the consequences of the consequences of your actions.” Her hand hovered over her bishop.

“He was a mathematician at university, a senior wrangler at Cambridge before he turned to theology. He used chess as a means of relaxation from mathematical calculations,” she expanded, moving her bishop to Queen Four. “Check.”

Alex sighed. “So it is.” He frowned over his options. They appeared rather limited. “Well, looking ahead to the consequences of my last move, I see only mate in three in my future.”

Livia chuckled. “That’s what I see too.” She was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the table, now wrapped in her favorite dressing gown of rich tawny velvet, her bare feet peeping beneath the hem. Her hair was loose on her shoulders. “Will you resign, sir? Or play it out?”

Alex, who was also sitting on the floor, leaned forward and toppled his king with a forefinger. Then he leaned back against the chair behind him and regarded her with a smile. “The next move, I believe, madam, is yours.”

She nodded slowly. “Ah, yes, so it is. I have won a slave for the night.” She closed her eyes in thought. Then she opened them with a groan of frustration. “The trouble is I can’t think of anything I want you to do that you don’t already do,” she wailed.

Alex threw back his head and laughed. “What a failure of imagination, my love. Most unusual for you.” He uncurled himself from the floor and stood up. “Perhaps my task should be to stimulate that imagination.”

Bending, he caught her under the arms and lifted her to her feet, pushing up her chin with his palm before kissing her. He moved his lips to the tip of her nose and then to her eyelids, a kiss that was a mere whisper over the paper-thin lids. He nibbled her earlobes and then grasped her face firmly between both hands and kissed her ear, his tongue snaking around the exquisitely sensitive, shell-like whorls. She squirmed in laughing protest at a caress that he knew full well would send her into paroxysms of pleasure even as she struggled to resist.

At last he released her face, his hands moving instead to the tie of her robe. “I can perform my task better if we get rid of this.” He pushed it off her shoulders and bent to kiss the pulse at the base of her throat, his hands globing her breasts, running down her rib cage, thumbs pressing into the points of her hipbones. He straightened, still holding her hips, and regarded her flushed countenance with a tiny smile.

“Will you allow me to perform my task in my own way, mistress mine? Or do you have any specific instructions?”

“No,” she said, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. “No, I don’t. I believe you’re more than able to fashion your own.”

He nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing, the tiny smile still playing over his lips. “I am yours to command.” He tossed his own robe aside. Naked, he looked at her with a little frown of concentration. Then he nodded and smiled as if coming to some satisfactory decision.

“Wait there.” He went into his adjoining bedchamber and returned twisting a length of silk between his hands.

Livia was on fire with anticipation, her loins melting, her body thrumming. She had no idea what he was going to do. He came up behind her and tied the strip of silk over her eyes.

“There now,” he murmured. “Trust me and I promise you, you will experience everything twice as intensely.”

Livia swallowed, her vision a mere red mist behind the soft blindfold. Her bare skin prickled, expecting something, anything…she didn’t know what. He lifted her and carried her to the bed, setting her down in the middle. She lay still, gazing up into the blindfold, hearing him move around the room, open a drawer.

And then she felt him come back to the bed. The feather mattress took his weight, and he whispered, “This game we play without words, sweeting.” And then something soft brushed her cheek, traced the curve of her mouth. It tickled a little but in a manner she found only delightful. It flickered across her ear, tracing the shape of it, and she gave a tiny gasp at the sweetness of the pleasure. And then the sensation shifted to her throat, the soft flicker against the fast-beating pulse, before the soft brush slid slowly down to her breasts. A light, tantalizing stroke outlined her nipples, bringing them to burning peaks of awareness, and the familiar languorous delight began to build deep in her belly.

She felt the brushing strokes across her abdomen, dipping into her navel, moving lower over the white, rippling skin of her belly. She felt his hand part her thighs, gently inexorable, and her breath stopped in her throat. Anticipation of the next touch, of where and when it would come, was now so intense as to be almost painful.

The feathery touch trailed upwards over the smooth skin of her inner thighs and she shuddered with pleasure. It inscribed circles, smaller and smaller on the tender flesh of her thighs, moving ever upwards, closer and closer to the center of joy. And then it stopped, and, as the waiting seemed to stretch into infinity, tears of anticipatory delight dampened the silk of her blindfold and the deepest recesses of her body throbbed with expectation.

And then, when she had begun to fear it would never happen, when she had almost ceased to expect it, she felt it again, a light, brushing caress on her sex, and she thrummed like a plucked lute. His fingers opened her, parting her center for the soft and most intimate caress with this strange instrument of pleasure that he wielded with such exquisite and knowing artistry. And she was lost, mindless and sensate, a body that existed only for this explosion of pleasure in this blind and silent world.

Alex covered her mouth with his, gathering her against him as he slid into her tender opened body with the pulsing throb of his own arousal. She tightened her inner muscles around him and he stifled his moan of pleasure against her mouth. She held him tight within her as her body began to climb again up to the peak of joy, and the instant she hovered on its brink he drew her legs up onto his shoulders, so that he could penetrate deep to her very core, and this time he didn’t muffle his exultant cry as the world shattered into silver shards of delight, and Livia cried out with him.

He stayed within her for long moments as the fragments of themselves came together again, and when at last he felt her stir beneath him, he loosened the silk over her eyes and drew it away.

She gazed up at him, blinking in the sudden light, feeling strange and disoriented after the pleasure-filled, self-enclosed darkness. He kissed the corner of her mouth and the tip of her nose, then gently disengaged, rolling onto the bed beside her.

“What were you using?” she murmured, her voice sounding strange after such a long silence.

He smiled and showed her the little badger’s hairbrush that she used to apply powdered rouge on the rare occasions she thought her complexion needed a little assistance.

“Oh,” was all she could think to say.

“Rest a while,” he said, propping himself on one elbow, his other hand tracing the curve of her flank. “The night is barely begun.”