Always a Princess (12 page)

“Finished,” he proclaimed. “Not as well as your maid would have done, but not a bad job on the whole.”

“You underestimate yourself, Lord Wesley.”

“Thank you, Your Highness, but I’ll send the maid up to dress your hair for dinner,” he said. “I have some talents in the boudoir—as it were—but that isn’t one of them.”

“I’m sure your talents in the boudoir extend to anything you put your hand to—as it were,” she replied.

“Perhaps some day we’ll find out.” He pressed a kiss to her shoulder and then rose. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

She watched him leave. She watched the swagger in his step but also fixed her gaze on his hands—the hands that had felt so gentle and strong against her back and in her hair. He smiled at her once before letting himself out and closing the door behind him.

Yes, he’d succeed at anything he put those hands to. And those lips, and any other part of him where his talents lay. The man was a walking invitation to ruin. Heaven help the poor woman who gave in.

Philip poured himself a generous portion of whiskey and downed it on one gulp. If spirits dulled the senses, they had their work cut out this time. That little scene at Eve’s bath had cost him far more than he would have thought possible. What a woman.

He poured himself another drink and walked across the sitting room to stare out the window. Outside, London went about its usual business. In the streets, merchants’ wagons gave way to the occasional stately carriage. Brisk foot traffic clogged the sidewalks as people headed toward their evening meal. The park was largely deserted now, with London’s finest having left much earlier to dress for dinner. Just as Eve was dressing now—upstairs in this very house, her bath completed.

Her shoulders would be powdered to an impossible softness by now, but her skin might still hold the glow of heat from her bath. The maid, Marie, would be arranging her hair on top of her head and securing it with pins. No doubt her curls still held the fragrance of roses. The scent clung to his own hands from their sojourn in Eve’s hair—the perfume entirely too persistent for his peace of mind. Too lush. Too erotic.

How in hell was he supposed to endure a polite dinner thinking of all that? How could he simply go upstairs and change into his formal clothes without dwelling on how she would have looked rising like his very own Venus from the steam of her bath? Even if he did manage to gain some control over his body—which he hadn’t managed thus far—how could he sit at table with her without becoming aroused all over again? Just one glance at the curve of her breasts, and he’d be lost.

Dear Lord, her breasts. He took a swig of the whiskey and let it burn down his throat. The sensation made a pale comparison to the burning in his loins.

Her breasts defied description. He’d seen breasts in his day—the pale breasts of more than a few country lasses and the occasional randy lady of the peerage, the nut-brown breasts of the women of India. Breasts came in all shapes, sizes and colors. They were all equally beautiful, except for Eve’s. Eve’s breasts deserved sonnets to their shape—gentle slopes to the upturned peaks, fullness underneath suggesting fruit just ripe for the picking. They deserved odes to their color—pale ivory with just a hint of blush surrounding nipples the hue of antique roses. They deserved a symphony of appreciation to their size—not too large, not too small, just right for the palm or the mouth of a lover.

If he were a poet or a composer, he’d pen all sorts of accolades to her breasts. Alas, the only way he had to show his admiration would be to love them the way a man loves his woman’s breasts. With his fingers, with his lips, with every bit of devotion in him.

He’d have done it, too, if she’d been truly ready for his lovemaking. She’d been close, what with that sibilant “yes” she’d given him after he’d told her about the erotic temple carvings. If she’d asked for more, if she’d offered herself up for a kiss or asked to touch him in return, he would have happily obliged. He’d have stripped himself naked and carried her to her bed so that he could take her while her skin was still slick and hot from her bath. He’d have licked every droplet of water off her until she was writhing and begging him to end the torment by driving himself home inside her.

He closed his eyes in an effort to rid himself of the image, but that only allowed him to see more clearly how they’d fit together. His body sliding over hers as he buried himself inside her as deeply as he could go. Her legs wrapped around him, urging him on. Their cries blending together. Higher and higher. Building to a crescendo.

Bloody hell. He opened his eyes again and gulped for breath a few times. When that did nothing to calm the pounding of his heart, he swallowed the rest of his whiskey. But that wasn’t enough, either.

He had to get out of here. If he sat across the table from Eve and had to look at her breasts all through dinner, he’d disgrace himself completely. He’d declare his undying devotion to her bosom. He’d start composing ditties about how his poor rooster was perishing of unrequited love for her kitty. He’d lift her bodily from her seat and ravish her up against his mother’s great-aunt’s sideboard with the entire staff looking on.

Out of here. Yes, that was the ticket. To hell with tight collars and stiff cravats. No starch and stuffiness for him tonight. Tonight he’d find his way to a seamier part of town and lose himself to drink and anything else that caught his fancy. A willing woman would take the edge off his appetites so that he could face Eve and those perfect breasts again. He’d make that two or three willing women if he could manage—lusty wenches who knew a few games their mothers hadn’t taught them would ease the ache in his trousers.

He’d plow his way through half the women in London if that was what it took to get the picture of coupling with Eve out of his mind. Then, he’d return sated and ready to proceed with her introduction to her own desires. In a game like that, the poor thing didn’t stand a chance. He’d almost feel sorry for her if he hadn’t planned the enterprise entirely for her own good.

What a splendid idea. Why hadn’t he thought up such a capital plan before? Just a little relief of his own lust, and he’d come back prepared to arouse Eve’s passions even further.

He set his glass on a table and headed toward the doorway. Before he got there, though, the door opened, and his mother entered. She spotted Philip and stopped in her tracks.

“Why, hello, dear,” she said. “I was hoping to find Mobley.”

“You’ll have to search elsewhere, Mother. He’s not here.”

“I can see that, Philip. I should hope I can tell when a room has my own butler in it and when it doesn’t.”

“You haven’t mislaid him again, I hope,” he said.

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “One can’t mislay a butler the way one can, say, a parlor maid.”

“Then I have every confidence you’ll find him.” He walked to her and planted a kiss on her forehead. “I’m off.”

“And none too soon.”

That brought Philip up short. “I beg your pardon.”

“It’s well past time you were dressing. I’ve had Ned lay out your best suit.”

And the starchiest cravat in all of England, no doubt. “I’m sorry, Mother, but I won’t be home for dinner.”

“Not home for dinner?” she repeated. “Philip, how could you?”

“Easily. I put one foot in front of the other, and I’m gone.”

“But you can’t go out tonight. Not on the princess’s first night with us.”

“There’ll be many more nights, I’m sure.” Besides, after their encounter in Eve’s bedroom, she’d probably be just as relieved as he that they wouldn’t have to stare at each other over dinner.

He turned for the door, but his mother placed her hand on his arm. “Oh no, young man. You have responsibilities at home. You can’t just deposit relatives with us—especially foreign ones—and then go flitting off at a whim.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Because it isn’t done, and you need to learn how things are done,” she said. “You have to learn how to act like an earl.”

He put his hand on her shoulder. “Father’s the earl, thank heaven, and I pray for his health every day.”

“You’re a viscount,” she said.

“Not by my choosing.”

She put her hands on her hips. “If you won’t think of us, at least think of the princess.”

“Believe me, I am.”

“She’s a stranger here. You should see that she’s properly entertained.”

But he had entertained her—thoroughly—that very afternoon. And if he stayed, he’d be in grave danger of entertaining her some more.

“What will she think if you install her here and then disappear?” she said.

“She’ll think that I’ve gone out.”

“Really, Philip,” she said. “You’re impossible.”

“Really, Mother. That’s why you love me.”

“We’ve indulged you too much,” she said. She slipped her fingers into her bodice and retrieved a handkerchief. No mystery where that would lead. Sure enough, her eyes misted over, and she dabbed at them. “Andrew would have stayed.”

“Andrew wouldn’t likely have stumbled over a foreign princess relative to begin with.”

She sniffled a few times. “You’re heartless.”

“Tell that to the princess. I’m sure she’ll agree.”

She waved her handkerchief at him in a gesture of dismissal and utter disappointment. He took that as his cue to kiss her forehead one more time before heading out in search of strong drink and randy women.

Eve’s hunt through the library halted abruptly when the front door opened. She glanced at the clock on the mantel—well after midnight. Mobley had locked up some time earlier, and the family should all be in bed. She hadn’t seen Lord Wesley since that rather intimate encounter in her bedroom. She’d assumed that he’d come home and gone to bed long ago.

Now, what? She certainly didn’t want to confront him now, all alone and late at night and with evidence of her hunt stacked here and there.

At least she’d replaced most of the books as she’d looked behind them. And thank heaven she hadn’t had the courage to begin her quest for stolen jewelry in his bedroom. If she had, she’d be confronting him there now.

Maybe if she was very, very quiet, he’d go to bed and she wouldn’t have to confront him at all. She turned down the lamp and held her breath, waiting for Wesley to climb the stairs toward the bedrooms. He didn’t, though. Instead, his footsteps approached the library where she stood. The tread was none too steady, but it was distinctly masculine—she could almost hear his swagger in the cadence—and it kept getting closer.

After a moment, his figure appeared at the doorway. He entered the room—almost lurched into it—and leaned against the doorjamb.

“What are you doing up at this hour, Miss Stanhope?” he asked. “And in the library, of all places.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” She gestured toward the books around her. “I came looking for something to read.”

He looked at the scattered volumes, but his eyes didn’t focus completely, so who knew what number of books registered in his brain? “You wanted something to read?”

Maybe he believed her, and maybe he didn’t, but sticking by her story seemed her only choice. “You have so many wonderful books, I couldn’t make up my mind.”

“Ah-hah. Well,” he said. “No matter. I won’t have to wake you.”

“You’ve been drinking,” she stated.

“How perceptive of you,” he replied. “But I’m not drunk. At least not drunk enough.”

“Drunk enough for what?”

He got a silly smile on his face and placed a forefinger against the side of his nose. “I’ll leave that for you to puzzle out.”

Eve stood and stared at him. She’d never seen him drunk before. In fact, she’d never seen him in any state but complete control of himself. Ruffled and unkempt like this, with his hair in disarray and his collar open, he looked even more handsome than usual. Even more dangerous.

Heaven knew she’d had a hard enough time resisting him that afternoon. But then, she went a little bit mad every time the man touched her. What sort of power did he have over her to make her respond that way? Certainly, no man had ever tempted her in the slightest before—what she’d seen and heard her mother endure was enough to put anyone off sexual congress forever. And if she’d had any inclination in that direction left after her childhood, Arthur had dampened it thoroughly.

And yet, every time Philip Rosemont touched her, she forgot her mother, Arthur, good sense and everything else. Her body took control of her mind and transported her to places both wondrous and dangerous. Well, no matter how much her body might want him, her mind didn’t have to give in to it.

“I’m glad you’re home safely,” she said, as she walked toward the door. “I’ll retire for the night.”

She’d just gotten to the threshold, was almost past him and into the hall, when he reached out and grabbed her arm. “I think not, Miss Stanhope. We have business to settle, you and I.”

Eve looked up into his face and immediately fell under the spell of his warm brown eyes. The fact that their heat had been artificially enhanced by drink did nothing to make them any less fascinating. He ought to reek of liquor, too. That musty odor men got after hoisting one too many. But he didn’t. His breath smelled of yeast and spices. Very tempting, entirely too tempting.

“We have no business to discuss,” she said.

“But we do.” He pulled her against his chest. “We need to discuss why you’re afraid of my touch and what we’re going to do to cure you of that fear.”

She rested a hand against him and tried to lean backward. Unfortunately, the movement did little to put any distance between them but instead pushed her breasts against his chest. “Oh no, we don’t.”

“Oh yes, we do,” he said. “We most assuredly do.”

“Let me go,” she said. The words came out unsteadily. She’d never convince him that way that she wanted him to release her. But then, she’d best convince herself first, and the tender flesh of her bosom that rubbed so deliciously against his firmness. And somehow she’d have to convince her heart, which had taken up a staccato rhythm she could almost hear.

“We need to face the truth of what’s happening between us,” he said.

“There is nothing between us,” she said. “And there certainly is no ‘truth’ to be faced.”

“Eve.” He bent and placed his head against hers, pressing a little kiss to her ear. “Why do you resist me?”

The sound of her name shot right through her, vibrating through her very bones. She shuddered and sighed. Dear heaven, it was all happening again. The heat, the wildness—she had to fight them. Somehow, she had to resist.

“You hold back,” he whispered. “Even though you want me as much as I want you.”

“I don’t,” she lied.

“Don’t lie to yourself,” he said against her skin as his lips traveled the length of her throat. “Don’t lie to me.”

“Let me go,” she whimpered, even less convincingly than the first time.

He pulled her hard against him and nibbled at her neck. “Liar. You’re far too honest to be false about this.”

“I’m an impostor,” she said.

“A small fault,” he murmured, as his mouth approached her ear again.

“You don’t know anything but my name.”

“I know what I need to know,” he whispered, again into her ear. His voice, rasping and soft all at once, connected with her hidden places until her knees went weak, and she leaned against him for support.

“I could be a murderess,” she sighed. “I could kill you all in your beds.”

“Oh, do,” he groaned. “Do kill me in my bed.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“You
are
killing me.” He slid his hands to her rear and pulled her body against his until she could feel the hard, male part of him. “You’re killing me by inches. Lots and lots of inches.”

“Dear heaven,” she gasped. She twisted in his arms, but the movement did nothing more than to rub herself even more firmly against him.

He shuddered violently, and Eve held herself as still as she could, even though her breasts rose and fell with her labored breathing. He straightened and stared down at her, the lamplight dancing in his fevered eyes. “Do you know what I did tonight?”

“You drank a great quantity of gin,” she said. “Or ale.”

“Besides that.”

“No, I don’t know what you did,” she said. “And I doubt you’ll remember in the morning, either.”

“I went looking for a woman. Several women.” He swayed, rocking her slightly along with him. “I couldn’t find any.”

“You couldn’t find a single woman in the whole of London?” she asked. “That wasn’t very resourceful of you.”

“This isn’t about resourcefulness, Miss Stanhope. It’s about infatuation.”

“Infatuation?”

He winked at her and gave a thoroughly endearing, thoroughly drunken smile. “I’ve grown quite attached to you, it seems. Quite smitten. Dotty. Daft. Out of my mind.”

His confession made her skin heat to the roots of her hair. So, he’d gone dotty over her, had he? The hard ridge of male flesh still pressed into her belly told her that his infatuation was anything but platonic. She’d do well to remember that if he decided to spout any more tender pronouncements.

“I left the house this evening with every intention of indulging Long Tom with as many skirts as he could handle. But the scoundrel only wants you, and so the two of us have come home to teach you a lesson,” he said.

She tried to squirm out of his arms, but he held her firmly.

“I don’t want to learn it,” she said.

“But you shall. I’m going to torment you the way you’ve been tormenting me.”

He kissed her then. He bent and placed his mouth over hers, stealing her breath and her sanity. Somehow he could move his lips over hers with just the right pressure to turn her into jelly. He did it now—teased her, toyed with her, made her lean in to him to answer. Her bosom crushed against his chest while she parted her lips to taste him fully.

He moaned and rubbed her bottom, pulling her to him so that her body molded itself into his. This was torment. To feel so lost in his embrace and yet to want more, so much more. She moved her arms up and twined them around his neck so that she could kiss him back with urgency to match his. He parted her lips and slipped his tongue into her mouth to play against her own. Such delicious friction, such abandon, such need—she’d never felt anything like it. She answered, clinging to him, answering him breath for breath, sigh for sigh.

He turned her so that he could press her back against his arm. The movement left her entire throat exposed, and he took full advantage—first kissing and then nipping at the flesh just under her chin. She ought to resist, but instead she arched her back, giving him access not only to her neck but to her bosom, as well.

He moved a hand to cup one breast and squeezed gently. She’d become so sensitive there, so heavy and full, that she cried out. He pressed his thumb over the nipple, and even through the fabric of her dress, the friction sent darts of pleasure radiating through her.

Too much. He was too much. His touch, the heat he generated, everything was too much. She had to stop, and in another moment it would be too late. She managed to straighten and place her hands at the sides of his head to push it away from her throat.

“Stop,” she gasped. “Now.”

“Stop?” he repeated, half question and half plea.

“Please,” she cried. “You must stop.”

“But I thought you liked it,” he said plaintively. “I thought you liked my kisses.”

“I don’t!” He’d know that for a lie as well as she did. “That is, I do. I do like your kisses. But I don’t want any more of them. Not tonight. Not ever.”

He straightened and looked at her, confusion and unspent passion clear in his eyes. “I don’t understand.”

“I can’t explain. I won’t explain.”

He stared at her for a moment more and then hung his head. “I’m such an ass.”

“No, you’re not.” Well, actually he was. A perfect ass nearly all the time, but right now he was trying to do the right thing. At least, she thought he was.

“I am,” he said. “I’m a cad. A bounder. The worst sort of bastard.”

“No, really. You stopped when I asked you to.”

“I’m pathetic,” he said. “Hopeless. Half a man.”

Half a man? Not if the male organ she’d just felt against her belly was any indication. “Don’t you think you’re being just a bit too hard on yourself?”

He straightened, just a bit unsteadily. “I’m a gentleman, Miss Stanhope. I don’t force myself on women against their will.”

Fair enough. If he were sober, he’d no doubt realize that he hadn’t forced himself on her this time, either. He’d realize that she’d been as eager for his touch as he was for hers. In fact, he’d been well on his way toward seducing her thoroughly and not without some help on her part. With any luck he wouldn’t recognize that now and wouldn’t remember it in the morning.

He put his hand on Eve’s shoulder and swayed first backward and then forward, balancing himself against her. “I’ve wronged you, dear lady, and I can only beg for your forgiveness. Abjectly.”

“Yes, yes. I’m sure. Now, maybe I’d better help you get to bed.”

His eyebrow rose. “Bed?”

“Only to put you in it, Lord Wesley. Or to lay you on top. Whatever you can manage before you lose consciousness.”

“Oh.”

“Would you rather I call your man, Mobley?” she offered.

“Thank you, no,” he said. “Mobley’s too dour to be endured under the best of circumstances. Tonight, I’d rather you take me to my bed.”

“
To
your bed only,” she said. “Here, drape your arm over my shoulder, and let me help you upstairs.”

He did as she instructed and leaned in to her. “A man can dream, Miss Stanhope.”

“I’m sure.”

He raised a hand in a flourish that almost stole his balance. “Take away a man’s dreams, and he’s nothing.”

“I would never do that, Lord Wesley.”

“Someday you’ll come to see that I’m offering you a gift. The most beautiful gift life can give, Miss Stanhope.”

She guided him out of the library and across the foyer to the grand staircase. A large man, he made a rather heavy burden, but a warm and not altogether unpleasant one. His fingers gripped her shoulder but made no attempts at exploration to more sensitive areas.

“And what might that gift be?” she asked.

“Passion,” he declared. “Life without passion isn’t worth living. You may quote me on that.”

“Thank you, but I don’t think it’s likely to come up in ordinary conversation.”

“Oh, yes. Mock me if you will, but we’ll see who prevails. You can deny me, but you can’t fight your own nature forever, Miss Stanhope. You’ll come to me eventually, and you won’t regret it.”

“Upstairs, Lord Wesley.”

He gripped the banister and let her lead him toward the floor above. Another woman might laugh at his arrogant sureness that she’d eventually succumb to his charms. But Eve wasn’t laughing.

“The criminal mind, ladies, is no more sophisticated than a child’s,” Dr. Kleckhorn declared in clipped Teutonic syllables. “The criminal becomes entranced by what is colorful and appealing. And what he cannot have by the sweat of his labor, he takes by means of stealth.”

Eve took a sip of her tea and did her best to remain invisible to the doctor. If he knew anything about Eastern Europe, he might realize that her supposed first language was German and try conversing with her. She knew even less German than she knew French—which was to say none at all. How on earth had she ended up a founding member of the Ladies Society to Prevent Wayward Flowers or whatever Lady Farnham was calling it?

“But surely, if a criminal is like a child, he can be salvaged by love,” Lady Farnham said from her seat near the window of the sunlit drawing room. “He can be guided. Molded to good.”