Prince of Hearts (13 page)

But one never knew with a magician like him.

Legend had it that Romanov had attended once, six years ago, before her employment. The ladies still talked about it in hushed whispers along the ballroom sidelines when they ran out of recent gossip to pass the time. They tended to bring up the subject when she was around, since everyone knew she was his secretary.

This spurious recounting invariably prefaced an interrogation about her employer, what tailor he used, what mistress he kept, what plans for matrimony he had, and exactly how many pounds he was worth.

Having to endure conversations about Romanov was one of the reasons she hated balls. Having to endure conversations about Romanov while Romanov was in actual attendance, however, would be far, far worse.

"Why do you keep looking at the door, darling?" Christiana asked, glancing down at her in concern.

Aline wrinkled her nose. "No reason."

Christiana looked as if she doubted this, but continued her rather one-sided conversation that Aline tried to follow. Something about orphans and miserly old dowagers. But her attention wandered back towards the door.

She had the oddest feeling he
was
going to come tonight.

She shivered and clenched her hands into fists. She simply would not let herself think about what had happened. On her desk. To her lips.

"Are you well, Aline?" Christiana pressed. "You look rather flushed."

She murmured she was quite fine and turned her back to the door.

He would not come.

And even if he did, perhaps if she remained turned away from him the entire time, she could imagine he wasn't there at all.

Though this shift in position opened up a whole new can of worms, for now she was facing Charlie. Charlie and the lovely Miss Theodora Hendrix. They still had their heads together, chatting up a storm. They'd not moved from where they’d stood since Miss Hendrix had arrived with her father, Charlie's old mentor, nearly an hour ago.

Apparently, Professor Hendrix and his daughter had spent the last seven years living in Italy, excavating ancient temples. Seeing them here tonight had been a complete surprise to Charlie.

Correction.

Seeing Miss Theodora Hendrix had been a complete surprise to Charlie, or so Aline had learned when Charlie had expounded for a good five minutes about how lovely Miss Hendrix was looking.

Aline was not jealous.

Even though she'd walked away from Charlie and Miss Hendrix's tête-à-tête without being noticed. Even though Miss Hendrix, with her golden hair arranged immaculately, and her sea foam Grecian gown draped around her tall, curvaceous figure, was nearly as beautiful as Lady Christiana. Even though Charlie had been unable to take his eyes off of Miss Hendrix the entire night.

"Don't worry, Aline. I'm sure Charlie's just excited to see an old friend," Christiana said, noticing the direction of Aline's present gaze.

"So he said," Aline murmured. She sighed wearily, excused herself, and made a beeline towards the punch bowl.

Unfortunately, she was intercepted by Miss Dahlia Ridenour and Miss Sabrina Eddings, two confirmed spinsters, only a few years older than Aline – or so they claimed. Aside from their Iron Necklaces, they had clearly spent a good part of their fortunes on Welding enhancements to improve their looks. Their busts were both suspiciously rigid, and the metal plates under their skin, meant to keep the wrinkles at bay, made changing their expressions difficult.

Their enhancements had
not
helped them catch husbands.

They had taken it upon themselves to befriend her when she'd first started making the rounds to such events, seeing in her a kindred spirit. And they meant well. Usually.

She suppressed a sigh, for she knew where this conversation was headed. She'd been avoiding them all night just so she wouldn't have to go through the inevitable rigmarole of explaining her engagement, which had doubtless reached their ears by now.

"My dear, we've just heard! How very thrilling that Dr. Netherfield has asked for your hand!” the nervous Miss Ridenour gushed. “Absolutely thrilling. Isn't it, Sabrina?"

Miss Eddings cast a significant glance across the ballroom at Charlie and his current companion. "Just in time, I'd say, for you, Miss Finch," she said lightly.

Aline couldn't help but feel a bit wounded at the jab. Miss Eddings need hardly point out the disparities between herself and the lovely Miss Hendrix. They were evident enough.

But she and Charlie were engaged, and she didn't doubt his intentions. Once Charlie committed to a course, he tended to see it through to the end. He'd proposed, and she'd accepted. It was no grand passion, but they were fond of each other and committed to building a life together.

"This week has been full of happy endings. You and Dr. Netherfield, and Miss Wren and Captain Standish!" Miss Ridenour gushed. She grabbed Aline's arm, huffing excitedly. "Have you read the latest
Chronicles
, Miss Finch?"

How to answer that!

Miss Ridenour, who rarely paused for responses, barreled on, her face lighting up with a sudden revelation. "I could simply not believe it when Captain Standish proposed to Miss Wren on his boat."

"The
Albion Lady
is an airship, not a boat," Miss Eddings corrected pedantically.

"Whatever, it was romantic! It was how I always wanted the Captain to propose. Aboard his boat. If I had a beau in the Royal Navy, it is how I would want him to propose."

"Balderdash!" Miss Eddings sniffed. "It's not romantic at all. It is drivel. Standish is a lily-liver. Miss Wren is a fool to think that they suit. Mark my words, Miss Wren will soon realize her mistake. Standish is bound to do something foolish, revealing his true character."

"But that ... that's absurd," Miss Ridenour cried. "Miss Wren and the Captain are soul mates."

Miss Eddings groaned. "Is it not obvious to anyone but me? Dr. Augustus is Miss Wren's true match."

The group of ladies who had gathered around them when the conversation had turned to the
Chronicles
drew a collective breath, including Aline herself. What could she have possibly written that would have led all the women of London to believe that Dr. Augustus and Miss Wren were ... were what? Destined for each other? Ugh!

Standish was Miss Wren's match.
Standish
, not Dr. Augustus.

"I do not think the author intends Miss Wren for anyone but Standish, Miss Eddings," Aline said before she could stop herself.

Miss Eddings gave her a stare that seemed to ask,
And how do
you
know
?

How did she indeed, when she was merely the bloody author? Why, she'd half a mind to reveal who she was just so she could put an end to these ridiculous rumors. Really, Miss Wren and Augustus! It was just one more way Romanov was intruding upon her sanity.

Miss Edding's glare changed to one of surprise as she caught sight of something over Aline's shoulder. The nosy woman's face flooded with color, and a silly grin quivered on her normally sour lips.

Aline glanced at her other companions, and she saw that they all wore similar mooncalf expressions as they gazed across the room. With an exasperated sigh, she turned to see what had caught their undivided attention.

Her jaw dropped.

Romanov.

She’d once seen him seduce a woman with the arch of a single eyebrow across a crowded opera house. Not that she’d been invited to the opera. She’d been forced to go there to give him an urgent message and had quite accidentally witnessed the encounter. The woman – beautiful, of course, and married to an ancient duke – had stayed Romanov's mistress for a month before he grew bored. Aline had bought the woman a pair of jeweled opera glasses as a parting gift – in case the woman needed help scouting eyebrows in the future.

But that wasn't the point.

The point was that Romanov tended to attract women like moths to a flame even when he wasn’t doing anything at all other than standing still and breathing air. That seemed to be the case at the moment. The women around her were positively fluttering. She couldn't blame them for being drawn by superficialities. Romanov's superficialities were, after all, quite breathtaking.

She didn't think it fair that any human being should be so absolutely, stunningly gorgeous. Towering, raven-haired with a bit of grey peppering his sideburns, those outrageous yellow-amber wolf eyes glittering out from his dusky skin, he stood out among the rest of the rather staid-looking Englishmen present like an exotic orchid amid an ocean of hothouse daisies.

She bit her bottom lip until it hurt. What had gotten into her, comparing him and the rest of the gentlemen in the ballroom to flowers?

She was immune to his charms. She’d had five years of his personal torments to erase any missish sentimentality on her part.

Though she had to admit he was looking particularly ... particularly exhilarating tonight. His evening suit was entirely black, and cut in that slightly foreign, Continental style he preferred to fit his broad-shouldered, whip-thin physique like a glove. The only thing that was less-than immaculate was his untidy necktie.

Could he find no one in his army of retainers to tie a proper knot for him?

He was scanning the assembly as his friend, the Earl, approached him, clearly surprised by his appearance. The Earl was not the only one. What could he be doing here now?

She soon had her answer. His eyes stopped on her, and a slow, predatory smile settled around the edges of his mouth. Damn, he meant to torment her further! Excusing himself from the Earl, he began to stride in her direction with a distinctly feline grace.

A flurry of feminine excitement pulsed around her.

"The Professor!" Miss Ridenour breathed.

"Your employer!" Miss Eddings practically twittered.

"
Ex
-employer," she corrected through clenched teeth.

"He's coming this way!" another lady nearly screeched in her ear.

Aline rolled her eyes and sighed. She fought the temptation to smooth her skirts, as all the other ladies around her seemed to be doing at the moment, and squared her shoulders, readying herself for battle. Her pulse had quickened, to her dismay, and the temperature of the room suddenly seemed stifling.

He stopped directly in front of her, wolfish grin firmly in place.

"Miss Finch," he murmured. His glittering eyes left her for a moment, sweeping over her companions. "Ladies," he added. He delivered a perfect, graceful bow that undid the group completely. They were practically falling over themselves as they curtsied back. She heard Miss Ridenour give a nervous giggle.

She wanted to vomit.

"Professor Romanov," she said, bobbing her head, not daring to extend her hand for the obligatory kiss. She would not think about her desk. Or his kiss. Or the fact that it had sent her world up in flames.

His lips curled in a knowing grin and his eyes twinkled roguishly. As if he knew exactly what she was trying not to think about. He addressed the ladies once more.

"You'll forgive me if I steal Miss Finch from you for a moment? We have some matters to discuss."

Having no choice without causing a scene, she took his proffered arm and allowed him to lead her away. It was only a moment later that she realized her error. He was leading her towards the dance floor, where a rather high-spirited Viennese waltz had begun. She made one final attempt to escape, tugging herself in the direction of the punch bowl.

"If you think I am going to dance with you, sir..." she began.

"Smile, Finch. People will think you're having an apoplexy."

She groaned through gritted teeth. "I do
not
dance."

"I shall make do."

"What are you doing here, anyway?"

"What does it look like? Enjoying myself at one of the season's best events."

"You never come to the charity ball."

"Never? But I am here now, so you are in error."

He pulled her onto the dance floor and faced her. Before she could react, one of his large hands anchored itself to her waist, and the other twined through her fingers.

"I shall step on your toes,” she warned.

"You weigh less than a bird, Finch. I think I shall come out unscathed."

"I shall fall on my face."

"Have I ever let you do that?" he murmured silkily.

She glanced up, which was a mistake. His nose hovered a scant inch away from her own. Her heart skipped a beat. She attempted to draw back, but his hands were like iron manacles. He swept her into the throng of dancers.

She hadn't the chance to stumble, as her feet barely touched the floor as he circled her around the room. He continued to stare down at her intently, still much too close. She tried to focus on his collar, but she could feel his breath ruffling the top of her hair, as if he were...

As if he were smelling her! Again!

She craned her neck upwards and tried to fix him with her sternest glare. But it was hard to do, as she was winded and dizzy from being tossed about like a rag doll.

"Were you ... were you sniffing my hair, Professor?" she breathed.

He looked much too innocent. "Whatever gave you that idea, Finch?" He changed directions abruptly, pulling her along effortlessly. "But if I were ... Isn't that the point of wearing perfume? For gentlemen to sniff about ladies' hair?"

"I do not ... wear ... perfume," she managed. “I am allergic.”

He seemed to consider this seriously. "Then you naturally smell of lemons and mint? How interesting."

"I do not ... oh! Could you please slow down? I can barely breathe trying to keep up with you."

"It has never been a problem before."

"Yes it has! You were just too ... too thickheaded to realize it! Why do you think you were always having to pick me up off the floor?"

He looked contrite. "So sorry, Finch. We could have solved the problem long ago if only you had said something." He studied her. "But of course you wouldn't have said anything. You would have not wanted to reveal your weakness to me, though I must say it was plainly evident."