Sweet as the Devil (10 page)

“I have no intention of waiting any—” Ernst frowned at the light touch on his sleeve and turned his chill gaze on Jamie.

“We have time, sir.”

At the unspoken warning in Jamie’s eyes, Ernst drew in a breath of restraint. “Very well,” he gruffly said. “Inform the Duke of Groveland I wish to speak with him at his convenience.”

Mallory nodded to a footman before turning back to the prince. “Jeffers will see you to the green drawing room, Your Excellency.” A model butler never lost his composure, although he saw no reason to make haste in delivering his message.

The prince and Jamie were shown into an Adams drawing room of well-preserved splendor and offered refreshments.

Ernst scowled at the servant while Jamie politely declined for them both.

“My God, you’re civil,” Ernst muttered, restlessly surveying the ornately Grecian room as the door closed on the flunkey. “And to a servant no less.”

Ignoring Ernst’s sputtering, Jamie said, “I suggest you observe the courtesies with Miss Eastleigh. She didn’t appear to suffer fools any more than you. Perhaps less.”

“You don’t say.” Ernst suddenly smiled. “Just like her mother.”

“Then perhaps you understand the need for delicacy and tact.”

“Stay and help me mind my manners. You have tact enough for both of us.”

Jamie shook his head. “Sorry. This has nothing to do with me.”

 

 

T
HE DUKE OF Groveland entered the room to find the prince pacing and Jamie propping up the fireplace surround, a magnificent bouquet of white lilac in the hearth scenting the room. “Good evening, Battenberg—Blackwood. A pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?”

Ernst came to a stop. “I apologize for intruding when you have guests.” The prince was capable of politesse with those he considered his peers. “But I have a personal matter I’d like to discuss with Miss Eastleigh. I understand she’s here tonight.”

“You must be a fan of her painting,” Fitz said, moving from the door toward the men.
Why have they chosen not to sit? Is there some urgency to this visit?

“I expect I will be, but I’m here on other business.”

A partial answer
. “Join us for dinner. You know most everyone—Lennox, Wharton, Congreve, Egremont. Afterward, you and Sofia can chat.”

“Thank you, perhaps some other time. I’m rather in a hurry tonight.”

So I’m right
. Fitz had initially assumed Battenberg was intent on a flirtation, as was usually the case when a pretty woman was involved, but apparently not. “Let me fetch Sofia,” he offered. “I won’t be long.”

Returning to the dining room, Fitz met his wife’s curious gaze and gave her a reassuring smile. Making his way across the large room, he stopped behind Sofia’s chair. “If I might steal you away for a few minutes. Duveen is downstairs with news of some mysterious painting that’s come on the market. I’d like your opinion.” Without waiting for a reply, he eased her chair away from the candlelit table. “We’ll be back directly,” he said to those guests who were listening or staring. “You know Duveen,” he mendaciously added for Dex, who was seated beside Sofia. “Everything’s a crisis with him.”

Rosalind signaled the footmen to serve more champagne as Fitz and Sofia moved away, and before they exited the room, the buzz of conversation had resumed.

Sofia gave Fitz a sidelong glance once they were alone in the hallway. “There’s no Duveen, is there?”

Fitz smiled. “Was I that bad?” He nodded to his left.

“You sounded reasonable enough.” She matched his pace as he moved down the carpeted hall. “I just happen to know Duveen’s in Paris. So why this mysterious summons?”

“Prince Ernst of Dalmia is waiting to speak with you. I thought it best not to broadcast the news. He said it was a private matter.”

“Good God, he’s real then! I gave short shrift to a man who was waiting for me when I came home. He said he had a note from Prince Ernst. I thought it was a mistake or some clumsy attempt to woo me.”

“Ernst is authentic enough and seems quite certain it’s you he wishes to speak with. Here, take my arm,” Fitz offered as they reached the top of the stairs. “You’ve been drinking champagne with a vengeance tonight.”

She made a wry face. “I was trying to temper my foul mood. Rosalind practically forced me to come to dinner with Wharton tonight.”

“Dex seems to be enjoying himself. I doubt he cares whether you’re drunk or sober.”

“Do tell,” Sofia muttered, having been charmed throughout dinner by a very charming man who saw that her champagne glass was always full. “You, however, have to get me out of this quandary. No matter that Wharton’s been entertaining and gallant, he’s not my type.”

“I didn’t know you had a type,” Fitz teased.

“Very amusing. Nor did you before your marriage.”

“Touché. I’ll say no more, and I’ll see you home if you wish. Wharton will survive a set down.”

“Thank you. You’ve instantly restored my good humor. Now, tell me about this Prince Ernst.” She smoothly twitched her skirt out of the way before stepping off the last stair. “Do you know him?”

“We’ve often met over the years,” Fitz replied, moving across the soaring entrance hall toward the west wing. “In Paris, at Ascot. The prince has a splendid string of thoroughbreds. Three years ago we were both racing in the Cowes regatta. And I’ve run into him here and there at the continental casinos. The Battenbergs are an old family with Adriatic properties as well as others in Bohemia, Hungary, and points east.”

“I can’t imagine what he has to say to me.” She slipped off the white kid evening gloves she’d unbuttoned at the wrist to free her hands for dining and handed them to Fitz. “I always feel awkward with these things flapping.”

Fitz smiled. “You never look awkward. Nervous?”

“I suppose I am a little. This is very bizarre.”

“Here we are.” Shoving the gloves into his pocket, the duke stopped before large double doors. “Don’t worry, darling, you’re dazzling tonight in that magnificent gown, and you’re more than familiar with men who wish to make your acquaintance.”

“Not princes.”

“Since when have you been impressed with titles?”

“Never.”

“There—you see? By the way, I forgot to mention, Jamie Blackwood is with Prince Ernst.” He shot her a grin. “That should make everything slightly more tolerable.”

“He’s
here
?”

“In the flesh. Now mind your manners. You’ve had a great deal of champagne.”

“Would you like to chaperon?” she teased, suddenly less fraught with angst. James Blackwood in the flesh was a delightful prospect regardless what this Prince Ernst had to say.

“Knowing you, it would be a useless endeavor. If you like, I could wait outside.”

Sofia shook her head. “Go back to Rosalind and your guests.” She winked. “Perhaps I can convince James Blackwood to entertain me for the rest of the evening.”

Fitz grinned. “I wouldn’t bet against it.”

 

 

S
OFIA’S CHEEKS WERE flushed when she entered the room, a small anticipatory smile on her face, and as the door closed behind her, her smile widened.

Ah—in the flesh—the magnificent James Blackwood, more gorgeous than she’d remembered. He seemed taller, if that were possible, although of course it wasn’t. He was, however, as stunningly handsome as ever, his glittering green gaze guarded—pro forma perhaps in his occupation. His stark bone structure brought a twitch to her fingers, his harsh features a painter’s dream. And his powerful body—honed to the inch beneath his fine tailoring—reminded her of that first meeting at Countess Minton’s when the scent of sex was pungent in the air. Her gaze drifted downward at the explicit memory.

“Good evening, Miss Eastleigh,” Jamie politely interposed as if she wasn’t staring at his crotch. “May I introduce Prince Ernst of Dalmia. Ernst, Miss Sofia Eastleigh.” He executed a graceful bow, intent on escape. Miss Eastleigh’s graphic perusal had a predictable effect on his libido, as did her fetching appearance in the fashionable undress of evening. Her low décolletage was alluring. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you two alone.”

“No, no! Stay! Oh, dear, forgive me,” Sofia apologized with a rueful smile. “I’ve drunk a good deal of champagne tonight. What I meant to say was
please
stay. I feel as though I know
you
at least, Lord Blackwood.”

Ernst directed a smug glance at Jamie. “I couldn’t agree more, Jamie. You must stay. We wouldn’t want Miss Eastleigh to be uncomfortable, would we?”

“No, of course not.” Clipped, cool, and venomous.

“Excellent!” Ernst turned to Sofia with a smile. “Please, Miss Eastleigh, come in and make yourself comfortable. Would you like some refreshments?” he inquired as if he commanded the duke’s household. “No? Then we’ll talk. I’ve come from Vienna to speak with you. Sit anywhere. May I say your gown is lovely,” he added as Sofia settled on an Empire sofa and smoothed her skirts. “Jamie, sit beside Miss Eastleigh.”

Definitely not.
“I need a drink. Anyone else?” Jamie inquired, ignoring Ernst’s directive. The settee was very small, and monkish he was not.

“Perhaps just one.” She shouldn’t—a pot of coffee would better serve. But why be rude when she was looking forward to his company tonight?

“A whiskey for me.” Ernst took a seat in a sea green damask chair opposite the matching settee and gazed fondly at his daughter. He was delighted with the turn of events, her insistence that Jamie stay conducive to his plans. “You’re not easy to find, Miss Eastleigh.” His smile was affable, the warmth in his grey gaze genuine and rare. His daughter was exquisite, a glorious facsimile of Amelia who had won his heart so long ago.

“I’ve been in the country the last few days,” she said, lacing her fingers in her lap in an effort to curb her excitement as she watched the baron walk away. His hair was longer, his skin more deeply bronzed, that beautiful, languid gait auspicious perhaps in terms of other motor skills as well.

“Were you painting with your mother? I understand she’s in the country, too.”

It took a second for the prince’s question to register with her focus elsewhere. Swivelling back, she lifted her brows. “How did you know Mother’s out of town?”

“My men learned of her absence when searching for you. But none of your neighbors knew where either of you had gone.”

“You spoke to my neighbors?” This wasn’t some casual quest by a gentleman looking to make a lady’s acquaintance.

“I didn’t but my people did. You quite live up to the descriptions they were given of a beautiful young woman.”

That sounds like the beginnings of a flirtation.
“Surely this could have waited until tomorrow,” Sofia said, a touch of coolness in her voice. “I’m surprised Fitz agreed to this meeting.”

“I told him it was important I speak with you. It’s of
utmost
importance, my dear, or I wouldn’t have intruded. Ah—here we are.”

After handing whiskies around, Jamie remained standing.

Ernst raised his glass. “May I propose a toast to the future?”

After Von Welden’s dead.
But Jamie raised his glass in salute.

Sofia did as well.

Jamie tossed his drink down, disgruntled at being outmaneuvered, taut with restraint.

Sofia also tossed hers down. Restraint didn’t figure in her life. Even less so tonight with James Blackwood, all brute force in elegant evening rig almost near enough to touch.

“Jamie, sit,” Ernst ordered, oblivious to his ADC’s moody gaze.

Short of making a scene, Jamie had no choice. Setting his glass aside, he sat as far from Sofia as the small sofa allowed. Unfortunately, she chose that moment to lean forward and place her empty glass on the table before them. Her lush breasts rose in soft mounds above her décolletage, a pale tress of hair loosened from her upswept coiffure fell over her bare shoulder, and the sweet scent of honeysuckle wafted his way. A sharp jolt of lust spiked through his senses.
Jesus.

He beat back his cravings.

She was taboo.

Although her pale delicacy was powerfully erotic—female vulnerability an aphrodisiac, however indefensible the concept. Could she withstand a sizeable cock? Or how exactly would she—

He wrenched his gaze away.

“Let me explain why I came in search of you, Miss Eastleigh,” Ernst fortuitously began, offering Jamie an opportunity to direct his attention to more pertinent issues. “Many years ago your mother and I met by chance. She was at the British Museum sketching the Parthenon marbles; I was incredibly bored in the midst of a group of cadets following a dull tour guide. I struck up a conversation with your mother and promised to take her to dinner anywhere she wished if she showed me the back way out.”

Sofia smiled. “And Mama said the Café Royal.”

“Yes. We spent the next three months together.”

Sofia stifled a gasp.

“Your mother never told you of our association?”

“No, never.” Sofia studied the man seated across from her with dawning understanding—his classic bone structure, pale hair, grey-blue eyes suddenly startlingly familiar. Still handsome, he must have been arresting in his youth. She could see how her mother had been captivated.

“We were very much in love. I want you to know that.” Then the prince went on to explain the joy of that summer, his exasperation when his family rejected his request to marry Amelia, how they married anyway. “Then one morning on my way to fetch Amelia the special cakes she favored, I was spirited away by my father’s troopers. I was brought back to Dalmia, imprisoned for months, and forced to marry a princess of Bohemia.” His brows came together in a frown, and he looked away briefly before resuming his narrative. “As soon as I was free, I wrote to your mother and explained the circumstances that had taken me away from her, of what had been forced on me. She never replied. Shortly after, I learned of your birth and I sent a message and funds to her through the good offices of a friend. She refused to see him; she returned all my correspondence unopened. She cut me out of her life. I don’t blame her,” he said, the memory still surprisingly painful. “I don’t blame her in the least.”