Always a Princess Page 2

  “But I must insist,” he said.

  She straightened to her full height, which wasn’t much, and withdrew her hand from his arm. Most of the color had returned to her cheeks, but she still breathed in an erratic rhythm that pressed her breasts upward against the bodice of her gown. She’d managed to appear both vulnerable and sexual at once, and if he weren’t completely convinced that the whole performance was a sham, he’d probably fall all over himself in an effort to comfort her.

  “You are too very kind,” she said. “But I must go.”

  “Not without me,” he said. “Only the worst sort of boor would allow a lady to go off alone when she isn’t well.”

  She gave him a wan smile. “But I’ve told you that you are not to me a bore.”

  “Boor, not bore,” he replied, even though he knew very well that she knew very well what he’d said. “Boor.”

  “Nor a pig, either.”

  “Nor did I say boar.” The woman would escape him with her ridiculous word games if he weren’t careful, and he still had plans for her. “Allow me to see you home.”

  “Most not necessary,” she said, as she firmly pulled her hand from his. He reached for her, but she moved just far enough away for another couple to come between them. He tried to go around, and nearly tripped in the process.

  The man—a stout fellow with a shock of red hair—caught him and set him upright. “Take care, young man, or you’ll hurt someone.”

  “But that woman,” Philip said, pointing toward where the counterfeit princess’s gown was barely visible among the throng. “She’s getting away.”

  “Not to worry, old chap. There’s always another woman coming along.”

  “Lord Gerald,” the man’s lady friend said. “What an ungallant thing to say.”

  “Quite right, my dear,” Lord Gerald said. “So sorry.”

  “Blast, now she has got away,” Philip snapped.

  “I’m sure you’ll find her again,” Lord Gerald soothed. “But she isn’t worth breaking your neck over.”

  “Really, my lord,” the lady said. “Are we going to dance or not?”

  Lord Gerald smiled at the lady and escorted her toward the dance floor. Philip took a few steps in the direction of the princess’s departure and then stopped. He’d never find her in this crowd, at least not by following her. But he would find her again eventually, he’d make sure of that. Because she might very well be worth breaking his neck over.

  If Eve was any judge of women, Lady Bainbridge was the kind who would never be separated from her baubles and trinkets and all the other spoils of great wealth. So all her jewelry ought to be right in her dressing table where a thief could easily get at it. Including the star ruby the stupid woman was always bragging about. The one big enough to choke a horse.

  Eve set her candle onto the tabletop, next to the daisy she’d bought earlier, and then checked the first drawer. Perfectly polished and oiled, it opened silently, revealing a brush and a few decorative combs and no jewel cases whatsoever. She tried another and found handkerchiefs—at least a dozen of them, each in the finest linen and with a delicate B embroidered at one corner. She lifted them out, and the scent of rose water followed, surrounding her like a cloud. Underneath rested several letters and nothing else. Just because she could, she picked up one envelope and opened it.

  Inside on heavy stationery, she found a note in a man’s firm hand, dated from the previous year. My dearest little piggie, it read. How I long to hear your squeal. Come up to the country, and bring Bainbridge if you must. While he’s nodding, we’ll play farmer in the dell. Your besotted swineherd, C.

  Dear God, but the upper classes were idiots. Eve folded the note and slipped it back into its envelope and then replaced it and the handkerchiefs. She shut that drawer and tried one on the other side of the table.

  That, finally, revealed some small boxes covered with satin. She opened one and found a ring in a velvet setting. The stone appeared to be an emerald surrounded by pearls. What a travesty that nature should create such stunning clarity just so one rich woman could flash it at the other women of her set. Scores of oysters had labored to coat bits of sand with their own personal secretions so that a shallow cow of a woman could wear the pearls on her finger.

  Such was the way of the world, it appeared. She didn’t have to like it, but she could very well use the world’s greed for her own ends. She’d take this emerald ring if she couldn’t find the star ruby. It wouldn’t bring as much money, but she would have profited from the night’s work, nevertheless. She set it aside and searched through the other boxes. She found more rings and earrings and a diamond bracelet, but not the prize she’d slipped into her hostess’s bedroom to take.

  The contents of the last drawer held the most promise. The larger wooden cases would hold necklaces. She found long strings of pearls and a perfectly stunning setting of diamonds. Any one of the pieces would fetch an amazing sum. But the star ruby was worth much more, even though it would have to be sold abroad to avoid recognition.

  Where was the blessed thing? Could the Bainbridge woman have finally shown some common sense and locked the gem away somewhere safe?

  Finally, Eve came to one last box, tucked down in the bottom corner of the drawer. Not nearly as large as the others, the box could nevertheless hold the ruby, as the stone merely hung on a golden chain to avoid distractions from its elegance. This box was the right size and made of a wood that cost plenty in its own right.

  Eve picked up the box and held it between her palms for a moment, willing it to hold the ruby. Lord knew she’d never planned to become a jewel thief or any kind of thief at all. Society, in the form of her last employer, had done that, ironically by accusing her of stealing something she hadn’t. Fine. She’d engage in real larceny, saving every penny she could. Then, when she had enough, she’d take the rest of her ill-gotten wealth and disappear. No one would ever hear of the Princess Eugenia d’Armand of Valdastok—or Eve Stanhope, for that matter—again.

  “Here’s to you, Sir Udney, you bastard,” she whispered. She opened the box and found it empty. Blast.

  “Looking for this?” a male voice said from right behind her.

  Oh, dear God, calamity! If a heart could truly drop into a stomach and turn into a stone there, hers had just done it. She spread her hands on the tabletop and took a breath. Calm. She had to remain calm. She turned to face the voice.

  “Halloo,” she said in her best Valdastokian accent. “You are surprise me, no?”

  Something, someone, moved in a corner—something, someone, large. Aside from that movement, only soft laughter issued out of the shadows. Something, someone, was amused.

  Well, amusement was a lot better than moral outrage at finding her here. Maybe she could bluff her way out of this by making up some quaint Valdastokian custom of visiting one’s hostess’s boudoir and going through her jewels.

  She did her best to answer with laughter of her own, even if it did come out more like a desperate squeak. “Please to show yourself, kind sir.”

  He appeared out of the corner finally. She couldn’t make him out well at all, until he stepped into the light of the single candle. When she recognized him, she could hardly suppress a gasp.

  Lord Wesley, the man she’d escaped earlier. The irritating fellow who’d almost exposed her to the others. As clever as he thought himself, she’d gotten away from him once. Could she do it again?

  She placed her hand over her bosom and laughed again. “Lord Wesley, how you startle me. You must not jump out at a lady so.”

  He smiled at her, although the expression could hardly be considered pleasant. In fact, his eyes got a wicked gleam to them, evident even in the scant light of the candle. Hungry or predatory or perhaps only amused—but at her expense. He continued smiling his raptor’s smile as he lifted a hand toward her. “Is this what you’re looking for?”

  She glanced at his palm and found the ruby, its star gleaming in the candlelight just as brightly as W
esley’s eyes. The thing was blood-red and absolutely enormous.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “Pretty stone, but I have many such and more pretty.”

  He laughed again and slipped the ruby into his pocket. “Who are you?”

  “We were, I believe, introduced.” She kept her voice as steady as the fluttering of her heart allowed. “I am Princess Eugenia—”

  “I know who you claim to be,” he said, eyeing her with a lazy, insolent look. “I want to know who you really are.”

  This was not how she’d planned the evening. She rose from the dressing table and lifted her chin so that she could look him in the eye. “Sir, you misbehave yourself.”

  “And what is that preposterous accent you’re using?” he asked. “It sounds like a combination of baby talk and bad schoolroom French.”

  “I will not stand here and be insulted.” She lifted her skirts and walked around him, headed toward the door. But he caught her elbow in one hand and turned her toward him.

  “You are to release me,” she demanded. “This instant.”

  “I don’t think I will.” His mouth curled into a wicked smile as he stared down at her. “This is far too much fun to just let it end.”

  She tried to pull her arm from his grasp, but he held her firm. “Let me go.”

  “Who are you?” he asked again.

  “I am Princess Eugenia d’Armand of Valdastok.”

  “Now, there’s where you’re wrong. I was in Valdastok last year, and it didn’t have a princess then. I doubt it’s been able to acquire a fully grown one since.”

  She looked up into his face and found confidence that bordered on smugness. Or worse. “What do you know of my country?”

  “Quite a bit,” he said. “I’m distantly related to the current duke and duchess.”

  Impossible. Of all the simpering blue bloods in London, she had to happen upon the one who knew something about Eastern Europe. But then this one didn’t exactly simper, either. No, he held her with the assurance of a man who knew what he was about.

  Could it be that English nobility had actually produced a man with as much intelligence as he had money? And could she have had the bad luck to stumble over him? Please, God, no.

  “Valdastok is a quaint little place in the Balkans,” he said. “Quite charming, actually, and quite devoid of a princess at present.”

  “Let me go,” she repeated. If he truly knew what he was talking about, she’d lost everything—and a little bald-faced audacity couldn’t make matters worse. “If you value your fingers, let me go.”

  “Its native tongue is German, a language you clearly don’t know,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Nor did you recognize the national oath Für Gott und Heimat. No true child of Valdastok would fail to answer in kind.”

  “All right, all right,” she snapped. “What are you going to do to me?”

  He leaned closer, until the candlelight played in the dark brown depths of his eyes and lit his tawny hair into a halo around his face. “That depends, I suppose.”

  “On what?”

  “On who you are,” he whispered.

  She stood her ground as best she could with knees that had turned to water. If she didn’t reveal her identity, she might still escape the possibility of prison. He’d never find her if he had to search all of London. She could lie low for a while and then resume her career as a jewel thief in the normal way—by breaking into houses rather than being invited into them. All she had to do was get away.

  “Very well,” he said. “You won’t tell me who you are, but I have a rather good idea why you’re here.”

  “Please let me go.” Curse it all, now she’d been reduced to begging.

  “You’re after the ruby, aren’t you?”

  “Well, I didn’t get it, now did I? In fact, I haven’t taken anything. No harm done. You can let me go.”

  “I think not. At least, not just yet. You see, I haven’t determined whether you’re a common thief or a rather uncommon one.”

  She struggled to free her arm. In vain, again. “Damn you.”

  He laughed outright at that. “That’s exactly what I mean. Your speech is neither that of a lady nor that of a guttersnipe, but you’re not above using profanity any more than you’re above pilfering your betters’ jewels.”

  “That Bainbridge woman isn’t any better than me.”

  “She doesn’t have your spirit, I’ll grant you that,” he said. “But she doesn’t go about stealing from her hosts.”

  “She doesn’t have to.”

  “And why do you, I wonder.”

  “This is ridiculous,” she declared. “Let me go.”

  “Neither lady nor guttersnipe,” he repeated, still peering into her face and smirking. Even on such a handsome face, she could quickly learn to hate such an expression. “No, your English sounds more like that of the working class. A young woman in service. But not a scullery—no, a loftier position in the household. One that would allow a bit of gentility to rub off on you.”

  So, he couldn’t place her speech. No mystery there. She’d worked hard to rid herself of every mispronunciation, every little vulgarism she’d learned as a child. She’d never make herself sound like the blooming Queen of England, but she could jolly well confuse the likes of him long enough to help her make good an escape.

  While he still looked down into her face, his expression full of enjoyment and indecent mirth, Eve raised her foot and brought it down on his, right against the arch where it would hurt the most. He howled and dropped her arm. She turned toward the door and picked up her skirts, ready to run for her life.

  Just then, the door opened a crack, and a ray of light fell in over the threshold. For the love of God. Who else had discovered her?

  Chapter Two

  Eve scanned the room for some route of escape—even a dark corner to hide in. But before she could take a step, Lord Wesley pulled her into his arms and turned her away from the doorway. Then he lowered his head and planted his mouth firmly on hers.

  Curse the man. What kind of idiotic maneuver was this? She struggled, but he held her just firmly enough to keep her right where she was—against his chest.

  And it was quite a chest, indeed. Finely muscled. Broad and solid and warm. Easy to lean into and rest against. The sort of chest no blue blood had any right owning.

  His mouth was equally as fine. Somehow it managed to be gentle and demanding all at once. The kind of mouth that took control and didn’t yield it. The kind of mouth that brooked no resistance.

  God knew she ought to resist. She ought to pull away, but it seemed she’d gone all weak suddenly. The scent of the man—something soapy and pleasant—invaded her brain, making her dizzy. The feel of his hands traveling the length of her back, the sound of his breath—now soft, now ragged—cast some spell over her so that she couldn’t move except within his arms.

  All the while, his lips did the most devilish things with hers. They nibbled, they coaxed, they teased. They took and gave and gave and took until all her breath left her chest on a sigh. He answered with a surprised hitch of his own breath and pulled her more firmly against him as he continued his assault on her mouth and her senses. A fire started in the pit of her belly. Urgent, primitive, irrational, it swept up and over her. She ought to feel frightened or even repulsed by the feeling, but instead her spirit soared, as though hovering outside her body, marveling at what went on inside her.

  Somewhere in front of her a door had opened, and somewhere behind her stood a dressing table full of jewelry, and she didn’t care. All that mattered was that the broadcloth of his suit felt smooth against her bosom and the hairs at the nape of his neck felt soft as she curled her fingers into them. That his lips parted when her tongue grazed them, allowing her access to the tender interior of his mouth and the tip of his own tongue.

  Oh, God, she had to stop. Somehow. She had to stop. But how could she stop something so glorious?

  A laugh and a hiccup from the doorway ended
what she should have ended herself. Wesley straightened, taking his lips away from hers and tucking her head against his chest. One large hand gently covered her face as she rested there, listening to the uncertain rhythm of his heart. Her own heart beat wildly in her chest, still in the throes of some unholy excitement. She had to have gone mad to let Wesley affect her in this way.

  “Would you mind closing that door?” Wesley called toward the doorway, and the sound reverberated through his chest into Eve’s ear.

  “Whoszat?” The intruder’s voice came through in a drunken slur. “’Sthat you, Wesley?”

  “You’ve found me out. Now, please go away.”

  A female voice giggled in the doorway. They’d been discovered by not one but two people. Thank heaven the laugh didn’t sound like Lady Bainbridge’s, at least as well as Eve could remember the voice of her hostess.

  “Well, curse my soul. Wesley’s with some lucky female.” The man laughed and hiccupped again. “About to plow himself a new furrow from the looks of things.”

  Oh, dear God. Eve pressed herself as far into Wesley as she could and held on for dear life. Whatever perverse reason the man had for trying to hide her identity, she’d cooperate.

  “Be a good fellow and find yourselves another room, won’t you?” Wesley said. “Lady Bainbridge has dozens of them, I imagine.”

  “Right-o,” the man said. “We’ll be off and leave you to it, dear boy. Come along, my sweet sparrow.”

  “Shut that door,” Wesley called. “Please.”

  The door closed, finally, blocking out the rest of their drunken laughter.

  “Good God, I thought they’d never leave,” Wesley complained.

  “Yes, thank heaven,” she agreed, still leaning against his chest.

  “You may release me now,” he said.

  She looked up into his face. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re…how shall I put this delicately, Your Highness?” he said. “You’ve a rather firm grip on my posterior.”