The dowager duchess took one look at Anya’s stony face and turned to Seb. “I do hope you’ve been treating Miss Brown with the utmost care and respect, Sebastien?”
Seb sent her a dry glance as he removed his gloves. “You can dispense with the charade, Dorothea. I know exactly who she is.”
“You do? Oh, well, that makes everything so much easier, doesn’t it?”
“Does it? I’m rather of the opinion it makes everything that much worse.”
She frowned. “I see. You’re in one of those moods, are you? Not that I’m not delighted to see you both, but what are you doing here? Has the odious Petrov left town?”
“He has not. But it’s no longer practical for the princess to be at the Tricorn. From now on, she’ll be staying here.”
“But what about the danger to her?”
“I will arrange for armed guards from Bow Street. In in ten days’ time, you will host a ball to present the newly discovered Princess Denisova to polite society.”
The dowager raised her thin brows in an expression remarkably like Anya’s. “Only ten days, Sebastien? Are you mad?”
“I have every faith that you can accomplish it. You will invite the whole world, and they will come.”
“And Petrov?”
“Invite him too. And you must hint that there’s a mystery surrounding the princess. That will get people talking.”
Anya finally spoke. “To what purpose?”
Seb glanced at her and his chest tightened. She’d changed into one of the morning gowns he’d bought for her, a pale sage green that clung to her figure and made her look like some woodland sprite or naiad. He could hardly bear to look at her. Already she seemed different, more self-possessed, more unapproachable, as if an invisible shield had formed between them. An image of her, pink and tipsy in front of the fire, assailed him, but he tamped it down. There would be no more evenings like that.
“Petrov will start to sweat, wondering what we have on him and whether we’re about to expose him in public.”
“And will you?” Dorothea asked.
“If my guess is correct, it won’t come to that.” Seb inclined his head at the two women. “I’ll leave you to work out the details. I’m off to Bow Street to see about someone to watch over you both. Don’t leave the house until they get here.”
Anya looked as if she would protest, but in the end, she said nothing at all, so he turned on his heel and left. He ignored the feeling that he was abandoning her, that he ought to keep her by his side. The niggling thought that no one, not even his best friends Alex or Benedict, could protect her as well as he could, followed him out the door.
It was too dangerous for him to stay. There was only so much provocation a man could endure, and he knew his limits. Alex and Ben would be immune to her infuriating charms, each one being fatally in love with his own wife.
“A Russian princess?” Benedict repeated for perhaps the twentieth time. “You’re joking.”
Seb rolled his eyes at his friend’s continued incredulity. “I only wish I were.”
“Do you think she wears a crown to bed?” Alex chuckled. His eyes held an inquisitive gleam and Seb cursed inwardly. Alex had a mind as sharp as a razor, and he loved ferreting out secrets. It was why he was such an asset to Bow Street.
“I wouldn’t know,” he said crossly.
Alex sent him a frankly disbelieving look, but thankfully didn’t pursue the subject.
The three of them were at Manton’s, the shooting gallery on Davies Street. Seb had sent a note around to Bow Street, asking Ben and Alex to meet him there. It was where he always went when he had something to sort out in his mind. The concentration needed to shoot accurately usually pushed everything else from his head. At least temporarily.
With their trusty Baker rifles in tow, they made their way to the long gallery, which was conveniently empty at this early hour, since most of the members didn’t rise before noon. Seb had already given them a brief rundown of his adventures on Hounslow Heath and Anya’s near misses with Petrov’s thugs.
“I need you to help me guard her. I’m going to set a trap for Petrov, and I don’t want her to be in any danger.”
“You think he’s our spy?” Ben asked.
“It’s more than likely, from what Anya—from what the princess says.”
Ben and Alex exchanged an eyebrows-raised look as they caught his unintentional slip.
Seb cursed himself again. It was hard to think of her as a title when he’d held the real woman in his arms. She wasn’t some abstract concept. She was a warm, beautiful, sensuous—
No. No no no. Even thinking of her in that way was probably treasonous.
Annoyed with himself, he shrugged out of his coat, loaded his firearm with brisk efficiency, and took up position on his stomach on the ground, propped up on one elbow, leg raised at a right angle toward his hip to act as balance. Alex and Ben did the same, on either side of him.
He rested his cheek on the wooden stock and looked down the sight on the top of the barrel. With his left eye closed, he positioned the upright pin in the middle of the V and aimed at the paper target at the far end of the room.
He cleared his mind. He became aware of his pulse, his breathing. He slowed his breaths, waiting for the pause between heartbeats before he squeezed the trigger. The paper target quivered as the shot hit the center. He reloaded with brisk efficiency.
Bloody woman. She’d lied to him, manipulated him. He hated to be controlled, either by others or his environment. That was one of the reasons he’d joined the Rifles instead of the regular army. As a Rifleman, he was, more often than not, in control. The one with the target in his sights. The balance of life or death hinged on the pressure of his finger and the accuracy of his eye.
He enjoyed the same feeling of omnipotence overseeing the gaming floor at the Tricorn, watching those below risk it all on the turn of a card. Such foolish whimsy was not for him. He liked being master of his fate.
And yet when it came to Anya—no, Princess Denisova—he had no control whatsoever. The bloody woman had played him for a fool. He’d been her little experiment, a panting dupe to relieve her of her unwanted virginity and to satisfy her sexual curiosity.
The fact that it had been the best sex of his life infuriated him even more, since there was clearly no hope of a repeat performance. Not now, not ever.
He hit the target again, dead center.
The deceitful little charlatan would appear next week as the virtuous Princess Denisova, as pure and untouched as the driven snow. Men would slaver over her, line up to fill her dance card.
Only he would know how beautiful she looked with her hair spread across his pillows like a river of honey, how her lips grew puffy from kissing. Only he would know the sweet sounds she made when she neared her climax, the scrape of her fingers against his scalp urging him on—
He missed the target completely.
“Bollocks.”
Beside him, Ben chuckled softly. “Finding it hard to concentrate, are we? Something—or someone—on your mind?”
“Bugger off,” Seb grunted.
The problem was, he and Anya were remarkably similar. She was determined to be mistress of her own fate. And while he might deplore her methods, he couldn’t really fault her desire. Not when it burned so strongly in himself. Having met Petrov, he could even understand her need for subterfuge.
Seb sighed. The worst thing about this whole situation was that for one bizarre moment, back in his study, he’d actually imagined himself married to her … and it hadn’t felt wrong at all.
Which it was, of course. Completely wrong. He didn’t want to be married to anyone, least of all a prickly ice princess who smelled like jasmine and tasted like perfection. Compatibility in bed wasn’t enough to base a marriage on. He only needed to look at the example set by his own parents for a case in point. They were certainly no shining example of matrimonial bliss.
Seb frowned at the distant target. He certainly desired Anya physically, but honesty compelled him to admit that what he felt for her was more complicated than mere lust. He liked her, with her quick wit and her ridiculous superstitions. He admired and respected her, despite her stubbornness—or maybe because of it. He loved the way she challenged him. She fed his soul, met his energy with her own. In a paradoxical way, she both stimulated and calmed him.
He yearned for her.
“Well, you know we’re with you, whatever you need us to do,” Alex said.
Ben nodded in agreement.
“Sounds like you had quite the week with her at the Tricorn,” Alex prodded. “The princess sounds like a fascinating woman. Brave, too, if she was willing to risk exposure to help us listen to the delegates. I’m sure Emmy and Georgie would get along famously with her.”
Seb let out a noncommittal grunt. “They’ll get to meet her at the ball. And she’s not fascinating; she’s irritating. Always issuing demands and ignoring my orders. I spent the entire week trying not to strangle her.”
With a flash, he remembered Alex and Ben urging him to find some gorgeous someone who irritated him enough to want to strangle her. Seb blinked. Anya was that someone. He wanted to scold her and hug her simultaneously. He wanted to show her off to the world and keep her all to himself.
Bugger.
He had to stop thinking about her. There could be nothing permanent between them. Their one night had been a brief, glorious interlude—one he would probably dream about for the rest of his natural life—but it was over. From now on, it would be purely business. He would keep her safe from Petrov because he was a Bow Street Runner and it was his duty to protect and serve the inhabitants of the city.
And he would watch from the sidelines when she chose some less tarnished, more suitable partner to marry and disappeared out of his life forever.