Page 10 of How to Tame a Dissolute Prince (Royals and Renegades #2)

CHAPTER 10

“ I don’t think it would be wise for you and the princesses to attend the ball this evening,” Princess Stasia said, taking Eleanora by surprise as she entered the princess’s private salon at her request.

They had been preparing to attend the formal ball honoring the House of St. George for the last fortnight. Eleanora had struggled to convince her charges that their trousers must be left at home for the first time since her arrival. But persuade them, she finally had. And now, for her successes to be so summarily lost…

She couldn’t bear to finish the thought. Working with the headstrong Princess Emmaline and the na?ve, but also opinionated, Princess Annalise had proven exhausting. All her frustrated attempts at refining their manners, gowns, dancing, and conversation, only to not attend the ball being held in their honor, would be a grievous disappointment.

“Their ball gowns are ready,” Eleanora hastened to reassure her employer, praying that the reason for the princess’s words wasn’t displeasure with her performance of her duties. “Neither Princess Emmaline nor Princess Annalise will be wearing trousers. We’ve been working to perfect their steps in the waltz as well.”

The princess’s eyes narrowed. “I heard about your demonstration with Prince Ferdinando.”

Heat instantly suffused Eleanora’s face as she remembered what it had felt like, being held by him, dancing so near to his tempting heat and strong, masculine form. And then, before she could banish it completely, the thought of his kisses returned.

Swiftly, she tamped down all such forbidden yearnings. They were impossible, foolish, and improbable. If she wanted to keep a roof over her head and continue providing London’s wealthiest aristocrats and merchants with her services, then she most certainly needed to forget the dance and those kisses both had ever happened.

“His Royal Highness was kind enough to offer his assistance in showing the princesses the proper steps for the dance,” she offered lamely.

What a dull, cool way to describe what had happened between them. That which must never, ever happen again.

“How unexpectedly charitable of him,” Princess Stasia said, her tone verging on mocking.

“His Royal Highness doesn’t strike me as a particularly uncharitable gentleman,” Eleanora found herself saying, much to her horror.

How and why had she come to that rogue’s defense with such haste and ease?

“Miss Brett,” the princess began, placing a hand on Eleanora’s arm in entreaty. “Must I call you Miss Brett? I feel as if we are friends now, you and I. Perhaps we might dispense with formality, and I may call you Eleanora, whilst you shall call me Stasia.”

It was not the first time Princess Anastasia had made the request. That Eleanora, the daughter of one of London’s most notorious courtesans, should be the friend of a princess was nothing short of preposterous. And yet, the princess was looking at her with an open candor and kindness.

“I fear it would be unwise,” she protested again out of duty.

“Then allow me to be the unwise one amongst us, Eleanora,” Stasia said with a conspiratorial smile. “I insist.”

Eleanora hadn’t a choice in the matter. But she couldn’t deny it—eschewing the strict protocols she had allowed for herself wouldn’t be entirely hateful. Even if it did remind her of the carefree girl she’d once been.

“If you insist,” she allowed at last, and not without reluctance.

“Excellent.” The princess linked her arm through Eleanora’s and began guiding her to the windows overlooking the town house’s gardens. “I feel it’s important for us to be friends, given the nature of the warning I’m pressed to give you now.”

The warning?

That didn’t sound promising.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Your Royal Highness,” she protested gently.

“Stasia,” the princess reminded her firmly. “You simply must call me Stasia, for we are friends now, which also means it is imperative that I warn you about Nando.”

It would seem that the entire household was familiar with the prince. Eleanora didn’t want that to rankle nearly as much as it did.

“A warning about His Royal Highness? I cannot think of why.”

Heavens, how she hated deception. She’d always been a dreadful liar, even if her livelihood required it.

“His reputation is terribly wicked,” the princess continued. “The gossip I heard about him at court in Varros and here in London is the sort that ought never to be repeated.”

“Although it ill-becomes me, I’ll admit that I have heard some whispers myself, concerning the prince,” she said, choosing her words with care. “I hope you do not fear I will conduct myself in any manner other than with strict adherence to propriety. I shall make certain to banish His Royal Highness from all future dance lessons during his tenure here.”

The princess patted her arm gently. “You need never fear that your conduct is being called into question. Quite the opposite. Rather, it is Nando’s I fear. He is notoriously unruly, and I’m afraid he has taken an interest in you.”

Why, oh why, did those last few words fill Eleanora with such intense and frenzied longing?

She swallowed hard against the rush of feelings she must never indulge, regardless of the temptation. “His Royal Highness scarcely even takes note of my existence.”

“He favors you.” The princess’s voice was as shrewd as her gaze. “I have seen the way he looks at you, Eleanora, and I well understand the allure. You are lovely, intelligent, and generous of spirit. To a man like him, a paragon such as you must make an intriguing challenge. However, I fear the danger he presents to you. He is handsome and charming, and he could likely seduce even the paper-hangings off the walls.”

Eleanora bit her lip to keep a wild chuckle from escaping her. If only the princess knew the astounding accuracy of her words.

They had long since stopped before the windows, where the world beyond was gray and bleak, rain dripping steadily down the panes in fat droplets that made a rhythmic sound.

“I don’t want him to hurt you,” the princess added, her tone gentling. “Nando is the sort of man who acts first and considers the consequences afterward. Often, only when it is too late.”

Eleanora found herself wondering at the connection between her employer and the prince. The princess had once been betrothed to Prince Ferdinando’s older brother the king, after all. She had spent time in Varros at the capital, mingling in court, before she had forsaken the king and returned to England to marry for love. Was it possible that Princess Stasia and the prince had enjoyed some manner of arrangement themselves?

The notion troubled her far more than it should.

“I understand,” she said quietly, choosing her words with utmost care. “You need not fear on my behalf. I am impervious to him and his rakish charms both. I do thank you for your concern.”

“You needn’t thank me.” The princess gave her another pat, quite as if they were old friends instead of who they truly were to each other. “I like you, Eleanora. I have from the moment I first met you. You don’t suffer fools, and you are determined. I would hate to see Nando callously break your heart. You deserve better than a man who is only interested in seeking his own pleasure.”

Was that what the princess thought of Prince Ferdinando? Eleanora wanted to correct her, to say there was a great deal more to the man than she had ever supposed. That he possessed hidden depths that she had never imagined existed. And that pleasure did not seem to be his sole concern, even if he was clearly a man who had capitalized upon his looks and noble birth.

But she knew she could not dare come to his defense a second time in the same conversation. To do so would be beyond perilous, and particularly after she had just avowed her complete disinterest in him.

“You pay me a great honor,” she said instead.

“Nonsense. I am only telling you the truth,” the princess said in that pragmatic way of hers that Eleanora always ascribed to her hailing from Boritania, knowing the princess had been raised in different customs and a vastly different land than England. “Now, then. Let us speak of the reason we must cry off the ball. I am afraid that my husband has discovered there is some new danger concerning Prince Ferdinando, and that he has reason to believe we may all be at peril. He’s asked that we remain here at the town house until he can be assured of our safety.”

In Eleanora’s experience, Mr. Tierney was a fair and intelligent man who happened to be besotted with his wife. They made a lovely pair, both hopelessly in love with each other. But Eleanora was no stranger to intrigue, thanks to her upbringing. She had harbored a strong suspicion that Mr. Tierney’s business involved shadowy dealings of some sort. The implication that he was privy to information concerning Prince Ferdinando certainly suggested as much.

But it wasn’t just the realization that her employer was far more than he appeared that had Eleanora’s stomach twisting in knots. Nor was it the reason for the heavy weight of dread descending upon her. The looming threat of further violence befalling Prince Ferdinando was.

Because, as much as she had done her utmost to guard herself against the charming prince, Eleanora had come to care for him.

“His Royal Highness is still in danger?” she repeated, trying to keep the dismay from her voice, lest Princess Stasia discern far too much from it.

He could play the devil-may-care all he liked, but someone had tried to kill the prince. And that someone was still in London, likely lying in wait for a second chance to strike. The notion left her chilled to the bone.

“I fear so,” the princess said, frowning. “I didn’t wish to worry you. Please rest assured that we are safe here. Mr. Tierney has his best men guarding the town house, and if anyone can find out who was behind the attack on Prince Ferdinando, it’s my husband. I have implicit faith in his abilities.”

“Of course,” Eleanora hastened to say, even if she didn’t feel reassured at all.

“You may have the afternoon and evening to yourself, Eleanora,” the princess added, taking her by surprise.

“But surely you have other need for me, despite the ball,” she protested out of habit, for she had long since come to understand what an employer desired of her and to make herself indispensable.

“My sisters are otherwise occupied. In truth, I don’t think that either of them was displeased to have to forgo the ball. You’re free to do as you like.”

“Thank you.” Eleanora didn’t know what to do with the unexpected reprieve, but she would somehow make the best of it. “Perhaps I’ll tend to my correspondence.”

In truth, she had no one to write to. Her mother’s family had long since disowned her, her mother was gone, and she had neither siblings nor friends. But she didn’t reveal any of that to the princess. Instead, she quietly took her leave.

But as she set about returning to her chamber, her duties summarily suspended for the day, she couldn’t seem to keep herself from the last room that should concern her. And yet, it was the only room she could think about, a forbidden temptation she couldn’t seem to resist, regardless of the dire consequences and all her employer’s stringent warnings.

Prince Ferdinando’s.

Eleanora was back.

And sooner than he’d expected, which suited Nando just fine.

Better than fine, in fact. Because he’d just been on his way out of his bedchamber in search of Eleanora when he’d spied her in the hall. As usual, she was wearing one of her hideous gowns, this one in a shade of jonquil that did nothing for her creamy skin and golden hair. It was too large and ill-fitting in the bodice, which had yet another lace fichu tucked within it for modesty. And her locks were covered with a cap that he would generously describe as ridiculously ugly.

His cock went instantly hard anyway.

Bruno was blessedly gone—sent to fetch Nando the furred companion he’d been missing since it would seem he was to be a prisoner here at Tierney’s town house for longer than previously supposed. Benvolio was likely forlorn without him.

Nando offered a courtly bow as Eleanora approached.

“Your Royal Highness.” She dipped into a curtsy.

“How good of you to pay a call upon me,” he said. “I was beginning to get dreadfully lonely.”

A charming flush crept along her cheekbones. “It was not my aim to pay a call upon you.”

He didn’t believe her. Not for a moment. But he wouldn’t argue the point.

“Regardless, join me before my ennui becomes too much to bear, won’t you?” He retreated into the chamber, making an expansive gesture of welcome to her with his uninjured arm.

Her gaze flitted from his room to his face, then back again, her hesitation making him long to throw her over his shoulder and simply cart her over the threshold.

“I should not,” she demurred. “I have a great deal of correspondence to attend to, and it would hardly be proper for me to be alone with you now that you are no longer confined to your sickbed.”

She wasn’t wrong about any of that, and his intentions were the furthest one could get from pure, but Nando wasn’t going to allow that to get in the way of what he wanted. Which was Eleanora. He wanted her mouth on his, her sweet sigh of surrender. He wanted her curves pressed against him, her body giving in to temptation.

“My dear Eleanora, you cannot mean to say you would prefer to put pen to paper than spend a few moments conversing with me. I can assure you that I’m ever so much more riveting than an inkwell and an empty page.”

Her indecision was written on her lovely face. She wanted to join him. His luscious spinster’s ice was melting faster than a snowball in a desert. She found herself drawn to him, and it nettled her, but she was helpless to stop the undeniable connection between them.

He was spared from her refusal when the sound of a door opening somewhere down the hall intruded. Her eyes went wide. She didn’t want anyone to see her here. Fair enough. He would bustle her into the privacy of his chamber. No one needed to know, save the two of them.

“Make haste before someone sees you,” Nando said urgently, keeping his voice low.

She swiftly crossed the threshold, and he closed the door at her back.

“Excellent decision,” he purred. “We wouldn’t want one of the servants to see you lingering in the hall outside my room and decide that the proper Miss Brett has been seduced by the evil prince.”

Her flush heightened, her countenance turning severe. “I am impervious to your wiles, Your Royal Highness. I would think that has already been made apparent.”

Quite the opposite, but he would allow her to keep her false sense of comfort for the moment.

“I was making a joke,” he explained, flashing her a conspiratorial smile. “Perhaps a poor one. Forgive me.”

Her shrewd blue gaze bored into his, and he couldn’t help but to note the stiffness in her shoulders—she looked as rigid as a marble statue. “Your apology sounds distinctly insincere. I shouldn’t be here.”

“And yet, here is where you are.” He couldn’t hide the smugness from his voice.

“Only until I can remove myself, whilst keeping my reputation firmly intact.”

Her cool voice did nothing to quell his ardor.

He had her where he wanted her. And despite all her blustering, she was exactly where she wanted to be as well.

“Tell me, what were you doing in this hall, if not seeking me?” he pressed, for he knew well that her bedroom was on another floor.

“I took a wrong turn.” Her chin went up in a little show of defiance he found utterly mesmerizing.

“Perhaps you took the turn you wanted to take,” he suggested, reaching for her hand. She jolted when he laced his fingers through hers, but she didn’t pull away. “Come and sit with me for a few moments, won’t you? I’ve grown weary of all this isolation.”

“You hardly seemed isolated when you invaded the drawing room during our dancing lessons.”

Her tone was arch, but her fingers remained entwined with his. Ye gods, she was delectable. He was beginning to think he was in love.

“No need to be harsh with me, my dear. My feelings are quite tender.”

“Tender feelings? You?” She gave a short laugh. “Is that another sally, Your Royal Highness, or do you think me an imbecile?”

“I would never think you an imbecile, nor would I jest about something so serious.” He stopped as they reached the seating area near the hearth, and he pressed her hand to his chest. “You see? I possess a heart just as surely as anyone else.”

Awareness flared in her eyes, and she kept her hand splayed on him, the warmth of her searing him through his shirt.

“I never doubted you do,” she said, sounding suspiciously breathless. “It was the noble sentiment you claimed to have that I questioned.”

“You’re not wrong for that,” he acknowledged, his gaze dipping to her full lips. “I’m not generally known for my noble sentiments.”

Particularly where she was concerned.

He couldn’t wait to debauch her. Thoroughly.

Her lips parted. “You delight in your wicked reputation.”

Perhaps he ought to warn her. Nando grinned.

“I delight in wickedness, full stop.”

And still, she didn’t move away. Nor did she rescind her hand, which remained over his thudding heart. The air between them hung heavy with sensuality. He didn’t want to frighten her away, but he also wanted to take her mouth more than he wanted another breath.

In the next moment, she solved the conundrum for him by rising on her toes and suddenly pressing her lips to his.

And it was a miracle.

A revelation.

It was incendiary.

He wrapped his arms around her, not giving a damn about his wounded arm or the way the action pulled at his stitches or the pain shooting through him at the abrupt movement. He’d happily bleed for the chance to hold her.

She twined her arms around his neck, her lush lips open and hungry and demanding a response from him. There was precious little mastery in her artless kisses, and yet they were more rousing than even the most practiced seductress’s. He couldn’t get enough of her.

Nando kissed her with all the pent-up passion and yearning burning inside him. He held her against him, their bodies straining together, her supple breasts crushing into his chest, her soft belly cradling his rigid length, thanks to the disparity in their heights. He didn’t bother to restrain himself but allowed her to feel him— all of him. To feel how badly he wanted her.

She made a sound low in her throat, a husky half moan, and then she was boldly taking control of the kiss, a new finesse replacing the awkward exuberance she’d initially shown. With his lower lip, he urged her to open for him, sliding his tongue into her honeyed depths when she did. She tasted sweet, so sweet. Like tea and refinement and Eleanora, and there had never, in the entirety of his years on this earth, been a finer taste or a better kiss.

Because it was her .

There was simply something about Eleanora Brett. He didn’t know what it was. But it was consuming him. She was consuming him—thoughts of her chasing him through each hour of the day and every second of the night. Nando had to touch her, to learn her curves. He moved his hands, pain accompanying each caress, molding to her lower back, to her determined spine, burrowing in the soft hair at her nape and knocking her dreadful cap askew. He wanted to undress her. To worship every inch of her. To make love to her so thoroughly and please her so well that she would forget her own name, let alone propriety.

Her tongue glided against his, and he nearly lost control.

Just as abruptly as it had begun, the kiss ended as she tore her lips away with a shocked gasp, clapping a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. Desire roared through him. He hadn’t released her just yet; she was still in his arms. He never wanted to let go.

“Forgive me,” she said, her voice shaken and breathless, so unlike the cool, unflappable Miss Brett she oft pretended to be. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Nando licked his bottom lip, still tasting her. “I do. Lust. You want me, Eleanora. You may as well admit it.”

He wasn’t going to allow her to deny the passion so obvious and potent, burning between them with the force of a thousand suns. To do so would be a sacrilege.

“Admitting any such thing would be nothing short of absolute folly.” She flattened her hands on his chest and pushed. “Please, release me.”

He did as she asked, mourning the loss of contact with her, his frustration soaring to rival his need.

“What are you so afraid of?” he asked softly.

“Myself,” she answered instantly.

“You needn’t. I’ll take care of you, Eleanora. I can promise you that.”

“And I’ve already told you I’ll not be a kept woman. I’m no man’s mistress.”

“Then be my lover instead.”

She shook her head. “One is not different from the other, and both would cause me to lose everything.”

“Or gain something far more important than playing chaperone to wealthy hoydens and teaching them how to waltz.”

She stared at him, looking stricken. “It’s not as wretched a fate as you suggest. There are worse situations for women such as myself.”

“Oh yes, I am sure you wake each morning positively thrilled by the notion that you must don ill-fitting gowns and subject yourself to the whims of your employer,” he drawled.

“I have witnessed what can become of—” she began, her voice taking on an impassioned quality he’d never heard before, but then halting, shaking her head. “Never mind. It doesn’t signify.”

He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had just had his first glimpse of the true Eleanora Brett, the woman she kept hidden beneath her dreadful muslins and fichus and caps and her icy, proper fa?ade. He wanted more. He wanted to know about her. He wanted her darkest secrets, every facet of her past, all that had happened to make her as she was, an enigmatic woman who never showed anyone the true Eleanora Brett.

He wanted to be the man she revealed her true self to, not just the man she gave herself to. The realization shook him; he had never felt such a deep bond with a woman as he did with her. It went beyond the physical.

Deus.

When had he ever wanted more from a woman than a tup?

“I must leave,” she added, shaking him from the stranglehold his own thoughts had taken upon him.

Damn it, he couldn’t lose her. Not now.

“Not yet.” He drew her against him, and to his relief, she didn’t stiffen or push away but came willingly, her softness pressing temptingly into his hardness. “Tell me, Eleanora. Finish what you were going to say.”

Nando could see her warring with herself.

He lowered his head, nuzzling her temple, breathing in the clean, pleasant scent of her to further torment himself. “I want to know your past, your secrets, what you think about late at night when you’re lying alone in your bed.”

Her hands had settled on his shoulders again, her fingers gently gripping him in a hold that was as tentative as it was delicious. “You want too much from me.”

He smiled, kissing her temple. “I want everything from you, sweetheart. But only when you are ready to give it to me, and not a moment sooner.”

She tipped her head back, and she studied him with an intensity that was almost blistering. “That is the problem. I want to give you everything. But I know too well how this tale ends.”

For a wild moment, he thought about how their tale wouldn’t have to end at all. He could marry her. Make her his. Bed her witless. Watch her grow heavy with his child, again and again.

His prick thickened. He had never been so crazed with lust to consider matrimony, nor having a child. Although he was a devoted rake, he took care to prevent unwanted entanglements or, worse, diseases. Now, the notion of Eleanora Brett in his bed at home in Varros, of filling her with his seed whenever and wherever he wished, was enough to nearly make him come in his trousers.

He inhaled sharply, casting those ludicrous thoughts from his mind, knowing he could never remain constant and that she deserved faithfulness instead of a devil-may-care rake who couldn’t even be trusted with the particulars of his brother’s kingdom.

“You came to me today,” he said instead, capitalizing on her own reckless desire, which was so strong that it surpassed her need to protect herself.

So strong that it brought her back to him, time and again.

So strong that it was inevitable.

“It was a mistake.” But despite her words, she had pressed her face into his throat.

“It doesn’t feel like one to me, Eleanora.” He kissed her ear, caught the shell in his teeth.

What he wanted to do to her.

His injury scarcely even concerned him. A twinge here, a stab of pain there. It was nothing compared to the ability to hold her like this, to have her where she belonged.

His.

Damn it, this woman was his , and he knew it to his marrow. She would know it soon enough if she didn’t already.

She shivered. “Your Royal?—”

“Nando,” he interrupted, his lips grazing her throat as he kissed his way lower. “You called me by my given name once, and the world did not end.” He raked his stubble against her skin, one hand coming up to snag that inglorious fichu, pluck it away, and send it to the floor. “Try it. I’ve longed to hear it on your lips every second that has passed since then.”

And that was no exaggeration.

“Nando.”

He raised his head, tearing his lips from her silken skin requiring all his might, and fell into her eyes. That was what it felt like. Falling and yet being saved, all at once.

“Say it again,” he told her hoarsely. “Please.”

She hesitated, and for a moment, he feared she would deny him and retreat, like a butterfly flitting away to another flower. But then her perfect, kiss-bruised lips moved, and she obliged him.

“Nando.”

And he was lost and found in that moment.