Page 24

C onstantia reached behind her and closed the door, and he gestured her to the chair opposite his, beside the fire. “In case it’s of use to you, I compiled a list of solicitors who could be trusted to look into Schenk’s claims,” he told her, nodding toward a writing desk a few feet away. She could see at least two pieces of paper covered with his precise hand. “And then I decided to brush up on my German history.” He gestured with the closed book. “Did you know that the principality of Friedensfeld has been defunct since—?”

“The mid-eighteenth century, yes,” she said, suddenly wishing she had brought along Herr Schenk’s notes—or rather, Harriet’s translation of them. “After a series of skirmishes along the border with the Duchy of Knechtsburg, in which the Friedensfelders suffered many losses, the then-prince, my great-grandfather, was driven into exile. Herr Schenk wept as he told me the story. The family has remained in Transylvania ever since, allowed to retain their titles, but forfeiting much else.”

Alistair looked impressed by the amount of knowledge she had acquired in so little time. But also a little grim.

“Shortly after his father’s death in 1780, my father, Prince Christoph, embarked on a grand tour of sorts, to study art. Italy, Paris, eventually London, where he met my mother, painted her portrait, and, evidently, showered her with gifts.” Reaching up beneath her hair, most of which had long since escaped the elegant coiffure over which Georgiana and Frederica had labored so earnestly, she plucked the earbobs from her ears. She hadn’t known where else to keep them. “Do you”—she fiddled absently with them, making the firelight dance across the gems—“do you believe my parents really were married? Wouldn’t there be some record—something in an English church?”

He mused on that question for a long moment. “Perhaps, when you’re some sort of prince, a royal proclamation is all the authority you need. Truth be told, I’m far more interested in how you and your mother came to be left all alone.” His jaw was set in a hard line; she ought to have known he would have little patience for a man who failed in his most important duty, who hadn’t done everything he could to protect his family.

Fortunately, that wasn’t the whole story.

“Herr Schenk said that his brother, my uncle, wrote to urge his return by lying about their mother’s health. That when he arrived and realized what his brother had done, he knew trouble was afoot, which was why he issued a proclamation that very day. He wanted to ensure that my mother would be taken care of if anything happened to him. But of course, my mother never knew anything about it, because within a week, my father was...dead.”

He leaned forward and encircled her hands with his. “I don’t know what sort of condolence to offer under circumstances such as these. I am sorry you will never know him, but he left you with a marvelous gift.” Surprise must have flashed across her face, for he added, by way of explanation, “Your artistic gift—the one you share with him.”

She nodded and gnawed on the soft flesh behind her lower lip. For just a moment, she had thought he must have guessed the rest. “There’s something else.”

“Oh?”

“If we didn’t misunderstand Herr Schenk, or make a terrible mistranslation, it seems that when the family went into exile and forfeited their lands, they still escaped with a sizable fortune in gold and gems. And in that proclamation, well, my father left it all to me.” She had been trying all evening not to think about how different her life would have been if Herr Schenk had caught up with her sooner. Far fewer struggles and hardships. No damp cellar room beneath a modiste’s shop.

No Alistair either.

“That’s marvelous,” he exclaimed, though his hands went slack. “You will finally be free to paint what you choose, to have whatever sort of life you’d like.”

“Mm-hmm,” she agreed, still worrying her lip. “Alistair? What if...what if I decided what I really want is a home? Here? With you?”

The almost imperceptible cloud that had formed on his brow a few moments earlier slowly cleared as the meaning of those words sank in. “Constantia, are you—are you asking me to marry you?”

He was a proud man, she knew. Was she no better than those Bristol merchants’ daughters, trying to buy his hand, but in the process losing his heart?

“Should I get down on one knee?”

He shook his head, never taking his eyes from hers as he slid from his chair onto the hearthrug at her feet. “No, I believe it’s I who should be kneeling in the presence of royalty.”

“Alistair,” she chided, trying to slip her fingers from his grasp.

But he paid her no mind. “Promise me you’re not doing this because you think you should. Because you feel some ill-conceived responsibility for the situation in which I’ve found myself.”

“I’m far too selfish for that. I’m doing it for myself. Because every moment I spent on that portrait forced me to confront how much I w-wanted you.” She stammered out the word, knowing his eyes would flare hotly at it. “How much I love you.”

He lifted his hand to cup her head and draw her closer even as he rose up on his knees. The intensity of his dark gaze was softened by the sparkle of unshed tears as he tipped his forehead to hers.

“Are you certain you want to say yes?” she asked, swallowing against the prickle of tears in her own throat. “I’m not much like the ideal bride you described to me.” A wry laugh pushed past the tears. “Other than rich.”

“And pretty, and intelligent, and good with my sisters,” he reminded her.

“But totally inexperienced in the duties of a lady. Sometimes messy. And a little wild.”

His dark eyes flared. “Perhaps I’ve decided I like wild.”

At that, she laughed and tossed her head; her hair tumbled around them. “I intend to keep painting,” she warned him. “Under my real name. I mean to refurbish the studio—”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Their lips met with a combination of sweetness and heat that until recently she hadn’t known existed. It was a kiss rich with passion and promise, and when her tongue slicked daringly over his, he groaned.

Dragging his mouth over her jaw to her ear, he whispered seductively, “I am eager to serve as your consort, Princess Constantia.”

He was teasing, of course, but still the title sent an unexpected shiver of delight down her spine. Or perhaps that was simply the heat of his breath.

“I fear a princess without a principality hasn’t any real power,” she retorted, reaching out to trace the open collar of his dressing gown. The V of bare skin displayed there was dusted with dark hair and deliciously warm.

His answering laugh was more than a little wicked. “Oh, my love, I wouldn’t say that.”

With one hand still on her nape, he held her in thrall to the kisses he pressed down on her throat and over her collarbone. His other hand slipped beneath the hem of her skirts and slid up her calf, raising the layers of wool and linen as he went. Then he bent his head and kissed a spot just above her knee. The forbidden excitement of his lips in such a place set up a desperate throbbing at the joining of her thighs.

Releasing her neck, he grasped her hip instead and tugged her forward several inches, her bottom sliding easily over the smooth leather seat. The sudden movement drove a squeak of surprise from her. She wasn’t alarmed, though she thought perhaps she should be, given the fiery expression in his eyes when he looked up at her from between her spread knees.

“Well, your highness? Will you let me worship you as you deserve?”

Despite her scattered wits, she managed what she thought was a very regal-sounding “You may.”

With teasing kisses along the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, he made his way to her mound. His breath was hot against her private curls, the feel of his mouth there like nothing she could have imagined. When his tongue slid into the seam of her sex, she thought she might die of the pleasure. Her heart banged against her ribs, and she dug her fingers into the arms of the chair, trying to keep herself from flying apart, trying to drag herself closer to him.

At that, his low chuckle vibrated through her most intimate places. Hooking her knees over his shoulders, he opened her more fully to his passionate onslaught. The shockingly decadent sounds of his mouth and tongue against her slickness brought a flush of heat to her chest. Without conscious thought, she moved her hands to his head and drove her fingers through his thick, dark hair, pulling him closer still. His lips found that little bundle of nerves and he began to suck, ratcheting her need higher and higher until she shattered, her release almost painful in its intensity. Her thighs trembled and clenched around his head as he gentled his ministrations, easing her through the crisis until she shuddered once more and finally slumped, spent, in the chair.

“Don’t fall asleep, Princess,” he teased, nuzzling her inner thigh with a wet kiss. “I need you in my bed.”

With what seemed to her extraordinary energy, he leaped to his feet and helped her to stand on rather wobbly legs, then divested her of her clothing more quickly than she would have imagined possible.

“You were beautiful tonight in that gold dress,” he murmured as he bent to kiss her. “But not more beautiful than you are out of it.”

She had felt beautiful then, with his sisters fussing over every detail of her appearance as no one ever had. But nothing compared to the way she felt in this moment. Worshipped, as he’d said. Adored. Loved.

When she reached for the tie of his dressing gown, she discovered he wore nothing beneath. “Somehow,” she said, her voice breathy in spite of her intent to tease, “I imagined you the sort of man who would wear a nightshirt.”

“Did you?” He shrugged, once, and the heavy silk slithered to the floor. “Well, my dear, it turns out I’m not nearly as dull and proper as certain people have made me out to be.”

She lowered her eyes at that, but only to rake them over his body. “It seems I still have much to learn,” she said, reaching for him.

“And here I thought you might be rather sh-shy.” He hissed in a breath when her fingertips brushed along the heated length of his member.

“Whatever gave you that impression?”

“The, uh, the second portrait, shall we call it?” His eyes gradually lost their focus as her touch grew more insistent. “You drew me with a sheet draped over my middle, and that’s not quite how I remember posing for you.”

“Oh, that picture.” A tiny flicker of alarm passed through her as she recalled when and where he’d seen it. “Oh, my goodness. Is it still lying in the studio for anyone to see?”

“No.” His hand encircled hers, firming her grip, teaching her how to stroke him. “I, um, I went back for it later. While you were working in the library. It’s safely stowed away.”

Relief and amusement escaped her in a shivery breath. “Excellent. Then I can finish it properly.” She watched their joined hands slide over his cock. “Once I’ve had the chance to study my subject more carefully.”

“I’m all yours, whenever you wish.” His breaths were coming more rapidly. “But right now, I need—”

She thrilled at the wolfish eagerness with which he prowled closer, propelling her backward until they reached the bed. When she turned, he dropped his head to nip the place where her neck joined her shoulder. His arms came around her and his hands covered her small breasts, his thumbs brushing lightly over her nipples.

Then, as she prepared to climb onto the high mattress, the movement of her hips seemed to snap the thin tether on his desire. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her bottom and in another moment, she felt his shaft at the entrance to her body.

“Yes?” Part growl, part desperate plea.

“Yes.” She canted her hips backward and he filled her on one long, glorious slide. Gripping the coverlet, she tried to capture every sensation, the hair on his chest as it tickled across her back, the heat of him, inside and out, as he drove into her again and again, pushing her toward another shattering climax. One of his hands cinched her hips to his as he spent, while the other slid languorously up her spine. “Definitely not dull or proper,” she said with a soft, wondering laugh as he dropped a kiss onto her shoulder.

“No,” he agreed, and felt his lips curve into a smile. “Because I’ve wanted to do that since that night at the pub, when you asked me to help you out of your dress.”

“Ah,” she said, recalling the state he’d been in the next morning. Perhaps he was a bit wild himself, a bit rakish after all? “But it’s probably for the best that you held off until we had a sturdier bed.”

Laughing, he withdrew, but he did not let her go. “Stay with me,” he said, sweeping back the covers.

“What will your aunt think? Or your sisters? Or—oh, good heavens—the rector?!”

He hoisted her into the bed with surprising ease, then snuggled in beside her. “They’ll think that I’m the luckiest man in the world.”