Page 94 of The Princess and the Rogue

“Why not take off your shirt and put it under your armpit?” Ben suggested.

Seb scowled at him. “Do you know how long it tookme to perfect this cravat? Six tries. I’m not undoing it for anyone. Unless it’s my wife,” he added with a grin.

Mellors offered forward the bowl and held it while Seb cupped the ice and moved it around in his hands like a bar of soap. Then he breathed on it, using the warmth of his exhale to melt the ice chunk even faster. His fingers throbbed, but he persevered, and when it got small enough, he put the whole thing in his mouth. Cheeks bulging, he sucked it like a throat lozenge until he tasted a metallic tang.

He withdrew the key with a shout of triumph and elbowed Alex out of the way of the door.

“Anya?” he called through the wooden panel. “I’m coming in.”

The key turned in the lock with a satisfying click and he pushed it inward. He stepped inside, caught a brief glimpse of Anya standing across the room, and turned to face the crowd in the hallway. They were all assembled: Dorothea and Geoffrey, Benedict and Georgie, Alex and Emmy, Dmitri, Elizaveta, and Mellors. His family, by blood or by friendship. He loved them all dearly.

Seb sent them a wide smile—and slammed the door.

Chapter 42.

Seb turned to face Anya and his breath caught in his throat. She was a vision in pale blue and white. Her hair was pinned in elaborate curls and her eyes sparkled almost as much as the diamonds in her tiara.

“You passed all the tests!” She laughed. “I knew you could do it!”

“You look stunning,” he croaked.

She crossed the room and fell into his arms. “You don’t look too bad yourself.” She lifted her face for a kiss, and he took her lips greedily.

“God, I’ve missed you so much,” he breathed. “I can’t wait to marry you.” He pulled back and reached into his jacket. “Here, I got you a gift.”

“Another one?” She sent him an amused, quizzical smile. “You’ve given me hundreds of gifts already. Gloves, scent bottles, fans. You know I don’t need things like this, Sebastien. I only wantyou.”

“I know. But I like giving them to you, so you’re just going to have to get used to it.”

She sent him a chiding smile and opened the box, then muttered something in Russian. Seb didn’t know exactly what she said, but it sounded gratifyingly breathless. He was going to have to learn her language at the earliest opportunity.

“I thought we could start a new tradition,” he said. “Denisov brides might wear that tiara when they wed, but you’ll be a Wolff by the end of the day. These are for you, to pass down to future generations.”

He fastened the necklace around her throat and pressed a kiss to her exposed shoulder. He enjoyed the way she sucked in a little breath at the contact.

“Thank you.”

“I think you’d better start teaching me Russian. What’s the word for wife?”

“It’s pronounced zhena. Or you could call me lyu-bee-ma-ya. It means ‘beloved one.’”

He enjoyed the movement of her lips as she shaped the words.

“Or maybe daragaya,” she said. “That means ‘darling.’”

“Da-ra-ga-ya,” he echoed obediently.

“Very good. Or you could simply say, ‘moya.’”

“And what does that mean?”

“Mine.”

“I like that.” He dropped a soft kiss on her lips. “Very much.” He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Are you ready to go downstairs? It’s almost eleven.”

She nodded and squeezed his hand. “Yes.”

Anya felt as light as a snowflake as she descended the stairs on Seb’s arm.