Secrets for Seducing a Royal Bodyguard (12 page)

Aden’s gut unclenched a bit with that news. “She told you that?”

“Well, not in so many words. Vivien is a lively, charming girl, but she’s also surprisingly self-contained. She doesn’t share her thoughts and feelings lightly, and never in public. But I’ve watched her with the prince. Her manners are always faultless—Vivien could never be rude—but I can tell he discomforts her. She avoids him whenever possible.”

Aden tensed. “Has he made improper advances?”

She frowned down at her lap, obviously thinking it through. “I don’t think so,” she finally said, “but he’s very persistent. Princes can be that way, you know,” she finished on a bitter note.

Aden fought back a flare of anger, whether on his mother’s behalf or Vivien’s, he couldn’t tell. “I understand. I’ve not yet had time to investigate the prince, but I will.”

Her eyes gleamed with curiosity. “Who exactly have you been investigating?”

He gave her a sardonic smile. “Lady Vivien’s family. It’s almost always the family.”

“Really, Aden, I doubt—”

“Mother, enough,” he warned, as the coach came to a halt. “We’ve arrived. I suggest we save further discussion for a more private setting.”

He heard her mutter
dreadful boy
as he handed her down to the street, and couldn’t hold back a grin. Ignoring him, she sailed up the steps and into the Darlington mansion. Aden had forgotten how entertaining his mother could be. She was an intelligent, quick-witted woman who never failed to challenge him on those rare occasions when he found himself in her company. He could almost regret all the lost opportunities between them, the missed chances to truly become friends.

Almost.

He caught up to her just inside the door, handing over his hat and cloak to the waiting footman. She slipped her hand through his arm.

“Ready to face the lion’s den?” she murmured.

He bent down to whisper in her ear. “Mother, I’m a spy. Really, how bad could this be?”

She gave a strangled laugh. “My son, you have no idea. Why do you think Dominic rarely ventures out into polite company? These people are truly terrifying.”

“You have me quaking in my boots. Or, should I say, my blasted dancing shoes.”

She laughed outright as she led him through the imposing marbled entrance hall to meet their host and hostess. Aden had only a hazy recollection of Lord and Lady Darlington from the short period he’d spent in London before joining the army, but Lady Darlington certainly seemed to remember him. She fussed over him like a hen-wit, exclaiming how thrilled she was to be the first hostess to welcome Aden back into the fold. He fought not grind his back teeth, especially when she promised—or threatened—to introduce her unmarried daughters.

“Clarissa and Eunice are quite the loveliest, most biddable girls in the
ton,
” she said, inspecting him with an avaricious gleam. “I know you will be quite taken with them. And such splendid dancers, too. I’ll be sure to tell them to save at least two dances for you, Captain St. George. You will be delighted with my girls, I assure you.”

Lord Darlington was only slightly less alarming than his wife, wringing Aden’s hand and loudly inviting him to his hunting box in Lincoln for a week of shooting.

“It’s quite the snuggest little box you’ve ever seen,” Lord Darlington boomed in a genial voice. “Your father, Lord Blake, that is,” he said, carefully making the distinction, “used to visit every season, along with mutual friends. Every year, without fail. Practically a ritual, don’t you know. We love the ladies, but every once in a while a man needs a respite from all that domesticity, eh, my dear?” he finished, with a broad wink at his wife.

Lady Darlington, who looked fifty if she was a day, slapped her husband’s arm with her fan and giggled like an untried maiden. Darlington roared with laughter and passed Aden along, but not before Lady Darlington added an invitation of her own for Lady Thornbury and Aden to spend Christmas with them in Somerset.

“Capital idea, my dear.” Darlington looked much struck at the notion. “The girls will be pleased as punch to spend the holiday with St. George, I’m sure. They’re such merry little pusses, you’ll have a grand time.”

“And mind,” he called as Aden and his mother escaped, “I’ll be expecting you for a week of shooting, too. Asked that brother of yours time and again, and he always refuses. But someone has to follow in his father’s footsteps, my boy, and it might as well be you.”

For once, Aden found himself in agreement with his brother. Clearly, he hadn’t been giving Edmund nearly enough credit.

“I told you these people were dangerous,” his mother murmured as they made their way down the crowded passage to the ballroom.

“If anything, you underestimated the situation. I feel positively faint with horror.”

She smirked. “It gets worse.”

He snorted. He’d actually forgotten how competitive and cutthroat the marriage mart could be. Boney’s most lethal spies would have nothing on Lady Darlington.

It took forever to reach the ballroom since every person they brushed against seemed to be on intimate terms with his mother. Adroitly, she managed introductions, moving Aden along before he could be trapped by any more matchmaking mammas, or old gentlemen who wanted to gossip about France and the meetings in Vienna. Her touch was light and, with only a word or two, she managed forward motion while never giving offense.

With reluctant admiration, Aden watched his mother exercise her considerable talents. No wonder Dominic had insisted she help him. No one was more practiced in the social arts of the
ton
than Lady Thornbury. Without her, he’d be blundering about like a half-wit in a dark cave.

They finally pressed through the chattering throng to reach the massive ballroom. The air hung heavy with the scent of a thousand hothouse blooms, while hundreds of candles imparted light and an already oppressive heat.

“Gad, Mother,” he muttered as they pushed their way up to the head of the room, “how do you stand it?”

She shrugged. “I’m used to it.”

Aden had almost forgotten what these gatherings were like. With the noise and crowds, it would be difficult if not impossible to protect Vivien, much less have the opportunity to observe her suitors. In fact, this might be the perfect opportunity for someone to make another abduction attempt. There was so much chaotic motion, both on the dance floor and the perimeter, an invading army of Turks could kidnap half the dancers and no one would ever notice.

His instincts prickled to full alert, pushing him hard.

“Mother, I need to find Lady Vivien,” he said, letting his gaze roam over the crowd.

She started scanning the room as well. “It’s a little early for her to be in the card room. I would think . . . Ah, yes, there she is. Up at the top of the room by the orchestra.” She went up on tiptoe, looking startled. “Goodness, she’s with—”

“I see,” Aden responded grimly. Leaving her, he pushed his way through a knot of lounging young bucks, ignoring their outraged objections.

Yes, he saw Vivien. With her back against a marble column, her beautiful face a carefully blank mask as she stared into the greedy gaze of Prince Ivan Khovansky.

Vivien’s shoulder blades made contact with the column, the cool marble sending a shiver down her spine. That, or Khovansky’s ugly leer, triggered the sensation of ants crawling under her skin. Why wouldn’t he leave her alone? She was beginning to suspect he saw her as a challenge to his manhood, an obstacle to be overcome rather than a woman to be wooed and won.

“My dear lady,” the prince drawled in his heavy accent. “You look flushed. The heat is too much for you, especially in your weakened state. You must allow me to escort you to a quiet alcove, or even Lady Darlington’s drawing room. Then you may rest and we can have a pleasant chat.”

The tone of his voice signalled it as an order, not a request. But she calmly met his gaze, refusing to flinch under a bold perusal that managed to be both lascivious and imperious.

They stood almost eye to eye. The prince wasn’t tall, although he was broad across the shoulders and upper body. With his elaborate Russian uniform, his chest beribboned and pinned, he resembled nothing so much as a colorful rooster. His red hair and whiskers only added to the effect, as did his rather florid complexion.

He was as arrogant as a rooster too, despite the smooth superficiality and elegance of manner that charmed more than a few members of the
ton
. But that polish was as thin as a sheeting of frost on a windowpane. The prince knew his standing and woe betide any man—or woman—who crossed him. Then, those muddy green eyes would grow icy with rage, promising a painful retribution for the unfortunate object of his anger.

Vivien sent up a prayer of thanks that she would never be in his power. “I thank you, Your Highness, but I am quite recovered. Your concern is appreciated but unnecessary.”

As much as she couldn’t stand the man, he
was
a prince. She didn’t dare treat him in the same cavalier manner as she had during their unfortunate encounter at Lady Templeton’s musical, when he’d trapped her in an alcove. She simply could
not
kick him again, especially in public, no matter how much he deserved it.

A quick glance over his shoulder told her they were already attracting more than a few curious looks. There was already enough gossip about them, and rumors had already begun circulating about an impending engagement. Vivien knew whom to thank for that lovely little tidbit. Cyrus, who would like nothing better than to marry her off to a powerful and wealthy Russian prince.

The very idea of marriage to the man made her gorge rise.

He stepped closer, crowding her against the column. Vivien’s polite expression began to slip. Her palm itched to slap him, and she wondered if it might not be a good idea to cause a scene after all. At least that way everyone would know how much she loathed him. The gain would almost be worth the scandal.

“Ah, sweet Lady Vivien,” he crooned affectionately, even though his eyes had acquired a menacing cast. “So beautiful, so delicate, so sweetly foolish. You are like a little dove in need of shelter and protection. You must allow Prince Ivan to take care of you. In fact, I insist upon it.”

She almost bit her tongue in shock.
Little dove?
Had he lost his mind?

“Sir, your remarks are most inappropriate,” she said sternly. “I insist you let me by. Now.”

She started moving before she finished talking, sliding along the column in an effort to get around him. He tracked her movements. Frustrated, she stopped, glaring at him.

“Prince Ivan, I repeat. Please step aside.”

His charmless smile transformed itself into a contemptuous one. “Or what, Lady Vivien? You will kick me? I do not counsel you to make that mistake twice.”

Vivien’s heart thumped at the threatening tone in his voice. She’d always thought the prince an arrogant pig, but now she wondered if he was actually insane. There could be no other explanation for his truly demented behavior, especially in so public a venue.

Unless he thought himself so powerful he simply didn’t care. But scandalous scene or no, it was time to get rid of him, once and for all. Just as she lifted a hand to shove him, a figure loomed behind the prince. Towered over him, actually. Vivien sagged back against the column in relief.

St. George, impeccably attired in evening garb, arriving once again to rescue her.

“Lady Vivien,” he said, shouldering the prince aside and ignoring the outraged hiss from the other man. “My mother has been looking all over for you. Imagine my surprise to find you hiding behind a pillar. Are you avoiding someone?” A casual smile curved up the corners of his hard mouth, but his eyes probed her, acutely watchful.

“Captain, how lovely to see you again,” Vivien replied, surprised her voice wasn’t shaking. “I was just, ah, saying good-bye to Prince Ivan.”

St. George peered down at the prince from his considerable height, looking faintly surprised. “Indeed. Is that what you were doing? I wondered about that.”

Vivien didn’t know whether to laugh or wince at the blatant insult. But then she saw the deadly look on the prince’s face and decided wincing was the more appropriate response.

Not that St. George looked the least bit intimidated. He regarded the prince with an aristocratic disdain that could not have been topped by any member of the British royal family.

Khovansky flushed a brick red, and Vivien had little doubt he’d be happy to run St. George through with his ceremonial sword. If she didn’t want the evening dissolving into a complete nightmare, she’d better take matters in hand.

“Captain, I’m sure you remember Prince Ivan Khovansky. You met him the other morning at Blake House.”

St. George gave a slight bow, as if he could barely be bothered to acknowledge the other man’s existence. “Of course. How could I forget?” he said in a bored voice.

Khovansky surprised her by tilting his head, looking more curious than anything else. “Ah, Lady Thornbury’s son. Your mother is a charming woman, a trait which you do not share.”

Vivien couldn’t quite smother a gasp. She cast a desperate glance around their immediate vicinity, praying no one overheard the snarling exchange. Fortunately, the drunken frolics of the
beau monde
swirled about them, unabated and uncaring of the little drama in the corner.

St. George replied to the prince’s insult by smiling. “My mother would share your opinion, Your Highness. In fact, why don’t you go ask her? Lady Vivien and I will be happy to excuse you.”

This time Khovansky’s jaw worked, as if the words were trapped on his tongue. “As delighted as I would be to speak with Lady Thornbury, I must decline. I was about to escort Lady Vivien to an anteroom. She is greatly in need of some rest and quiet as she recovers from her illness.”

He turned, trying to grasp her hand. “Come with me, my dear. You can speak with Lady Thornbury later.”

Vivien snatched her hand away, speechless with frustration and disbelief. When the prince reached for her again, St. George stepped between them.

“I don’t think so, Your Highness,” he said. He tilted his head, listening to the first strains of the waltz. “Ah. Our dance, I believe, Lady Vivien.”

His charming smile didn’t fool her, despite its outrageously attractive appeal. She’d already begun to learn how to read the expression in his dark eyes, and those eyes were commanding her to comply. Fortunately, this was one order she was happy to obey.

“Dear me,” she said. “How could I have forgotten?” She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to look regretful. “Please forgive me, Prince Ivan, but I mustn’t disappoint the captain.” She finished on a firm note, hoping he would finally comprehend the message in her voice.

The prince stared at her for a few seconds, his features pulled tight with disbelief and rage. Then he blinked slowly, twice, and the rage disappeared, leaving in its wake a flat, expressionless mask she found more disturbing than the rage.

“Of course, my dear,” he said in a precise and chilly tone. “Young ladies must be allowed their little diversions and entertainments before taking up the responsibilities of marriage. I shall leave you to it.” He gave a slight inclination of the head and then was swallowed up in the throng—but not before casting a menacing, promise-filled glance at St. George.

St. George watched him go with a thoughtful expression, then glanced down at her. “You certainly have some interesting suitors, Lady Vivien, I’ll give you that much.”

She scoffed. “Don’t be an idiot. Of course he’s not one of my suitors.”

He gave her a faintly skeptical smile.

“Well,” she amended, “he is, but not because I want him to be. It’s not as if I have any control over the situation. What am I to do?”

He reached out then and took her into his arms, sweeping her onto the crowded floor and into the first turns of the waltz. The heat and strength of him, the clean masculine smell of soap and starched linen enveloped her as she melted into his embrace. Her emotions took flight in a startling leap, matching her racing heart. Although they’d never danced, it felt wonderfully familiar to be in his arms again.

Her breath left her in a whoosh as clarity struck. She’d spent the last five days and nights secretly wishing to be exactly where she was—in his arms, cradled against him.

That understanding stunned her into silence as she stared up into his darkly intense gaze. Thank God her arms and legs knew what to do as she followed him in the graceful motions of the waltz. Or perhaps that was all him, guiding her down the room in flowing revolutions that swirled the rose-colored silk of her skirts around his legs as their bodies touched, separated, and touched again in the seductive figures of the dance.

“He is a prince,” he replied in answer to her last question. “I doubt anyone would blame you if you did entertain his suit. In fact, I suspect there are any number of young ladies in this room who would trample you into the dance floor to capture even one iota of the attention Prince Ivan directs your way.”

His words brought her thumping back to earth, as did the cool look on his face. If she didn’t miss her guess, he studied her with dispassionate interest, as if she were an interesting specimen to be observed or an equation to be solved.

“They can have him,” she groused. “And I’m not sure, Captain St. George, what you expect me to do to rid myself of his attentions. Pistols at dawn, perhaps?”

He laughed, a deep, husky sound that rippled along her nerves. But the laugh failed to reach his eyes. Instead, he watched with that disturbingly perceptive gaze, all while skillfully guiding them through a mass of jostling dancers. As annoyed as she was, she couldn’t help but admire his strength and control. Oh, yes, and the muscles in his shoulder that flexed beneath her fingers. They were most admirable too.

“That might be one approach, but I suggest a simple
no
might do the trick,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said sarcastically. “That had not yet occurred to me. Of
course
I told him no, but the blasted thickhead won’t listen to a word I say. Even a kick to the shins didn’t do the trick.”

She could have bitten her tongue as soon as the words slipped past her lips. How humiliating to reveal that embarrassing incident, especially to him.

He looked startled, then his hand flexed on her waist and he pulled her closer into his embrace. Vivien couldn’t repress a shiver as the tops of his muscled thighs brushed against her pelvis. She pulled in a deep breath, suddenly feeling a constriction around her ribs.

His gaze flickered down to her bodice, then back up to her face. His eyes darkened with a raw heat.

Oh, she recognized
that
look. She’d seen it before in more than one man’s eyes, but never had it affected her like this. Excitement and apprehension danced along her skin and she had to drop her gaze, biting her lip like a nervous child. All the while the dancers spun around them in a jewel-like whirl, the strings of the orchestra swelling to a crescendo. But she felt apart from all of that, every particle of her being aware only of him.

When she finally worked up the courage to look past his white satin waistcoat, he had shifted his gaze over her shoulder. With a few deft turns, he moved her down to one of the corners of the room and to a door leading out to a side hallway. Quickly and efficiently he guided her out of the room and to a quiet window alcove, one that afforded them some privacy but was still well within view of anyone strolling in the hall.

“What are you doing?” she asked, forcing the words out.

“It’s all right,” he said in a soothing tone. “You needed to catch your breath. I was twirling you about in a rather vigorous fashion, wasn’t it?”

She nodded, pretending to agree. But it wasn’t the dance that had robbed her of breath. It was St. George, and those looks had swept through her like a summer storm. He seemed to have a lethal effect on her emotions, turning her into a blithering idiot, and it was time she remembered that.

He waited patiently while she took a few moments to steady herself. When a waiter passed by carrying a tray of crystalline goblets, St. George snagged one and handed it over. She sipped the icy punch, studying him surreptitiously over the rim of the glass.

Heavens, he was a gorgeous man, especially in evening dress. The stark black coat and trousers set off his muscular build to perfection, and his white cravat and silk waistcoat enhanced his tanned features. He radiated masculine vitality and power, and a raw sensuality that set off an odd pinging sensation low in her belly.

But there were other things that went along with all that power and masculinity, like the ability to knife someone to death without turning a hair. Generally speaking, not a talent one looked for in a suitor, although her recent experience suggested that having a man like St. George as an escort was actually rather desirable.

He waited patiently while she finished her punch, then took the glass and set it on a little side table. “Better?” he asked.