Secrets for Seducing a Royal Bodyguard (15 page)

Vivien could barely refrain from clutching her carefully styled ringlets in frustration. “Don’t even speak of it, Mamma. The man is a toad, and you know it. In fact, I’d rather marry a toad. At least then I’d have a chance of kissing him and turning him into a different prince than that horrid specimen.”

When confronted with Prince Ivan in the flesh, Vivien had no trouble believing that the wilds of Yorkshire were a far preferable option than marriage.

Her mother giggled. “I’d never quite thought of him in those terms, but you’re right. It must be the bulging eyes and that rather wet mouth. I must agree, my love. You can’t possibly marry that man.”

“I’m glad someone agrees with me,” Vivien responded dryly.

“Yes, but . . . ah, Mrs. Canning-Smith. Yes, it is a delightful gathering, isn’t it?”

Her mother was forced to turn away to chat with one of their guests, and Vivien took the brief respite to flick her glance around the room. Thanks to her gruesome conversation with her brother, she had not had the chance to attend to the usual last-minute details before dinner. Darnell and his footmen, however, seemed to have everything in hand, wending their way through the scattered groups dispensing chilled goblets of champagne. A few of the guests were late, but once they arrived Vivien would signal to the butler to ring the dinner bell.

She had to wonder why she even cared about her brother’s blasted dinner. Cyrus and his guests—all from the political and diplomatic set—could go hang as far as she was concerned. But old habits die hard, and Vivien had always derived a great deal of satisfaction from running her brother’s household, even if they all maintained the fiction that Mamma was still his hostess. As difficult as her family could be, Vivien loved Blake House and she enjoyed running the household as much as she enjoyed her life in London. Everything had fallen to pieces after her father had died, but she’d eventually managed to build it back up, creating a home for all of them, even Cyrus. It wasn’t perfect, but it gave her a purpose in life and it suited her.

But that life was now sorely in danger, thanks to that same blasted, ungrateful family. If her plan failed, she would be the one to suffer most, she would be—

“My dear Lady Vivien,” a guttural voice purred at her shoulder. “You appear to have fallen into a brown study. You must allow me to coax you out of it.”

Vivien turned to meet Khovansky’s greedy gaze moving over her in a possessive sweep. She had to resist the impulse to shrink back—or slap him—when it lingered on her chest.

“Prince Ivan,” she said, dredging up a weak smile, “How delightful to see you again.”

“And you are looking most radiant, Lady Vivien. Like a ray of sunshine piercing November’s gloom.”

When his eyes remained fixed on the high slope of her breasts, Vivien decided she would have her dressmaker add at least three inches of lace trim to
all
her bodices.

Irritated by his impertinence, she loudly cleared her throat. His gaze snapped up to meet hers, and she had to swallow hard. His pale green eyes seemed to shine with an unholy light, cruel and avaricious, inspecting her as if she were chattel and not a human being composed of flesh and blood.

Yorkshire was looking more attractive by the minute.

“Oh, how kind. I do hope you’re having a pleasant time tonight, my dear sir,” she said, sounding like an idiot. But how could she carry on a conversation with a man whose very presence made her skin crawl? The idea of actually sleeping with him made her nauseous.

“I am having a delightful time, thank you, especially after having just spoken to your brother. I was most encouraged by what he had to tell me.”

One thick-fingered hand landed on her waist, hidden from the rest of the guests by the fact that she stood with her back to the fireplace. When his fingertips dug into the thin silk of her dress, she almost jumped out of her shoes.

Hastily, she jerked back, almost stumbling over her feet. She was normally not clumsy but the prince truly unnerved her.

Fortunately, her awkward movement forced him to drop his hand, but his eyes had gone flat with displeasure. She groaned inside. She couldn’t afford to anger him or he would surely go tattling to Cyrus about her lack of cooperation. For her plan to work she needed time, which meant placating the odious toad until she had enough money to thumb her nose at the whole lot of them.

“Do forgive me, Your Highness. I’m not usually so clumsy, but I’m perhaps a bit nervous tonight. With such distinguished company, Cyrus is most eager for our guests to enjoy themselves. Especially you,” she added with a treacly smile.

“You are likely still recovering from your . . . illness,” he said, his manner clearly indicating he knew she hadn’t been ill.

Vivien stared at him, not sure how to respond, but he seemed more than content to carry on the conversation by himself.

“You overextend yourself,” he added. “I feared as much the other night. If you will recall, I begged you to allow me to take care of you, but you refused. Obviously, you preferred to dance with Captain St. George rather than enjoy a quiet chat with me. That was a mistake and you now suffer the consequences of your poor judgment.”

Her jaw sagged open in disbelief, and she no longer had to wonder why he made her skin crawl. The man was arrogant beyond belief. No wonder she’d kicked him in the shins.

“Yes, well, I do like to dance,” she said, too stunned to make much sense.

He gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Fortunately, after my conversation with your brother, I find myself in a magnanimous mood. I am willing to forgive your past contretemps, if we can avoid any more unfortunate incidents in the future.”

He leaned forward, so close she could see pores on his wide, flat nose. “Are we clear, my lady?”

She swallowed past the lump in her throat. Clearly, he had not forgotten the shin-kicking episode. Now she knew how a fly felt in the instant before the toad flicked its tongue out to swallow it.

Behind her, someone delicately cleared her throat. She spun around, grateful for the excuse to turn away from her gruesome little scene with the prince.

Vivien stared, trying to gather her wits. She’d been expecting Lady Thornbury, but not St. George. But there her protector stood, his mother on his arm.

And he didn’t look happy at all.

St. George’s sternly handsome features were pulled tight with disdain, initially taking Vivien aback. Fortunately, the target of his ire was Prince Ivan, not her. In fact, both men appeared to be taking each other’s measure, as if ready to face off across a battlefield instead of exchanging
bon mots
over dinner.

With a sharp look, Lady Thornbury took the matter in hand. “Good evening, Prince Ivan. How delightful to meet you in so convivial a setting. I was so happy to be invited to such a distinguished gathering, and knowing you were amongst the guests has made it a particular treat.”

As usual, Lady Thornbury’s instincts were bang-on because the prince returned her smile, bowing over her hand with a great deal of condescension. St. George, however, looked anything but thrilled. With his narrowed gaze, he appeared ready to throttle Khovansky, which would certainly be Vivien’s preferred outcome.

“Lady Thornbury, I’m very happy you could join us tonight,” Vivien said, giving her friend a grateful smile. “And you, too, Captain St. George. I did not expect to see you, but your presence is most welcome.” In fact, his appearance was rather a puzzle since Vivien had gone over the invitation list and St. George had not been included.

“Thank you, my dear,” replied Lady Thornbury. “I do hope we didn’t hold you up for dinner.” She cast a mocking glance at her son. “I was waiting for Aden, who can never seem to be precisely on time. Such a shocking habit for a military man.”

St. George rolled his eyes but didn’t bother refuting his mother’s teasing.

“Indeed,” interjected the prince. “Most lamentable. One would think the captain could treat both his mother and his hostess with greater respect. I believe a man’s attention to the smaller niceties of life is a great indicator of his character. After all, the devil is in the details.” He punctuated his insult with a supercilious sneer.

St. George’s only response was to level a cold, infinitely calculating smile at the prince, one that chilled Vivien right to the bone.

“Better late than never, and it’s very nice to see you regardless, Captain,” she said with demented cheerfulness. “One mustn’t be too much of a stickler over these things or one risks turning into a pedant, don’t you think? Why, I’m sure I’m late for dinner on a regular basis. No one ever seems to mind in the least.”

Thankfully, St. George switched his attention to her. His raven gaze, so lethally black just a few seconds ago, now simply looked wary. But at least he no longer seemed inclined to disembowel the prince right there on her brother’s best Wilton carpet.

“Thank you, my lady. It’s a pleasure to be here,” he finally responded in a polite tone.

She didn’t think so. St. George wore the same, long-suffering expression on his face that Kit did when Mamma forced him to accompany her to some boring dinner party or musicale. Lady Thornbury must have forced him to come.

She also wouldn’t be surprised if he still resented her conduct at the Darlington ball, preferring the card tables to his company. She should be used to that response by now though. Most men either disapproved of her card playing, or thought it
fast
. St. George obviously fell into the first category, which she found rather depressing. That’s what came of saving a woman’s life, she supposed. A woman couldn’t help liking her rescuer, and wishing that said rescuer might come to like her in return.

Why had he even bothered to come tonight? The last thing she needed was an irritated, erstwhile protector, snarling at the one man she needed to keep in a good temper. And St. George had gone back to staring at the prince again, that disemboweling expression once more gleaming in his eyes.

The prince, his frog lips drawn back in a vicious smile, looked equally hostile and just as inclined to shed blood. If this kept up, Vivien was certain she’d have to have the carpets cleaned first thing in the morning.

Lady Thornbury carried on cheerfully, ignoring the men. “I’m sorry you weren’t aware of the last-minute change to the guest list, Vivien. Your mother dashed off a note to me only a few hours ago asking me to bring Aden. Apparently you were short a man at the dinner table, so my son happily agreed.”

“It’s encouraging to know the captain serves at least one useful purpose,” the prince said, the insult sounding even worse in his heavy Russian accent.

Vivien pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth, holding back a blighting retort. She knew Prince Ivan to be a haughty, sharp-tongued man, but she’d never seen him react with such blatant rudeness. The prince had always ignored her other suitors—probably thinking them unworthy of his notice—but St. George evoked an altogether different response.

Fortunately, before the situation could deteriorate any further, Vivien’s mother came floating over, a softly sparkling vision in her sapphire-blue silk dress. Frowning, Vivien peered at her. She’d been too upset a few minutes ago to remark on Mamma’s attire, but now she realized she’d never seen this gown before. Which meant it was new.

Which also meant that Vivien had yet to see the bill.

Out of habit, she started calculating the likely cost, totalling the already horrific list of numbers that made up their mountain of debt. The imaginary mountain stretched up a few more feet now, and it took all her willpower not to gulp back her glass of champagne in one burning swallow.

That, or flee on the first boat she could book passage on to the Americas. With her family, who could blame her?

“Captain, I’m so pleased you could replace my naughty boy at the table tonight,” her mother exclaimed. “Vivien, I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t consult you.”

When Mamma flirtatiously batted her eyelashes at St. George, Vivien prayed for a sudden earthquake to swallow up Mayfair so she could escape this absolute nightmare of a dinner party.

The other four were all staring at her, waiting for her to answer.

“Of course, I don’t mind,” she managed. “I’m just a bit surprised. I didn’t realize we were short.”

Her mother fluttered her fan. “Kit told me this afternoon he had other plans. Something about attending a party with Mr. Tucker and Lord Heyworth.”

Vivien almost groaned out loud. Bertram Tucker and Viscount Heyworth were reckless gamblers who didn’t share an ounce of sense between them, and were the last people Kit should spend time with.

Mamma cast the prince a deprecating smile. “You must forgive my son, Your Highness. He’s the sweetest boy, if just a tad strong-headed. But he meant no insult.”

Khovansky smiled. “My dear lady, I am charmed by your entire family, as you must know.” He reached over and grasped Vivien’s hand, raising it to his lips and pressing a kiss moist enough to leave a mark on her glove. She tried to discreetly tug her hand away but he refused to let go.

“I understand you made your first visit to Oatlands recently,” Lady Thornbury said, tapping her fan on the prince’s arm. “You must tell me all about it.”

Khovansky’s eyes flashed with displeasure, but he finally let Vivien go.

As he and Lady Thornbury discussed the eccentricities of the Duchess of York, Vivien forced herself to meet St. George’s gaze. It remained dark, and this time she understood his displeasure was directed straight at her. Clearly, he thought she was engaged in some sort of flirtation with the prince. As much as she wished to deny the charge, she couldn’t take the risk of alienating Khovansky, not before she’d had a chance to dig her way out of her current predicament. But she hated the way St. George’s disapproval made her feel, and it took a good deal of discipline not to scowl back at him.

The doors to the drawing room opened and Darnell
finally
announced dinner.

“Goodness!” her mother exclaimed. “I must see to the ambassador and his wife.”

As she bustled off, the prince turned back to Vivien with a gracious smile, offering her an arm. “Lady Vivien, please give me the honor of escorting you into dinner,” he said, taking her hand.

The prince had very neatly backed her into a corner, and there was little Vivien could do without insulting him. So, she smiled and let him lead her from the room, feeling St. George’s angry stare scorching the spot right between her shoulder blades.

 

 

Dinner had been horrific. When Khovansky escorted her to the dining room, Vivien had been stunned to see that the little gilt place card bearing his name had been moved back to its original setting—next to hers.

Dumbfounded, she’d stared at it for several seconds, finally lifting her eyes to meet Cyrus’s triumphant gaze as he took his place at the head of the table. Mastering her temper, she simply raised an ironic brow and then turned her smiling attention to the prince. Cyrus might fancy himself a master at some chessboard game of politics, but Vivien had learned to fight in a much less civilized venue—at the card tables, where hardened gamesters battled over fortunes and even their lives. She still had a few tricks up her sleeve and she intended to play them.

But by the end of the second remove, her smile had frozen into a grimace as Ivan the Terrible engaged in a continuous, skin-crawling flirtation. By the dessert course, the prince became so emboldened he placed his hand on her thigh just as she put a spoonful of strawberry trifle into her mouth. Only with the greatest discipline did she manage not to spit the entire mouthful onto her plate.

Aghast, Vivien had slipped her hand under the table and firmly plopped his hand back in his lap. Prince Ivan hadn’t liked that, but fortunately, she’d had the presence of mind to borrow a trick from her mother’s book, batting her eyelashes at him in shy flirtation. The prince had eyed her suspiciously but finally chuckled, whispering that he would spare her maidenly blushes. Vivien had given him a vague smile, doggedly returning her attention to her plate.

But not before glancing down the table to see St. George watching her with an ironic eye, obviously thinking the worst of her. Their gazes had locked for a moment, searing her with the intensity of their shared glance. But then he’d turned back to his neighbor, the lovely young wife of a member of the Russian delegation who had done her best throughout dinner to keep his attention. St. George had seemed happy to comply.

Vivien gloomily inspected the elaborately detailed basket of candied flowers that served as one of the centerpieces on the long table. She’d spent the last ten minutes ignoring Prince Ivan—and couldn’t she just feel his ire burgeoning over that—and was wishing Mamma would rise from the table and escort the ladies to the drawing room. Vivien would give her another two minutes, and then she would do it herself, rudeness be hanged.

A rustle of silk called her attention to the head of the table. “Come, ladies,” Mamma said, rising to her feet. “We’ll repair to the drawing room and hope the gentlemen don’t linger too long over their horrid political discussions.”

The prince, like all the men, rose with the ladies. He seized Vivien’s hand and again pressed a kiss to her glove, leaving another moist smudge. At this rate, he would ruin every pair of her gloves before the week was out.

“Be sure to save a seat for me, Lady Vivien,” he murmured in a throaty tone. He sounded like a frog croaking and not the seductive cavalier he imagined himself to be.

“I’ll do my best, but I can’t make any promises,” she said in a bright tone, wagging a finger at him.

His rolled his broad lips in on themselves, as if displeased at her clumsy attempt at flirtation. Not that she could blame him. She sounded a complete imbecile.

She fled the room, but not before she saw St. George’s dinner companion stretch up on tiptoe and whisper something in his ear, something that made him smile. Well, at least
someone
was having a good time.

Vivien followed her mother out into the hall, taking her arm and holding her back for a moment. Her mother peered at her with concern. “What’s wrong, my love? You’re looking flushed.”

“You’d be flushed, too, if you had an awful toad pawing at your leg all through dinner.”

“He didn’t!”

“I’m sorry to say he did.”

“I will speak to Cyrus as soon as the guests leave,” her mother huffed. “I know you have to be polite to the man, but I will not tolerate that kind of conduct at my dinner table.”

Oh, and wouldn’t
that
conversation go over splendidly.

“Don’t bother, Mamma,” she said with an artificial laugh. “I can handle Prince Ivan. I just need a few moments to myself. I’ll join you and the ladies shortly.”

Her mother chewed on her lower lip, then shrugged. “Perhaps you’re right. I suppose we can’t expect a Russian—even if he is a prince—to act with the same sense of decorum as an Englishman.”

Vivien refrained from pointing out how badly the average English aristocrat behaved on a regular basis, starting with the Prince Regent and moving down through the ranks.

Lady Thornbury came out of the drawing room to look for her. “Vivien, my love, are you well?”

“I’m just a little overheated. The dining room was rather stuffy tonight.”

Her friend gave her an understanding wink. “I quite agree, especially at your end of the table. Perhaps you should take a few minutes to gather yourself. I’ll help your mother pour the tea.”

Vivien smiled her thanks, trying for the thousandth time
not
to wish that Lady Thornbury was her mother, and headed toward her brother’s library. She was sorely in need of a brandy and she intended to have a generous one, no matter how indecorous that might be.

Even though it was now Cyrus’s domain, Vivien loved the quietly elegant room, little changed since the days of her childhood when she immersed herself in her father’s poetry collection and read the novels of Defoe and Fielding. Decorated in the simpler lines of the Queen Anne style, its pale green walls and inset shelves, crammed with books, reminded her of a happier time.