Secrets for Seducing a Royal Bodyguard (16 page)

She poured herself a brandy from the drinks trolley and wandered over to the fireplace, gazing at her father’s portrait over the mantel. Superficially, neither she nor Kit resembled him, although when her little brother smiled Vivien could see traces in the curve of the lips and the dimple to one side of his mouth. Cyrus most resembled Papa, although her brother could not have been further in spirit from her father’s loving and generous nature.

Sighing, she let her fingers brush affectionately along the oak frame of the portrait. Nothing had been the same since Papa died. It was almost as if a light had been extinguished in her family, taking most of the joy with it. Sometimes she imagined that Mamma’s and Kit’s frantic gaiety was a desperate attempt to make up for his absence. As much as she sympathized with that impulse, it irked her, too. Her father would not have been pleased with the way their selfish behavior affected the rest of them.

She turned her back on the portrait. There was little point indulging in maudlin memories or wishing for things to be different. Life had dealt her a hand to play, and she would see it through to the best of her ability. The sooner she could begin her plan to do that, the better.

Discarding her drink, she started for the door. But when it swung open, she came to a surprised halt.

Surprise turned to dismay when Prince Ivan Khovansky walked into the room and shut the door behind him.

Khovansky leaned back against the door panels, his greedy eyes inspecting her. He didn’t really seem toadlike anymore. Now he seemed like a snake spotting a tasty little rabbit, wanting to swallow it whole.

Vivien refused to be the rabbit.

“Prince Ivan, you surprise me,” she said in a firm voice. “Have you lost your way?”

Peeling back his lips in a smile that was more leer, he advanced toward her. She took a hasty step back, tangling her heel in the ruffle that hemmed her dress and almost losing her footing.

In the few seconds it took to recover her balance, Khovansky rushed across the room to her side. He took her elbow in a hard grip, trying to pull her against him. Stepping back, her legs collided with her brother’s desk and Vivien smacked her free hand down on its polished surface to keep from falling.

“My dear lady, your delicate constitution has been overtaxed this evening,” the prince exclaimed. “You are most unsteady on your feet.”

“I’m perfectly fine, sir,” she responded, struggling to pull her arm away from him. “And I’m not the least bit delicate. You may let me go.”

She finally yanked her elbow free, although the movement tipped her back against the desk, offsetting her balance again. Smothering a curse, she slapped both hands behind her, gripping the edge of the polished walnut to hold steady.

The prince refused to back away. He crowded her against the desk, his barrel chest mere inches from her bodice. If she took a deep breath she would scratch herself against the display of unearned medals so ostentatiously pinned to his uniform.

He inched closer, forcing her to arch away from him. The lascivious gleam in his heavy-lidded eyes combined with the smell of creamed onions on his breath to make her stomach lurch.

Vivien wished she could hold her breath and talk at the same time. “Prince Ivan, I must insist that you step back. You are making it impossible for me to catch my breath.”

“But if I do, I’m quite terrified you will tumble to the floor.”

“I told you,” she said through clenched teeth, “that I’m perfectly fine.”

His gaze flickered over to the drink trolley, with her half-empty glass of brandy. “Then perhaps there’s another reason you’re so unsteady on your feet, my sweet lady. You appear to have gotten into your brother’s brandy.”

He leaned forward and sniffed her breath, so close that Vivien could see the black hairs in his nostrils. Her outrage was overborne by the smell of the onions, now mingling with the odor of his heavily scented snuff. She had to swallow hard against the impulse to gag.

The prince chuckled. “What a naughty young lady you are, but I’m devastated you didn’t invite me to join you. We could have enjoyed a brandy together, along with other more pleasurable activities.”

Khovansky finished off his insult by skimming his blunt-tipped fingers along her exposed clavicle. The touch of his clammy flesh on her overheated skin made her shudder.

Seething, Vivien placed her palms against his chest and gave a hard shove. He staggered back a bit, but as she tried to slip past him he grabbed her by the upper arms and wheeled her to face him. With surprising strength, he crushed her against his chest.

She gasped. “Unhand me, sir!” His fingers crushed the delicate silk of her sleeves, digging into her arms. “Your Highness, you’re hurting me!”

The pressure eased fractionally, but then he shoved her backward, slamming the back of her thighs against the desk. She grimaced. That bit of violence would certainly leave a set of bruises in its wake.

“It is not my desire to hurt you, Lady Vivien,” replied the prince in a strange, rasping voice. “But if you continue to defy me, you will give me little choice.”

Actually, she had the disturbing notion he would very much like to hurt her. His lips curled up with sadistic delight and his fingers squeezed and released in an odd pumping action he seemed to enjoy. Nor could she ignore the thrust of his pelvis against her belly or mistake the hard ridge of flesh pressing into her.

But it was the look in his eyes that truly unnerved her. They glittered with an unholy passion, staring at her with menacing promise, as if he would flay the very flesh from her bones if she challenged him. For the first time since she’d met him, she was terrified.

“You need a lesson in appropriate conduct toward those of higher station,” he continued, sounding eager to school her. “I told your brother that would be so, but he seemed reluctant to believe me. And now we see that I am correct.”

What?
Cyrus and the prince had discussed teaching her a lesson?

She glared back at him. “I fail to see why my conduct should be any business of yours, Prince Ivan. Nor did my brother have any right to discuss it with you.”

He let out a harsh laugh. “We had every right, my lady, since I intend to marry you. It is a husband’s duty to school his wife in proper behavior. You will soon be a princess of Russia, and you must learn to conduct yourself obediently, and with proper decorum at all times.”

“I’d sooner marry a bloody chimney sweep than agree to be your wife,” she responded, unthinkingly snapping out the words.

His gaze went blank for a few seconds, then blazed with a demented-looking rage. In that moment, Vivien truly believed he might very well throttle her if she didn’t comply.

Her heart crashed against her ribs as she started back at him. “Prince Ivan,” she said, struggling to contain her fear. “I insist you let me return to my mother. This unfortunate interlude has gone on too long.”

He barked out a laugh. “Or you’ll do what, dear lady? Threaten me?”

“I’ll scream as loud as I can,” she said, already raising her voice.

To show him she meant business, she sucked in a huge breath and opened her mouth.

The prince moved with astonishing speed for such a bulky man. He lunged forward, crushing his body against hers, his fleshy lips smashing into her mouth. This time Vivien did gag and her legs started to slide out from under her.

The top of the desk arrested her downward fall and she crashed, half-on and half-off the edge. As the prince, using the weight of his body, tried to squash her flat, Vivien thrashed wildly, trying to pull free of his sucking, voracious kiss. Her knee connected with something soft, and he jerked. The motion gave her just enough space to break free and let out a strangled shriek.

With a guttural snarl, he redoubled his efforts, trying to hold her still as he assaulted her mouth. Frantic, Vivien whipped her head back and forth as he bobbed at her, like some huge awful bird intent on pecking her to death.

Suddenly, she heard the door open and the tread of a hard footfall, then Khovansky cried out and let go, flying back through the air as if jerked away by an irresistible force. Vivien crashed back onto the desk, her bottom making contact with a force that jarred her spine.

Dazed, she pushed her hair out of her eyes and peered at Khovansky, thrashing about on the carpet in an undignified sprawl. She lifted her eyes to the apparent irresistible force—St. George, come to her rescue once again.

He stood over the prince, his hands balled into fists as he glowered down at him. Vivien was willing to bet that St. George would be delighted to continue the business he’d started. But he must have thought better of it because his eyes flicked up to her, and his murderous expression abated a notch.

Ignoring the outraged spluttering from the prince, St. George stepped around him and came to her.

“Did he hurt you, my lady?” he asked in a low, quiet voice, as if he were soothing a frightened child.

She pushed herself upright, trying to quell the trembling in her legs.

“I’m fine,” she quavered. “It was all just a stupid misunderstanding.”

Even so, she couldn’t help glaring at the prince as he struggled up onto his knees.

St. George ran a gentle finger along the bare skin of her arms. Several red marks stood out on her pale flesh, lingering evidence of Prince Ivan’s punishing grip.

“That doesn’t look like a misunderstanding to me,” he murmured.

She shivered—a soft, breathless shifting as her body responded naturally to his touch. St. George stroked over the marks, as if he wished to erase all trace of harm.

This close to him, Vivien had to tilt her head to look into his face. The remnants of a savage anger rode in the harshly set angles of his features, but his eyes held a grave sympathy that had her blinking back tears.

His hand came up to her chin, tilting it as he gave her a brief but thorough inspection.

“You’re safe now,” he murmured. “I won’t let him near you.”

She gave him a trembling smile. “Thank you, but I—”

“How dare you touch me, you peasant?” growled the prince from behind them. “I will kill you for that.”

Vivien sighed and peeked around St. George’s broad shoulders. Ivan the Terrible had finally hauled himself up and now stood in the middle of the library, feet planted wide, glaring at them with black rage in his eyes.

Leisurely, St. George turned to face him. “Oh? How do you intend to accomplish that?” He sounded only mildly interested, as if asking how long it might take to travel from Moscow to St. Petersburg.

The prince started yanking one of his gloves off, obviously intending to slap St. George in the face with it.

Not bloody likely,
Vivien thought with a spurt of panic. Not only didn’t she trust the prince to fight like a gentleman, the last thing she needed was the gossip that came along with a duel.

She scampered around St. George and planted herself between the men, bracing her hands on her hips as she faced the prince. Several of his medals had been knocked askew in his tumble, which struck her as bizarrely comical.

Struggling against the impulse to laugh, Vivien stared haughtily down her nose at him. “Your Highness, you will
not
insult the captain, nor will you challenge him to a duel. For one thing, duels are illegal in England. For another, you have treated me in the shabbiest fashion, and you may consider yourself extremely fortunate I do not wish to make a scene. I would ask that you return to the drawing room and refrain from speaking to me for the rest of the night.”

He hissed at her reprimand, but with St. George at her back Vivien had nothing to fear. “And if you are indeed a gentleman, then I ask that you
never
mention this incident again, or importune me with any more advances.”

The prince pulled himself up to his full height, which was only slightly taller than Vivien. “You will do well to remember who I am, my lady,” he said in a voice heavy with menace. “It would not be wise to threaten me.” He glanced past her to St. George. “And I suggest the captain remember that too because I assure you both I will not forget tonight’s insult.”

St. George moved up right behind her, letting his big hand span the width of her lower back. Her anxiety dissipated under his touch, as if he had simply plucked it from her body.

“Really?” he drawled. “What do you intend to do?” Again, simply a mild note of curiosity in his voice.

The prince looked remarkably like a bull about to charge. Vivien wondered if he would soon begin pawing the carpet in rage.

She was working up the nerve to ask Khovansky to leave when the half-ajar door flew open. This time Cyrus came charging through.

“Vivien! What the devil—”

Her brother stumbled to a halt, his mouth dropping open as he stared at them. From the look on his face, Vivien had the feeling he’d expected to find an entirely different scene than the one playing out before him.

She drew in a huge gasp, finally understanding. Cyrus and the prince had likely seen her escape to the library as a fortuitous opportunity to place her in a compromising position, one where her brother could have raised a huge and very public fuss. Her reputation would have been blighted by the incident, thus forcing her one step closer to marriage.

Right then and there, Vivien decided she didn’t care if she had to spend the rest of her life in Yorkshire living in a shack on the moors. It would be far preferable to having to spend another minute under her brother’s roof, much less marry a brute like the prince.

But there was still Kit and Mamma to consider, so she needed to tread carefully. “Goodness, your library certainly is a busy place tonight, isn’t it, Cyrus? I merely slipped away for a few minutes to rest and it would appear the entire party decided to join me.”

St. George gave her an approving pat just above the swell of her bottom, and then dropped his hand and stepped up beside her. She gave a tiny sigh, already missing his warmth.

Cyrus glanced uneasily at the prince. “Your Highness. I . . . I was wondering where you were. I . . . I wanted to see if you needed anything.”

Vivien frowned. It wasn’t like her brother to babble. Was he afraid of his unpleasant accomplice?

The prince didn’t even look at him, keeping his glare fastened on St. George. “You might suggest to your sister that she not stain her reputation by consorting with so coarse a man as St. George. After, of course, you have him removed from the premises for insulting me.”

Cyrus recovered himself enough to look outraged. “Is this true, Vivien? Did the captain insult the prince?”

“Don’t be such a fool,” she snapped. “If you really want to know what happened—”

“Dear me, what a great deal of fuss and bother,” interjected Lady Thornbury from the doorway. She smiled, looking as gracious and composed as always, but she looked straight at Vivien, a clear warning in her gaze.

“Ah, Mother. There you are,” Aden responded in a gently mocking tone. “I wondered when you would show up.”

She glided into the room, the epitome of a grande dame. Not by the bat of one eyelash did she acknowledge the volatile atmosphere, despite the presence of a clearly furious Cyrus and an outraged Russian prince.