To Wed a Wicked Prince (15 page)

And when at last he moved his mouth from hers and she could draw breath again, her heart was racing, her skin on fire, her lips swollen and kiss-reddened. He still held her face between his palms and now he kissed her eyelids, a featherlike brush that tickled even as it delighted. Then he straightened and stepped back, his breathing ragged.

“Ah, Livia…Livia” was all he said as he looked at her.

Livia merely nodded helplessly. For the moment she had no words.

Alex reached into his pocket and drew out a small box. He opened it and worldlessly took her left hand. He slipped the ring onto her finger. “Do you like it, love? If you wish to change it in any way, you have just to say.”

Livia looked at her hand and her mouth formed a round O of surprise and delight. She lifted her hand to the fading light from the window and gazed awestruck at the sapphire and diamond ring. “It’s quite beautiful, Alex…I’ve never seen anything so exquisite.” She turned her hand this way and that so that the light caught the sparkling facets of the jewels. “Is it an heirloom?”

He shook his head. “The stones have been in the family vault for generations, but I designed the ring myself and had it made up for you.”

That surprised her. No craftsman could produce such a beautiful setting in a mere two days. She stared at him. “
Before
I had agreed to marry you?”

He shrugged with a touch of self-deprecation. “What can I say…I’m an optimist.”

Livia shook her head in astonishment. He was the most amazing man, and she was feeling far too happy and rather fuzzy around the edges to question such extraordinary assurance.

“I assume I must ask your father for permission to marry you,” Alex said. “Your father is still alive? Or is there some other guardian?”

“My father is still alive,” Livia said, raising her eyes reluctantly from her wondering examination of the ring. “But if he were not, there would be no one you would need to ask. I am of an age and an independence that allows me to make my own decisions.”

“Of course,” he said smoothly, hearing the hint of challenge in her voice. Livia Lacey had managed her own affairs for too long to yield to another hand on the wheel. “Then must I ask him?”

Livia nodded decisively. After the wild abandonment of the last minutes it was a welcome relief to deal with practical issues that grounded her in reality again. “Oh, yes. I love my father dearly and we must do this right.”

“Then we will get down to the practicalities. But before we do, I think, if you have any in your cellars, we should drink some champagne…” He looked around. “Is there a bell?”

“There is, but there’s little point ringing it,” Livia said, pointing to a faded bell rope half hidden by the curtain at the window. “I’ll go to the kitchen.”

“Let’s try. That youngster seemed quick on his feet.” He tugged vigorously twice. “While we wait, tell me about the parent I must charm.”

Miraculously, Morecombe opened the door within a few minutes. If she hadn’t known better, she’d almost have suspected he was waiting outside.

“You want summat, mum?”

“Do we have any champagne, Morecombe?” Livia asked. “I have a sudden desire for a glass.”

He seemed to consider this for a moment, his gaze moving slowly between herself and the prince, then he nodded. “Oh, aye, reckon we do. You want I should bring it?”

“Please,” she said, avoiding looking at Alex, who wore a dumbfounded expression.

“Aye…an’ ’ow many glasses shall it be?”

“Two, please,” Livia said.

He nodded, cast another glance in Alex’s direction, and shuffled out, closing the door behind him.

“I don’t know how you have the patience,” Alex observed. “I’ve never come across a servant like him.”

“As I told you once…I’m honoring Sophia Lacey’s memory,” Livia responded. “Anyway, once you learn his ways, Morecombe is perfectly easy to manage. Now, let me tell you about my father, the Reverend Lacey, earl of Harford. There are some idiosyncrasies you should know about before you meet him.”

Alex listened intently, and he decided that regardless of Livia’s vaunted independence, he had better make damn sure he won the approval of her parent. She described the man and his idiosyncrasies with such tender amusement and occasional flashes of loving exasperation that he had felt a most unlooked-for prickle of envy as he thought of his relationship with his own father.

He left Cavendish Square an hour later, still thinking about that austere man who had governed his growing. He could see himself as a small boy anxiously reciting his lessons to his father, watching for a sign of approval. He had never expected warmth or more than a firm handshake from his parent but he had eagerly sought approval. Sometimes it was withheld for no reason that the child could understand, until he grew older and then understood what his father’s reticence had been telling him. He must learn to stand up for himself. His own approval of himself was all that was necessary for him to fulfill the destiny he’d been born to.

It was not a bad lesson for life, he thought now. And his father had certainly been a living example of its precept. He had devoted his life to his country and to his motherless son. Alex knew that his father had left his mother and brought their child back to Russia for the child’s benefit. He, the child, had not always acknowledged the benefit, he had to admit, but he had never questioned that his father’s motives had been unselfish. He didn’t know what kind of relationship his father had had with the mother of his child, the subject was taboo, but he knew that his father had made the only choice he had thought possible. And Alex now enjoyed the fruits of that choice.

And he had also inherited its burdens, he reflected. His father’s patriotism had been all-powerful, and Alex had learned that lesson well. He too was governed by the same all-consuming imperative. An imperative that had led him here, to these London streets, and to the wonderful prospect of Livia Lacey in his bed.

His step quickened at the thought and his body stirred with arousal as he remembered the feel of her softness against him, remembered the passionate eagerness of her responses. He had come on this mission in search of a wife to facilitate his work, but he had not expected the search to end in such glorious promise. He and Livia would deal very well together.

The lights of a tavern beckoned down a side street and Alex found his steps moving towards the yellow glow and the sound of laughter, raised voices, the banging of tankards on deal tables. He pushed through the door into the warm fug reeking of tobacco and stale beer.

A few eyes were turned towards him, but then the ale drinkers returned to the serious business of the evening. What interest had they in an effete aristocrat in his buckskin britches, silky coat, and high-starched cravat? He didn’t look like a man to be easily robbed, therefore he was best left alone.

Alex strode to the ale counter and spun a copper coin. “Ale.”

The landlord set a tankard under the tap and filled it. He set the tankard on the counter with a slap, palming the coin at the same time, and turned immediately to another customer.

Alex took the tankard to a secluded corner and sat on the stained bench. He drank deeply and welcomed his anonymity, the sense that for these few minutes he was in a different world, one that had no knowledge of the world he usually inhabited. No one here in this noisy, crowded taproom knew or gave a damn who he was or what governed him. It was unaccustomed luxury for a brief while to indulge only in the present, to revel in the thought of what he had just achieved without reference to the underlying reasons for it. At this moment, he thought only of the joy of Livia Lacey, of the promise of the wedding night to come, of the life that lay ahead for them, if the gods smiled.

He looked up abruptly at a breath of warmth beside him. A woman stood there, skirt slightly kilted, ripe bosom peeping over her bodice. “You look lonely, sir.” She set two tankards of ale on the bench between them. “Drink with me.”

Alex hid his annoyance at the interruption. The last thing he wanted at this juncture in his lustful and triumphant reflections was the company of a whore. He laid a silver sixpence on the bench as he stood up. “My thanks for the offer.” He gave her a courtly bow and strode through the noisy throng to the door.

The woman picked up the coin and tucked it into her bosom. That was a gentleman for you. She’d have charged him less for half an hour upstairs and no holds barred.

Livia stood alone in the parlor, gazing rapt at the ring on her finger. She had never possessed anything like it. Her father would disapprove of this starstruck worship of mammon, but he wasn’t here to see it, so for the moment she would indulge herself. She held out her hand and examined the jewels in the glow of the newly lit lamps. They were magnificent, even someone as inexperienced as she could tell that just by the size and the glow. But she knew that it wasn’t just the ring that filled her with this delight. It was the thought of what it meant—what it promised—that made her want to dance around the room.

She started as she heard Aurelia’s voice in the hall. And then Cornelia’s. Livia jumped up as the parlor door opened.

Cornelia came in. “We left the children in Linton’s hands,” she said, her eyes narrowing as she examined Livia’s flushed countenance.

“We thought a quiet evening alone might be in order?” There was a question in Aurelia’s statement as she followed her sister-in-law into the room.

“Yes,” Livia agreed, trying to compose herself. “We can finish the champagne.”

Her friends exchanged looks. “So, it’s champagne, is it, Nell?” Aurelia said with a wink. “Good news, do you think?”

“Either that or we’re drowning our sorrows,” Cornelia said. “But somehow I doubt that.”

“We need two more glasses,” Livia said, not troubling to enter this debate. “I’ll fetch them.”

“No, I’ll do it.” Aurelia was still in the hall. “I’ll get them from the dining room cabinet.”

Cornelia wasted no further time. “So?”

Livia extended her hand. “I can’t wear it in public until it’s official, but…”

Cornelia took her hand and examined the ring. “Our Russian prince knows his jewels,” she observed. “I wonder if it’s an heirloom.”

Livia shook her head. “No, he had it specially made.”

“Not in the last two days?” Cornelia exclaimed.

“No,” Livia agreed. “Some time ago…he says he’s an optimist.” She shrugged and couldn’t help what she was sure was a somewhat fatuous grin. She turned as Aurelia came in holding two champagne glasses upside down by the stems between her fingers.

“What do you think, Ellie?” Livia extended her hand.

Aurelia set down the glasses and examined the ring with an unladylike whistle. “Beautiful,” she breathed. “Magnificent. So, love, I assume it’s settled?”

Livia poured champagne. “Father has to approve.”

“Of course.” The other women nodded their comprehension. “Is your prince going down to Ringwood?”

“In a couple of days…but I’m going to go tomorrow. I need to talk to Father first. I couldn’t possibly spring Alex upon him.”

“No,” Cornelia agreed with a choke of laughter. “No, Liv, you could not possibly spring Prince Alexander Prokov on the Reverend Lacey.”

T
HE
R
EVEREND
L
ACEY WAS IN
his study, wrestling with Sunday’s sermon, and didn’t hear the bustle of arrival late the following evening. In general, as long as matters progressed with a degree of order and custom, he took little notice of his surroundings. And when his study door was opened without so much as an alerting knock he looked up from his paper with an air of startled annoyance.

Livia had pushed just her head around the door so as to minimize the disturbance. “Shall I go away again?” she asked with a smile.

“Good God, come in, Livia,” her father demanded, pushing his spectacles up onto his broad white forehead. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming, child?”

“Well, I didn’t know I was until I did,” Livia said, coming fully into the familiar room, closing the door at her back.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” her father demanded. “I’m always telling you to be precise in your speech. The English language is the richest in the world and you do it no honor by employing such ridiculous, nonsensical phrasing.” But despite the irascibility of his tone, his faded gray eyes were filled with pleasure as he came around the desk and opened his arms to her.

He held her in a tight embrace for a moment or two, then stood back and put his hands on her shoulders. “Let me look at you.” The youthful brightness of his eyes might have faded somewhat, but the sharpness of observation and intellect was far from blunted.

“Is something amiss, Livia?”

She shook her head. “No, quite the opposite. But I don’t want to disturb you in the middle of working. I’ll go and get some supper and come back in an hour. It’s been a long day.”

“You came from London in one day?”

“In a post chaise,” she said. “We changed horses every hour so we were able to make good speed.”

Her father frowned. “That must have cost a pretty penny.”

Livia made no mention of the fact that it was not her own purse that had funded the expensive travel. Instead she responded calmly, “Probably no more than putting up for the night in a coaching inn, and I’d have had to bring a maid with me if I did that, so I think it was a cost-effective luxury on the whole.”

He seemed to consider this, then he shook his head. “Well, maybe…maybe. Go and get some food inside you and come back in an hour to tell me what brings you home in such impetuous haste.”

Livia left him and made her way to the kitchen, where Martha, the village woman who had stepped in as housekeeper when Livia went up to London, was stirring a pot of soup on the range.

“There’s cabbage and potato soup, Lady Liv, and a morsel of chicken pie left from the reverend’s dinner,” she said. “Will that do? Or shall I boil you a couple of eggs?”

“No, soup and pie will be perfect, thank you, Martha.” Livia pulled out a chair and sat at the long kitchen table. “How’s he been?”

“Well enough.” Martha ladled soup into an earthenware bowl and set it before Livia. “His joints bother him when there’s damp in the air, and he will fuss if I light a fire in his study. Not until—”

“October twentieth,” Livia chimed in with a chuckle. “I never understood what was so magical about that date. No fires after March thirtieth and none before October twentieth. Only six inches of snow on the ground could change his mind.” She dipped her spoon in her soup. “But otherwise he’s keeping well?”

“Oh, aye.” Martha sliced a loaf of barley bread and passed Livia a piece on the end of the knife. “He’s so busy with his books and papers, he barely gets to bed of a night, but he’s well enough in himself.” She went into the pantry to fetch the pie, talking as she did so. “He misses you, though, Lady Liv. Not that he’d ever say as much.”

She backed out of the pantry with a pie dish that she set on the table. “Will I pop this in the bread oven for a minute or two? Just to warm it through.”

Livia nodded, her mouth full of bread and soup. It seemed strange to be sitting here in her father’s kitchen eating this good homely food, chatting with Martha just like her life before Cavendish Square. Before her head was turned by duchesses and rout balls, card parties and the opera.

Had these last months changed her in any fundamental way? She glanced across at Martha, who was sliding the pie into the brick chamber in the hearth where the bread was baked. Martha wasn’t behaving as if Livia were any different from the young woman who had cheerfully helped her peel oranges for marmalade and stew damsons for jam.

What on earth would Martha say to Princess Prokov?

“So what brings you home so sudden like, Lady Liv?” Martha sat down at the table, wiping her hands on the apron. “Nothing bad, I trust.”

“No, nothing bad.” Livia wiped out her soup bowl with the last of her bread. “Is there a bottle of that elderflower wine around, Martha? I quite fancy a drop.”

Martha chuckled and looked at her shrewdly. “You always did like that. I think we’ve one bottle of the last batch left.” She got up rather heavily and went back to the pantry. “Aye, here it is.” She brought out a dusty bottle and wiped it on her apron.

“You’ll join me in a glass,” Livia said, getting up to put her soup bowl in the sink.

“If you like,” the other woman said placidly. She put the bottle on the table. “You open it and I’ll dish up your pie.” She busied herself at the bread oven, asking casually, “So is it a celebration, then?”

“Well, I hope so,” Livia answered, pouring wine into two thick squat tumblers. “I hope to be getting married, Martha.”

“Why, mercy me.” Martha turned from the oven, the pie in her hand, her face wreathed in smiles. “Well, that’s the best news I’ve heard in many a month, m’dear. And who’s the lucky man?” She put the pie down in front of Livia and picked up her tumbler.

“Alexander Prokov,” Livia told her, digging a fork into the steaming fragrant dish in front of her.

“Sounds foreign,” Martha observed, sitting down again. “But I daresay there’s lots of ’em around in London town.”

“There do seem to be,” Livia said casually. “He’ll be arriving the day after tomorrow, to talk to Father. I think we can put him up in the blue room, if we air it out tomorrow.”

“So he’ll be staying, then?”

“He will, if my father agrees,” Livia said. “If we’re betrothed, there’s no reason why he shouldn’t stay under my father’s roof.”

“No,” Martha said. “Well, here’s to you, m’dear. Long life and happiness.” She raised her glass in a toast. “And I’m sure you’ll be able to talk the reverend around to the idea of a foreigner.”

Livia’s eyebrow flickered. Martha didn’t sound completely convinced. But her father was a sophisticated, highly educated man of the world. He wasn’t going to hold an unreasoning prejudice against a foreign suitor for his daughter’s hand.

She was hard-pressed to hide her anxiety, however, when she returned to his study. He was standing in front of the empty grate, hands sunk deep into the pockets of his britches that Livia couldn’t help but notice were somewhat shiny and threadbare. Of course he had as little interest in clothes as he did in the delicacies of the table. Her heart lurched a little at the contrast between her father and the immaculate Prince Prokov.

“So, what have you to tell me, my dear?” His gaze was sharp beneath his bushy eyebrows. “Or shall I guess?”

“Could you?” She perched on the arm of a chair.

“I can think of only a few reasons why you would come home without warning,” he said. “Either some disgrace has befallen you, or the financial independence Sophia Lacey left you has somehow disappeared, or you have decided to get married and thought to do me the courtesy of informing me of it before the rest of the world.”

“You would never be the last to know such a thing,” she said quietly, hurt that he should even have imagined she could be so neglectful. “You’re right that I wish to be married, and that I’m here to tell you about it before Alex comes to you himself.”

“Alex?” he murmured. “Alex…?”

“Alexander, Prince Prokov,” she said, watching his expression.

It didn’t change. “A Russian…interesting, particularly with the present state of the world’s affairs. So, tell me all about him, Livia.” He turned to a side table on which reposed a decanter. “I think this calls for something in the nature of a toast. Will you join me in a glass of cognac, my dear?”

Livia was unsure of the wisdom of cognac on top of elderflower wine, but she decided a little Dutch courage would not come amiss. “Thank you.” She took the cut-glass goblet he handed her and began her story.

When she had finished, the vicar merely nodded and sipped his cognac in silence for what seemed to her an interminable length of time. At last she said, “Do I have your blessing, Father?”

He looked at her over his glass. “It has long been my dearest wish that you would find the right man…one you can love and respect in equal measure, and who will return those feelings.”

He took a sip from his glass and looked at her closely. “However, while you have told me who this man is, or at least what you know of him, which, my dear, strikes me as lamentably little, you have not told me that you love him, that your life will not be complete without him.”

Livia gazed down into the contents of her goblet. “I am not very experienced in these things, Father. But I do know that I am ready for marriage and I want this to happen, that what I feel for this man is unlike any feeling I’ve had before, and that he shares those feelings. I think there is a difference between being
in
love and loving someone. I am
in
love with Alex. I don’t know how else to describe it. And I hope and trust that that will grow into just plain love in the fullness of time.”

Her father nodded slowly. “A good answer, my dear. You are certainly old enough to know your own mind in these matters. But I would not be a responsible parent if I didn’t point out that you both seem to have come to this momentous decision in a very short time.” He raised his eyebrows interrogatively.

“I suppose it does look like that,” Livia said. “But in truth, Father, I feel as if I’ve known him for much, much longer. I agreed to let Harry look into his background because I knew you’d have reservations…but, there’s nothing there. I’ve met a couple of his compatriots…they seem perfectly respectable…and he moves in the best circles. I don’t know much about his English mother…I rather got the impression that she died when he was born…” She paused, wondering how she’d formed that impression. She couldn’t remember whether Alex had actually told her that.

“But anyway,” she continued, dismissing a somewhat irrelevant issue, “Alex has been presented at the queen’s drawing room, so he must have an impeccable social background. And besides, he was educated at the czarina’s court, a companion to her grandson.” She extended her hands, palm up in a gesture of helplessness. “I don’t know what else one needs to know.”

“His character, perhaps?” her father said mildly.

“Do you not trust my judgment?”

The Reverend Lacey had always encouraged his daughter to challenge him if she felt he was wrong, and now he smiled a little. “I trust your judgment, Livia. But passion can sometimes obscure clarity. By your own admission, you’re
in
love with this man. Can you be certain you know
who
it is that you’re in love with?”

“Certain enough to satisfy me,” she stated.

“And he’s not intending to spirit you away to Russia the minute the knot is tied?”

“He says not, and I believe him.”

He said nothing for a long moment, his faded gray eyes fixed upon her in quiet contemplation, then he shook his head briskly. “Well, at least I needn’t worry about how you’ll get your bread…these Russian aristocrats have unimaginable wealth, all amassed on the backs of slaves…or serfs as they call them.”

His mouth twisted with disdain. “The feudal system is an abomination, Livia, and I can’t like the idea that you’ll be its beneficiary, however much your happiness might depend on this marriage.”

Livia’s heart sank. Surely he wouldn’t refuse her his blessing simply because of a principled objection to a society that had been in existence for centuries. “Alex couldn’t change the system,” she said, hearing how lame it sounded.

“He could free his serfs, and pay them a living wage to work his lands,” the Reverend Lacey declared. Then he sighed. “But you’re right. I can’t lay the blame for generations of abuse at the door of one young man. And, who knows, maybe he’ll come to see things my way. So be it, my dear. Send Prince Prokov to me, and I will do whatever it is a father does in these circumstances. Have you a wedding date in mind? I must enter it into the church calendar.”

“The Saturday before Christmas,” Livia said, tears starting behind her eyes as relief swept through her, so powerfully that she realized only then how anxious she had been about this interview. Whether her father liked Alex or not on meeting him, he would not now withhold from her his blessing or his approval.

“The Saturday before Christmas, then. So be it.” He came over to her and tipped her chin, kissing her lightly on the cheek. “You will be a most beautiful bride, my dear. Remind me to give you your mother’s jewels. There are some rather fine pearls, as I recall. They will look very well with your hair and your complexion.”

Two days later, Alex was making his way to the mews to collect his horse for the journey into Hampshire when he realized that he was being followed again. He couldn’t see anyone immediately suspicious on the pavement either behind or on the opposite side of the street, but every nerve in his body had sprung to full alert. He’d had too much experience in the army not to trust this gut instinct for danger.

He slowed his step, paused to brush a speck from his sleeve, glanced around. A man opposite had stopped and was looking up at the façade of a double-fronted mansion with every appearance of fascination. He wouldn’t be alone, Alex knew. He started to walk again, and this time picked up the sound of even footsteps some way behind him. The man opposite had begun to walk again, swinging his cane idly. These watchers had been around for over a week now. They seemed to pick him up the minute he left his house.