To Wed a Wicked Prince Read online

  “You wanted to dance with me?” Livia was incredulous. It was flattering, or would be if the compliment weren’t coming from someone who had clearly lost his mind.

  “Yes,” he said. “I have been watching you all evening, and I wished for an introduction.”

  “And you couldn’t simply have asked our hostess for one? You had to push someone into a fountain instead?”

  “Well, it seemed to kill two birds with one stone,” he said, sounding apologetic. “I wanted an introduction, but I also wished to dance with you, and it seemed the only way to do that would be to remove one of your prospective partners. And since I particularly enjoy the cotillion, that seemed the obvious choice. Besides,” he added, “I didn’t consider this Bellingham to be much of a dancer when I saw him in the country dances. You were much better off with me. And he was most inconveniently intransigent about a perfectly civil request, you understand.”

  Livia didn’t know whether to give way to the gales of hilarity threatening to overcome her, or deliver an icy snub for his impossible arrogance and stalk off. The problem was that he spoke only the truth. And while she knew she should feel sorry for Lord Bellingham, she’d often enough been tempted to douse his pomposity herself with a jug of very cold water.

  She laughed, and he stood leaning against the railing, watching her and smiling until she had herself in hand again. He took her fan from her slack grasp and flipped it open, fanning her until the flush on her cheeks had faded somewhat and she’d dabbed at her eyes with a flimsy lace handkerchief.

  “Oh, dear,” she said. “That’s so unkind of me to laugh…poor Bellingham.” She shook her head as if to dispel the last threads of amusement and looked at him. “I have to tell you, Prince Prokov, that that’s a very un-English way of handling an inconvenience.”

  “But of course I’m not English,” he pointed out, giving her back her fan. “The Slav temperament tends to the impulsive. We choose the quickest and most efficacious solution to our…our inconveniences.”

  She looked at him more closely now, noticing the high, broad cheekbones, the long, thin nose, the finely drawn mouth, and the luxuriant head of wheat-colored hair brushed back from a broad, intelligent forehead. It was a refined face dominated by those amazing blue eyes.

  And there was that slight, attractive accent. Slav? Strangely, she’d always thought of dark complexions and black hair in such a context. But there were exceptions and she made a guess. “Are you Russian…or perhaps Polish?”

  “Mostly Russian,” he told her. He took her glass and set it on the balcony rail. “Shall we dance again?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” Livia said, glancing at her dance card, suspended from her wrist on a silken ribbon. “Unless you think you could arrange for the next six gentlemen on my card to have a contretemps with the fountain.”

  “Whom should it be next?” he asked promptly, and she went into another peal of laughter. But she turned from him and resolutely went back into the ballroom, where her next partner was looking rather disconsolately around the floor.

  Alexander Prokov remained on the balcony gazing down into the garden, a fairy-tale garden on such a beautiful late summer evening, lit by pitch torches and myriad little lamps suspended from the trees. He had no interest in dancing with anyone else tonight.

  Livia found it difficult to pay attention to her partner and was glad that her feet at least performed the steps without too much mental guidance.

  “So, I was thinking that Gretna Green would be best…we could elope the day after tomorrow. How would that be, Livia?”

  Her gaze focused abruptly and she blinked at her partner, Lord David Foster. “What, David? Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”

  “Gretna Green,” he said gravely. “I was suggesting we elope the day after tomorrow and drive straight to Gretna Green.”

  She stared at him. “What?”

  “You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said for the last twenty minutes, Liv,” he declared. “I’m beginning to feel like a wooden doll with moveable feet.”

  “Oh, David, I’m sorry.” She was instantly remorseful. “I admit it, I was miles away. But I’m listening now. Do you really want to go to Gretna Green? This is all very sudden…but I’ve always wanted to elope, climb down from my chamber on a rope made out of sheets. And you could wait in an unmarked carriage in the alley…”

  “Enough,” he said, laughing with her. “Not that I wouldn’t marry you in a heartbeat if you’d have me.”

  “That’s very gallant of you, David, but you couldn’t possibly afford to marry me. I don’t have nearly enough of a fortune,” she said with blithe candor.

  “Alas, I fear you’re right,” he said, sighing. “I shall just have to live with a yearning heart.”

  Livia kept her mind on her partners for the remainder of the evening, but she was also looking around for the mysterious Russian. He appeared to have vanished as discreetly as he’d appeared, and as the orchestra finished the last dance, she excused herself from her partner and went in search of her hostess, ostensibly to make her farewells.

  The duchess was holding court at the head of the sweeping staircase, greeting her guests as they prepared to descend to the hall below, where maids scurried to retrieve evening cloaks and footmen stood in the doorway, calling out the names of departing guests to coachmen and grooms waiting for their own summons in the carriages lining the street.

  At last Livia was close enough to the duchess to offer her own thanks and farewell. “I did enjoy dancing with Prince Prokov,” she said, shaking her grace’s silk-mittened hand. “Is he new to town? I don’t recall meeting him before.”

  “Oh, yes, quite an asset I think he’ll be,” the duchess trilled. “One grows so tired of the same faces every season. And such a distinguished addition to our little circle. Of course, Russian princes are ten a penny,” she added in a stage whisper, “but nevertheless there’s a certain cachet in the title, don’t you agree, my dear?”

  “Oh, yes, I’m sure,” Livia murmured. “I look forward to meeting him again. Thank you, Duchess, for a delightful party.” She moved away, yielding her place, and turned to descend the stairs. A hand came under her elbow and a voice murmured, “Ten a penny, are we? I’m crushed.”

  She glanced up at the prince, who had somehow materialized on the staircase and was now escorting her steadily downwards. “Not my words,” she said.

  “Ah, but you agreed with them,” he chided. “I heard you.”

  “I was merely being polite,” she returned smartly. “And if you will eavesdrop, you can only blame yourself if you hear things you don’t like.”

  “True enough,” he agreed, sounding cheerful about it. “I wish to escort you home. You don’t have a chaperone here, I trust?”

  “Someone else to be disposed of in the fountain?” she queried. “As it happens, my chaperone tonight was purely nominal, and Lady Harley has already returned home with her daughters. My carriage is waiting for me and I have no need of an escort, thank you.”

  “Oh, I disagree,” he stated, turning to beckon a waiting maid. “Lady Livia Lacey’s cloak.”

  The girl curtsied and hurried off to the cloakroom to retrieve the garment. The prince walked to the door and instructed the footman, “Lady Livia Lacey’s coach.”

  The footman bellowed to a linkboy on the street at the bottom of the steps. “Lady Livia Lacey’s coach.” The boy, with his torch held aloft, went off at a run, calling out the name as he ran along the line of carriages.

  A huge round berlin separated itself from the line and progressed in stately fashion to the front door of the Clarington mansion. The groom jumped down to let down the footstep and open the door.

  “My carriage,” Livia said, accepting her cloak from the maid with a smile and a discreetly palmed coin. “Thank you for the dance, Prince Prokov.”

  “That’s your carriage?” For once he sounded startled. “What an astonishing equipage.”

  “We call it the teacu
p,” she informed him, gathering up the folds of her cloak and ball gown and moving down the shallow flight of steps to the pavement.

  “Oh, yes, that’s exactly what it is,” he agreed with huge amusement. “Allow me, ma’am.” He was by her side, taking her elbow to ease her upwards into the carriage before she could muster any objections. And then he had climbed in beside her, pulling the door firmly behind him. He sank down on the faded crimson squabs and looked around the interior with an air of fascination. “When did these go out of fashion? It must have been at least twenty years ago.”

  “At least,” Livia said, deciding that objecting to his presence was going to be futile at best and undignified at worst. Besides, she wasn’t certain she did object to it. “It belonged to a distant relative of mine. I think she insisted on a degree of state when she went out and about.”

  He looked at her closely, his eyes suddenly a bright glow in the dim interior. “Did she? How interesting.”

  “Why should you find that interesting, Prince? I’m sure she was a woman of her time. She died at the end of last year,” she added.

  “Ah, I’m sorry to hear it,” he murmured.

  “I never knew her,” Livia said. “As I said, she was a distant relative…I’m not even sure how we were connected, but we shared a surname and for some reason that was important to her, so she made me her heir.” Even as she gave this explanation, Livia wondered why she was being so expansive; it was none of this gentleman’s business. Yet somehow he seemed to provoke confidences.

  “So, tell me about yourself, Lady Livia.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” Livia said shortly, deciding that there’d been enough confidences for one evening. “But you could tell me why a Russian prince is in London at a time like this. Don’t you expect to find yourself looked upon with suspicion? Russians are hardly persona grata since your czar signed a treaty with Napoleon.”

  “Oh, politics, politics,” he said, waving a hand in dismissal. “Dreary stuff. I want nothing to do with it. Besides, I am only half Russian.”

  “Oh? And what’s the other half?”

  “Why, English, of course,” he declared in a tone of such delightfully smug satisfaction that Livia couldn’t help another chuckle. The man made her laugh too much and too often.

  “I would never have guessed,” she said. “Apart from your fluency in English, of course.”

  “Oh, we Russians are fluent in many languages except our own,” he said airily. “Russian is spoken only by the peasants.”

  Livia was about to question this when the carriage came to a halt and the groom opened the door. “Thank you, Jemmy,” she said, accepting the lad’s hand to assist her down to the pavement.

  “Well, Prince Prokov, here is where we part company. Thank you again for the dance, although I by no means condone your methods of achieving it.” She gave him her hand with what she hoped was a purely friendly, if firmly dismissive, smile.

  He raised her hand to his lips, however, turning it over to press an unambiguous kiss into her palm. “You will permit me to call upon you, my lady.” It was a statement rather than a request.

  Livia could see no reason to object to the declaration except that she preferred to feel that her wishes were in some way to be taken into account in such matters. She contented herself with a vague smile, another murmured good night, and turned from him to hurry up the steps to her own house. Tonight of all nights it would have been nice if Morecombe, the ancient butler, had been on the watch for her return. Of course, as she’d expected, she had to bang the knocker three times before she heard the shuffle of his carpet slippers across the parquet within, and the slow, painful drawing back of the bolt, before the door opened a crack and the old retainer peered suspiciously around.

  “Oh, ’tis you,” he declared, as if it could have been anyone else.

  “Yes, Morecombe, it’s me,” Livia said impatiently. “Open the door, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Oh, patience, patience,” he muttered, opening the door wider. “Come you in, ’tis time respectable folk were in their beds.”

  Livia whisked herself inside and resisted the urge to look back to see if the Russian prince had been watching this little sideshow from the pavement.

  Alexander waited until the door had closed and then he stepped back into the street to look up at the house. It was a handsome building, in keeping with its fellows around the gracious London square. There were signs that work had been done on the brickwork and the window frames, and the railings were black-leaded, the door knocker glowing copper, the steps white-honed. Its care-takers were clearly fulfilling their responsibilities, he thought.

  He sauntered away, smiling slightly at the memory of the evening. His informant had been quite correct about Livia Lacey. She would do. In fact she would do very well indeed. And unless he was wildly off the mark, that irreverent bubble of laughter that she had such difficulty suppressing promised an amusing and somewhat unconventional collaboration.

  He paused on the corner of Cavendish Square, debating his destination. Home, or one of his clubs? He found himself disinclined for further social chitchat and had little interest in cards tonight, so he turned his steps towards his lodgings on Bruton Street.

  He had a commodious and comfortable suite of rooms attended by his manservant, and a bootboy. An excellent cook reigned in the small kitchen. An all-male household suited the prince’s temperament. His father had preferred it and the young Alexander, once he’d outgrown the wet nurse, had been surrounded exclusively by male minders and tutors, until the Empress Catherine had taken him under her wing as an older companion for her grandson. But even then, in the royal schoolrooms, women had been few and far between, and the boys had grown up under the watchful eyes of the military tutors and senior diplomats chosen by the empress, in order to give her heir an education suited to a boy destined for an imperial throne. Once his unsatisfactory father had been disposed of, of course.

  How successful an education that had been was a question Prince Prokov often asked himself these days when he contemplated the actions and decisions of his friend and emperor, Alexander I.

  The prince let himself into his lodgings and grimaced at the sound of voices coming from the small drawing room to the right of the hall. His man appeared as soundlessly as always from his own quarters.

  “Visitors, sir,” he said, bowing. “Duke Nicolai Sperskov, Count Constantine Fedorovsky, and one other. They said they wished to await your return.” He moved to take his master’s evening cloak, cane, and gloves.

  Alex nodded briefly. “What are they drinking?”

  “Vodka, Prince.”

  “Then bring me cognac as well.” Alex opened the door to the drawing room.

  “Ah, Alex, I trust you don’t object to our waiting for you.” A plump, pink-cheeked gentleman turned from the fireplace, vodka glass in hand. He waved the glass appreciatively. “Excellent vodka, I congratulate you. Did you bring it with you from St. Petersburg?”

  “A dozen or so bottles, Nicolai,” Alexander said easily, using French, the first language for all of them. “You’re welcome to one.”

  The duke twirled a magnificent moustache, black as coal, and beamed. “Generous as always, my friend.”

  Alex smiled and extended a hand in greeting to Constantine Fedorovsky. “Constantine…I didn’t know you were in England…and…” He turned with a faint questioning smile to his other visitor.

  “Ah, allow me to present Paul Tatarinov, Alex,” Constantine Fedorovsky said. “We arrived from the court two days ago.”

  “You are most welcome, monsieur,” Alex said courteously. “Ah, thank you, Boris.” He acknowledged the soundless arrival of his manservant, carrying a decanter and goblets. “Set it down there.” He gestured to a console table. The man did so and bowed himself softly from the room.

  “I find I prefer cognac these days,” Alex said, filling a goblet. “May I tempt anyone else?”

  “No, no, thank you…vodka’s the s
tuff,” Constantine said appreciatively, raising his glass to examine the clear liquid in the lamplight. “Smooth as silk, this one, Nicolai’s quite right.”

  “You shall have a bottle,” Alexander said, seating himself comfortably in an armchair beside the fire. He crossed his legs and sipped cognac, regarding his visitors with an air of polite attention.

  “Ah, you wonder why we’re here, I daresay,” the duke said with a tug at his moustache.

  “It’s always a pleasure to see my friends,” Alex demurred with a twitch of his eyebrows that spoke volumes.

  Tatarinov frowned and went quickly to the door. He opened it sharply and stood peering into the dimly lit foyer. After a minute he closed it and turned back to the room. His eyes darted to the heavy velvet curtains drawn tight at the windows, and he strode across, opening them a few inches to gaze into the darkness of the street beyond.

  “Tatarinov is a cautious man,” Duke Nicolai murmured.

  “Wisely so, I’m sure,” Alex returned, regarding his visitor through slightly narrowed eyes. “You suspect eavesdroppers, Tatarinov?”

  “Always…one can never be too careful,” the other man said. “Ever since the czar established that damnable Committee for General Security, their secret police are everywhere.” He stood in front of the fire, his legs braced as if on the deck of a moving ship, and glowered into his vodka.

  “Well, if you’ve satisfied yourself on that score, perhaps we could come to the point,” Alex prompted, taking another sip of cognac.

  “Tatarinov brings some disturbing news from court,” the duke said. “It seems that the emperor has heard some whispers about our little enterprise.”

  Alex’s relaxed posture didn’t change but his eyes sharpened. “Does he have names?”

  Tatarinov shook his head. “Not as far as I know, he’s become aware simply that there are some around him who are…dissatisfied, shall we say…with his imperial performance on the world’s stage.”