The Princess and the Rogue (Bow Street Bachelors #3) - Kate Bateman Page 0,15
do.” The dowager’s expression darkened. “Did he hurt you, child?”
“He would have done, if Elizaveta hadn’t hit him with a vase. I tried to make it look as though I’d killed myself. We escaped Paris and came here. I hoped he’d forget all about me.”
“Apparently not,” the duchess said grimly. “What a tangle. I take it he’s the reason you never wanted to attend any society gatherings with me?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he’s here now, whether by luck or design.” A mischievous twinkle appeared in her dark eyes. “Do you know, I’ve grown quite tired of the ton lately. So exhausting. I need a little time in the country, to rusticate. You can keep me company.” She closed the book of fairy tales with a decisive thump. “Bring this along. It’s much quieter at Everleigh. You’ll be better able to concentrate.”
Anya reached down and gave the dowager an impulsive hug.
The older woman stiffened in surprise, then returned the gesture with an affectionate chuckle. “There, there. It will be all right. Do you recall my youngest nephew, Sebastien?”
Anya straightened in alarm. Recall him? She hadn’t stopped thinking about him for the past week. That kiss had been the stuff of epic fantasy and fevered, confusing dreams.
She’d finally asked Charlotte what had happened after she’d left the brothel. To her surprise, instead of taking Nan upstairs, Lord Mowbray had made his excuses and left.
She shouldn’t have felt relief. The man was a stranger. A healthy, single male, fully within his rights to sate his physical needs wherever he chose. She shouldn’t care who or what he did.
But part of her was glad.
“I don’t believe you’ve ever met him,” the duchess said, oblivious to Anya’s inattention. “Nor his older brother, Geoffrey. He’s heir to the dukedom, of course, but a bit of a stick in the mud. Sebastien’s my favorite. He’s an utter rogue, but always willing to help. I’ll ask him to accompany us to Everleigh as an outrider, for extra protection.”
“Oh, I’m sure that won’t be necessary!” Anya said quickly. “I’m sure he’s very busy. Didn’t you tell me he owns a gambling club?”
“He does, indeed.” The dowager nodded, a hint of pride in her expression. “And he’s made a damn fine go of it too. I expect you’re right, however. He is very busy. Perhaps he can suggest a couple of burly young men instead? It doesn’t hurt to be sensible.”
Anya’s shoulders sank in relief. The thought seeing Sebastien Wolff again was … unsettling.
“How long do you need to get packed?”
“An hour or so. And I would like to say goodbye to Elizaveta. She finishes work at four.”
“She’s welcome to come too. Everleigh has twenty-two bedrooms.”
Anya shook her head. “She wouldn’t want to leave her employment. Or her beau. I think she’ll be glad of the space.”
The dowager nodded in understanding.
A weary sense of déjà-vu gnawed at Anya as she walked back toward Covent Garden. Going to the country was a sensible precaution, but she hated the thought of running away. It felt like cowardice. The fact that she needed to hide from Petrov yet again made her blood boil with impotent frustration.
She kicked a flurry of leaves with her boot, startling a nearby pigeon. If she were a man, she’d have faced Petrov long ago on a dueling field. She’d have made him pay for his treatment of her, and for his treachery. Justice would have been served.
As a woman, she had no such recourse, nor did she have a male champion to stand on her behalf. How many more times would she have to disrupt her life to escape men like Vasili Petrov?
Chapter 8.
Benedict poured two generous tumblers of brandy and held them out. Alex nodded his thanks, but Seb barely roused from his gloomy contemplation of the fire.
“Alex, do you have any idea why our friend is frowning at my fireplace as if he wants to tear it apart?” Benedict poured himself a glass of amber liquid. “Did someone disparage the cut of his coat? Malign his cravat?”
Alex snorted in amusement. “It’s even worse than that, I’m afraid. The end of days is upon us. Seb’s finally met a woman who could resist him.”
“You don’t say?” Benedict slid sideways into his own leather wingback and hooked one knee over the armrest. “Tell me more.”
Seb shot them a disgruntled glare. They sat like two hefty, irritatingly good-looking bookends on either side of him. “Oh, bugger off.”
“That’s what she said, I gather.” Benedict snickered. “Only rather more politely. Where did he meet