The Princess and the Rogue (Bow Street Bachelors #3) - Kate Bateman Page 0,23
despite the fact that she was spattered with mud and her hair was in wild disarray. She was several inches shorter than himself—and he was still astride Eclipse—yet she somehow still managed to look down her nose at him.
God, she was as striking as he remembered.
Thanks to her, he’d endured a week of self-imposed celibacy and a succession of ridiculously erotic dreams. Several times he’d actually awoken in the throes of a climax—something he hadn’t done since he was a randy, under-sexed youth. Now, against all logic, the object of his heated fantasies was here. Standing in front of him in the middle of Hounslow Heath, looking shocked, bedraggled, and still—impossibly—gorgeous.
Seb pinned her with a hard stare.
Her blue eyes were framed by lashes a few shades darker than her honey-colored hair. The thick coils were askew from her struggle, falling down around her face, and her skin was pale except for a slight flush on her cheekbones, pink roses against snow.
His cock twitched, but her beauty only served to annoy him. She was clearly not what she seemed.
“She’s not a companion,” he said bluntly. “She’s a—” He paused, unsure of the phrase he sought. “An impostor,” he finished. “Have you checked your jewelry box recently? I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find she’s been robbing you blind.”
No wonder she hadn’t wanted his money back at Haye’s. She was probably pilfering things from his great-aunt.
The beauty gasped in outrage. “How dare you? I would never—”
The duchess burst out laughing. “Oh no! Sebastien, you’re quite mistaken. Anna would never steal from me. Come, why are you being so disagreeable?”
“It’s obvious. She’s trying to wheedle her way into your good graces, to gain your trust.”
“That’s absolute codswallop,” the duchess said in a tone that brooked no argument. She glanced over at the girl and her expression sobered. “She’s a young woman in very grave danger.”
Seb glared the girl. “Why? Why would anyone want you?”
She flinched at his scathing tone, and the two women exchanged a telling, complicit glance. His anger increased. They were hiding something, both of them.
“What’s your real name?”
The girl gave a resigned huff. “Anya.”
“Anya,” he echoed, rolling the word around his mouth experimentally. “Excellent. Progress. You’re Russian?” That would explain the accent he’d detected back at Haye’s. Russian mixed with a hint of French. Intriguing.
“Yes.”
“Anya what?”
“My family name’s not important.”
He raised his brows. “Considering those men were apparently trying to kidnap you, I’d say it was of rather vital importance, wouldn’t you?”
She scowled at his sarcasm. “Anya—Ivanov.”
He didn’t miss her minute hesitation. Ivanov was one of the most common family names in Russia, the equivalent of Smith or Brown in England. She was still lying to him, the little charlatan.
“Who would want to kidnap you? Do you owe someone money?”
“It’s nothing like that.” The dowager sighed. “Anya used to be personal maid to the Princess Denisova. The princess took her own life in Paris last year, but there are those in St. Petersburg who refuse to believe she’s dead. Since poor Anya was a witness to her mistress’s final hours, they wish to question her about it.”
“So why don’t they just call on her?”
“Anya refuses to speak of it, and I fully understand her reluctance to reopen such painful wounds. The Princess Denisova is gone. There’s no more to say.” The dowager nodded decisively. “I was taking her to Everleigh to escape those who would bedevil and distress her. But it appears they were more determined than we anticipated.”
A thoughtful look came into his aunt’s face, which gave Seb pause. He’d witnessed that same calculating expression before. It usually preceded Dorothea giving someone a scathing set down or making a startling pronouncement sure to offend.
“Hmm. The more I think about it, the more it makes perfect sense.”
“What does?” he asked warily.
“Well, clearly Anya needs more protection than a feeble old woman and a handful of servants can provide at Everleigh. She needs someone used to dealing with rogues and scoundrels. You must protect her, Sebastien. Take her back to the Tricorn with you.”
“What? No!” Seb said, at precisely the same moment the girl said, “Absolutely not!”
“I can’t let you carry on to Everleigh unescorted,” Seb protested.
The dowager waved her hand. “Oh, pish. I can’t imagine I’ll be held up twice in one evening. John is barely hurt, and I have lots of servants to coddle me when I get there.” She turned to the girl. “You’ll be vulnerable in the country, now they know you’re with me. Sebastien is