The Princess and the Rogue (Bow Street Bachelors #3) - Kate Bateman Page 0,47

successful harvest. All perfectly appropriate reasons to drink.”

“Good God,” Wolff said with a choked laugh. “It’s a wonder any of you are ever sober. So, what shall we drink to?”

Anya tilted her head. “The first toast, traditionally, is ‘to our meeting.’”

“Very well.”

They both lifted their glasses and swallowed the contents, and she gasped as the liquid stole her breath. Warmth burned down her throat and made her eyes water. Wolff lifted his brows at her in silent demand for her verdict.

“That is very good vodka,” she said truthfully. She held her glass forward again. “Our next toast should be to our families.”

He poured another inch into her glass and refilled his own. “Our families.”

They both drank.

Anya quashed a twinge of grief. She didn’t have any close family left. The loss of Dmitri was like a dull ache that resurfaced at the most unexpected of moments. But she must not get maudlin. She still had dear friends in Elizaveta, Charlotte, and the dowager. They were like family too.

“The next is to our health.” She offered her glass again and Wolff, after a slight hesitation, refilled it. “Za zdarovje,” she said solemnly.

He matched her drink, and Anya let out a deep sigh. She’d forgotten this taste of her homeland. It was certainly doing its job of warming her up. Her stomach felt as if it were glowing, and her senses were tingling pleasantly.

“Of course, the more eloquently you can express the occasion, the more it confirms that it’s special. For example, my brother always used to say, ‘May we have as much sorrow as drops of vodka left in our glasses.’” She sent Wolff a contented smile. “That’s nice, don’t you think?”

“It is.” He carried the bottle over to one of the chairs positioned by the fire. “Come, sit down.”

He sat, but Anya ignored the other chair. Instead, she sank to the floor, grateful she still wore breeches. They allowed much better freedom of movement than skirts. She raised one knee and leaned back against the front of the chair with a happy sigh.

Wolff lifted the bottle and sent her a questioning glance. She offered forward her glass.

“So what’s your favorite toast?”

She raised her glass and met his eyes. “To tables breaking of abundance and beds breaking of love.” She tipped her head back and drank.

He downed his own shot. “An excellent sentiment. Might I propose one more?”

“Go ahead.”

He leaned forward and his hand was slightly unsteady when he poured. Or perhaps it was her hand that was swaying? Either way, a splash of vodka trickled onto her wrist.

“Oops!” Anya chased the drop around her hand. She caught it on her tongue and turned laughing eyes to Wolff to share the silly moment, but the naked hunger in his gaze made her levity vanish like woodsmoke. A swirl of excitement replaced it. His expression was ardent, his gaze burning. He looked like he wanted to gobble her up. Heat flashed across her skin.

“What was your toast?” she managed hoarsely.

“To friendship.”

A knot of emotion caught in her throat. “Are we friends, my lord?”

“We’re certainly not enemies.”

Anya tossed back the vodka and rested her head against the seat of the chair. The combination of the warm fire and the alcohol was conspiring to make her drowsy and languid. The room was starting to spin. “Maybe you’re trying to get me so drunk I’ll spill all my secrets? In vino veritas, and all that.”

“Maybe,” he agreed pleasantly. “Is it working?”

“A little.” Anya smiled. She was, in fact, feeling wonderfully informal. The only person she’d ever been this relaxed with before was Dmitri. A bittersweet pang of memory assailed her as she remembered the way they used to lounge about on the floor like puppies when they were younger, reading in front of the fire. The feelings she was having toward Wolff, however, were decidedly unsisterly.

“Don’t get too close to the fire, Ice Princess,” he murmured. “You might melt.”

Her heart missed a beat. He couldn’t possibly know how close that teasing nickname was to the truth.

“Hic!”

She clapped her hand over her mouth but couldn’t stop another involuntary squeak escaping. “Hic.”

Wolff’s chuckle filled the space between them. “You appear to have hiccups, Miss Brown.”

“So it would seem.”

“Do you Russians have rules for those too?” he teased.

Anya glared at him, but her chiding was ruined by another undignified hiccup. “Hic! Yes we do, actually. If you have hiccups, it means someone is thinking of you. The fastest way to—hic!—get rid of them is to start naming people. If