Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

" B ut trousers are so much more comfortable to wear than gowns and petticoats. No doubt, it's why the gentlemen here in London insist upon keeping them for themselves."

Princess Emmaline accompanied her pronouncement with a pout and a stomp of her dainty foot.

Eleanora suppressed a sigh as she took in the sight her charge presented in the drawing room—billowing trousers and an accompanying jacket fashioned of silk, belted at her waist. There was no denying the quality and cut of her outerwear. But it was wholly unseemly. And yet another reminder that just when Eleanora thought she had made some progress with the princesses, one of them insisted upon either wearing inappropriate garments or sneaking away to find time alone with scandalous dukes.

Or both.

She forced a commiserating smile to her lips. "You are undoubtedly correct, Princess Emmaline. However, given that we have no control over polite standards, I'm afraid we haven't any choice other than to surrender to the ton 's notion of what a lady ought to wear."

"I've already worn trousers to a ball," Princess Emmaline pointed out.

Yes, much to Eleanora's abject horror, the princesses had both attended a ball wearing trousers before their older sister had hired her.

"Your doing so resulted in a flurry of scandal," Eleanora reminded her sternly.

"And also in Miss Brett being hired to give us town silver," Princess Annalise added, addressing her sister.

"Town bronze ," Eleanora corrected gently.

"Why would it not be gold?" Princess Emmaline asked, her brow furrowed. "Gold is worth more than bronze and silver, is it not? If we are to be trained like little dogs until we are above reproach, then one would truly think it ought to be called town gold , at the very least."

Eleanora winced at the princess's reference to being trained like little dogs, which was hardly what she hoped for her charges and yet undoubtedly what it must feel like to them. Particularly after the repression they had faced in their own kingdom. To finally be enjoying liberties long denied them, only to have to be molded into the precise image of womanly virtue the ton expected must have been a shock to their sensibilities.

She smiled tightly, hoping her expression was encouraging rather than severe. "Her Royal Highness doesn't wish for me to train you, but to guide you. To ease your presence in the oft-dizzying social whirl."

Princess Annalise blinked. "To keep us from further horrifying the lords and ladies of London, you mean to say, Miss Brett."

It was the first time any of her charges had directly discussed her role, and Eleanora could privately admit that the conversation was causing her rather a lot of discomfiture. Mostly because she knew the depths of irony involved in someone like herself now guiding noble ladies through polite society. If anyone who had procured her sought-after services had the slightest knowledge of her past, they would dismiss her without a moment's hesitation.

Her past work and successes, combined with her faultless reputation, wouldn't be sufficient to atone. Nothing and no one would save her from a terrifying end of penury and obscurity. She would simply cease to exist to all who had once heartily embraced her. And without the significant coin she was able to command from the wealthiest nobles and cits in London for her services, she would be cast to the streets. Forced to sell the last thing of value she possessed—herself.

Thrusting that terrifying thought aside, Eleanora hastened to reassure Princess Annalise. "Your Royal Highness, neither of you could horrify anyone. I am merely present to act as a guide. Think of me as the grease in the pan—a facilitator, rather than the lovely dish which is brought to the table and laid before all the guests."

"I wouldn't wish to think of you as grease, Miss Brett," Emmaline said, frowning. "How dreadful. You're far too lovely to be something so common and unappealing."

"It was a figure of speech, my dear," she said gently, inwardly tamping down any hint of her former vanity that made her want to preen at the young royal's words.

She was common, and there was no changing that. And for the last few years, she had done everything she could to make herself as unappealing as possible. Particularly after she'd been forced to introduce her knee to the Earl of Walcot's nether region when the roué had ventured to her private chamber late one evening. Her resultant dismissal had been both expected and infuriating. She had been fortunate he hadn't pressed his unwanted attentions. Some women in service, she knew, were not so lucky.

"A figure of speech?" Princess Annalise asked, her expression perplexed. "Who is that?"

The princesses' mastery of the English language sometimes made it easy for Eleanora to forget that it wasn't their native tongue. Here was the second reminder in less than one quarter hour.

"Not a person, Your Royal Highness," she advised softly. "Rather, the phrase means that one is using words in a different sense than the expected. I don't mean to compare myself to grease, not truly. I only meant to say that you should think of me as someone present in your life to aid you. Not to keep you from horrifying anyone."

Although, in truth, that was part of it. However, Eleanora hadn't been able to earn her bread over the last few years by telling anyone the truth. She certainly had no intention of beginning now.

"I see." Princess Annalise regarded her gravely. "But I do not think I like these speech figures of yours, Miss Brett."

Eleanora was accustomed to choosing her battles, which was why she didn't bother to correct the princess a second time. "The English language is remarkably peculiar, Your Royal Highness. I shan't argue about that. Now, then. I do believe we have thoroughly exhausted the subject, and I've been most remiss in today's lesson. Shall we continue?"

"Only if I can remain in my trousers," Princess Emmaline said, her expression mulish.

"Whilst you are in Her Royal Highness's household, and as she sees fit, you may dress however your heart desires," she said smoothly.

"Not at balls, however?" the princess wanted to know.

Good heavens, Eleanora was beginning to develop a headache.

"Not at balls," she confirmed. "The gowns we have commissioned will suit quite elegantly for such a purpose."

"It is a wonder anyone chooses to live here," Princess Emmaline sniffed. "All this dreadful rain, a dearth of sun and warmth, and women cannot even wear trousers."

"Undoubtedly you will grow accustomed to it when you are here long enough," Eleanora said with a hopeful tone. "I promise you that, aside from our peculiar notions of dress, it is a reasonably civilized society."

That was a lie, of course. Polite society was neither reasonable nor civilized, but no need to frighten the princesses. They had already endured enough heartache in their homeland. They were yet young and na?ve, and their royal bloodlines suggested they would never need to learn the truth.

"Peculiar notions of dress?"

The smooth, silken voice coming from behind Eleanora was as unexpected as it was familiar. And her body's unwanted reaction to it was the same. Heat curled through her, lingering low in her belly.

Prince Ferdinando.

Eleanora whirled about to face him, forgetting herself for a moment as she was faced with the portrait of beautiful elegance he presented. Golden hair swept from his high forehead and worn in perfect curls, his cheekbones sharper than blades, his bright-blue eyes searing her to her soul as he gazed upon her as if she were the sole occupant of the room.

"My dear Miss Brett, whatever nonsense are you instilling in my dear cousins?" he drawled, strolling deeper into the drawing room as if he had been invited to join them.

He decidedly had not.

His nearness and audacity jolted her from her stupor. She dipped into a curtsy.

"Your Royal Highness," she greeted. "I thought you were still confined to your sickroom."

"Mercifully, I've escaped." The smile he sent her way melted something deep inside her.

She ignored it, summoning all the inner ice that dwelled in the darkest corners of her ragged heart.

"Her Royal Highness Princess Emmaline and Her Royal Highness Princess Annalise are no relations of yours," she pointed out coolly, irritated with him for appearing when she had spent the last few days happily avoiding him.

And pretending he—and his sinful, smoldering, wondrous kisses—hadn't occupied her every waking thought since she had foolishly allowed herself to be alone with him that last time. He'd been dangerous then. She'd seen it. No longer on his sickbed, pale and wan from loss of blood, mind befuddled by the laudanum. Rather, he'd been sharp and clear. Beautiful and masculine and painfully compelling. The air between them had fairly crackled with fire. She should have run at the first opportunity. Yet, she'd remained, knowing what would happen.

Wanting it, to her everlasting shame.

But she couldn't say any of that aloud. So instead, she had chosen to comment upon the prince's ridiculous claim that he was a cousin to the princesses.

"We may as well be," he said easily, offering a gallant bow. "Their sister was practically married to my brother. We were very nearly almost siblings by marriage."

"And how does that make you their cousin, Your Royal Highness?" she asked despite herself.

He straightened to his full, maddening, handsome height. "I'll admit I am woefully inept at understanding familial ties, particularly in the English language. However, the princesses are family to me."

"Nando," Emmaline greeted, closing the distance between them with such exuberance that she nearly bounced as she floated to the prince. "Stasia refused to allow me to come to you. How is your wound?"

"Healing quite nicely," he announced, his gaze traveling over the princess's head and melding with Eleanora's. "I owe an eternal debt of gratitude for the angels at my side during my convalescence here."

There was an underlying, pointed aspect to his tone, and Eleanora knew he was referencing her absence from his sickbed these past few days. She had missed him—she wouldn't lie to herself, even if she had to lie to everyone else. But she also knew all too well what would have happened if she had gone to him again after those breath-stealing and mind-numbing kisses.

She would have returned to his chamber again and again until she had finally surrendered to what the prince wanted—namely, her in his bed. But Eleanora knew how damning such a choice would be. She could resist him. She had resisted him.

And he had been irritated by it. Good. Let him be. Perhaps if his vanity were sufficiently damaged, he would decide to pursue someone else.

"Angels at your side," Princess Emmaline repeated, casting a sly glance in Eleanora's direction. "Never say Miss Brett was attending you."

"I wasn't," she hastened to say, hoping the look she sent the wicked prince was suitably hard and discouraging.

"Of course she was," he said, dashing her hopes as he continued to smile knowingly in her direction. "And pray, do not let the humble Miss Brett dissuade you that her loving ministrations were anything other than miraculous."

She nearly swallowed her tongue.

Loving ministrations. Why, she ought to box his ears, the scoundrel!

Eleanora's gaze frantically swept the chamber for a weapon she might take up and use against him, just to keep him from speaking. There was a poker by the fireplace. An accommodating vase filled with hothouse flowers. An ormolu clock on the mantel. She didn't want to murder him, however. Merely stun him.

"What are you looking for, Miss Brett?" he asked.

She clenched her jaw and forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. "Something I misplaced."

It was yet another lie in a seemingly endless string of so many.

For this one, she felt no guilt. He had brought it upon himself with his ceaseless flirting and innuendos and his casual grace and his gorgeous blue eyes and sinful lips and those kisses that had seared her to her soul.

"Your pleasant disposition is perhaps what you've lost?" he asked innocently.

Princess Emmaline chortled. Princess Annalise gasped, the sweet child.

Eleanora forced her expression to remain at ease, quite as if Prince Ferdinando weren't the most irksome, handsome, frustrating man she'd ever met.

And she had crossed paths with rather a lot of handsome, maddening men. The prince before her was simply incomparable.

"Is there something you require, Your Royal Highness?" she asked through clenched teeth.

"Life as an invalid has lost its luster," he said. "I grew weary of hiding in my room."

"If you are well enough to emerge, then should you not also be well enough to return to your own residence?" Eleanora was careful to keep her tone polite.

"You are not wrong in your assumption, Miss Brett," he answered smoothly. "However, I am to remain as a guest here for an indeterminate span of time. Mr. Tierney is convinced I'm safer here than at the opulent town house I bought for a small fortune. Thus, here I remain, a slightly willing prisoner."

Her heart sank to the soles of her slippers.

The look he gave her was laden with smoldering sensual intent. It would be impossible to reach any conclusion other than that the prince fully intended to seduce her during his stay here. Why, she could not begin to fathom. She was a woman nearing the age of thirty. She dressed simply and with the allure of an elderly maiden aunt. Her gowns were unbecoming sacks, and she regularly hid her natural curves and golden hair beneath drapery, fichus, and caps. A man such as him—rich, handsome, royal—could have his choice of any woman in not just London, but all the world. His singular pursuit of her made not one whit of sense.

"Whilst I am a guest beneath Mr. Tierney and Princess Anastasia's roof," Prince Ferdinando continued smoothly, still holding Eleanora's gaze, "I may as well be of use. Do you not think so?"

Heat flared up her throat, suffusing her cheeks. The gall of the man, to speak with such blatant carnal insinuation before her charges. How dare he? Years ago, in what seemed another life, when she had been a different woman entirely, she would have slapped his cheek for his audacity, prince or no. Some of the wealthiest, most powerful men in the world had filled her mother's sitting room and salon. She had flirted with them, spoken with them, charmed them. She'd had them eating from the palm of her hand with intrepid ease.

But now, she was Miss Eleanora Brett, and her mother was gone. So too, all her mother's amassed wealth. Fleeting, just like her life had been. And Eleanora had no choice other than to play the role in which she found herself—no better than a servant.

"Of course you must do as you wish, Your Royal Highness," Eleanora told him. "I have no doubt that you have never done anything less."

"Ah, but there you would be wrong, my dear Miss Brett, and regretfully so," he countered. "However, in this instance, it would please me greatly to remain here with my cousins and aid them in obtaining their…town silver, is it?"

She might have laughed were the circumstances any less dire. As it was, she was in peril of wilting like a flower in a drought beneath the prince's knowing gaze. All she could think about was the way his sinful mouth had felt angling over hers. The way his tongue had slid sinuously against hers. The way he had tasted.

The way he'd made her feel.

Wrong, all of it. So desperately, dangerously wrong.

"Town bronze," she forced herself to correct in the same gentle tone she had used for Princess Annalise. "The phrase is town bronze , Your Royal Highness."

"Just so." A smile toyed with the corners of his lips.

And that was when Eleanora realized he was teasing her. But not just that, he had been standing at the threshold for far longer than she had realized. Watching her. Listening.

Renewed heat crept up her throat, making her ears sting. And to her utter shame, the peaks of her breasts went hard and tingling. An ache throbbed to life between her thighs. Despite her every intention to remain impervious, and in direct opposition to all reason, she wanted this man.

Wanted him more desperately than she had ever wanted another.

But she could not have him.

"Well, then," she managed crisply, straightening the skirt of her gown and smoothing imaginary wrinkles from the voluminous muslin. "Your dedication is most respectable. However, their royal highnesses and I were just about to begin our dancing lessons. Given your unfortunate state, I cannot help but think you would be incapable of rendering us any manner of aid. We do thank you, Your Royal Highness."

"Nonsense!" Princess Emmaline interrupted. "Cousin Nando would be an excellent judge of our form. Would you not? Surely all your… experience in the Varros court would make you a perfect connoisseur."

Eleanora stared at the princess, aghast at the patently obvious insinuation in her words. And truly, a na?ve young girl such as herself should have no notion of what manner of experience the prince possessed from his days at court. No doubt it was lewd and lascivious and beyond depraved. A shiver went down Eleanora's spine that she told herself was pure disgust.

"Princess Emmaline," she began in a scolding tone.

"You are correct, of course, cousin," Prince Ferdinando said easily, grinning as if the princess's pointed words hadn't affected him one whit.

And perhaps they hadn't. Men of his ilk ordinarily reveled in their dubious reputations and endless conquests. She knew his sort all too well. Wealthy, silver-tongued rogues had ruined her mother's life more times than one. They'd professed their love, taken her mother under their protection, and broken her heart. They'd given her priceless jewels that turned out to be paste. They'd been faithless and cruel. Eleanora should know better. Better than anyone in the prince's gilded sphere, certainly.

She might have objected over his incorrect claim to a familial relation again, but she knew there was no point in it, so Eleanora kept quiet, not wishing to draw attention to herself any more than she already had.

"I shall seat myself and observe," he added, sauntering toward a nearby Grecian couch. "Forgive me my lack of manners, ladies, but if I remain standing any longer, I may swoon. On account of the blood I've lost, you understand?"

"Of course," Princess Emmaline and Princess Annalise chirped in unison.

The rogue. He hadn't lost enough blood to keep him from kissing her. But she couldn't say that. Nor should she think of it. She needed to tamp down the memory. Banish the dangerous yearning he'd brought to life within her. Forget it ever had happened.

Impossible.

She brushed that witless thought aside.

"You needn't observe," she gritted through clenched teeth, trying not to watch as he folded his body into the couch with leonine grace and failing.

He crossed his long legs and settled into the cushions like an indolent king.

"My cousins wish me to do so," he told her with a beautiful smile that emphasized his neat, even teeth. "Do you not, cousins?"

"Yes," Princess Annalise said dutifully.

"Oh yes. Of course we do, cousin," said Princess Emmaline like the hoyden she was. "Nando simply must stay, Miss Brett."

"You see, my dear Miss Brett?" Prince Ferdinando's smile turned smug. "I'm a fortunate man indeed, to be surrounded by such tenderhearted ladies. Carry on, I pray you. Forget I'm even here."

As if such a feat were possible. Eleanora would be as likely to ignore an elephant bounding across the chamber, intent upon trampling them all. And if she didn't take great care, the prince would indeed be trampling—her ability to resist him, her reputation, and her future all at once.

But he'd neatly trapped her, and not for the first time. She didn't dare draw the suspicion of the princesses by demanding Prince Ferdinando leave. Nor did she dare gainsay them in desiring his presence during their lessons.

So, she raised her chin, took a deep, determined breath, and proceeded as if they didn't have an audience consisting of the most maddeningly attractive man she'd ever met. One whose kisses had nearly brought her to her knees mere days before, threatening the resolve that had never once faltered in the wake of her mother's death.

"Princess Annalise," she said calmly, settling upon the more malleable of her two charges intentionally. "You join me first, if you please. We shall be turning our attention to your waltz since the dance is newest to you. Princess Emmaline, if you would be willing to play at the pianoforte?"

"Yes, Miss Brett," said the latter, dutiful for possibly the first time in Eleanora's acquaintance.

Her lack of hesitation raised Eleanora's suspicions. She watched through narrowed eyes as the princess crossed the music room and settled herself at the pianoforte as she'd requested.

"Now, then," Eleanora said, turning to her other charge, cursing her weakness for the breathlessness that had entered her voice, even as she applauded herself for successfully keeping her gaze from the prince occupying the Grecian couch.

"This is an excellent diversion," Prince Ferdinando drawled. "Far preferable to watching the walls in my chamber and listening to Bruno's dreadful attempts at providing me with amusement. Tell me, Miss Brett, do you intend to play the role of gentleman for this particular lesson?"

He was demanding her attention. She would have to look at him now, and he knew it.

With great reluctance, Eleanora glanced in the prince's direction—fleetingly, but it was sufficient to make unwanted heat rise within her. "Yes, Your Royal Highness. I am indeed playing the role of gentleman. It is a common enough practice when no gentleman dance instructor is present. You do not object, do you?"

"Not at all," he said, his tone mild. "I find myself rather intrigued by the notion of you taking command."

Her stomach performed a queer little flip. She ignored it. Ignored him .

Deliberately, she presented Prince Ferdinando with her back as she took up her position opposite Princess Annalise, doing her best imitation of a prospective suitor. Her posture was stiff and stern. She told herself she could play the gentleman in this waltz and then cry off their dancing lesson for the remainder of the afternoon. She could easily turn her attention to singing or poetry or something Prince Ferdinando wouldn't find so amusing a diversion.

She bowed to Princess Annalise.

"Oh no, I'm afraid that shan't do. Not at all."

Him again.

Clenching her jaw, Eleanora straightened from her bow and cast a vexed glance at Prince Ferdinando. It was unfair for him to look so perfect, even with the sleeve of his wounded arm empty, a coat draped causally over his shoulders. His long legs were spread before him, crossed at the ankles.

"What is amiss, Your Royal Highness?" she asked when he didn't elaborate on his objection.

"It is merely that a gentleman would never bow thusly," he said with deceptive innocence. "I'm afraid you've done it all wrong."

"I've done perfectly well," she countered tightly, rethinking her earlier quest for a suitable weapon with which to brain him.

"There is well , and then there is believably , my dear Miss Brett." He shook his head sadly. "I'm afraid that if you want to enlighten my cousins, you must perform better than merely well enough . Cousin Annalise has to look upon you and see a dashing, handsome duke, and that bow won't suit at all."

She clasped her gown at her sides in such a tight grip that it was a miracle the muslin hadn't rent. He was playing a game with her. And before the princesses, no less. She ought not to be surprised. She'd known, almost from the moment they had met, that Prince Ferdinando was capable of anything. That he was scandalous and dangerous to all she held dear.

Fair enough. She could play his game as well as he could. Indeed, she could soundly trounce him at it.

"Perhaps Your Royal Highness might edify me on the proper sketching of a bow," she suggested with feigned sweetness, hoping he would be duly chastised and hold his wicked tongue.

He grinned at her. "You're thrusting your derriere out too far, if you must know. A gentleman would never thrust his rump out in such a feminine manner."

Heat crept over her face. He was speaking about her bottom . And in front of Princess Annalise and Emmaline, no less.

"It is wonderfully curved," he continued thoughtfully, "which no doubt hinders the impression as well. However, that can't be helped."

From the pianoforte, Princess Emmaline chuckled into her hand in a quite indiscreet fashion.

"Your Royal Highness, you are beyond the pale," Eleanora clipped out coldly.

But she didn't feel cold. Not at all. What she did feel was hot. Hot. Hot.

She was unbearably aflame, something deep within her, forbidden and wholly unnecessary, burning with an ardor she feared she would no longer be able to contain.

As if he could read her mind, his smile deepened, unrepentant and roguish. "Always, Miss Brett."

She could do this. She could carry on this lesson, this lone dance, and then somehow remove herself from this room and from Prince Ferdinando's dangerous presence. She could escape this unscathed.

She could.

She would.

She had to.

Grinding her molars and giving him what she was sure resembled more grimace than smile, she said, "Thank you for your suggestion. I shall endeavor to form all future bows with greater care."

"By all means," he said like a benevolent ruler seated upon a dais.

"Princess Emmaline, begin the waltz," she commanded sharply, the edge in her tone not intended for her charge but for the grinning, smoldering, beautiful prince in their midst.

The first notes filled the air, and Eleanora busied herself with helping Princess Annalise with hand placement and positioning, before turning her attention to her steps, which were still halting and foal-like.

"No, no, no," called the prince over the pianoforte. "Halt."

The music died.

Nettled beyond the limitations of her patience, Eleanora spun about to face him, forgetting her place in this household and that she addressed a royal prince.

"What in heaven's name can it be now?" she demanded curtly.

"You do not move like a man, Miss Brett," he said, shameless in his continued disruption. "How is my cousin to pretend you are a gentleman if you are moving with a woman's lithe grace?"

She wondered if his ploy was to drive her so mad with fury that she succumbed to his seduction, irritated beyond all rational thought. If so, he was certainly succeeding.

Eleanora pinned the handsome devil with a glare. "I do not find it imperative that Princess Annalise pretend I am a gentleman. The purpose of this lesson is for the princess to practice her steps and posture, not for her to imagine she is dancing with a lord."

"Nonsense." He rose to his feet with a casual ease that belied his recent sickroom stay. "If you will allow me to offer my assistance, Miss Brett, I do think that my cousin would benefit from a gentleman and lady couple dancing the waltz."

"I cannot think it wise for you to dance with Princess Annalise," she protested instantly, thinking of his dangerous reputation and her charge's wide-eyed innocence.

He could claim the princesses as his cousins all he liked, but the truth of the matter was, Prince Ferdinando was not related to the princesses in any capacity. He wasn't family. And he was a wicked rakehell, notorious for his bad behavior.

He was already striding in their direction with the assured footfalls of a man born into royalty. "And that is precisely why I'm dancing with you , Miss Brett."