Bronwyn Scott - Compromised By The Prince’s Touch

‘I’m sorry, I had no wish—’

‘To pry?’ Nikolay finished sharply, advancing, not allowing her the distance. ‘You had every wish. Do not deny it. It has been your intention since we met.’

Klara’s chin went up in defiance. She’d been caught, but she would not give him the satisfaction of making her feel ashamed or cowed. ‘If you’d been more forthcoming, I wouldn’t have to pry.’ She took another step back. This close, he was far larger than when Zvezda walked between them or when she looked down at him from Zvezda’s back.

‘Why pry at all? I was unaware riding instructors had to provide their pupils with detailed histories.’ His advance forced her back another step. She was running out of room and becoming sharply aware that the tenor of this exchange was transforming into another sort of challenge, their awareness of each other palpable.

‘Not all pupils are the daughters of foreign diplomats. Our lives are under scrutiny from two nations. We have to be careful with whom we associate.’ They stood toe to toe now and she had nowhere to go, her back firmly up against a tree.

‘I am a prince who cannot return to his kingdom. I, too, must be careful with whom I associate.’ His voice was a caress, low and husky with caution. It was not caution for himself, but for her, a warning she realised too late.

His mouth was on hers, sealing the distance between them. He kissed like a warrior; possessive and proving, a man who would not be challenged without choosing to respond in kind.

Her mouth answered that challenge, her body thrilled to it. This was what it meant to be kissed, not like the few hasty kisses she’d experienced during her first Season out before it was clear she’d been set aside for the Duke. That should have told her something. Well-meaning gentlemen held their baser instincts in reserve, they didn’t kiss as if the world was on fire. There was nothing altruistic about Prince Nikolay Baklanov when it came to seduction and he wanted her to know. As a warrior, as a lover, he took no prisoners.

Two could play that game. Her arms went about his neck, keeping him close, letting her body press against him, feeling the hard ridges and planes of him, knowing he felt the curve and softness of her. She let her tongue explore his mouth, her teeth nipped at his lip as she tasted him. There were things she wanted him to know as well. She was not one of his spoiled students. She would not be cowed by a stern look and a raised voice. She was not afraid of passion. Nor was she afraid to take what she wanted, even from him. She was good at showing people what she was not. It was easier than showing people what she was: a girl forced to marry, a girl who knew nothing about where she came from, a girl caught between worlds. Her hands were in his hair, dragging it free of its leather tie. She gave a little moan of satisfaction as his teeth nipped at her ear lobe.

At the sound, he swore—something in Russian she didn’t need to understand to know what it meant: that their kiss had tempted him beyond comfortable boundaries. He drew back, his dark eyes obsidian-black, his voice ragged at its edges as if he’d found a certain amount of satisfaction and been reluctant to let it go. But there was only that glimpse before the words that indicated this might have only been a game played for her benefit, to show her what it meant to poke this particular dragon. ‘Forgive me,’ he began, ‘I did not intend...’

Cold fury doused the newly stoked heat of her body. ‘Yes, you did. You’ve had every intention of kissing me since we met.’

‘Touché.’ He gave her a short, stiff gesture, more of a nod than a bow. ‘Then that makes us even.’

His audacity angered her. She wanted to lash out in a fiery display of temper, to slap him for the advantages he’d taken, but he’d like that. It was what he expected, perhaps even what he’d been playing for—a wedge to drive between them, or even to drive her away. She had too much on the line to allow that, or anything that bore the slightest resemblance to victory. She played her trump card. ‘Hardly even. My father wants you to come to dinner.’ She gave him a look, part cold anger, part dare. If she’d learned anything about Nikolay Baklanov thus far it was that he wouldn’t back down, especially if he believed she thought he would.

‘I’ll be there.’

She felt the guilt prick her again. Surely a small hint of warning would salve her conscience without betraying her father’s intentions in inviting him. ‘Don’t you want to know why?’ The words came out in a rush. She hadn’t much time left with him here in this quiet grove. The horses were getting restless. They’d have to leave soon.

Nikolay gave her a frustratingly confident grin. ‘Don’t worry, kotyonok moya, I already do.’

* * *

‘You’ve invited a potential viper to dinner,’ the Duke of Amesbury postulated from the comfortable arm chair in front of Alexei Grigoriev’s fire. It was hardly an original idea. Surely Grigoriev was already keenly aware of the risk he took in inviting the Russian prince to dinner. Amesbury’s sharp eyes watched the ambassador as he paced the long windows of his study to the gardens beyond.

‘Or,’ Grigoriev drawled with considerably more optimism than Amesbury felt, ‘I’ve invited the perfect solution. Serving Russia’s better interests is always a delicate proposition, never more so than now when the country’s better interests aren’t shared by its ruler. I think an exiled prince would be hungry for two things: revenge and regaining his place. We can give him that.’ Amesbury gave the idea a moment’s attention as Grigoriev went on. ‘He could be perfect. He’s a military officer, a leader of men. We can send him to St Petersburg with the arms when the time is right to raise and rally the troops.’

Ah. A man to play the martyr. Amesbury could get his mind around that. Baklanov could be transformed into a scapegoat if anything went wrong. They knew from experience just how much might go wrong. The Union of Salvation, of which Grigoriev was a devout member, had been forced underground after the failed military revolt in 1821. They could not afford to fail again, but neither could they afford not to try again. Now, the Union plotted in secret and in safety, abroad in England and elsewhere. It was a sign of how great the discontent was that Tsar Alexander’s own military was willing to consider revolutionary action. Not that Amesbury was particularly interested in the principles of the revolt, only the profit. Selling arms to the upstart revolutionaries emerging throughout Europe after Napoleon’s demise had become lucrative in the extreme. Grigoriev’s revolution could be the most lucrative of them all.

Grigoriev continued to proselytise from the windows. ‘The military will respect the Prince and he has knowledge of courtly manoeuvres. He can handle the politics.’

‘In theory,’ Amesbury drawled. ‘That has yet to be proven.’ He liked the idea of a scapegoat if the revolt failed. He didn’t like the potential, however, of Grigoriev liking this Prince more than him. He rather liked being the ambassador’s right-hand man. This arms deal was a sure pipeline to profit.

‘He is perfect.’ General Vasilev, the third member of their select group, gave his moustache a thoughtful stroking from the chair opposite him. ‘Have you thought of that, Alexei? When things are too good to be true, they probably are. Perhaps he’s been sent to smoke us out.’ Vasilev could always be counted to speak like a true Russian. In this case, Amesbury was quick to second him. It wouldn’t do for Grigoriev to go trusting the Prince too much.

The ambassador fixed the General with a stern stare. ‘If it was a trap, he’d have come forward sooner and made himself known. He can’t entrap anyone from a distance.’ Grigoriev grimaced. ‘Besides, if we want to move forward, I don’t think we have the luxury of doubt. We need someone to go to Russia with the arms...’ he paused here with a dark look for each of them ‘...unless one of you two is willing to do it?’ The last was said with an obvious dash of challenge. Neither he nor Vasilev wanted to take that risk.