Page 34 of The Princess and the Rogue

“Oh. I don’t know any by heart. Perhaps I could go—”

“You’re not going anywhere,” he countered, reading her mind with infuriating ease. “If you need anything, I’ll send someone to get it.”

Anya gave a huff of frustration. She’d hoped to be allowed out to a bookshop or library, at least. “Very well. Send someone to look for a book of recipes at Hatchards, or in one of the antiquarian book sellers on Publisher’s Row. It can be in Russian. Or French. I can always translate.”

Wolff stopped walking and turned, so she stopped too.

“You are a woman of many hidden talents, Miss Brown,” he said with a smile. “And those desserts sound delicious.” His gaze dipped to her mouth, and he let out a low chuckle that made her stomach flutter. “I am longing for a taste.”

Chapter 16.

Wolff left the house shortly after their visit to the kitchen. Anya heard the slam of the door with a slight twinge of resentment, but she was saved from boredom by the arrival of a package and letter from the dowager duchess.

Oxfordshire is deadly dull without you, my dear. You will be relieved to know that John Coachman is none the worse for our adventure on Hounslow Heath. I’m sure Sebastien is guarding you well; do try to restrain the urge to strangle him, despite what I’m sure will be endless provocation. His methods may be unorthodox, but I have complete faith in his abilities, as does my good friend Sir Nathaniel Conant at Bow Street. I imagine you’re feeling quite cooped up; I’ve sent you our little project to keep you amused.

Anya opened the illustrated book of fairy tales that had accompanied the letter and began to read.

Three hours later, she’d been swept away to a world of beautiful women, brave princes, dark woods, and wondrous animals. She’d read of Baba Yaga the witch and Vasilisa the Beautiful. Of the Tsarevna Frog, and Tsarevich Ivan, the Firebird and the Grey Wolf. Of Father Frost—Ded Moroz—and the Snow Princess Snegurochka.

Perhaps she was sensitive about the subject, but she noticed that many of the tales featured people hiding their true nature. Princes hiding as frogs. People cursed into golden birds or fearsome bears. She quashed a guilty twinge. She was hiding herownidentity for a perfectly good reason: self-preservation.

There were lots of wolves in the tales too. One helped Ivan catch the firebird, but more often than not, the creature’s role was ambiguous at best. They could be noble and fearless—or pitiless and sly. Of course, wolves featured in the stories of many other countries. The English book Tess had been reading told of Red Riding Hood’s encounter with a wicked, predatory beast.

Anya wrinkled her nose. She’d always had a soft spot for the wolf in that tale. What if he were really a man trapped in the body of a beast? What if he fell under the spell of the beautiful girl? What if she tamed him? He’d be the very best protector. She let out a soft laugh at her own foolishness. Wasn’t that what every woman dreamed? That she’d be the one to gentle the beast? No doubt they believed it right up to the moment they were eaten up for dinner. She wasn’t such a fool.

After lunch, she made her way down to Wolff’s library. She tried to snoop through his desk, but most of the drawers were locked. Disappointed, she nevertheless found a small tin of watercolor paints, a pencil, and some blank sheets of paper and entertained herself by sketching instead.

Before long, she’d drawn a whole host of vignettes. There was her family’sdacha, their summer house in the country outside Moscow, complete with stables and orchard. A wave of nostalgia hit her as she remembered climbing the trees and picking fruit forvareniy, a kind of liquid jam, with Dmitri and her parents.

She sketched some of the dresses she’d worn in Paris, then Petya, her pet wolfhound who’d lived to the ripe age of fifteen before he’d succumbed to old age. She didn’t try to draw Dmitri or her parents. Already their familiar features seemed indistinct in her mind; to capture them on paper was more than her artistic ability allowed.

Lastly, she drew the tiara she’d destroyed. The design formed in her mind with guilty clarity. Two rows of graduated diamonds formed the top and bottom borders,kokoshnikstyle. More diamonds suspended like drops of rain within an open lattice of anthemion leaves, alongside sapphires the bottomless blue of a Russian lake.

She allowed herself a little artistic license. If she ever won a fortune at cards, she would take this drawing to a jeweler and ask him to remake it. Money would be no object, so she’d have the gems set in white gold or platinum instead of the original yellow gold. The silvery color would made the diamonds shimmer like sunlight on snow, the perfect diadem for the ice princess they’d once called her.

She shook her head at such fantasy. Of all the diamonds she and Elizaveta had hidden in their flight from Paris, only a handful remained. The rest had been used to pay for their passage from Ostend to Dover, for food and rent when they’d reached London. They’d received far less than the stones’ true worth on several occasions; there were always unscrupulous characters ready to take advantage, but they’d been desperate and unwilling to attract attention by making too much of a fuss.

The last time she’d been forced to sell a gem, she’d followed Charlotte’s suggestion and gone to the royal jewelers, Bridge & Rundell. The proprietor, the elderly Mr. Rundell, had treated her with the kind of polite disdain at which the English so excelled. He’d given her shabby dress and practical boots a knowing glance and accepted her story of being given them by her deceased employer with subtle incredulity and silent disapproval.

It was clear that he suspected her of being a demimondaine selling the favors given by a lover, or at the very least of having dubious associates, but his eyes had brightened when he’d realized the gems were of the highest quality, and he’d paid her a fair sum.

Anya had no doubt they’d end up around the wrist or neck of some man’s lady love. She liked to imagine they’d be bought by a doting husband, but life had taught her to be cynical. From what she’d seen of society, whether in Moscow, Paris, or London, most men barely tolerated their wives, let alone bought them expensive baubles. It was the mistresses who received the expensive trinkets.

She wondered how many pieces Wolff had bought for women over the years.

The sound of the back door opening and Mickey’s deep growl welcoming his master had her sitting straighter in her chair. The two men conversed for a few moments, too low for her to hear, but she heard Wolff’s inquiry after her whereabouts.

“Your study, sir,” Mickey said, and she braced herself as Wolff strolled down the hall and into the room.

He was dressed, as ever, in exceptionally well-fitting clothes. His dark jacket molded faithfully to his broad shoulders, his buff breeches outlined his slim hips and long muscular thighs. His hair was rumpled from the wind and his face glowed with health and vitality. Anyaswallowed. Why did he have to look so damned appealing? It wasn’t fair.

She did not stand to greet him. He’d lent her no such courtesy.

He sauntered over to the desk and glanced at the pages in front of her. “What are these?”

“Just some idle sketches.” She tried to slide the drawing of the tiara under the pile, but he leaned one hip against the desk edge, reached out, and pulled the papers toward him.

Anya felt an embarrassed heat mount in her cheeks.

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