Page 35 of The Princess and the Rogue

“These are very good,” he said, and the genuine admiration in his tone warmed her even more. He tapped the sketch of the tiara. “Is this a design you have imagined, or a reproduction of an existing piece?”

“It was real. It belonged to Princess Denisova’s grandmother.”

“Did she leave it back in Russia?”

“No. It was destroyed. A casualty of war.”

A sudden flash of memory assailed her, her mother wearing the tiara to some great state banquet, laughing and carefree on the arm of her handsome father. She quashed a wave of sadness. Family tradition held that every Denisova bride should wear the tiara on her wedding day. She’d certainly put an end tothat. Not that she had any plans to marry, anyway.

Wolff accepted her explanation. He reached into his coat and withdrew a gold signet ring.

“You recall that Russian I mentioned, murdered down at Blackwall? He was wearing this. There’s a crest. How do I find out which family it belongs to?”

Anya studied the engraved central stone. The armorial showed a plumed helmet, a shield with a single dagger, and a crescent shaped dash. “As a matter of fact, I know. This is for the Orlov family. Count Grigory Orlov was alover of Catherine the Great. He’s famous for presenting her with the Orlov diamond, a stone as large as half a chicken’s egg. It’s set into the imperial scepter. There are numerous Orlovs in Moscow and St. Petersburg.”

Anya bit her lip, afraid she’d displayed too intimate a knowledge of the Russian court. Orlov’s grandson, Count Pavel, had proposed to her once, but he’d been several years younger than herself, and almost a foot shorter, and she’d declined his offer. She preferred tall men. Like Wolff.

She gave herself a mental slap on the head.

“Thank you, Miss Brown. That is most helpful.”

He stood and glanced at the gilt clock on the mantelpiece. “Lagrasse is almost ready for our first taste test. I managed to procure a few recipes for him to try from the Austrian ambassador, Prince Esterhazy. His wife, Princess Maria Theresia, is a patroness of Almack’s.”

Anya schooled her expression into one of polite interest, despite the fact that she’d met the prince and princess several times back in Russia. Plump, dark-haired Maria Theresia was only a year younger than herself. She’d been married at seventeen. Now twenty-one, she was already a fixture in London society.

“Dinner will be served in half an hour. I trust you can be ready by then?”

His expression suggested the same polite disbelief as Mr. Rundell. He clearly thought women needed hours of primping.

Anya gathered her papers and stood. “Of course. Am I to expect the pleasure of your company, my lord?”

“You can indeed.”

“How nice,” she said with faint irony. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t change for dinner. I’m afraid my wardrobe is somewhat restricted.”

She looked down at the blue dress she’d been forcedto don again that morning. It was too extravagant for daytime; the bodice was scandalously low, but there had been no sign of her lavender gown. She had a horrible feeling Wolff had ordered Mickey to dispose of it.

“I thought of that.” His smile was instantly suspicious. “I had to go to Bond Street anyway, so I visited a few modistes while I was there. You’ll find a selection of dresses in your room.” He brushed an invisible speck of lint from the sleeve of his already impeccable coat and lifted his brows in clear dismissal.

Anya bit back a retort and swept from the room.

She found no fewer than four new outfits on her bed. In addition to two day dresses, there were two more evening gowns, some scandalously sheer silk chemises, and a collection of accessories like scarves and gloves. The sight of the gloves made her heart beat faster. Was Wolff going to let her go out? She hoped so. She was sick of being cooped up indoors.

She suppressed a groan of delight as she stepped into one of the new gowns. The deep claret color was flattering, the workmanship exquisite. What was Wolff’s game? Was he trying to buy her affection, her capitulation, with dresses? Did he, in his mind, already see her as a kept woman, a mistress he could dress—and undress—at will?

The thought made her shiver, and she stiffened her spine. She would not accept charity. Nor could she be bought. Even if she had to sell every one of her remaining diamonds, she would pay him back.

Chapter 17.

Seb caught himself drumming his fingers on the table and forced them to still. What was wrong with him? He’d stayed out of the house all day to avoid being under the same roof as his irritatingly beguiling guest, but now he couldn’t wait to see her, to spar with her again. His blood pounded in anticipation.

He shouldn’t have given into the impulse to buy her clothes, especially not ones that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a high society ballroom. But the sight of her in that shabby lavender gown had caused him something close to physical pain.

He told himself it was purely aesthetic preference. A woman that beautiful shouldn’t be dressed in threadbare, styleless garments. It was an affront to the natural order of things.

Thanks to his half-Italian parentage, he possessed an eye for beauty that stemmed all the way back to the Renaissance. His ancestors had doubtless patronized artists like Caravaggio and Donatello in the same way heenjoyed buying his boots from Hoby and his coats from Weston.

He wasn’t a tulip of fashion, like the ridiculous dandies who flounced about town in pale satins and silks, but he made no secret of the fact that he enjoyed the sybaritic pleasure of a well-cut coat and a perfectly tied neckcloth. Benedict and Alex never stopped mocking him about it.

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