Page 36 of The Princess and the Rogue

His love of beauty extended to his choice of bedpartners too, but despite his reputation as a rake, he’d always been discerning. Beauty alone wasn’t enough to hold his interest. He required intelligence, a quick wit, and a sense of humor from his paramours too.

His “guest” had all those things, and more.

The dining table had been laid for two. With a start, Seb realized he couldn’t recall the last time he’d actually dined at home. He’d taken to eating with Benedict and his wife, Georgie, or Alex and his wife, Emmy, or grazing from the buffet in the public half of the Tricorn. More often than not, he’d asked Mickey to bring him a plate of food in his study so he could eat with one hand and read a report from Bow Street with the other.

No wonder Lagrasse scowled at him. He hardly noticed what he was eating most of the time.

Tonight he would savor every bite, just as he would savor the company of his guest. She was a woman of contradictions. She liked caviar and knew the tsarina’s favorite cake, but she was also friends with some of London’s most expensive courtesans. None of it made sense.

He’d set Jem Barnes, one of Bow Street’s youngest informants, to the task of listening out for news involving any more Russians in the criminal underworld. If there were plans afoot to capture his reluctant houseguest, he wanted to hear of them.

He sucked in a breath when she appeared in the doorway. Why in the name of all that was holy had he boughther a dress in such a provocative deep red? It was hard enough to keep his thoughts and his hands off her as it was. It would be well-nigh impossible now he’d seen her in that fever dream of a dress.

The low-cut bodice displayed the perfect globes of her breasts and the soft architecture of her shoulders and throat. She’d piled her hair up on her head, but a few thick tendrils brushed her collarbone and skated temptingly close to the valley between her breasts, like a trickle of honey. One he wanted to trace with his tongue.

Seb cleared his throat and gestured to the place setting opposite him. “Good evening, Miss Brown. Have a seat.”

He did not rise or pull the chair out for her as he would have done for a woman of higher social rank. He watched her for a reaction, to see if she was irritated by the omission, but she didn’t appear to expect it. She seated herself without fuss and sent him a polite smile across the snowy white linen.

“Good evening, my lord.”

Her scratchy-yet-prim tones sent a jolt of desire straight to his groin, and he placed his napkin across the straining fabric in his lap. She took a tentative sip of her wine. Her throat dipped as she swallowed, and he wanted to taste her skin. He had a brief vision of sweeping everything to the floor, the flowers, the silverware, the glasses, the porcelain, of pulling her clean across the table for a kiss beyond all civilized bounds. Of putting his mouth between her breasts and—

“This is excellent wine,” she said demurely.

Seb coughed. Thankfully Mickey entered carrying a tray, followed by the tiny stomping figure of Lagrasse. The disparity in height between the two men was comical. Mickey could have used the chef as an armrest.

“What do we have here?” Seb managed hoarsely. God, his voice was deep.

Lagrasse ignored him and sent Anya a dazzling smile. “To begin, madame, I ’ave prepared you ze beetroot soup.”

Her eyes gleamed as Mickey placed a small bowl of liquid the precise color of her gown before her. “Oh! Borscht! How clever of you! Are you serving it hot or cold?” She picked up her spoon and skimmed the surface away from her. Her manners were impeccable.

“’Ot for you tonight, madame, wiz ze dill and a soupçon of sour crème.”

Seb gave an inner snort. The soup wasn’t the only thing hot for her tonight. He was burning up.

She took a delicate sip and closed her eyes. “Delicious.”

The little Frenchman beamed in pleasure, and Seb quelled the impulse to tell him to leave so he could have her reactions all to himself. He wondered what else he could do to put such a satisfied smile on her face. Several depraved options came to mind.

A polite silence reigned as they both sampled the soup, and Seb, to his surprise, discovered it wasn’t half as bad as he’d expected. He’d had some pretty disgusting meals during his time around France and Spain, including a revolting cabbage stew somewhere near Cadiz, but this was far better.

At Lagrasse’s nod, Mickey uncovered a second dish.

“As the lady requested, we ’ave ze blini. Wiz ’oney and crème.”

The chef proudly placed a selection of the tiny pancakes on Anya’s plate and stood back to await her verdict.

“I’ll serve myself, then, shall I?” Seb muttered, half amused, half irritated by the fact that he seemed to have been forgotten in his own dining room. Clearlyhisopinion counted for nothing.

Mickey sent him a dry look and scooped some of the remaining blinis onto his plate. “’Ere you go, sir.”

All three of them watched in rapt fascination as Anyaignored her knife and fork, picked up one of the little pancakes, and brought it to her lips. She ate it in two delicate bites then licked a smear of honey from her fingers.

Seb almost groaned aloud. This was pure, erotic torture. He wanted to blindfold the other two men. But Mickey seemed impervious, and Lagrasse appeared more nervous than aroused. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Seb ate his blini in one bite. It was bloody good, so he polished off six more in quick succession, which earned him a glare from Lagrasse, presumably for not taking the time to savor the things properly.

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