Page 40 of The Princess and the Rogue

“The dowager duchess said you’d lost your hearing during the war,” she said carefully. “But you don’t seem to have any particular difficulty.”

He shrugged, an elegant lift of his shoulders that reminded her of the physical power banked in his frame. “A canon blast at Waterloo. It only affected my left ear, thankfully. Sometimes I have to angle my head a little when it’s particularly windy or there’s a lot of chatter, but it’s not a great inconvenience. It’s quite useful at parties, actually. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve literally turned a deaf ear to some gossiping harpy or boring politician.”

He sent her a teasing smile that knotted her stomach. “Remember that when you’re whispering sweet nothings to me, Miss Brown. Right side only, if you please.”

Anya straightened in the saddle and sent him a haughty look. “There will be no whispering, Lord Mowbray. Sweet or otherwise.” She turned the grey and kicked it to a trot.

His deep chuckle echoed after her.

Chapter 19.

It was dark by the time they got back to the Tricorn. Mickey must have been watching for them, because he came out and took the horses.

“Delivery came from the wine merchants, sir. I’ve placed it in the study. There’s a nice fire in there too.”

“Thank you, Mickey.”

Wolff strode inside. Anya followed him into the burgundy salon and went straight to the fire to warm her icy hands. They tingled painfully with the returning circulation. A wooden crate, stamped in Cyrillic, had been placed on the sideboard.

“Vodka!” Anya read in delight.

Wolff lifted the lid to reveal a dozen bottles of clear liquid nestling in the straw-filled interior. “I’ve no idea if it’s any good or not. I have far more experience with brandy.”

“I know a little.”

“You?”

His tone was pure skepticism, and Anya smiled toherself. Her family owned an entire vodka distillery back in St. Petersburg. She knew the manufacturing process from field to crate. Not that she’d admit that tohim.

She shrugged. “In Russia, everyone drinks it. Wine made from grapes is so expensive that only aristocrats can afford it, but vodka’s available everywhere. It’s called ‘bread wine’ because it’s made from wheat, rye, or barley. And sometimes ‘burning wine’ because it makes you feel like your throat and stomach are on fire.”

She sent him a challenging look. “I’ve tasted the very good and the very bad. I can certainly tell you if it’s good enough to serve to your guests.”

He pulled forward two cut glass tumblers, opened a bottle, and poured a thimbleful of liquid into each glass. Anya only just refrained from scoffing at his frugality.

“Any host who doesn’t offer plenty of drink is considered unfriendly,” she scolded. “And not emptying your glass is a sign of disrespect.”

“Really?”

“Yes. We Russians take our vodka very seriously. There are rules foreverything. You should always pour for others before yourself, and you should never pour a single shot just for you.” She took the glass he offered with a smile. “It is never sipped, but downed in one gulp, ice-cold.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” he said dryly. “Anything else I should know?”

She lifted her glass and took a tentative sniff. “It should be flavorless and odorless.”

He sniffed at his own glass. “So far, so good.”

“Most importantly, vodka is never, ever drunk without a reason.” She sent him a stern look. “An everyday dinner in Russia is not accompanied by vodka the way an everyday dinner in France or England comes with a glassof wine. Russians only drink when there’s an ‘occasion.’ Conveniently, we find something to celebrate in almost everything.” She gave an impish chuckle as she listed the items on her fingers. “Weddings, funerals, the birth of a child, signing a business contract, religious holidays, a successful harvest. All perfectly appropriate reasons to drink.”

“Good God,” Wolff said with a choked laugh. “It’s a wonder any of you are ever sober. So, what shall we drink to?”

Anya tilted her head. “The first toast, traditionally, is ‘to our meeting.’”

“Very well.”

They both lifted their glasses and swallowed the contents, and she gasped as the liquid stole her breath. Warmth burned down her throat and made her eyes water. Wolff lifted his brows at her in silent demand for her verdict.

“That is very good vodka,” she said truthfully. She held her glass forward again. “Our next toast should be to our families.”

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