Page 46 of The Princess and the Rogue

“Bend his fingers back,” he said softly, and his voice was lower, a rough murmur that seemed suddenly far more intimate, despite the gruesome subject matter. He increased the pressure, just to the edge of pain. “You might break a few bones that way.”

He released her, only to bring his hands up to her shoulders, left bare by the cut of the dress. Anya sucked in a breath.

He slid his hands upward to encircle her neck. A shiver of awareness slithered down her spine as his fingers disturbed the fine hairs at her nape beneath her upswept hair. His palms were warm against her skin as he applied just the slightest pressure.

His gaze snagged hers. “If someone’s trying to throttle you, put your hands together and bring your arms up and out, over his. That should break his hold. Try it.”

Anya did so and was pleased when the instructions worked. He let his arms fall back to his sides, but his gaze dropped to her mouth and awareness thickened the air between them, a bright, expectant tension, like the hush before a thunderstorm.

Anya could feel the warmth radiating from his chest; her body felt like melting wax.

“We should get down on the floor.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“The gaming floor,” he clarified, with a thoroughly wicked chuckle. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Miss Brown.”

He stepped back and strode to the door, then shot her a challenging look over his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s put you to work.”

Chapter 22.

The noise from the Tricorn was an audible murmur from behind the connecting door. Wolff pushed it open and a wave of sound assaulted them as they stepped into a picture-lined hallway. Mickey stood at the far end at a podium, greeting guests who entered through the front door.

“The gaming rooms are on the upper level.” Wolff took her elbow and led her up an impressive curving double staircase. At the top, he paused and took two glasses of what appeared to be champagne from a tray on a stand. He handed one to her.

“For courage. But only one glass.” His gaze clashed with hers and his lips gave a devilish quirk. “Tonight, I want you sober.”

Anya took a deep gulp. Sober because she needed her wits about her to listen to her countrymen? Or sober because he wanted to make love to her in that state, as he’d promised last night?

Her heart pounded at the thought.

They crossed into the main salon, and Anya looked around with interest. This half of the Tricorn was more opulent than the private apartments, as luxurious and tastefully decorated as Haye’s. As ornate as her own residences back in Russia. Wolff nodded to a couple of acquaintances. Despite the early hour—it was only around nine o’clock—the place was already busy.

Guests gossiped and tried their hand at games of chance at the green baize tables. Anya had forgotten what it was like to be in such a crowd. She’d missed it: the laughter, the heightened sense of excitement that went along with the rattle of dice and the swish of cards. People drinking and enjoying themselves. It was a sight to gladden the heart.

She stayed close to Wolff, intensely aware of him beside her, of the occasional brush of their bodies as the crowd jostled them together.

They made a slow traverse of the room, and she listened in to the various conversations as they passed. The topics were the same as any salon in St. Petersburg or Paris; people seeking power and influence, jockeying for position. Bragging—who knew what, who owned what. The women they passed were elegant and animated, cheering their escorts with rouged lips and painted cheeks.

Wolff greeted several people, shaking hands and patting shoulders, while never relinquishing his grip on her arm. He didn’t introduce her to anyone, and the men slid knowing glances at her exposed skin and drew their own conclusions. Clearly it was not unusual to encounter a woman on Wolff’s arm.

They ended up at the far end of the room near a quartet of musicians, and Anya smiled as he turned his deaf ear to them.

“I thinkyouwould make an excellent diplomat,” shesaid. “You make everyone comfortable enough to spill their secrets.”

“That’s the aim. To gather information.”

“You enjoy your work for Bow Street?”

“Yes. It feels like I’m doing something useful. My older brother, Geoffrey, has a seat in the House of Lords, but making laws holds no interest for me. Government moves too slowly for my taste. I prefer situations that yield more immediate results.”

Anya nodded. She understood that. Justice was sometimes best served outside the strict parameters of the law. “What games are played here?”

“Faro. Cribbage. Ecarte, loo, whist, vingt-et-un, piquet. Rouge et noir. Whatever the clients want.”

“Do people try to cheat?”

He gave a dry chuckle. “All the time. Cardinal Mazarin used to call it ‘making the most of the game,’ I believe, but we don’t tolerate it here in any form. We employ those who know what to look for.”

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