Page 58 of The Princess and the Rogue

“I’m glad I didn’t tell you. I’m not ashamed of what we did. I wanted you. You wanted me. I fail to see the problem.”

“Fail to see the problem?” he echoed in disbelief. “I’ve ruined you! You’re the lost princess. You’re—”

“I’m notlost,” she countered, equally incensed. “I’m not a parcel! I know exactly where I am. Ichoseto come here to England. I chose to give myself to you.” Her expression took on a cynical slant. “What? Will you fight Vasili in a duel over my ‘lost honor’?”

Seb glared right back at her. “Hardly. I never fight duels.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d kill my opponent.” He shrugged at her raised eyebrows. “That’s not false modesty. I spent three years in the Rifles. I’m a bloody good shot. It would be unfair advantage. I’ve seen too many men die for important principles to indulge in a petty squabble at Chalk’s Farm over a woman. Besides, duels are outlawed, technically.”

“I hardly think it would be the first law you’ve broken,” she sniped.

“I’ve never broken a law. Merely bent them on occasion.”

Seb squeezed his temples with his hand, trying to banish the tension that was pounding in his skull. His knuckles stung from the fistfight, and his cheekbone throbbed with every pulse of his heart.

He strode to the sideboard, poured himself a large measure of brandy, and downed it. His hand wasn’t entirely steady. He did not offer any to her, despite the fact that she looked like she could do with it. He wasn’t feeling that charitable. God, what a mess.

“What the hell was a princess doing in a brothel?” he growled.

“I’m Charlotte’s neighbor. I’m teaching some of her girls to read and write.”

He let out a snort of self-directed humor. “Her neighbor. In Covent Garden. Oh, bloody brilliant.” He took another steadying draught of liquor. “You do realize we’ll have to marry now, don’t you?”

Her mouth dropped open in shock. “Don’t be ridiculous! There’s no need for that. You haven’t ruined Princess Anastasia. You’ve ruined secretary Anna Brown, whom nobody cares about in the least. Princess Anastasia doesn’t exist. She’s dead.”

He pinned her with a level stare. “I’m honor bound to do the right thing.”

She looked a little panicked, and Seb felt a stab of malicious pleasure. Good, the little pretender ought to be afraid. Her subterfuge had landed them both in a situation that would ruin the rest of their lives.

“I’m not marrying you,” she said crossly. “I’m not marrying anyone. As soon as Vasili returns to Russia, I’ll go back to working for the dowager duchess.”

“Dorothea will expect us to marry, even if nobody else in thetonknows who you are. Do you honestly think she’d let me seduce you and then abandon you without the protection of my name?”

“You didn’t seduce me! We seduced each other. And you didn’t”—her face turned a delicious shade of pink—“that is to say, you finished—” She trailed off again in acute embarrassment, and Seb was more than happy to let her squirm. “There’s no chance that I could fall pregnant from the encounter,” she finished stiffly.

He shrugged. “It’s the principle of it.”

“I don’t care about principles. You don’t want to marry me. And I have no desire to wed someone who’s only offering because he feels guilty or because of some misplaced sense of honor. Nobody will know what happenedbetween us, not even the dowager, unless you tell her. Because I’m certainly not going to mention it.”

Seb raked his fingers through this hair. He didn’twantto marry the infuriating woman, of course, but her strident refusal still stung. “Tell me the truth about Petrov. Is he really your fiancé?”

“No. Never. He wants what I am, what I stand for. A title. A fortune. Generations of good breeding.” Her lips curled in disdain. “But what is a princess? Nothing! Polite conversation and perfect manners. A brood mare for little princes. I was worse than useless. At least here in London I’ve learned some practical skills. I can light a fire. Sew a seam. I’ve taught the girls at Haye’s to read.”

She tilted her chin, and Seb fought the sensation of drowning in the cornflower blue of her eyes.

“Do you know what happened when Napoleon arrived in Moscow four years ago?” she said fiercely. “The inhabitants burned their own beautiful city to the ground rather than let him take it. And I would rather kill myself than let a brutal pig like Vasili takeme.”

Seb frowned. He had no answer to that.

“He wants to marry me to ensure my silence because he thinks I have evidence that he’s a spy.”

“Do you?”

“No. I told you. If my brother found anything, he never sent it to me. I assume it was on his person when he was killed at Waterloo and was buried with him.”

She shuddered, and Seb quelled the ridiculous impulse to cross the room, take her in his arms, and comfort her. He had similar haunting memories from his years in the Rifles, images of friends dead or dying that he could never erase from his brain. She looked so small, so vulnerable in those ridiculous boy’s clothes, like one of the scrappy street urchins he used to run messages and gain information for Bow Street.

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