Page 63 of The Princess and the Rogue

Anya tugged open the ribbons to reveal an exquisite silver beaded evening bag.

“It’s a reticule,” Geoffrey said unnecessarily. “I’m sure you’ve a hundred already, but I’m told ladies can never have enough. You can keep coins in it, or handkerchiefs, or whatever else it is you like to cart about with you.”

Anya smiled up at him in genuine pleasure. “Thank you! It matches my dress. But I do hope you’ve already placed a coin inside?”

“A coin?”

“It’s a Russian superstition. If you give someone a purse or any other kind of money holder as a gift, you must put some money inside. If it’s empty, it’s said to cause bad financial luck.” She shrugged wryly. “It’s‘seed money’—the belief is that it grows and attracts even more money.”

“That’s a nice theory.” He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, pulled out a gold sovereign, and handed it to her solemnly. “Here you go. May it multiply into a vast fortune for you, my lady.”

The dowager chuckled at their antics.

“Any more superstitions I should know about?” Geoffrey asked with a smile. “Have I, perhaps, been putting my feet into my boots in the wrong order this whole time? Should rice pudding only ever be eaten during a full moon?”

Anya laughed. His dry sense of humor was rather like that of his brother. “Oh, there are hundreds. We Russians are a superstitious lot.” She gestured toward a vase of flowers on the side table. “For example, while it’s never a mistake to take a bouquet of flowers when invited to someone’s home, youmustmake sure that bunches for festive occasions have an odd number of flowers. Bouquets with an even number are reserved for funerals.”

“Heavens!” the dowager said lightly. “I had no idea. One, two, three—” She began counting the blooms then let out a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness, fifteen. I feel so much better now. Our ball is a guaranteed success.” She turned toward a shadow in the doorway. “Ah, Sebastien. There you are.”

Chapter 30.

Seb’s gaze found Anya the moment he stepped into the room, and all the air left his lungs in a rush. He’d had the same sensation when he’d taken that artillery blast at Waterloo: a roaring in his ears and a squeezing of his chest that almost knocked him backward.

She was wearing some silver concoction and smiling up at his brother, and Seb had never seen anything so blindingly beautiful in his life.

The past week had been hell. The Tricorn—usually his one place of comfort and repose—had been dull and empty without her. She’d breathed life into it, despite the short time she’d been there. He’d found evidence of her occupation everywhere: a stack of papers piled haphazardly in the library, half-read books left lying, spine up, on tables. The tantalizing scent of her perfume in the air. Every time he entered a room, he was haunted by images of her defying him, teasing him, challenging him.

The servants had noticed her loss too; Lagrasse hadbeen grumbling about “unappreciative audiences” for days and even Mickey had been unusually morose.

Tonight, Seb was as edgy as before a military push. Dorothea had done an excellent job of intimating that there would be some kind of revelation, and the ballroom was already uncomfortably crowded with guests all waiting to meet the silvery goddess in front of him.

The presence of so many people made him nervous. It would be difficult to protect the princess when Petrov made his move—as Seb was sure he would. The Russian would doubtless come to repeat his demand for the “evidence” he thought she possessed. Seb had sent Anya strict instructions to stay inside the ballroom, no matter how overheated it became. There would be no chance of the Russian getting her alone.

He’d had agents following Petrov all week, but the man had done nothing out of the ordinary. The runners watchingthishouse had reported a figure lurking in Grosvenor Square yesterday evening, but the man had slipped away before he could be identified. Had it been one of Petrov’s minions? Seb had men stationed around the perimeter, just in case.

That Petrov might decide to silence Anya with a sniper was not beyond the realm of possibility. A good rifleman—one as skilled as Alex, Ben, or Seb himself—could hit a target through a window from a hundred yards away. The thought of a bullet passing anywhere near her made his blood run cold.

Anya turned as Dorothea announced him, and he watched the smile she’d given Geoffrey fade, replaced with a polite, wary expression, and for the first time in his life, he was conscious of being jealous of his brother. He’d never begrudged Geoffrey the title, or the responsibility of running the estate he’d one day inherit. But he hated him stealing a smile from Anya.

Geoffrey was a marquis. He’d be Duke of Southwick when their father died. He’d be a suitable match for her. Seb clenched his jaw.

“What have you there?” Dorothea glanced with undisguised interest at the leather-covered jeweler’s box he’d collected earlier from Ludgate Hill. Seb forced himself to step forward and offer it to Anya with a casualness that belied the emotional weight of the gift. Already he regretted the foolish impulse.

“If you’re going to go out in theton, you should dress the part,” he said stiffly.

Their gloved fingers brushed as she took the box, and even that slight contact was enough to send a shiver of awareness through him.

A gasp escaped her as she opened the lid.

“I took your drawing to Bridge & Rundell,” he said.

The tiara was perfection, the physical embodiment of her elevated status. He’d meant it to serve as a reminder of the cavernous gulf that separated them—the Bow Street Bastard and the fairy-tale princess. A reminder of just how different they were. But his heart still pounded against his ribs as he waited for her response.

Tears sprang to her eyes. “Oh, I—” She seemed at a loss for words.

“You had one just like it, you said.”

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed a knot of emotion and blinked rapidly. “Yes. The Denisov tiara. I had to break it up to get enough money to come here.”

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