Page 89 of The Princess and the Rogue

He heard the faint splash of water as she poured the ewer into the basin, then various rustling sounds. His anxiety grew with every moment. God, he was such an idiot. He’d messed everything up right royally. The unintentional pun made him flinch.

He loved her. He needed her in his life. He wanted her with a desperation that would have been funny if it weren’t so painful.

He raked one hand through his hair as despair and blind panic churned in his gut. He wanted to marry her, more than anything in the world, but if he proposed now, she’d think it was only because he was trying to be noble, trying to protect her reputation if she should fall pregnant.

He didn’t want her to accept him because she feared the consequences of being an unwed mother. His own mother had married his father for precisely thatreason—to legitimize him and avoid a scandal—and while he was very grateful for his position as a duke’s son, theirs had not been a successful union. Ben and Alex had been right—marrying for anything other than love was a surefire recipe for disaster.

He wanted Anya to marry him because she loved him too. Was that too far beyond the realms of possibility? He paced over to the fireplace then back to the desk.

Sod it. He couldn’t let her leave without at least trying to win her. He wasn’t a coward. If she refused him, so be it, but he couldn’t let her return to Russia without asking, couldn’t go the rest of his life wonderingwhat if.

Yes, he was a selfish idiot to even ask. She was far above his touch, not just socially but morally too. She was a thoroughly decent human being. She taught harlots to read, for God’s sake, whereas he ran a gaming hell catering to despots and gamesters.

But he’d never met anyone with whom he was more compatible. She wasn’t a woman who needed constant coddling. She was utterly competent in her own right, a quality he found desperately appealing. And she kept her head in a crisis—an excellent skill both in battle and for dealing with theton. She would be an unshakeable ally and a stalwart friend.

The door to the bedroom opened, and his heart pounded against his ribs exactly as it had when the order to advance had come at Waterloo. He could almost hear the tinny thud of the drums.

She’d commandeered one of his shirts—he could see the white linen peeking out from the edges of his robe—and brushed her hair. Her cheeks were flushed a delicate shade of pink, except for the purple bruise on her cheekbone where Petrov had walloped her.

Seb crossed the room until he stood in front of her.

He dropped to one knee.

He took both her hands in his, and cleared his throat.

“Anya. Anastasia. Miss Denisova.”

God, he wished he’d taken a tumblerful of brandy from the decanter from the sideboard. He forced his tongue to work.

“I love you. With everything I have and everything I am. I don’t deserve even the smallest piece of you, but—” He took a steadying breath. “Will you do me the very great honor of—”

Her fingers tightened on his. “No,” she said firmly.

He stiffened and lifted his head to look at her face. Her expression was almost pitying.

“I am a Russian princess,” she said. “You’re an English earl. This is not—”

He flinched as if absorbing a blow and felt his shoulders slump in defeat.

“I’m sorry,” she said briskly. “It’s protocol. I outrank you. There arerules.”

He almost laughed.Rules.He was sick of bloody rules. But she was still speaking, and he forced himself to listen, even if he only had one working ear. Oddly, she sounded far more composed than him. Perhaps she was so used to receiving and dismissing propositions that this was nothing new.

“You can’t propose to me,” she was saying. “A person of lower rank is not permitted to propose to a royal princess.”

“Yes. I understand. I should never have—”

She tugged at his hands to make him look up again. She was smiling, but there was a suspicious sheen in her eyes, as if she were on the verge of tears.

“No, you don’t understand.” There was a breathless laugh in her voice. “It isIwho must do the asking.”

His heart definitely stopped. “What?”

Her voice quavered in a most un-royal way as she lowered herself until she was kneeling too. “Lord Mowbray. Sebastien. I loveyou. Will you do me the very great honor of—”

Seb pulled her toward him with a sound that was half laugh, half growl. “Yes! God, yes. I will.”

She threw her arms around his neck and plastered herself against his chest, almost knocking him to the floor. He tightened his arms around her, then cupped her face and fused their mouths together for a kiss that made his blood pound and his head spin.

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