Page 90 of The Princess and the Rogue

After several heated moments, he pulled back and rested his forehead against hers. Her breath fanned against his lips as he let out a deep, relieved exhale mingled with a shaky incredulous laugh.

“Bloody hell, woman, you nearly stopped my heart with your refusal.”

She gave a soft chuckle. “One must observe the formalities.”

“Of course,” he said, mock-stern. “Never let it be said that we failed to observe the formalities.” He cocked a brow, his assurance returning in a rush. “So, does this mean I get to be a prince?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Will you have to give up the title of Princess if you marry me? You’ll still be the Countess of Mowbray, of course, but compared to Princess of Russia, I know it’s not—”

She pressed her fingers over his lips to silence him. “No. I’ll still be a princess. But being your countess will mean a great deal more.” She lowered her head until her lips hovered teasingly over his. “Being called your wife will be the very best title of all.”

He kissed her again to reward this excellent sentiment,and she groaned as his tongue slipped inside to tangle and taste. Then he pulled her upright, caught her behind the knees, and lifted her high against his chest.

“Come here, Princess mine. I’m sweeping you off your feet. Like they do in all the best fairy tales.”

He shouldered his way through to the bedroom and deposited her gently on the bed. As he looked down at her, he was filled with a whole jumble of emotions, foremost of which was a sense of disbelief. It mingled with pride and a relief so sharp, he caught his breath. Not only had he survived the war, but now—by some miracle—this gorgeous, vexing woman was his, to love and to cherish forever.

“I want to wake up next to you,” he said gruffly. “Not just tomorrow. But every morning. For the rest of my life.”

The smile she sent him melted his heart. He could swear he felt it dissolving in his chest like in one of her snow-filled fairy tales. Ridiculous.

“That sounds perfectly acceptable.” She held out her arms in invitation, and he crawled onto the bed next to her.

“Do you want to live here?” he asked. “Or would you prefer to go back to Russia? I don’t care where we go, as long as I’m with you.”

She stroked her fingers through his hair, playing with the strands, petting him as if he were a tame wolf, and Seb allowed himself an inward smile. He didn’t mind that comparison in the slightest. Especially if he got to gobble her up on a regular basis. Or whisk her away into the deep, dark woods and ravish her.

“I wouldn’t want you to leave your friends or Bow Street,” she said. “And it would be a shame to abandon the Tricorn, since it’s so popular. I’d like to visit Russia, of course, but we can live here in England.”

“In that case, I’ll buy us a proper town house. Maybesomewhere near Alex and Ben, in Mayfair. And a country house too, if you’d like one. You can choose it. Or we can build our own, if you can’t find one you like. Maybe not as big as a Russian palace, but still, I have plenty of money. You can have whatever you like.”

Anya chuckled at his steady stream of plans. She slid her palm over his chest, and he felt his blood heat in response. “I wouldn’t be averse to living here.”

He lifted his brows. “Here? At the Tricorn? In a gaming club? Scandalous Princess.”

“No more scandalous than marrying you,” she teased. “Besides, I like it here. The rooms hold fond memories.”

“Whatever you wish.” Seb gathered her into his arms then let out a groan as a dreadful thought occurred to him. “Oh, God, I bet there are allkindsof ridiculous Russian superstitions surrounding weddings, aren’t there?”

Anya’s laugh was a puff of warmth against his chest. “One or two. But don’t worry, I’ll teach you the most important ones.”

Chapter 41.

Sebastien Wolff, Earl of Mowbray, stood at the bottom of the steps leading up to his great-aunt’s front door and tried to quell an overwhelming sense of excitement and trepidation. He couldn’t remember ever being this nervous, not even on the eve of battle.

It was—finally—his wedding day. He’d waited, if not with perfect grace, then at least with reluctant impatience, for the three weeks necessary for the banns to be called.

He’d barely seen his intended over the past few weeks, stolen moments and sly kisses snatched at the various social events he’d had to endure just to catch a glimpse of her. Propriety had been observed, much to his disgust and increasing frustration.

The morning after he’d proposed—no, aftershe’dproposed—he’d kissed her a sleepy goodbye and sent her back to her own chambers. Then he’d asked her brother for her hand.

He would have married her with or without her brother’spermission, of course, but Dmitri had laughingly professed his delight that someone was finally taking his wayward sister in hand, and had offered his most sincere congratulations.

The ceremony would be performed in the dowager duchess’s drawing room at precisely eleven o’clock. Seb couldn’t wait. But first, he had to comply with Russian tradition and complete a series of ridiculous challenges set by his friends and relations.

“Would you please explain to me what’s going on?”

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