The Prince Who Loved Me (The Oxenburg Princes) (16 page)

She just couldn’t allow herself to think about those dratted kisses.
Talk about Oxenburg, let him think I find him fascinating, pretend to be interested,
she repeated over and over as she headed down into the kitchen.

Gentle reader, never ask a woman for her thoughts. Some things are best left to the imagination.

—
The Black Duke
by Miss Mary Edgeworth

Ackinnoull Manor was situated on a lovely knoll, the long green lawn reaching to a stand of trees that encircled it. Alexsey placed his hand upon one of the columns that supported the portico. “This is a lovely old house. Tudor, I should think, though not in the traditional style, since it’s built of stone.”

Strath, who stood in the drive, glanced at the house indifferently. “You think it’s that old?”

“I know it is. Look at the windows. But these”—Alexsey patted the impressive column—“are newer. This portico was added in the eighteenth century, I would think, less than a hundred years ago.” He shrugged at Strath’s questioning look. “A good prince is a master of many useless trivial arts. That, and I read.”

“You read far more than is healthy. You could go blind squinting at pages so much, you know.” Strath tied up his horse, climbed the steps to the portico, and reached for the bellpull.

A deep, long gong sounded, echoing with a somber timbre. “Good God, that’s a frightening sound. Exactly what one might expect to hear in a crypt.” He glanced right and then left and then said in a much lower voice, “Which is not at all surprising, considering Lady Malvinea lives here. Gives me the shivers, that woman does. And her daughters . . .” He shook his head.

“I thought you found Miss Sorcha a beauty.”

Strath shrugged. “She is, if one likes the insipid blond sort. By the way, I did some research for you about Miss Murdoch, and I have some very bad news. Horrible news, in fact. She’s a demmed bluestocking.”

“What is this bluestocking?”

“A woman who fancies herself a member of the intelligentsia.” He lowered his voice. “It’s against the laws of nature.”

Alexsey lifted his brows. “Why are you whispering? Afraid of bluestockings, are you?”

“All smart men are. They like to argue. A lot. And often.”

“Ah. Then yes, I think Bronwyn is indeed a member of this black-stocking group.”

“Bluestocking. They’re horrid. A man can’t have a day’s worth of peace with them about.”

“Perhaps I do not want peace, but excitement. Perhaps I wish to play with the fire of her mind and stir the heat of her heart.”

Strath blinked. “Good God, Alexsey, you make her sound attractive.”

“She is.”

“Hmmm.” He sent his friend a sly side-glance. “Perhaps I should give her another look-see.”

Alexsey’s smile crashed into a frown. “That would
not
be wise—”

The door creaked open and a short, rotund woman with a mobcap smashed upon her iron-gray curls looked out onto the portico. She offered no greeting, but stared at them.

An awkward silence ensued until Strath cleared his throat. “Pardon me, but is this Ackinnoull Manor, home of the Murdoch family?”

“Aye.” The woman opened the door a fraction of an inch more, her chins quivering as she looked head to toe at one of them, then the other, her brow knit in a frown.

Alexsey hid a grin. “I beg your pardon, but you are . . .” He lifted his brows and waited.

“Och, oy’m Mrs. Pitcairn, both cook and housekeeper.” She released the door long enough to smooth her black gown. Now that the door was slightly more opened, Alexsey could see the flour scattered over one of her cuffs. As if in explanation, she added, “I dinna normally answer the door.”

“Ah,” Strath said, offering a charming smile as he whipped off his hat. “You are doing a fine job thus far. Well done, Mrs. Pitcairn.”

She eyed Strath the way a cat might eye a snake. “It dinna take much in the way o’ talent.”

His lips twitched, but he managed to say with suitable gravity, “Very true. Still, it is not your usual duty and yet here you are, performing it as if you’d done it hundreds of times before.”

The housekeeper looked at Strath from head to toe again. “Humph.”

Alexsey hid a smile. “I do hope we’ve not come at an inopportune time?”

The housekeeper considered this. “Nay, I suppose no’.”

Strath threw himself into the breach once again. “Excellent! I believe introductions are in order. Gentle lady, I’m Viscount Strathmoor and this is Prince Menshivkov. We’ve come to visit Mr. and Mrs. Murdoch and their lovely daughters.”

“Prince?” The cook’s eyes widened and she looked at Alexsey with renewed interest. “Ye’re a prince? A real ’un?”

Alexsey bowed.

Mrs. Pitcairn opened the door a bit wider and said in a voice tinged with awe, “Lor’ love ye, oy’ve ne’er met a prince a’fore. But guidness, ye do look th’ part. All tall an’ handsome and quite a set of shoulders upon ye. Ye look good enou’ to eat, ye do.”

Strath made a choking sound while Alexsey asked with caution, “I take it we may enter?”

“Och, o’ course ye can enter.” She stepped out of the way, swinging the door wide. “Come on in, and mind ye wipe yer feet, fer Miss Bronwyn mopped the foyer yesterday mornin’ and oy’ll no’ ha’ it marred, e’en by a pr—”

“Mrs. Pitcairn!” Lady Malvinea’s frozen tones cut through the servant’s prattle.

The housekeeper whipped about, her back suddenly stiff. “Aye?”

“You were asked to escort Lord Strathmoor and his guest into the sitting room.
Not
inform them about mopping and such!”

“Och, weel, they ha’ mud upon their boots, an’ I thought ’twas a guid idea fer them to—”

“That is enough. I’ll take it from here. You may return to the kitchen.”

The servant huffed, “Dinna start yer sharp tone wit’ me! I dinna wish to even come up fro’ the kitchen to begin wit’, but Miss Bronwyn said I had to—”

“Mrs. Pitcairn, that is
enough
.” The icy tone made even Strath stand a bit straighter.

The housekeeper stiffened, and after a few grumbled words, she stomped down a side hallway and disappeared.

Lady Malvinea faced Strath and Alexsey with her fixed smile. “Lord Strathmoor, Your Highness! How kind of you to visit.” She gestured to the open door behind her. “Won’t you join us for a small repast? We were just waiting on tea.”

“Of course.” They followed Lady Malvinea into a small sitting room. One swift glance told Alexsey that while Lady Malvinea’s other two daughters were present, Bronwyn wasn’t. He had to stifle a surprisingly strong urge to turn on his heel and go find her.

Lady Murdoch paused by the fire and said in a triumphant voice, “Your Highness. Lord Strathmoor. I believe you’ve met my daughters, Sorcha and Mairi.”

The two girls had hopped to their feet as Alexsey and Strath had entered the room, and now bobbed simultaneous curtsies. Alexsey and Strath answered with bows of their own.

Strath said in his usual tone, “How could anyone forget the lovely Misses Murdochs?”

“I believe there were three of you last night.” Alexsey paused expectantly.

Lady Malvinea, who’d been beaming, blinked. “Oh yes, Bronwyn. I wonder why she’s not here? She went on an errand.”

The youngest daughter, Mairi, chuckled. “I daresay she found a book. She does that, you know, goes on an errand, but then finds a book and never returns.”

Sorcha nodded. “Sometimes she is gone for hours.”

“I’m sure she hasn’t done any such thing this time,” Lady Malvinea said. Her fixed smile returned. “Won’t you stay for some tea?” She waved a hand at two available chairs strategically placed directly across from her daughters. “We have apple tarts.”

Strath took the seat across from Sorcha. “I live for apple tarts.”

Mairi giggled, winning an approving look from Strath, but Sorcha barely smiled.

Bronwyn’s sisters looked like dolls, dressed in expensive gowns, their hair styled just so. They seemed as opposite to Alexsey’s imperfect and passionate Bronwyn as possible.

Strath made a casual comment about the good riding paths, and Lady Malvinea spoke of the other delights to be had in the surrounding countryside. His gaze wandering over the small room, Alexsey caught sight of a book left open on a table. Did Bronwyn read in this room, her feet tucked under a shawl, her lips moving silently as she read? He could picture her doing just that, and the image made him smile.

He noticed Miss Mairi rubbing her arms as if chilly, and he glanced at the fire, which was burning merrily, a bucket of coal at the ready. It was a bit cold in the room. Perhaps they had only lit the fire recently.
Or perhaps they cannot afford to be so generous with coal and have just stirred this one up for their company?

The thought disturbed him, and he looked more closely about him, noting the faded rugs, and the mended hems of both curtains.
Ah, little Roza, you come from modest circumstances. I can help you with that.
Yet even as he had the thought, he realized she’d never allow anyone to “help.” From the set of her jaw, he suspected she had more pride than any ten men he knew.

He’d spent many summers among the Romany camps, living simply with his mother’s people. He enjoyed that life and found it a welcome change from the constrictive opulence of court, but he also knew the cost of struggling to find food and shelter. The weight it could put upon narrow shoulders, too delicate to bear—

He caught Strath’s amused gaze. “I beg your pardon?”

“Miss Sorcha just asked you something, but you were busy staring into the distance.”

“I’m sorry. I was lost in my thoughts.” Ignoring Strath’s barely stifled snicker, Alexsey said, “Miss Sorcha, if you don’t mind repeating your comment?”

Sorcha frowned but said in a soft voice, “I didn’t have the chance at tea to ask if Your Highness enjoyed the ball.”

“It was the best ball I’ve attended in Scotland.”

“Oh my!” Lady Malvinea looked absurdly pleased. “That’s quite the compliment.”

Mairi pursed her lips. “Maybe it is, and maybe it isn’t.”

Lady Malvinea’s smile faltered for a moment. “Mairi, don’t—”

“It depends on how many balls His Highness has attended in Scotland.” The younger girl raised a brow, suddenly reminding him of Bronwyn. “How many have there been?”

Lady Malvinea sputtered. “Mairi, you can’t— That is, there’s no reason to—”

“It is fine,” Alexsey said with a grin. “I have been to two balls in Scotland, and one of them was wretched indeed. It was given by Lord Dalhousie. His lordship wouldn’t allow the fires to be lit and the castle was freezing. There was nothing to eat other than stale cake so hard you could use it to build furniture, the musicians were drunk, and there were no spirits to be had.”

“Why would anyone have such a ball as that?” Sorcha asked.

“I believe his daughter asked him to host one. And while he wished to please her, he wished even more to keep his coins in his coffers.”

Strath snorted. “Never met a man cheaper than Dalhousie. He once—”

A noise sounded in the hallway and Alexsey turned toward the door as Bronwyn entered, a cheerful whirl of rumpled skirts and breezy friendliness.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Mama. Mrs. Pitcairn needed some assistance in the kitchen.” She curtsied toward Strath and Alexsey, then took the empty seat beside Mairi. “I apologize for not being here to greet you, but I was attending to a few matters belowstairs.”

Alexsey and Strath, who’d stood upon her entering the room, now returned to their seats. To Alexsey, it seemed as if the clouds had parted and the sun shone. The room was brighter now, the faded carpet no longer obvious, blessed by the sunshine. Beside Bronwyn with her dark hair and lightly golden skin, her sisters seemed like pallid hothouse orchids next to a vibrant wild rose.

Bronwyn smiled at Strath. “Viscount Strathmoor, how kind of you and the prince to call. I’m sure my mother and sisters have told you how much we are enjoying your uncle’s hospitality. We rarely have such affairs here in the country, and these few weeks of events will be discussed for months.”

“Indeed, they have,” Lord Strathmoor said. “We’ve had a most pleasant conversation.”

“So we have,” the prince said, his gaze locked on Bronwyn. “Most pleasant.”

Bronwyn’s face heated. She’d decided not to look his way until she had a good grip upon her emotions, but now she found herself gazing directly into his eyes.

The man had the longest lashes. They gave him a sleepy, sensual appearance even when he was only innocently looking at her. Except “innocent” wasn’t a likely word to describe him.

Even the way he sat bespoke a casual sensuality. Lord Strathmoor sat with the unconscious dignity one expected of a viscount, while the prince was sprawled, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his legs before him as if he were in a hunting lodge in the Highlands.
He looks far more like a dangerous, dashing huntsman than a prince.

She now noted his clothing. His cravat was a mere knotted kerchief, his boots dull from lack of polish, his coat far too loose for common fashion. His hair curled over his collar, while his handsome face was graced with a scruff of a beard. It was difficult to believe this man would be lavishly welcomed into every drawing room on the continent.
Yet even though he’s dressed in such a way, he still looks twice the man of any I’ve ever met.

“Prince Menshivkov, pray tell us about Oxenburg,” Mama said. “Is it cold there this time of the year?”