Awakening The Shy Miss
Awakening The Shy Miss
Bronwyn Scott
Seduced by the PrinceDimitri Petrovich, Prince of Kuban, is unlike any man seamstress Evie Milham has ever met. Exotic and charismatic, he’s visiting her sleepy country village to excavate antiquities. Yet one glimpse of the Prince’s melting brown eyes, and shy Evie’s heart races like never before…Dimitri is no stranger to desire, and he knows innocent Evie wants him! Before he returns to his homeland, he must decide – resist Evie’s siren call, or give her pleasure beyond her wildest, hottest imaginings!
Seduced by the prince
Dimitri Petrovich, Prince of Kuban, is unlike any man seamstress Evie Milham has ever met. Exotic and charismatic, he’s paying a visit to her sleepy country village. Yet one glimpse of the prince’s melting brown eyes and shy Evie’s heart races like never before...
Dimitri is no stranger to desire, and he knows innocent Evie wants him! Before he returns to his homeland, he must decide—resist Evie’s siren call, or give her pleasure beyond her wildest, hottest imaginings!
Wallflowers to Wives (#u7d641765-78e4-507e-a093-1dd2a9f6e9f0)
Out of the shadows, into the marriage bed!
In Regency England young women were defined by their prospects in the marriage market. But what of the girls who were presented to society...and not snapped up?
Bronwyn Scott invites you to
The Left Behind Girls Club
Three years after their debut, and still without rings on their fingers, Claire Welton, Evie Milham, May Worth and Beatrice Penrose are ready to leave the shadows and step into the light. Now London will have to prepare itself...because these overlooked girls are about to take the ton by storm!
Read Claire’s story in
Unbuttoning the Innocent Miss
Read Evie’s story in
Awakening the Shy Miss
Both available now!
And watch for more Wallflowers to Wives stories—coming soon!
Author Note (#ulink_9eb074a8-4208-5a2f-bb02-500065ea6903)
A couple of years ago I read a non-fiction book that espoused the idea that if you do what you love, the rest will follow. This is a theme that many people struggle to balance with ‘reality’ through their lifetimes. Do we pursue our dreams even when we can’t see how those dreams will pay the bills or keep our families secure? Or do we ‘do the right thing’ and follow the traditional paths laid out by society?
I wanted to explore this theme with Evie and Dimitri’s story. They are both trapped by social expectations and have spent their lives living up—or, in Evie’s case, living down—to those standards at great personal cost to themselves. Their relationship allows both of them to explore who they truly want to be.
Of course it’s easy to say ‘follow your dreams’. The truth is, the reality of doing it is a lot harder. What I like best about this story is that Dimitri and Evie don’t simply say, ‘To hell with society—we’ll strike out for ourselves.’ That’s not how it works for them—or for us. What makes this story special is how they find a way through all that without compromising and without jeopardising others—ultimately, this is a story about love’s great balancing act.
I hope you enjoy Evie and the Prince of Kuban in their story. Here’s a teaser for you—look for May and Beatrice’s stories next, and beyond that look for a chance to meet four other Princes of Kuban in a new Bronwyn Scott series.
Stay in touch at bronwynswriting.blogspot.com (http://bronwynswriting.blogspot.com). or at my web page: bronwynnscott.com (http://www.bronwynnscott.com).
Awakening the Shy Miss
Bronwyn Scott
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and is the proud mother of three wonderful children—one boy and two girls. When she’s not teaching or writing she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages. Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, bronwynnscott.com (http://www.bronwynnscott.com), or at her blog, bronwynswriting.blogspot.com (http://bronwynswriting.blogspot.com). She loves to hear from readers.
Books by Bronwyn Scott
Mills & Boon Historical Romance
and Mills & Boon Historical Undone! eBooks
Wallflowers to Wives
Unbuttoning the Innocent Miss
Awakening the Shy Miss
Rakes on Tour
Rake Most Likely to Rebel
Rake Most Likely to Thrill
Rake Most Likely to Seduce
Rake Most Likely to Sin
Rakes of the Caribbean
Playing the Rake’s Game
Breaking the Rake’s Rules
Craving the Rake’s Touch (Undone!)
Rakes Who Make Husbands Jealous
Secrets of a Gentleman Escort
London’s Most Wanted Rake
An Officer But No Gentleman (Undone!)
A Most Indecent Gentleman (Undone!)
Visit the Author Profile page
at millsandboon.co.uk (http://millsandboon.co.uk) for more titles.
For Tonia, who spent six great months with us.
Contents
Cover (#uf6bef96d-e2ed-5a22-895c-aa7e5e6c44d0)
Back Cover Text (#uc7bb70d2-f124-5fdf-a399-3be99a0ddbe5)
Introduction
Author Note (#ulink_defc79d4-12f8-5618-9242-84ad95070d9a)
Title Page (#ua6fe83ef-17ac-5fa8-a72d-6b3d24fd36d4)
About the Author (#u9c6dbd9d-440f-57f3-a6b1-a7c5bfd1940e)
Dedication (#u1eab8106-9fbb-5568-a0ef-3327ea9aadfc)
Chapter One (#ua41bea6c-2aaa-57ea-ad88-0efe6ccad61d)
Chapter Two (#ufb10bf02-fd70-580a-a934-3dbab57fe4c2)
Chapter Three (#u35a81a6d-ac38-55e2-a2e4-8a7d233e7550)
Chapter Four (#u97ce36cc-827a-5fda-94bc-f9f7d97aa126)
Chapter Five (#u0aba8ae9-489e-5546-a46f-deeeb184bf6c)
Chapter Six (#ue80ceddf-e4e4-58f0-b8b1-6de371d6e650)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_93d06cc8-2a81-5961-bfed-4a32c8011de9)
August 10th, 1821
Evie Milham desperately wanted to get into his trousers. Judging from the extraordinary amount of females crammed into Little Westbury’s assembly-room-cum-lecture hall this warm August night, she wasn’t the only one. Although, Evie doubted the rest of the female population wanted into them for the same reason.
Regardless of female motive, there was no disputing this was the most well-attended archaeological lecture in the history of West Sussex, perhaps in the history of England. Not even the Elgin Marbles had engendered such an enthusiastic response in retrieving the past. Then again, the Elgin Marbles didn’t look like him, Dimitri Petrovich, Prince of Kuban. Evie was certain he could talk about pickled herring and still draw a crowd. He was tall, with sleek dark hair that flowed over his shoulders, his face chiselled with strong lines that hinted at exotic antecedents. Women would travel miles to stare at those cheekbones with their high slant. And his clothes, oh, those clothes! He wore them like a god’s own mantle. Evie’s fingers started to twitch in anticipation. How she wanted to get her hands on those trousers! If she could just study them up close for a few moments! Whoever his tailor was, the man was a genius.
Evie craned her neck, trying for a better glimpse. If she’d known he’d be so exquisitely dressed, she would have sat closer to the front. She’d not chosen this particular seat near the back for him, but for another him. Andrew Adair sat just two convenient rows ahead of her, his golden head a beacon for her eyes except, apparently, when those eyes were looking at Prince Dimitri Petrovich, which was more frequently than she had anticipated. It was hard not to. When one wasn’t looking at his trousers, one could easily stare at his hands. He didn’t gesture like an Englishman. There was a loose fluidity to his gestures that made him appear all the more foreign.
She might as well look, Evie reasoned. It wasn’t as if Andrew minded or was even aware of her visual perfidy, more was the pity. She often thought she could dance naked on a stage and Andrew wouldn’t notice. Not that she would. Evie Milham might entertain such wild notions, but she never acted on them.
Tonight was supposed to change that. Tonight was her chance to claim Andrew’s notice after six years of anonymity. Admittedly, for two of those years, she hadn’t been ‘out’, hardly eligible for his attentions even if they had been neighbours for two decades. The other three years, he’d been in Europe on his Grand Tour while she debuted in London. This year it would be different. Their trajectories were finally in alignment. She was ‘out’ and he was home. Better yet, he’d made it clear during the recently ended Season he was looking to marry. Evie drew a deep breath. She would make him notice her.
Her eyes strayed from the back of Andrew’s golden head once more. Up on stage, the Prince of Pleats—it must be the pleats that caused his trousers to lie so exquisitely across those lean hips—made one of his exotic gestures to footmen carrying trays of champagne. She forced her eyes back to Andrew. Now was not the time to be distracted by a set of pleats. If she’d learned anything this last Season it was that nothing changed until you did. She couldn’t merely wait for Andrew’s notice. Hadn’t her friend Claire’s whirlwind marriage to the dashing diplomat, Jonathon Lashley, a few weeks ago, proven the motto true? Claire had made Jonathon notice her. She simply had to do the same with Andrew and her own happy-ever-after wouldn’t be far behind. After all, Andrew couldn’t be blamed for not noticing her if she had done nothing to help that notice along.
‘Champagne, miss? Compliments of the Prince for the toast.’ A footman offered her a tray of cold, sweating flutes. Not just champagne, but chilled champagne. Iced champagne in the country in August was a luxury indeed. Evie took a glass and the footman moved on. At the front of the room, the Prince raised his glass, signalling the audience to rise. It was a noisy, rustling affair as the crowd took to its feet, careful not to spill a collective drop. Inspiration struck Evie. What if she moved up a couple of rows? No one would notice if she edged forward and took a place at Andrew’s elbow. It was the perfect plan. He would turn and see her. He’d have to clink glasses with her, he would look into her eyes...
Move, you ninny! she chastised herself. The toast would be over and she would still be standing here dreaming about the moment while the moment passed. Evie gathered her courage and made the journey forward two rows, all of ten feet. Her heartbeat sped up. Never had she dared to place herself so directly in Andrew’s path. The Prince was speaking but her thoughts were too preoccupied to pick up more than snatches of his speech. ‘I am pleased to announce I have taken up residence here in Little Westbury for the purpose of excavating... I am proud to be joined in this venture by fellow enthusiasts for history such as...’ She didn’t hear the names until he reached the end of his recitations. ‘And most of all, I am joined generously by my friend and fellow traveller, Mr Andrew Adair, without whom this venture would not be possible.’
That got her attention. Andrew was bosom bows with the Prince? Andrew was interested in historical preservation? All these years of living next door to him and she’d had no idea on either account. She’d just reached Andrew’s side on the aisle when the toast went up, people clinking everywhere. The room sounded like a series of chiming crystal bells. Andrew clinked to his right, then with the people in front of him and behind him. Finally, he turned to his left. His fair brows knit in startled surprise, taking a moment to process her presence. ‘Oh, Evie, it’s you. What are you doing here?’ He touched his glass to hers. She searched her mind for something to say.
‘I wanted to hear the Prince speak.’ Partially true. ‘Congratulations, by the way, on the evening.’
‘Oh, yes.’ His response was vague. ‘This is big, very big.’ His eyes were already drifting back to the stage, his attention on the Prince when it was supposed to have lingered on her.
Evie struggled to hold his interest. ‘I had no idea you were so interested in—’ she began, but he cut her off with a raised index finger signalling for a pause.
‘If you’ll excuse me for a moment, Evie?’ Andrew brushed past her into the centre of the aisle. If she didn’t know better, the interruption bordered on rude. She might have been insulted by his abrupt behaviour. But she understood the reason for it. As a close friend of the Prince, Andrew would be expected to offer a reciprocal toast. She should have anticipated that. Andrew wasn’t being rude. He was just doing his duty.
Andrew lifted his own glass as the noise ebbed, the motion causing all eyes to swivel his direction. And hers. Evie recognised too late she was caught in the view of the audience’s collective gaze. She wanted to step back, but the crowd was too thick around her. She’d only wanted Andrew’s notice, not the entire room’s. When she’d approached Andrew, she’d made another serious miscalculation. She’d not bargained on this much attention.
Andrew raised his voice, commanding and confident, to address the crowd. She envied and admired his confidence. ‘To the Prince!’ Within moments he was swept towards the stage to join the Prince and she was left behind. Again. And that was that. Her bid for Andrew’s attention had come to an abrupt end.
No. Go after him! That was Claire’s voice in her head. Claire would never stand here like a wooden doll. Evie pushed forward and let herself be caught in the crowd surging towards the stage, everyone eager to meet the Prince. It was surprisingly easy to let the jostling move her closer to Andrew. When the jostling stopped she stood beside Andrew, watching in genuine astonishment as the Prince of Kuban swept him into a brotherly embrace, definitely not the kind of embrace English gentleman gave one another. This one was far too full bodied. ‘My friend! It is good to see you. Did you like the talk?’
Andrew returned the embrace, but his movements were awkward, as if he were not quite comfortable with such intimate male contact. ‘Very much, the points you made about the importance of history were eloquently put,’ Andrew effused with a charming smile. ‘West Sussex agrees with you, old chap. You are looking quite fit.’
The Prince grinned. ‘Indeed it does!’ He threw his arms out wide to encompass the room and beyond. ‘What a beautiful piece of earth you call home. You are a lucky man.’ He meant it too, Evie thought. There was an air of sincerity about the Prince that made him appear more human, less royal, than one might expect, although she doubted any of the folks tonight would let him forget the royal part. But then the very human prince turned his dark eyes in her direction and Evie froze, no longer a comfortable observer in the conversation, but a participant. The Prince’s eyes were on her, two decadent brown pools of chocolate silk. His gaze was as full bodied as his embrace, those eyes taking in all of her as if he really saw her—Evie the needleworker, Evie the seamstress, Evie who helped her father with his historical research—and he didn’t find those truths lacking or socially backwards. It was a bold gaze, another way in which the mere physical presence of him announced to the world he wasn’t English. ‘Andrew, we’ve been remiss. Who might this charming young woman be?’
There was a scold beneath his words for Andrew. It was the second time that night Andrew had been borderline rude in her presence. A lady should never have to introduce herself. She sensed Andrew’s fraction-of-a-second hesitation as he found himself yet again surprised to see her beside him. She wished her attendance would stop being such a revelation to him.
Andrew smiled his recovery. ‘This is Evie Milham, my neighbour.’ Evie fought the urge to cringe. He’d called her ‘Evie’ in front of the Prince! Surely meeting a prince, even if it was amid the milieu of Little Westbury’s assembly hall, required more formality than that. The Prince seemed to think so too. One of his slim dark eyebrows went up in a querying arch.
Evie lifted her chin in defiance of the slight. Unintended as it might have been, it was a slight none the less. She faced the Prince and dipped a curtsy, taking the introduction into her own hands. ‘I’m Miss Milham.’ This might be the country and Andrew and the Prince might be bosom friends, but she knew what a prince was due, Sussex assembly room or not. She knew what she was due too and it was high time she gathered the courage to claim it, demand it if need be. If she didn’t value herself, no one else would either. Beatrice and Claire had taught her that. She was missing Claire very much just now, Claire who spoke five languages. Claire would know what to say and how to say it. Claire could speak Russian with him, or whatever it was they spoke in Kuban.
Evie summoned her courage, trying not to feel plain and shy in the presence of such a man. She offered the Prince her hand, hoping he would never guess just how much courage the simple gesture had taken. It would have been far easier to slink back into the crowd. The effort was worth it, though. He bent over her hand, lips brushing knuckles, chocolate eyes holding hers. Heat spread warm and slow through her. He made her feel like the only woman in the room when he looked at her that way. Perhaps that was the difference between a prince and other men.
‘Evie?’ His accent feathered the ends of his words, making his speech exotic. ‘Is that short for something?’ He was giving her a chance to recover from Andrew’s slight, and elegantly so.
‘Evaine.’
His warm eyes lit in recognition. The pool of warmth in her stomach deepened. ‘Ah, the aunt of Sir Lancelot in your Camelot legends.’
The Prince smiled appreciably. Melting was complete. No wonder good English mothers warned their daughters about the influence of foreign men. This was a man who could sweep a woman off her feet without lifting his arms, a reminder that he had her melting and he didn’t even mean to. She knew the hand kissing, the direct gaze, were all just politeness. Heaven help a woman when he applied himself. Evie had to fight back images of what that application might look like, what form it might take.
‘You know your literature.’ Evie nodded her approval. She seldom met a gentleman who was well schooled enough to know the origins of her name. In these parts, if it wasn’t about a hound or a horse, gentlemen were surprisingly lacking in their education no matter how many years they had spent at Eton. Evie shot a covert glance in Andrew’s direction. She was still digesting the revelation that Andrew had an interest in archaeology and history. She’d definitely classified him as the hound-and-horse sort. He certainly wasn’t the repentant sort. Even with the Prince’s implicit scold over his lack of manners, Andrew had done nothing to make amends.
‘I’m a great follower of the Arthur legends,’ the Prince offered by way of explanation. He was patient as if he didn’t have an entire room of far more attractive women waiting to meet him. But Andrew wasn’t nearly as relaxed. He was edgy and anxious beside her, eager to get on with the socialising.
‘You should visit the Milhams some time, then.’ Andrew’s tone was brisk. ‘Evie’s father is our local historian.’ He said ‘local’ with a hint of distaste as if that explained why her father hadn’t been included in the initial investors in the site, all men from London with further-reaching historical interests.
The Prince looked at her with encouragement, as if he’d like to hear more. Evie took the opening to elaborate. ‘Yes, we have a tapestry that is somewhat noteworthy.’
Andrew was smiling now too, but his was a gesture meant to silence, not to encourage. ‘Later, Evie. If you tell him about it now, there won’t be anything to reveal when he sees it.’ Andrew’s hand went to the Prince’s arm, his face wearing another smile, this one meant to cajole. ‘Besides, we have people to meet, Dimitri.’ The message could not have been clearer. While people stood by, suitably enthralled by the royal presence among them, Andrew called the Prince by his first name. Andrew had risen above the country commonness of Little Westbury; risen above her. Evie suddenly felt very small, very burdensome, as if she was a child who’d forced her unwanted self into the company of adults. Perhaps melting wasn’t a bad idea after all.
The Prince stood his ground long enough to politely take his leave. ‘I shall look forward to the tapestry, Miss Milham.’ She thought she saw an apology in his eyes for the abruptness of their meeting. But surely he understood Andrew’s need to move on as well. Once again she’d miscalculated. She should have anticipated the evening’s demands on Andrew’s time.
‘I look forward to it.’ Evie dipped another curtsy and watched them move away, the pair immediately engulfed by the other guests craving their attention. She was alone again after a brief moment in the sun of Andrew’s attention. In some ways it felt worse now that she’d had a taste of that attention, what it felt like to stand beside him.
She had to stop the self-pity! She was being ridiculous. What had she expected? That somehow Andrew would take her up with them? Include her in his rounds tonight? Why shouldn’t the Prince and Andrew be popular and sought after? They made a handsome pair of males, the Prince with his dark hair and warm eyes; Andrew with his golden, English good looks.
Evie smiled softly to herself, her mind already justifying Andrew’s behaviour. This was a big night for him. He had a lot on his mind, there were people for the Prince to meet. It was no wonder Andrew didn’t want to stand around talking about tapestries or exchanging pleasantries with someone who wasn’t important to his cause this evening. She was selfish to want to keep him all to herself. She had made her first overture, she had to be content with that. And she was. Claire and Beatrice and May would be proud of her. She’d not accepted the first opportunity to be defeated. She’d gone to the stage instead and put herself forward. That in itself was a big step—one of many she’d have to take in this quest to capture Andrew’s affections.
Even if Andrew’s behaviour had bordered on rude, she understood the reasons for it and he had noticed her in the end. She had to take baby steps. She had to get Andrew’s attentions first, then his affections would follow. As her father was fond of saying, Rome wasn’t built in a day. Evie drifted to the perimeter of the assembly hall now that the evening’s goals had been met. She needed to celebrate her victories, not wallow in her defeats.
Chapter Two (#ulink_5cba278d-f332-5fa3-a717-e06f8efabf91)
The night had been a success! Dimitri Petrovich, Prince of Kuban, allowed himself the rare private luxury of slouching into one of Andrew’s comfortably shabby overstuffed chairs. People had been interested in his project and in him. He didn’t fool himself. Interest in the latter was usually a strong recommendation for interest in the former. Being a prince had its merits even if it came with inordinate amounts of fawning. But the cause was worth it.
He pulled at his cravat and let out a sigh. ‘Ah, that feels better.’ Interest was a good sign. It meant the funds would come. Right now, the funds to start the project were all his, but eventually he would want to turn this project over to the people of Little Westbury and they would need to support it. For now, his mind could confidently race ahead to getting the project underway and all the next steps that would entail. There were arrangements to make, men to hire. But all that would keep for tomorrow. Tonight had been a start.
Not a finish. Dimitri pushed the thought away immediately and without tolerance. He wouldn’t allow himself to dwell on what else this evening was; the beginning of the end. This was the last project, his final foray abroad before he had to return to Kuban and take his place at court as all loyal, royal Kubanian males did when they turned thirty. He’d known this day would come. He’d been raised for it, but knowing its imminence didn’t make it any easier to accept. To give up this world and all its riches now, when there was so much more to learn, seemed a great tragedy. But not yet. There were still a few months. There was still time and he would be damned if he’d let the future pollute the present.
He turned his attention to Andrew at the sideboard preparing brandies. ‘You, my friend, were rude this evening.’ It would be far better to occupy his thoughts with more immediate issues. Andrew usually behaved with good manners. Not so tonight.
‘Rude?’ Andrew laughed and handed him a brandy before taking the seat opposite and settling in. A cool evening breeze drifted in from the open French doors of the study, a perfect late summer night. ‘To whom? I was charming to everyone who matters.’
Dimitri cocked an eyebrow and engaged in good-humoured debate. ‘The pretty girl doesn’t matter? That’s not like you, Andrew. I thought pretty girls were your specialty.’ Pretty, rich girls. But Dimitri was too much of a friend to say that out loud.
‘There were lots of pretty girls tonight.’ Andrew grinned and sipped his brandy. ‘Which one?’
‘The first one. Evaine,’ Dimitri prompted.
‘Evaine? Oh, Evie.’ Andrew shrugged dismissively. ‘She’s always around. Good sort, I suppose. Rather shy. You think she’s pretty? We grew up together. I suppose I never thought of her as pretty or otherwise.’
‘Well, she’s clearly thought of you,’ Dimitri probed. The girl had been eager for Andrew’s attention, all smiles and doting eyes whenever he looked at her, which was seldom. Andrew had been oblivious. His friend might not have noticed Evaine Milham, but he had. It was a habit of his, to excavate people the way he excavated sites. He liked looking beyond their surfaces to find their true natures. It made him a better judge of character. He’d seen a far different woman than the girl Andrew so readily dismissed.
Behind the plain upsweep of her hair and the quiet way she presented herself, Evaine Milham had fine features and a wide, generous mouth that lit up her face when she smiled—which was not in public company. She’d been uncomfortable tonight. Her hair might have been simply styled, but its colour was lustrous, a deep chestnut that reminded him of autumn afternoons. Her gown, also simple in fashion, had been intricately embroidered around the hem, where no one would notice. Another sign that she was not a woman who craved attention. Yet there was a certain quiet steel to her. When she’d been pushed to it, she had stood up for herself, demanding the respect she was due.
Taken together, these were no minor clues that Evie Milham was more than she appeared. It was too bad people didn’t look close enough to see those things. He would wager there were secret depths to Miss Milham. ‘I think she might be pretty if she were to do something with her hair.’ Dimitri decided to nudge the point. ‘Perhaps you should give her a second look. It’s no small thing to have a woman’s affection.’ A man could lay claim to no greater prize in this world than a woman’s loyalty. His parents’ marriage had taught him that. It had also taught him that such a gift should be protected, not shunned with the casual disregard Andrew showed Miss Milham.
Andrew gave another shrug as if to suggest it was nothing new, that he was used to having the women of West Sussex fall at his feet with adoring eyes. It was probably true. Andrew had never been short on female attention when they’d travelled together. His new friend had a knack for finding the loveliest, wealthiest woman in a room and latching on to her.
‘Evie’s not my type.’ Andrew’s tone was dismissive without hesitation. Miss Evie Milham would be disappointed to hear she’d been summarily discarded. She’d seemed quite interested, as if Andrew was her type. Andrew took a healthy swallow from his glass. ‘Never has been, never will be. She’s not rich enough by far. I suppose it’s a good thing I haven’t noticed her looks. It would hardly matter how beautiful she was if there’s no money to go with her, and in her case there isn’t. At least, not enough for me. Her father’s a baronet, not exactly a gold mine.’
Dimitri nodded noncommittally on both accounts, keeping his thoughts to himself. Andrew was not usually so harsh when it came to women. Tonight, he was downright callous. It was also the closest Andrew had ever come to admitting he was in the market for a certain type of bride. Dimitri had noticed, of course—the desire to be with the richest women, the state of the furnishings in Andrew’s home, which were comfortably worn out of necessity as opposed to a fashion choice. Still, Andrew was no pauper. Andrew lived well. He drank the finest brandies. In Paris, he’d spent money on opera seats and the expensive opera singers that went with them. Andrew simply didn’t like making economies. Apparently, Evaine Milham was an economy.
Dimitri gave his brandy a contemplative swirl. He had to be careful here. Who was he to judge? He was a prince with no apparent financial limitations. He had wealth untold as long as he returned to Kuban on time. He would never have to worry about economies. And yet, Andrew had the one thing that eluded him. Freedom. The freedom to go anywhere, to do anything, to be anything. There were nights when Dimitri thought he’d trade all the wealth of Kuban for that freedom and a pair of shabby chairs. He leaned back and sighed contentedly. ‘It was a good idea to come here, Andrew. Thank you for this opportunity.’
* * *
There were nights when Andrew knew without question he’d trade everything he had, everything he was, to be Dimitri Petrovich, Prince of Kuban: rich, handsome, charismatic, with the world at his feet. This was one of those nights. He’d seen the people approach Dimitri with something close to awe, the men impressed with his title and knowledge, the women impressed with just him. Andrew longed to command a room like that. He had his own charisma, it was true, but he knew it didn’t rival Dimitri’s magnetism. Of course, money probably had something to do with it. Money always had something to do with everything.
It was also one of those nights when he found Dimitri irritatingly high-minded. Of course, it was easy to be without sin when one was wealthy enough not to have to care. Andrew rose and poured another glass of brandy—the good stuff. If he had to listen to Dimitri go on and on about his plans for the villa excavation, he might as well enjoy himself. ‘This will be good for Little Westbury. The excavation will provide jobs.’ Andrew tuned it out. He had heard it all before, how retrieving history created a sense of local pride in small communities, how it helped the economy, not just labourers at the site, but the businesses that supported a large labour force: farmers, bakers, butchers who supplied the food required for such an endeavour; tourism and news stories that would bring people here, people who might require more services than a single inn or tavern could provide. The town might need two such places. The Prince had vision and he had the talent to give others vision too, Andrew would give him that.
After all, hadn’t the Prince given him vision? The vision of how dusty, broken artefacts could be translated into shiny gold. Once Andrew had seen the possibilities, history had become a lot more interesting. This villa excavation was going to be his own personal gold mine. He’d finally have the funds he needed, the prestige he needed, to live at the standard he wanted. There would be no more tatty chairs and worn curtains, no more carefully going over the account ledgers of his grandfather’s shrinking estate to make sure the books balanced. Andrew was not interested in what the excavation would do for Little Westbury, but what it could do for him. He would finally be free.
Chapter Three (#ulink_c3e349ea-8de7-5f71-94aa-ce899002fc6b)
‘So, how did it go last night?’ The question hit Evie the moment two of her best friends stepped down from the open carriage. It was mid-morning and the sun was riding high towards its noon heat. Soon it would be hot, but for now it was pleasantly warm and Evie let Beatrice and May link their arms through hers, flanking her on either side as they set off for shopping in the village.
Anyone watching them advance down the street would see three young, chattering women, all smiles and laughter, even carefree. In part, that might be true. Evie knew the primary purpose for this shopping expedition was to hear about the excitement of her evening. No one saw the other agenda that brought them together. No one could be allowed to. It was their secret. Time was running out. They might not be together much longer. Already, their fourth, Claire, was on her honeymoon far away in Vienna, where she’d live with her new husband. Beatrice would be the next to go, probably in a few weeks.
Evie shot a covert glance at Beatrice’s middle, softly rounding beneath the loose cotton muslin of her summer gown, proof that it was going to happen. Beatrice was pregnant. And unwed. She would be leaving for Scotland soon, where she could have her baby at a distant relative’s home and her family could forget about her shame. Beatrice’s stay in Little Westbury was merely a two week stop-over in preparation for that journey.
‘Well?’ May prompted with a mischievous glint in her eyes. ‘Did anything happen last night? I heard the assembly hall was a crush.’
Evie smiled at each of her friends in turn as she related her story; how she’d sat behind Andrew and found a way to move up next to him for the toast; how she hadn’t given up and followed Andrew to the stage. She left out other details like Andrew’s disregard.
‘Well done!’ May commended her, gesturing to the shop window on her right. ‘Let’s stop in here at the Emporium. I need to get some drawing paper and pens.’
Masterson’s Emporium was the social hub of Little Westbury, a shop that carried a variety of goods ranging from planting seeds to ready-made gloves straight from London. Customers milled about, looking over the goods in the dim coolness of the shop. A few children ogled the row of sweets displayed in glass jars.
‘How did Andrew take your presence?’ Beatrice sifted through a bin of soaps, lifting them at random to sniff as they waited for May.
‘He was surprised,’ Evie answered honestly. ‘He didn’t expect to see me and it flustered him.’ She didn’t want to admit Andrew had forgotten to introduce her. Beatrice didn’t like Andrew as it was. Bea thought he wasn’t worthy of her. This would just give Bea fuel for that fire. ‘I met the Prince,’ Evie offered brightly, hoping to distract Bea.
‘How was he? Arrogant? Haughty?’ Bea sniffed a citrus-scented soap and wrinkled her nose before putting it back down.
‘No, he was neither.’ Evie gave Bea a quizzical glance. ‘Why would you think that?’
‘He’s a prince. Men like him have a certain tendency towards pretension.’
Evie laughed. ‘Be nice, Bea. He was very cordial last night.’ More than cordial. She couldn’t recall the last time a man had been that ‘cordial’ to her. She couldn’t forget those eyes, her body couldn’t forget the feel of his lips brushing her knuckles. Her mind had rebelliously kept her awake last night with a hungry curiosity. What would it be like to be a woman who truly caught his attentions? She would never be that woman. But it was harmless to wonder from afar.
Bea gave a soft smile. ‘You’re too kind, Evie, always looking for the best in all of us.’
May hurried up to them, a brown wrapped package under her arm. ‘I’m ready to go. Where to next?’
‘The draper’s, I need to get some fabric. I’ve a new dress in mind for autumn.’ It was a beautiful russet silk she’d ordered from a warehouse in London when she’d been in town. She could hardly wait to get started on it. Evie smiled as they set off down the street. ‘You’ve heard all my news, now I want to hear yours.’ The threesome had not seen each other since Claire’s farewell ball in London. Evie and her family had set out for home immediately afterwards, arriving a week ago. May and Bea had only reached Little Westbury the day before after a sudden delay in departure plans.
‘I don’t think there’s much to tell,’ Beatrice began slowly. Too slowly. Evie sensed there was something afoot, but there was no time to enquire.
May squeezed her arm, whispering in frantic excitement, ‘Who is that? He’s crossing the street and coming towards us!’
Evie looked down the street where a tall man in high boots and summer buckskin sans pleats strode towards them swinging a walking stick at his side. She recognised him immediately, pleats or not. ‘That’s the Prince of Kuban, Dimitri Petrovich, himself.’ All six feet and two inches of himself. Her sartorial eye noted the excellence of his wardrobe. He was dressed for an English summer day in a single-breasted tailcoat of camel with a waistcoat in bone linen, set off with a deep green cravat the colour of the forest. But no matter how English his clothing, no one would mistake him for an Englishman, not with that long hair pulled into a sleek tail behind him, making his high cheekbones all the more prominent, his eyes all that more exotic.
‘He is certainly all man,’ May murmured appreciatively. ‘Just look at that swagger.’ Against her better judgement, Evie’s eyes drifted down to his open-hipped stroll, which bordered on decadent. Even his walk was exotic. Good heavens, she really had to find a new word. He was handsome. Perhaps if she wasn’t focused on Andrew, she might find him attractive in a more personal way. For now, though, the attraction was limited to his mannerisms, his fashion. She truly did admire his clothes. Even if she didn’t have her heart set on Andrew, admiring the prince’s clothes was all a girl like her could do. One only had to look at him, so confident, so handsome, so male, and then look at her to know she never stood a chance. She wasn’t the type who caught princes. She was too odd. London had taught her that in the most brutal way possible.
‘Miss Milham, good day.’ The Prince gave a short bow in greeting. ‘What a pleasure to encounter you.’ Evie was aware of Beatrice and May exchanging quiet looks. Her usually confident friends seemed daunted by his presence.
Evie dipped a curtsy. ‘Your Highness, may I introduce my friends? This is Miss May Worth and Miss Beatrice Penrose.’
He greeted each in turn, taking their hands and smiling at them, his eyes as warm and genuine as they’d been last night, proof that she’d been right. These rituals were mere politeness to him. They meant nothing. He asked how they were enjoying the weather and enquired about their errands, making small talk, doing the work of putting them at ease. He must do it all the time, Evie realised, watching the interaction. Everywhere he went, people were probably in awe of him, in awe of being in the company of a royal prince. Did he ever get tired of the effort?
Then he was talking to her and she forgot her speculations. ‘It’s quite fortuitous that I’ve run into you, Miss Milham. I was hoping to take you up on the offer to view your tapestry. I regret we did not get to speak of it more in depth last night.’
Evie blushed under the weight of Bea’s and May’s stares. They were wondering what she hadn’t told them. ‘You are welcome to view it any time. Someone is always at home,’ Evie managed. Beside her, May straightened, her posture becoming alert. That worried her. Apparently, May had overcome any self-consciousness.
‘Tomorrow,’ May interjected with a smile to the Prince. ‘You should come tomorrow to view the tapestry. Evie is always home on Tuesdays in the afternoon and the light in the tapestry room is very good around one o’clock.’ Oh, sweet heavens, May had invited the Prince to her house! Had, in fact, all but begged him to come over. Even for May, this bordered on mortifying. Evie was suddenly wishing the Prince had been a little more awe-inspiring.
‘May—’ Evie tried to mitigate her friend’s boldness. The poor man would feel trapped. ‘He might be busy.’
But the Prince took May’s boldness in his stride. He didn’t sound trapped. ‘One o’clock it is.’ He looked in her direction. ‘If that is acceptable to you, Miss Milham?’
May’s foot came down on hers under their skirts before she could think of politely refusing. Evie heard herself squeak, ‘One o’clock would be fine,’ before the Prince smiled once more and continued down the street.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Evie whirled on May the moment the Prince was out of sight. ‘You invited a foreign dignitary to my house! My house. You don’t even live there. Since when do you invite guests to other people’s homes?’
May gave a smug laugh, unfazed by the outburst. Evie was envious of that laugh, that confidence. Nothing bothered May, not even a flagrant disregard for the rules. ‘Since you started passing up perfectly good opportunities to spend time with handsome men.’ May pulled her into a quiet side street. ‘He was angling for an invitation and you were prevaricating with your generic responses. “Come over any time,”’ May mimicked.
‘I didn’t want him to feel coerced.’ Evie folded her arms over her chest in defence.
‘Oh, I assure you, he wasn’t feeling coerced. He was running wild and free with no fences in sight,’ May replied, blowing out a frustrated breath. ‘Evie, a handsome man who is also a royal, foreign prince wanted to come to your house. How many times do you think that happens, especially in West Sussex?’
‘To see a tapestry,’ Evie reminded her.
May was undaunted. ‘Who cares about the reason why? He’s still coming.’
‘I’m not interested in him that way,’ Evie explained patiently. ‘I’m interested in Andrew.’ She didn’t need to catch a prince, nor did she want to. Her sights were firmly set on Andrew Adair. Besides, what would a man like the Prince—a dashing, well-travelled, sensual man—do with a girl like her who’d never been out of England? It seemed an exercise in futility to even imagine it; a very warm exercise that she had no business entertaining in broad daylight on a village street.
‘Let me try, May.’ Beatrice stepped up. ‘Evie, dear, you can use the Prince as leverage. Men are competitive creatures.
‘Once Andrew sees another man interested in you, it will pique his own curiosity, especially if that man is a royal prince and a friend. Andrew will wonder what he’s been missing.’
‘And he’ll make the effort to find out?’ Evie supplied the rest. She beamed at her friends. Perhaps May’s plan was pure genius after all. ‘What would I do without you? I’m so glad you’re here.’ She paused and gasped as a sudden thought hit her. ‘You will come tomorrow, won’t you? Both of you? You’ll know what to say, what to do. You know what my father will be like. He’ll go on and on about King Arthur and all of his books far longer than is decent and my mother will be so overset about a prince coming to visit, she’ll spend the afternoon on the fainting couch or pestering the cook for perfection.’ Her parents were good people, but they were not social people. Entertaining was not their strong suit. ‘I can’t possibly face the Prince alone.’
There was no rush of assurances. She had the sense again that something was wrong. Bea and May exchanged another of those looks between them. They’d been doing that a lot today. May took her hand, her blue eyes serious. ‘We’d love to be there, but I’m afraid we can’t make it.’ She flicked a glance at Bea and Beatrice nodded. ‘We are leaving tomorrow for Scotland.’
‘Tomorrow!’ Evie protested. ‘But you’ve barely arrived?’ She looked at Bea. ‘What has happened? We were supposed to have two weeks.’
Bea’s hand went protectively to her stomach. When she pressed like that, catching the fabric so that it was flat against her body, her stomach looked larger, the pregnancy more advanced. ‘I’m showing sooner than expected.’ She bit her lip.
Evie felt immediately selfish. ‘I can let out some more dresses for you. We can do it this afternoon.’ She’d been altering Bea’s clothes for her since the spring, using her needle to keep Bea’s pregnancy discreet.
‘That’s sweet of you, Evie, but no.’ Bea gave a sad smile and shook her head. ‘My parents would be more comfortable knowing I’m safe in Scotland before any speculation begins.’ That was putting a polite trim on it, Evie thought. Beatrice’s parents were worried about scandal more than they were worried about their daughter’s safety.
Beatrice put a brave face on. ‘Besides, if I’m showing so soon the baby might be early, it might be twins. It will be good to be away and settled before too much longer.’ She meant before November, when the baby was due. Late autumn didn’t seem so far away when one looked at it like that. In less than four months Beatrice would be a mother. Alone. Evie glanced at May. No, not alone. ‘You’re going with her?’
‘Yes.’ May’s eyes met hers in a silent plea for understanding. Evie nodded. Beatrice needed May more now than she did.
‘I’m glad you’ll be with her.’ It was the truth. Beatrice shouldn’t be alone. If her family refused to be there to help her through the birth, then her friends definitely should be. She wasn’t sure how May had arranged it, but it did bring her a sense of comfort to know May would be there.
Beatrice reached for her other hand. ‘We are sorry to leave you, Evie. But I think May has set you on a path towards success.’ The words offered a new light to May’s bold gesture. It had been a parting gift. May had pushed her towards her future with the invitation to the Prince.
The import of that didn’t escape her. They weren’t the Left Behind Girls Club any more. Claire had Jonathon. Beatrice would have May and the new baby. Everyone was moving forward. For the first time since their childhood days, Evie was on her own.
Chapter Four (#ulink_7ea40161-2ab6-5f58-a609-6e32592fc1dc)
Dimitri strolled promptly down Evie’s drive at half-past one the next day, admiring the haphazard compilation of bricks and time that was the Milhams’ house. Definitely Elizabethan, he concluded, in its initial construction. He could make out the symmetry of the era in the roofline. He squinted up against the sun to take a more professional interest in the house. An archaeologist was part-historian, part-architect and part-expert in a host of other subjects as well. He picked out a few themes with his keen eye. There was a nod to early Georgian in the pediment above the front door.
That pediment was likely the most recent addition to the house’s eclectic architecture. From the state of the front gardens, the latest generation hadn’t paid much attention to the external state of the house. He strode along a gravel drive where flowers grew in wild anarchy alongside, having long ago given up any adherence to the limits of the beds they’d been planted in. There were no boundaries here, none of the order of the organised, ornamental gardens of Kuban, modelled on the tamed excellence of Versailles. There were no pruned hedges or carefully shaped bushes. Yet, the look suited the place much better. Many back home would disagree with him, would give such wild nature a disparaging glance. He found it charming, a peaceful haven. He wondered what the Kuban nobility would do if he replicated such a style at his home.
The housekeeper answered his knock and he stepped inside, his senses taking it all in with the astute eye of an archaeologist trained to look for patterns and behaviours: books stacked on consoles in the hallway, books lining shelves in every room the housekeeper took him past, some books lying open. The interior matching the exterior perfectly. The occupants of this house had far more important priorities than landscaping. They lived an internal life of the mind.
‘I’ll let Miss Milham know you’re here.’ The housekeeper left him in a cheery yellow sitting room, where more books populated the walls and a small, cosy cluster of furniture upholstered in yellow-and-rose chintz resided in the wide bow of the windows.
A housekeeper. Dimitri smiled at her departure. No stodgy butlers here. A housekeeper had received a Prince of Kuban and had no true notion of who had just walked into the house. He liked the novelty of that anonymity. Everyone fussed over him as if he were more special than the next man. But here, in the Milhams’ household, he sensed he might be able to move past that. Andrew’s words drifted back to him: She’s not rich enough. The Milhams did not keep a full complement of staff, perhaps for multiple reasons. Perhaps it was financial, or perhaps they understood every servant was another responsibility, one more acquired burden, an anchor against freedom. Dependents were both a blessing and a curse.
‘You came.’
He turned, catching the sound of surprise in Evie’s voice. She looked cool and fresh in a white summer muslin sprigged with tiny blue forget-me-nots. Blue was definitely her colour. It brought out the auburn highlights in her hair, turning it more chestnut than brown. They’d not been obvious at the assembly. Dimitri smiled. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t?’ He spoke the words without thinking, the teasing, flirtatious response coming easily to his practised wit. This was how urbane princes interacted with women. He was curious as to how Evie Milham would respond. How would his hypothesis play out now that they were alone, away from a crowd where she felt self-conscious? He told himself it was no more than simply his usual ‘excavation’ of a person, of taking their measure, yet a part of him was on edge, wanting her to make a certain response, wanting her to come alive for him.
She blushed a little, but she did not shrink from being direct. ‘I didn’t want you to feel trapped. I feared May pushed the appointment on you.’
‘I wouldn’t miss it.’ He was touched. She’d been advocating for him. She’d been trying to protect him. It was a very small protection to be sure. In a life spent protecting others he simply wasn’t used to it being the other way around. ‘Many people would not hesitate to use any means necessary to capture a prince’s time.’ He probed carefully. It was true. One woman had followed him to the privy and locked the door.
‘I think you’ll find I’m not like most people.’ Another sort of woman would have made the line into a not so cleverly veiled invitation. Not Miss Milham. Was that a warning? A hint of regret? Why ever would she want to be like others?
He was counting on her assessment to be correct. ‘I find the “usual” holds little fascination for me.’ His own voice was low, issuing a private invitation of his own, his eyes holding hers, daring her not to look away. He should not wish for such a thing. Nothing but trouble could come from it. But he couldn’t stop himself from wanting it anyway. Come to life for me, Evie Milham. I know you’re in there. Don’t be afraid.
There it was. Her steady gaze, her answer. She did not look away. He gestured to the wall of books, looking for a subject to put her at ease. Now that he had her this far, he didn’t want her intimidated. ‘Have you read all of these?’
‘Some.’
He was going to have to work harder. He wanted to assure her his title meant nothing. He was as ordinary as the next man, at least he wanted to be. No one needed to stand on ceremony with him. He’d never get to know her secrets otherwise, secrets he had no business knowing, no need to know.
‘Which ones? Which ones have you read?’ He grinned. It was a preposterous question. There were over a hundred books right in front of him. He plucked a book at random from the shelf. ‘How about this one? A History of the West Country by Pieter von Alpers? He’s not even a good Englishman from the sounds of his name.’ The comment made her laugh and that was what he intended.
‘He’s Dutch.’ Evie smiled, letting it light her face. ‘Sometimes it helps to see one’s own history through the eyes of another. My father says it brings new perspective. But, no, I haven’t read that one.’
She was starting to relax. He could see now that she wasn’t shy as he’d first thought, but merely wary. This was a learned behaviour, acquired at some point. This was her attempt to protect herself. From what? From whom? He tucked the new piece of information away.
Evie ran her hand over the book spines on the shelves, coming to stop on one of them. ‘I’ve read this one.’ She handed it to him. ‘He has an especially interesting interpretation of early Saxon history.’ He smiled appreciatively. Evie Milham was a historian. How intriguing. He didn’t meet many women who were or who would admit to it.
‘Like father like daughter? I’d like to meet your father some time. I could use a local historian’s help on my project. I was surprised Andrew didn’t include him in the initial circle of investors for the site. By the way, is he joining us today?’ Was anyone joining them? He could hardly believe someone wasn’t chaperoning and yet it appeared the Milhams’ casual approach to living extended to their daughter, who was apparently allowed to meet men unattended. He thought it seemed somehow disrespectful of them to leave her alone no matter how honourable his intentions were.
‘Are you worried for your reputation?’ There was a shade of worry in her eyes that was entirely sincere. Other women would have delivered the line with a flirty laugh. He knew plenty of those women. But Evie Milham was not one of them. She was genuinely sympathetic. ‘Shall I call someone?’ She was flustered again and it was his fault. In an attempt to honour her, he’d managed to insult her.
Dimitri chuckled, trying to put her at ease. He’d not meant to upset her any more than he’d meant to insult her. ‘Are you worried for yours?’
‘You’re here to view a tapestry, not ravish me.’ Evie scoffed. He heard the hint of sorrow, or was that resignation, again?
‘Are you sure about that?’ he teased, although he wasn’t sure it was entirely a joke on his part. Evie Milham was ravish-worthy, with her glorious hair and that carefully guarded smile, especially when she wasn’t doubting herself, when she was letting her real self out to play as she had when they’d discussed the history books.
She smiled, but there was a shadow in her eyes now. ‘I’ve had years to be quite sure of that, Your Highness.’ He understood. She thought he was embarrassed to be alone with her, maybe even ashamed to be seen with her. The realisation gave him pause. Where had she ever acquired such a belief about herself? Was this where the wariness came from? He would have to work harder to put her at ease, to convince her she had nothing to fear from him.
‘Call me Dimitri. Please,’ he urged, refusing to remark on that shadow for fear she would see any encouragement he offered as pity. ‘We’re a thousand miles from Kuban. I hardly feel like a prince this far from home.’ He liked it that way. The further from Kuban he got, the easier it was to forget he was a prince, the easier it was to live simply, to be a man only, not a title he’d acquired by an accident of birth. If only others felt that way too. Unfortunately, they were all too keen to remind him of the chasm that separated him from other men.
Evie took the invitation as he’d hoped. ‘All right, then, Dimitri, the tapestry is this way.’ She led them through a warren of hallways to a gallery that ran the length of the back of the house. The tapestry was easy to spot. It was of considerable size and hung in the centre of the left wall in a large glass frame. Even with the glass protecting it, Dimitri could tell it was of fine and authentic quality. He stepped towards it, unable to resist doing anything else, drawn to the vibrant hues of blue, red and orange. ‘This is remarkably well preserved...’ he breathed in real appreciation, letting his eyes roam the story of the tapestry. ‘Arthur’s wedding to Guinevere, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘Yes, my father has spent considerable amounts of time researching it. He’s in the final stages of writing a book about the tapestry,’ Evie offered. He stared at it a while longer, asking questions, before turning his attention to other artefacts in the room. The gallery was a repository of history. There were other, smaller, tapestries hanging from the walls, unprotected. He wandered over to one depicting a unicorn set against a blue-flowered field.
‘This one is quite fine as well. Is it of some import?’ He wondered why it wasn’t under glass too. It seemed familiar, as if he’d seen it somewhere before.
Evie shook her head. ‘No. It’s one of mine. It’s merely a copy of a famous French tapestry.’
Dimitri peered closer, studying the stitches. ‘You did this? It is marvellously well made.’
Evie shrugged off the praise. ‘I drew the pattern from a piece of art. I like to work with cloth, sewing, weaving. I draw my own patterns.’ That was interesting indeed; a historian and a seamstress, although that seemed too menial of a word for what she’d done here, and an artist. Evie Milham was a trove of hidden talents.
He spied a framed collection of ink work hanging on the wall. ‘Are these some of your patterns?’
‘Yes. I drew them for one of my father’s books, but he liked some of them so much he wanted to frame them.’ Evie blushed. ‘A father’s prerogative, I suppose. Some would say he’s biased.’
Dimitri looked closer. The work was exquisitely done, meticulous and clean. ‘I don’t think he’s biased at all.’ An idea came to him. He could use someone with a decent artistic eye at the site.
They strolled the perimeter of the room, he asking questions and Evie answering, each answer a revelation. Evie Milham might appear to be somewhat quiet and unassuming, but beneath that exterior, there was much of her waiting to be unwrapped, waiting to be discovered. She was knowledgeable about history, able to answer his questions with impressive intellect; she could replicate medieval tapestries with an expert’s skill; she was sensitive to others’ feelings, perhaps too much so.
Did she make a habit of casting herself in the subordinate role in conversation? He’d seen it at the assembly. She’d put herself forward when Andrew had failed to introduce her, but the moment she perceived she was an interloper, she’d withdrawn, content to defer to the wishes of others. But today he’d applied considerable skill in drawing her out, in making her an equal in the discussion, and she had blossomed. He could not remember enjoying a conversation this much. There was no pressure to perform, to be the Prince. He had only to be himself.
They passed out into the gardens off the gallery and into the sun. There was more order to these gardens than the ones in front of the house, probably because these gardens were designed to show off statuary. Most of the statuary were broken. There wasn’t a whole statue among them, but that only reinforced their authenticity. ‘Shards my father has picked up over a lifetime,’ Evie explained with a rueful smile. ‘These are from Italy, from his Grand Tour twenty-eight years ago.’ She gestured to a twin set of partial busts.
Dimitri made noises of suitable impressment. He was more interested in how the sun caught Evie’s hair, the auburn flame of it flickering in the smooth brown depths. The statues couldn’t compete. Her hair was beautiful, even coiled in a tight braid that wound neatly about her head. He imagined for a moment undoing that braid and combing his fingers through it. Undone, her hair would be long, and straight, the smoothness of it falling through his fingers like Chinese silk. It made him wonder what Evie Milham would be like undone in other ways. What other secrets lay beneath her unassuming exterior? What would she reveal to the man who uncovered those secrets? What would she discover about herself? He felt a flicker of regret that he couldn’t be that man.
‘Miss.’ The housekeeper caught up to them on the gravel path, breaking his attention on Evie’s hair. The woman was huffing from the exertion. ‘Mr Adair is here, shall I send him out?’
Evie’s face split into a smile. ‘He can join us. Please, bring some lemonade and the little cakes Cook baked this morning, if it’s not too much trouble. The lemon seed are his favourite.’
Evie’s gaze moved to a point over his shoulder, her smile widening, lighting up her whole face. Dimitri didn’t need to turn to know it was Andrew striding down the path. A fierce little spark of competitive maleness lit in him. He wanted that smile for himself, not for Andrew, who didn’t want it, and didn’t appreciate it. His friend’s boldness bordered on arrogant. Andrew hadn’t waited for permission to join them. He’d assumed he’d be welcomed and the presumption was irrationally annoying. Why did he care if Andrew joined them?
They sat for lemonade and cakes at a table under a shade tree and Dimitri knew why he cared. Evie, who had become relaxed during their tour of the gallery, had suddenly become self-conscious and tense, too eager to please: Was the lemonade sweet enough? The cakes fresh enough? The whole while, Andrew took the demure obsequiousness as his due, oblivious to Evie’s efforts once more.
‘I must get the recipe from your cook.’ Dimitri reached for another lemon seed cake, easily his fourth. ‘These are delicious.’
‘Too simple for the court of Kuban, though.’ Andrew threw out the thoughtless insult and helped himself to a fifth cake. ‘Can you imagine these plain little things on a tea tray along with those frosted delicacies of yours?’ Andrew glanced over at Evie, the first real look he’d given her since he arrived. ‘You haven’t seen a tea until you’ve had tea Kubanian style.’
Dimitri watched Evie brighten at the comment directed at her, willing to overlook the insult delivered to the cakes Andrew claimed to prefer and which she’d especially thought of serving on his behalf. Didn’t she see the comment wasn’t for her benefit, but for Andrew’s? This was a chance for Andrew to show off. His suspicion was confirmed when Andrew launched into a detailed description of the one time he’d experienced a Kubanian tea at Dimitri’s apartments in Naples where they’d met.
Evie listened, enrapt. Dimitri wanted to kick Andrew. Andrew had adopted quite the superior attitude since they’d arrived in Sussex. It was not something that had stood out to him in their travels.
‘Is that how you met? Over tea?’ Evie turned her attention his direction, playing the polite hostess who recognised one guest had dominated the conversation for too long. ‘I had no idea Andrew had made it as far as Kuban.’
‘He didn’t,’ Dimitri put in quickly. Maybe it was selfish, but he wanted to disabuse her of the notion that Andrew had been to the remote Russian kingdom in the steppes. In fact, Andrew had not strayed from the conventional path that made up every Englishman’s Grand Tour. ‘We met in Naples. I was hosting a gathering for expatriates around Europe to celebrate work I’d completed at Herculaneum. My team and I had uncovered a mosaic destroyed by the eruption of Vesuvius. We spent that spring restoring it.’
‘Wonderful stuff. What the Prince was doing in Herculaneum rekindled my love for ancient history.’ Andrew leaned forward, ready to take up the reins of conversation again.
Evie smiled. ‘My father would enjoy hearing about your experiences.’
Andrew cut her off with a wave of his hand. ‘Ancient history, Evie, not medieval. There’s quite a difference. Centuries, in fact.’ His tone bordered on patronising as he laughed. Was Evie going to sit there and let his remark go unchallenged? Of course she was. She wasn’t going to pick an argument with the object of her affections.
Dimitri couldn’t help himself. After all, Andrew wasn’t the object of his affections. ‘I think she knows the difference, Andrew. Miss Milham and I were having the most enjoyable afternoon. She showed me the Arthur tapestry and some that she’s done as well. Miss Milham is very talented and exceedingly knowledgeable on several subjects.’
Andrew’s gaze fixed on him, sharp with curiosity. ‘Ah, the tapestry. I remember now. I had wondered why you’d come.’
Dimitri heard the veiled slander—that Evie alone couldn’t possibly be attraction enough. He hoped Evie hadn’t heard it. It would hurt her. Perhaps it was remarks like that which had led to her self-consciousness. Such remarks were nothing to him, but she had not cut her social teeth in a royal court. He met Andrew’s gaze with his own, unwavering, his sense of protectiveness rising instinctively on Evie’s behalf. ‘Well, then you have your answer. I am still looking for mine. What exactly brings you here this afternoon?’
* * *
What had just happened? Evie glanced from Andrew to Dimitri. Were they fighting over her? It was too preposterous to believe; the golden-haired Andrew Adair and a Russian prince, sparring over her while they sipped lemonade in the garden. It was ridiculous in the extreme and yet she wasn’t sure what else to make of it. Oh, how she wished Beatrice and May were here! They would know for certain.
‘More lemonade?’ Evie groped for something to say that would relieve the tension. She was not equipped to handle such a situation. She passed around the dwindling tray of cakes to give herself something to do. Dimitri took two, Andrew took three, shooting the Prince a triumphant look designed to make a point. At this rate, the two of them were going to eat themselves sick. She gingerly picked up the threads of the original conversation. ‘You met in Naples, and then what?’
‘The Prince made a fortune on the mosaic, selling it to a museum in Naples,’ Andrew supplied drily. ‘He was moving on to Greece, to a temple excavation on the peninsula. I was intrigued so I tagged along. We did the temple and another small dig near Athens, then worked our way home.’ Andrew sat back in his chair and folded his hands across his stomach with smug victory. ‘I told him about our local Roman villa, which has never quite got off the ground in terms of a full excavation, and the rest is history.’ He laughed at his joke. The tension eased and Evie was almost convinced she’d imagined it to begin with. The visit concluded amiably, the gentlemen polishing off the last cakes and the remainder of the lemonade before rising to leave.
The Prince bowed over her hand as he had at the assembly room. She was struck once more by the intensity of his gaze and the heat generated by his touch. It still didn’t mean anything, she reminded herself, but silly as it was, she liked how her stomach fluttered when he touched her. ‘I was wondering, Miss Milham, if you would consider helping on the villa excavation? You mentioned you draw your own tapestry patterns and I need someone to do a catalogue of drawings for any artefacts we might uncover.’
Her pulse sped up at the prospect, flattered that he’d acknowledged her skills. What an honour, an honour far beyond any she’d ever expected. For a moment she couldn’t find any words. She settled on ‘I would like that very much.’ When he touched her, looked at her with those dark eyes, spoke to her in that low voice with its dentalised ‘th’s and hard ‘r’s, she felt like a princess. Almost.
‘Come to the site tomorrow.’ He released her hand with a smile and the magic was gone. She was once more merely Evie Milham, plain and quiet, the sort who admired men on their pedestals, not one who was put up on a pedestal of her own. She certainly wasn’t the sort of girl those men fought over. Not the sort of girl a prince would pay serious attentions to, but for a moment she had been.
Chapter Five (#ulink_2c2d5c93-b5b7-5fc5-ad73-0f5acba2fdfb)
The walk back to Andrew’s was...different. For once, it was silent. Usually, most of their walks were filled with Andrew’s talk. Andrew liked to think out loud. Normally, Dimitri didn’t mind. Today, however, Andrew was silent except for the occasional swish of his walking stick cutting through the high grass in the meadow. Dimitri opted to wait. When Andrew was done processing he would talk.
‘What happened back there?’ Andrew gave the grass a hard thwack with his stick. Apparently, he was done processing. ‘For a moment, I thought we were going to quarrel over Evie Milham.’ He said the last as if the notion was insane. Dimitri didn’t think it was in the least preposterous. Didn’t Andrew see it? The beauty beneath the simple attire and the simple hair; the devotion she was waiting to lavish on him? As for himself, he was thinking far too much about that hidden beauty. When she’d spoken of tapestries and stitchery, he’d wanted to take her hair down pin by pin, pull it loose from its tight coiffure and spread it through his fingers like so much embroidery silk.
‘I was unaware there was anything to quarrel about.’ Dimitri shot Andrew a wry smile. ‘She is quite solidly yours by her own design.’ Perhaps Andrew needed a little push in Evie’s direction, something to drag him out of his oblivion. Maybe he could help with that. Maybe Evie could use some help with that. She was making it too easy for Andrew, catering to his every whim. Andrew would never respect a woman like that. He would, however, use that woman. Dimitri’s stomach gave a small twist. He hardly knew her, but it sat poorly with him to think of Evie Milham being used in that manner.
Andrew lifted a brow. ‘Do I sense a wager coming on? There was a time when you could turn a lowly country girl’s head like that!’ He snapped his fingers and tossed a smug grin at Dimitri. ‘Or, are you losing your touch? I admit I have a head start. She’s known me her entire life. But you’re a prince,’ he goaded. ‘Surely that evens the playing field.’
‘Those games are fine with ladies of the court,’ Dimitri offered warily. He wasn’t sure he liked the idea of pushing Andrew towards Evie any more. Last night, it had seemed like the right thing to do, a way to help out Miss Milham. His stomach twisted again. ‘I think those games are rather cruel, however, when played with unsuspecting country ladies.’ Dimitri’s stomach twisted harder, more violently than before. This time he didn’t think it had anything to do with Evie and everything to do with seed cakes. Too many seed cakes.
All things in moderation, his old nyanya had told him more than once growing up, always after he’d over-indulged. Some day he’d learn, but apparently not today. His covert eating contest with Andrew had been petty. From the hitch in Andrew’s step, it looked like he might be feeling the effects as well. They’d behaved childishly and they’d got their just desserts in the most literal way possible. Andrew let out a burp and a sigh that set them both to laughing. ‘That’s better.’
The tension between them eased and Andrew slung an arm about his shoulders, having already forgotten Evie Milham and his silly wager. It was for the best. Dimitri knew he certainly had no business involving himself in careless games regarding a young woman’s affections. There could be no entanglements for him. He would be returning to Kuban. Taking Andrew’s wager would require deliberately breaking an unsuspecting girl’s heart. The best he could do for her would be to help her understand her own value, to see her own beauty. She didn’t need to settle for a man like Andrew.
Dimitri shot a sideways glance at Andrew, only half-listening to a story about Evie’s seed cakes. Andrew was golden and laughing in the sun. It was easy to see why Evie would be taken with him. But Andrew was also entirely self-absorbed. Even now, with just the two of them present, he was ‘performing’ the story for an audience. Usually, Dimitri was impressed with Andrew’s showmanship. On the road, Andrew’s glib tongue had talked them into a few prime situations such as the dig in Greece. But here in England, his ‘showmanship’ seemed rehearsed to the point of narcissism. It reaffirmed Dimitri’s premise: There was no doubt Miss Milham would be good for his sometimes high-handed and arrogant new friend. She would love him in spite of himself, and, given time, perhaps she would help him see what was truly important in life. But at what cost to herself? The real question to ask was: Was Andrew good for Evie?
Dimitri laughed out loud at the direction of his thoughts. Andrew would think the laughter was for the story. In reality Dimitri was laughing at himself. Who was he to decide their future, or even be interested in it? He hardly knew Evie Milham and he’d barely known Andrew for a year. He had no business interfering. Aside from his curiosity over the quiet Miss Milham with her russet hair and her hidden hobbies, he wasn’t even sure what had sparked his attentions in the first place. Maybe it was a sign after all that he was ready to return to Kuban, settle down and live the life he’d been destined for since birth, the life his family needed him to live.
Perhaps it was for the best he felt that way, since his return, even his marriage, was inevitable. Dimitri shook his head to clear his thoughts. He wouldn’t think of that, not yet. There was still some time left to him. He needed to focus on the immediate future first. What came next would take care of itself. Until then, he had one last excavation to oversee and to enjoy.
* * *
The excavation site was bustling with organised activity when Evie and her father arrived the next morning. The scale of that activity was quite impressive. Workers, hired from local labour, hauled carts of rocks and debris away, others whisked dust from slabs to see what was hidden beneath, while still others were engaged in the process of sifting rubble through sieves searching for shards of artefacts. The industry was punctuated by an occasional shout—some of them in Russian, a reminder that not all the effort on site was local.
‘The Prince has brought his own team,’ her father commented as they picked their way through the site, trying to stay out of the way. ‘He’s very methodical, very efficient. He’ll have his men oversee various aspects of the project so he doesn’t have to train new foremen.’ It was a reminder of what she’d forgotten so easily yesterday. Dimitri Petrovich was a prince, a man who was used to being served, used to commanding and directing others. Travelling with a retinue was to be expected.
From across the site, Dimitri waved to them, beckoning them over. ‘Ah, there he is,’ her father remarked with a chuckle. ‘Good thing he spotted us. I might not have recognised him today.’ Evie privately disagreed. Dimitri might be dressed like everyone else in durable trousers tucked into dusty boots and a loose cotton shirt of off-white homespun, the clothes of a labourer, not a prince, but she’d know him anywhere. He couldn’t disguise those cheekbones or those eyes.
‘Sir Hollis, Miss Milham, welcome!’ He strode towards them, stripping off working gloves as he greeted them. His shirt was open at the neck, showing a patch of tanned skin, and already splotched with sweat and dirt. He’d not only been working, he’d been working hard.
‘You must pardon my appearance; we have great hopes for today. We’re excavating the dining room, or what we hope is the dining room.’ He smiled broadly and his enthusiasm was infectious. ‘Let me show you. We have something of a map to work from.’ He led them over to a table set off to the side, an informal work station where papers were weighted down with rocks.
He picked up a book and turned to a well-marked page. ‘There’s a two-page description of a villa that matches this one in location and there’s a reference to a west-facing dining area to catch the setting sun. If we’re right, we’ve found the villa of General Lucius Artorious.’ The air around him fairly crackled with his excitement and Evie felt her own excitement rise, stoked to its own height by the prospect of the project and by his nearness.
He passed the book to her father. ‘The account is short, but it’s very detailed. It even names some specific items that were in the home. If we could find them, it would ensure the authenticity of the site.’ He smiled at Evie. ‘We’ve already found some items—nothing that’s listed, of course, but items that suggest a man of social standing and his family were here. Are you ready to draw? I have a workspace set up for you in the cataloguing department.’ His wink was just for her. ‘We use the term “department” very loosely here. I hope our working conditions aren’t too rustic for you, just canvas and some tables, but my assistant, Stefon, is brilliant and he can show you anything you need.’ Some of her excitement defused. An assistant, of course. It wasn’t as if the Prince could work privately with her. It was probably for the best. However would she concentrate on drawing if he was hovering nearby with his smiles and touches? She really had to get over this silliness.
He took them through the site, gesturing to points of interest as they went. ‘To the left are the cooking facilities. We feed the workers three meals a day. To the right is the “museum” where we keep the items that are already catalogued.’ The site was truly impressive. This place was a little self-contained city. She’d not realised all the services necessary to support such a project. He made an off-hand motion to the left. ‘That tent out there is my private quarters.’
Tent? Evie stopped to gape. It looked more like a pavilion. It was big and white, and set back from the site, perhaps for privacy. ‘You live out here?’ She quickened her step to keep up with her father and the Prince.
The Prince nodded. ‘It’s a necessity. One must be vigilant or sites like this are easily vandalised. I’ve found there’s nothing like human presence to deter unwanted attentions.’ He threw an entirely manly glance at her father. ‘It helps that I’m a pretty good shot.’ The two of them laughed together. They seemed to have established an instant rapport that transcended their stations.
Vandalism? She was still trying to wrap her mind around the fact the Prince was camping like a soldier on campaign. No matter how large the tent, outdoor living required a certain amount of concessions, especially if a man was used to living amid royal luxuries.
‘This is your workspace, Miss Milham.’ The Prince ushered her under a wide triangular expanse of heavy canvas tied between three trees. Beneath it sat desks and tables with boxes next to them, writing and drawing supplies on them. One other clerk was already busy at work. The Prince held out her chair. ‘The items to draw are here in this box. There are notes attached, I can’t guarantee all the handwriting is legible. The information will have to be recopied with the drawings and we’ll need three copies of each drawing.’
Evie nodded, sitting down in the chair and taking in her workspace, her mind already organising the task in her head. She was eager to begin. This was no different than the work she did for her father. She surveyed the supplies, assuring the Prince she had all she needed.
‘Very well, I will leave you to it, Miss Milham. Again, let me tell you how very grateful I am to have someone of your skills assisting on the project.’ He turned to her father. ‘If I might borrow your expertise as well, Sir Hollis? I have a few questions.’ She watched them go with a smile. When Dimitri had visited, Evie had worried her family would be too casual for him, but now that she’d witnessed on two occasions just how hard he worked to put others at ease, to help them forget he was a prince, she was glad for her father’s easy-going nature. Dimitri seemed to like that her father extended that easy companionship to him. Her father enjoyed a quiet life and offered his hospitality and friendship to all those around him regardless of status. It seemed Dimitri responded to that. Just as she’d responded to his genuine appreciation of her work. Evie shook her head as if to refocus her thoughts. She needed to prove herself, she needed to show Dimitri his confidence in her hadn’t been misplaced. She couldn’t do that if she spent the day staring after him.
It only took a few minutes to become entirely immersed in the task. There were pencils to sharpen and the pages of fresh journals to cut. Then all was ready. Evie took a deep breath. This was peaceful work, work that was both useful and relaxing. She could lose herself in the drawing just as she did with sewing, her mind absorbed by the process of bringing something to life with a stitch of thread, the shading of a pencil. The first item was a jewelled comb. Evie laid it on her table and began.
Sketching in the morning was pleasant. There was a light breeze that filtered in regularly, enough to keep the workspace cool without ruffling the papers. Drawing in the afternoon, however, was less pleasant. The breeze had stopped and the heat had increased. So too had the flies. Nothing horrendous, she told herself, swiping at the pesky fly for the hundredth time, merely inconvenient. This wasn’t the desert after all. And she had only to look across the work site to appreciate the comforts of her space. Out in the direct August sun, men laboured with carts and rocks, brushing, sifting, hauling, while they strained and sweated, the Prince among them. Archaeology was dirty labour. His hair had come loose, his shirt untucked. He didn’t look terribly royal at the moment, just a man. Perhaps that was why he liked his work so much...
‘Evie!’ A shadow fell across her table, startling her. ‘What are you doing here? I would have thought you’d have left by now.’ Andrew moved some papers aside so he could sit on the table’s edge.
‘Careful! The ink isn’t quite dry!’ she squawked, appalled at his thoughtlessness.
Andrew jumped up and stepped back, glancing down at his trousers. ‘Thanks for the warning, I wouldn’t have wanted to stain these trousers. They’re new.’
‘I was thinking about the paintings,’ Evie said crossly, still alarmed at how close she’d come to losing the afternoon’s work to a careless gesture. ‘They took hours to complete.’ His trousers! Hah! The drawings were much more important. Andrew had at least twenty pairs of trousers. The man was a clotheshorse. Usually she admired that.
‘Why, Evie,’ Andrew drawled, looking at her with more careful consideration than he’d given the drawings. ‘I do believe you’re put out with me.’ A boyish grin teased at his mouth and he looked devilishly handsome in his clean, creased buff trousers and coat of blue summer superfine.
He looked immaculate and cool, not a speck of dust on him. Quite the opposite of herself. Suddenly self-conscious, Evie pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, hoping she didn’t look as hot as she felt. Of course Andrew would see her now when she wasn’t looking her best or apparently acting it.
She really had behaved like a shrew and to Andrew of all people. Surely that wasn’t how one got a man’s attention. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that these drawings are one of a kind and they took hours.’ Andrew wasn’t an artist. He couldn’t be expected to appreciate things like wet ink.
Andrew studied the drawings, seeing them for the first time. He held a few of them up, while she cringed and hoped they’d dried sufficiently to be touched without smudging. ‘Evie, these are good, really good.’
‘Thank you.’ She could feel herself blush. When had Andrew ever complimented her? This was a first.
‘We should be thanking you.’ Andrew put the drawings back down on the pile. ‘Dimitri will be pleased. Speaking of which, did he find anything of interest today?’ He gave her a wide smile, his blue eyes twinkling.
‘Nothing from the dining room yet, they’re still working.’
‘That’s too bad. I know he has high hopes for it.’ Andrew reached for the box of catalogued artefacts. ‘What’s in here?’
‘There is a jewelled comb.’ Evie flipped through the pages of her drawings. ‘It was the first one I did today.’ She handed it to Andrew, pleased that his eyes lit up. She’d thought it the best she’d done all day. It had been a challenge to portray the tiny pieces of emerald that were still embedded on the comb’s edge.
‘Lovely. Museums are always interested in pieces like this.’ Andrew considered the drawing thoughtfully. ‘Where’s the comb itself?’
‘It’s already been taken over to the “museum”.’ Evie gestured towards the canvas collection centre, where Dimitri planned to store the artefacts.
‘Hmm.’ Andrew muttered more to himself. ‘Do you think you could make me a copy of the drawing? I’d love to have it for myself, a souvenir of this project.’
‘I’ll do it tomorrow.’ Evie beamed, pleased.
The Prince strode up and Andrew stepped away from the table. ‘Ah, there you are. It’s about time you showed up now that it’s nearly supper,’ the Prince joked, slapping Andrew on the back before turning to more serious business. ‘How did it go today? Were you able to secure the supplies we need?’
‘Yes. Your small army of workers will have food, starting tomorrow. Plenty of vegetables, just how you like,’ Andrew assured him. He winked at Evie and explained. ‘While you have all been playing in the dirt here today, I’ve been in negotiations for food supplies.’ He picked up a drawing. ‘Evie has outdone herself on these.’ He handed one to the Prince and Evie found herself anxious. It was rather disconcerting to have someone look over her work right in front of her. She would have preferred Dimitri look at her work privately once she was home. She hardly dared to breathe while she waited for him to pass judgement.
‘Excellent,’ the Prince declared with a smile. ‘You’ve earned the right to go home.’ He shot a glance at Andrew. ‘Perhaps you might be so good as to escort her home?’ Her heart began to pound. This was almost too good to be true; Andrew had acknowledged her talent and now he was going to drive her home. So why was she spending more time staring at Dimitri, who was hot, dirty and tired from a day’s hard work, when there was immaculate, charming Andrew to stare at?
‘I would like nothing better.’ Andrew offered her his arm, drawing her attention through the effort. ‘I am parked just over here, Evie.’
‘Miss Milham,’ the Prince called after them, ‘we’ll see you in the morning?’ He had the manners to make it a question, not a command.
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ Evie called back, cheerfully. Today had been one of the best days she’d had in a long while and that wasn’t even counting the carriage ride to come.
Chapter Six (#ulink_b6992c3f-a970-5a05-aba0-f50627125a30)
Which was just as well, Evie reflected, the curricle jolting to a halt outside her house in the summer twilight. The drive wasn’t nearly as exciting as it should have been. It was, in fact, something of a disappointment. Perhaps it was simply that the rest of the day had been far more exciting than it should have been and all else paled by comparison. After all, it wasn’t every day a girl got to catalogue and draw items that were a thousand years old. A few centuries old, that was one thing. She’d done that plenty of times for her father, even for herself when she drew her tapestry patterns. But a thousand? That was incredible and she had the ink stains to prove it. She clenched her hands into fists, hoping Andrew wouldn’t notice, not when he looked like perfection itself handling the reins on the seat beside her, his hair burning gold in the sinking sunlight, his clothes the height of summer fashion, straight from London. He, like most gentlemen of her acquaintance, would find it odd for a girl to get excited about artefacts and ink.
Andrew set the brake and she let herself engage in a moment of fantasy. Would this be what life would be like with Andrew? What if they were pulling up to their house after a day spent engaged in the pursuit of history? Would they go inside and sip cool lemonade before dinner? Would they talk through the finds of the day on a back veranda, a candlelit dinner laid before them? Would they watch the sun sink together before he took her hand and led her up to the bedroom?
It occurred to her that when she’d thought of Andrew in the past, it had never been with an eye to finding any intellectual fulfilment with him. Andrew drew a woman with his looks, with the way he carried himself. Those were always the things she noticed about him first. She wasn’t alone. They were the things every girl in the parish talked about when they talked about handsome Andrew Adair. But now that she knew he loved history too, it seemed more important than ever that she win him. They would have so much in common, so much to build a life on. It proved her instincts had been right all these years of gazing at him from afar. She and Andrew belonged together, no matter what reservations Beatrice might hold.
Andrew came around to her side, reaching to help her down. His hands were at her waist, swinging her to the ground and breaking her out of her daydream. She stumbled a little as he set her down. Andrew laughed as he steadied her. ‘Evie, where are you? You’re miles from here.’ She loved his blue eyes when he laughed, all sparks and lights. Today, they were laughing for her. That should be a victory of sorts. How long had she waited for such a reaction?
‘Just enjoying the scenery.’ Evie dared the flirtatious line before she could think better of it. She smiled up at him. He was tall, nearly as tall as the Prince, who was more than six feet. She got a beaming smile in return, but nothing more. What had she expected? Andrew was a gentleman.
Andrew ushered her up the steps to the front door, his hand skimming the small of her back, a gesture her body and mind barely registered. She waited for more: for heat, for recognition. Nothing came. Perhaps the touch was too insignificant. It wasn’t as if the front steps of her home was a setting designed to coax any intimacy. But the lack of any registration left her strangely let down. She felt as if she was waiting for something that had not yet arrived and she was loath to let Andrew leave on such a low note because of it.
‘Would you like to come in? I’m sure my father would love to talk about the project. The Prince gave him a thorough tour this morning.’ She tried not to hold her breath, tried not to appear too wistful. It was just a casual invitation issued to a long-time neighbour.
Andrew gave her another broad smile. For a moment she thought he’d say yes. Then he shook his head. ‘I appreciate the offer, but I must decline. I’ve had a long day and another early start tomorrow. You do too. The Prince is lucky to have you assisting us in this endeavour.’ He held her eyes for an extended moment. ‘I will look forward to my drawing, Evie.’
He strode back down the steps and drove away, leaving her still waiting. Still wanting something.
* * *
It wasn’t until the end of dinner with her parents, over the cheese and fruit course, that she understood what she’d been waiting for and why. She’d wanted her body to register his touch as it had registered the Prince’s; with a rush of heat and sharp awareness.
Evie nearly choked on a slice of pear. What did she think she was doing? Comparing the Prince and Andrew? That was a piece of wanton madness if ever there was one. She tried to rationalise the direction of her thoughts. Was it too much to expect that she feel something at Andrew’s touch? And why not? After all, the Prince had only touched her amid a crowd in a public venue. His touch had been nothing more than what politeness demanded, yet she’d come alive at it. Both times. It had been much the same when he’d come to view the tapestry.
‘Are you feeling all right, dear?’ Her mother gave her a concerned look. She had to be careful here or her high-strung mother would pester her all night if she thought anything was wrong.
Evie answered with a sip of her water. She couldn’t plausibly conceive of answering that question with any amount of truth. It would give her mother a fit if she knew what Evie had spent dinner thinking about. Evie had learned long ago to keep her imagination to herself.
Her mother rose from the table and smiled at her father. ‘Why don’t we all move into the sitting room? Mrs Brooks has left the doors open to catch the breeze.’ To Evie, she said, ‘I have a letter from one of your sisters.’ She retrieved a letter from a pocket in her skirt and smiled as if she held a great prize. If it was from Diana, maybe she did. Diana had married two years ago to an earl in Cornwall and promptly popped out an heir. Evie would bet money the contents of the letter held news of a spare arriving in the spring. If the letter was from her other sister, Gwen, perhaps the letter was less of a prize. Gwen had married a baronet’s second son who aspired to be a don at Oxford. Evie had sewn both of their wedding gowns.
This had become the routine of their evenings since her sisters had gone. The three of them would eat, would go into the sitting room. Her father would read to them from one of his current history interests, her mother would read any interesting letters and Evie would stitch on her latest project. Tonight it wasn’t enough. How could she go from the heat, the dust, the masculinity of the excavation site to her mother’s sitting room? To letters about someone else’s life? How could she, when her head was full of Andrew and a Russian Prince with a hot touch? Her life had suddenly become interesting on its own without any help from her sisters.
She made her excuses at the stairs. ‘I think I will go up instead. I am tired,’ she lied with a wan smile. ‘I might write a note to May before I go to bed.’ That part was true. May and Beatrice would know what to make of her mind’s tendency to compare the two men.
But it was difficult to concentrate on writing the letter. Her mind kept drifting back to the day and all she’d seen—a thousand-year-old comb and a white pavilion where even now, as the summer moon rose, a dark-haired man might be preparing for bed. It did not occur to her until she climbed into her own bed that she hadn’t once wondered about Andrew in his. Those feelings would come, she told herself. Of course they would come. How could they not? She’d been infatuated with Andrew for ages. It was entirely different with the Prince. Dimitri was exciting and new, she’d not had time to think about him, to adjust to him, to get used to him. She didn’t know what to expect, whereas her infatuation with Andrew was a well-travelled path.
There was likely no harm in finding Dimitri exciting and new. She might as well enjoy the novelty of such a fantasy while it lasted. He would leave and, besides, he was a prince and she was Evie. There was certainly no future there no matter how rousing his touch or how hot his eyes. But for a little while, Madame Fortune was finally smiling on her.
* * *
Fortune was finally favouring him. Andrew poured himself a brandy in the dark quiet of his study. He was treating himself to a glass of the good stuff tonight. He’d known from the start, uniting himself with Dimitri Petrovich would be a good idea and now he could turn that association into a cash crop of artefacts. The comb Evie had told him about was a good start, a sign of more to come.
He took up his seat in front of the cold hearth, content to sit in the dark and think. He’d been staggered by the amount of money a museum had paid the Prince for that mosaic in Herculaneum and again when the Prince had sold some of the artefacts from the excavation outside Athens.
The money was pocket change to a man of the Prince’s wealth, but Andrew had a broader vision in mind. If a museum would pay those sums, how much more would private buyers pay for the privilege to possess a piece of authentic history? That was the real market, in Andrew’s mind. The Prince was rankly opposed to that option. Private collections kept artefacts hidden from the public. In the Prince’s mind, museums were the public’s gateway to understanding and accessing their past. Andrew didn’t care. Everything had a price, even the past, and he would sell to the highest bidder.
History could be very lucrative, as long as the Prince dug up something of merit. That was the risk. But it was a risk that cost him nothing but time. The site might not prove to be fertile. He had great faith in the Prince. The Prince understood what to look for and the Prince knew why certain items had value, why they appealed to people. Once the Prince dug up something of merit, the next step would be to get the right clientele out to the site. That’s where Evie’s drawings came in to play. He could use them as advertising to the right clientele, powerful, rich men. After that, he had another plan for those drawings that would further line his pockets. All he had to do was flirt a little with Evie, keep her dangling, keep her willing to please, which shouldn’t be hard to do if the Prince was right about her affections—and he had to make sure the Prince didn’t find out about his plans until it was too late. Once the Prince returned to Kuban, there would be nothing he could do about it. Andrew just had to wait him out until October. Andrew smiled in the dark. This was turning out well, better than expected.
* * *
Things were going better than expected, but that didn’t mean they were easy. Dimitri stood and stretched, rolling his shoulders to get the kinks out of his neck. He’d spent most of the day on his hands and knees painstakingly brushing off what he hoped were tiles in General Lucius Artorious’s dining room. It was looking promising. Now that they’d made it to the centre of the room, an elegant mosaic was starting to emerge in the shape of a rose embedded in the floor and the team had found pieces of pottery that had been taken over to Evie with hastily scribbled notes for cataloguing.
Ah. Evie. She’d been a godsend. He let his gaze linger on her at a distance, her head bent over her work, her hand moving tirelessly, her concentration unbreakable. Did she know he spent far too much of his days watching her? Far too much of his time wondering about her—about her life in West Sussex? Aside from his growing intrigue with her, bringing her on to draw had been a good business decision. Her work was excellent, her attention to detail as focused as her drawings had led him to believe. And there were actually items for her to draw. Progress was being made that bore out his research. Andrew had not been wrong when he’d suggested a Roman general’s villa was here in the rolling hills of West Sussex and that information was paying off in spades.
His gaze found Evie at her table and he smiled. Evie’s pile of drawings grew by the day, drawings that would serve as illustrations in the book he would put together on the excavation, as well as drawings he would archive for the museum in Kuban. She made not just one copy, but three of the same item, each one a brilliant replica, each one a product of her patience. She had an aptitude for the art and for the organisation of it. Stefon, impressed, had told him how Evie had overhauled their usual organisation system and made it more efficient.
She made his own days more efficient too in ways she probably didn’t realise. Did she know how much he looked forward to their brief conferences that started and ended each day? He liked the routine of that—of looking forward to talking with her at the beginning of the day when everything was fresh and new. They would talk about the prospects for the day, what he hoped to find, hoped to do. To speak his hopes out loud gave his day structure. They would end the day much the same way: a brief discussion of whether or not those hopes had materialised. It was a good way to put the day to bed.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/bronwyn-scott/awakening-the-shy-miss/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Bronwyn Scott
Seduced by the PrinceDimitri Petrovich, Prince of Kuban, is unlike any man seamstress Evie Milham has ever met. Exotic and charismatic, he’s visiting her sleepy country village to excavate antiquities. Yet one glimpse of the Prince’s melting brown eyes, and shy Evie’s heart races like never before…Dimitri is no stranger to desire, and he knows innocent Evie wants him! Before he returns to his homeland, he must decide – resist Evie’s siren call, or give her pleasure beyond her wildest, hottest imaginings!
Seduced by the prince
Dimitri Petrovich, Prince of Kuban, is unlike any man seamstress Evie Milham has ever met. Exotic and charismatic, he’s paying a visit to her sleepy country village. Yet one glimpse of the prince’s melting brown eyes and shy Evie’s heart races like never before...
Dimitri is no stranger to desire, and he knows innocent Evie wants him! Before he returns to his homeland, he must decide—resist Evie’s siren call, or give her pleasure beyond her wildest, hottest imaginings!
Wallflowers to Wives (#u7d641765-78e4-507e-a093-1dd2a9f6e9f0)
Out of the shadows, into the marriage bed!
In Regency England young women were defined by their prospects in the marriage market. But what of the girls who were presented to society...and not snapped up?
Bronwyn Scott invites you to
The Left Behind Girls Club
Three years after their debut, and still without rings on their fingers, Claire Welton, Evie Milham, May Worth and Beatrice Penrose are ready to leave the shadows and step into the light. Now London will have to prepare itself...because these overlooked girls are about to take the ton by storm!
Read Claire’s story in
Unbuttoning the Innocent Miss
Read Evie’s story in
Awakening the Shy Miss
Both available now!
And watch for more Wallflowers to Wives stories—coming soon!
Author Note (#ulink_9eb074a8-4208-5a2f-bb02-500065ea6903)
A couple of years ago I read a non-fiction book that espoused the idea that if you do what you love, the rest will follow. This is a theme that many people struggle to balance with ‘reality’ through their lifetimes. Do we pursue our dreams even when we can’t see how those dreams will pay the bills or keep our families secure? Or do we ‘do the right thing’ and follow the traditional paths laid out by society?
I wanted to explore this theme with Evie and Dimitri’s story. They are both trapped by social expectations and have spent their lives living up—or, in Evie’s case, living down—to those standards at great personal cost to themselves. Their relationship allows both of them to explore who they truly want to be.
Of course it’s easy to say ‘follow your dreams’. The truth is, the reality of doing it is a lot harder. What I like best about this story is that Dimitri and Evie don’t simply say, ‘To hell with society—we’ll strike out for ourselves.’ That’s not how it works for them—or for us. What makes this story special is how they find a way through all that without compromising and without jeopardising others—ultimately, this is a story about love’s great balancing act.
I hope you enjoy Evie and the Prince of Kuban in their story. Here’s a teaser for you—look for May and Beatrice’s stories next, and beyond that look for a chance to meet four other Princes of Kuban in a new Bronwyn Scott series.
Stay in touch at bronwynswriting.blogspot.com (http://bronwynswriting.blogspot.com). or at my web page: bronwynnscott.com (http://www.bronwynnscott.com).
Awakening the Shy Miss
Bronwyn Scott
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and is the proud mother of three wonderful children—one boy and two girls. When she’s not teaching or writing she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages. Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, bronwynnscott.com (http://www.bronwynnscott.com), or at her blog, bronwynswriting.blogspot.com (http://bronwynswriting.blogspot.com). She loves to hear from readers.
Books by Bronwyn Scott
Mills & Boon Historical Romance
and Mills & Boon Historical Undone! eBooks
Wallflowers to Wives
Unbuttoning the Innocent Miss
Awakening the Shy Miss
Rakes on Tour
Rake Most Likely to Rebel
Rake Most Likely to Thrill
Rake Most Likely to Seduce
Rake Most Likely to Sin
Rakes of the Caribbean
Playing the Rake’s Game
Breaking the Rake’s Rules
Craving the Rake’s Touch (Undone!)
Rakes Who Make Husbands Jealous
Secrets of a Gentleman Escort
London’s Most Wanted Rake
An Officer But No Gentleman (Undone!)
A Most Indecent Gentleman (Undone!)
Visit the Author Profile page
at millsandboon.co.uk (http://millsandboon.co.uk) for more titles.
For Tonia, who spent six great months with us.
Contents
Cover (#uf6bef96d-e2ed-5a22-895c-aa7e5e6c44d0)
Back Cover Text (#uc7bb70d2-f124-5fdf-a399-3be99a0ddbe5)
Introduction
Author Note (#ulink_defc79d4-12f8-5618-9242-84ad95070d9a)
Title Page (#ua6fe83ef-17ac-5fa8-a72d-6b3d24fd36d4)
About the Author (#u9c6dbd9d-440f-57f3-a6b1-a7c5bfd1940e)
Dedication (#u1eab8106-9fbb-5568-a0ef-3327ea9aadfc)
Chapter One (#ua41bea6c-2aaa-57ea-ad88-0efe6ccad61d)
Chapter Two (#ufb10bf02-fd70-580a-a934-3dbab57fe4c2)
Chapter Three (#u35a81a6d-ac38-55e2-a2e4-8a7d233e7550)
Chapter Four (#u97ce36cc-827a-5fda-94bc-f9f7d97aa126)
Chapter Five (#u0aba8ae9-489e-5546-a46f-deeeb184bf6c)
Chapter Six (#ue80ceddf-e4e4-58f0-b8b1-6de371d6e650)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_93d06cc8-2a81-5961-bfed-4a32c8011de9)
August 10th, 1821
Evie Milham desperately wanted to get into his trousers. Judging from the extraordinary amount of females crammed into Little Westbury’s assembly-room-cum-lecture hall this warm August night, she wasn’t the only one. Although, Evie doubted the rest of the female population wanted into them for the same reason.
Regardless of female motive, there was no disputing this was the most well-attended archaeological lecture in the history of West Sussex, perhaps in the history of England. Not even the Elgin Marbles had engendered such an enthusiastic response in retrieving the past. Then again, the Elgin Marbles didn’t look like him, Dimitri Petrovich, Prince of Kuban. Evie was certain he could talk about pickled herring and still draw a crowd. He was tall, with sleek dark hair that flowed over his shoulders, his face chiselled with strong lines that hinted at exotic antecedents. Women would travel miles to stare at those cheekbones with their high slant. And his clothes, oh, those clothes! He wore them like a god’s own mantle. Evie’s fingers started to twitch in anticipation. How she wanted to get her hands on those trousers! If she could just study them up close for a few moments! Whoever his tailor was, the man was a genius.
Evie craned her neck, trying for a better glimpse. If she’d known he’d be so exquisitely dressed, she would have sat closer to the front. She’d not chosen this particular seat near the back for him, but for another him. Andrew Adair sat just two convenient rows ahead of her, his golden head a beacon for her eyes except, apparently, when those eyes were looking at Prince Dimitri Petrovich, which was more frequently than she had anticipated. It was hard not to. When one wasn’t looking at his trousers, one could easily stare at his hands. He didn’t gesture like an Englishman. There was a loose fluidity to his gestures that made him appear all the more foreign.
She might as well look, Evie reasoned. It wasn’t as if Andrew minded or was even aware of her visual perfidy, more was the pity. She often thought she could dance naked on a stage and Andrew wouldn’t notice. Not that she would. Evie Milham might entertain such wild notions, but she never acted on them.
Tonight was supposed to change that. Tonight was her chance to claim Andrew’s notice after six years of anonymity. Admittedly, for two of those years, she hadn’t been ‘out’, hardly eligible for his attentions even if they had been neighbours for two decades. The other three years, he’d been in Europe on his Grand Tour while she debuted in London. This year it would be different. Their trajectories were finally in alignment. She was ‘out’ and he was home. Better yet, he’d made it clear during the recently ended Season he was looking to marry. Evie drew a deep breath. She would make him notice her.
Her eyes strayed from the back of Andrew’s golden head once more. Up on stage, the Prince of Pleats—it must be the pleats that caused his trousers to lie so exquisitely across those lean hips—made one of his exotic gestures to footmen carrying trays of champagne. She forced her eyes back to Andrew. Now was not the time to be distracted by a set of pleats. If she’d learned anything this last Season it was that nothing changed until you did. She couldn’t merely wait for Andrew’s notice. Hadn’t her friend Claire’s whirlwind marriage to the dashing diplomat, Jonathon Lashley, a few weeks ago, proven the motto true? Claire had made Jonathon notice her. She simply had to do the same with Andrew and her own happy-ever-after wouldn’t be far behind. After all, Andrew couldn’t be blamed for not noticing her if she had done nothing to help that notice along.
‘Champagne, miss? Compliments of the Prince for the toast.’ A footman offered her a tray of cold, sweating flutes. Not just champagne, but chilled champagne. Iced champagne in the country in August was a luxury indeed. Evie took a glass and the footman moved on. At the front of the room, the Prince raised his glass, signalling the audience to rise. It was a noisy, rustling affair as the crowd took to its feet, careful not to spill a collective drop. Inspiration struck Evie. What if she moved up a couple of rows? No one would notice if she edged forward and took a place at Andrew’s elbow. It was the perfect plan. He would turn and see her. He’d have to clink glasses with her, he would look into her eyes...
Move, you ninny! she chastised herself. The toast would be over and she would still be standing here dreaming about the moment while the moment passed. Evie gathered her courage and made the journey forward two rows, all of ten feet. Her heartbeat sped up. Never had she dared to place herself so directly in Andrew’s path. The Prince was speaking but her thoughts were too preoccupied to pick up more than snatches of his speech. ‘I am pleased to announce I have taken up residence here in Little Westbury for the purpose of excavating... I am proud to be joined in this venture by fellow enthusiasts for history such as...’ She didn’t hear the names until he reached the end of his recitations. ‘And most of all, I am joined generously by my friend and fellow traveller, Mr Andrew Adair, without whom this venture would not be possible.’
That got her attention. Andrew was bosom bows with the Prince? Andrew was interested in historical preservation? All these years of living next door to him and she’d had no idea on either account. She’d just reached Andrew’s side on the aisle when the toast went up, people clinking everywhere. The room sounded like a series of chiming crystal bells. Andrew clinked to his right, then with the people in front of him and behind him. Finally, he turned to his left. His fair brows knit in startled surprise, taking a moment to process her presence. ‘Oh, Evie, it’s you. What are you doing here?’ He touched his glass to hers. She searched her mind for something to say.
‘I wanted to hear the Prince speak.’ Partially true. ‘Congratulations, by the way, on the evening.’
‘Oh, yes.’ His response was vague. ‘This is big, very big.’ His eyes were already drifting back to the stage, his attention on the Prince when it was supposed to have lingered on her.
Evie struggled to hold his interest. ‘I had no idea you were so interested in—’ she began, but he cut her off with a raised index finger signalling for a pause.
‘If you’ll excuse me for a moment, Evie?’ Andrew brushed past her into the centre of the aisle. If she didn’t know better, the interruption bordered on rude. She might have been insulted by his abrupt behaviour. But she understood the reason for it. As a close friend of the Prince, Andrew would be expected to offer a reciprocal toast. She should have anticipated that. Andrew wasn’t being rude. He was just doing his duty.
Andrew lifted his own glass as the noise ebbed, the motion causing all eyes to swivel his direction. And hers. Evie recognised too late she was caught in the view of the audience’s collective gaze. She wanted to step back, but the crowd was too thick around her. She’d only wanted Andrew’s notice, not the entire room’s. When she’d approached Andrew, she’d made another serious miscalculation. She’d not bargained on this much attention.
Andrew raised his voice, commanding and confident, to address the crowd. She envied and admired his confidence. ‘To the Prince!’ Within moments he was swept towards the stage to join the Prince and she was left behind. Again. And that was that. Her bid for Andrew’s attention had come to an abrupt end.
No. Go after him! That was Claire’s voice in her head. Claire would never stand here like a wooden doll. Evie pushed forward and let herself be caught in the crowd surging towards the stage, everyone eager to meet the Prince. It was surprisingly easy to let the jostling move her closer to Andrew. When the jostling stopped she stood beside Andrew, watching in genuine astonishment as the Prince of Kuban swept him into a brotherly embrace, definitely not the kind of embrace English gentleman gave one another. This one was far too full bodied. ‘My friend! It is good to see you. Did you like the talk?’
Andrew returned the embrace, but his movements were awkward, as if he were not quite comfortable with such intimate male contact. ‘Very much, the points you made about the importance of history were eloquently put,’ Andrew effused with a charming smile. ‘West Sussex agrees with you, old chap. You are looking quite fit.’
The Prince grinned. ‘Indeed it does!’ He threw his arms out wide to encompass the room and beyond. ‘What a beautiful piece of earth you call home. You are a lucky man.’ He meant it too, Evie thought. There was an air of sincerity about the Prince that made him appear more human, less royal, than one might expect, although she doubted any of the folks tonight would let him forget the royal part. But then the very human prince turned his dark eyes in her direction and Evie froze, no longer a comfortable observer in the conversation, but a participant. The Prince’s eyes were on her, two decadent brown pools of chocolate silk. His gaze was as full bodied as his embrace, those eyes taking in all of her as if he really saw her—Evie the needleworker, Evie the seamstress, Evie who helped her father with his historical research—and he didn’t find those truths lacking or socially backwards. It was a bold gaze, another way in which the mere physical presence of him announced to the world he wasn’t English. ‘Andrew, we’ve been remiss. Who might this charming young woman be?’
There was a scold beneath his words for Andrew. It was the second time that night Andrew had been borderline rude in her presence. A lady should never have to introduce herself. She sensed Andrew’s fraction-of-a-second hesitation as he found himself yet again surprised to see her beside him. She wished her attendance would stop being such a revelation to him.
Andrew smiled his recovery. ‘This is Evie Milham, my neighbour.’ Evie fought the urge to cringe. He’d called her ‘Evie’ in front of the Prince! Surely meeting a prince, even if it was amid the milieu of Little Westbury’s assembly hall, required more formality than that. The Prince seemed to think so too. One of his slim dark eyebrows went up in a querying arch.
Evie lifted her chin in defiance of the slight. Unintended as it might have been, it was a slight none the less. She faced the Prince and dipped a curtsy, taking the introduction into her own hands. ‘I’m Miss Milham.’ This might be the country and Andrew and the Prince might be bosom friends, but she knew what a prince was due, Sussex assembly room or not. She knew what she was due too and it was high time she gathered the courage to claim it, demand it if need be. If she didn’t value herself, no one else would either. Beatrice and Claire had taught her that. She was missing Claire very much just now, Claire who spoke five languages. Claire would know what to say and how to say it. Claire could speak Russian with him, or whatever it was they spoke in Kuban.
Evie summoned her courage, trying not to feel plain and shy in the presence of such a man. She offered the Prince her hand, hoping he would never guess just how much courage the simple gesture had taken. It would have been far easier to slink back into the crowd. The effort was worth it, though. He bent over her hand, lips brushing knuckles, chocolate eyes holding hers. Heat spread warm and slow through her. He made her feel like the only woman in the room when he looked at her that way. Perhaps that was the difference between a prince and other men.
‘Evie?’ His accent feathered the ends of his words, making his speech exotic. ‘Is that short for something?’ He was giving her a chance to recover from Andrew’s slight, and elegantly so.
‘Evaine.’
His warm eyes lit in recognition. The pool of warmth in her stomach deepened. ‘Ah, the aunt of Sir Lancelot in your Camelot legends.’
The Prince smiled appreciably. Melting was complete. No wonder good English mothers warned their daughters about the influence of foreign men. This was a man who could sweep a woman off her feet without lifting his arms, a reminder that he had her melting and he didn’t even mean to. She knew the hand kissing, the direct gaze, were all just politeness. Heaven help a woman when he applied himself. Evie had to fight back images of what that application might look like, what form it might take.
‘You know your literature.’ Evie nodded her approval. She seldom met a gentleman who was well schooled enough to know the origins of her name. In these parts, if it wasn’t about a hound or a horse, gentlemen were surprisingly lacking in their education no matter how many years they had spent at Eton. Evie shot a covert glance in Andrew’s direction. She was still digesting the revelation that Andrew had an interest in archaeology and history. She’d definitely classified him as the hound-and-horse sort. He certainly wasn’t the repentant sort. Even with the Prince’s implicit scold over his lack of manners, Andrew had done nothing to make amends.
‘I’m a great follower of the Arthur legends,’ the Prince offered by way of explanation. He was patient as if he didn’t have an entire room of far more attractive women waiting to meet him. But Andrew wasn’t nearly as relaxed. He was edgy and anxious beside her, eager to get on with the socialising.
‘You should visit the Milhams some time, then.’ Andrew’s tone was brisk. ‘Evie’s father is our local historian.’ He said ‘local’ with a hint of distaste as if that explained why her father hadn’t been included in the initial investors in the site, all men from London with further-reaching historical interests.
The Prince looked at her with encouragement, as if he’d like to hear more. Evie took the opening to elaborate. ‘Yes, we have a tapestry that is somewhat noteworthy.’
Andrew was smiling now too, but his was a gesture meant to silence, not to encourage. ‘Later, Evie. If you tell him about it now, there won’t be anything to reveal when he sees it.’ Andrew’s hand went to the Prince’s arm, his face wearing another smile, this one meant to cajole. ‘Besides, we have people to meet, Dimitri.’ The message could not have been clearer. While people stood by, suitably enthralled by the royal presence among them, Andrew called the Prince by his first name. Andrew had risen above the country commonness of Little Westbury; risen above her. Evie suddenly felt very small, very burdensome, as if she was a child who’d forced her unwanted self into the company of adults. Perhaps melting wasn’t a bad idea after all.
The Prince stood his ground long enough to politely take his leave. ‘I shall look forward to the tapestry, Miss Milham.’ She thought she saw an apology in his eyes for the abruptness of their meeting. But surely he understood Andrew’s need to move on as well. Once again she’d miscalculated. She should have anticipated the evening’s demands on Andrew’s time.
‘I look forward to it.’ Evie dipped another curtsy and watched them move away, the pair immediately engulfed by the other guests craving their attention. She was alone again after a brief moment in the sun of Andrew’s attention. In some ways it felt worse now that she’d had a taste of that attention, what it felt like to stand beside him.
She had to stop the self-pity! She was being ridiculous. What had she expected? That somehow Andrew would take her up with them? Include her in his rounds tonight? Why shouldn’t the Prince and Andrew be popular and sought after? They made a handsome pair of males, the Prince with his dark hair and warm eyes; Andrew with his golden, English good looks.
Evie smiled softly to herself, her mind already justifying Andrew’s behaviour. This was a big night for him. He had a lot on his mind, there were people for the Prince to meet. It was no wonder Andrew didn’t want to stand around talking about tapestries or exchanging pleasantries with someone who wasn’t important to his cause this evening. She was selfish to want to keep him all to herself. She had made her first overture, she had to be content with that. And she was. Claire and Beatrice and May would be proud of her. She’d not accepted the first opportunity to be defeated. She’d gone to the stage instead and put herself forward. That in itself was a big step—one of many she’d have to take in this quest to capture Andrew’s affections.
Even if Andrew’s behaviour had bordered on rude, she understood the reasons for it and he had noticed her in the end. She had to take baby steps. She had to get Andrew’s attentions first, then his affections would follow. As her father was fond of saying, Rome wasn’t built in a day. Evie drifted to the perimeter of the assembly hall now that the evening’s goals had been met. She needed to celebrate her victories, not wallow in her defeats.
Chapter Two (#ulink_5cba278d-f332-5fa3-a717-e06f8efabf91)
The night had been a success! Dimitri Petrovich, Prince of Kuban, allowed himself the rare private luxury of slouching into one of Andrew’s comfortably shabby overstuffed chairs. People had been interested in his project and in him. He didn’t fool himself. Interest in the latter was usually a strong recommendation for interest in the former. Being a prince had its merits even if it came with inordinate amounts of fawning. But the cause was worth it.
He pulled at his cravat and let out a sigh. ‘Ah, that feels better.’ Interest was a good sign. It meant the funds would come. Right now, the funds to start the project were all his, but eventually he would want to turn this project over to the people of Little Westbury and they would need to support it. For now, his mind could confidently race ahead to getting the project underway and all the next steps that would entail. There were arrangements to make, men to hire. But all that would keep for tomorrow. Tonight had been a start.
Not a finish. Dimitri pushed the thought away immediately and without tolerance. He wouldn’t allow himself to dwell on what else this evening was; the beginning of the end. This was the last project, his final foray abroad before he had to return to Kuban and take his place at court as all loyal, royal Kubanian males did when they turned thirty. He’d known this day would come. He’d been raised for it, but knowing its imminence didn’t make it any easier to accept. To give up this world and all its riches now, when there was so much more to learn, seemed a great tragedy. But not yet. There were still a few months. There was still time and he would be damned if he’d let the future pollute the present.
He turned his attention to Andrew at the sideboard preparing brandies. ‘You, my friend, were rude this evening.’ It would be far better to occupy his thoughts with more immediate issues. Andrew usually behaved with good manners. Not so tonight.
‘Rude?’ Andrew laughed and handed him a brandy before taking the seat opposite and settling in. A cool evening breeze drifted in from the open French doors of the study, a perfect late summer night. ‘To whom? I was charming to everyone who matters.’
Dimitri cocked an eyebrow and engaged in good-humoured debate. ‘The pretty girl doesn’t matter? That’s not like you, Andrew. I thought pretty girls were your specialty.’ Pretty, rich girls. But Dimitri was too much of a friend to say that out loud.
‘There were lots of pretty girls tonight.’ Andrew grinned and sipped his brandy. ‘Which one?’
‘The first one. Evaine,’ Dimitri prompted.
‘Evaine? Oh, Evie.’ Andrew shrugged dismissively. ‘She’s always around. Good sort, I suppose. Rather shy. You think she’s pretty? We grew up together. I suppose I never thought of her as pretty or otherwise.’
‘Well, she’s clearly thought of you,’ Dimitri probed. The girl had been eager for Andrew’s attention, all smiles and doting eyes whenever he looked at her, which was seldom. Andrew had been oblivious. His friend might not have noticed Evaine Milham, but he had. It was a habit of his, to excavate people the way he excavated sites. He liked looking beyond their surfaces to find their true natures. It made him a better judge of character. He’d seen a far different woman than the girl Andrew so readily dismissed.
Behind the plain upsweep of her hair and the quiet way she presented herself, Evaine Milham had fine features and a wide, generous mouth that lit up her face when she smiled—which was not in public company. She’d been uncomfortable tonight. Her hair might have been simply styled, but its colour was lustrous, a deep chestnut that reminded him of autumn afternoons. Her gown, also simple in fashion, had been intricately embroidered around the hem, where no one would notice. Another sign that she was not a woman who craved attention. Yet there was a certain quiet steel to her. When she’d been pushed to it, she had stood up for herself, demanding the respect she was due.
Taken together, these were no minor clues that Evie Milham was more than she appeared. It was too bad people didn’t look close enough to see those things. He would wager there were secret depths to Miss Milham. ‘I think she might be pretty if she were to do something with her hair.’ Dimitri decided to nudge the point. ‘Perhaps you should give her a second look. It’s no small thing to have a woman’s affection.’ A man could lay claim to no greater prize in this world than a woman’s loyalty. His parents’ marriage had taught him that. It had also taught him that such a gift should be protected, not shunned with the casual disregard Andrew showed Miss Milham.
Andrew gave another shrug as if to suggest it was nothing new, that he was used to having the women of West Sussex fall at his feet with adoring eyes. It was probably true. Andrew had never been short on female attention when they’d travelled together. His new friend had a knack for finding the loveliest, wealthiest woman in a room and latching on to her.
‘Evie’s not my type.’ Andrew’s tone was dismissive without hesitation. Miss Evie Milham would be disappointed to hear she’d been summarily discarded. She’d seemed quite interested, as if Andrew was her type. Andrew took a healthy swallow from his glass. ‘Never has been, never will be. She’s not rich enough by far. I suppose it’s a good thing I haven’t noticed her looks. It would hardly matter how beautiful she was if there’s no money to go with her, and in her case there isn’t. At least, not enough for me. Her father’s a baronet, not exactly a gold mine.’
Dimitri nodded noncommittally on both accounts, keeping his thoughts to himself. Andrew was not usually so harsh when it came to women. Tonight, he was downright callous. It was also the closest Andrew had ever come to admitting he was in the market for a certain type of bride. Dimitri had noticed, of course—the desire to be with the richest women, the state of the furnishings in Andrew’s home, which were comfortably worn out of necessity as opposed to a fashion choice. Still, Andrew was no pauper. Andrew lived well. He drank the finest brandies. In Paris, he’d spent money on opera seats and the expensive opera singers that went with them. Andrew simply didn’t like making economies. Apparently, Evaine Milham was an economy.
Dimitri gave his brandy a contemplative swirl. He had to be careful here. Who was he to judge? He was a prince with no apparent financial limitations. He had wealth untold as long as he returned to Kuban on time. He would never have to worry about economies. And yet, Andrew had the one thing that eluded him. Freedom. The freedom to go anywhere, to do anything, to be anything. There were nights when Dimitri thought he’d trade all the wealth of Kuban for that freedom and a pair of shabby chairs. He leaned back and sighed contentedly. ‘It was a good idea to come here, Andrew. Thank you for this opportunity.’
* * *
There were nights when Andrew knew without question he’d trade everything he had, everything he was, to be Dimitri Petrovich, Prince of Kuban: rich, handsome, charismatic, with the world at his feet. This was one of those nights. He’d seen the people approach Dimitri with something close to awe, the men impressed with his title and knowledge, the women impressed with just him. Andrew longed to command a room like that. He had his own charisma, it was true, but he knew it didn’t rival Dimitri’s magnetism. Of course, money probably had something to do with it. Money always had something to do with everything.
It was also one of those nights when he found Dimitri irritatingly high-minded. Of course, it was easy to be without sin when one was wealthy enough not to have to care. Andrew rose and poured another glass of brandy—the good stuff. If he had to listen to Dimitri go on and on about his plans for the villa excavation, he might as well enjoy himself. ‘This will be good for Little Westbury. The excavation will provide jobs.’ Andrew tuned it out. He had heard it all before, how retrieving history created a sense of local pride in small communities, how it helped the economy, not just labourers at the site, but the businesses that supported a large labour force: farmers, bakers, butchers who supplied the food required for such an endeavour; tourism and news stories that would bring people here, people who might require more services than a single inn or tavern could provide. The town might need two such places. The Prince had vision and he had the talent to give others vision too, Andrew would give him that.
After all, hadn’t the Prince given him vision? The vision of how dusty, broken artefacts could be translated into shiny gold. Once Andrew had seen the possibilities, history had become a lot more interesting. This villa excavation was going to be his own personal gold mine. He’d finally have the funds he needed, the prestige he needed, to live at the standard he wanted. There would be no more tatty chairs and worn curtains, no more carefully going over the account ledgers of his grandfather’s shrinking estate to make sure the books balanced. Andrew was not interested in what the excavation would do for Little Westbury, but what it could do for him. He would finally be free.
Chapter Three (#ulink_c3e349ea-8de7-5f71-94aa-ce899002fc6b)
‘So, how did it go last night?’ The question hit Evie the moment two of her best friends stepped down from the open carriage. It was mid-morning and the sun was riding high towards its noon heat. Soon it would be hot, but for now it was pleasantly warm and Evie let Beatrice and May link their arms through hers, flanking her on either side as they set off for shopping in the village.
Anyone watching them advance down the street would see three young, chattering women, all smiles and laughter, even carefree. In part, that might be true. Evie knew the primary purpose for this shopping expedition was to hear about the excitement of her evening. No one saw the other agenda that brought them together. No one could be allowed to. It was their secret. Time was running out. They might not be together much longer. Already, their fourth, Claire, was on her honeymoon far away in Vienna, where she’d live with her new husband. Beatrice would be the next to go, probably in a few weeks.
Evie shot a covert glance at Beatrice’s middle, softly rounding beneath the loose cotton muslin of her summer gown, proof that it was going to happen. Beatrice was pregnant. And unwed. She would be leaving for Scotland soon, where she could have her baby at a distant relative’s home and her family could forget about her shame. Beatrice’s stay in Little Westbury was merely a two week stop-over in preparation for that journey.
‘Well?’ May prompted with a mischievous glint in her eyes. ‘Did anything happen last night? I heard the assembly hall was a crush.’
Evie smiled at each of her friends in turn as she related her story; how she’d sat behind Andrew and found a way to move up next to him for the toast; how she hadn’t given up and followed Andrew to the stage. She left out other details like Andrew’s disregard.
‘Well done!’ May commended her, gesturing to the shop window on her right. ‘Let’s stop in here at the Emporium. I need to get some drawing paper and pens.’
Masterson’s Emporium was the social hub of Little Westbury, a shop that carried a variety of goods ranging from planting seeds to ready-made gloves straight from London. Customers milled about, looking over the goods in the dim coolness of the shop. A few children ogled the row of sweets displayed in glass jars.
‘How did Andrew take your presence?’ Beatrice sifted through a bin of soaps, lifting them at random to sniff as they waited for May.
‘He was surprised,’ Evie answered honestly. ‘He didn’t expect to see me and it flustered him.’ She didn’t want to admit Andrew had forgotten to introduce her. Beatrice didn’t like Andrew as it was. Bea thought he wasn’t worthy of her. This would just give Bea fuel for that fire. ‘I met the Prince,’ Evie offered brightly, hoping to distract Bea.
‘How was he? Arrogant? Haughty?’ Bea sniffed a citrus-scented soap and wrinkled her nose before putting it back down.
‘No, he was neither.’ Evie gave Bea a quizzical glance. ‘Why would you think that?’
‘He’s a prince. Men like him have a certain tendency towards pretension.’
Evie laughed. ‘Be nice, Bea. He was very cordial last night.’ More than cordial. She couldn’t recall the last time a man had been that ‘cordial’ to her. She couldn’t forget those eyes, her body couldn’t forget the feel of his lips brushing her knuckles. Her mind had rebelliously kept her awake last night with a hungry curiosity. What would it be like to be a woman who truly caught his attentions? She would never be that woman. But it was harmless to wonder from afar.
Bea gave a soft smile. ‘You’re too kind, Evie, always looking for the best in all of us.’
May hurried up to them, a brown wrapped package under her arm. ‘I’m ready to go. Where to next?’
‘The draper’s, I need to get some fabric. I’ve a new dress in mind for autumn.’ It was a beautiful russet silk she’d ordered from a warehouse in London when she’d been in town. She could hardly wait to get started on it. Evie smiled as they set off down the street. ‘You’ve heard all my news, now I want to hear yours.’ The threesome had not seen each other since Claire’s farewell ball in London. Evie and her family had set out for home immediately afterwards, arriving a week ago. May and Bea had only reached Little Westbury the day before after a sudden delay in departure plans.
‘I don’t think there’s much to tell,’ Beatrice began slowly. Too slowly. Evie sensed there was something afoot, but there was no time to enquire.
May squeezed her arm, whispering in frantic excitement, ‘Who is that? He’s crossing the street and coming towards us!’
Evie looked down the street where a tall man in high boots and summer buckskin sans pleats strode towards them swinging a walking stick at his side. She recognised him immediately, pleats or not. ‘That’s the Prince of Kuban, Dimitri Petrovich, himself.’ All six feet and two inches of himself. Her sartorial eye noted the excellence of his wardrobe. He was dressed for an English summer day in a single-breasted tailcoat of camel with a waistcoat in bone linen, set off with a deep green cravat the colour of the forest. But no matter how English his clothing, no one would mistake him for an Englishman, not with that long hair pulled into a sleek tail behind him, making his high cheekbones all the more prominent, his eyes all that more exotic.
‘He is certainly all man,’ May murmured appreciatively. ‘Just look at that swagger.’ Against her better judgement, Evie’s eyes drifted down to his open-hipped stroll, which bordered on decadent. Even his walk was exotic. Good heavens, she really had to find a new word. He was handsome. Perhaps if she wasn’t focused on Andrew, she might find him attractive in a more personal way. For now, though, the attraction was limited to his mannerisms, his fashion. She truly did admire his clothes. Even if she didn’t have her heart set on Andrew, admiring the prince’s clothes was all a girl like her could do. One only had to look at him, so confident, so handsome, so male, and then look at her to know she never stood a chance. She wasn’t the type who caught princes. She was too odd. London had taught her that in the most brutal way possible.
‘Miss Milham, good day.’ The Prince gave a short bow in greeting. ‘What a pleasure to encounter you.’ Evie was aware of Beatrice and May exchanging quiet looks. Her usually confident friends seemed daunted by his presence.
Evie dipped a curtsy. ‘Your Highness, may I introduce my friends? This is Miss May Worth and Miss Beatrice Penrose.’
He greeted each in turn, taking their hands and smiling at them, his eyes as warm and genuine as they’d been last night, proof that she’d been right. These rituals were mere politeness to him. They meant nothing. He asked how they were enjoying the weather and enquired about their errands, making small talk, doing the work of putting them at ease. He must do it all the time, Evie realised, watching the interaction. Everywhere he went, people were probably in awe of him, in awe of being in the company of a royal prince. Did he ever get tired of the effort?
Then he was talking to her and she forgot her speculations. ‘It’s quite fortuitous that I’ve run into you, Miss Milham. I was hoping to take you up on the offer to view your tapestry. I regret we did not get to speak of it more in depth last night.’
Evie blushed under the weight of Bea’s and May’s stares. They were wondering what she hadn’t told them. ‘You are welcome to view it any time. Someone is always at home,’ Evie managed. Beside her, May straightened, her posture becoming alert. That worried her. Apparently, May had overcome any self-consciousness.
‘Tomorrow,’ May interjected with a smile to the Prince. ‘You should come tomorrow to view the tapestry. Evie is always home on Tuesdays in the afternoon and the light in the tapestry room is very good around one o’clock.’ Oh, sweet heavens, May had invited the Prince to her house! Had, in fact, all but begged him to come over. Even for May, this bordered on mortifying. Evie was suddenly wishing the Prince had been a little more awe-inspiring.
‘May—’ Evie tried to mitigate her friend’s boldness. The poor man would feel trapped. ‘He might be busy.’
But the Prince took May’s boldness in his stride. He didn’t sound trapped. ‘One o’clock it is.’ He looked in her direction. ‘If that is acceptable to you, Miss Milham?’
May’s foot came down on hers under their skirts before she could think of politely refusing. Evie heard herself squeak, ‘One o’clock would be fine,’ before the Prince smiled once more and continued down the street.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Evie whirled on May the moment the Prince was out of sight. ‘You invited a foreign dignitary to my house! My house. You don’t even live there. Since when do you invite guests to other people’s homes?’
May gave a smug laugh, unfazed by the outburst. Evie was envious of that laugh, that confidence. Nothing bothered May, not even a flagrant disregard for the rules. ‘Since you started passing up perfectly good opportunities to spend time with handsome men.’ May pulled her into a quiet side street. ‘He was angling for an invitation and you were prevaricating with your generic responses. “Come over any time,”’ May mimicked.
‘I didn’t want him to feel coerced.’ Evie folded her arms over her chest in defence.
‘Oh, I assure you, he wasn’t feeling coerced. He was running wild and free with no fences in sight,’ May replied, blowing out a frustrated breath. ‘Evie, a handsome man who is also a royal, foreign prince wanted to come to your house. How many times do you think that happens, especially in West Sussex?’
‘To see a tapestry,’ Evie reminded her.
May was undaunted. ‘Who cares about the reason why? He’s still coming.’
‘I’m not interested in him that way,’ Evie explained patiently. ‘I’m interested in Andrew.’ She didn’t need to catch a prince, nor did she want to. Her sights were firmly set on Andrew Adair. Besides, what would a man like the Prince—a dashing, well-travelled, sensual man—do with a girl like her who’d never been out of England? It seemed an exercise in futility to even imagine it; a very warm exercise that she had no business entertaining in broad daylight on a village street.
‘Let me try, May.’ Beatrice stepped up. ‘Evie, dear, you can use the Prince as leverage. Men are competitive creatures.
‘Once Andrew sees another man interested in you, it will pique his own curiosity, especially if that man is a royal prince and a friend. Andrew will wonder what he’s been missing.’
‘And he’ll make the effort to find out?’ Evie supplied the rest. She beamed at her friends. Perhaps May’s plan was pure genius after all. ‘What would I do without you? I’m so glad you’re here.’ She paused and gasped as a sudden thought hit her. ‘You will come tomorrow, won’t you? Both of you? You’ll know what to say, what to do. You know what my father will be like. He’ll go on and on about King Arthur and all of his books far longer than is decent and my mother will be so overset about a prince coming to visit, she’ll spend the afternoon on the fainting couch or pestering the cook for perfection.’ Her parents were good people, but they were not social people. Entertaining was not their strong suit. ‘I can’t possibly face the Prince alone.’
There was no rush of assurances. She had the sense again that something was wrong. Bea and May exchanged another of those looks between them. They’d been doing that a lot today. May took her hand, her blue eyes serious. ‘We’d love to be there, but I’m afraid we can’t make it.’ She flicked a glance at Bea and Beatrice nodded. ‘We are leaving tomorrow for Scotland.’
‘Tomorrow!’ Evie protested. ‘But you’ve barely arrived?’ She looked at Bea. ‘What has happened? We were supposed to have two weeks.’
Bea’s hand went protectively to her stomach. When she pressed like that, catching the fabric so that it was flat against her body, her stomach looked larger, the pregnancy more advanced. ‘I’m showing sooner than expected.’ She bit her lip.
Evie felt immediately selfish. ‘I can let out some more dresses for you. We can do it this afternoon.’ She’d been altering Bea’s clothes for her since the spring, using her needle to keep Bea’s pregnancy discreet.
‘That’s sweet of you, Evie, but no.’ Bea gave a sad smile and shook her head. ‘My parents would be more comfortable knowing I’m safe in Scotland before any speculation begins.’ That was putting a polite trim on it, Evie thought. Beatrice’s parents were worried about scandal more than they were worried about their daughter’s safety.
Beatrice put a brave face on. ‘Besides, if I’m showing so soon the baby might be early, it might be twins. It will be good to be away and settled before too much longer.’ She meant before November, when the baby was due. Late autumn didn’t seem so far away when one looked at it like that. In less than four months Beatrice would be a mother. Alone. Evie glanced at May. No, not alone. ‘You’re going with her?’
‘Yes.’ May’s eyes met hers in a silent plea for understanding. Evie nodded. Beatrice needed May more now than she did.
‘I’m glad you’ll be with her.’ It was the truth. Beatrice shouldn’t be alone. If her family refused to be there to help her through the birth, then her friends definitely should be. She wasn’t sure how May had arranged it, but it did bring her a sense of comfort to know May would be there.
Beatrice reached for her other hand. ‘We are sorry to leave you, Evie. But I think May has set you on a path towards success.’ The words offered a new light to May’s bold gesture. It had been a parting gift. May had pushed her towards her future with the invitation to the Prince.
The import of that didn’t escape her. They weren’t the Left Behind Girls Club any more. Claire had Jonathon. Beatrice would have May and the new baby. Everyone was moving forward. For the first time since their childhood days, Evie was on her own.
Chapter Four (#ulink_7ea40161-2ab6-5f58-a609-6e32592fc1dc)
Dimitri strolled promptly down Evie’s drive at half-past one the next day, admiring the haphazard compilation of bricks and time that was the Milhams’ house. Definitely Elizabethan, he concluded, in its initial construction. He could make out the symmetry of the era in the roofline. He squinted up against the sun to take a more professional interest in the house. An archaeologist was part-historian, part-architect and part-expert in a host of other subjects as well. He picked out a few themes with his keen eye. There was a nod to early Georgian in the pediment above the front door.
That pediment was likely the most recent addition to the house’s eclectic architecture. From the state of the front gardens, the latest generation hadn’t paid much attention to the external state of the house. He strode along a gravel drive where flowers grew in wild anarchy alongside, having long ago given up any adherence to the limits of the beds they’d been planted in. There were no boundaries here, none of the order of the organised, ornamental gardens of Kuban, modelled on the tamed excellence of Versailles. There were no pruned hedges or carefully shaped bushes. Yet, the look suited the place much better. Many back home would disagree with him, would give such wild nature a disparaging glance. He found it charming, a peaceful haven. He wondered what the Kuban nobility would do if he replicated such a style at his home.
The housekeeper answered his knock and he stepped inside, his senses taking it all in with the astute eye of an archaeologist trained to look for patterns and behaviours: books stacked on consoles in the hallway, books lining shelves in every room the housekeeper took him past, some books lying open. The interior matching the exterior perfectly. The occupants of this house had far more important priorities than landscaping. They lived an internal life of the mind.
‘I’ll let Miss Milham know you’re here.’ The housekeeper left him in a cheery yellow sitting room, where more books populated the walls and a small, cosy cluster of furniture upholstered in yellow-and-rose chintz resided in the wide bow of the windows.
A housekeeper. Dimitri smiled at her departure. No stodgy butlers here. A housekeeper had received a Prince of Kuban and had no true notion of who had just walked into the house. He liked the novelty of that anonymity. Everyone fussed over him as if he were more special than the next man. But here, in the Milhams’ household, he sensed he might be able to move past that. Andrew’s words drifted back to him: She’s not rich enough. The Milhams did not keep a full complement of staff, perhaps for multiple reasons. Perhaps it was financial, or perhaps they understood every servant was another responsibility, one more acquired burden, an anchor against freedom. Dependents were both a blessing and a curse.
‘You came.’
He turned, catching the sound of surprise in Evie’s voice. She looked cool and fresh in a white summer muslin sprigged with tiny blue forget-me-nots. Blue was definitely her colour. It brought out the auburn highlights in her hair, turning it more chestnut than brown. They’d not been obvious at the assembly. Dimitri smiled. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t?’ He spoke the words without thinking, the teasing, flirtatious response coming easily to his practised wit. This was how urbane princes interacted with women. He was curious as to how Evie Milham would respond. How would his hypothesis play out now that they were alone, away from a crowd where she felt self-conscious? He told himself it was no more than simply his usual ‘excavation’ of a person, of taking their measure, yet a part of him was on edge, wanting her to make a certain response, wanting her to come alive for him.
She blushed a little, but she did not shrink from being direct. ‘I didn’t want you to feel trapped. I feared May pushed the appointment on you.’
‘I wouldn’t miss it.’ He was touched. She’d been advocating for him. She’d been trying to protect him. It was a very small protection to be sure. In a life spent protecting others he simply wasn’t used to it being the other way around. ‘Many people would not hesitate to use any means necessary to capture a prince’s time.’ He probed carefully. It was true. One woman had followed him to the privy and locked the door.
‘I think you’ll find I’m not like most people.’ Another sort of woman would have made the line into a not so cleverly veiled invitation. Not Miss Milham. Was that a warning? A hint of regret? Why ever would she want to be like others?
He was counting on her assessment to be correct. ‘I find the “usual” holds little fascination for me.’ His own voice was low, issuing a private invitation of his own, his eyes holding hers, daring her not to look away. He should not wish for such a thing. Nothing but trouble could come from it. But he couldn’t stop himself from wanting it anyway. Come to life for me, Evie Milham. I know you’re in there. Don’t be afraid.
There it was. Her steady gaze, her answer. She did not look away. He gestured to the wall of books, looking for a subject to put her at ease. Now that he had her this far, he didn’t want her intimidated. ‘Have you read all of these?’
‘Some.’
He was going to have to work harder. He wanted to assure her his title meant nothing. He was as ordinary as the next man, at least he wanted to be. No one needed to stand on ceremony with him. He’d never get to know her secrets otherwise, secrets he had no business knowing, no need to know.
‘Which ones? Which ones have you read?’ He grinned. It was a preposterous question. There were over a hundred books right in front of him. He plucked a book at random from the shelf. ‘How about this one? A History of the West Country by Pieter von Alpers? He’s not even a good Englishman from the sounds of his name.’ The comment made her laugh and that was what he intended.
‘He’s Dutch.’ Evie smiled, letting it light her face. ‘Sometimes it helps to see one’s own history through the eyes of another. My father says it brings new perspective. But, no, I haven’t read that one.’
She was starting to relax. He could see now that she wasn’t shy as he’d first thought, but merely wary. This was a learned behaviour, acquired at some point. This was her attempt to protect herself. From what? From whom? He tucked the new piece of information away.
Evie ran her hand over the book spines on the shelves, coming to stop on one of them. ‘I’ve read this one.’ She handed it to him. ‘He has an especially interesting interpretation of early Saxon history.’ He smiled appreciatively. Evie Milham was a historian. How intriguing. He didn’t meet many women who were or who would admit to it.
‘Like father like daughter? I’d like to meet your father some time. I could use a local historian’s help on my project. I was surprised Andrew didn’t include him in the initial circle of investors for the site. By the way, is he joining us today?’ Was anyone joining them? He could hardly believe someone wasn’t chaperoning and yet it appeared the Milhams’ casual approach to living extended to their daughter, who was apparently allowed to meet men unattended. He thought it seemed somehow disrespectful of them to leave her alone no matter how honourable his intentions were.
‘Are you worried for your reputation?’ There was a shade of worry in her eyes that was entirely sincere. Other women would have delivered the line with a flirty laugh. He knew plenty of those women. But Evie Milham was not one of them. She was genuinely sympathetic. ‘Shall I call someone?’ She was flustered again and it was his fault. In an attempt to honour her, he’d managed to insult her.
Dimitri chuckled, trying to put her at ease. He’d not meant to upset her any more than he’d meant to insult her. ‘Are you worried for yours?’
‘You’re here to view a tapestry, not ravish me.’ Evie scoffed. He heard the hint of sorrow, or was that resignation, again?
‘Are you sure about that?’ he teased, although he wasn’t sure it was entirely a joke on his part. Evie Milham was ravish-worthy, with her glorious hair and that carefully guarded smile, especially when she wasn’t doubting herself, when she was letting her real self out to play as she had when they’d discussed the history books.
She smiled, but there was a shadow in her eyes now. ‘I’ve had years to be quite sure of that, Your Highness.’ He understood. She thought he was embarrassed to be alone with her, maybe even ashamed to be seen with her. The realisation gave him pause. Where had she ever acquired such a belief about herself? Was this where the wariness came from? He would have to work harder to put her at ease, to convince her she had nothing to fear from him.
‘Call me Dimitri. Please,’ he urged, refusing to remark on that shadow for fear she would see any encouragement he offered as pity. ‘We’re a thousand miles from Kuban. I hardly feel like a prince this far from home.’ He liked it that way. The further from Kuban he got, the easier it was to forget he was a prince, the easier it was to live simply, to be a man only, not a title he’d acquired by an accident of birth. If only others felt that way too. Unfortunately, they were all too keen to remind him of the chasm that separated him from other men.
Evie took the invitation as he’d hoped. ‘All right, then, Dimitri, the tapestry is this way.’ She led them through a warren of hallways to a gallery that ran the length of the back of the house. The tapestry was easy to spot. It was of considerable size and hung in the centre of the left wall in a large glass frame. Even with the glass protecting it, Dimitri could tell it was of fine and authentic quality. He stepped towards it, unable to resist doing anything else, drawn to the vibrant hues of blue, red and orange. ‘This is remarkably well preserved...’ he breathed in real appreciation, letting his eyes roam the story of the tapestry. ‘Arthur’s wedding to Guinevere, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘Yes, my father has spent considerable amounts of time researching it. He’s in the final stages of writing a book about the tapestry,’ Evie offered. He stared at it a while longer, asking questions, before turning his attention to other artefacts in the room. The gallery was a repository of history. There were other, smaller, tapestries hanging from the walls, unprotected. He wandered over to one depicting a unicorn set against a blue-flowered field.
‘This one is quite fine as well. Is it of some import?’ He wondered why it wasn’t under glass too. It seemed familiar, as if he’d seen it somewhere before.
Evie shook her head. ‘No. It’s one of mine. It’s merely a copy of a famous French tapestry.’
Dimitri peered closer, studying the stitches. ‘You did this? It is marvellously well made.’
Evie shrugged off the praise. ‘I drew the pattern from a piece of art. I like to work with cloth, sewing, weaving. I draw my own patterns.’ That was interesting indeed; a historian and a seamstress, although that seemed too menial of a word for what she’d done here, and an artist. Evie Milham was a trove of hidden talents.
He spied a framed collection of ink work hanging on the wall. ‘Are these some of your patterns?’
‘Yes. I drew them for one of my father’s books, but he liked some of them so much he wanted to frame them.’ Evie blushed. ‘A father’s prerogative, I suppose. Some would say he’s biased.’
Dimitri looked closer. The work was exquisitely done, meticulous and clean. ‘I don’t think he’s biased at all.’ An idea came to him. He could use someone with a decent artistic eye at the site.
They strolled the perimeter of the room, he asking questions and Evie answering, each answer a revelation. Evie Milham might appear to be somewhat quiet and unassuming, but beneath that exterior, there was much of her waiting to be unwrapped, waiting to be discovered. She was knowledgeable about history, able to answer his questions with impressive intellect; she could replicate medieval tapestries with an expert’s skill; she was sensitive to others’ feelings, perhaps too much so.
Did she make a habit of casting herself in the subordinate role in conversation? He’d seen it at the assembly. She’d put herself forward when Andrew had failed to introduce her, but the moment she perceived she was an interloper, she’d withdrawn, content to defer to the wishes of others. But today he’d applied considerable skill in drawing her out, in making her an equal in the discussion, and she had blossomed. He could not remember enjoying a conversation this much. There was no pressure to perform, to be the Prince. He had only to be himself.
They passed out into the gardens off the gallery and into the sun. There was more order to these gardens than the ones in front of the house, probably because these gardens were designed to show off statuary. Most of the statuary were broken. There wasn’t a whole statue among them, but that only reinforced their authenticity. ‘Shards my father has picked up over a lifetime,’ Evie explained with a rueful smile. ‘These are from Italy, from his Grand Tour twenty-eight years ago.’ She gestured to a twin set of partial busts.
Dimitri made noises of suitable impressment. He was more interested in how the sun caught Evie’s hair, the auburn flame of it flickering in the smooth brown depths. The statues couldn’t compete. Her hair was beautiful, even coiled in a tight braid that wound neatly about her head. He imagined for a moment undoing that braid and combing his fingers through it. Undone, her hair would be long, and straight, the smoothness of it falling through his fingers like Chinese silk. It made him wonder what Evie Milham would be like undone in other ways. What other secrets lay beneath her unassuming exterior? What would she reveal to the man who uncovered those secrets? What would she discover about herself? He felt a flicker of regret that he couldn’t be that man.
‘Miss.’ The housekeeper caught up to them on the gravel path, breaking his attention on Evie’s hair. The woman was huffing from the exertion. ‘Mr Adair is here, shall I send him out?’
Evie’s face split into a smile. ‘He can join us. Please, bring some lemonade and the little cakes Cook baked this morning, if it’s not too much trouble. The lemon seed are his favourite.’
Evie’s gaze moved to a point over his shoulder, her smile widening, lighting up her whole face. Dimitri didn’t need to turn to know it was Andrew striding down the path. A fierce little spark of competitive maleness lit in him. He wanted that smile for himself, not for Andrew, who didn’t want it, and didn’t appreciate it. His friend’s boldness bordered on arrogant. Andrew hadn’t waited for permission to join them. He’d assumed he’d be welcomed and the presumption was irrationally annoying. Why did he care if Andrew joined them?
They sat for lemonade and cakes at a table under a shade tree and Dimitri knew why he cared. Evie, who had become relaxed during their tour of the gallery, had suddenly become self-conscious and tense, too eager to please: Was the lemonade sweet enough? The cakes fresh enough? The whole while, Andrew took the demure obsequiousness as his due, oblivious to Evie’s efforts once more.
‘I must get the recipe from your cook.’ Dimitri reached for another lemon seed cake, easily his fourth. ‘These are delicious.’
‘Too simple for the court of Kuban, though.’ Andrew threw out the thoughtless insult and helped himself to a fifth cake. ‘Can you imagine these plain little things on a tea tray along with those frosted delicacies of yours?’ Andrew glanced over at Evie, the first real look he’d given her since he arrived. ‘You haven’t seen a tea until you’ve had tea Kubanian style.’
Dimitri watched Evie brighten at the comment directed at her, willing to overlook the insult delivered to the cakes Andrew claimed to prefer and which she’d especially thought of serving on his behalf. Didn’t she see the comment wasn’t for her benefit, but for Andrew’s? This was a chance for Andrew to show off. His suspicion was confirmed when Andrew launched into a detailed description of the one time he’d experienced a Kubanian tea at Dimitri’s apartments in Naples where they’d met.
Evie listened, enrapt. Dimitri wanted to kick Andrew. Andrew had adopted quite the superior attitude since they’d arrived in Sussex. It was not something that had stood out to him in their travels.
‘Is that how you met? Over tea?’ Evie turned her attention his direction, playing the polite hostess who recognised one guest had dominated the conversation for too long. ‘I had no idea Andrew had made it as far as Kuban.’
‘He didn’t,’ Dimitri put in quickly. Maybe it was selfish, but he wanted to disabuse her of the notion that Andrew had been to the remote Russian kingdom in the steppes. In fact, Andrew had not strayed from the conventional path that made up every Englishman’s Grand Tour. ‘We met in Naples. I was hosting a gathering for expatriates around Europe to celebrate work I’d completed at Herculaneum. My team and I had uncovered a mosaic destroyed by the eruption of Vesuvius. We spent that spring restoring it.’
‘Wonderful stuff. What the Prince was doing in Herculaneum rekindled my love for ancient history.’ Andrew leaned forward, ready to take up the reins of conversation again.
Evie smiled. ‘My father would enjoy hearing about your experiences.’
Andrew cut her off with a wave of his hand. ‘Ancient history, Evie, not medieval. There’s quite a difference. Centuries, in fact.’ His tone bordered on patronising as he laughed. Was Evie going to sit there and let his remark go unchallenged? Of course she was. She wasn’t going to pick an argument with the object of her affections.
Dimitri couldn’t help himself. After all, Andrew wasn’t the object of his affections. ‘I think she knows the difference, Andrew. Miss Milham and I were having the most enjoyable afternoon. She showed me the Arthur tapestry and some that she’s done as well. Miss Milham is very talented and exceedingly knowledgeable on several subjects.’
Andrew’s gaze fixed on him, sharp with curiosity. ‘Ah, the tapestry. I remember now. I had wondered why you’d come.’
Dimitri heard the veiled slander—that Evie alone couldn’t possibly be attraction enough. He hoped Evie hadn’t heard it. It would hurt her. Perhaps it was remarks like that which had led to her self-consciousness. Such remarks were nothing to him, but she had not cut her social teeth in a royal court. He met Andrew’s gaze with his own, unwavering, his sense of protectiveness rising instinctively on Evie’s behalf. ‘Well, then you have your answer. I am still looking for mine. What exactly brings you here this afternoon?’
* * *
What had just happened? Evie glanced from Andrew to Dimitri. Were they fighting over her? It was too preposterous to believe; the golden-haired Andrew Adair and a Russian prince, sparring over her while they sipped lemonade in the garden. It was ridiculous in the extreme and yet she wasn’t sure what else to make of it. Oh, how she wished Beatrice and May were here! They would know for certain.
‘More lemonade?’ Evie groped for something to say that would relieve the tension. She was not equipped to handle such a situation. She passed around the dwindling tray of cakes to give herself something to do. Dimitri took two, Andrew took three, shooting the Prince a triumphant look designed to make a point. At this rate, the two of them were going to eat themselves sick. She gingerly picked up the threads of the original conversation. ‘You met in Naples, and then what?’
‘The Prince made a fortune on the mosaic, selling it to a museum in Naples,’ Andrew supplied drily. ‘He was moving on to Greece, to a temple excavation on the peninsula. I was intrigued so I tagged along. We did the temple and another small dig near Athens, then worked our way home.’ Andrew sat back in his chair and folded his hands across his stomach with smug victory. ‘I told him about our local Roman villa, which has never quite got off the ground in terms of a full excavation, and the rest is history.’ He laughed at his joke. The tension eased and Evie was almost convinced she’d imagined it to begin with. The visit concluded amiably, the gentlemen polishing off the last cakes and the remainder of the lemonade before rising to leave.
The Prince bowed over her hand as he had at the assembly room. She was struck once more by the intensity of his gaze and the heat generated by his touch. It still didn’t mean anything, she reminded herself, but silly as it was, she liked how her stomach fluttered when he touched her. ‘I was wondering, Miss Milham, if you would consider helping on the villa excavation? You mentioned you draw your own tapestry patterns and I need someone to do a catalogue of drawings for any artefacts we might uncover.’
Her pulse sped up at the prospect, flattered that he’d acknowledged her skills. What an honour, an honour far beyond any she’d ever expected. For a moment she couldn’t find any words. She settled on ‘I would like that very much.’ When he touched her, looked at her with those dark eyes, spoke to her in that low voice with its dentalised ‘th’s and hard ‘r’s, she felt like a princess. Almost.
‘Come to the site tomorrow.’ He released her hand with a smile and the magic was gone. She was once more merely Evie Milham, plain and quiet, the sort who admired men on their pedestals, not one who was put up on a pedestal of her own. She certainly wasn’t the sort of girl those men fought over. Not the sort of girl a prince would pay serious attentions to, but for a moment she had been.
Chapter Five (#ulink_2c2d5c93-b5b7-5fc5-ad73-0f5acba2fdfb)
The walk back to Andrew’s was...different. For once, it was silent. Usually, most of their walks were filled with Andrew’s talk. Andrew liked to think out loud. Normally, Dimitri didn’t mind. Today, however, Andrew was silent except for the occasional swish of his walking stick cutting through the high grass in the meadow. Dimitri opted to wait. When Andrew was done processing he would talk.
‘What happened back there?’ Andrew gave the grass a hard thwack with his stick. Apparently, he was done processing. ‘For a moment, I thought we were going to quarrel over Evie Milham.’ He said the last as if the notion was insane. Dimitri didn’t think it was in the least preposterous. Didn’t Andrew see it? The beauty beneath the simple attire and the simple hair; the devotion she was waiting to lavish on him? As for himself, he was thinking far too much about that hidden beauty. When she’d spoken of tapestries and stitchery, he’d wanted to take her hair down pin by pin, pull it loose from its tight coiffure and spread it through his fingers like so much embroidery silk.
‘I was unaware there was anything to quarrel about.’ Dimitri shot Andrew a wry smile. ‘She is quite solidly yours by her own design.’ Perhaps Andrew needed a little push in Evie’s direction, something to drag him out of his oblivion. Maybe he could help with that. Maybe Evie could use some help with that. She was making it too easy for Andrew, catering to his every whim. Andrew would never respect a woman like that. He would, however, use that woman. Dimitri’s stomach gave a small twist. He hardly knew her, but it sat poorly with him to think of Evie Milham being used in that manner.
Andrew lifted a brow. ‘Do I sense a wager coming on? There was a time when you could turn a lowly country girl’s head like that!’ He snapped his fingers and tossed a smug grin at Dimitri. ‘Or, are you losing your touch? I admit I have a head start. She’s known me her entire life. But you’re a prince,’ he goaded. ‘Surely that evens the playing field.’
‘Those games are fine with ladies of the court,’ Dimitri offered warily. He wasn’t sure he liked the idea of pushing Andrew towards Evie any more. Last night, it had seemed like the right thing to do, a way to help out Miss Milham. His stomach twisted again. ‘I think those games are rather cruel, however, when played with unsuspecting country ladies.’ Dimitri’s stomach twisted harder, more violently than before. This time he didn’t think it had anything to do with Evie and everything to do with seed cakes. Too many seed cakes.
All things in moderation, his old nyanya had told him more than once growing up, always after he’d over-indulged. Some day he’d learn, but apparently not today. His covert eating contest with Andrew had been petty. From the hitch in Andrew’s step, it looked like he might be feeling the effects as well. They’d behaved childishly and they’d got their just desserts in the most literal way possible. Andrew let out a burp and a sigh that set them both to laughing. ‘That’s better.’
The tension between them eased and Andrew slung an arm about his shoulders, having already forgotten Evie Milham and his silly wager. It was for the best. Dimitri knew he certainly had no business involving himself in careless games regarding a young woman’s affections. There could be no entanglements for him. He would be returning to Kuban. Taking Andrew’s wager would require deliberately breaking an unsuspecting girl’s heart. The best he could do for her would be to help her understand her own value, to see her own beauty. She didn’t need to settle for a man like Andrew.
Dimitri shot a sideways glance at Andrew, only half-listening to a story about Evie’s seed cakes. Andrew was golden and laughing in the sun. It was easy to see why Evie would be taken with him. But Andrew was also entirely self-absorbed. Even now, with just the two of them present, he was ‘performing’ the story for an audience. Usually, Dimitri was impressed with Andrew’s showmanship. On the road, Andrew’s glib tongue had talked them into a few prime situations such as the dig in Greece. But here in England, his ‘showmanship’ seemed rehearsed to the point of narcissism. It reaffirmed Dimitri’s premise: There was no doubt Miss Milham would be good for his sometimes high-handed and arrogant new friend. She would love him in spite of himself, and, given time, perhaps she would help him see what was truly important in life. But at what cost to herself? The real question to ask was: Was Andrew good for Evie?
Dimitri laughed out loud at the direction of his thoughts. Andrew would think the laughter was for the story. In reality Dimitri was laughing at himself. Who was he to decide their future, or even be interested in it? He hardly knew Evie Milham and he’d barely known Andrew for a year. He had no business interfering. Aside from his curiosity over the quiet Miss Milham with her russet hair and her hidden hobbies, he wasn’t even sure what had sparked his attentions in the first place. Maybe it was a sign after all that he was ready to return to Kuban, settle down and live the life he’d been destined for since birth, the life his family needed him to live.
Perhaps it was for the best he felt that way, since his return, even his marriage, was inevitable. Dimitri shook his head to clear his thoughts. He wouldn’t think of that, not yet. There was still some time left to him. He needed to focus on the immediate future first. What came next would take care of itself. Until then, he had one last excavation to oversee and to enjoy.
* * *
The excavation site was bustling with organised activity when Evie and her father arrived the next morning. The scale of that activity was quite impressive. Workers, hired from local labour, hauled carts of rocks and debris away, others whisked dust from slabs to see what was hidden beneath, while still others were engaged in the process of sifting rubble through sieves searching for shards of artefacts. The industry was punctuated by an occasional shout—some of them in Russian, a reminder that not all the effort on site was local.
‘The Prince has brought his own team,’ her father commented as they picked their way through the site, trying to stay out of the way. ‘He’s very methodical, very efficient. He’ll have his men oversee various aspects of the project so he doesn’t have to train new foremen.’ It was a reminder of what she’d forgotten so easily yesterday. Dimitri Petrovich was a prince, a man who was used to being served, used to commanding and directing others. Travelling with a retinue was to be expected.
From across the site, Dimitri waved to them, beckoning them over. ‘Ah, there he is,’ her father remarked with a chuckle. ‘Good thing he spotted us. I might not have recognised him today.’ Evie privately disagreed. Dimitri might be dressed like everyone else in durable trousers tucked into dusty boots and a loose cotton shirt of off-white homespun, the clothes of a labourer, not a prince, but she’d know him anywhere. He couldn’t disguise those cheekbones or those eyes.
‘Sir Hollis, Miss Milham, welcome!’ He strode towards them, stripping off working gloves as he greeted them. His shirt was open at the neck, showing a patch of tanned skin, and already splotched with sweat and dirt. He’d not only been working, he’d been working hard.
‘You must pardon my appearance; we have great hopes for today. We’re excavating the dining room, or what we hope is the dining room.’ He smiled broadly and his enthusiasm was infectious. ‘Let me show you. We have something of a map to work from.’ He led them over to a table set off to the side, an informal work station where papers were weighted down with rocks.
He picked up a book and turned to a well-marked page. ‘There’s a two-page description of a villa that matches this one in location and there’s a reference to a west-facing dining area to catch the setting sun. If we’re right, we’ve found the villa of General Lucius Artorious.’ The air around him fairly crackled with his excitement and Evie felt her own excitement rise, stoked to its own height by the prospect of the project and by his nearness.
He passed the book to her father. ‘The account is short, but it’s very detailed. It even names some specific items that were in the home. If we could find them, it would ensure the authenticity of the site.’ He smiled at Evie. ‘We’ve already found some items—nothing that’s listed, of course, but items that suggest a man of social standing and his family were here. Are you ready to draw? I have a workspace set up for you in the cataloguing department.’ His wink was just for her. ‘We use the term “department” very loosely here. I hope our working conditions aren’t too rustic for you, just canvas and some tables, but my assistant, Stefon, is brilliant and he can show you anything you need.’ Some of her excitement defused. An assistant, of course. It wasn’t as if the Prince could work privately with her. It was probably for the best. However would she concentrate on drawing if he was hovering nearby with his smiles and touches? She really had to get over this silliness.
He took them through the site, gesturing to points of interest as they went. ‘To the left are the cooking facilities. We feed the workers three meals a day. To the right is the “museum” where we keep the items that are already catalogued.’ The site was truly impressive. This place was a little self-contained city. She’d not realised all the services necessary to support such a project. He made an off-hand motion to the left. ‘That tent out there is my private quarters.’
Tent? Evie stopped to gape. It looked more like a pavilion. It was big and white, and set back from the site, perhaps for privacy. ‘You live out here?’ She quickened her step to keep up with her father and the Prince.
The Prince nodded. ‘It’s a necessity. One must be vigilant or sites like this are easily vandalised. I’ve found there’s nothing like human presence to deter unwanted attentions.’ He threw an entirely manly glance at her father. ‘It helps that I’m a pretty good shot.’ The two of them laughed together. They seemed to have established an instant rapport that transcended their stations.
Vandalism? She was still trying to wrap her mind around the fact the Prince was camping like a soldier on campaign. No matter how large the tent, outdoor living required a certain amount of concessions, especially if a man was used to living amid royal luxuries.
‘This is your workspace, Miss Milham.’ The Prince ushered her under a wide triangular expanse of heavy canvas tied between three trees. Beneath it sat desks and tables with boxes next to them, writing and drawing supplies on them. One other clerk was already busy at work. The Prince held out her chair. ‘The items to draw are here in this box. There are notes attached, I can’t guarantee all the handwriting is legible. The information will have to be recopied with the drawings and we’ll need three copies of each drawing.’
Evie nodded, sitting down in the chair and taking in her workspace, her mind already organising the task in her head. She was eager to begin. This was no different than the work she did for her father. She surveyed the supplies, assuring the Prince she had all she needed.
‘Very well, I will leave you to it, Miss Milham. Again, let me tell you how very grateful I am to have someone of your skills assisting on the project.’ He turned to her father. ‘If I might borrow your expertise as well, Sir Hollis? I have a few questions.’ She watched them go with a smile. When Dimitri had visited, Evie had worried her family would be too casual for him, but now that she’d witnessed on two occasions just how hard he worked to put others at ease, to help them forget he was a prince, she was glad for her father’s easy-going nature. Dimitri seemed to like that her father extended that easy companionship to him. Her father enjoyed a quiet life and offered his hospitality and friendship to all those around him regardless of status. It seemed Dimitri responded to that. Just as she’d responded to his genuine appreciation of her work. Evie shook her head as if to refocus her thoughts. She needed to prove herself, she needed to show Dimitri his confidence in her hadn’t been misplaced. She couldn’t do that if she spent the day staring after him.
It only took a few minutes to become entirely immersed in the task. There were pencils to sharpen and the pages of fresh journals to cut. Then all was ready. Evie took a deep breath. This was peaceful work, work that was both useful and relaxing. She could lose herself in the drawing just as she did with sewing, her mind absorbed by the process of bringing something to life with a stitch of thread, the shading of a pencil. The first item was a jewelled comb. Evie laid it on her table and began.
Sketching in the morning was pleasant. There was a light breeze that filtered in regularly, enough to keep the workspace cool without ruffling the papers. Drawing in the afternoon, however, was less pleasant. The breeze had stopped and the heat had increased. So too had the flies. Nothing horrendous, she told herself, swiping at the pesky fly for the hundredth time, merely inconvenient. This wasn’t the desert after all. And she had only to look across the work site to appreciate the comforts of her space. Out in the direct August sun, men laboured with carts and rocks, brushing, sifting, hauling, while they strained and sweated, the Prince among them. Archaeology was dirty labour. His hair had come loose, his shirt untucked. He didn’t look terribly royal at the moment, just a man. Perhaps that was why he liked his work so much...
‘Evie!’ A shadow fell across her table, startling her. ‘What are you doing here? I would have thought you’d have left by now.’ Andrew moved some papers aside so he could sit on the table’s edge.
‘Careful! The ink isn’t quite dry!’ she squawked, appalled at his thoughtlessness.
Andrew jumped up and stepped back, glancing down at his trousers. ‘Thanks for the warning, I wouldn’t have wanted to stain these trousers. They’re new.’
‘I was thinking about the paintings,’ Evie said crossly, still alarmed at how close she’d come to losing the afternoon’s work to a careless gesture. ‘They took hours to complete.’ His trousers! Hah! The drawings were much more important. Andrew had at least twenty pairs of trousers. The man was a clotheshorse. Usually she admired that.
‘Why, Evie,’ Andrew drawled, looking at her with more careful consideration than he’d given the drawings. ‘I do believe you’re put out with me.’ A boyish grin teased at his mouth and he looked devilishly handsome in his clean, creased buff trousers and coat of blue summer superfine.
He looked immaculate and cool, not a speck of dust on him. Quite the opposite of herself. Suddenly self-conscious, Evie pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, hoping she didn’t look as hot as she felt. Of course Andrew would see her now when she wasn’t looking her best or apparently acting it.
She really had behaved like a shrew and to Andrew of all people. Surely that wasn’t how one got a man’s attention. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that these drawings are one of a kind and they took hours.’ Andrew wasn’t an artist. He couldn’t be expected to appreciate things like wet ink.
Andrew studied the drawings, seeing them for the first time. He held a few of them up, while she cringed and hoped they’d dried sufficiently to be touched without smudging. ‘Evie, these are good, really good.’
‘Thank you.’ She could feel herself blush. When had Andrew ever complimented her? This was a first.
‘We should be thanking you.’ Andrew put the drawings back down on the pile. ‘Dimitri will be pleased. Speaking of which, did he find anything of interest today?’ He gave her a wide smile, his blue eyes twinkling.
‘Nothing from the dining room yet, they’re still working.’
‘That’s too bad. I know he has high hopes for it.’ Andrew reached for the box of catalogued artefacts. ‘What’s in here?’
‘There is a jewelled comb.’ Evie flipped through the pages of her drawings. ‘It was the first one I did today.’ She handed it to Andrew, pleased that his eyes lit up. She’d thought it the best she’d done all day. It had been a challenge to portray the tiny pieces of emerald that were still embedded on the comb’s edge.
‘Lovely. Museums are always interested in pieces like this.’ Andrew considered the drawing thoughtfully. ‘Where’s the comb itself?’
‘It’s already been taken over to the “museum”.’ Evie gestured towards the canvas collection centre, where Dimitri planned to store the artefacts.
‘Hmm.’ Andrew muttered more to himself. ‘Do you think you could make me a copy of the drawing? I’d love to have it for myself, a souvenir of this project.’
‘I’ll do it tomorrow.’ Evie beamed, pleased.
The Prince strode up and Andrew stepped away from the table. ‘Ah, there you are. It’s about time you showed up now that it’s nearly supper,’ the Prince joked, slapping Andrew on the back before turning to more serious business. ‘How did it go today? Were you able to secure the supplies we need?’
‘Yes. Your small army of workers will have food, starting tomorrow. Plenty of vegetables, just how you like,’ Andrew assured him. He winked at Evie and explained. ‘While you have all been playing in the dirt here today, I’ve been in negotiations for food supplies.’ He picked up a drawing. ‘Evie has outdone herself on these.’ He handed one to the Prince and Evie found herself anxious. It was rather disconcerting to have someone look over her work right in front of her. She would have preferred Dimitri look at her work privately once she was home. She hardly dared to breathe while she waited for him to pass judgement.
‘Excellent,’ the Prince declared with a smile. ‘You’ve earned the right to go home.’ He shot a glance at Andrew. ‘Perhaps you might be so good as to escort her home?’ Her heart began to pound. This was almost too good to be true; Andrew had acknowledged her talent and now he was going to drive her home. So why was she spending more time staring at Dimitri, who was hot, dirty and tired from a day’s hard work, when there was immaculate, charming Andrew to stare at?
‘I would like nothing better.’ Andrew offered her his arm, drawing her attention through the effort. ‘I am parked just over here, Evie.’
‘Miss Milham,’ the Prince called after them, ‘we’ll see you in the morning?’ He had the manners to make it a question, not a command.
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ Evie called back, cheerfully. Today had been one of the best days she’d had in a long while and that wasn’t even counting the carriage ride to come.
Chapter Six (#ulink_b6992c3f-a970-5a05-aba0-f50627125a30)
Which was just as well, Evie reflected, the curricle jolting to a halt outside her house in the summer twilight. The drive wasn’t nearly as exciting as it should have been. It was, in fact, something of a disappointment. Perhaps it was simply that the rest of the day had been far more exciting than it should have been and all else paled by comparison. After all, it wasn’t every day a girl got to catalogue and draw items that were a thousand years old. A few centuries old, that was one thing. She’d done that plenty of times for her father, even for herself when she drew her tapestry patterns. But a thousand? That was incredible and she had the ink stains to prove it. She clenched her hands into fists, hoping Andrew wouldn’t notice, not when he looked like perfection itself handling the reins on the seat beside her, his hair burning gold in the sinking sunlight, his clothes the height of summer fashion, straight from London. He, like most gentlemen of her acquaintance, would find it odd for a girl to get excited about artefacts and ink.
Andrew set the brake and she let herself engage in a moment of fantasy. Would this be what life would be like with Andrew? What if they were pulling up to their house after a day spent engaged in the pursuit of history? Would they go inside and sip cool lemonade before dinner? Would they talk through the finds of the day on a back veranda, a candlelit dinner laid before them? Would they watch the sun sink together before he took her hand and led her up to the bedroom?
It occurred to her that when she’d thought of Andrew in the past, it had never been with an eye to finding any intellectual fulfilment with him. Andrew drew a woman with his looks, with the way he carried himself. Those were always the things she noticed about him first. She wasn’t alone. They were the things every girl in the parish talked about when they talked about handsome Andrew Adair. But now that she knew he loved history too, it seemed more important than ever that she win him. They would have so much in common, so much to build a life on. It proved her instincts had been right all these years of gazing at him from afar. She and Andrew belonged together, no matter what reservations Beatrice might hold.
Andrew came around to her side, reaching to help her down. His hands were at her waist, swinging her to the ground and breaking her out of her daydream. She stumbled a little as he set her down. Andrew laughed as he steadied her. ‘Evie, where are you? You’re miles from here.’ She loved his blue eyes when he laughed, all sparks and lights. Today, they were laughing for her. That should be a victory of sorts. How long had she waited for such a reaction?
‘Just enjoying the scenery.’ Evie dared the flirtatious line before she could think better of it. She smiled up at him. He was tall, nearly as tall as the Prince, who was more than six feet. She got a beaming smile in return, but nothing more. What had she expected? Andrew was a gentleman.
Andrew ushered her up the steps to the front door, his hand skimming the small of her back, a gesture her body and mind barely registered. She waited for more: for heat, for recognition. Nothing came. Perhaps the touch was too insignificant. It wasn’t as if the front steps of her home was a setting designed to coax any intimacy. But the lack of any registration left her strangely let down. She felt as if she was waiting for something that had not yet arrived and she was loath to let Andrew leave on such a low note because of it.
‘Would you like to come in? I’m sure my father would love to talk about the project. The Prince gave him a thorough tour this morning.’ She tried not to hold her breath, tried not to appear too wistful. It was just a casual invitation issued to a long-time neighbour.
Andrew gave her another broad smile. For a moment she thought he’d say yes. Then he shook his head. ‘I appreciate the offer, but I must decline. I’ve had a long day and another early start tomorrow. You do too. The Prince is lucky to have you assisting us in this endeavour.’ He held her eyes for an extended moment. ‘I will look forward to my drawing, Evie.’
He strode back down the steps and drove away, leaving her still waiting. Still wanting something.
* * *
It wasn’t until the end of dinner with her parents, over the cheese and fruit course, that she understood what she’d been waiting for and why. She’d wanted her body to register his touch as it had registered the Prince’s; with a rush of heat and sharp awareness.
Evie nearly choked on a slice of pear. What did she think she was doing? Comparing the Prince and Andrew? That was a piece of wanton madness if ever there was one. She tried to rationalise the direction of her thoughts. Was it too much to expect that she feel something at Andrew’s touch? And why not? After all, the Prince had only touched her amid a crowd in a public venue. His touch had been nothing more than what politeness demanded, yet she’d come alive at it. Both times. It had been much the same when he’d come to view the tapestry.
‘Are you feeling all right, dear?’ Her mother gave her a concerned look. She had to be careful here or her high-strung mother would pester her all night if she thought anything was wrong.
Evie answered with a sip of her water. She couldn’t plausibly conceive of answering that question with any amount of truth. It would give her mother a fit if she knew what Evie had spent dinner thinking about. Evie had learned long ago to keep her imagination to herself.
Her mother rose from the table and smiled at her father. ‘Why don’t we all move into the sitting room? Mrs Brooks has left the doors open to catch the breeze.’ To Evie, she said, ‘I have a letter from one of your sisters.’ She retrieved a letter from a pocket in her skirt and smiled as if she held a great prize. If it was from Diana, maybe she did. Diana had married two years ago to an earl in Cornwall and promptly popped out an heir. Evie would bet money the contents of the letter held news of a spare arriving in the spring. If the letter was from her other sister, Gwen, perhaps the letter was less of a prize. Gwen had married a baronet’s second son who aspired to be a don at Oxford. Evie had sewn both of their wedding gowns.
This had become the routine of their evenings since her sisters had gone. The three of them would eat, would go into the sitting room. Her father would read to them from one of his current history interests, her mother would read any interesting letters and Evie would stitch on her latest project. Tonight it wasn’t enough. How could she go from the heat, the dust, the masculinity of the excavation site to her mother’s sitting room? To letters about someone else’s life? How could she, when her head was full of Andrew and a Russian Prince with a hot touch? Her life had suddenly become interesting on its own without any help from her sisters.
She made her excuses at the stairs. ‘I think I will go up instead. I am tired,’ she lied with a wan smile. ‘I might write a note to May before I go to bed.’ That part was true. May and Beatrice would know what to make of her mind’s tendency to compare the two men.
But it was difficult to concentrate on writing the letter. Her mind kept drifting back to the day and all she’d seen—a thousand-year-old comb and a white pavilion where even now, as the summer moon rose, a dark-haired man might be preparing for bed. It did not occur to her until she climbed into her own bed that she hadn’t once wondered about Andrew in his. Those feelings would come, she told herself. Of course they would come. How could they not? She’d been infatuated with Andrew for ages. It was entirely different with the Prince. Dimitri was exciting and new, she’d not had time to think about him, to adjust to him, to get used to him. She didn’t know what to expect, whereas her infatuation with Andrew was a well-travelled path.
There was likely no harm in finding Dimitri exciting and new. She might as well enjoy the novelty of such a fantasy while it lasted. He would leave and, besides, he was a prince and she was Evie. There was certainly no future there no matter how rousing his touch or how hot his eyes. But for a little while, Madame Fortune was finally smiling on her.
* * *
Fortune was finally favouring him. Andrew poured himself a brandy in the dark quiet of his study. He was treating himself to a glass of the good stuff tonight. He’d known from the start, uniting himself with Dimitri Petrovich would be a good idea and now he could turn that association into a cash crop of artefacts. The comb Evie had told him about was a good start, a sign of more to come.
He took up his seat in front of the cold hearth, content to sit in the dark and think. He’d been staggered by the amount of money a museum had paid the Prince for that mosaic in Herculaneum and again when the Prince had sold some of the artefacts from the excavation outside Athens.
The money was pocket change to a man of the Prince’s wealth, but Andrew had a broader vision in mind. If a museum would pay those sums, how much more would private buyers pay for the privilege to possess a piece of authentic history? That was the real market, in Andrew’s mind. The Prince was rankly opposed to that option. Private collections kept artefacts hidden from the public. In the Prince’s mind, museums were the public’s gateway to understanding and accessing their past. Andrew didn’t care. Everything had a price, even the past, and he would sell to the highest bidder.
History could be very lucrative, as long as the Prince dug up something of merit. That was the risk. But it was a risk that cost him nothing but time. The site might not prove to be fertile. He had great faith in the Prince. The Prince understood what to look for and the Prince knew why certain items had value, why they appealed to people. Once the Prince dug up something of merit, the next step would be to get the right clientele out to the site. That’s where Evie’s drawings came in to play. He could use them as advertising to the right clientele, powerful, rich men. After that, he had another plan for those drawings that would further line his pockets. All he had to do was flirt a little with Evie, keep her dangling, keep her willing to please, which shouldn’t be hard to do if the Prince was right about her affections—and he had to make sure the Prince didn’t find out about his plans until it was too late. Once the Prince returned to Kuban, there would be nothing he could do about it. Andrew just had to wait him out until October. Andrew smiled in the dark. This was turning out well, better than expected.
* * *
Things were going better than expected, but that didn’t mean they were easy. Dimitri stood and stretched, rolling his shoulders to get the kinks out of his neck. He’d spent most of the day on his hands and knees painstakingly brushing off what he hoped were tiles in General Lucius Artorious’s dining room. It was looking promising. Now that they’d made it to the centre of the room, an elegant mosaic was starting to emerge in the shape of a rose embedded in the floor and the team had found pieces of pottery that had been taken over to Evie with hastily scribbled notes for cataloguing.
Ah. Evie. She’d been a godsend. He let his gaze linger on her at a distance, her head bent over her work, her hand moving tirelessly, her concentration unbreakable. Did she know he spent far too much of his days watching her? Far too much of his time wondering about her—about her life in West Sussex? Aside from his growing intrigue with her, bringing her on to draw had been a good business decision. Her work was excellent, her attention to detail as focused as her drawings had led him to believe. And there were actually items for her to draw. Progress was being made that bore out his research. Andrew had not been wrong when he’d suggested a Roman general’s villa was here in the rolling hills of West Sussex and that information was paying off in spades.
His gaze found Evie at her table and he smiled. Evie’s pile of drawings grew by the day, drawings that would serve as illustrations in the book he would put together on the excavation, as well as drawings he would archive for the museum in Kuban. She made not just one copy, but three of the same item, each one a brilliant replica, each one a product of her patience. She had an aptitude for the art and for the organisation of it. Stefon, impressed, had told him how Evie had overhauled their usual organisation system and made it more efficient.
She made his own days more efficient too in ways she probably didn’t realise. Did she know how much he looked forward to their brief conferences that started and ended each day? He liked the routine of that—of looking forward to talking with her at the beginning of the day when everything was fresh and new. They would talk about the prospects for the day, what he hoped to find, hoped to do. To speak his hopes out loud gave his day structure. They would end the day much the same way: a brief discussion of whether or not those hopes had materialised. It was a good way to put the day to bed.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/bronwyn-scott/awakening-the-shy-miss/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Bronwyn Scott
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
Отзывы: Пока нет Добавить отзыв
О книге: Seduced by the PrinceDimitri Petrovich, Prince of Kuban, is unlike any man seamstress Evie Milham has ever met. Exotic and charismatic, he’s visiting her sleepy country village to excavate antiquities. Yet one glimpse of the Prince’s melting brown eyes, and shy Evie’s heart races like never before…Dimitri is no stranger to desire, and he knows innocent Evie wants him! Before he returns to his homeland, he must decide – resist Evie’s siren call, or give her pleasure beyond her wildest, hottest imaginings!