Prince of Hearts (12 page)

No, Finch would look for a man of intelligence, integrity, and egalitarianism. A boring old Englishman, who would devote himself to some field of esoteric study and keep out of her way. He thought it an honest enough assumption, all told, to suspect the man to be of advanced years.

The only elements to Finch that didn't quite fit into the formula he had devised for her were her gambling addiction and her moonlight occupation as a writer of romantic serials. And her passionate refusal never to work for him again, of course. He didn't know what to make of these aspects of Finch's personality.

Nor did he know what to make of her current pique at being thought unattractive. How very ... female of her. How very...

And in that moment, Sasha looked at Finch as if seeing her for the first time. He'd looked at her as a human, as his indomitable secretary, as a prized pet he liked to tease, even as a friend. He'd even looked at her dispassionately as a female, a very interesting, unusual example of her species. But he'd never looked at her as a woman.

He'd not let himself.

But he looked at her now. And looked at her some more. And he could not speak for a very long time. He could hardly manage a decent breath.

Despite the sacks she wore, despite the unfortunate pink robe, despite her red nose and watering eyes, Finch was rather pretty. Not beautiful, not sultry like he usually preferred in the fairer sex. She was like a pretty English tea rose, milky-skinned, with a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

And when she was vexed, as she was now, she was spectacular.

Those chocolate eyes of hers sparkled like the garnets she'd bought for Luciana, and her full lips quivered with emotion. Quivered and quivered as if they would not stop unless he kissed them.

He staggered back a step at his insane line of thought and the even more insane tightening of his loins.

Kiss Finch! Kiss Finch?

Ugh!

He didn't know how long he'd been staring at her like a bloody gape-mouthed fool. But it was long enough that she leaned against the desk uncertainly, uncomfortably. At last, she shoved away and shot to his right with a huff that was supposed to be haughty but came off sounding rather miserable.

"Of course you do," she said wryly, though the anguish underlying her voice was plain to his ears.

He had forgotten she'd asked him a question before until she'd spoken again. He had no idea what his expression must have conveyed to her, but it couldn't have been good. She'd taken it as confirmation he thought her repulsive.

Impulsively, he reached out and grabbed her by the shoulder, stopping her cold. He spun her around to face him, amazed as always at how small she was, how finely made. No wonder he’d never let himself see her as a woman. He’d break her if he weren’t careful. She tried to shrug him off, but he easily held her in place.

"I did not mean ... I did not mean to imply..." Hell, he was stuttering as if he'd forgotten how to speak English, a language he’d learned a hundred years ago! "You're not unattractive. You're quite ... quite...”

"You've said enough," she moaned, her face flushing cherry red once more. "I want you to leave."

"Not yet."

"My humiliation is complete!" She strained against his grasp.

"I did not mean to humiliate you. I mean to rehire you."

"Never, now let me go," she cried.

She was struggling so, it became necessary to hold both of her shoulders to keep her from flying away. Though he couldn’t think of a reasonable explanation why he found it necessary to keep holding her. The only thing he could come up with was that he didn't want to let her go.

He just didn't want to.

She kicked his shin, and he let out a little yelp of pain. He fell forward, and she fell with him. The desk blocked their descent, wedging Finch against him, with no means of retreat. This didn't seem to dim the enthusiasm of her struggling – or the enthusiasm of his grasping. "Damn it, Finch, hold still. Let me explain."

"Let me go!" She jerked her head back, sending her spectacles flying off her nose and against his chest. He reached for them at the same time she did, and their hands collided. Her’s was warm and soft and trembling. He couldn't ever remember touching her hand, though he must have, over the years. But it had never felt like this. Like a lightning bolt had struck him where they were joined.

He caught his breath. So did she. They both froze.

He stared down into her eyes, which seemed so much bigger without her spectacles. They were wide with surprise, and dark and muddy with anguish. He felt his heart – what passed as his heart, anyway – sinking at the sight of those big, hurt eyes. Suddenly he would have traveled to the moon and back, if it could have restored their defiant luster.

She snatched her hand away a moment later, leaving him clutching her spectacles between them, and she stared up at him uncertainly, afraid to move.

"God, Finch," he muttered, shaken to the core. He began to put her spectacles back on for her, but then thought better of it. He folded them up and tucked them in his lapel. "I don't know why you wear those things all the time," he continued, shaken.

"I need them," she murmured, reaching for his lapel.

"You need them for reading. That is all."

"How do you ... how would you..." she sputtered.

"I just know. You wear them all the time to hide from the world."

"I am
not
hiding."

"Yes, you..." His words strangled in his throat, for he felt Finch's warm fingers against his chest, burrowing inside his jacket for her spectacles, so that all that stood between his skin and hers was a starched linen shirt. So near his secret heart.

Everywhere her small hand touched, he felt branded. As her head dipped nearer to him, the scent of her hair penetrated all of his senses, choking him. The feel of her small, lithe little form pressed between him and the desk, squirming around for her freedom, suddenly registered, making him burn with an aching, impossible desire.

He had never felt such a strong reaction to a woman in three hundred years, even Yelena, and that it was Finch of all people ... Finch! ... it simply boggled the mind. It was because he was so angry with her, he reasoned. It was because she was defying him, and no one defied him. It was because ... because...

Why had he never seen her before? Why had he never noticed how large and luscious her eyes were, how beautiful her tawny hair was, how big and plump and imminently kissable were her lips?

He must have noticed. He never missed important details like this.

He stopped her hand with his own. She raised her eyes to his, and she seemed puzzled by what she saw written on his features, for her lips parted tentatively.

The movement sent him over the edge, hurtling into madness.

Sasha never did anything without careful deliberation. He had learned long ago that making calculated choices and avoiding impulsive, rash behaviors preserved sanity and orderliness in one's life. Carelessness with one's mind and body led to chaos, and often, as he had learned the hard way growing up, pain and suffering. Yet from the moment he had crossed the threshold of Finch's little flat, he had done nothing but act on impulse. It was quite an unfathomable state of affairs.

He couldn't seem to help himself as he leaned downwards, knocking Finch's small body flat against the desktop, sending handkerchiefs and drafts of her serial novel flying to the floor around them. He couldn't seem to help himself as he placed both arms above her shoulders, lowered his head and touched his lips to hers.

He was stunned. She was the sweetest thing he'd ever kissed. She tasted of honey and lemons and menthol cough drops. Her lips were warm, as soft as a rose petal, as plush as a ripened fruit.

To her credit, she stiffened underneath him, and attempted to push him away.

To his delight, her protests lasted only from the time it took her hands to travel from her sides to his shoulders. Then she melted, and her fingers dug into his arms, drawing him towards her, not away. The kiss changed. Her mouth parted more, and his tongue seized the opportunity to taste her deeply, thoroughly. Good sweet Christ!

The kiss changed again as he seized her mouth hungrily, selfishly, until neither one of them could breathe. He leaned into her, trailed his hand across her waist. She was so small he could easily fit his hands around her. Her hips were narrow, her legs slim and long and pressed against his thighs. But her breasts...

Her breasts were surprisingly full, crushed against his chest. He'd never dreamed she
had
breasts, as they had been unidentifiable in the bags she wore. But there they were, round and heavy and aroused. He ran a very unsteady hand lightly over the curve of one. Finch made a faint moaning sound deep in her throat, and the noise set his loins on edge until he was near to exploding like some green boy.

Dear God, he
burned
for her. He wanted to take Finch right there and then, no ceremony, no pretense. He wanted to take her against the desk, quick and hard, like some marauding barbarian. Just to show her who was in charge of this little dance of theirs. And then he wanted to carry her over to that shoddy little cot of hers, throw that pink robe into the grate, and make painfully slow, revoltingly sweet love to her all night long.

He had lost his mind.

He was aware that she had gone rigid beneath him once more, and her hands were now attempting to push him away in earnest. He’d never taken an unwilling woman before, and he wasn't about to start. Nevertheless, this time he was sorely tempted.

And this realization, that he hovered so very near the line between who he was and who his monster of a father had been, was enough to stop him cold.

He raised his head as if awakening from a dream.

He didn't want to, but he glanced down at Finch. Damn. Damn. Damn! He still wanted her!

She sneezed in his face.

He sobered immediately. Sanity returned completely. He drew back and straightened, then drew back some more. All the way to the door.

Finch raised herself on one elbow and watched him retreat, her lips swollen from his kisses, her cheeks flushed, her hair wildly mussed. She looked dazed. She opened her mouth, but whatever she’d been about to say was swallowed by another sneeze. And another. She looked so miserable and confused and adorable his traitorous body almost returned to her side, enfolded her in his arms, and kissed her again.

He clutched the knob for dear life and fled out the door as if escaping a fire. He didn’t stop until he was seated atop his curricle.

Matthews, who had stood guard by his vehicle, eyed him as if he’d just escaped from Bedlam. He certainly felt as if he had. He touched his lips, remembering the damnably sweet feel of her mouth against his. His head started to spin, and he clutched the seat boards for purchase.

Unable to help himself, he glanced up the side of the boarding house to the windows of her room. Finch was staring down at him from one of them, her eyes wide, her hand to her mouth. He jerked his gaze away, trying to fight down another vexing bout of arousal below the belt.

He had gone utterly mad! He knew this, could trace its pathology as a psychiatrist, could give a hundred technical names for his sudden sexual interest in Finch, yet for the life of him, he could not let the feeling go.

He could not let her go. And this had nothing to do with keeping her safe from a killer any more.

If it were possible for him to catch her cold, it would serve him right.

Chapter 5

For a Limited Time, Dr. Hellenburg, world-renowned Welder to Europe’s First Families, offers his services to the Ladies of the Ton whilst on his visit to London. Dr. Hellenburg specializes in the Delicate Concerns of the Female Form, among them Bust Improvement, Facial Plating, and the popular Eternal Corset. Never worry about your Waistline again! … Discreet Inquiries can be submitted to 10 Baker Street …

-from an advertisement in the
London Post-Dispatch
, 1870

IT was common knowledge that the most beautiful woman in England was Lady Christiana Harker. Golden-haired, green-eyed, with alabaster skin, a perfect figure, and giant dowry, she was what every debutante entering the marriage mart wished she could be. Even at thirty years of age, her beauty was the same as it had been at her debut. People were aging at a slightly slower rate than they had forty years ago, but even so, Lady Christiana seemed to be enjoying a remarkably long youth.

Aline hadn’t the advantage of longevity or beauty. Standing next to her resplendent friend at the charity ball Lady Christiana and her brother, the Earl of Llewellyn, held every year at their huge London residence, Aline felt all of her thirty-four years in her dowdy blue silk gown she’d purchased a decade ago. These feelings were nothing unusual when in the company of Christiana or most of her feminine acquaintances. She was always the smaller, unenhanced wallflower of the group, and she was resigned to this fact.

She disliked coming to these events. She was an unsurprisingly poor dancer, and found making conversation with the few vapid London society ladies who stooped to speak to her tedious and often painful. And when there was a crush, she invariably got trampled, owing to her size and her amazing ability to become invisible to onlookers.

Now that she was no longer Romanov's employee, she didn’t have to attend such functions as his representative. But she couldn't celebrate quite yet; her friendship with Christiana prohibited her absence.

Her nerves were even more fragile tonight for several reasons. She kept glancing towards the door, her blood thick with dread. Romanov never deigned to come to the annual ball, though his financial contributions went a great way towards funding Lady Christiana’s charitable ventures. He tended to keep a generous distance between himself and most society functions. His only concessions were his box at the opera and an occasional private dinner with friends.