Princess in Love (3 page)

For he had no business desiring a Sebastian.

The coach lurched forward unexpectedly, and Rose reached out to grab at something,
as if she half expected to be tossed to the floor.

A rather unfortunate metaphor for her future, he supposed, which did not help his
mood in the slightest.

Nevertheless, Leopold frowned as he watched her wrap a hand around her wrist and wince
in pain.

“You’re hurt,” he observed.

“Not at all,” she replied, which prompted the duchess to speak on her behalf.

“Princess Rose is very brave, Lord Cavanaugh, and too proud to describe how she was
thrown about with such violence, it is a wonder she still lives.”

His eyebrows drew together with concern. “You must see a doctor, then.”

“I am sure that’s not necessary,” she casually replied. “It is a mild sprain, nothing
more. I am perfectly well.”

He sat back, unconvinced she was telling the truth. “We will send for a doctor nonetheless,
as soon as we reach the inn. Best not to take chances.”

“Quite right,” the duchess said, while the coach picked up speed.

Rose lifted her compelling blue eyes to meet his, and despite their polite discourse
when he entered her coach a few minutes ago, she was now regarding him with an unmistakable
note of disdain.

He couldn’t pretend not to understand why, for he remembered all too well how he had
treated her so shabbily a few years back.

His thoughts meandered a bit further into the past … to that bright sunny day when
they went riding together during a shooting party on his father’s estate. The Sebastian
royals of the New Regime were the guests of honor, which had been a carefully plotted
ruse to prove Leopold’s loyalty to the crown and secure greater power for him in the
Sebastian court.

Rose had just turned twenty, and he hadn’t been able to keep his eyes—or his hands—off
her, for she was an exquisite beauty with unparalleled intelligence and a boatload
of charm to go along with it.

During the hunt, her brothers—the princes Randolph and Nicholas—had raced ahead with
the hounds barking at their heels. Leopold and Rose chose to follow at a more leisurely
pace and flirted up a storm while discussing books and theater and the latest gossip
at court.

Rose was coquettish that day, and if he’d wanted to, he could have bedded her before
the week was out, for there was an undeniable spark of attraction between them that
exploded like cannon fire each time they met. She aroused him to a wicked degree,
and he knew the feeling was mutual. They had been wildly attracted to each other,
and despite the look she’d given him just now, he suspected not much had changed.
And he still wanted to bed her, goddammit.

Growing increasingly sensitive to the heady scent of her perfume inside the close
confines of the coach and the enticing curves of her appealing body, he turned his
gaze to the window and reminded himself that nothing could ever come of it, for she
was a Sebastian and he, a secret Royalist. One day he would help topple her usurping
family from the throne of Petersbourg, and from that moment on, Rose would count him
among the very worst of her enemies. And she had more than a few.

When he glanced back at her, he was still disturbingly aware of those soft, full lips
and the captivating lavish bosom he remembered so well. The lust he once felt for
her reared up quite violently, and he cursed this damnable weather for thrusting them
together again.

It had not been part of the plan.

*   *   *

“Do tell us, Lord Cavanaugh,” the duchess said. “What brings you to England? Are you
part of the shipbuilding campaign to strengthen our allied navies?”

Rose tried not to stare too closely at Leopold as he lounged back casually in the
seat like a gorgeous lion. “Not at this time, Your Grace, but I understand Prince
Randolph is making excellent progress in that regard.”

It was not lost on Rose that he hadn’t answered the question, and though she wished
she couldn’t care less about his comings and goings, she rephrased it.

“Are you visiting acquaintances, my lord?”

His seductive blue eyes turned to her while the rain beat hard upon the roof.

“I’ve been traveling with my father for the past month,” he replied. “He is journeying
to Scotland tomorrow, but I shall return home to Petersbourg in the next day or so.”

“Sailing out of London?” the duchess asked.

“Yes, that’s correct.” He then steered the conversation to the celebrations in France
since Napoleon’s capture. Thank heavens there was much to discuss on that front.

Later, as the coach rocked and swayed on its stormy path to the inn, the dowager’s
head began to nod and her eyes fluttered closed. Soon she was snoring softly.

Uncomfortably aware of the fact that she had just lost the company of her chaperone,
Rose glanced across at Lord Cavanaugh, who was resting a finger on his temple and
watching her with those sly, devilish eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said, “as if we are alone here and I am something
you find amusing.”

“Amusing?” He shook his head as if baffled by her remark. “That is not the word I
would choose.” He casually began to unbutton his overcoat. “Do you not find it strange
that we’ve bumped into each other like this? Honestly, what are the odds?”

“Very slim indeed,” she replied. “I am beginning to wonder if it is some sort of punishment.
Though I am not quite sure what I did to deserve it.”

“Punishment.” He sighed heavily. “Ah, Rose, I thought we were beyond that. It’s been
two years.”

She shifted her body on the seat and rubbed at her aching wrist, which had begun to
swell. “Has it truly been that long? I hadn’t thought about it. I am happy to hear
you
are keeping track, though.”

The dowager snorted and jumped, as if startled out of a bad dream. Then her eyes fell
closed again.

Lord Cavanaugh leaned forward, weaved his fingers together, and rested his elbows
on his knees. He regarded Rose carefully with narrowed eyes, as if he were studying
her mood, trying to decipher her like a riddle.

As usual, she felt very exposed. He was too close, and she didn’t want to smell the
pleasing fragrance of his cologne, or look at those strong, manly hands, for they
reminded her of the past.

“Can we not be friends?” he asked.

Her breaths were coming faster now, and she swallowed hard over the urge to tell him
what she
really
wanted him to do with his friendship.

“Does it even matter to you, Leopold? Because I don’t believe it does. I think you
want my approval only because we are stuck here together and there is no escaping
the awkwardness of it. The whole country knows you do not accept defeat, and you want
to have the upper hand again. As soon as I tell you that you are forgiven and I adore
you, you will sit back in that seat, quite satisfied with your triumph, and you will
stop working so hard to be charming.”

In the very next instant, he sat back. “You never fail to astonish me.”

“How so?”

He frowned. “I’ve never met a woman who speaks as candidly as you. You don’t mince
words. You say what you think.”

She scoffed. “No, I assure you, Leopold, I do not. If I said what I really thought,
you would be a great deal more than astonished.”

His frankly sensual eyes studied her with admiration, and he leaned forward again.
“I am sure you are quite right about that, but let us travel back a bit. I certainly
don’t think you adore me. Quite to the contrary, I believe you are very unhappy with
me, and I cannot blame you. What happened between us two years ago was … it was…”

He paused, and she clenched her teeth in anger. For the love of God, she couldn’t
stomach any more of this unnecessary degradation.

Raising a hand and shaking her head, she said, “Please, Leopold. There is no need
for us to discuss it. It was a long time ago and I am completely over it. I am very
happy now. I no longer wish that you would become the man I once wished you to be.”

He regarded her shrewdly. “Now
there
is an artful insult if I ever heard one.”

“Not at all,” she helpfully replied. “You are who you are, and two years ago I was
simply mistaken in my impression of you.” She waved a dismissing hand through the
air. “I was very young.”

He chuckled. “You were twenty. And what
was
your impression of me, exactly?”

He appeared quite genuinely curious.

Rose paused. If she were being honest, she would tell him she believed him to be the
most handsome, compelling, and intelligent man she’d ever imagined could exist, and
that she was certain they were destined to be together, and she wanted him to father
her children—at least a half dozen of them.

But that romantic first impression had died a swift death when she showed her true
feelings and he blatantly rejected her. For that reason, he did not deserve to hear
such praise.

“I thought you were very charming,” she simply said.

“There’s that word again.” He shook his head and waved a finger, as if he knew she
was holding back and would have none of it.

She let out a frustrated breath. “What do you want me to say? That I fancied myself
in love with you? That I thought you might feel the same way, and I was heartbroken
when I realized it meant nothing to you? Or that I still dream of a proposal from
you?”

His lips parted, and he was about to answer the question when the dowager snorted
and started awake.

“Oh, I do beg your pardon,” she said, sitting up. “Was I sleeping? Are we almost there?”

Leopold inclined his head at Rose, as if to say,
We are not done here.

The coach slowed to a halt just then, and he peered out the window. “Your instincts
are impeccable, madam,” he said. “It appears we have arrived.”

Chapter Three

The rain continued to fall and the wind howled over the shingled roof of the inn as
Rose and the dowager dashed out of the coach and across the yard to the front door.

Inside the parlor—blessedly warm with the heat of a roaring fire in an enormous hearth—the
innkeeper was waiting with a smile. Rose lowered the hood of her cloak and tried to
ignore the pain in her wrist, which had swelled considerably over the past hour.

“Your Royal Highness, Your Grace…” The innkeeper bowed to them both. “Welcome. It
is an honor to serve you this evening. I have your rooms prepared, if you will follow
me this way.”

He led them upstairs to two rooms, side by side, small but cozy and clean, with polished
brass beds and freshly laundered sheets and quilts.

Rose took one look at the soft, dry bed and the brick fireplace, freshly kindled and
waiting to be lit, and nearly wept with joy, for she was exhausted after the numerous
charity events and speeches in Bath, followed by a near-fatal carriage accident, and
the unexpected arrival of a man she would have preferred never to see again.

She ran her tongue over her swollen lip and held her wrist close to her chest. Lord
Cavanaugh had insisted she be seen by a doctor, and though she’d put on a brave face,
she was beginning to feel grateful for that. It would be best to ensure she hadn’t
broken anything, or at the very least, to be prescribed something to numb the pain.

“The maid will be up shortly with hot water and fresh linens,” the innkeeper said.
“Would you like supper trays sent up, or would you prefer to join the marquess in
the private dining room?”

Rose was about to select the supper tray, but the dowager was quicker to respond.
“We would be delighted to join the marquess. Please thank him for arranging our accommodations
and tell him we will be downstairs directly.”

The innkeeper bowed and retreated.

“What a charming gentleman,” the dowager said, as she stood in Rose’s doorway and
glanced about the room, which was identical to her own.

“Are you referring to the innkeeper or the marquess?” Rose asked.

“Why, the marquess, of course,” the dowager replied. “How lucky we were to be rescued
by such a man. I daresay we must toast to our good fortune. Now if you will excuse
me, I must dress for dinner. I am positively famished.”

Rose smiled in agreement, rubbed a hand over her throbbing wrist, and shut her door
with a frown.

*   *   *

Two hours later, after they dined on a moist and mouthwatering main course of lamb
with spiced gravy, roasted potatoes, and carrots dripping in cinnamon butter, their
private table in the back room was cleared for dessert. By that time, Rose was feeling
no pain in her wrist on account of the sumptuous full-bodied wine that had accompanied
the meal.

While Lord Cavanaugh described his treacherous voyage across the North Sea on his
way to England, a sweet apple brandy was served to the table, along with raspberry
cream cakes and sugared plums.

The dowager’s cheeks were, by now, beyond rosy, for she had enjoyed the wine a little
too much and became unmindful of her obligation to be a strict and moral chaperone.
During dinner she permitted Rose’s glass to be refilled more than once, and Rose soon
found herself laughing openly with the marquess about the infamous kitchen incident
of 1811—when her father’s dog escaped into the palace courtyard with a giant block
of cheese in his jaws, and the cook chased after him with a rolling pin, tripped over
her skirts, and fell tumbling into the reflecting pond.

The dog was forced to sleep in the wine cellar that night, while the cook, unfortunately,
was dismissed. Though it was not such a sad occasion when all was said and done, for
that particular cook possessed no sense of humor. The dog certainly didn’t mourn the
loss of her.

For that brief period of time at the table during dessert, Rose managed to forget
about her awkward history with Leopold, and simply enjoyed herself. Soon she began
to wonder if it might be possible for them to be friends after all. She was engaged
to another man now, which provided a certain protection from Cavanaugh’s attentions
and attractiveness. If she could move past the humiliation of his rejection and accept
him for what he truly was—a dangerously charming flirt who was too handsome for his
own good—it might very well be possible. For she certainly did enjoy his conversation.
Nothing about that had changed, and she doubted it ever would.