He crouched down to inspect the unconscious man’s outstretched hand. A gold signet ring glinted in the pale morning light. “The Orlov family crest,” he said grimly. “Just like the dead man down at the docks.” He stood and dusted his hands.
“The Orlovs have been allies of the Petrovs for centuries,” Anya said quietly.
Sebastien ignored her. “Mickey. Take this idiot over to Bow Street and lock him up.” His eyes flashed back to Anya and her heart missed another beat. “And you?” he bit out. “My study. Right now.”
He turned and stalked away, fury evident in every long stride.
Anya gulped. For a cowardly minute, she imagined leaping up onto Borodino and galloping back to the dowager duchess, but that would only delay the inevitable confrontation.
“Better go, miss,” Mickey said gently. “’E don’t like to be kept waiting.”
Anya nodded glumly. Now there would be hell to pay.
Chapter 27.
“Princess?”
Seb strode to his desk then pivoted on his heel, fury scalding his insides. “You’re the bloody princess? Cousin-to-the-tsar, wear-a-crown-to-bedprincess. Christ alive, woman!”
The gorgeous wretch sidled into his study and hovered just inside the door. He clenched his fists against the urge to release every profanity he knew, one after another.
“I don’t wear a crown to bed,” she said coolly. “As you well know. I don’t even have a tiara.”
Her reminder of his monumental mistake didn’t help cool his temper.
“Should I bow?” he growled with deep sarcasm. “Your Majesty.”
“I believe ‘Your Highness’ is the correct form of address.”
He scowled at her equally sarcastic tone and gave a bitter, self-recriminatory laugh. “You’re a bloody littleliar, that’s what you are! All this time, pretending to be something you’re not.”
She gave a dainty shrug. “We’re all pretending to be something we’re not. You, for example, pretend to be a rational, sensible human being. If you’ll just let me—”
“Does Dorothea know?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Of course she does, the old schemer.”
God, he’d been so stupid. He should have realized who she was straight away. All the signs had been there. Her haughty demeanor, her polished manners, her strange worldly innocence. The way Dorothea had been oh-so-keen to throw them together.
He’d been set up.
By a septuagenarian battle-ax.
She frowned. “I don’t see why you’re getting so angry—”
“I slept with you!”
“So?”
“So? You came to me under false pretenses.”
She crossed her arms. “And what difference would it have made if I’d told you?”
“I never would’ve slept with you! I do not seduce well-bred—” He stopped short and glared at her. “Oh, God, you were avirgin,weren’t you?” The guilty look on her face was enough to incriminate her, and he swore again, furious at himself as much as her. “Christ alive! I don’t bed virgins. Ever. I bed wenches. Actresses. Widows. Tarts.”
Her eyes widened at that, but she lifted her chin in that haughty way he should have realized came from a lifetime of privilege.
“Well, now you’ve fucked a woman who outranks you. Congratulations.”
His jaw dropped at her shocking use of profanity, but she wasn’t finished.
