He had to stop thinking about her. There could be nothing permanent between them. Their one night had been a brief, glorious interlude—one he would probably dream about for the rest of his natural life—but it was over. From now on, it would be purely business. He would keep her safe from Petrov because he was a Bow Street Runner and it was his duty to protect and serve the inhabitants of the city.
And he would watch from the sidelines when she chose some less tarnished, more suitable partner to marry and disappeared out of his life forever.
Chapter 29.
Wolff was correct in his assessment that the late invitation would have no effect on attendance, Anya thought. Acceptances flooded into the Grosvenor Square mansion, and she read each one aloud to an increasingly ecstatic dowager duchess. A few guests tried to deliver theirs in person, to sneak a peek at the newly discovered princess before the night itself—as though she were some strange animal just introduced at the Royal Exchange—but all callers were denied by the stone-faced Mellors.
The prospect of throwing open the house had invigorated the dowager. Anya’s middle finger developed a callused bump on one side from transcribing a myriad dictations: orders for flowers and wine, for musicians and beeswax. The staff had been whipped into a frenzy of polishing and dusting, and even the duchess’s cook, a no-nonsense Scotswoman named Mrs. MacDougall, had been prevailed upon to cede her kitchen to the world-famous Lagrasse for the night. He was promising “an unparalleled dining event.”
Of the Tricorn’s three owners, Anya saw only two. Benedict Wylde and Alex Harland, both equally charming, had taken turns to guard her. They’d regarded her with keen interest, as if intrigued to see the difficult woman their friend had been saddled with at the Tricorn, but neither had spoken to her any more than was strictly necessary. They’d loitered unobtrusively during the days and presumably hovered, unseen, during the nights.
Of Wolff himself, there was no sign. Anya told herself she didn’t care, but her chest ached with a strange undefined yearning, and at night, in the sumptuous bedroom she’d been assigned, she dreamed wicked dreams—of his mouth at her ear and his hands on her skin, fulfilling the melting promise of his words.
Bond Street’s most celebrated modiste, Madame Cerise, had come in person to measure her for a gown “fit for a princess.” Anya had stood still as an ice sculpture as she’d been prodded and pinned, even as she felt herself retreating behind a wall of cool reserve.
The resulting dress was a magical confection, a dazzling dove-grey satin shot through with silvery threads that made the skirts look like a mercury waterfall frozen midstream. Metallic embroidery on the bodice and hem created the illusion of thousands of tiny ice crystals and added a sparkling richness that made even Anya catch her breath.
She sent another note to Elizaveta, to let her know she was well. A scrappy urchin named Jem Barnes was enlisted to deliver the note without being followed, and Anya was delighted to receive a prompt reply from her friend.
I’m more than well.Elizaveta had written.I’m engaged! Oliver and I went for a walk in Regent’s Park yesterday and—after dropping the ring in a flowerbed, poor darling!—he asked me to makehim the happiest of men and be his wife. Of course I said yes! I know that you will wish me happy, my dearest friend, and I cannot wait to see you in person. I’m so glad that you’re staying with the duchess now and have the protection of the men from Bow Street, but I still worry for you. I won’t rest easy until Petrov is back in St. Petersburg and far away from both of us. With love &c, Eliz.
Anya’s happy tears at Elizaveta’s engagement had mingled with a gut-wrenching, bittersweet grief. Elizaveta, her childhood rock, her other half, her faithful companion and youthful confidante, was leaving her. And while she was so happy for her friend, she couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was changing, and not necessarily for the better. Everything she’d once taken for granted, everything safe and secure, was slipping between her fingers like sand through an hourglass. Soon, she would be left with nothing but memories and thin air.
She didn’t want to examine her feelings for Wolff too closely. They were too complicated, too contradictory. He’d seen her as nothing more than a duty to be discharged. He’d washed his hands of her as soon as he could.
Anya gave a mournful sigh. He was also generous, unselfish, and honorable to the core. When she’d given herself to him she’d thought it only physical attraction, but somewhere along the way a whole host of deeper emotions had become engaged. Now she was both furious with him for abandoning her—and desperate for a glimpse of his surly, handsome face.
The night of the ball finally arrived. Anya accepted the ministrations of the friseur to arrange her hair and allowed Tilly, the duchess’s timid maid, to lace her into herdress and apply a fine coating of silvery powder to her skin with an enormous powder puff. Her shoulders and chest shimmered in the lamplight like pale moonbeams, and Anya studied the stranger in the mirror, searching for some hint of recognition.
She was every inch the poised, perfect princess. Her blue eyes looked huge in her pale face, her rouged lips a striking contrast to the silver dress.
This was not the same carefree girl who’d left Russia eighteen months ago. There was a sadness in her eyes now, an understanding that the world was both more cruel and more wonderful than she’d ever imagined. There was determination too, and pride, and a new, distinctly feminine awareness.
Tonight, her first foray back into “polite society,” would be an ordeal. It would have been far more bearable with Wolff at her side, poking fun at the pomp and circumstance and staring down those who would challenge her right to be there. Without him, she felt as cold and frozen as a bulb beneath the surface of the soil. He was the warmth she needed to thaw the ice and coax her into the sunlight. He’d taught her to glow, to burn.
But he was not in the drawing room when she joined the dowager duchess before their grand entrance to the ballroom. A few select guests had assembled, and Anya felt all eyes upon her as she paused in the doorway.
“Princess!” Dorothea came forward to take her hand. “You look wonderful, my dear. Come and meet everyone.”
A tall man with sandy hair and a friendly face stepped forward.
“Princess Denisova, allow me to present my eldest great-nephew. This is Geoffrey, Marquis of Cranford.”
Sebastien’s half-brother.
The man bowed low over her hand. “Delighted to meet you at last, Princess.”
Anya studied him. There were few physical similarities between the two men, apart from their height. Geoffrey’s hair was a lighter brown. And unlike Wolff, who only had to look at her to melt her into a puddle, Geoffrey’s eyes were soft and unthreatening. His ready smile reminded her of Dmitri, and Anya felt an instant affinity.
“I hear you like to ride?” he said. “Seb tells me you’re an excellent horsewoman.”
Her stomach twisted at the thought that Wolff had complimented her, albeit in her absence. “Yes, I do.”
“Then perhaps you’ll do me the honor of meeting me in the park sometime? We can exercise our mounts together.”
“I would like that very much.”
He presented her with a small box wrapped in ribbon. “It is customary to give young ladies a token on the eve of their first official ball.” He smiled. “I’m aware that this is not your first ball, Princess, but it is your firstEnglishball, and I hope you’ll accept it in the spirit of friendship.”
