Awakened By The Prince’s Passion. Bronwyn Scott
of how underdressed she was for meeting a man at midnight, even if that hadn’t been her intention when she’d left her room.
‘Nothing wrong with old habits.’ Ruslan smiled and took a swallow. ‘Can’t sleep? Would you like something?’
‘No.’ Dasha played with the folds of her nightrail, pleating them between her fingers.
‘I confess I’m glad you’re still awake. I’d like to discuss a few things, if you’re up to it.’
She nodded her permission. Did this man never sleep? It was after midnight, approaching twenty-four hours since her ignominious arrival on his doorstep, and he was still working.
‘Thank you. The doctor suggested it may help prompt some memories if you surrounded yourself with reminders of your old life, if you lived and acted as if you knew yourself to be a princess. To that end, I’ve engaged a few individuals who can help with that: a dancing master, a dressmaker, a French tutor since everyone at the Kubanian court speaks French, an etiquette coach. At the very least, the skills will help you feel more at home among the English aristocracy.’
‘And at the best?’ Dasha asked sharply, not entirely liking where this proposal was headed and what it might signify.
‘It may prompt your memories. You might discover you are already fluent in French, or that you can already dance. It might be all you need to break through your mental block.’
‘Or perhaps it is all you need to convince people I am truly capable.’ Did he think she was naïve enough to not see what this was? She was to be trained. If she could not remember being the Princess, she could be transformed into one effectively enough to convince anyone who needed convincing. It made the option of becoming an anonymous émigrée moot. London society would not let a Kubanian princess with a right to the throne fade into anonymity. Anonymity required a new name, a new history.
Dasha rose and paced before the fire, her mind racing. ‘So it’s already been decided, has it? I left the room and your war counsel decided I am to go back, as if I am a pawn without any say in the matter.’ She speared him with a hard stare. ‘I hoped for more from you, Prince Pisarev. Your promise to me was merely hours old before you broke it.’
* * *
Broke his word? How dare she imply such a thing, especially to a man who had nothing but his word? The Princess went too far when she impugned his honour after all he’d done for her today, without question, and there were plenty of far less pleasant questions he could have asked. Ruslan narrowed his eyes, letting his gaze suggest his displeasure, his tone cool. ‘Nothing has been decided. I meant every word. I will not force you to go back. But should you decide to return, you will need certain skills, certain pieces of knowledge. What you can’t remember can be taught, but it will take time and we don’t know how much of that we have. We have to start now. We have to be prepared.’
‘We?’ Dasha snapped. ‘The last time I checked, there was just me. Just one Princess.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. The moment you entered my house you made this my concern. I thought I had made that clear.’ If anyone needed safeguarding, it was she. Dasha was brave, but she was entirely vulnerable even among those who meant to help her. He’d seen just how vulnerable at dinner, listening to Varvakis discuss her political views because she couldn’t, and later, listening to the men take her apart in her absence, bandying about words like ‘puppet princess’—a clear indication that she would be the front for those who would run the government on her behalf. Such an assumption would have led to a duel had she been a man. Despite the practical objectivity required of such analysis, something fierce and protective had risen in him in the dining room on her behalf as General Vasiliev had bluntly outlined the risks of helping her and the potential rewards of controlling the provincial kingdom in exchange for the effort. Ruslan would have gladly taken his dinner knife and gutted the man if it would have served any purpose, but despite his anger he had an aversion to killing people for telling the truth.
‘If we’re in it “together”, as you suggest, you have the unenviable job of being my advisor of sorts.’ Her tone suggested she was not satisfied with his answer. Her eyes sparked as she crossed her arms over her breasts. The fire caught her slim silhouette beneath her nightrail, illuminating long legs that disappeared up beneath the opaqueness of the blanket she wrapped around herself, but not before the sight of those legs reminded Ruslan she was naked beneath the cotton. Being her self-appointed advisor would be a far easier job if she was a tad less attractive and a tad more clothed.
Ruslan crossed his leg over a knee, trying to dispel the beginnings of arousal. Politics aside, Dasha was a beautiful woman and he was naught but a man. Circumstances being different, he might have acted on the burgeoning attraction, but politics and opportunity could not be put aside or compromised. She was a princess in exile with a decision to make that would decide the fate of a nation. That was complication enough.
Dasha hugged herself, some of the anger leaving her body—anger she had every right to claim, Ruslan reminded himself. She was no fool. She knew what had happened in the dining room after she’d left. ‘I don’t know who I am supposed to be. A princess? An exile? Someone else entirely?’ The desperation in her eyes drew him.
Against his better judgement, he set aside his glass and went to her at the fire, his hands firm at her forearms, his body close, his voice husky from the lateness of the hour. ‘Think of your situation as a blessing. Many people would envy you that choice. You have a chance to remake your life, to remake yourself. You can be whoever you want to be, no history, no backstory, no chains to your past. That can be a gift, Dasha. I will help you find a new name, a new life if you want.’ Being this close to her was wreaking all kinds of sensual havoc on his body. He was doing this for encouragement’s sake, or so he told himself. But his body had other ideas—all of them bad.
Ruslan licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry, his mind aware of the details of her. She smelled of sweet summer roses, she was warm and naked beneath the nightclothes. All the ingredients for a disaster were there: the late night, the long day, a beautiful woman in distress looking at him with emerald eyes that begged for resolution and relief, comfort and companionship. She must have sensed it, too. He felt her body move into his. It was the smallest of movements, but it was enough to warn him, her lips parted in slight but unmistakable invitation.
His reflexes were faster. He placed a chaste kiss on her forehead. ‘You’ve had a trying day, Your Highness.’ He was giving her absolution, an excuse to fall back on when she awoke in the morning and realised what she’d done, what she’d asked for. Given the circumstances, it was entirely understandable. She was confused and alone. She would seek comfort where she could. He had no such convenient excuses. He had to resist the temptation on behalf of them both. Ruslan stepped away from her. ‘Best get some sleep, Princess, lessons start tomorrow.’
She’d nearly kissed him! That one thought kept running through her mind as Dasha pored over pattern books in the morning room. The dressmaker, Madame Delphine, had been there since ten o’clock, trying patiently to tempt her with fabrics and designs. But her attention was having difficulty focusing on anything except that moment last night: his hands on her arms, their heads close together in front of the fire, his voice low and private, their bodies so near. It had only been a matter of inches, the tilt of her head, such small, insignificant gestures to manoeuvre for a kiss.
Dasha understood why she’d done it. It was only because of circumstances, because she was desperate. She couldn’t connect to herself so she wanted to connect to someone else, with someone else, and Ruslan had been there, full of command and control, a tangible human bulwark against the abstract form of her despair. Understanding her rather immediate attraction was theoretically simple. The Prince was empathetic, shrewd and yet kind, and he was easy on the eyes—a handsome prince in all sense of the word. He was the Ruslan of fairy tales come to life. He would fight for her, whatever she chose. Did she dare believe he meant it? The offer