Princess of Fortune. Miranda Jarrett

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      “Your English is most accomplished, ma’am,” he said at last, falling back into Italian. If she was going to insult the others again, at least he could spare them hearing it. “I compliment you.”

      Her smile didn’t reach quite her eyes. “Your Italian, Captain, is fit for the barnyard,” she said, reaching up to touch a finger to one dangling ruby earring. “However did you pretend to learn it?”

      Well, then, he could smile, too, if that was the game. Any good frigate captain worth his salt recognized a challenge when given, even if it came from a princess intent upon drawing attention to her breasts by tracing her fingertips idly along the edge of her neckline.

      “When I was a boy,” he explained, “my father indulged his interest in Vitruvius, and moved our family to Rome for three years. I learned Italian while there, and having often been stationed in the Mediterranean, the language has proved a useful skill.”

      “Rome,” she said scornfully with a little flick of her fingers. “That explains so much.”

      “Ah, but Monteverde,” he said easily. “That explains even more.”

      He half expected her to slap him. If he were honest, he was almost disappointed that she didn’t. Instead she limited herself to a sibilant hiss of frustration between her clenched teeth, and an extra twitch of her dark red skirts away from him.

      “I’m so glad you are here, Captain,” gushed Lady Willoughby, her relief so fervent she was nearly weeping from it. “The princess has been so lonely here, without anyone to speak with, and the condition makes her intemperate. You shall make such a difference in her life in London. How happy she must be at last to meet someone like you!”

      But the princess did not look happy, nor, for that matter, was Tom himself feeling exactly cheerful. He’d come here at the admiral’s invitation, full of hope for new orders and a ship to match, and now it seemed he’d leave with neither.

      “I am glad to oblige, my lady,” he said, switching to English in deference to the confused Lady Willoughby. He was determined to go now that there seemed so little point in staying. “But if you shall excuse me, I’ll say my farewells and—”

      “You may not leave my presence without my permission, Captain,” said the princess tartly. “And I do not wish you to go.”

      He stared at her, incredulous. “I am an officer in His Majesty’s Navy, ma’am, not one of your wretched subjects.”

      “If you were, my father would have you whipped for your insolence,” she said, folding her arms over her chest. “But no matter. You are to be my escort, Captain, my guard while I am exiled here in London. You are to put your life before mine to protect me, and keep me safe from the villains who would wish me harm.”

      “Oh, aye, and who wouldn’t?” scoffed Tom. “What makes you believe I’ll take orders from you?”

      “Because they do not come from the princess, Greaves, but from your own superiors,” said Cranford sharply, catching Tom’s arm to draw him aside, away from the women and into the corner.

      “Blast you, Greaves, haven’t you figured this yet?” Cranford said, lowering his voice as he continued. “Princess di Fortunaro was rescued from Buonaparte by a British navy vessel, and as long as she chooses to stay in England, she will remain under the navy’s protection. That’s His Majesty’s own wish and decision, Greaves, not the princess’s, not mine, and most certainly not yours. It’s the king’s, mind?”

      “Aye, aye, sir,” said Tom, his shoulders squared at attention and his expression studiously blank, the only acceptable response for a sailor being dressed down. “I know where my duty must lie, sir.”

      “Very well.” Cranford’s voice was flinty, leaving no chink for argument. “These are your orders, Greaves. You will be quartered here in my sister’s house, for as long as the princess also remains as a guest. You will accompany the princess whenever she leaves the house, you will be armed, and you will be ever watchful for her safety and well-being.”

      “I am to be the princess’s bodyguard, sir?” This was worse than being a mere clerk in the dockyards. Far, far worse. “Those are my orders, sir?”

      “That, and more,” said the admiral. “Because you’re a lord in your own right, you’ll be her escort, invited to attend the same parties and balls and whatever other folderol pleases the princess, and to the palace, of course.”

      “She is in such danger, sir?”

      “She is a vibrant symbol of resistance to Buonaparte’s forces,” said Cranford firmly, “and in these unsettled times, symbols matter a great deal. Her life could be at constant risk, and yet it is important that she be seen about London, seen by the very scoundrels who would kill her.”

      “Aye, aye, sir,” said Tom with gloomy resignation. He would rather face any odds in battle at sea than suffer through this on land.

      The admiral clapped him on the shoulder. “Buck up, Greaves,” he said. “It’s not so bad as all that, is it? How many times in your career will you ever receive orders as agreeable as these? Squiring a pretty young princess about London at the height of the season?”

      Tom didn’t agree. To be chained to the side of that spoiled creature through an endless round of noisy, crowded parties—damnation, why didn’t he just put the pistol to his own head now, and finish what the French had begun?

      He glanced past the admiral’s shoulder. The princess was standing before the fireplace, studying her reflection in the looking glass as she smoothed and braided her hair, using only her fingers. She caught his eye, paused, then looked back into the mirror.

      “I had no choice but to learn to dress my own hair while I was trapped upon that verminous warship,” she explained as she deftly coiled the braid and tucked it into a neat knot on the top of her hair. “There was no proper lady’s maid there, either.”

      Stunned, Tom watched as she took her bonnet from the waiting maidservant and settled it on her head herself. But it wasn’t just seeing how capably she could braid her own hair after she’d made such a fuss. It was the way she was finishing dressing here in the middle of the drawing room. There was an unsettling intimacy to her movements, a seductive balance between royal propriety and nonchalant display, and almost too late Tom realized he’d been staring at the way her breasts pushed higher when she lifted her hands to place her hat.

      “If only I had known, ma’am,” began Lady Willoughby, unable to keep the plaintive exasperation from her voice. “If only you had told me you could do—that is, that you knew how you liked your hair dressed, why, surely we could have—”

      “Just because I can, Lady Willoughby, does not mean I should.” The princess held out her arms so the maid could drape a paisley cashmere shawl over her shoulders. “Pray recall who I am before you make another such suggestion. Now come, Captain Greaves. The carriage should be waiting, or at least it shall if that has not been bungled like everything else.”

      “You are leaving, ma’am?” Tom uneasily realized he was to be included in her plans. “You have an invitation?”

      She folded her arms before her, the long tassels on her shawl hanging down nearly to her knees. “I am going anywhere outside this prison of a house. Beyond that, I neither СКАЧАТЬ