When the desperate princess offers him priceless crown jewels in exchange for helping to find her long-lost brother, Archer accepts. It’s her second, far-more-sinful proposition and its infinitely appealing reward, however, that tempts him most. But Anastasia is about to enter an arranged marriage, and a future between a wicked rogue and a royal princess is impossible. Even if Archer’s foolishly stubborn heart tells him otherwise…
Chapter One
The first time he met Her Royal Highness, Princess Anastasia St. George, she offered him a king’s ransom in jewels to help find her brother, an exiled Boritanian prince.
The second, she asked him to take her virginity.
It was a gray day laden with fog, fine mist falling beyond the windowpanes on the opposite end of the chamber. The princess had arrived at Archer’s town house unannounced and uninvited, two facts which displeased him greatly. And despite all logic and common sense, he wanted to feel her lush, berry-pink lips beneath his with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns.
Despite that aberrant desire, his answer was swift and curt. He didn’t dabble in deflowering spoiled royalty.
“I’m afraid I cannot, Your Royal Highness.”
Beneath the brilliant purple of the cape she hadn’t removed for her unexpected call, she gave a delicate shrug, as if his response was of no concern. “I shall have to find another man willing to aid me, then.”
He was beginning to think the woman was a Bedlamite.
“Another man?” he repeated in a growl.
Did she mean to imply that any chap with a ready cock would suffice for the task? Had she chosen him out of bloodyconvenience? And why did the notion rankle him so? It was hardly his concern who the stunning woman before him bedded or why.
The princess folded her hands demurely in her lap, looking effortlessly regal with her dark hair in a chignon and a myriad of perfect little curls at her temples. “If you don’t wish to help me, then I must find someone else.”
This, she said as if it were the most reasonable of utterances. As if she offered her maidenhead as a common occurrence. He shouldn’t be curious. Nor should he be entertaining the twin sharp edges of jealousy and lust, but they were nonetheless a blade carving through him, preparing to lay him low.
Archer rested his elbows on the polished rosewood desk between them, leaning forward. “How do you propose to find someone else, Princess?”
“I don’t desire to attend a house of ill repute for the obvious risks involved to my reputation,” she said, frowning. “However, if I’m left with no suitable alternatives, I suppose I must consider it. Tell me, Mr. Tierney, are there discreet brothels for ladies in London, or do they only serve the appetites of gentlemen?”
Did madness run in the Boritanian royal line? It was the only explanation, he was sure of it. And yet, she sat opposite him calmly—her English flawless as the rest of her—undeniably lucid. Holding his gaze without shame. Elaborating upon her utterly asinine plan to give her body to a stranger as if it were unexceptional.
“You cannot go to a brothel,” he told her.
She arched a finely shaped brow. “Why can I not?”
Because the thought of her with some faceless man—of another man touching her at all—made him long to send his fist crashing into a skull. But there were other reasons, more important reasons, he would provide. Reasons that didn’t make him sound so bloody mutton-headed.
“You are a princess,” he said instead.
A small smile curved her lips, as if she were amused by his pronouncement. “I would take care to hide who I am, Mr. Tierney. Naturally, any establishment where I might obscure my face with a mask for the duration would be a necessity. I’m no fool. How do you suppose I have managed to escape my uncle’s guards thus far?”
“I would imagine you’ve been slipping laudanum into their tea or something equally cunning,” he drawled.
Her smile grew, and the full effect was like a blow to the gut—for a moment, he felt lightheaded. Until he firmly tamped down the sensation and reminded himself that desiring the woman before him was the height of foolishness. And he hadn’t lifted himself from the bowels of London to his current height by doing stupid things.
“I do like the way you think, Mr. Tierney,” she said smoothly. “However, my methods are far less diabolical, I’m afraid.”
He waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t offer an explanation for the feat she had performed on two occasions thus far. He had eyes and ears everywhere, and his men had assured him she had arrived and departed alone. Just as he had been assured that the jewels she had offered him in payment were genuine.
Archer lost his patience. “You aren’t inclined to tell me what your methods are?”
Dark lashes swept over brilliantly blue eyes, keeping her secrets. “Perhaps I prefer to make you wonder.”
“Is it not dangerous to you, stealing away from the king’s guards?” he pressed, for he did not doubt it was.
From the moment she had first come to him seeking his help in finding her exiled brother, Archer had turned his attention toward learning everything about her and the royal family of Boritania that he could. Her uncle, King Gustavson, was known for his iron rule.
Another shrug, her delicate shoulders rising and falling beneath the fine fabric of her cloak. “It is a danger I happily risk.”
