CHAPTER 1
The appallingly sad, terribly disheartening, utterly disappointing truth was that no one needed Prince Ferdinando of the House of Tayrnes. Not the people of the Kingdom of Varros. Not his beloved, if stern, older brother, King Maximilian. Not his sister-in-law, the delightful Queen Tansy, who’d brought Maxim to heel. Not his baby nephew Caspian Ferdinando, even if the lad had been, quite rightly, named after Nando himself.
Not even the half dozen or so enchanting denizens of the Varrosian court who eagerly warmed his bed at the slightest hint of an invitation.
Not a single damned soul.
He’d accustomed himself to being little more than a gilded ornament. The necessary heir, should something ill befall his brother. The ne’er-do-well. The irresponsible rake whom no one trusted with any duty or knowledge of import.
And that was why he was in London.
Specifically, why he was idling away his time at a Mayfair address where he’d been recently told, in no uncertain terms, that he wasn’t welcome by the most infuriatingly aloof female of his acquaintance.
Why he was waiting in a drawing room teeming with hothouse flowers as he awaited his next crushing setdown. Just when Nando was beginning to despair that the fierce-eyed Miss Eleanora Brett would deny him the pleasure of smiting his soul with her searing insults, she arrived.
As usual, she was wearing a white muslin frock that did nothing to accentuate her generous curves and ripe breasts and a hideous cap over her lustrous hair. But she didn’t fool him with a modest fichu tucked into her bodice. His experienced eye knew the body of a goddess when he saw one, regardless of how hideously she enrobed herself in virtue.
Nando sketched a bow for her benefit. “Miss Brett, how delightful. I began to fear you’d never arrive.”
She curtsied because she had to, but she bore the tenacious expression of a dog protecting her territory, telling him she wasn’t pleased by his presence. Briefly, he wondered if she’d bite him. And then he thought about how much he might enjoy her sharp little teeth. She could bite his shoulder when he made her come.
In that moment, Nando couldn’t think of anything he’d like better.
“Your Royal Highness,” Miss Brett clipped, as if his very title were an epithet.
And damn it if that didn’t make his cock twitch to attention. He adored the disapproving tone she used in his presence. If Miss Brett had any notion of how much her frostiness affected him, no doubt she’d box his ears. That was another quality he enjoyed about her. Miss Eleanora Brett didn’t give a fig if he was a prince. She didn’t suffer nonsense or fools.
“My dear Miss Brett, your gown is quite becoming this afternoon,” he lied smoothly.
“I would thank you, were your observation not only impertinent but patently false as well,” she returned, hervoice cool and unamused. “Your presence here is decidedly unwelcome. I’ve begged Your Royal Highness to cease paying singular attention to Princess Emmaline and Princess Annalise.”
Nando strolled nearer to Miss Brett, unable to help himself, stopping by a nearby vase to trail his forefinger along the decadently soft petals of a rose. “I wouldn’t quite say you begged me, Miss Brett. Indeed, the mere thought of you playing the supplicant is more delightful than I can possibly convey. Though my memory may sometimes be faulty, I assure you that I wouldn’t have forgotten such a stirring exchange.”
His intentionally sensual inference was met with a stern tightening of Miss Brett’s lovely lips. “Your familiarity is unwarranted, Your Royal Highness.”
Nando continued idly tracing the unfurling petals of the blossom, noting the way her gaze slipped to watch his progress. “Pray accept my apologies, Miss Brett. It wasn’t my intention to cause you distress.”
Not distress, perhaps, but irritation? Decidedly so. There was something thoroughly rousing about Miss Eleanora Brett’s pique. He couldn’t seem to have enough of her tart rejoinders and frigid glares. Her censure only made him want her more. She was the answer for the ennui that had been plaguing him these last few months. Nothing that had once held his interest had appeased him any longer.
Until he’d crossed paths with the princesses and their ferocious chaperone.
From the moment he’d set eyes on the golden-haired, blue-eyed spinster, he’d wanted her more than he could recall ever wanting another woman. Her allure wasn’t just her beauty—a dainty nose, a mouth that would have looked more at home on a courtesan than a prim chaperone, high cheekbones, finely arched brows, and a stubborn chin. It was something indefinable that was unique to her. He’d known and bedded any number ofwomen who were exquisite. But none of them moved him in the way she did.
She sniffed, tilting her head and regarding him in a way that made him feel as if he were a recalcitrant lad being reprimanded. “I make it a habit of never accepting apologies that are either forced or insincere. And as I’m persuaded youdidwish to cause me distress, I’m afraid I can’t accept yours, Your Royal Highness. If you wanted to express true contrition, you would cease your flagrant campaign of ruining the princesses’ delicate reputations.”
His cock was stiffer than a fire poker after her delightful upbraid. If only Miss Brett knew that the more she chastised him, the more he longed to bend her over the nearest piece of furniture and fuck her witless.
Nando bit back a smile, giving the rose another slow caress as he directed his best bedroom stare on the stern chaperone. “Miss Brett, I’m cut to the quick.”
The object of his desire remained staunchly unmoved. “Pray, do not insult my intelligence by feigning remorse.”
This time, he couldn’t suppress his smile. God, she was so delicious when riled.
“I’d never insult your intelligence,” he said smoothly, “nor would I dream of feigning remorse, considering that I’m proudly incapable of feeling that finer emotion.”
Her eyes narrowed, her lashes long and fine and the color of sunlight streaming through a window into a darkened room. “Why have you graced the household with your presence, Your Royal Highness?”
It would seem she’d grown weary of verbal fencing.
