“If you will not surrender them willingly, then I shall have no choice but to search for them,” she told Princess Emmaline, resigned to her fate.
“No,” the princess denied quickly, eyes going wide.
Too quickly.
Eleanora’s eyes narrowed as she studied her charge. “Is there something you would not wish for me to find?”
“Of course not,” the princess denied with similar, suspicious haste.
Oh dear.It would seem her day was going from dreadful to completely terrible. Eleanora was well-versed in the art of wrangling headstrong and rebellious charges. She had been at this inglorious vocation for years. And she knew when someone was hiding something.
“What is it?” she asked, hoping Princess Emmaline would make the concession and spare her the task of rummaging through her belongings.
The princess said nothing, her countenance torn.
“You have my promise that if the object is of no danger to you, I will not tell your sister,” she added when her charge continued to hesitate.
Princess Emmaline heaved a sigh. “Very well. It is a book, if you must know.”
“What manner of book could cause such concern?”
The moment the question left her, Eleanora understood. The expression on the princess’s face spoke for her.
“The Tale of Love,” Princess Emmaline answered quietly.
The bawdy book was a compilation of lurid stories, supposedly written by one of London’s greatest courtesans. Eleanora had heard her mother’s friends speaking of it, and once, she had found a volume left in the drawing room after one of Mama’s more raucous soirees. She had given in to curiosity and peeked.
“Ah,” Eleanora said. “I understand your reticence. However, I can assure you I will keep the knowledge of the book to myself in exchange for your trousers.”
The princess pinned her with a glare. “That is bribery.”
She smiled serenely. “Occasionally, I am Machiavellian.”
Nando had told her so. And thinking of him stirred the restless longing that had not been far since last night.
With a flounce, Princess Emmaline went to retrieve her trousers. No fewer than a dozen pairs, as it happened. Grimly,Eleanora departed from the princess’s chamber, bearing all twelve of Emmaline’s beloved garments. She was halfway to her room, where she would store them until she met with Princess Anastasia in the morning, when she rounded a corner and nearly collided with the very man who had been plaguing her thoughts.
Nando’s hand clamped on her waist. “Steady, my dear.”
His deep rumble, faintly laced with the traces of his native tongue, sent heat unfurling through her.
“Thank you.” She stepped neatly from his grasp and dipped into a curtsy, trying to cling to her ever-diminishing modesty. “If you will excuse me, Your Royal Highness?”
His jarringly blue gaze slipped to the pile of folded trousers in her arms. “Why are you carrying garments about? Never tell me the princess has reduced you to a maid.”
“Not at all. Her Royal Highness enlisted me in securing Princess Emmaline’s trouser collection. Her defiance has led to some unfortunate…difficulties today.”
And speaking of difficulties, the longer Eleanora lingered in the hall alone with him, the greater the temptation to steal away with him again. As it was, his scent had curled around her, shaving soap and a hint of smoke. His beauty was cruel. She wanted to look away just as much as she never wanted to stop drinking in the sight of him in his elegant evening wear, his snowy cravat tied in a simple knot that was a stark contrast to his golden skin.
The urge to place her lips there rose, strong and wild.
“Allow me to carry them for you,” he said, reaching for the stack with his uninjured arm.
“But your wound?—”
He plucked them from her grasp with ease. “Has healed sufficiently. Tell me where we are going with Emmaline’s trousers.”
His proximity had an alarming effect upon her. Her foolish body had come to life, her nipples going hard against her stays, the ache between her legs renewed with such insistence that she had to press her thighs together in a discreet effort to quell the desire.
