Princess in Disguise

“I can’t believe the duchess would do such a thing. I suppose she assumed that you’d do as you did—come running to my side. Now I know why she was so insistent that I let her dresser do my hair and that I wear this shawl. She was preparing me to see you.”

  He rubbed his jaw, a bemused expression on his face. “I’m . . .”

  “Furious? I don’t blame you.”

  “No. And if I were, it wouldn’t be with you. You were as tricked as I. No, I’m . . . disappointed.” He gave a shaky laugh. “Deeply disappointed. I thought you and I were— And it felt right. On the ride here, I was already planning to turn the attic into a nursery and was wondering if my old nursemaid would agree to return to Keith Manor to help and if—” His gaze found hers. “Alexandra, I’ve been a bloody fool.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither did I, but her grace apparently does. When I brought you here, she met me in the foyer. She took one look at my face—my face, Alexandra, not yours—and yelled for the physician. She knew that if you’d died, I was—” His voice broke.

  Alexandra found herself in his arms, his face buried against her neck.

  “I thought I’d lost you.” He rubbed his cheek against her hair, his voice trembling. “Don’t leave me, Alexandra. I need you. I can’t bear to lose you, too.”

  She slipped her arms around him, savoring the feel of him. “The way you lost Jane.”

  He nodded, tightening his hold.

  She stroked his broad shoulders. “Kintore, loss . . . it hurts. There’s no way to pretend that it doesn’t.” She pulled back and cupped his dear face between her hands. “But life without the one you love—that hurts more.”

  He kissed her palm. “I know. I left you here, determined to never see you again, but I couldn’t leave.” He gave her a rueful grin. “Even when I left you in the inn, I was only traveling to Kelso, to be close to you. I cannot let you go, my love.”

  She held him close. “Then don’t. Love me, Kintore. Love me, marry me, stay with me. And if something happens, then we will have years and years of good memories to soften the pain. And perhaps, if we’re lucky, little Jane or little James will help us through it.”

  She kissed him, showing him how much she needed him and how badly she wanted him.

  He drew her into his lap, returning her kiss with all the passion and heart that she could ever wish him to feel.

  And she smiled. Love, not loss, had won the day.

  Don’t miss the next Duchess Diaries novel from New York Times bestselling author

  Karen Hawkins

  How to Pursue a Princess

  Coming soon from Pocket Books!

  Kelso, Scotland

  June 10, 1813

  The carriage creaked to a stop beneath one of the towering oaks. The old woman pushed back the curtains with a hand heavy with jewels and looked at the thatched cottage with disbelief. “This is it?”

  “What? You do not like it?” Piotr Romanovin, the royal Prince Wulfinski of Oxenburg, threw open the carriage door and called to the coachman to tie off the horses. “It is charming, no?” Grinning, the prince reached up to help his grandmother to the ground.

  His Tata Natasha, a grand duchess in her own right, looked at the cottage and noted the broken shutters, the half-missing thatched roof, the front door hanging from one hinge, and a profusion of flowering vines growing across the windows. “No,” she said bluntly. “This is not charming. Come, Wulf. We will go back to the house you bought and leave this silliness to the wilds.”

  “That is a castle. This is a house. And here I shall live.”

  “But the roof—”

  “Can be fixed. As can the shutters and the door and the chimney.”

  “What’s wrong with the chimney?”

  “It needs to be cleaned, but otherwise it is strong. The craftsmanship is superb. It just needs some care.”

  She eyed her grandson sourly. The prince was a big man, larger than all of his brothers, and they were not small men. At almost six foot five, he towered over her and all nine of their guards. But large as Wulf was, he was her youngest grandson and the most difficult to understand, given to fits and starts that were incomprehensible to all and left his parents in agonies.

  Take the simple matter of marriage. His other brothers had fallen into line and found matches among Europe’s royal families, but Wulf refused every princess who came his way. Be they short or tall, thin or fat, fair or not—it didn’t matter. With only the most cursory of glances, he’d refused them all.

  Tata Natasha looked at the cottage and shook her head. “Wulf, your cousin Nikki, he was right: you have gone mad. You purchased a beautiful house—” At Wulf’s lifted brows, she sighed. “Fine, a castle, then. With twenty-six bedrooms, thirty-five fireplaces, a salon, a dining room, a great hall, and more. It is beautiful and fitting for a prince of your stature. But this—” She waved a hand. “This is a hovel.”

  “It will be my home. At least until I’ve found a bride who will love me for this, and not because I can afford a castle with more chimneys than there are days in a month.” He took his grandmother’s hand, tucked it in the crook of his arm, and pulled her to the cottage door. “Come and see my new home.”

  “But—”

  He stopped. “Tata, it was your idea for me to meet the world without the trappings of wealth.”

  “No, it was your idea, not mine. I only offered to travel with you.”

  “Fine. Then travel with me a few steps farther.” He pushed the crooked door to one side.

  “Why must you make everything so difficult?” She tugged her arm free so that she could hold her skirts out of the dirt. “Why not marry a princess? They are not all horrible people.”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t see one that I liked.”

  “What do you like, Wulf? What sort of a woman do you wish to meet?”

  His eyes grew distant as he raked a hand through his black hair. “I want one who will treat me as Piotr and not as a bag of gold. One with passion and fire. One who will marry me because of me—not because of my title or wealth.”

  “You cannot deny your birthright.”

  His jaw tightened. “No, and for that reason, I will not hide that I am a prince. But I will not admit to my wealth.”

  Tata sighed. “I wish your father had never passed that blasted law allowing you and your brothers to marry as you wished.”

  “He married for love, and he wished us all to have the same luxury.”

  Tata threw up a hand. “Love, love, love. That is all you and your father talk of! What about duty? Responsibility? What about that?”

  He crossed his arms over his broad chest and smiled indulgently. “Rest assured, Tata. I will marry a strong woman, one who will give me many brave and intelligent sons. Surely that is responsible of me?”

  Tata wished she could smack her son-in-law. What had he been thinking, to free his children to marry commoners? It was ridiculous. And now look what it had led to. Here they were, she and her favorite grandson, looking for a wife among the heathens that populated this wild and desolate land. “If you will not believe in the purity of bloodlines, then how will you know which woman is right for you?”

  He didn’t even pause. “I’ll know her when I see her.”

  She ground her teeth. “Why did we have to come to this godforsaken part of the world to find this woman? Scotland isn’t even civilized.”

  He sent her a humorous glance. “You sound like Papa.”

  “He’s right in this instance! For once.” She scowled.

  “Tata, everyone knows me in Europe. But here . . . here, I can be unnoticed.”

  “Pah! As usual, you take a good idea and carry it too far. No one would know you in London, either, and we’d live far more comfortably there.”

  Wulf grinned but paid her no heed as he looked about the small cottage. “My little house is more spacious than you thought, nyet?” It was, too, for he could stand upright, providing he didn’t walk toward the fireplace. Ther
e the roof swooped down to meet it, and he’d have to bend almost in half to sit before it.

  Still, he looked about with satisfaction. The front room held a broken table and two chairs without legs. A wide plank set upon two barrels served as a bench before the huge fireplace, where iron hooks made him think of fragrant, bubbling stew.

  Tata scowled. “Where would you sleep?”

  “Here.” He went to the back of the room, where a tattered curtain hung over a small alcove. A bed frame remained, leather straps crisscrossed to provide support for a long-gone straw mattress. “I will have a feather mattress brought down from the castle. This frame is well made and I will sleep like a baby.” He placed a hand upon the low bedpost and gave it a shake. The structure barely moved.

  Tata grunted her reluctant approval and looked around. “I suppose it will make a good hunting lodge once this madness of yours is gone.”

  “So it will. I’ll have some of my men begin work on it at once. I’ll wish it cleaned and stocked with firewood.”

  She shot him an amused glance. “You’ll still let your men do the work?”

  “I will help, of course, but I’ve no experience with thatching. I’d be foolish to try now when the rainy season is about to begin.”

  “At least you are keeping some good sense about you.”

  “I’m keeping all of it.” He held out his arm. “Come, Tata. I’ll take you home for tea.”

  “Not the English kind. It’s so weak as to taste like hot water.”

  He chuckled. “No, no. I will get you good tea from our homeland. We brought enough for a year, though we will only be here a month or so.”

  Tata paused before she walked out of the doorway. “Wulf, do you think a month is long enough to persuade a woman to marry you? One who thinks that an empty title and this”—Tata waved at the cottage again—“is all you possess?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you are as arrogant as you are foolish.”

  His smile faded, his green eyes darkening. “Tata, I told you of my dream. That is why we are here.”

  “Yes, yes. You dreamed of Scotland, of a woman with hair of red—”

  “Red and gold, with eyes the color of a summer sky.”

  She paused thoughtfully. “The dreams of our family have always had meaning.”

  “This one especially. I’ve had it four times now—the exact same dream. And every time, it is the same woman who—”

  A scream rended the air.

  Wulf spun toward the door. “Stay here.”

  “But—”

  But he was gone, shouting at his guards to remain until he needed them.

  Lily slowly awoke, her numbed mind creeping to consciousness. She shifted and then moaned as every bone in her body groaned in protest.

  A warm hand cupped her face. “Easy, Moya,” came a deep, heavily accented voice. “The brush broke your fall, but you will still be bruised.”

  I must still be unconscious to hear such a delicious voice. And what is he talking about? Did I— Oh yes. I remember now. She’d been riding through the forest by Floors Castle, where she’d been staying as a guest of her godmother, the Duchess of Roxburghe, when a fox had leapt from the bushes and caused her horse to rear. Lily had been caught unawares because she’d been admiring the flowers growing alongside the path. She was glad her sister Rose hadn’t been nearby, or she would have scolded Lily for the lack of attention to her riding.

  “Moya? Do you hear me?”

  Lily cautiously opened her eyes to find herself staring into the deep green eyes of the most handsome man she’d ever seen. He’s not a dream.

  The man was beyond large; he was huge, with wide, broad shoulders that blocked the light and hands so large that the one now cupping her face practically covered one side of it.

  She gulped a bit and tried to sit up, but was instantly pressed back to the ground.

  “Nyet,” the giant said, his voice rumbling over her like waves over a rocky beach. “You will not rise.”

  She blinked. “Nyet?”

  He grimaced. “I should not say ‘nyet’ but ‘no.’ ”

  “I understood you perfectly. I am just astonished that you are trying to tell me what to do. I don’t know where you are from or who you are, but I am perfectly fine.”

  His expression darkened, and she had the distinct impression that he wasn’t used to being chastised. She stirred restlessly, suddenly uneasy. “Please, Mr.— I’m sorry. What’s your name?”

  “It matters not. What matters is that you are injured and refuse assistance. That is foolish.”

  She glared at him and pushed herself up on one elbow. As she did so, her hat, which had been pinned upon her neatly braided hair, came loose and dropped to the ground behind her.

  The man’s gaze locked upon her hair, his eyes widening as he muttered something in a foreign tongue.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Your hair. It is red.”

  She gave an exasperated sigh. “No, it’s not. It’s blond with a touch of red when the sun— Oh, why am I even talking to you about this? You still haven’t told me your name or why you’re here or—” She eyed him with suspicion. “I don’t know who you are.”

  “You will.”

  He said the words as if it were a fact.

  “What do you mean?”

  Slowly, he shook his head. “It is nothing, Moya. Nothing and everything.”

  “Look, Mr. Whatever Your Name Is, this is not amusing. I’m going to get up and leave, and you are going to stay here.”

  “You think so, eh?”

  “I know so. For if you don’t, I will scream, and the groom who was with me will come and shoot you dead.”

  She was bluffing, for there was no groom. She should have taken one with her, and had been informed that she should, but the day had been so pretty and the summer breeze so gentle and the horse seemingly so mild-mannered that she’d never thought she’d actually need a groom. Now she wished for nothing more.

  The stranger’s brows rose. “Ah. You think I am being too—what is the word? Forward?”

  “Yes, forward.”

  “But you are injured—”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You were thrown from a horse and are upon the ground. I call that ‘injured.’ ” His brows locked together over eyes of the deepest green she’d ever seen. “Am I using the word wrong?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then do not argue.”

  “Of all the nerve! I’m bruised, but no more.” To prove her point, she sat upright, even though it brought her closer to this huge boulder of a man. “See? I’m fine.”

  “Ny—No. You will stay where you are until one of my men brings the doctor.”

  “One of your men?” So he has “men,” does he?

  His gaze grew shaded. “They are my companions. Nothing more.”

  “Ah. Then you are a groom of some sort?”

  “No. I am not a groom. I am Piotr.”

  She waited, and when he said nothing more, she sighed. “That’s it? Just Piotr?”

  “Piotr of Oxenburg. It is a small country beside Russia.”

  She wracked her brains. The country’s name seemed familiar. “There was a mention of Oxenburg in The Morning Post just a few days ago.”

  “Hmmm. Whatever you read could not be about me. No one knows I’m here. My cousin Nikki, he is in London. Perhaps he is in the papers.” He rocked back on his haunches, the golden light filtering from the trees dancing over his black hair. “You can sit up, but not stand. Not until we know you are not broken.”

  “I’m not broken!” she said sharply. “I’m just embarrassed that I fell off my horse.”

  A glimmer of humor shone in the green eyes. “You fell asleep, eh?”

  She fought the urge to return the smile. “No, I did not fall asleep. A fox frightened my horse, which caused it to rear. And then it ran off.”

  His gaze flickered to her boots, a frown marring his amazingly h
andsome face. “No wonder you fell. Those are not good riding boots.”

  “These? They’re perfectly good boots!”

  “Not if a horse bolts. Then you need some like these.” He slapped the side of his own boots, which had a thicker and taller heel.

  “I’ve never seen boots like those.”

  “That is because you English do not really ride, you with your small boots. You just perch on top of the horse like a sack of grain and—”

  “I’m not English; I’m a Scot,” she said sharply. “Can’t you tell from my accent?”

  “Nyet.”

  She opened her mouth to respond and he threw up a hand. “You never just say yes to one single thing. Is that because you are a woman, or because you are a Scot?”

  She frowned. “You don’t need to be insulting.”

  He grinned and stood and held out his hand. “I apologize, Miss—?”

  “Lily Balfour.” As she reached up to place her hand in his, one of her red-gold curls fell to her shoulder.

  Her rescuer froze, an odd expression on his face as he reached past her hand to grasp her hair. Slowly, he threaded it through his fingers, his gaze locking with hers.

  Her heart leapt as his hand grazed her cheek and she had the oddest sense of breathlessness, as if she’d just run up a flight of stairs.

  Cheeks hot, she tugged her curl free from the stranger’s grasp and repinned it with hands that seemed oddly awkward. “That’s— You shouldn’t touch my hair.”

  “It is not permitted.”

  “No.”

  “It should be.” He sighed regretfully. “Come. I will take you to your home.”

  Relieved to hear that was his intention, she brushed some leaves from her skirts just as he bent and scooped her up as if she were a blade of grass.

  Before she could do more than gasp, he began striding through the woods.

  Lily had little choice but to hang on as best as she could, uncomfortably aware of the deliciously spicy cologne that tickled her nose and made her long to burrow her face against him. “What are you doing?”

  He looked down at her, surprised. “I’m carrying you.”

  “You can’t just carry me off like this!”

  “But I have.” There was no rancor in his voice, no sense of correcting her. Instead, his tone was that of someone patiently trying to explain something. “I have carried you off, and carried off you will be.”