Awakening the Shy Miss
Autor
Bronwyn Scott
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Seduced by the prince Dimitri Petrovich, Prince of Kuban, is unlike any man seamstress Evie Milham has ever met. Exotic and charismatic, he's paying a visit to her sleepy country village. Yet one glimpse of the prince's melting brown eyes and shy Evie's heart races like never before… Dimitri is no stranger to desire, and he knows innocent Evie wants him! Before he returns to his homeland, he must decide — resist Evie's siren call, or give her pleasure beyond her wildest, hottest imaginings!
Chapter One
August 10th, 1821
Evie Milham desperately wanted to get into his trousers. Judging from the extraordinary amount of females crammed into Little Westbury’s assembly-room-cum-lecture hall this warm August night, she wasn’t the only one. Although, Evie doubted the rest of the female population wanted into them for the same reason.
Regardless of female motive, there was no disputing this was the most well-attended archaeological lecture in the history of West Sussex, perhaps in the history of England. Not even the Elgin Marbles had engendered such an enthusiastic response in retrieving the past. Then again, the Elgin Marbles didn’t look like him, Dimitri Petrovich, Prince of Kuban. Evie was certain he could talk about pickled herring and still draw a crowd. He was tall, with sleek dark hair that flowed over his shoulders, his face chiselled with strong lines that hinted at exotic antecedents. Women would travel miles to stare at those cheekbones with their high slant. And his clothes, oh, those clothes! He wore them like a god’s own mantle. Evie’s fingers started to twitch in anticipation. How she wanted to get her hands on those trousers! If she could just study them up close for a few moments! Whoever his tailor was, the man was a genius.
Evie craned her neck, trying for a better glimpse. If she’d known he’d be so exquisitely dressed, she would have sat closer to the front. She’d not chosen this particular seat near the back for him, but for another him. Andrew Adair sat just two convenient rows ahead of her, his golden head a beacon for her eyes except, apparently, when those eyes were looking at Prince Dimitri Petrovich, which was more frequently than she had anticipated. It was hard not to. When one wasn’t looking at his trousers, one could easily stare at his hands. He didn’t gesture like an Englishman. There was a loose fluidity to his gestures that made him appear all the more foreign.
She might as well look, Evie reasoned. It wasn’t as if Andrew minded or was even aware of her visual perfidy, more was the pity. She often thought she could dance naked on a stage and Andrew wouldn’t notice. Not that she would. Evie Milham might entertain such wild notions, but she never acted on them.
Tonight was supposed to change that. Tonight was her chance to claim Andrew’s notice after six years of anonymity. Admittedly, for two of those years, she hadn’t been ‘out’, hardly eligible for his attentions even if they had been neighbours for two decades. The other three years, he’d been in Europe on his Grand Tour while she debuted in London. This year it would be different. Their trajectories were finally in alignment. She was ‘out’ and he was home. Better yet, he’d made it clear during the recently ended Season he was looking to marry. Evie drew a deep breath. She would make him notice her.
Her eyes strayed from the back of Andrew’s golden head once more. Up on stage, the Prince of Pleats—it must be the pleats that caused his trousers to lie so exquisitely across those lean hips—made one of his exotic gestures to footmen carrying trays of champagne. She forced her eyes back to Andrew. Now was not the time to be distracted by a set of pleats. If she’d learned anything this last Season it was that nothing changed until you did. She couldn’t merely wait for Andrew’s notice. Hadn’t her friend Claire’s whirlwind marriage to the dashing diplomat, Jonathon Lashley, a few weeks ago, proven the motto true? Claire had made Jonathon notice her. She simply had to do the same with Andrew and her own happy-ever-after wouldn’t be far behind. After all, Andrew couldn’t be blamed for not noticing her if she had done nothing to help that notice along.
‘Champagne, miss? Compliments of the Prince for the toast.’ A footman offered her a tray of cold, sweating flutes. Not just champagne, but chilled champagne. Iced champagne in the country in August was a luxury indeed. Evie took a glass and the footman moved on. At the front of the room, the Prince raised his glass, signalling the audience to rise. It was a noisy, rustling affair as the crowd took to its feet, careful not to spill a collective drop. Inspiration struck Evie. What if she moved up a couple of rows? No one would notice if she edged forward and took a place at Andrew’s elbow. It was the perfect plan. He would turn and see her. He’d have to clink glasses with her, he would look into her eyes...
Move, you ninny! she chastised herself. The toast would be over and she would still be standing here dreaming about the moment while the moment passed. Evie gathered her courage and made the journey forward two rows, all of ten feet. Her heartbeat sped up. Never had she dared to place herself so directly in Andrew’s path. The Prince was speaking but her thoughts were too preoccupied to pick up more than snatches of his speech. ‘I am pleased to announce I have taken up residence here in Little Westbury for the purpose of excavating... I am proud to be joined in this venture by fellow enthusiasts for history such as...’ She didn’t hear the names until he reached the end of his recitations. ‘And most of all, I am joined generously by my friend and fellow traveller, Mr Andrew Adair, without whom this venture would not be possible.’
That got her attention. Andrew was bosom bows with the Prince? Andrew was interested in historical preservation? All these years of living next door to him and she’d had no idea on either account. She’d just reached Andrew’s side on the aisle when the toast went up, people clinking everywhere. The room sounded like a series of chiming crystal bells. Andrew clinked to his right, then with the people in front of him and behind him. Finally, he turned to his left. His fair brows knit in startled surprise, taking a moment to process her presence. ‘Oh, Evie, it’s you. What are you doing here?’ He touched his glass to hers. She searched her mind for something to say.
‘I wanted to hear the Prince speak.’ Partially true. ‘Congratulations, by the way, on the evening.’
‘Oh, yes.’ His response was vague. ‘This is big, very big.’ His eyes were already drifting back to the stage, his attention on the Prince when it was supposed to have lingered on her.
Evie struggled to hold his interest. ‘I had no idea you were so interested in—’ she began, but he cut her off with a raised index finger signalling for a pause.
‘If you’ll excuse me for a moment, Evie?’ Andrew brushed past her into the centre of the aisle. If she didn’t know better, the interruption bordered on rude. She might have been insulted by his abrupt behaviour. But she understood the reason for it. As a close friend of the Prince, Andrew would be expected to offer a reciprocal toast. She should have anticipated that. Andrew wasn’t being rude. He was just doing his duty.
Andrew lifted his own glass as the noise ebbed, the motion causing all eyes to swivel his direction. And hers. Evie recognised too late she was caught in the view of the audience’s collective gaze. She wanted to step back, but the crowd was too thick around her. She’d only wanted Andrew’s notice, not the entire room’s. When she’d approached Andrew, she’d made another serious miscalculation. She’d not bargained on this much attention.
Andrew raised his voice, commanding and confident, to address the crowd. She envied and admired his confidence. ‘To the Prince!’ Within moments he was swept towards the stage to join the Prince and she was left behind. Again. And that was that. Her bid for Andrew’s attention had come to an abrupt end.
No. Go after him! That was Claire’s voice in her head. Claire would never stand here like a wooden doll. Evie pushed forward and let herself be caught in the crowd surging towards the stage, everyone eager to meet the Prince. It was surprisingly easy to let the jostling move her closer to Andrew. When the jostling stopped she stood beside Andrew, watching in genuine astonishment as the Prince of Kuban swept him into a brotherly embrace, definitely not the kind of embrace English gentleman gave one another. This one was far too full bodied. ‘My friend! It is good to see you. Did you like the talk?’
Andrew returned the embrace, but his movements were awkward, as if he were not quite comfortable with such intimate male contact. ‘Very much, the points you made about the importance of history were eloquently put,’ Andrew effused with a charming smile. ‘West Sussex agrees with you, old chap. You are looking quite fit.’
The Prince grinned. ‘Indeed it does!’ He threw his arms out wide to encompass the room and beyond. ‘What a beautiful piece of earth you call home. You are a lucky man.’ He meant it too, Evie thought. There was an air of sincerity about the Prince that made him appear more human, less royal, than one might expect, although she doubted any of the folks tonight would let him forget the royal part. But then the very human prince turned his dark eyes in her direction and Evie froze, no longer a comfortable observer in the conversation, but a participant. The Prince’s eyes were on her, two decadent brown pools of chocolate silk. His gaze was as full bodied as his embrace, those eyes taking in all of her as if he really saw her—Evie the needleworker, Evie the seamstress, Evie who helped her father with his historical research—and he didn’t find those truths lacking or socially backwards. It was a bold gaze, another way in which the mere physical presence of him announced to the world he wasn’t English. ‘Andrew, we’ve been remiss. Who might this charming young woman be?’
There was a scold beneath his words for Andrew. It was the second time that night Andrew had been borderline rude in her presence. A lady should never have to introduce herself. She sensed Andrew’s fraction-of-a-second hesitation as he found himself yet again surprised to see her beside him. She wished her attendance would stop being such a revelation to him.
Andrew smiled his recovery. ‘This is Evie Milham, my neighbour.’ Evie fought the urge to cringe. He’d called her ‘Evie’ in front of the Prince! Surely meeting a prince, even if it was amid the milieu of Little Westbury’s assembly hall, required more formality than that. The Prince seemed to think so too. One of his slim dark eyebrows went up in a querying arch.
Evie lifted her chin in defiance of the slight. Unintended as it might have been, it was a slight none the less. She faced the Prince and dipped a curtsy, taking the introduction into her own hands. ‘I’m Miss Milham.’ This might be the country and Andrew and the Prince might be bosom friends, but she knew what a prince was due, Sussex assembly room or not. She knew what she was due too and it was high time she gathered the courage to claim it, demand it if need be. If she didn’t value herself, no one else would either. Beatrice and Claire had taught her that. She was missing Claire very much just now, Claire who spoke five languages. Claire would know what to say and how to say it. Claire could speak Russian with him, or whatever it was they spoke in Kuban.
Evie summoned her courage, trying not to feel plain and shy in the presence of such a man. She offered the Prince her hand, hoping he would never guess just how much courage the simple gesture had taken. It would have been far easier to slink back into the crowd. The effort was worth it, though. He bent over her hand, lips brushing knuckles, chocolate eyes holding hers. Heat spread warm and slow through her. He made her feel like the only woman in the room when he looked at her that way. Perhaps that was the difference between a prince and other men.
‘Evie?’ His accent feathered the ends of his words, making his speech exotic. ‘Is that short for something?’ He was giving her a chance to recover from Andrew’s slight, and elegantly so.
‘Evaine.’
His warm eyes lit in recognition. The pool of warmth in her stomach deepened. ‘Ah, the aunt of Sir Lancelot in your Camelot legends.’
The Prince smiled appreciably. Melting was complete. No wonder good English mothers warned their daughters about the influence of foreign men. This was a man who could sweep a woman off her feet without lifting his arms, a reminder that he had her melting and he didn’t even mean to. She knew the hand kissing, the direct gaze, were all just politeness. Heaven help a woman when he applied himself. Evie had to fight back images of what that application might look like, what form it might take.
‘You know your literature.’ Evie nodded her approval. She seldom met a gentleman who was well schooled enough to know the origins of her name. In these parts, if it wasn’t about a hound or a horse, gentlemen were surprisingly lacking in their education no matter how many years they had spent at Eton. Evie shot a covert glance in Andrew’s direction. She was still digesting the revelation that Andrew had an interest in archaeology and history. She’d definitely classified him as the hound-and-horse sort. He certainly wasn’t the repentant sort. Even with the Prince’s implicit scold over his lack of manners, Andrew had done nothing to make amends.
‘I’m a great follower of the Arthur legends,’ the Prince offered by way of explanation. He was patient as if he didn’t have an entire room of far more attractive women waiting to meet him. But Andrew wasn’t nearly as relaxed. He was edgy and anxious beside her, eager to get on with the socialising.
‘You should visit the Milhams some time, then.’ Andrew’s tone was brisk. ‘Evie’s father is our local historian.’ He said ‘local’ with a hint of distaste as if that explained why her father hadn’t been included in the initial investors in the site, all men from London with further-reaching historical interests.
The Prince looked at her with encouragement, as if he’d like to hear more. Evie took the opening to elaborate. ‘Yes, we have a tapestry that is somewhat noteworthy.’
Andrew was smiling now too, but his was a gesture meant to silence, not to encourage. ‘Later, Evie. If you tell him about it now, there won’t be anything to reveal when he sees it.’ Andrew’s hand went to the Prince’s arm, his face wearing another smile, this one meant to cajole. ‘Besides, we have people to meet, Dimitri.’ The message could not have been clearer. While people stood by, suitably enthralled by the royal presence among them, Andrew called the Prince by his first name. Andrew had risen above the country commonness of Little Westbury; risen above her. Evie suddenly felt very small, very burdensome, as if she was a child who’d forced her unwanted self into the company of adults. Perhaps melting wasn’t a bad idea after all.
The Prince stood his ground long enough to politely take his leave. ‘I shall look forward to the tapestry, Miss Milham.’ She thought she saw an apology in his eyes for the abruptness of their meeting. But surely he understood Andrew’s need to move on as well. Once again she’d miscalculated. She should have anticipated the evening’s demands on Andrew’s time.
‘I look forward to it.’ Evie dipped another curtsy and watched them move away, the pair immediately engulfed by the other guests craving their attention. She was alone again after a brief moment in the sun of Andrew’s attention. In some ways it felt worse now that she’d had a taste of that attention, what it felt like to stand beside him.
She had to stop the self-pity! She was being ridiculous. What had she expected? That somehow Andrew would take her up with them? Include her in his rounds tonight? Why shouldn’t the Prince and Andrew be popular and sought after? They made a handsome pair of males, the Prince with his dark hair and warm eyes; Andrew with his golden, English good looks.
Evie smiled softly to herself, her mind already justifying Andrew’s behaviour. This was a big night for him. He had a lot on his mind, there were people for the Prince to meet. It was no wonder Andrew didn’t want to stand around talking about tapestries or exchanging pleasantries with someone who wasn’t important to his cause this evening. She was selfish to want to keep him all to herself. She had made her first overture, she had to be content with that. And she was. Claire and Beatrice and May would be proud of her. She’d not accepted the first opportunity to be defeated. She’d gone to the stage instead and put herself forward. That in itself was a big step—one of many she’d have to take in this quest to capture Andrew’s affections.
Even if Andrew’s behaviour had bordered on rude, she understood the reasons for it and he had noticed her in the end. She had to take baby steps. She had to get Andrew’s attentions first, then his affections would follow. As her father was fond of saying, Rome wasn’t built in a day. Evie drifted to the perimeter of the assembly hall now that the evening’s goals had been met. She needed to celebrate her victories, not wallow in her defeats.
