The Princess and the Pauper by Alexandra Benedict

childhood letters, and charred
nightstand, Grey’s world was in shambles—ever since Emily had returned to it.
    “ A maid might be helpful,
you know.”
    “ What do you want,
Harry?”
    “ Right.” He
bro ught his
attention back to Grey—and the bottle of Martell. “A tipple might
be nice.”
    Gre y downed the remaining brandy in his
glass. “It is,” he confirmed.
    Harry sighed. “Business it
is ,
then.”
    “ What business?”
    “ The chaos of last night,
of course.”
    “ I’m sorry about what
happened with Lady Hickox.”
    “ Pshaw! All affairs peter out
eventually. Mama will find herself a new beau in no time. Oh,
sorry, old chap. I didn’t mean to suggest you were
disposable.”
    “ Not at all, Harry. I’m not
pining after her. And I sincerely hope she’s not pining after
me.”
    “ Mama isn’t one to pine,
a nd since I’m
here, cut off from her purse strings, and you’ve no furniture in
any of the bedrooms . . .”
    Grey waved an assenting hand. He had to
furnish the house anyway, now that Emily was in residence. A woman
needed more than a bedroom to look after, especially his princess.
She needed a house and a household, for she’d been raised from
girlhood to rule another man’s roost.
    His friend beamed. “That’s jolly
good of you,
me old mucker. I’ll just get a few necessities. Don’t want to rob
the vault or anything, especially after you spent a pretty penny on
that filly. By Jove, she’s a looker! I’ve never seen such dark red
hair on a woman. And her eyes! As bright as fireflies. She’d lead
any man to ruin.”
    “ She would, indeed.”
    And Grey ha d proof of it. His body, though
battered and bruised, still burned with the memory of her
passionate kiss. Even now, he tasted her, sensed the pressure of
her mouth over his. The brandy had dulled the ache in his chest,
but it had failed to blunt the impression of her demanding
lips.
    “ Not that I pity you,” from
Harry. “She’s
a real gem, you lucky bugger.”
    “ She’s not my
mistress.”
    “ What’s that?”
    “ I said she’s not my
mistress?”
    “ Eh?”
    Grey glared at him.
    “ You don’t meant to say . .
. ?” Harry
trailed off, dumbfounded. “ Why did you spend ten thousand pounds on her?”
    H e shrugged. “She and I were once
friends.”
    “ You mean
lovers?”
    “ I mean friends, you
blockhead.”
    “ Well, why on earth would
you be friends with a woman? How do you keep a friendship with a
woman? Especially a woman with crimson hair and burning
eyes?”
    “ She was in trouble, is
all. I helped her.”
    “ How very noble of
you.”
    “ What are you insinuating?” Grey
growled.
    “ Me insinuate? Here.” He
stretched out his hand. “Pass me that bottle of Martell. I think
you’ve had too much to drink.”
    Not nearly enough,
thought Grey,
and poured himself another glass. “I trust you’ve found an agreeable place
to sleep?”
    Harry sighed again and dropped
his empty
hand. “The divan in the study will have to do for now. But I, um,
do have another question. When will your ‘friend’ be
leaving?”
    Grey stilled. “What do you
mean?”
    “ We ll, she can’t live here with two
bachelors. I expect you’ll put her up in her own apartment. By and
by, she doesn’t look like she grew up in the streets.”
    “ I didn’t grow up in the streets.”
    “ But Mama said she found
you—”
    “ Forget it,” he snapped, realizing he’d said
too much about the past.
    “ Well, where did you grow
up?” wondered Harry, his brows pinched together in obvious
confusion.
    Damn his friend’s hounding tongue. Another
flurry of memories stirred inside Grey. An old shop in Clerkenwell.
An old man hunched over a table, humming, whittling violin
shells.
    Grey had loved to watch his grandfather
work, more than going to school or romping about the streets
between the breweries, printing and clockmaker shops. And when, at
the age of four, he had picked up a violin for the first time and
heard the