The Royal Conquest(50)

“Princess Tatiana,” Vladimir started soothingly. “It is best we wait until the prince is available. He will not take kindly to you upsetting the girl, and it was not my intention for you to force a confrontation.”

What prince? And why were they speaking of her as if she were not present? Payton dismissed them and moved to walk out of the parlor. She would head to the cottage and wait for Mikhail. Why had he not informed her of his visit to her father?

“I have not finished speaking with you,” the woman snapped, stepping rudely into Payton’s path, looking down her thin but elegant nose with disdain.

Payton stiffened. “I beg your pardon. I was not aware you’d addressed me.”

The princess’s lips parted in a contemptuous sneer. “She is an American.” She shot an accusing stare at Vladimir. “You had me worried for naught. He would not dare to think to align himself with someone so unworthy of his family’s name. I am sure you misunderstood what Prince Alexander told you.”

Vladimir grimaced. “I implore discretion, Princess.”

Payton pushed aside the anger rising inside and moved for the entrance.

Sharp nails sank into her arm as the princess gripped her.

“You have not been excused,” she snapped with imperious command.

Payton stared at the woman in disbelief. “You will release my arm at once.”

The princess’s cheeks were flushed with obvious anger. “Do you know who I am?”

“I have little interest to know. Good day,” she said with a nod, yanking her arm away, uncaring that the princess’s claws had drawn blood. She had to get away. A sickening sensation had been rioting inside her, and her heart slammed so painfully she felt on the verge of fainting.

“I am Princess Tatiana, Prince Alexander Konstantinovich Dashkova’s fiancée.”

Payton stumbled, and her stomach hollowed, and unfortunately she did not contain the cry of denial that slipped from her lips.

A light shifted in the depth of the woman’s eyes, and if Payton was not mistaken it looked like pity.

She looked away, and her gaze collided with her aunt’s.

“It is true; he is a Russian prince, Payton.” Her aunt’s eyes glowed and she vibrated with excitement. “Better, your stable master is the heir to the Dukedom of Avondale.”

Her aunt turned to Princess Tatiana. “It is my pleasure to inform you, Prince Mikhail has asked to court my niece, Miss Peppiwell. He would not conduct himself with such dishonor knowing he was committed to another.”

While Payton’s heart shared such sentiments, it stunned her to witness her aunt’s defense of Mikhail.

“Do not be foolish! Prince Alexander would never pursue this unrefined commoner.”

The distressing name and title resounded in her head once again. Prince Alexander. Mikhail is a prince…and a duke? And he was to marry…a princess? It was as if a claw attached itself to her throat and ripped down with brutal precision to her chest. Payton’s stomach constricted.

“Excuse me,” she said, pushing past the princess, hating the tears gathering behind her eyes.

Outrage twisted in Payton when the princess grabbed her arm again.

“Don’t you dare touch me,” she snapped low in her throat. “You have been inexcusably rude, and I will not suffer the presence anymore of someone with the manners of a pig. If you thought to confront me because you believe I have some claim on your prince, disabuse yourself of the notion. He is a lying cur like most lords I have been unfortunate to know, and I gladly relinquish him to your venomous embrace.”

Liar, her heart screamed, but Payton could not deal with her mind’s instinctual rejection of Mikhail being with another woman.

“Impertinent miss!”

Payton inhaled deeply. “Forgive me, that was uncalled for. I had no cause to insult pigs.”

Her cheek exploded in fiery pain as the princess slapped her.

The door was flung open, and the duchess entered. “Princess Tatiana,” she clipped. “I would invite you to join me in the Rose Room until Prince…” Her voice trailed away when she spied Payton, then regret and apology flashed in Jocelyn’s gray eyes. “Payton, I am so sorry,” she said softly. “Please do not leave; let me summon Prince Alexander.”

Payton flinched. Of course the duchess would have known. She felt like a naive trusting fool. What cause would Mikhail—Alexander—have to deceive her so? Tears tightened her throat, but she would be damned if she allowed any to spill. Last night she’d suspected he belonged to the haute monde. But she’d thought a baron, or maybe a viscount. But a prince? Oh God.

At a loss for what to say, she looked to her aunt and blanched. Aunt Florence’s eyes gleamed with avaricious cunning. Mikhail was no longer unworthy. Payton wanted to scream at her aunt’s fickleness and her lack of caring for the hurt pummeling Payton. He’d deceived her, misrepresented himself, and they did not care because he was a Russian prince and a duke.