The Royal Conquest(63)

Horse breeder.

Instead of hurting, her lips twitched. Society was too predictable, and it just might be possible she was becoming immune to their vicious tongues. But the greater amusement was wondering how they would react when they discovered her horse breeder was Prince Alexander Dashkova, the Duke of Avondale.

She collected a glass of champagne from a passing footman, hoping for a cool breeze to soothe the heat of the crush. The terrace doors were open, and there had been a definite nip in the air earlier in the day. All that had been stifled under the multitude of guests mingling and laughing in the duke’s grand ballroom.

Payton stood on the sidelines, content no one had asked her to dance. Connie was playing the charming yet reserved hostess, and everyone was lapping it up, pleased to garner her attention if only for a few seconds.

How fickle society was. Months ago all Connie had been to them was the beautiful bastard, and no one had wanted to be her friend.

With a snort Payton lifted the glass to her lips and drank.

“…she is Mr. Marcus Stone’s mistress, and the duchess still calls her friend,” a voice rife with appalled shock said, and with a sigh, Payton glanced toward the unfortunate female. A smile burst on her lips, as she identified Lady Charlotte Ralston, Connie’s dearest friend.

“Are you certain? She converses with my daughter, Lady Ophelia, frequently. I must stop such corrupting influence at once.”

“There is a rumor she has been seen leaving the man’s apartment at his gambling club, Decadence, and her lady’s maid told my lady’s maid Lady Ralston may be with child!”

Payton’s chest ached. She already knew how this gossip would take little or no time to spread and would create a circle of pain and heartache. She pushed through the crowd, toward Charlotte.

“Prince Alexander Konstantinovich Dashkova, His Grace, the Duke of Avondale, and the Countess of Merryweather,” the butler’s voice boomed, announcing Mikhail and—mystifyingly—her aunt.

Oh God.

Payton faltered and lifted her eyes to the grand staircase with the rest of the guests. He was every bit the arrogant and powerful aristocrat, once again dressed in sharp elegant black-and-white evening wear. It was only as he came closer that she realized his waistcoat was silver, almost as if he had known what color her dress would be.

Connie went over and greeted him, and the crowded assembly surged, no doubt eager to arrange introductions and form the connection. Unerringly his gaze found hers, and her breath caught at the possessive way his eyes lingered.

She swallowed as he pulled away from everyone and prowled toward her. Even Connie looked baffled until she saw the direction he headed, then an enchanting smile split her face, and she gave Payton an audacious wink.

Good heavens.

Mikhail was making no effort to disguise the passion he felt for her.

It was shockingly outrageous…and wonderful.

Her heart raced in earnest. It was then she realized how quiet everyone was, and the prickling sensation of being watched by so many eyes rippled over her skin with discomfort, one that melted away the second he stopped in front of her.

“Miss Peppiwell,” he greeted, and bowed over her hand, then he lifted darkening blue eyes to her face.

Memories of his tongue against her, his hands pleasuring, and his overwhelming magnetism had a soft breath shuddering from her. Her heart ached. If only.

“My dear,” her aunt said, from behind him. “Please greet your intended.”

How could she? Did Aunt Florence really believe the court of society’s opinion meant so much to Payton? There were several shocked gasps and rage burned through her. How dare they? She had said no, and her family knew very well she had meant every word.

A sharp frown flashed across Mikhail’s face, and it seemed he had not realized her aunt would try to pressure her publicly.

But had that not been his intention when he arrived with her aunt?

The anger and hurt stabbing Payton’s heart was potent. Why was it so difficult for the people who claimed to love her to respect her right to live life the way she wanted?

She pulled her hand from his, without acknowledging his generosity with a curtsy. Meeting the eyes of her aunt, Payton let the anger burn in her gaze, and Aunt Florence had the grace to blush.

She looked to Mikhail, and the cold determination was unmistakable in his eyes.

Then Payton turned away. She would be flayed for ignoring a prince, but she cared not what he or anyone thought.

She would only be encouraged by the desires in her heart.



Payton cut Mikhail dead, and pure pride swelled in his chest. He threw back his head and laughed, loving her fire, uncaring of the shocked murmurs rippling through the ballroom.

Her steps faltered at his obvious amusement, and she twisted her head and met his gaze with a fierce glare. And he was so damned glad to see it was not one of pain. Ecstasy as if she were kissing him tingled up his spine, when her lips quirked and humor flashed deep in her golden gaze. She had not reacted from a place of hurt or deliberate spitefulness, but from a place of refusing to bow to the dictates of her family and society.