The Counterfeit Count (10 page)

“He is following a whereas? I thought his pockets were quite plump.” The hook-nosed man sitting beside Natalya rested his elbows on the table and whispered, “It must be that woman.”

“Lady Elizabeth?” Mr. Hotz shook his head. “You cannot blame the lady. He has been gathering a preserve of long bills for several years now.”

“She certainly has not helped the situation. She wears more baubles than the Regent.” The hook-nosed man laughed at his own sally.

Natalya glanced across the table to where Creighton was listening without comment. He smiled when his gaze caught hers.

“Gentlemen,” he said without releasing her from his cool stare, “I believe we have baffled Count Dmitrieff with our words. He wears the expression of a man who has no idea of what we speak.”

“I came to play cards, not to talk,” she returned quietly.

“That we can see.” Creighton pointed to the pile of coins in front of her. “And we can see how competent you have proven to be at the board of green cloth. Much practice, I suspect.”

“Cards travel easily when an army is on the move.” She motioned for Mr. Hotz to deal the next hand. “Also, they fill the long hours of a midnight watch.”

“You were with the army the whole time the Russians chased the French from Moscow back to Paris?” asked a man who had not spoken before. Lord Pleasonton had merely grunted a greeting when Natalya was introduced to him.

“Yes.”

“Many of your countrymen did not survive.”

“Fewer of the French did.”

Laughter rounded the table, but Creighton pushed back his chair and rose. When Natalya regarded him with surprise, wondering what she had said mistakenly now, he murmured, “Excuse me, gentlemen. I think I would show uncommon good sense to let my commanding officer know I am in attendance this evening.”

“That's right,” Lord Pleasonton grumbled. “You still are shackled with that silly commission, aren't you? I swore you had taken a maggot in your head when you rushed off on some want-witted hero's quest.”

Natalya clenched her hands on the table as she stood. “You insult my host, my lord. Lord Ashcroft is truly a distinguished hero who—”

“Demi, there is no need to leap to my defense.”

She scowled at him. How senseless and complacent could these English be? “No, I need not come to your defense, Creighton, but I regret your friends do not share your clear-sightedness of the danger that threatened all of us. If not for the combined strength of all the Allies against Napoleon, even now the treacherous French might be bringing their dreams of empire to your soil, gentlemen.”

“Nonsense!” Mr. Hotz announced. “We would never allow that.”

“Once we believed the same. We did not have your good fortune of never having to prove that.” She pushed herself away from the table. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

She clenched her hands at her side as she walked out of the card room. When she heard her name called, she paused. She turned to face Creighton, her fingers resting on the knife in the sash at her waist.

He held out his hand. “Don't you want this?” He poured the money she had won onto her palm.

“
Spasíbo
.”

“Thank you?” With a low chuckle, he said, “You're welcome. Do I owe
you
thanks for leaping to my defense with such fervor?”

“They have no idea what they are prattling about. The fools!”

Putting his hand on her arm, he steered her along the corridor that was decorated with paintings in gilt frames and statues set on little shelves that were guaranteed to draw the eye. “Of course they don't,” Creighton said calmly. “Are the civilians in Russia so different?”

“Every person along the path of the French destruction knew the war firsthand.” She tugged away and faced him. “Those blocks should realize how lucky they are to have men like you who were willing to risk their lives to protect England.”

“I am glad they do not.” Lifting one hand, he said, “We have spoken enough of this. I came here to enjoy myself this evening, not to keep you out of trouble.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I have no doubts on that. I just don't want to have to stop all my friends from challenging you for your incendiary words.”

“Those?” She pointed back toward the card room. “Save for Mr. Hotz, there is not enough spirit within the lot to confront more than a kitten. Even their gambling is boring, nothing like we have in Russia. I cannot imagine any of my men chattering like a group of
babas
.”

“Let me guess.
Babas
means babies?”

She laughed. “Not even close. It means old women.”

With a grimace, he motioned for her to continue walking with him along the corridor. “Watch what you say, for I may not be able to cajole the next man who challenges you to delay the duel.”

“You really don't want to play cards any longer?”

“I did not like the turn the conversation took.”

“You would as lief hear a man's misfortune aired about among those more fortunate?”

He shook his head. “No, I did not like that either, but I find it preferable to rehashing the war.”

“People are curious about what happened.”

“That is no reason to satisfy it with such babble.”

“It does no harm to ease someone's curiosity.”

“Never?”

She frowned. “Never”

When he took her arm and tugged her out onto a balcony overlooking the back garden, she tried to pull away. He smiled as he pressed her shoulders against the stone wall of the house. “Then,” he whispered, “ease my curiosity.”

She stared up at him. The sharp angles of his face were not muted by the darkness, for the faint light from within the house highlighted his jaw and cheekbones. Even though his eyes were hidden in pools of shadow, she could guess they were bright with amusement.

“About what?” she asked as quietly.

“About you.”

“Creighton, please …” She closed her eyes as his fingertip traced the curve of her ear. Shaking her head, she said more fiercely, “Enough!”

“I shall desist if you think I should, although I do not believe you are speaking the truth.” His hand cupped her chin, and he brought her face to his. The soft brush of his words caressed her as he asked, “How is it that a woman with a woman's desires can think solely of something as hideous as war?” His laugh had a ragged edge. “Mayhap not solely, for your reaction when I touch you so chastely suggests you can think of more feminine pursuits.”

With a curse, she pushed herself away from the wall. “Pursuits of feminine prey are
your
thoughts. I prefer the strategy of planning and winning a battle to courting and wooing. If you have no interest in what interests me, I shall ask you to excuse me.”

Creighton smiled as Natalya went back into the house. Every inch of her glowed with fury. A feminine fury, which was as charming as the splendid motion of her hips. A fury which would escalate if she guessed the course of his thoughts.

Mayhap this would have been a simpler thing if Barclay had not flown up to the boughs this afternoon. During the card game, he had avoided looking for Barclay. Barclay would like nothing better than to announce his challenge to Natalya at the moment when it would cause the most commotion. It was Creighton's duty now, in addition to playing host to Natalya when he could easily have played something more pleasurable with her, to keep Barclay from finding out what must stay hidden.

This was certainly not going to be the lighthearted Season he had planned in the wake of the war. The battle continued on, but now his most fierce foe was his own desire to draw Natalya back into his arms. It was a battle he must not lose.

Nine

“Do tell us, Count Dmitrieff, what you think of London.”

“Yes, do tell us.”

“Is it anything like your cities in Russia?”

“Can you say something for us in Russian? I do hear it is a most unusual language.”

“What colors do the ladies prefer in Russia?”

Natalya struggled to keep her smile from vanishing as she tried to ease away from the circle of women which had formed around her within seconds of her arrival in the bright gold ballroom. It was impossible. She was defeated more soundly than she had ever believed possible. Elbowing aside one of the women, all of whom were dressed in white silk as foamy as the plaster friezes edging the ceiling, was unthinkable. How easily she had forgotten the skills women employed when they wished to flirt with an unknown gentleman! Now she knew why she had so readily assumed the plain-speaking ways of the men in her command.

“You would be better served by asking the Grand Duchess what colors the ladies prefer,” she said to a slender blonde who was nearly as tall as Creighton.

“But you, Count Dmitrieff, are a man, and we wish to know what the Russian men have noticed about the gowns that are worn by the ladies of Russia—” The blond Englishwoman took a step closer and flashed a coquettish smile. “—and England.”

“Miss—”

“Wilton, my lord.” The elegant design of her gown, which gained her envious stares from the other women, shimmered in the candlelight. Holding out her hand, she offered Natalya a warm smile.

Too warm for Natalya's comfort, but she took the woman's hand and bowed over it as she had bowed over what seemed like countless hands since her arrival in England.

“Count Dmitrieff, meeting you is a pleasure I have been anticipating with the greatest pleasure.” Her low voice was husky and inviting.

“I am pleased to meet you, Miss Wilton,” she mumbled.

Natalya noted Miss Wilton's superior smile. If these ladies thought to compete for her favor, they were sadly wasting their time. Although a flirtation with one of the women would serve her disguise well, she did not want to risk hurting anyone.

“Miss Wilton,” she asked, hoping this excuse would allow her to make her escape, “may I get a glass of something cool for you?”

She held up a goblet of champagne. “No need, my lord.” Linking her arm through Natalya's, she glanced around the circle of women and said, “Allow me to steal you from these admirers so I might introduce you to some of the other ladies who are eager to make the acquaintance of one of Russia's greatest heroes.”

“You flatter me.” Natalya tried to think of some other reason to free herself from this predicament. If she had had half an ounce of foresight, she would have remained in the card room where she could have avoided this discomfort. “However, I have to speak with General Miloradovich about a matter he expressed interest in earlier this afternoon. If you will excuse me …”

“Do stay and speak with us a moment longer.” Miss Wilton squeezed her arm.

Again the volley of voices bounced over Natalya.

“Yes, do. Do stay and speak with us.”

“Tell us about what you saw in Paris.”

“Yes, what are they wearing?”

“Did you see Napoleon before he was exiled?”

“When is the czar arriving in England?”

Natalya longed to roll her eyes, spit a curse that was sure to offend all of them, and leave. In near desperation, she glanced around the room. She wished she had brought Petr with her. He always could be depended on to know when she needed his assistance. Somewhere there must be help to escape this silliness.

Her breath caught as her gaze locked with Creighton's. He stood in one of the trio of doorways opening into the corridor. With him were the gentlemen who had joined them at the card table, but she took no more than casual note of them. Every thought was focused on Creighton. Her feet yearned to run across the ballroom to bring her against the firm warmth of his chest.

Impossible! Had she lost every bit of sense she possessed? Tonight she was Count Dmitrieff, not a woman determined to capture a man's attention.

“Count Dmitrieff,” said Miss Wilton, “do tell us how you won that medal.” She put her finger out to the ribbon set above the braid on Natalya's uniform.

Natalya drew back before Miss Wilton could touch her breast. Forcing a smile, she said, “That was for a battle whose retelling may not be fit for the ears of ladies.”

“Oh, do tell us,” Miss Wilton urged. Her blue eyes were tinted with specks as gold as her lashes. “We would so like to know.”

“Yes, yes,” said another of the ladies, and they all echoed the words like well-trained acolytes.

“If you wish …” Natalya glanced again at Creighton. He had not moved, so she would have to devise her own escape.

Creighton surrendered to his urge to smile as Natalya turned back to speak to the group of ladies who had clumped around her. One had her arm through Natalya's. This late in the Season, some women were willing to chance even exile in distant Russia in order to win a titled husband. He chuckled to himself. What a surprise would await that bride on their wedding night!

“Count Dmitrieff is quite the ladies' man, I would say,” murmured Lord Pleasonton.”

“I think I shall play the good host and rescue my guest from Lady Eltonville's guests,” Creighton replied.

“I doubt the man wants rescuing. Even icy Russian blood needs heating once in a while, I suspect.” Lord Pleasonton sighed. “As for me, I profess an interest in what our hostess has provided for us to drink this evening. I know my black coat is no match in the ladies' eyes for Count Dmitrieff's gold piping and buttons.”

“Count Dmitrieff?” intruded a voice laced with rum. “Where in perdition is that blackguard?”

Creighton caught Barclay's arm as his friend was about to stride across the ballroom in pursuit of Natalya, although Creighton doubted Barclay could see anything clearly past the tip of his nose. “Slow down,” Creighton ordered.

“Want to talk to him. Now!”

Lord Pleasonton cleared his throat, gave Creighton a pitying smile, and then turned to talk to someone else.