The Counterfeit Count (14 page)

“But I do.” He turned away as a plump woman pushed through the curtained doorway.

“Lord Ashcroft,
soyez le bienvenue
!”

At the Frenchwoman's greeting, Natalya's fingers curled so tightly her nails cut into her palm. How could Creighton bring her here? The French had destroyed all of her family. She did not want to patronize the shop of one of those heartless vermin.

Creighton put his hand on her arm and drew her forward as he said, “Madame Barbeau, allow me to introduce a guest in our country. This is Count Dmitrieff. Demi, Madame has been a fixture in this shop since she fled Napoleon's excesses almost fifteen years ago.”

“Count Dmitrieff,” the round woman said with a smile, “you are welcome here, too. How may I help you gentlemen?”

Natalya forced the tension from her shoulders. Creighton's introduction warned that her reaction to the seamstress's French had been obvious. Dash it! She was too tired to think clearly. Her emotions were so close to her skin, the slightest slice of dismay burst them out into the open.

Wandering away, she admired the exquisite silks as she listened to the low rumble of Creighton's voice. She turned when he called her name. Her eyes widened as she saw the glorious fan he held. Golden lace edged the top and dripped off into two long strips that would brush a lady's gown. Painted silk unfolded to reveal the design of some nameless Chinese pagoda surrounded by flowers she also could not name. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

“What do you think?” Creighton asked. “Will Miss Suvorov like this?”

Natalya locked her fingers behind her back to keep from caressing the lace falling from the fan. She turned away, not wanting him to read what her face might reveal. “I know nothing of her taste.”

“She likes me.”

“Then she probably will enjoy something as ostentatious as that fan.” Walking toward the window, she gazed out at the street. Carriages passed, rattling the glass in front of her. She had not thought Creighton so foolish as to ignore the warning she had given him. Tatiana Suvorov would forget him as soon as she left London.

As Natalya Dmitrieff must.

She bit her lip as she wondered if that were possible. Even the brush of his fingers against her arm as he had greeted the
modiste
had sent delight rushing through her like a tempest. She never had met a man of Creighton Marshall's like, and she feared she never would again. No, she should be happy she never would meet his match. He was dangerous to her and her plans. She should be thrilled he was enthralled by Tatiana Suvorov's blatant flirtations.

But she was not.

Creighton laughed lowly as he motioned for her to follow him out of the shop. When they stood on the street again, he said, “You were oddly quiet in there. Could it be you are jealous that I am buying a gift for Miss Suvorov?”

“Jealous? Of you and Tatiana Suvorov?” She smiled and shook her head. “No, for how can I be jealous of nothing?”

“Nothing?”

“I believe you truly have as little honest interest in her as she does in you.”

He paused on the street and pressed his hand to his chest. “You cannot believe I have a true
tendre
for the young lady?”

“No.” She laughed, still astonished how he drew emotions from her that she had not expected she would feel. “Do not try to bamblusterate me with such silliness. I have seen as much of this world as you.”

“Most likely you have seen more, for I have not strayed so far from my homeland as you have.”

“I would not need to journey far to know you cannot use Miss Suvorov to find your way back into Miss Wilton's heart.”

All amusement vanished from his eyes, which grew as hard as cannon balls. “I don't know who has been filling your head with bangers, but—”

“Bangers?”

“Falsehoods!” he snapped. “Be certain of one thing, my dear Count Dmitrieff. I would as lief be in some water-filled trench facing the French again than be within Miss Wilton's fickle heart. I leave you to enjoy her cloying company.”

He strode away before she could reply. As he climbed into the phaeton, she sighed. Yes, someone had told her lies, but she suspected it was Creighton. She could not forget the room, which was closed as tightly as his heart. The only question was: Was he lying to himself as well?

Twelve

“You are doing so well!”

Creighton grimaced at Colonel Carruthers. This call too closely echoed the one when he had been invited here and had left with orders to take Natalya into his house. He had hoped the afternoon would provide an escape from the dreary thoughts that had plagued him since the disastrous errand to the
modiste
's shop.

Barclay! It must have been Barclay who had, in some misguided, half-foxed attempt at being a good friend, told Natalya about the failed betrothal. Creighton should have expected this after seeing the tension between his friend and Natalya this morning. Barclay clearly had come to the house on the flimsy excuse of bringing her winnings so he could share the truth with her.

Why would Creighton care if Maeve practiced her fascinating arts on Natalya? Even if Natalya truly were a man, why should it bother him? He had no answer for either question, which unsettled him more than he wished to own. War and death should have seared the wounds of his heart long ago, yet he could not honestly say he was not distressed.

He fingered the cards in his hand, then threw them onto the table. By Jove! 'Twas not Maeve who consumed his thoughts, but Natalya. He disliked the idea of Natalya getting caught up in that web of half-truths and broken promises as he had been. That was it. As her host, he should be protecting her from what she clearly did not understand. She might be the finest rider he had ever raced, and she might possess a keen eye and a quick wit, but she was a babe in comparison with Maeve's well-practiced wiles.

No, she was no babe. She was a lovely woman whom he could not keep from his thoughts. Since he had discovered her, so soft and enticing, in her
deshabillé
, he had longed to pull her back into his arms and give freedom to his fantasies of tasting her soft mouth. His fingers curled into a frustrated fist as the image of her in her uniform filled his mind. Its lines accented her lithe curves until he was grateful to find an excuse, such as this invitation to call upon his colonel, to keep from being alone with her.

“Yes, you are doing well.” Colonel Carruthers's laugh brought Creighton's attention back to his commander. “Just as I had anticipated.”

“I am glad someone thinks so.” He leaned back in his chair.

“At least two of us do.” The colonel chuckled again. “General Miloradovich has developed an intense interest in your background.”

“Military or financial?”

Resting his elbows on the table, Colonel Carruthers smiled. “The good general seems very anxious to follow his czar's orders to blend western Europe and Russia. What better way than the announcement of a match between his niece and an English war hero?”

“I trust
this
is not an order, Colonel.”

“I think you can safely say that goes beyond duty to country and king.”

“And Regent,” Creighton added dryly.

“And most certainly Regent.” He gathered up the cards and began to shuffle them. “I understand the czar and his party shall be arriving within a few days.”

“That is good news.”

“Because you shall bid your guest farewell shortly after that?”

“The count and I have become more tolerant of each other, and no more of my friends has challenged Demi to a duel since that first day.”

“How did that resolve itself? I have seen no outward wounds on Lawson.”

Creighton chuckled. “The duel has not been held yet.”

“Not yet? How—?”

He quickly explained the traditions Natalya had invented. “Barclay swallowed every out-and-outer whole.”

“His good fortune, for Captain Dmitrieff is a renowned marksman.”

“Even that argument failed with Barclay when he flew off his hooks.”

The colonel crowed with laughter, then slanted forward. “What do you say to the idea we give your guest and his fellow Russians something to do with the pistols they wear to every function much to the distress of the ladies?”

“I have yet to see a lady who is distressed by Count Dmitrieff.”

“True.”

Creighton was stunned when Colonel Carruthers bowed his head and made a business of shuffling the cards some more. His lips tightened as he realized why his colonel was averting his eyes. No one could be indifferent to the pretty blonde who hung on to every word Count Dmitrieff uttered from the moment they arrived at any gathering to the second they left. Blast her! Her? Natalya or Maeve? Both!

“So I thought,” the colonel said as if there had been no pause, “we might invite General Miloradovich and his party to join us for a ride out to grassville to engage in a bit of hunting. It should be a diverting day before we all are sucked into our dress uniforms for the events that will begin unfolding with the arrival of Alexander and King Frederick.” Looking up, he grimaced. “Those pompous Prussians are going to make the whole of this a bore.”

“You speak of our Regent's distant cousins.”

“I would say the same of my own cousins, who have as little life in them.” With another chuckle, he regained his smile. “So what do you think, Creighton? Do you think Count Dmitrieff would enjoy a visit to the country?”

Creighton arched a single brow as he thought of the wistful sound of Natalya's words when they had enjoyed their breakfast on the garden balcony. “I believe the count would.”

“Then it is set. We leave at dawn on the morrow.” He began to deal the cards. “It should prove to be interesting.”

That was what Creighton dreaded. Interesting might prove too pale a word to describe anything Natalya Dmitrieff was involved in, and he knew it would be his duty to make sure the sojourn remained simply interesting. He wondered if that were possible.

Natalya rubbed harder on the stubborn spot on the right toe of her best boots. Petr had offered to have them ready for the czar's arrival, but she needed to do this task herself. Every stroke against the leather worked out a bit of her irritation at Creighton's high-handed ways. He should not be angry with her simply because she had been gracious to his one-time fiancée. If he were always this unreasonable, Natalya could understand why Miss Wilton had given him his
congé
. Mayhap the next time Natalya had the opportunity to speak to Miss Wilton, she would say exactly that.

With a sigh, she sat back in the chair and stared at the book-room hearth. How much longer must they endure this visit to London? Once she returned to Russia, she could rebuild the life she had known, the life she understood. There she could trust people to say what they meant as lief hiding their true feelings behind pretty words and deceitful compliments.

The door opened. Her fingers clenched on the cloth as her gaze locked with Creighton's. Some emotion raced through his eyes so swiftly she could not guess what it was before his smile became coolly polite. He closed the door behind him, then reopened it. She frowned at his curious action, but he did not explain as he peered over her shoulder.

“Polishing your boots, Demi?” he asked. “My book-room is an odd choice of site for such a chore.”

“The sunlight is better here than in my bedchamber, so I thought to take advantage of it.”

He sat in a chair facing hers. Pyramiding his fingers in front of his face, he prevented her from seeing his expression. What was he hiding, she wondered, and, more importantly, why?

She dampened her lips. The words would be distasteful in her mouth, but they must be said. “Creighton?”

“Yes?” He did not move his fingers.

“
Óchen'zhal'
.”

“In English, please.”

“I am sorry.” Reaching out, she grasped his hands and pulled them away from his face. “The very least you could do when I am apologizing is not hide.”

“Hide?” With a quick move, he pulled his hands out of hers and caught her fingers beneath his. He pinned her hands to his knees. “I find it most strange that you would accuse me of that when I do not conceal the truth of who I am.”

She jerked her hands away and picked up her boot, rubbing it fiercely. “Must you repeat that whenever we speak? I have no wish to continue this discussion.”

“Now that sounds just like a woman!”

“Creighton!”

He waved her protest aside. He started to speak, but turned as the sound of rapid footfalls came up the stairs and toward the room.

Barclay Lawson burst in. “Great news!” His smile wavered as he glanced at Natalya. “Dmitrieff,” he added with a terse nod.

“Mr. Lawson,” she said as coldly, although she had to be grateful for his intrusion. It would give her the excuse she needed to leave.

Creighton grasped the arms of his chair and shoved himself to his feet. “I think it's time the two of you stopped acting like strangers. As frequently as you call here, Barclay, the very least you can do is be pleasant to my guest.”

“You expect me to be pleasant to this cur?”

“Yes.” Creighton gestured to Natalya to remain silent. “This is my home, and I wish for harmony within its walls. I care little what you two do at the end of this blasted fortnight, but, for now, be pleasant to the count.”

“Leather-headed notion!”

“Will you be pleasant, or will you leave?”

Mr. Lawson breathed in through his clenched teeth, then hissed, “I shall be pleasant if I must.”

Natalya lowered her eyes when she saw how Creighton was struggling not to laugh. “I shall endeavor,” she said, “to be more gracious to Mr. Lawson.”

“Gracious? That is for strangers.” Creighton raised his hands in defeat. “If you two wish to be foes while we ride out to grassville tomorrow—”