The Counterfeit Count (17 page)

“Or as well as Miss Suvorov hides her desire for your company.”

“Jealous?”

“You asked me that before.”

“And you didn't answer me.”

She laughed. “I answered you. How can anyone be jealous of nothing?”

Instead of answering, Creighton lit a lamp on a low table by the door. The room flashed to life. It was empty save for a pair of tables set before the hearth. Along the walls, which arched high above them, weapons were displayed.

Natalya walked to the closest wall and put her fingers out to touch the broadsword that hung at eye level. The hilt was so wide she doubted she could close her fingers around it. “How magnificent!”

“I thought you would enjoy this display.”

“More than Tatiana will,” she said with a laugh as she went to look at a crossbow.

“I had planned to show her another collection.”

She turned and copied his sardonic arch of a single brow. “A more private exhibition?”

“Now you sound jealous again.”

“No,” she hurried to say before either he or her own thoughts could label her words not wholly true, “I simply worry about a friend who has been hurt before.”

“A friend?”

“You.”

“Are we friends?”

“That is what you called me before.”

He closed the distance between them. “True.” Suddenly, he grinned. “And, my friend, it is time you learned all you need to know to win a lady's heart.”

“I have no interest in winning a lady's heart.”

Clasping her hands, he pulled her toward him. “You need to learn to waltz.”

“Creighton, we should not—”

“Which makes it all the more delightful.” He laughed when her boot heel caught the carpet. “Relax, Natalya.”

“If someone were to see you here dancing with a man—”

“But you aren't a man.” He drew her against his hard chest. “Just match my steps. Think of it as a new kind of march.”

“Creighton—”

“I—”

“No!” She refused to let him interrupt her again. “I have had enough of this silliness.” As she turned toward the door, she heard the scrape of steel.

“Natalya!”

She whirled. Her hand came up instinctively to catch the saber Creighton tossed to her.

“If you do not like one sort of dance,” he said, jabbing at her with the one he held, “mayhap you would enjoy another.”

With a laugh, she raised her sword. “I warn you I am more expert at this than at the waltz.”

His smile was almost feline. “So am I.”

As she matched his motions, she realized he was not bragging. She could fend off each of his jabs, but she gained no ground against him. Slowly, his smile broadening on every step, he backed her toward the wall. She gasped when she bumped into stone. She tried to slip to her right. He halted her easily. To the left. Again he parried aside her sword. She gritted her teeth and tried to surge forward.

With a laugh, he slipped his saber beneath hers. The tip was a bare breath from her throat, the flat against the underside of her chin.

“Throw down your sword!” he called.

She tossed it to the floor, ignoring its clatter as she watched him closely. Flexing her fingers, she held her breath. He stepped nearer, triumph glittering in his eyes. She shifted. He shouted as her fist came down on his wrist. His sword skittered across the floor. She whirled. He caught her arm, and her breath exploded from her as he shoved her back against the wall.

“You play rough,” he whispered.

“I play to win.”

“Always?”

“Always.” She raised her other hand. He caught it and pressed it to the stones. She tried to pull away. He pinned her to the wall, the firm length of his legs against her.

She raised her gaze to discover his smile had vanished. The fierce fires were burning in his eyes again. She could not read the expression in his shadowed eyes as his mouth lowered to hers in the lightest of caresses. Knowing she should order him to halt, every thought became the delight blossoming outward from his touch. He released her hand, and his fingers slipped along her side in a gentle stroke.

“I always play to win, too,” he whispered, his lips brushing hers.

All gentleness vanished as he kissed her again. The caress of his fingers along her back urged her to touch him, even as her breath grew fast behind her thudding heartbeat. She cautiously lifted trembling fingers to his shoulders. As she touched their breadth, it was as if summer lightning seared her. When he cradled her against his strong arm, she let the sweet storm swallow her. The thunder of her pulse careened through her, sweeping aside every sensation but pleasure.

As his lips moved along her neck, his breath grazed her skin, inciting the embers within her into a firestorm. Pushing aside her short curls, he teased her ear with the tip of his tongue. She gasped and pressed closer to him, her reaction immediate and compelling. She wanted to be within his arms, enfolded to his firm chest, exulting in this incredible danger. She would risk anything for—

“No!” she cried, pushing herself out of his arms.

Creighton reached out, but she edged away. “Natalya, sweet Natalya.”

“No. Don't ask more of me than I can give,” she choked.

“I only ask—”

“Too much!” Striding to the door, she slammed it behind her. She rushed along the hall, knowing she might escape his embrace but not the truth. For one moment, when his arms enveloped her, she had been willing to risk everything she had fought for, everything her family had died for, for just one more kiss.

Fifteen

Petr nodded, but did not slow currying the horse Natalya used. “It shall be as you wish,
barin
.”

“Master?” Natalya asked, surprised. “You have not called me that since we arrived here.”

“I feared you would decide you did not want to be the master any longer.”

She flinched, for his words warned she had been unable to hide her feelings for Creighton—No, she must think of him only as Lord Ashcroft or Captain Marshall. There must be no more than camaraderie between them. She would never again allow her feminine yearnings to betray her. To too many she owed too much, and she could not forget that in exchange for Creighton's kisses. She would not be just another of his
à suivie
flirtations. He gambled nothing to satisfy his desires. She risked everything.

“I am sorry, Petr, if you thought that.” She pulled on her riding gloves. “It is not true.”

“Not any longer?”

She could not keep from smiling. What would she have done in the wake of horror if this strong man had not been by her side? Reaching for the saddle waiting by the stall, she said, “I think it would be wise if you accompanied me whenever I must go out with Lord Ashcroft.”

“And within the house?”

“You know I always enjoy your company, Petr.”

The brush slowed as he looked at her across the horse. Sorrow filled his dark eyes. He nodded. “I will stay close to your side, Kapitán, to serve you as best I can.”

“Good.” She did not add more, for it would be unseemly. And, she had to own, she wanted Petr's respect too much to reveal how close she had come to losing herself in love. With his help, she would not be so foolish again.

The large room with its comfortable chairs was quiet. A fire crackled on the hearth, although there was no need for heat. The rain coursing along the uneven panes in the window was warm enough to raise a mist along St. James's Street.

Creighton looked over the top of his newspaper as Barclay stormed into the reading room of their club. Smiling, he wondered what was irritating his easily irritated friend now. “Good afternoon, Barclay.”

“I might agree if I had a single reason to consider it anything but dreary.” He went to the window. “It is raining again. By Jove, I believe I have not seen the sun in a fortnight.”

“The weather is much sunnier in Spain or Italy.”

“Ha! As if I would give up the pleasures of the Season and go to one of those places.” Whirling to face Creighton, he growled, “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“For what reason?”

“To prevent the duel!”

“Nonsense. That is going just as it should.” He smiled as he closed the newspaper, which he clearly was not going to have a chance to finish now. “I always find your company amusing, Barclay. Sit and calm yourself. The day is not so horrid.”

His friend's eyes narrowed. “What are you acting so blasted moony about?”

“Moony? I thought I was being pleasant.”

“You haven't been pleasant since your colonel told you to—” His mouth became round. “Oh, no! It's that Russian!” With a hiss, he snapped, “You are falling for Tatiana Suvorov, aren't you?”

Creighton smiled. Barclay would be furious to discover how close he was to the truth—and how mistaken. Yes, a Russian filled his thoughts, but not Tatiana. The sampling of Natalya's lips had whetted his hunger for more.

“You have to own Miss Suvorov is unique,” he said when he realized Barclay was waiting for an answer.

“Is she?”

Creighton frowned. “What do you mean?”

“She isn't the only woman who traveled with the Russian army.” He snorted in derision. “Or our own army. I have heard the tales of the women who follow the troops. They are no better than cyprians.”

“Tatiana is no harlot.”

“No?”

“I think I can recognize a lady.”

Barclay laughed. “You give yourself much credit.”

“Do I?” He watched rain splash on the carriages inching along the street.

“You failed to recognize Maeve Wilton for what she is.”

He turned to see his friend's grin. “How so?”

Barclay chuckled again. “How can you have come so close to leg-shackling yourself to Maeve and still know nothing about women? Can't you see how your pretty Russian watches any other women who are vying for your attention?”

“I was not of the mind there were any.”

“You are a damned hero! Of course there are women interested in the brave Lord Ashcroft.”

“Mayhap she is simply curious.”

“Or envious.” Barclay came to stand beside him. Clapping Creighton on the shoulder, he said, “She will not be long in this country. You must woo the young woman off her feet with something more than a moonlight kiss.”

Creighton resisted smiling. If he did not know better, he would guess Barclay had been privy to his thoughts of Natalya. His advice was right on target, albeit for the wrong woman. “No, that is not the way. There is another way.”

“What other way?” He grabbed Creighton's arm and choked, “You don't mean to try honesty, do you?”

“What is wrong with honesty?”

“By Jove, you are an air-dreamer! Women do not want honesty. They want compliments and sweet lies.”

With a laugh, Creighton said, “Now I know why you have never come within ambs ace of the altar. No, Barclay, I shall not use sweet lies. I have another plan in mind.”

“I wish you success.”

“I have no doubt it will be mine.” He turned back to the window. “I
do
always play to win.”

Natalya hummed without paying attention to the melody. She smiled when she saw the perfect shine Petr had managed to put on her boots after she had tramped through the mud at Colonel Carruthers' house. Her appearance would not shame the general tonight when she attended the rout at the house of some duke whose name she could not remember.

This soon would be coming to an end, for word was that the czar was set to embark for England. A few more soirées and she could leave this odd country—and Creighton Marshall.

Her song faded into silence as she went to stare out the window. On the square, several couples were walking. The ladies' parasols were like vibrant flowers in the sunshine. A carriage rattled past, and a child ran among the trees, his nurse in tow.

Closing her eyes, she leaned against the wall. The drapes enfolded her in soft velvet. Of all the mistakes she had made, the greatest one had been to yield to the temptation to taste Creighton's kisses. Petr would remain nearby as a reminder of what she must do and, more importantly, what she must not do.

Her fingers gripped the drapes. There must be somewhere else she could stay during the rest of her sojourn in London.

No! She never had run from what was difficult before. She would not now. It was time to prove her father's daughter was as strong as his sons.

Someone rapped on her door.

“Come!” she called.

A footman entered. He glanced about the room uneasily, and she guessed he was looking for Petr. She was not sure what Petr had done to instill this terrified respect in Creighton's household, but she was certain he found it as amusing as she did.

“For you, my lord.” The footman held out a narrow wooden box. “This was just delivered, and the boy said it was for you.”

She understood why James sounded dubious when she saw the name on the lid of the box. It had been sent by Madame Barbeau, the
modiste
. “This was delivered for me?”

“That is what the lad said. If it is a mistake, my lord, I shall be happy to have it returned to the shop without delay.”

“This is most curious.” She was about to hand the box back to the footman, then said, “There may be something inside to explain this error. I shall see what is inside, then I will let you know.”

“Very well, my lord.”

Natalya closed the door behind the footman. Setting the box on the chaise longue, she flipped aside the latch. Slowly, she opened the wooden lid, not sure what she might see.

Pale blue tissue hid what was beneath it. A card sat on top of it. Eagerly she picked the card up, then tossed it aside when she realized it was printed with the same lettering as carved into the top of the box. She looked for another card, but there was nothing to identify who had had this sent to her or why.