The Counterfeit Count (22 page)

“I …” She swallowed roughly. “I am not sure.”

“I am sure there will be no heir to your estates if you continue to live your brother's life. When will you set the lie aside?”

She kneaded her fingers on her knees. When he put his broad hand over them, she laced her fingers through his. “Creighton, if it is known how I have bamblusterated everyone, all may be lost.”

“So what do you do?”

“I shall do what I must.” She drew her fingers from beneath his and wiped her face. “
Óchen 'zhal
',” she whispered.

“What?”

She struggled to smile weakly. “I mean I'm sorry. I should not be weeping like a child.”

“Why not?”

She looked up at him. “I am not a child.”

“No,” he murmured, his fingers uncurling along her cheek, “you are not. You are a woman who has seen atrocities that haunt your sleep.”

“I thought I had forgotten.”

“How could you?”

“You have.”

He laughed tersely. “You seldom misread someone else, Natalya, but, when you do, you miss by a country mile. I have not forgotten a moment of the mud or the blood or the stench of gunpowder.”

She did not resist when he leaned her head against his shoulder. “I did not know. You have said so little.”

“What could I say?”

“I don't know.” Her smile was weak. “I do not like saying that.”

“You say it very seldom.”

She faced him, being careful the blanket remained around her. “Creighton, there is one thing I do know, and you must listen to me. You are in danger.”

“No more of that.” He stood, his scowl as fierce as Petr's. “I have no idea what has put such ideas in your head, but the war is past, Natalya. It is time all of us let it go.” He turned toward the door.

“Don't go,” she whispered.

“Natalya …”

“Don't go.” She caught his hands in hers. “Don't leave me alone, Creighton. I have never been alone before I came here, for I always slept with my sisters. Then I shared a tent with Petr. I cannot face those dreams alone tonight.”

He hesitated. “If I send for Zass, he would be back here in a heartbeat.”

Rising to her knees, she put her fingers over the center of his chest that was bared by his open shirt. “I want your heartbeat beside me tonight.”

“You are asking me to—”

“Hold me. Just hold me and protect me from what I can no longer fight by myself.”

Creighton took a step toward the door, then stopped. Did she know what she was asking? Only if she had truly been a man could she understand his longing to forget all his pain in the pleasure of her touch. How much restraint did she think he had? With the pink lace peeking past the blanket to bring to life his fantasies of her soft against him, he wanted no more talking, no more arguing. He wanted her.

“Please,” she whispered. “I don't want to face this alone tonight.”

With a moan, he swept her to him. He captured her lips beneath his. Against his mouth, her breath grew ragged with a desire he longed to gratify. He did not loosen his embrace as he looked down into her softened face. Her lips offered an invitation he could see repeated in her eyes. As she reached trembling fingers up to his face, he turned to kiss them.

He was pleased when her fingertips tipped his mouth toward hers. Never before had she initiated such intimacy. His arm encircled her waist, and her pliant curves pressed temptingly to him. Sitting on the bed, he leaned her back over one arm. As his mouth tasted the silken skin of her neck, his hands slipped to the curve of her waist in its luscious silk.

The magic of her mouth beneath his lit a fire deep within him. As he reclined her back into the pillows, he lost himself in the rapture where nothing existed beyond the delightful sensations found in her arms.

“I'm not sorry I promised to keep the truth of your sex a secret,” he whispered against her ear. “You look so delicious in this silk. I want no one to know that tonight except me.”

Quivering, she combed her fingers up into his hair. “I will hold you to that promise.”

“And I shall hold you to me.” He smiled as her lips tilted when he bent to claim them anew. “All night long.”

Nineteen

A bejeweled world of raindrops decorated the trees beyond the open drapes. Its brightness woke Creighton. Cramped muscles protested. Opening his eyes, he stared at the top of a bed. This was not his room. He scowled and struggled to recall where he was. Why wasn't he in his own comfortable bed? Why—?

A gentle motion beside him sent a smile spreading slowly across his lips like the morning sun flowing across the rug. In the curve of his arm, her soft blonde curls caressing his chest, Natalya slept as innocently as a baby. Stains from her tears ruined the perfection of her rose-dusted cheeks.

He smiled as his gaze roved along her body which was supple against him. Beneath her nightshirt, the silk chemise clung to her curves, as enticing on his skin as the caress of her hand resting between her cheek and his chest. A soul-deep craving nearly choked him as he admired the gentle rise and fall of her breasts. His fingers tingled with the longing to stroke her lovely legs that had slipped from beneath the coverlet. Even though he had seen them often encased in wool pantaloons and shining boots, he ached to tangle his legs with them as he pressed her back into the pillows.

The battle last night had been within him while he held her. He longed to teach her of the ecstasy they could share, but he had not. Natalya was unlike the other women cluttering his life. She dared him to be what he truly was. She saw past the roué he had tried to be when he persuaded Maeve to be his bride and the dashing blade he had pretended would become a hero on the battlefields of France. In her honesty, she had touched his heart in ways he had not guessed a woman could do.

She offered him respect. He could offer her no less.

He touched the delicate lace on the chemise he had ordered for her. What had seemed the perfect jest to play on her after seeing her delight with the fabrics in the
modiste
's shop now seemed as cruel as a taunt. If she had had the choice, she never would have donned a smaller version of her late brother's uniform and assumed his identity to repay the French for devastating her home and family. She had done what she must to survive … as she still did.

She had clung to honor and obligation, even when she was forced to accept a challenge to duel Barclay. Then she had agreed to do all she could to halt it. Now it was time for him and Barclay to recall what honor was.

Brushing her hair aside, Creighton tenderly kissed her cheek. He fought to keep from chuckling as she batted the air with her hand as if to shoo away an annoying insect. That, as much as her request for him to hold her all night, told him how thoroughly innocent she was about the passions they could savor in this bed.

His eyes narrowed, and he swept her into his arms. As he kissed her with every bit of his aching desire for her, her hands slid along his arms to wrap around his neck as she answered with her own ardor.

She breathed something he could not understand. He guessed her words were in Russian. A pulse of jealousy struck him as he wondered if she spoke to a lover who would comprehend those words. He pushed that thought aside. Natalya was not like Maeve, who delighted in surrounding herself with admirers whom she could not bear to marry on the chance she might lose a single one of them. When Natalya gave her heart, it would not be in exchange for anything but her lover's heart in return.

Regretfully, he raised his lips from her soft ones. The time was wrong for what seemed so perfect. How he longed to convince her to continue with this later … when every inch of her was awake and suffering this exquisite torment he fought.

It might yet be possible. There was so much to be said between them, but not now. First, he must speak with Barclay.

Creighton tiptoed to the door. The knob rattled as he slipped his fingers around the door to open it. When the hinges creaked a warning, he almost laughed. Who would have guessed he would play the hero beneath his roof?

He stretched and rubbed sleep from his eyes. By Jove, he had not slept so well in weeks. He sighed under his breath as he went into his own rooms to bathe and dress.

It was time for things to change … whether he wished it or not.

Creighton swung off the horse and took the steps from the street two at a time. Rapping on the door, he looked along the walkway. No one was about, save for the peddlers who brought fresh produce and milk to the houses on this square.

He knocked a second time before the door was opened by a bleary-eyed footman. “Good morning, Allen,” he said, as he entered.

“My lord—good morning. Is Mr. Lawson—er, are you expected at this hour?”

“Not likely.” He pointed to the stairs. “'Twould be better if my look-in doesn't disrupt the rest of the household. Take yourself off to the kitchen and get some coffee. I can announce myself.”

“My lord, Mr. Lawson is still abed.”

Creighton chuckled and climbed the stairs. He resisted the temptation to squeeze in his shoulders as he went up the twisting stairwell. This house was as spacious as his, but the dark colors made it seem as cramped as a cave. No doubt Barclay would be as ferocious as a bear being woken from its hibernation.

He rapped on the bedchamber door and called, “Barclay, are you in there? Alone?”

Hearing grumbling, he stepped back as the door opened. Barclay stood in his nightshirt and a single stocking. His shoes and the rest of his clothes were scattered between the door and the bed, which was too neat to have been slept in. When Creighton saw the imprint of the pattern of the rug on one side of his friend's face, he resisted laughing. He would have to urge Barclay to be more insistent that his man help him to bed on nights when he was as drunk as an emperor.

Barclay squinted toward him. “Who—What is happening? Did someone die? Oh, dear lord, I'm not supposed to be at the park, am I?”

“Not unless you have challenged someone other than the count to a duel.”

He cradled his head. “I don't think so. Creighton, where did you go? I had planned on you to keep an eye on me at White's. I depend on you, you know.”

Creighton took his arm and steered Barclay around the clothes on the floor to a chair by the window. When his friend moaned, Creighton pulled the drapes closed. He drew up another chair. Its feet struck the floor, and Barclay groaned more loudly.

“Egad, Creighton! Think of my head.”

“You should think of it yourself before you drink another bottle of wine into oblivion.”

Barclay frowned. “If I wanted a lecture, I could go home to my father. What's wrong with you, Creighton? You used to match me drink for drink, and we had such good times.”

“I guess the war changed me more than I thought.”

“Or maybe it's that blasted Russian captain you have living with you. Does he nag at you like a wife?”

Creighton leaned the chair back on two legs and chuckled. “To own the truth, I enjoy the count's company. More than you can imagine.” He laughed again. “That is why I came to tell you it's over.”

“What's over?” He rubbed his eyes. “What is so blasted important you have to wake me at this ungodly hour?”

“It is nearly seven.”

He shuddered. “An ungodly hour when I sought my bed less than two hours ago.”

Creighton went to the door and called for coffee to be brought, then sat again by the window. “Do you think you can wipe the cobwebs from your brain long enough for you to heed what I have to say?”

“I shall try.”

“Good, then listen to me. I want to put an end to your plan to duel Count Dmitrieff.”

“Fine.”

“Just fine?”

“What else do you wish me to say?” When a footman came to the door with a tray, Barclay took a cup and leaned into the steam. Sipping, he sighed. “I was finding it all quite boring anyhow.”

“Be clear on one thing, Barclay.”

He peered over the top of his cup. “Anything, if you will take your leave and let me get back to sleep.”

“Make no other challenge to the count.”

“Fine. I vow to you I'll never challenge anyone ever again if you will just get the hell out of here.”

Creighton stood and patted Barclay on the shoulder. When his friend moaned, he swallowed his laugh. “Get some sleep. We have the reception for the czar tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“You won't want to miss it. I understand they are serving vodka.”

Barclay groaned again, and Creighton took sympathy on his friend. Bidding him to get a good rest, he went down the stairs and out onto the walkway to his waiting horse. He glanced toward Berkeley Square, then, with a sigh, swung into the saddle. Dealing with Barclay had been the easy part. Now
he
must do what he could to help Natalya grasp her dream.

She had risked her life and her reputation for a single reason. That waited for her in Russia. From the first, she had told him nothing must keep her from returning there. Including him.

He groaned as deeply as Barclay had. Blast it! He had done the honorable thing in buying that commission. Now he wanted to enjoy himself with a fair lady who fit so perfectly in his arms.

Impossible! He owed her the duty of assisting her. To do that, he must not give in to his yearning to hold her again. It would not be easy, but it would be the right thing.

The right thing had never seemed so wrong.

Natalya opened her eyes as she heard footsteps pass in the hallway. She squeezed open one eye and was astonished to see the sunshine had already climbed onto the foot of the bed. Sitting, she stared at the indentation in the mound of pillows next to where she had been sleeping.

She touched the pillows, but Creighton's warmth had vanished. Pulling one of the pillows to her, she pressed it against her face. His scent remained, reviving the wondrous dream of lying in his arms. With him beside her, the past had been banished, and she had delighted in each moment of being with him.