The Counterfeit Count (6 page)

He
had thought something was wrong from the moment he met Count Dmitrieff. Were all the Russians stupid that they had failed to take note of her unshaven cheeks and feminine features? No man had ever had such soft hair and inviting lips and her eyes … Those exotic eyes had burned into his brain last night and refused to be dislodged.

Damme! Why had the chit been foisted off on him? Colonel Carruthers! Creighton's brow furrowed with fury, then he warned himself that jumping to conclusions would prove he wanted for sense. Until he had a chance to question his colonel—obliquely, of course—he must assume that no one knew Natalya's secret except for him and Zass.

The sound of the latch lifting brought another curse to his lips, but it went unspoken as he recognized the man in the doorway. Barclay Lawson was as thin as an anatomy and had no more hair than a streetlamp. Wisely, in Creighton's estimation, Barclay never had heard the summons to duty to protect England. Mayhap because he never had suffered the pain that had stalked Creighton during those last months before he sailed for the Continent. Barclay, the younger son of a baron who sat on a penniless bench, enjoyed the benevolence of his friends who were more plump in the pocket. His repartee and ability to drink all night and still play an intimidating game of cards endeared him to the
ton
.

“Creighton! Enright told me he had seen you racing up the stairs as if all the dogs of hell were nipping at your heels.” He handed Creighton a glass of wine and sat in the chair across from him. “What is bothering you? I have seen a man on his way to die of a hempen fever with a more cheerful countenance.”

Tapping the side of his glass, he took a reflective drink. “It is nothing of import.”

“Nothing?” Barclay perched on the edge of his chair and clenched his fists on his knees. “Can this be the same man who announced to all who would listen that he was done with dreary thoughts of faithless Maeve Wilton and wished only to enjoy the pleasures of the Season?”

“I did say that, but—”

“No buts. How can you be so glum when we have been invited to Lady Eltonville's hurricane tonight?” Putting his glass on the table next to his chair, he rubbed his hands together and laughed. “I have vowed to lighten John Hotz's pocket of a few centuries before dawn. If you are to be my partner, Creighton, I need you to be in the proper state of mind.”

Rising, Creighton walked to the window that overlooked St. James's Street. Cheerless rain splattered at the window, but that did nothing to curtail the traffic below. Carriages rolled up to the door of the clubs, and men scurried through the downpour to pass the day with their comrades.

With his hands locked behind him, he continued to stare out the window as he said, “I am obligated to play host to Count Dmitrieff.”

“Who in the devil is that?”

Creighton did not pretend to smile as he faced his friend. “Count Dmitrieff is my guest.”

“Dmitrieff?” He nearly choked as he gasped, “But that name is—”

“Russian.” He laughed without humor. “Colonel Carruthers took it into his idea-box to foist one of the officers in the Russian delegation into my house, so Dmitri Dmitrieff is my guest.”

“You need to rid yourself of that commission with all due haste.”

“True, but even if I were rid of the blasted thing today, I am obligated to play host to the count for the duration of his stay.”

“You have too strong a sense of honor, Creighton. I thought I had broken you of such bad habits.” Barclay set himself on his feet. “I have heard the Russians can outdrink anyone. Mayhap we should get a few good bottles of brandy and see how long it takes to get this one altogethery.”

“I think not.” He could not imagine Natalya allowing herself to become intoxicated.

“So why is this Russian a problem?”

Creighton foiled the urge to laugh. It was tempting to answer with the truth. What would Barclay think of a Russian war hero who was, in truth, a beautiful woman with beguiling eyes? His hands recalled the smoothness of her skin against them even as the memory of the scent of her skin raced through his mind.

Fiercely, he clenched his fingers to squeeze out the sensation he could not keep from wanting to feel again. Was he queer in his attic? Her style of dress made it clear she wished nothing from any man but camaraderie. That was all to the best. He should have learned his lesson with Maeve. A teasing smile, an intoxicating touch, lips that promised him everything—as they had promised too many others.

“Forget I mentioned it,” Creighton said as he picked up his glass and drained it. The warmth of the wine could not melt the icy lump of disquiet within him.

Barclay laughed. “I think that is unlikely. I know you, too well, old man. Having this Russian about unsettles you greatly.”

“Then I would have guts in my brain to put my guest right out of my head.”

Barclay Lawson stepped from his carriage onto Berkeley Square and settled his hat on his head. Taking his gold-topped walking stick from the footman, he looked both ways along the street. It was a shame no lovely lady was about to see him when he was dressed in his finest. Beau Brummel himself would be envious of the cut of this new scarlet coat and cream breeches.

He strode out into the street, then leapt back as a horse sped past. Mud struck him, spotting from head to foot. Shaking his hands, he looked down at his ruined clothes. Mire dripped from him.

Shoving aside his footman, who was trying, in vain, to clean the filth from him, Barclay strode to where the horse had stopped. The rider was swinging down from the saddle, an expression of consternation on the young pup's face. Barclay swore under his breath when he saw the gaudy uniform the rider wore.

Russian!

The damned Russians had infected Town with a fever of excitement and anticipation of the celebrations now that the war on the Continent was over, but they ran about as if London were their private playground. This one would learn that he could not ride down an Englishman with impunity.

“Look at what you have done!” he snapped. “I am fortunate I have suffered no more damage than this. You could have killed me! How could you be so stupid?”

Natalya held the reins easily as she listened to this bald man's ranting. The idiot had stepped almost beneath her horse's hoofs. If she had not pulled the beast aside, the man would be suffering more than a splattered coat. She had not been certain if Lord Ashcroft's horse would respond with the speed of her own mount, but fortunately the steed had been well-trained.

“You should be more cautious where you walk, sir,” she said.

“Me?” He muttered something she could not understand. He gave her no chance to reply as he wagged a finger in front of her nose. “You were riding neck-or-nothing. I demand satisfaction for this indignity.”

“Satisfaction? Of what sort?”

“Look at me!”

She eyed him up and down. As far as she could see, the mud was an improvement, for it muted the garish crimson of his coat, which would have better suited a parade ground than a city street. She frowned as she realized it was not designed to be worn by a soldier. Swallowing her snicker of derision, she said, “You are lucky I did look at you, sir, or you would be lying wounded on the cobbles now.”

“I am wounded!”

“Are you?” She had been certain she had missed him by yanking wildly on the reins.

“My coat is ruined.”

“It is muddy, sir.”

“Mud will ruin good wool, even good English wool.” He looked down his long nose at her. “Which is finer than anything you might have in Russia.”

Natalya sighed. Arguing about the durability of English wool in comparison to what had been raised on her father's land was futile. Not a single sheep remained. Nothing remained there, only scorched stones and stumps. Wondering what an English tailor would charge to make another coat in that hideous shade, she said, “You were clearly at fault on this matter. You cannot expect me to replace your coat under these circumstances.”

“'Tis not just my coat.” He slapped at his breeches, making the mess worse. “I am soaked to the skin. Everything I am wearing is ruined.”

“I shall be glad to assume the cost of your coat, sir,” she said, wanting to be done with this and be on her way, although she did not look forward to telling Petr about the general's decision that they were to remain as Lord Ashcroft's guests. “But you must be as willing to take your share of the blame for this accident.”

The man snarled an insult, and she clenched her hand more tightly around the reins. Becoming embroiled in an argument with this plaguily foolish man would only complicate an already complicated situation.

“Sir,” she began. “I said—”

“I would ask you to name your friends for grass before breakfast.”

“What did you say?” His words made no sense to her.
Grass before breakfast
. She could not guess what the bizarre phrase meant. If only these Englishmen would speak their own language!

“I challenge you—”

“To find a finer day for a ride,” interrupted a deeper voice.

Natalya watched the man in the scarlet coat whirl to confront the intruder, but she moved more cautiously. She was unsure what this half-cocked Englishman might do if she made a sudden motion. When she saw Lord Ashcroft standing with his hand on the wrought-iron fence by the walkway in front of his house, she did not know whether to feel relieved or more distressed. A smile curved along his lips, and she suspected her day was going to go from troublesome to disaster.

Five

As he listened to Barclay's fury, Creighton kept all his thoughts from his face, but he had to fight harder to keep his gaze from following the alluring curves that Natalya's uniform could not hide from him any longer. How much easier this would have been if she were as bracket-faced as Zass! Instead, she possessed, even in that concealing uniform, a faerie beauty that had crept into his head and refused to be dislodged. Through the night, every attempt to sleep had been haunted by the icy blue passions he had seen in her exotic eyes.

He had been a complete block to touch her last night and again today. Now his hands itched to caress her surprisingly silken skin again, to become lost in the soft jumble of her golden curls, to bring her beguiling lips to his so he could determine if they were as sweet as the strawberries they resembled or as bitter as the dregs at the bottom of a bottle of burgundy.

He resisted the yearning to seize her and discover the truth. She would fight him now as she had before. He almost smiled as he recalled her slim body against him, each motion an invitation he knew she did not mean.

“Barclay, you are late,” he said, but paused as he heard the huskiness in his voice. Damme! He would not be an air-dreamer, repining for a woman whose style of dress made it clear she had no interest in anything from a man.

“What? Speak what you have to say loud enough so I can hear past the mud cloaking me,” demanded Barclay, bristling like a rooster whose yard had been invaded.

“Mayhap I should say your timing is perfect.” Creighton walked toward the street and smiled. “Allow me to introduce a visitor to England. Captain Dmitri Dmitrieff. Captain, this is Barclay Lawson, a friend of mine.”

Creighton was not surprised Natalya was the first to react, for he had seen that her wits were as sharp as her tongue. “
Zdrástvuyte
, Mr. Lawson.” She smiled. “Good day.”

“This is
your
Russian?” Barclay choked.

Natalya's eyes widened as she glanced at Creighton, but he had no chance to do more than smile before she said in a cool voice, “I advise you again, Mr. Lawson, to accept my generous offer of replacing your coat. I would not wish to have a friend of my host Lord Ashcroft assume the complete damages for his foolishness of stepping in front of my horse.”

“Listen to him!” Barclay's cheeks were becoming a choleric shade which approached the color of his coat. “He has done this to me.” He shook more mud from the tail of his coat. “Now he thinks he can allay my anger with that preposterous offer while he shunts the blame off on me. Creighton, tell me that you will be my second when—”

Creighton saw comprehension brighten Natalya's eyes. If he did not do something quickly, he feared Barclay would become a victim of his own stubbornness. He was certain of one thing. Natalya would not back down from the challenge to a duel, for to accept would be the only way to protect her identity.

Taking his friend's arm, he said, “Come in. Mrs. Winchell will get the worst of the mud out of your coat.”

“Not until I have had my satisfaction from this damned Russian.” He jerked his arm away and faced Natalya. “You need to learn you cannot ride hell-for-leather through London streets.”

“I have made my offer for reparation, Mr. Lawson. It is up to you to decide if you wish to accept it. I will not stand here and argue with a—” She glanced at Creighton and smiled. “I believe the term, if I heard it correctly, is carpet-knight.”

Creighton snatched his friend's arm as it rose and pulled him toward the front door. Mrs. Winchell was peeking around it, shock on her thin face. Barclay sputtered like a man who had been dunked in the village pond, but he climbed the steps to the door.

When Creighton looked back, he did not see a triumphant smile on Natalya's face. Uneasiness stole the light from her eyes. Something—something much more important than Barclay's blusterings—had upset her. A pinch of sympathy startled him. He did not want to feel sorry for her. He did not want to feel anything for her. Maybe that way he could stifle the longing that rose through him like a heated well-spring each time her blue eyes turned toward him.

His curse at his own caper-witted musings was muted by Barclay's complaints. Peeling Barclay's coat from his shoulders, Creighton said, “Mrs. Winchell, please do what you can with this.”