Ilya bowed longer than proper over her hand, kissed her palm and held his lips against it just a little too long, ensuring they were the last to leave the floor and that all who watched knew she had his unequivocal interest. Ilya escorted her off the floor to the refreshment table as other couples did the same around them. While the orchestra flipped through charts the hum of a hall full of conversations fill the gap in the music.
He navigated them between a dowager in a candy-striped gown and grey wig decorated with Christmas Crackers, taking what looked like a third serving spoonful of trifle.
“A horrible dessert,” he murmured into Seraphina’s ear. “I plan to eat a much sweeter and succulent dessert…later.”
Seraphina hit his arm playfully with her closed fan. “Impossible. It was a childhood staple.”
Ilya picked up a couple of plates.
“Let me guess what you like.” He scanned the offerings, “Angels on Horseback. Custard tarts. Cured Christmas ham?” She gave him a nod.
“And.”
“And?” He laughed. “Is there room in that bodice for more?” But his gaze had suddenly frozen on her breasts. He could almost feel them against his cheeks, so soft and warm.
Her closed fan trailed down her décolleté to the swells of her breasts taunting him. “I am building my strength.” Her eyes creased, and a mischievous look of anticipation wrapped her face. His little bird was looking forward to her devouring.
“Perhaps I should load up my plate, ensure I can keep up.” The smile he gave probably showed too much, to her, to those around them. She had captured him, the bird mastering the wolf.
“I wouldn’t want you to lose your appetite.” She flirted back; face so beautiful he found it hard to look away.
There was so much shining in her eyes, hope, fear, courage. There was also intelligence, and a worldly innocence. He’d asked Marsden about her late husband and the man’s face had drawn tight, not a happy one and clearly not one Marsden had approved of. Seraphina had wed, had shared the marriage bed, and yet knew little of what was on offer. He would rectify that.
“Lose my appetite?” Ilya leaned in so the soft heat from her breath brushed his cheek, “No chance of that. I have always been capable of consuming dessert, again, and again, and again.”
And for the first time her gaze fell, and her eyes looked with coy pleasure through her lashes as her skin flushed. He wanted to grab her hand and run her into the back of the house, find a room and devour her whole. Instead he let the moment ripple through him, soaked in the pleasure of her and continued to build the anticipation.
Ilya selected a small crepe with charred asparagus, and a hollowed cucumber filled with a mousse-like filling of cheese. He scanned the table. Looked again.
“No caviar. They have invited two Russian princes and there is no caviar,” he grumbled.
“This is just the first offering.” The sound of her delectable giggle placated him immediately. “The tables will be reloaded with new dishes later.” She gave him a quizzical look, “besides, I thought you were the prince and your younger brother a general?”
An opportunity.
Ilya gazed at her, paused so she took further note. She was clever. He’d already given her one bread crumb—the periodical. She had just picked up another—two princes, not one. Then continued.
“Have I missed a favorite?” he asked as he showed her the plate.
She shook her head no, her eyes showed her clever mind ticking away. He filled his own plate, enjoying a building satisfaction at his clever little bird. There was a deeper hope that she was clever enough to have worked things out by the time the betrothal was brought into public view. So far, they had been lucky, Demetri’s betrothal had been arranged when they were children, most people had forgotten.
But those old dowagers remembered. As they filled the gossip columns and people asked who they were, memories would recall, and Miss Georgina Franklin’s long-ago betrothal would surface. Seraphina was not a woman to undertake intimacies with a promised man. If she hadn’t worked out that he was the younger prince and brother, he would not be able to tell her until the family matter was completed.
“This is all rather more public than I had imagined.” Seraphina said as faces turned their way from time to time.
“A man hasn’t served you refreshments after a dance before?”
“Well you are who you are…” she said. “And you may as well have announced to the room your intention. Aren’t we supposed to be a bit more discrete? Wiggle your eyebrows at me from across the room?”
Ilya barked a laugh, handed her a glass of champagne, then motioned her ahead of him. They navigated out of the thick of the crowd and into a quieter corridor. Small tables lined the wall, with chairs on either side.
“Normally yes. Although I haven’t wiggled my eyebrows at a woman in my life. Other parts of my body, most certainly.”
She laughed and it filled him like bird song. “Normally?” She motioned to one of the tables and wiggled her eyebrows at him making him laugh yet again.
“Yes, here is fine. And in answer to your question all I can say, Seraphina, is it’s complicated.”
“I see,” she said then bit into one of the small canapes, took the time to finish before continuing. “So normally you would have been more circumspect on my arrival.”
“I would have...somewhat.” He grinned. Though not with her, he’d want the whole world to know his intent once he saw her standing in a sea of people who meant nothing.
“One of us should dance with someone else after all that showcasing,” she said earnestly.
“Not you,” he growled. The idea of watching someone else dancing with her was wildly unappealing.
“It is a ball.” She laughed, clearly pleased with his possessiveness. Good. It was not going to go away.
“I will dance. You will watch,” he informed her. Watching to see how much she liked the idea.
She rolled her eyes. “As if I want to see you dance with the obligatory thigh warmers and fawners.” Her jaw had tightened, and her lips thinned. She was a little proprietary herself. He liked that.
“I have the solution to that problem.” If she was willing to trust him.
Her eyebrows rose. “You do?”
Ilya leaned conspiratorially across the space. “You will be my one and only thigh warmer. Unlike protocol dictates, where we keep them guessing. We’ll throw caution to the wind and let the gossip columns make of it what they may.”
Her lips pursed. “I see.”
“You don’t look pleased.”
“You might like the notoriety, but I am not sure I do.”
“I believe notorious poets are quite acceptable and sell more books.”
“I am titled. That has some responsibility attached.” She pursed her mouth. Definitely not comfortable with the idea.
“You might have a title, but you frequent salons and have actor and artist friends. That is already outside of what your husband would have approved or allowed is my guess.”
“That might be true, but you will leave in a month and I’ll be left with a tarnished reputation perhaps even a scandal.”
There was no way he could tell her, who she would be for him. That as far as he was concerned, she was the last seduction he would undertake. That any scandal would be set right the moment his family business was completed. He had to find another way to convince her.
“Your reputation as a creative will increase, and a scandal is when you are caught red-handed doing what you shouldn’t or being where you shouldn’t. Out in the open we will be careful. I will plan well so it’s still fun but not dangerous. In public we don’t avoid each other. You will accompany me, or we arrange to arrive at the same places.”
“But what about your need for the many?” Her face showed she needed to understand. Of course, she did. She wasn’t a giggly chorus girl or someone who did whatever he said because he was a prince or pouted to get more gifts. She was titled and held her ow
n with the people she associated with.
Yet his hands were tied. Ilya couldn’t tell her what he and Demetri were doing, but he needed to give her reason to trust him. Some part of the truth, another bread crumb was needed.
“It’s not about the many,” he said serious, “but about being seen and reported on.”
“In the columns? You intentionally try and get in the gossip column?” she said, incredulous.
That made him sound as if he were some vain titled idiot who got his pleasure by reading about himself. It was true that he always enjoyed that when it happened, but he’d never deliberately tried to get in them, it just happened because of what he got up to and who he was. Now that he needed to get into them to support his family, it cut through him that she thought him so shallow as to personally need the attention.
His hand touched her knee under the table. “I ask you to trust me, Seraphina, that I am not as shallow as that sounds. That things are not as they appear. This between us is not something I want to give up. I am simply seeking to protect it and to honor your wishes while I fulfil other obligations.”
“Other obligations?” her voice wary. “This sounds all too contrived and convoluted Ilya. There are rules I must live by to be accepted in society long after you are gone. Marriage and family are still possible for me. I will not risk my future options for a month of pleasure.”
He took in a deep breath, chest tight. He understood her position and would never do anything to compromise her. It would be counterintuitive to tell her he had never compromised a single paramour. He had spent his life having liaisons and he knew how to walk those fine lines between notoriety, impropriety, and scandal. Yet it was not something you entered into lightly and he had to give her the choice.
“If you doubt me. If you have changed your mind. Tell me now and I will step away.” His heart pounded hard in his chest. Of all the times he needed to be able to read her face, to know what she was thinking it was now, but her face was unreadable.
As the moments ticked by, he planned how he could flip things if she requested that he withdraw, because he wouldn’t.
Ever.
This was the beginning of his last courtship. She may not know it but right now at the thought of letting her go, he did. She would not have to worry about exposure or scandal because he fully intended on claiming her. He was simply not yet free to tell her…to ask her.
Then, thank all the Christmas angels, a small smile crossed her features and relief flooded him. She picked up an Angel on Horseback.
“I have one requirement and our arrangement stands.”
“Anything.” He would skate the frozen Serpentine naked if she asked it of him.
“I want you to eat a bowl of trifle.” She popped the Angel on Horseback into her mouth and chewed, looking incredibly pleased with herself.
His heart softened. Punished with dessert, he didn’t deserve her. Every other woman he’d known wanted jewels, furs, houses, but not the most beautiful poet sitting across from him.
“There is a darker heart in that beautiful chest of yours than you show, little bird. But I will accept the challenge in the name of love.” Ilya stood feeling lighter than he’d done since all this started and came back with two serves of trifle. “As it is a childhood favorite, I will share the punishment.”
She laughed and put a spoonful in her mouth making sounds of ‘mmmm’.
Ilya took a spoonful and grimaced. Swallowed.
“What do you think?” Her eyes so hopeful that her strategy worked. It was clever and he admired her greatly for it, so he played along, pretending the mundane dessert was unpalatable.
“It’s distasteful,” Ilya screwed up his face, “it lacks sophistication and textural harmony. I am speechless that this is the best that can be served at an epicurean’s Christmas Ball.”
Triumph blazed out of her all-too-alluring face. He imagined future arguments being solved by his offering to eat trifle and her feeling he’d been suitably punished. His heart felt like it would explode with want for that life.
“So, we both have distasteful feelings to manage,” she said, and his heart literally melted in his chest. She was going to trust him even though she disliked the idea. She would trust the rake in whom not even his family chose to put their faith.
Chapter 10
“I am going to find us a place,” Ilya whispered in her ear a couple of hours later.
“A safe place,” she whispered back.
“Don’t dance with anyone,” he growled, holding her gaze in earnest. He’d shooed more men away with scowls and possessive banter than he thought could fit in the room.
“You’d better hurry.” Seraphina looked over the crowd as if he were dismissed. Russia would love her. He wanted to show her all around St Petersburg, take her to court, dance the hopak for her, that dance of Cossacks that was all about demonstrating masculinity, speed, strength, and virility.
Fifteen minutes later he returned, having found the perfect room that looked to have been designed for trysts. He loved a thoughtful host.
Seraphina was not where he left her.
Ilya scanned over the towering wigs looking for her. And there she was, with some fop on the dance floor. His jaw tightened as he made his way through the sea of panniers to the edge of the dance floor. He stepped out from the invisible line that ringed the dancers, stood a little too far out from the edge. Her head turned and their eyes met. Hers creased at the sides as she smiled. Wicked girl to do this on the eve of their tryst.
The fop had more sense than Ilya would have given him credit for when he delivered Seraphina to him at the end of the dance. The message was out. Men were coming to understand. She was his.
“I have a couple more.” Seraphina grinned and showed him her dance card.
“I said no dancing.” Ilya growled as he slipped the card off her wrist, tore it up, held it high for a few moments making sure any who thought they had a dance with her might see and then flicked the torn pieces into the crowd. “Not anymore.”
“I think you go too far.” She scowled. Looking oh so beautiful with her towering wig and sumptuous breasts.
“We are at a masked ball. They don’t know who we are for certain under the masks.”
“Of course, they do.” She huffed as he guided her toward the back of the room where large doors led deep into the house.
“It doesn’t matter. The practice is not to care who is under the mask, that’s why these balls are so much fun!” He guided them out of the throng. At the open door down the back he gave her directions. “Go down the corridor, take the third passage to the left and then the first to the right. You need to follow it to the end of the house. At the end of that hall you’ll see a bench under the window, walk all the way to it then turn into the room on the left and wait for me.”
“You have been meandering around their whole house,” she accused.
Ilya held her gaze, his hand proprietary on the small of her back. “I’d walk across the Russian Steppes to find a suitable place to take you.”
The pulse at her neck was clear to see. Her hands fidgeted.
“Perhaps I should freshen up.” She looked over in the direction of the powder rooms.
“Totally unnecessary,” he murmured. “Now, don’t keep us waiting.”
“You are getting far to bossy,” she demurred. “I hope this isn’t going to get worse.” Then the delectable woman turned on her heel and slipped out the door.
“Most definitely,” he whispered in Russian.
Covetous propriety was not his usual position, but neither were the feelings she stirred in him. The thing about being a rake most of his life was that, unlike men who had lived less, he knew exactly how different his feelings were for Seraphina. And although still fledgling thoughts and emotions, he understood what they were. Love. One look and he’d known it. Every meeting since they met simply acted to grow and confirm it.
Ilya watched her glide down the corridor, then turned back to th
e room and whisked a glass of scotch from a passing server who wore a hat sporting three roasted quail.
“All rather more public than I’d have expected.” Marsden sidled up alongside him.
“You don’t seem to mind.” Ilya had ascertained their relationship was not amorous nor the overly protective sort between sibling friendships. Marsden was her closest friend, a confidant and one who watched out for her but didn’t limit her.
“I mind if she’s hurt. Not that she lives her life as she wishes.”
“She will not be harmed in my care.”
“It would be a shame to shoot a fellow motoring enthusiast, but I will if I have to.”
Ilya nodded. “In Russia, it is more along the lines of getting dragged behind a horse with my genitals stuffed in my mouth. A bullet is a hugely more civilized threat.”
“Remind me not to play in your neck of the woods.” Marsden lifted his drink for a toast. “Make her happy.”
Ilya clicked his glass with Marsden’s. “I have been invited to meet with the owner of Dennis Brothers Limited, down in Guildford. He wants to show me the car he has in production due for release next year.”
“Two brothers, known for their bicycles. I heard they’re looking for partners to expand. Rumor has it that their interests are not fast cars or what you’re into, but rather something more practical.”
Ilya refrained from pointing out that Marsden didn’t know him as well as he thought. Yes, he loved to drive the latest speed car, they’d spent the day talking about the motorcar and the speeds different manufacturers were getting. The benefits and drawbacks of the different options of steam, electricity, and gas. But there was more to him than show and frivolity. And there was more to motoring too. Things that didn’t excite the general enthusiast. Those things interested Ilya a great deal.
Ilya downed his drink and placed it on a passing tray.
“If you’ll excuse me.”
Marsden raised his glass. “I own a horse as well,” he added as Ilya turned and navigated the crowd to the corridor down the back.
Ilya stopped and talked with the host before slipping away on the pretense of freshening up.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Scandal: a Christmas collection of Historical Romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 1) Page 88
