by Stacy Reid
Your sister, Payton
With efficient motions she folded the paper, sealed it in an envelope, and scrawled directions for it to be delivered to her sister’s country home. Rushing from her chamber, Payton descended the winding staircase to the lower floors. Thankfully, it was early enough that the halls were empty of guests. Leaving the letter on the mantel, she turned in the direction of the parlor.
She would walk with Mikhail in the afternoon. She tried to rein in the wash of anticipation. The sensations he’d made her feel were unlike any Payton had ever known. And the blasted man had not even stolen a kiss. Lord Jensen had kissed her several times, and she had never felt feverish.
Nearing the parlor, she faltered. She’d had a thought about Lord Jensen that had not left her heart clenching in discomfort. But it did direct her attention to the matter at hand and away from a tempting blue-eyed devil. She had not been able to enter her chamber earlier without being seen.
Aunt Florence had been waiting in Payton’s chamber with a list of all eligible gentlemen present at Sherring Cross. The paper held each man’s name, their respective title, and an estimation of their annual income. Shock and distaste had filled Payton, and her objection to the list had been smothered by her aunt’s distress at seeing Payton bedraggled and swaddled in a blanket. It had been hellacious reassuring her aunt nothing had happened. It had been tempting to speak a lie, and say she had been in the cottage alone, but she’d not wanted to risk the truth coming out somehow.
She was now walking to meet her mother as if she were heading to the guillotine. Maybe she should have bent the truth. Upon reaching the parlor, she gripped the doorknob, straightened her shoulders, and took a deep breath. Soft footsteps sounded in the foyer, and she lifted her eyes in their direction.
Mikhail.
His gaze flicked over her in a quick assessment, and she swore his blue eyes darkened. Yet he did not slow his stride or acknowledge her, except for a slow quirk of his lips and a wink. Startling delight suffused her, and for some reason it felt natural to return a slow wink. An acknowledgment of their scandalous encounter.
Then an expression of utter shock settled on his face. Was it because he winked, or because she responded in kind?
A gentle clearing of throat tore her gaze away from him, to see the duke.
Where did he come from?
Heat crawled up her neck. Obviously they had been discussing business matters in the duke’s office. She needed to acclimatize herself to the idea of Mikhail’s presence in the main house, considering he was one of the duke’s men of affairs. Sebastian’s impenetrable gaze shifted between her and Mikhail before he greeted her.
“Your Grace,” she murmured with a quick smile, then wrenched the door open, escaping into the parlor.
Not that it was much of an escape. Twin turquoise eyes swung in her direction. If Payton had not known better, she would have thought someone had died. The room seethed with disquiet. Her mother, Mrs. Katherine Peppiwell, and her Aunt Florence, the Countess of Merryweather, bore a similar appalled countenance.
“You were trapped in a cabin with a commoner. This must never come out,” her mother snapped.
There were absolutely no polite preliminaries or even the chance to seat herself before the start of the attack. The sharp retort hovering on Payton’s lips died. Oh, Mama.
When would this desire to marry her to a lord end? Father had made several connections with prominent families since their sojourn to England, taking the Peppiwell family closer to the heart of the social elevation they desired. Before her sister Phillipa’s marriage to Lord Anthony, it had not been so. But Lord Anthony was referred to as a lion of commerce with a golden touch for investments, and her father was more than thrilled with their connection. It infuriated Payton that her family still insisted she needed to wed, and to a titled man.
“Did you hear me, young lady?” her mother demanded fiercely.
Payton almost rolled her eyes, but caught herself in the nick of time. Another lecture on propriety would not be welcome. “Yes, Mother.”
“My nerves are still unsettled to know you were alone with a commoner,” her aunt fretted.
Exasperation rushed through Payton and she sauntered over to sit in front of the table by the window. “I am a commoner, Aunt. And as secluded as Sherring Cross is, I fail to see how society would discover my unintentional faux pas. Mr. Konstantinovich did rescue me from being seriously injured and acted as a true gentleman in assisting my return to the main house without being seen.”
“Did he touch you or act inappropriately in any manner?” her mother demanded with narrowed eyes.
“Of course not! He is a respectable acquaintance of His Grace.” Her mind flitted to the caress against her lips, and the potent desire on his face when he had inhaled her scent. For a heart-stopping moment, she had thought he would truly kiss her. And Payton had been unsure of what her reaction would have been. She was grateful he had pulled away and released her from the mesmerizing effect of his dark sensuality.
Aunt Florence sighed. “We have been most fortunate to receive an invitation to the duchess’s intimate house party. There will be many suitable titled gentlemen in attendance, who are closely acquainted with such a wonderful family. The season is drawing to a close, my dear, and you need to snag a gentleman before they all retire to the country for hunting. It would not do for you to be presented for a third season.”
Payton had not been presented anywhere. Her entry into society had been unremarkable, and she was only remembered as the jilted. Not as someone to whom a promise had been broken, but as the jilted, as if such a sobriquet defined her. While she was happy to be a part of the select few the Duchess of Calydon called “friend”, Payton still found mixing with lords and ladies unpleasant. She’d resolved to spend the next two weeks soaking up Sebastian and Jocelyn’s kindness and hospitality, but Payton was more interested in visiting the twins and reading them stories they were too young to understand, than husband hunting as her mother and aunt wished. Only the finest lords would be in attendance, and of course it was her duty to snare one. “Please, Aunt. Not today.”
“This disdain you show for society cannot continue,” Aunt Florence snapped. “It has been several months since Lord Jensen St. John…”
A look of discomfort crossed Aunt Florence’s face, and Payton smiled tightly. It had indeed been several months since he had walked away after publicly announcing their engagement to the haute monde. “I feel no disdain for society, Aunt, I am simply indifferent.” Payton would never admit pain still twisted her heart when she remembered how young ladies she’d believed to be friends cut her after Lord Jensen walked away.
“Well,” Aunt Florence said, clearly flustered. “This indifference cannot continue. It has been made known that your father has doubled your dowry. I believe even St. John may be persuaded to walk with you again, my dear, and that would certainly make society look favorably on you.”
Now was not the time to let it be known that he was already pressing his suit. “I have been jilted, and all of London blames me for it. I still cannot understand how a broken engagement suggests inferiority on my part, when it was the man who was inconstant. I do not care if I find favor with the haute monde.”
“Let’s not refer to that unpleasant time,” her mother said. “Have you looked through the list of gentlemen your aunt left with you earlier? Lord Danbury is at the top of the list. I find him to be exceedingly pleasant, and he is not too old. We believe the earl to be only forty-five, and he is actively seeking a wife. ”
Payton rubbed her temples, hoping to soothe the headache she could feel forming. “Do you know, Mama, how exhausting it is to be badgered every day for the past year? My only lot in life is not to find a husband and settle down with a brood of children. Has it never occurred to you I may want more?” she asked softly.
“To find a husband and provide his heirs is a woman’s lot in life. Anything more is sure to breed disappointment,” Aunt Flor
ence said, a tinge of bitterness coating her tone.
Sympathy sliced through Payton’s heart. Her aunt had never been able to carry a child to term, and her husband had been sorely disappointed. Her mother continually spoke of her children and husband as being her joy and the source of her comfort in life. Payton understood that was their life, but she wanted to be the engine behind hers, or she would go mad from the constant plotting and speaking of a man’s money and title as if those defined what was inside his heart.
“I admit a husband would be a wonderful blessing to have, and I look forward to the day I will hold such happiness. But there is more to my life than the pursuit of a future husband and children, and I would like, for once, to speak of something else. Times have changed, mother. More young ladies are marrying at twenty-three or even older. I have at least three more years before I must…hunt in the marriage mart, as Aunt Florence calls courtship.”
“Please do not sprout again this silly idea of yours to pen children’s stories,” her mother snapped, her face pinched with disapproval. “I cannot understand why you are being so difficult. I know you, Payton. You want a husband and children. Why punish yourself with the loss of them because of a misunderstanding?”
Payton’s heart squeezed. “I never said I did not desire a family, Mother,” she said warily. She did want her own family, but there was plenty of time to find a happy situation, and they needed to see that. Most importantly, the man she married must be as ordinary as she. He must be dependable, unpretentious, and incapable of being seduced by the opinions of high society, and he would love and appreciate all of her. Then maybe she would trust him with her heart.
She had not been ostracized like Lord Anthony and his younger sister, Lady Constance, who had the sobriquet the beautiful bastard. While Payton had not been so viciously shunned, she was no longer embraced, either, and she felt as if she looked through a murky looking glass into a life of wealth, beauty, and privilege, of which she had once yearned to be a part. How foolish she had been. She was grateful she had escaped the clutches of high society, and she would never willingly place herself in their clasp again.
“Mr. Konstantinovich has invited me to picnic with him. I consented, and I will ask Lady Victoria to chaperone.” A thing Payton thought unnecessary considering they would be in full view of others strolling on the lawns.
“I am certain I misheard,” her mother whispered, shock evident in her tone.
“It was an offer for an outing, Mother, not one of marriage.”
“He will believe it indicates a willingness on your part to walk with him,” Aunt Florence said.
A deeper throb started between Payton’s brows. “I said yes, and it would be discourteous of me now to decline.” She would not relent, and if she were to win this argument without her mother descending into hysteria and summoning her father, then mayhap she could win the war to make her decisions with little fuss.
A boom of thunder had everyone jerking, and Payton peeked through the windows. The sky had darkened, and the trees swayed under a sharp gust of wind. It seemed as if the day would be spent indoors and the game of croquet, which had been organized, would be canceled.
“A picnic in this weather would be ill-advised,” Aunt Florence said with a smirk of satisfaction.
She was unfortunately correct. Payton would take the time to work on the illustrations for the twins’ fairy tale and would do her very best not to think of Mikhail’s audacious wink, her mystifying response to it, and the sense of loss she now felt because they would not be able to picnic together. Maybe it was for the best.
With a murmured excuse she swept from the parlor. She headed for the Rose Room, a very secluded and smaller drawing room Jocelyn had insisted Payton commandeer for her personal space to work. She entered, strolling to the windows to draw the golden cords for the drapes.
Oh!
Mikhail was rabble-rousing on the lawn outside with little Lord William, Jocelyn’s nine-year-old brother. The boy shrieked and chortled as Mikhail ran backward to catch the ball soaring in the air. They were playing cricket. Payton stood frozen, soaking in his handsomeness and kindness. Not many would have halted their day’s activities to play with children. Lady Emily, Jocelyn’s thirteen-year-old sister, fisted her hands on her hips, and even from where she stood, Payton could see her bottom lip quivering.
Mikhail picked a wildflower and presented it to her with a flourish and a bow. The frown on Emily’s face vanished, and delight suffused her features, and then with elegance that surprised Payton, Emily dipped into a curtsy. Payton laughed as Mikhail ruined it all by rubbing his knuckles on Emily’s head. A mystified look crossed his face when Lady Emily scowled and stomped away.
She is a girl, you dolt, experiencing her first infatuation, and you just treated her like a little brother.
It was then Payton decided she would prepare to battle her parents for the right to choose a man as heartwarmingly delicious and ordinary as Mikhail. Thunder rumbled, and fat heavy drops of rain descended from the sky, slapping against the glass like pebbles. There were shrieks, and the children and several guests raced from the lawn.
Mikhail remained, tipping his head to the sky, the column of his throat displayed. The strong lines of his jaw were clean-shaven, revealing every arrogant line of his handsome features. He was dressed in dark trousers and an open-neck white linen shirt. Within seconds he was soaked, but he did not move.
Awareness stirred inside as she drank in his virile pose. The shirt plastered to his chest and, even from where she stood, she could see the sculpted hardness of his body. The need to touch him welled, and she bit the inside of her lower lip, hoping to banish the wanton thoughts. Could she draw him so—muscular legs braced apart, head tipped to the darkened sky, the corded arch of his neck begging for someone…for her, to glide her tongue over his skin, tasting him, and then ending the stroke of her tongue at his lips? He lowered his head and unerringly looked right at her.
Oh.
He lifted an eyebrow in challenge, and Payton’s heart lurched. She froze, and they stared at each other for unending seconds. Then he scowled and walked away.
Confusion rushed through her. For a few seconds she’d thought he was just as enthralled by her. Yet now he seemed angry. Maybe it really had been the best thing for the rain to ruin their chance to picnic. For if she was not careful she could once again lead her fanciful heart to pain and disappointment.
Chapter Six
Mikhail surged to wakefulness, his heart thundering in his chest, phantom pain and pleasure twisting through his gut like acid. It had been years since he’d woke in such a state, and he knew what—or better who had caused it—Payton. She made him feel. Her expression as she’d watched him through the windows had been one of yearning. It had been so intense, something primal in Mikhail had unfurled, and the desire to really know her had rushed to the fore.
Who was she really?
For what did she hunger?
What made her happy?
The depth of anger he’d felt at his weakness burned beneath his skin even now. How was it possible he was not able to control the cravings running amok in his body? After being used for Madam Anya’s depraved pleasures, the depth of self-loathing that had filled him because his body had responded against his will had nearly crippled him. He’d dragged himself from the void and had mastered his body’s reactions. But somehow, he was inexplicably unable to bury the need Payton was calling forth.
If he was honest, he would admit he was anticipating seeing her again.
He’d tried to connect on an intimate level with Lady Olga after Madam Anya, and the coldness that had rushed through his soul had manifested outward. No pleadings or overtures of affections had been able to soften him. Since then he’d not made any effort to attempt what was deemed normalcy. It was inevitable for the same thing to happen with Payton if he pursued her. She was not a light-skirt for casual dalliances, so he could not seduce her to simply slake his lust; she would be a conq
uest for marriage.
He pushed from the bed and strolled to the wide Palladian windows. Moonlight bathed the land in an ethereal glow, tempting him to exit the house and take a midnight swim in the lake.
The freezing water would help him clear his head.
With quick movements, he drew on his trousers and tugged a simple shirt from the armoire. He wasted no time slipping his feet into shoes. He opened the door and padded silently along the darkened corridor, then down the winding staircase. The quiet of the house was soothing, and memories of running down these steps with Sebastian and Anthony had Mikhail smiling.
A light wavered in the distance, and he stopped. Sherring Cross was a large estate, and Mikhail’s chamber was well secluded from the rest of the guests. There should be no one up and about in the west wing where his chamber was located. The light appeared closer, and he saw it was a candle flame. Who else would be awake at this hour?
He pressed forward and descended the stairs. The light from the candle was not enough to penetrate the overwhelming dark, and he could not make out the features of the person climbing the steps. The flapping voluminous white nightgown indicated a woman. A faint scent of berries had his nostril flaring. A hiss slipped from beneath his teeth.
He kept his steps light and soundless, while she clambered up the stairs with enough noise to wake the dead. It took him a while to realize she was muttering beneath her breath.
He waited for her to realize he was a mere six steps above her.
“Oh!” She dropped the candelabrum, and darkness enclosed them. There was a flurry of sounds as she rapidly descended the stairs, running from him.
To her credit she had not screamed. But was she not afraid of tripping?
He grabbed the banister and followed. “My apologies, I did not mean to startle you.”
Her footsteps halted. “Mik…Mr. Konstantinovich?”
