by Stacy Reid
Phillipa walked to her and clasped her hands. “It may not be love now, but it sounds like you are well on your way.”
“Lord Jensen is distressingly persistent, and mother and father are insisting that I wed him in a few weeks, instead of allowing a drawn-out engagement.”
“I know,” Phillipa said soothingly. “They are hoping a wedding will quash the potential for scandal…and they do not want Lord Jensen to change his mind again.”
Payton got to the heart of what had been keeping her awake. “Mikhail wants to marry me.”
Surprise, then delight, lighted Phillipa’s features. “That is wonderful, I—”
“I blurted it to Mother in frustration, and she slapped me,” Payton choked.
Anger flashed in Phillipa’s eyes. She, too, had felt the brunt of their mother’s anger and disappointment when she had dared to stand firm and insisted she would marry Lord Anthony despite his bastardy.
“I will speak with Father,” Phillipa promised.
“Thank you,” Payton whispered. “Mother already spoke to him, and he will only consent to me marrying Lord Jensen. I will not, Phillipa. I would prefer to risk sailing back to America.”
“Wipe the anxiety from your eyes. Attend Lady Davenport’s ball and have a grand time. I will speak with father when he returns in the morning, and you will promise not to act rashly.”
“I promise,” Payton said.
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“No, you are weary from your journey, and you seem tired.”
A radiant smile pulsed from her sister. “I am exhausted.”
“I never thought you would be so happy at the notion.”
“Oh, Payton, I am with child.”
“Good heavens.” Payton drew her into a hug, laughing. “Congratulations. I am so thrilled for you and Anthony.”
“It has only recently been confirmed, and we are keeping it to ourselves a bit longer, but I fear I cannot keep secrets from you.”
A sweet feeling of joy curled through Payton. “Thank you for taking me into your confidence.”
They exited the room together, and for the first time in hours a sense of peace washed Payton’s senses.
The possibility had existed that Lady Davenport might have been made aware of Payton’s seclusion in the cottage with Mikhail. After handing over her coat and strolling inside the small ballroom with an affected serene countenance, it only took a few seconds for Payton to realize everyone knew.
She descended the wide marble stairs to the ballroom floor, and she felt the weight of the guests’ glares upon her. It could be her imagination, but the hollow sensation forming in her stomach reminded her of the times she had braved society after being jilted. Lifting her chin, she scanned the massive ballroom, looking for a friendly face. Dozens of eyes settled on her, some only indulging in a cursory glance, others from gentlemen in a lascivious and leering manner, and some outright rude as some young ladies giggled behind their fans, obviously discussing her.
“Why is everyone staring at us?” her mother fretted, none too softly.
A murmur rippled through the crowd, and people who had not been aware now directed their attention to Payton and her mother.
Payton’s shoulder blades prickled with uncertainty under their rabid scrutiny. She felt like such an outsider, and it took everything in her not to turn around and escape up the stairs.
“Please excuse me, Mother, Aunt Florence.”
A hand gripped her elbow and Payton paused.
“Remember, Lord Jensen will be in attendance tonight, and you are to save two dance spots for him,” her mother whispered somewhat conspiratorially and with evident excitement.
Payton spied Lady Victoria and, with a smile, walked toward her without answering her mother. It felt good to see a friendly face that was not family. Lady Victoria was surrounded by a bevy of suitors, and Payton wondered if she should intrude.
“Blood will always tell. Can we really blame her for dallying with a horse breeder?”
She almost stumbled as the too loud whisper reached her ear. Payton glanced to her left at the huddle of females staring at her, their fans to their faces, gossiping.
Jilted. She heard the whisper from her right, and she flinched, unable to contain her reaction to the dreaded phrase. The word itself had become a weapon. Young ladies and lords alike had whispered it conveniently like a mantra whenever she drew close. She had hurt so horribly then. Lord Jensen had been the one to act with dishonor, but he had not borne any of the scorn. After a few weeks the need to scream had faded, and she’d become blessedly numb.
She turned left, intending to escape to the terrace when another sly whisper reached her ear.
Ruined.
They were making no effort to be discreet.
A horse breeder.
She faltered and closed her eyes.
Lord Jensen still offered for her, after she lay with that horse breeder. He must be desperate to fill his coffers.
Bile rose in her throat.
What is the name of her horse breeder?
A Mr. Konstantinovich.
He sounds foreign.
What did you expect? No English gentleman of good breeding would willingly consort with the likes of her.
Lady Prendergast was right…blood will always tell, and it seems fitting for a commoner to lay with a horse breeder. It is terrible that poor Lord Jensen feels he must wed her.
The crush of the room almost stifled her.
Why was her ilk invited?
Her family shamelessly importunes upon the kindness of the Duke and Duchess of Calydon.
The curious side glances made Payton want to scream. Without looking to see who spoke, she pushed through the packed ballroom, her throat tight and burning.
“Some say he is a cousin to Calydon;” a closely whispered voice snagged her attention. She glanced at the speaker and identified Lady Prendergast.
“Everyone is agog to meet the new Duke of Avondale. I heard from the most reliable source that the town house at Berkeley Square is being opened.”
“I have also heard he is alarmingly wealthy.”
“He is a prince; embarrassing wealth is to be expected. He is Prince Alexander Dashkova, I’m told.”
A sudden hush settled over the throng. She was jostled and pushed, but she moved against the tide, wanting to escape.
“The Duke and Duchess of Calydon, and Mr. Mikhail Konstantinovich.”
It was as if the assembly gasped in unison, no doubt titillated that the very horse breeder they were discussing would appear. Of course no one would dare give him the cut direct, for he had arrived with the powerful Duke of Calydon.
She did not linger, nor did she turn to view them as they descended the ballroom steps. Payton escaped to the gallery that overlooked the ballroom and took a deep cleansing breath. Tonight felt especially painful, and Payton had never felt so wretchedly alone. She wished she’d not agreed to attend. She spied her aunt in the sitting room on the chaise lounge near the refreshment table speaking with Lady Davenport and several other society matriarchs. Aunt Florence was smiling and nodding, looking decidedly pleased.
Had they noticed Mikhail? Or were they pretending they did not know him?
Chatter mingled with muted laughter. Dozens of chandeliers created a dazzling display of light, women laughed and twirled, giggling behind their fans, a few even rudely pointing at some unsuspecting young lady, believing they were being discreet. Payton would prefer to leave everyone she had formed a connection with in England and escape back to America, before she would ever marry Lord Jensen and trap herself with such vicious harpies she would be forced to be polite to as his viscountess.
The hairs on the back of her neck lifted.
“You do not look happy to be here,” a too-close voice whispered. How had he found her?
Temptation walked into her sanctuary in the form of Mikhail. Payton gasped at the picture he presented, dressed in so casually an elegant man
ner, in stark black-and-white. He was garbed in an expertly tailored black jacket and trousers. Only his crisp white cravat, waistcoat, and a white pleated shirt lightened the overall impression of darkness. His black hair was perfectly groomed, and the raw brilliance of his male beauty had her heart stuttering.
Without hesitation she gripped the lapel of his jacket and pressed her forehead to his chest, relief crashing into her. She buried her nose in his shirt, and his scent invaded her senses, rich and masculine.
“You are trembling, Payton,” he said softly, his strong arms wrapping around her.
She had no thought for propriety or to worry someone else might intrude upon the sanctuary of the gallery. She was only happy he was present, a calm anchor in the midst of thundering pain and emotions their cruel words had elicited. His warm embrace was also a wonderful haven from the pounding demands she had faced recently. Everything faded, and she sank more into the security of his arms. “Where have you been?”
Gently he stroked her back and shoulders. “I traveled to London to see my solicitors,” Mikhail said gruffly. “I had urgent business there. I tried to call on you, but you were abed. I left a note explaining my departure.”
She had been up for hours dealing with her mother’s hysteria and had been beyond exhausted, but she’d received no note. Anger, quick and powerful, cut through her. It was horrible they would go as far as to screen her letters.
“I gathered my note was not delivered to you.” The wry humor in his tone had a fleeting smile touching her lips.
She nodded, her racing heart calmed, and gradually her tension flowed away. “I saved all my dances for you.”
He stiffened, and she lifted her head from his chest.
His eyes blazed with hunger. “I feared you would no longer want to marry me.”
“I have always been the dutiful daughter and Phillipa the rebellious one,” Payton said with a small smile. “But in this I will not bow to their dictates.”
A warm sensual smile curved his lips. “I will call on you tomorrow.”
“You will be met with staunch resistance.”
He exuded confidence. “Yet I will prevail.”
“And I will be glad.”
Shadows darkened his eyes. “There are things you do not know about me, that I must tell you.”
“I do like secrets,” she said softly. “But I can see yours have caused you pain. I will be here when you are ready to unburden.”
His eyebrow arched in evident surprise. “I thought you would have insisted on traversing through my history.”
She tipped onto her toes and brushed her lips across his in the lightest caress. “I, too, have secrets, and I promise you I will not divulge them after a mere five days of acquaintance,” she said teasingly.
He pulled her even closer to him, holding her face in his hand. Then he dipped his head. The first soft touch of his lips to hers was a question, not a demand, and she responded with a moan of surrender. He slid one of his hands down her neck, resting his thumb against the beat of her pulse, and deepened their kiss.
He pulled his lips from hers. “I am embarrassingly wealthy.”
“How droll,” she teased, uncaring of his income. She prayed he did not believe it mattered to her.
“Hmm.” He pressed another kiss to her lips. “My grandmother left me the majority of her wealth, and I have tripled it over the years. I rival Calydon’s holdings.”
Shock sliced through her. Calydon’s dukedom was one of the richest in the realm.
“I do not think your assertions are possible.”
Mikhail’s eyes remained guarded. “They are.”
“I do not care,” she said. “I will worry less when my father disinherits me if I run away with you. But it is a wonder with such wealth, you are not able to purchase a title.”
“I may have several hidden somewhere I can pull out for you,” he said with humor, and something undecipherable glittered in his gaze.
Payton chuckled. A shadow shifted in his eyes, and she hesitated. Concern curled through her. What was he saying? “Are you titled?” she asked with a burst of nervous laughter.
“It is abhorrent you say the words with such dread. A title does not define a man.”
“But it defines the world he lives in,” she snapped, her heart thundering.
A soft laugh floated on the air, and footsteps drew close to where they stood in the shadows. She pressed a quick but hard kiss on his lips. “I must go before my aunt and mother descend on us.”
Then she withdrew and entered the crush of the ballroom. It took Payton a few seconds to realize how rattled she was. The shadows in Mikhail’s eyes troubled her. Could it be that he was titled? The possibility of it was too much to contemplate. What would a nobleman be doing working in the Calydon stables?
“Payton!” Her aunt’s sharp but low call tried to pull her from her furious thoughts.
Mikhail had never said he worked in the stables. But he’d said he worked for Calydon as his advisor. From her experience, a lord would not be working. Then she recalled the tempered sense of power and grace that seemed to emanate from him so effortlessly, his confidence in the face of confronting her father and Lord Jensen in the cottage, his assurance her parents would accept him.
Uncertainty clawed at her stomach, and she wanted to return to the gallery and question him.
A possessive hand settled on her elbow. She lurched around to spy Lord Jensen, his mother, and Aunt Florence.
“Miss Peppiwell, you remember my mother, the Viscountess of Kenilworth,” he said with a toadying and self-satisfied smile.
Payton pulled from him, none too subtly, and he narrowed his gaze in warning.
She allowed a smile to grace her lips and dipped into a curtsy. “Lady Kenilworth.”
The viscountess barely nodded, gray eyes a replica of her son’s, shooting distaste. “The execution of your curtsy was decidedly inelegant and shallow,” she said, and Payton’s palm itched to slap the smugness from her face.
“I believe this waltz was promised to me, Miss Peppiwell,” Lord Jensen said, holding out his arm.
No, it was not. She could not suffer the thought of dancing with the lying arse. Denial hovered on her lips.
“This dance is mine,” Mikhail’s voice drawled from behind her. He looked to the viscountess and Lord Jensen, and greeted them with a small smile.
His veiled gaze settled on her aunt. “Lady Merryweather.” Mikhail was chillingly polite, and arrogance was evident in every line of his bearing.
An awkward silence fell and spread.
“I did promise you all of my dances,” Payton murmured, ignoring the shocked gasp of those close enough to hear.
Placing her hand on his arm, she strolled with serene grace to the ballroom floor.
It is the horse breeder, a voice close by hissed.
She felt as if his tall frame drew every female eye in the room.
How shocking, another thrilled, are you sure?
He is very handsome; I can see what tempted her scandalous behavior.
Murmurs rose from the people inside the ballroom, and Payton fought the blush heating her cheeks. There was nothing but amusement dancing in Mikhail’s eyes.
Payton lowered her gaze, a smile pulling at her lips. “I feel as if the eyes of the entire haute monde are upon us.” And the feeling increased, knotting her stomach with anxiety, for she knew how fast and vicious whatever gossips they bred tonight would spread.
“Then let them watch. Every man here envies my arms, for you are within them.”
She chuckled. The waltz started, and Payton soared with Mikhail. She buried the fear that he might belong to the world she deplored, basking in the strength and assurance of being in his arms, baring all emotions she felt in her eyes, trusting him to be her wall if she crumbled.
“Would you like to leave?”
“No.”
Something unfathomable shifted in his eyes. “I do not like that you are subjected to gossip.
I promise you to change it.”
She assessed the power rolling from him. Oh God, please do not be a lord. “The only whispers I can hear are the sighs of envy from all the young ladies. You are shockingly handsome,” she teased.
His lips twitched, then he sobered. “Payton, I—”
Her heart lurched. “Yes?”
“Meet me tomorrow in our cottage.”
“Yes.” Reckless. Bold. But she did not care.
“Promise to hear me out.”
Oh, are you a baron, a viscount? She wanted to ask the questions but held them in. They exchanged no words, and the intensity of his unwavering stare as he twirled with her was a comfort, a protective blanket from the malicious glares she could feel prickling along her skin. Questions hovered on her lips and in her heart, and she ruthlessly buried them and basked in the moment, for she could truly not tolerate the idea that the man she was falling hopelessly in love with may forever be taken from her grasp if he proved to be a lord.
No. She would enjoy this moment and then face her doubts in the light of day.
Chapter Thirteen
A procession of carriages and coaches drew into the Calydons’ driveway. Cossack outriders flanked the procession, two to the front and two to the rear.
What is happening?
Payton closed the volume of the Grimm’s Fairy Tale, the story of the Elves and the Shoemaker she had been reading, and strolled to the windows. She frowned as one of the most richly dressed women she had ever seen was helped down from a large and elegantly designed carriage pulled by Arabian horses. She was slender and graceful with her golden hair piled high in a riot of fashionable curls. Oh, she is a beauty.
Payton frowned as Vladimir appeared and bowed deeply over the woman’s hand.
It was then she noted the duchess waiting at the doorstep, a frown on her lovely face. The procession moved toward the duchess, and Payton wished she were able to hear the conversation. The women greeted each other with curtsies, and the frown melted from Lady Calydon’s face as she laughed at something the ravishing woman said.
