Falling Stars

by Anita Mills

  “You ought to watch your sister—the chit knows how to engage a man’s attention,” he told her. “Smile, tilt your head just so, ply your fan as though it were meant for something besides a breeze. As it is, you appear flat and green.”

  “And you think that is what I wish to do? Bellamy Townsend, I should rather be forever on the shelf than pretend to be an empty-headed wigeon!” she declared with feeling. “And you have described me as though I am a—a lawn!”

  The last strains of a minuet played. On impulse, he caught her hand, pulling her up. “One waltz, Kate.”

  Stark terror assailed her. “I cannot! Please—my shoes—”

  “Go barefoot and start a new fashion,” he replied cheerfully. “Scandalize ’em.”

  “No!” But he was already tugging her toward the floor. “Wait!” He stopped but did not release her hand. She struggled to wriggle her toes into her slippers. “Townsend, you are no gentleman,” she muttered. “And I cannot think why—”

  “Told you—bringing you into fashion.”

  She tried to pull away, then became aware of the curious stares. “Oh, lud—I cannot! I’ll disgrace you,” she threatened him.

  “Now you are showing a bit of spirit, my dear.”

  “I’m not your dear—and no one would believe I was.”

  “Come on, they are playing our waltz,” he murmured wickedly. As Kate ceased struggling, he favored a disapproving matron with a dazzling smile. “You may give it out that I am once again storming the bastions of maidenly reserve.”

  “You, sir, are outrageous!” Kate choked out. “There is no telling what she will say!”

  “Does it matter? You’ll be on every tongue,” he assured her, grinning.

  Aware that more people watched, she felt blood rise to her face. “It matters a great deal,” she managed through gritted teeth. “I should rather have it thought that I would not go to the nearest corner with you. Your shocking rep, you know.”

  “How uncharitable of you.” At the edge of the cleared dance floor, he put his other hand on her waist. “Smile, Kate, for they look at you.”

  She felt like a wooden stick, but he pretended not to note it. Finally, as the music wafted across the ballroom, seemingly carried by the soft summer breeze from open windows, she began to count out the steps to herself.

  “Pretend we are alone, that the candles above are but the stars of a summer night,” he murmured at her ear.

  She closed her eyes and nearly lost her balance. “I—I cannot.”

  “Think of summer stars, summer falling stars Kate,” he whispered. “There is nothing prettier—or more magical.”

  His hand was warm, his body far too close, and he was, after all, Bell Townsend. It would be so easy to dream of a man like him. And a lot of females did. Resolutely, she recalled how foolish he’d made Amelia Beckwood.

  “You do not dance badly, you know.”

  “If you meant it, you would say I danced well,” she countered. “And I have practiced with Harry.”

  “You’ll never take, Kate, unless you learn to turn that tongue to wit.”

  “Everyone else claims I do not have one.”

  “You are not being fair to Harry.”

  She nearly stumbled. “He—he didn’t say that, did he?”

  “Not in words, but you worry him. Try not to tread on my feet, will you?”

  “Where is your vaunted address?” she asked through clenched teeth.

  “I try not to waste it.”

  “And I shall consider that a compliment.”

  As the music ended, he turned her around, then led her from the floor. “Did you think of falling stars?” he quizzed her.

  “No,” she said simply. “I thought of Miss Beckwood.”

  “That was an age ago.”

  Before she knew what he meant to do, he leaned into her for the briefest moment, and his lips brushed her cheek. As the color flooded her face, she could hear the gasps of those around her.

  “How—how could you?” she choked furiously. “Now Mama will be saying I am fast!”

  “Dare to be lively, Kate—let those dark eyes flash a bit of fire,” he whispered, bowing over her hand. “You don’t have to be a drab.”

  As he left her, she could not help noting the curious stares. And for a moment, she wondered if Claire had seen her waltz with him.

  “Ah, cherie, such a handsome chevalier, n ‘est-ce pas? May I sit with you, mademoiselle?”

  Katherine half turned to look as an elegant auburn-haired beauty took the chair next to hers. “You have the advantage of me, I’m afraid,” she admitted.

  “I am Madame Malenkov, ma petite. And you?”

  “Miss Winstead—Miss Katherine Winstead.”

  The woman fanned herself for a moment before smiling at Kate. “It is—how you English say it?—a shocking thing?”

  “Squeeze—a shocking squeeze.”

  “I do not blame you for sitting—my feet are tired also.” Madame Malenkov lifted her slim skirt above her ankle to reveal small green satin slippers that matched her gown. “They are too tight.” When Katherine said nothing, she shrugged creamy bare shoulders and went on, “I shall long for the quiet of Russia before I am there.”

  “I collect you have been to all the parties,” Kate murmured politely.

  “Cherie, I have been everywhere! My mind is like a top, whirling constantly, and still it cannot catch up to my body! It is exhausting!” Madame Malenkov sank back in her chair and fanned herself more. “And that terrible affair at Carlton House!”

  It was difficult to remain aloof to the woman. Kate unbent enough to ask, “You were at the Regent’s dinner?”

  “Yes. Yes—a disaster, ma petite—& disaster. It was so hot I thought to faint, and Lexy had to remove me back to the Pulteney. I know not how your Regent stood it himself, for I have always thought fat people do not tolerate heat. But it was a boring event, so I did not mind leaving at all,” the Russian woman confided. “And the Old Queen—so dull. But I should not be—how you say it?—critical of your government, for I do not live here.”

  “Your English is quite good,” Kate observed, warming to her.

  “Well, I speak French more, but Lexy and I had the English tutor for years. Your people do not seem to speak anything else, do they?”

  “Some of us speak French also.”

  “Well, none speaks Russian that I have met. But then many of the boyars in my country do not also.”

  “There you are, you naughty girl!”

  Katherine cringed at the censure in her mother’s voice. “I am but resting, Mama.” Then, hoping to forestall a scene, she gestured to the woman beside her. “This is Madame Malenkov, Mama. Madame, my mother, Lady Winstead.”

  “Charmed, to be sure.” There was nothing in Lady Winstead’s tone to indicate anything of the sort.

  “Madame Winstead.” Madame Malenkov smiled, revealing perfect teeth. “You must be mother to Baron Winstead, then. Such a man—so very—” She groped for a word and finally settled on, “accomplished.”

  “You mean he is a shocking flirt,” Kate guessed. “And he is that.”

  “Katherine! Henry is no such thing! Really, madame, but—”

  “No, no—she is quite right.” Madame Malenkov rose, looking down at the card that hung from her wrist. “But I am promised. And I am not found here, I think. Until later, cherie.”

  “Katherine, it does you no credit to sit with a woman like that. You cannot show to advantage, for every man will be looking at her,” her mother declared. “And what on earth were you thinking of, missy?” she demanded, her voice rising as she recalled her purpose. “Townsend! I vow I thought that Drummond-Burrell woman would choke!”

  “It was but one waltz, Mama.”

  “She said she thought he had kissed you in front of everyone! I vow I thought I should have the vapors!” Lady Winstead reached for Katherine’s dance card and studied it. “Well, at least Thurgood would appear interested. He has five tho
usand pounds, you know.”

  “And three dead wives,” Katherine remembered.

  “Yes, well, George Maxwell is here, and—”

  “It would not signify, Mama.”

  “If you would but smile at him—”

  “Lord Leighton is pleasant to everyone,” Kate answered tiredly.

  “Then Barstowe. He is—”

  “Old. Mama, he must be forty!”

  “Not too old to want to fill a nursery,” Lady Winstead insisted. “And not so old as Mr. Thurgood.”

  “Mama, I should rather die,” Katherine declared flatly.

  “You are not getting any younger, and I fail to see how you can dismiss—”

  For a moment, Kate’s temper flared. “Why don’t you just throw me at our vicar’s head and be done? He may be a widower in his dotage, but surely he must meet your requirements by being alive!”

  Across the room, Madame Malenkov pinched her brother’s sleeve, then discreetly directed his attention toward Katherine. He frowned for a moment.

  “Voteta?”

  “Da. That one.” She whispered, “She is perfect to our purpose, Lexy. She is a mouse.”

  “Ya nye znayu,” he murmured doubtfully.

  “Of course you do not know. But I can make her presentable enough.” Pulling him after her, she made her way back to Katherine, where she murmured apologetically, “Pardon, Madame Winstead.”

  Kate’s mother whirled around, ready to snap, then her mouth gaped. There with Madame Malenkov stood a dark-haired officer. Even before he was introduced, he bowed slightly, and the medals on his chest caught the light from the candles above.

  “Lexy, this is Madame Winstead—and her daughter, Katherine.” The woman smiled encouragingly at Kate. “Miss Winstead, this is my brother, Count Volsky. He admired you very much when you were on the dance floor.” Patting her brother on his arm, she looked up at him. “There. You are introduced, Lexy. The rest is up to you.”

  He was taller than Townsend, possibly as tall as Harry, and his shoulders filled his uniform coat perfectly. As he bowed over her hand, his straight black hair gleamed. He looked straight into her eyes.

  “Mademoiselle, I have begged for the introduction,” he murmured, smiling at her.

  She wasn’t sure she could speak. “Count Volsky,” she managed. Then, unable to think of anything else, she blurted out, “Are you enjoying England, sir?” As she said it, she felt utterly foolish.

  “But of course,” he answered, smiling. “It is all so charming.”

  “Were you in the war, Count Volsky?” she heard her mother ask him.

  “Yes, yes. One cannot be Russian without having served against Napoleon, madame. We fought the madman for our very existence.”

  Obviously impressed by the array of medals on his chest, Lady Winstead observed, “You must be quite the hero, sir.”

  His smile faded, and for a moment he was sober before he answered. “In my country, there are no living heroes but Alexander—there are only the survivors.”

  “But you were wounded in the war, surely,” her mother insisted. “Your cheek—”

  His hand touched a red, triangular-shaped scar that marred one jaw. “Mais non, madame. He smiled ruefully and shook his head. “This I had in Paris, I’m afraid. The French are quarrelsome, far too ready to fight over everything.”

  He glanced down at Katherine’s bare wrist, then again to her face. “You have not a dance card, mademoiselle?”

  “I—uh—I must have lost it,” she lied, not wanting him to see how seldom she’d actually been asked.

  “How very fortunate. Now you cannot be expected to remember everyone on it, do you think?”

  “Uh—no.”

  To her astonishment, he lifted her wrist to his lips, murmuring, “Then I must surely be next.”

  As she hastily retrieved her hand again, she could feel the hateful color rise to her cheeks once more. To her relief, he addressed her mama.

  “Madame, do you trust me to waltz with your daughter? I promise you I shall not be the savage.”

  For the second time in a matter of minutes, Lady Winstead was stunned. She looked at him as though he must surely be mistaken. “You—you have not met my other daughter, have you, Count Volsky?” she stammered.

  “Miss Clarissa Winstead?” His next words were the most endearing Katherine had ever heard. “We were introduced, I believe.”

  Letting out her breath, she dared to speak. “Please, Mama—I—I should like it.”

  “Well—yes, of course, my love—of course! I would not for the world have Count Volsky think the English rude or inhospitable.” Her mother tittered slightly. “You will find my Katherine a trifle shy, Count Volsky.”

  “I shall find her pleasant, I am sure, Madame Winstead.”

  The musicians had finished a round and were just beginning the first strains of a waltz. It was not until she preceded the handsome Russian toward the cleared dance floor that Katherine realized what she had done. Her palms went damp, her throat dry, and her heart pounded. At least she’d known Bell Townsend. Briefly, she considered covering her mouth and running.

  “I—uh—well, I am not particularly good at this,” she admitted helplessly. “I don’t know why I said I—”

  “Ah, but with the waltz, you have but to follow, cherie. Besides, I have seen you do it. This Townsend—he is your particular acquaintance?”

  She nearly choked. “No,” she assured him. “He is but a friend of my brother. Unfortunately, I have known him more than half of my life.”

  “And you do not waltz on short acquaintance? Come—I shall make it all right,” he promised.

  As Count Volsky’s hand rested at her waist, Katherine closed her eyes. Falling stars—Townsend had said to think of falling stars, she told herself, trying to calm the terror she felt. If she did not think about the man holding her, if she pretended he was but Harry …

  “You can look at my shoulder. All you have to do is follow where you are taken.”

  His shoulder was all she could see. She fixed her gaze on his medals. Silently, she began to count the steps.

  “No, no—follow.”

  Once again, her terror subsided as the music crowded it out. “You were untruthful, Ekaterina,” Volsky said low. “You are doing very well.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You wear perfume,” he observed softly.

  “No—it is lemon in my hair. Mama would have it a lighter shade, but it is still dark.”

  “Your mother is wrong.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “There are too many blondes.”

  She nearly misstepped at that. “They are all the rage here, sir.”

  “The rage?”

  “The preferred fashion.” She tried to turn the subject slightly. “Madame Malenkov is very beautiful.”

  “Lena?” He appeared to consider, then nodded. “Yes. Before Cyril, we had many offers for her. But now she is widowed, for he died during the war.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry for it.”

  “They were ill suited. Galena Petrovna despised him.”

  “Galena Petrovna? She was married twice? I’m sorry, I should not have asked such a thing.”

  “It is most confusing, I suppose,” he conceded, “but in my country, one is called by one’s father. Ours was Peter Mikhailovich Volsky, so I am Alexei Petrovich Volsky, and Lena is Galena Petrovna Volskaya Malenkova. But you cannot rely on that always,” he added, his blue eyes twinkling, “for some daughters are skayas, some ovas or ovnas, and some evnas, depending on the name of the father.”

  “Oh.” Not wanting to ask where the “a” came from in Malenkova, she fell silent. As her body responded to the music, she felt she must surely be dreaming, and she was afraid that when she waked, she would discover there was no Count Volsky. But for now, she felt as though she were the envy of every girl in the ballroom.

  “Your father—what is his name?” he asked suddenly.

  “His name was Jo
hn. He—uh—he died some time ago.”

  “I’m sorry. Who is the head of your family?”

  “My brother Harry. Actually, his name is Henry, but he dislikes it.”

  “Well, in Russia, you would be Ekaterina Ivanova Winstead, and you would be addressed directly as Ekaterina Ivanova, and you would be spoken of as Ekaterina Winstead—or actually as Ekaterina Winsteada. We have the habit of adding the feminine sound to your name.”

  “And Harry?”

  “He would be Henry Ivanovich to his face. Your John is our Ivan, you see.”

  “He is Baron Winstead here.”

  “We have not the title. We are counts, princes, and grand dukes, among other things—but not barons.” Smiling, he added, “In Russia, your Prince Regent would be a grand duke and his title would be czarevitch, showing he was the czar’s son. But perhaps I bore you—no?”

  “Not at all. I find the differences fascinating,” she answered sincerely. “We know so little about your country, I’m afraid.”

  “Tell me,” he asked suddenly, “if you had seen the Tower of London, the Mint, Almack’s, and Hyde Park, where would you go after that?”

  “Well, I—” She hesitated for a moment, wondering what he meant. “Do you ask what I would do were I new to the city—or do you ask what I most like to do?”

  “What you like to do.”

  “Well, quite my favorite thing is to walk among the flowers in St. James Park. It is lovely and quiet there in the mornings.” She looked up at him, then dropped her eyes shyly. “But I should not think a visitor would count it worth seeing—not after all the other places one usually goes.”

  “I have always enjoyed flowers, Ekaterina.”

  All too soon the music ended. Suddenly self-conscious, she stepped back. “My thanks, sir.”

  Returning her to her seat, he bowed over her hand. “Perhaps I will see you again while I am in your country, Ekaterina Winstead.” He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then he murmured, “Au revoir, mademoiselle.”

  Her gaze followed him as he disappeared among the crowd. Telling herself she had to have dreamed everything, she bent to secretly slip her shoes from her feet.

  “Never say the Russian trampled them?”

  She looked up into Bellamy Townsend’s faintly sardonic smile. The blood rose hotly in her cheeks. “No, of course not,” she said shortly. “He mastered the steps better than I did.”