by Stacy Reid
The desperate, tear-filled face of Princess Tatiana floated through his mind. “My father wanted our union because he desires to see me with a wife and children. But when I do take such a step, it will be because I decide it,” Mikhail said flatly.
Calydon grimaced. “I know all too well how difficult it is to accept the betrayal of someone for whom you held affections. Princess Tatiana is a family friend. I urge you to not let her foolish actions embitter you.”
Mikhail stilled. He was already hardened; he doubted there was room for any other emotions to worm their way into his heart.
Have your forgotten this morning so soon? His conscience prodded. The memory of laughing dark eyes surfaced. There was a void in his soul, and he swore that for the first time in years, while bantering with Payton, he had felt a bit of peace. The notion was absolutely ludicrous…and frightfully intriguing.
“I was simply a monetary means to an end for Tatiana. I doubt I will make acquaintance with a young lady who can see beyond the power of money and connections.”
Calydon’s brow arched. “There are many young ladies who desire marriage for other reasons.”
“It is neither here nor there.” Mikhail was not sure if there had ever been a time in history when marriage matches were not about money or political alliances. All his life he had been pursued for wealth and prestige, and he would admit the idea of a woman looking at him without avarice glowing in her eyes was pleasant.
Like Payton.
Seeking a distraction from his viscerally disturbing thoughts, Mikhail looked out into the gardens. The duchess strolled by, arm in arm with her younger sister, Lady Victoria. Their heads were dipped close, their lovely faces animated. Mikhail remembered a time when his cousin had been deeply jaded and had sworn never to marry or trust a woman. Now Sebastian had a duchess and children. The sudden ache filling Mikhail’s chest was unexpected and curious, but not altogether uncomfortable. “I never thought you would allow yourself to trust a woman.”
A smile creased the duke’s face, drawing attention to the rapier scar on his left cheek. His eyes darkened, and the love in them actually caused a slow, uncomfortable jerk of Mikhail’s heart.
“The right woman can be trusted with everything that you are—the darkness and the light,” Sebastian answered, his eyes flicking to the gardens, seeking his duchess. At that moment she and Lady Victoria threw back their heads and laughed without an ounce of decorum. The duchess chortled, and it warmed Mikhail to see Sebastian’s reaction to her delight. The duke had been cold for far too long, and Mikhail was damned glad for his cousin’s good fortune.
“I am glad you found her,” Mikhail said softly.
“And I would be doubly glad if you would find a similar happiness.”
Mikhail contained his flinch. “I am content.”
“No…you merely exist, closing yourself from life because you fear hurting. I know, for I did the same for years until I met my duchess.”
Rage lit in his veins, and he met Sebastian’s eyes. “You compare our pasts?” Mikhail asked, the raw edge of dark emotions tugging at his calm facade.
The duke’s eyes hooded, and he sank into his chair. “Never,” he said. “I cannot comprehend your pain, but I can identify with the haunting distance I see in your eyes. It is a lonely path to eschew female companionship. I think it is a similar thought your father had and why he pushed you to consider Princess Tatiana.”
Mikhail had no want for the affections his cousin spoke about. For ten long years he’d exercised the utmost control over his body and emotions, forming liaisons on his terms. Whenever he lusted, he slaked it with minimal fuss by women who understood he offered nothing and accepted the way he made love—with his lover positioned on hands and knees, ensuring minimal skin contact.
“Have you directed the housekeeper to place me in the west wing, away from all the guests?” Mikhail asked, directing the conversation to where he wanted. It was the reason he had chosen to bed down in the stable’s loft last evening. The chamber that had been readied for him was on the same floor as the other guests. He’d requested the change and then had spent hours riding, even going as far as to dine in the village’s inn closest to Sherring Cross.
Calydon lifted a brow at his diversion. He nodded and then brought them solidly back to business. “Mother and Jocelyn have a full itinerary to welcome you into society in a few weeks.”
Mikhail grimaced. “No,” he growled.
Calydon set aside his correspondence, directing his undivided attention to Mikhail. “You have your seat to claim in Parliament. There are connections to be fostered. While it is appealing to bury your head in the country, you cannot ignore the duties to your title for months.”
“They will wait,” Mikhail said flatly. The memory of gazes burning with rabid speculations and whispers of whore and brothel sliced through him. The scandal of his life would never be over, and it would follow him wherever he traveled, but he would control when it haunted his steps. The minute he was introduced to society, the vultures would seek his past as if it were carrion, simply because that is what they do. Then the gossip would ride the air and somehow find itself into every drawing room in London. Despite the vileness of the rumors, matchmaking mothers and young ladies would plot his downfall with avaricious glee, throw themselves at his feet, sneak into his bed, and pretend to be pregnant by him…
He snapped his teeth together in annoyance. He would delay his introduction for as long as possible. Another scandal had urged him to leave his home, family, and country, to assume a mantle in which he had never been interested. All his life, his heart had belonged to Russia. After one of his cousins had died without issue six months ago, knowledge of the responsibilities he would have to assume in England had settled in Mikhail’s gut like a heavy boulder. But it had been easy to give in to his mother’s gentle persuasion to visit Sherring Cross, for it came when he had wanted to leave Tatiana’s pleadings and her tear-stained face, and the scandal her betrayal and his subsequent reaction to it had wrought, behind.
A heavy sigh slipped from Calydon. “The ball my mother has planned in your honor is a mere six weeks away. I will advise Jocelyn and the household they are not to refer to you by your titles until it is necessary. Mother will be sorely disappointed.”
Mikhail had known his aunt by marriage would turn her matchmaking eyes his way. She’d already written to him when she learned he would claim his duchy with a reminder he must be in need of a wife. From Russia he’d heard the meddlesome wheels turning in Lady Radcliffe’s head. “I urge you to advise your mother to reconsider the ball in its entirety. I have no need for an introduction to England’s haute monde. When I am ready I will simply appear.”
Calydon chuckled. “Even so secluded at Sherring Cross, whispers of the chatter in London have reached our ears. All are awaiting the arrival of the new duke, especially the maters. My mother thinks it is somewhat of a coup, to host the first ball you’ll attend in society. Nothing I say will deter her.”
Mikhail grunted and pushed to his feet. He moved to the windows facing the rolling grounds of the estate. Several guests strolled on the lawns, and some were playing archery. His gaze searched, feeding the need in him to find Payton once more. He was decidedly curious to see if she had the same effect on him without the intimacy of their enclosure and the possibilities of seduction on the air. He doubted it…but he still wanted—no, needed—to know.
“You look for someone?”
“Yes.”
Calydon’s eyes sharpened with interest. “A woman?”
The blasted man’s tone was too hopeful. Mikhail briefly debated not answering. “A Miss Payton Peppiwell,” he said, trying to sound casual. He feared he failed, from the pleased smile that creased Sebastian’s lips.
“The young lady and her family only arrived at Sherring Cross late yesterday evening. How is it you have come to make Miss Peppiwell’s acquaintance when it is barely dawn?”
He grunted noncommittally and S
ebastian laughed, then sobered at whatever he saw in Mikhail’s face.
“Is she still chaste?” Sebastian demanded with a narrow-eyed glare.
“What is it to you?”
“It obviously escaped your notice—she is family.”
Peppiwell. Mikhail’s other cousin, Lord Anthony’s wife’s surname had been Peppiwell. “I do not go around seducing women. The squall forced our early meeting, and we were together in the cottage you and I played in as children for a while. I returned her discreetly.”
Sebastian’s shoulders visibly relaxed, and then he frowned. “Payton doesn’t know who you are?”
“No. She’d demanded to know if I worked for you, so I gave her vague responses. They were not lies, but nor were they a full disclosure in what capacity I advised you, or trained horses for you.”
“Did she interest you?” Curiosity was rife in his cousin’s tone.
Memory of the artless hunger in her gaze and tentative smile swam across Mikhail’s vision, and he had to grit his teeth against the arousal curling through him. “Maybe.”
He could feel the shock pouring from his cousin, and Mikhail understood. It had been years since he admitted interest in a woman.
“You do not sound pleased.”
He met Sebastian’s gaze. “She is the only woman to challenge my discipline in years.” Mikhail had spent years distancing himself from the women of the Russian court, content to live with the coldness encasing his heart. Now this slip of a girl threatened his resolve. Was it even prudent to think about a woman who made those walls quaver? He could not allow anything to reduce him again to the pitiful boy he’d been after surviving Madam Anya’s depravity. He closed his eyes, drawing upon his iron control, forcing all pain and regret into abeyance.
He should relinquish all thoughts of Payton Peppiwell.
A thoughtful frown settled on the duke’s face. “Are you saying you have a different reaction to her than with other women?”
“Yes.”
Calydon slowly rose and moved to stand beside him. “Do you intend to pursue her?”
Mikhail’s mind muddled. No. She had only been a dangerous anomaly, albeit intriguing. He grunted, unable to give voice to the dual need warring inside.
“Mikhail,” Sebastian said softly, a note of apology in his tone.
Mikhail braced himself against the last thing he wanted to speak. Do not mention Madam Anya.
Sebastian hesitated as if sensing his turmoil. “If you do decide to explore the interest she stirred, be kind to her.”
Mikhail clenched his jaw. He knew his cousin wanted to say more, and he appreciated the restraint. “If I did, I would not treat her unkindly.”
“Not intentionally. But we both know you will hold back a part of yourself with Payton at all times. She deserves so much more.”
Why were they even having this pointless discourse? “I would not waste my time with a pursuit. That would require me revealing my status, and I welcome solitude too much now to think of courtship.”
But what if you could endure a normal relationship?
It was as if the devil himself slinked from the bowels of hell and whispered the thought in his ear. Mikhail was almost certain he could touch the spot beneath his ear and feel temptation’s cold kiss.
Blasted hell.
What in God’s name was a normal relationship? Since his kidnapping, and sexual torture at the hands of one of Russia’s most infamous courtesans, Mikhail abhorred touch. Even when he eventually took a wife, he faced the risk of having her turn to another man for affections he could not give.
Christ. He had already experienced it with a woman he’d thought he loved. Lady Olga. He’d always recoiled from the icy pain of her grasping touch, and she’d sought another.
So why was he even thinking of taking Payton on a picnic?
The mere thought of pursuing her had emotions he’d not felt in years twisting in his gut—anxiety, dread, and electrifying excitement. He preferred to dwell in the cold void where no pain or memory of humiliation resided. But what if learning her allowed him something he’d thought he would never reclaim—the sensual glide of a lover’s touch, the press of her lips against his throat, the fan of her breath as she trailed hot kisses down to his stomach and enveloped his cock in her sublime heat, a simple hug when he was weary?
Mikhail had never suffered such a quandary.
Chapter Five
Proper young ladies did not imagine being kissed senseless, of being ravished and held in an illicit embrace by unknown gentlemen. Never had it been more evident that Payton was not proper, nor a well-bred young lady, like those who peppered the haute monde. She had fantasized about how Mikhail’s hands would feel against her bare skin, dreamed of his lips pressed softly to hers, of waltzing with him under the stars. Of what it would have been like if he had taken her in his arms and kissed her. Gently marauding or savagely ravishing?
Dear heavens.
Payton dried her hair fully and changed into a soft blue day dress, but it seemed she had not escaped a cold and fever as she had hoped. It was the only explanation for the burning curiosity that had lighted in her veins as they had played cards by the fire and now continued to torment her hours later.
The whole encounter had been so surreal, so appealing. Since living in England, this had been the first time she had gotten a glimpse of what life with an ordinary man could be like. A small cottage…well mayhap not so small, but the quiet intimacy while they lazed by the fire, talking, reading, playing chess or cards with not a care in the world.
Blast the man. He made her question the resolve to guard her heart so stringently, and he was untitled. Her family would have a fit if they could peek at Payton’s intimate thoughts, and she finally admitted she must do something about their incessant badgering her to marry. She craved something else, not a life of adventure or wealth, but one filled with calm acceptance of her abilities and passion. She had never imagined it would be so daunting to inform her mother and aunt she desired simply to marry a man of her choosing.
Lifting the pen from the inkwell, she wrote to her sister Phillipa. Payton felt as if their relationship had been strained since Lord Jensen jilted her, but Phillipa insisted it was not so. Payton knew better. Hurting, she had thoughtlessly blamed her sister for Lord Jensen’s coolness, when he was the one who had been lacking. They had since repaired their relationship, but Payton had not unwound to confide in her sister the way she had done in the past. Her embarrassment and hurt had been too profound.
Payton hoped sharing with her sister now would reaffirm the closeness they’d once had. And she also desperately wanted the counsel of someone who did not live for high society. She snatched a piece of foolscap paper from the desk drawer, placed it on the small walnut desk where she settled, and started to write.
Dearest Phillipa,
I have missed you so, sister. It has been a few weeks since we last exchanged letters. How are you and Lord Anthony? I tried to escape Mother and Aunt Florence to visit you in Baybrook, but I fear they would only follow me and ruin the idyllic and blissful time you must be enjoying with Anthony.
I have met someone
I confess I write to you now because I am in desperate need of your guidance. I met someone this morning on an early morning ride; a Mr. Mikhail Konstantinovich. The inclement weather forced us to share a cottage together, alone, for a few hours. I have never met a man so alarmingly handsome and fascinating. Though he acted gentlemanly, for the most part, the force of his presence was felt in a manner I have never encountered before. From a mere stare, my heart raced, and I ached with the need for him to press his lips to mine.
There, I have immortalized my scandalous thoughts. He has crumbled the disinterest I had formed in courtship. He is a mister, a man of affairs of sorts to Calydon, so mother and father would never approve of me walking with him, yet I desire to. The knowledge he would have no expectation of strict behavior and this ridiculous notion of ladylike propriety from me, is
so refreshing and tempting. He invited me to a picnic, and I eagerly consented. Now I doubt my actions. What would be the purpose of walking with someone our parents would never approve of? I will also admit the knowledge that I will turn twenty-one in several months has been hovering. If I were to really form an attachment with Mr. Konstantinovich I could eventually marry him without Father’s consent. I would hate to disappoint them so, and I may be getting ahead of myself. In fact, mayhap it was our unusual situation that has led me to believe he is charming.
Though I find him interesting, there is also a deeper dread slowly rearing its head. What if beneath the surface of his handsomeness he is just as callous and unfeeling as Lord Jensen? I had thought I would have only been leery of someone belonging to the haute monde, however, it seems men in general have gained my mistrust.
I fear I am rambling.
On to other news. I have started a new story which I hope to gift to the twins. I am quite aware they will not be able to read it, so please quit rolling your eyes. But when they are older, they will know this wonderful story, of a brother and sister flying on dragons to save the kingdom of Gruyn, was written for them.
I wish you and Lord Anthony would visit Sherring Cross. You are missing the twins’ rapid growth, and our dear sister Phoebe is blossoming too fast. She turns sixteen in a few weeks and she eagerly speaks of having a season. She needs your guidance as well, for we know how treacherous those waters can be. If I do not see you in the next couple of weeks, I will resolve to steal away for a visit without Mama and Aunt Florence.
