Scandal at the Midsummer Ball

by Marguerite Kaye

  It was Fergus who broke the kiss. ‘I don’t want to hurt you, Katerina.’

  ‘You won’t, Fergus. How can you? This is not the real world, it’s a little dream place we have made. On Saturday, you will return to your world and I to mine.’ She said the words as much to remind herself as to caution him. ‘You can’t hurt me, Fergus, I won’t let you. I promise.’

  * * *

  It did not occur to her that she could possibly hurt him. In many ways, she really was an innocent, Fergus thought, as he watched Katerina set out their picnic lunch on the blanket. She had taken off her close-fitting riding jacket and pushed up the full sleeves of her blouse. Wisps of her hair had come loose from her chignon. He’d likely freed them himself, when he’d been kissing her. Realising that watching her bend and stoop was hardly conducive to his recovering his dignity, he turned away to splash some icy water from the stream on to his face.

  Until today he’d never thought of his life as an officer as a performance, but in a way that’s exactly what it was. A lifetime of campaigning, of hard-kept discipline, hard-won respect and intense mess-room rivalry had taught him to keep his innermost thoughts and feelings to himself. Had he been lonely? He’d not thought so, until she’d told him of her own solitude, but he’d certainly never felt this affinity, this easy companionability, this distracting combination of simple liking and complex desire before. Then again, he’d never met anyone like Katerina before. Odd that they had so much in common, when they came from such very different worlds. Like him, Katerina had a taste for danger. When she was leaping about so fearlessly, so gracefully, on that terrifyingly high tightrope, her eyes were alight with excitement. He recognised that feeling. He remembered it well from studying battle plans, from readying his troops to enter the fray, and if he was honest, in the heat of battle too, barking orders, having to react to unfolding events at lightning speed, knowing that every second counted, that every decision mattered, that every move could mean the difference between life and death. The difference between balancing on the rope and falling.

  There was a different and equally exhilarating rush of excitement every time he looked at Katerina, dragging him into her orbit, making him want to reach for her, touch her, hold her. It was like standing on the brink, walking a different tightrope, this time between victory and defeat. She went to his head. She made him want to lose his head. He’d never felt that before, never even come close.

  * * *

  The picnic they ate consisted of a selection of Russian delicacies. ‘Monsieur Salois, the duke’s French chef, he has to prepare a Russian banquet on Friday, and he had very few authentic receipts, so I have been assisting him,’ Katerina explained. ‘I could not persuade him to let me take some of the caviar and in any event it would have been a sacrilege to eat it warm, but I hope you like fish? Here is a coulibiac.’

  ‘Your favourite, is it not?’

  ‘You remember?’

  ‘I remember everything you tell me.’

  ‘Oh. Well. Yes, it is my favourite.’ It was silly to be so touched by this. Katerina stared down at the food. ‘These are blinis, and this is knish, which is a potato dumpling. I suspect it is too much like peasant food to be served to the duke’s aristocratic guests, but monsieur was eager to experiment, so I showed him how to make them. What do you think?’

  ‘Russian delicacies, made by a Russian delicacy,’ Fergus said with a teasing smile. ‘You really made all of this?’

  ‘Not the blinis, which are far too thick but yes, of course I can cook. My mother taught me. Every Russian woman can cook.’

  ‘I’m willing to bet that not a single one of the female guests at Brockmore can so much as coddle an egg. I know my sisters can’t.’

  ‘That is because they don’t have to. We Vengarovs may be aristocrats when it comes to acrobatics, but we are not wealthy. We are proud of our heritage, but to your family, I think, we are little more than gypsies. No, don’t deny it, for it is true, Fergus, is it not?’

  He could not lie. ‘My father prizes his lands before all else. The estate, the castle, that’s where his heart is, and where my brother has been forced to locate his heart too. I’ve always been glad to be the second son, I don’t share their love for the place but—yes,’ he finished awkwardly, ‘he’d see you as rootless. He’d not understand that there are other types of dynasties to be maintained.’

  ‘You don’t need to be embarrassed,’ Katerina said, handing him a plate of beautifully arranged food, ‘my father is exactly the same. There is his way—our way—and there is no other. It is not the ownership of land which is important, it is the blood, the line, the talent.’ Katerina sipped at her wine. ‘This is good, but it is French. I doubt even a man so well connected as the Silver Fox will be able to conjure up some excellent Crimean wine to accompany the Russian dinner.’

  * * *

  After they had finished the wine, they sat in contented silence watching the trout leap for flies in the stream. As Fergus saddled the horses for the return journey, Katerina tidied away the remnants of their picnic. She did even the most mundane of tasks with such grace. Her body moved as if she were held together by wires, not bones. She could bend herself backwards, sideways and round about, yet every shape she formed was fluidly achieved. She could likely wrap herself around him and hold herself there, her legs curled around his waist, maybe her hands clasped around his neck. She could rock against him. He would cup her delightful rear, just to steady her as he slid into her. If she arched her back then, she would take him higher, and he would...

  He was hard again, dammit! Think of jumping into that stream. No, even better, remember what it was like plunging into the mountain waters of Glen Massan in the spring, when the river was full of snow-melt. Or if not cold, think of pain. The agonising blast of the musket ball when it exploded into his shoulder, the white-hot pain slicing though him when the shrapnel was removed, the persistent aching throb that had kept him awake for nights afterwards. Aye, that was working. That had done the trick.

  Fergus checked the stirrups and picked up his coat. Katerina was sliding her arms into her jacket. The movement lifted her breasts. They were small, but like the rest of her, perfectly formed. Fergus cursed himself again, but could not bring himself to look away. A few more days, and then she’d be out of his life for good. This thought, finally, resolved matters. By the time he helped her into the saddle for their homeward journey, he was thoroughly deflated in more ways than one.

  Chapter Five

  Wednesday June 18th

  Brockmore Manor House Party

  Programme of Events

  A Morning of Strawberry-Picking

  A Celebration in Honour of the

  Second Anniversary of the

  Illustrious Military Victory at Waterloo

  Wearing her robe over her flimsy tunic, Katerina slipped out of the house by a side door and set off for the practice area. The Duchess of Brockmore’s orchid house was a wooden-framed glass structure, comprised of a central block three storeys high, flanked by a low wing on either side. Though it was early, the windows had already been opened. Peeping through the central door, Katerina was drawn in by the sweet, earthy smell of the carpet of moss which acted as ground cover for the rare and precious blooms, whose heady, perfumed scent hung in the air like incense in a cathedral.

  Inside, the air was humid, the paved floor damped down with water. In the high central atrium a selection of palm trees, exotic ferns and succulents soared towards the glass ceiling like a miniature jungle. The orchids were discreetly planted in small groupings set on waist-high tables around the magnificent centrepiece. The colours were breathtaking: delicate blushing-powder-pink; impossibly fragile pale lemon; tiny icing-sugar-white clusters like constellations in the night sky; huge single blooms on mossy mounds, ranging from pale blue to speckled green and poisonous purple. Like the family portra
its on the great staircase, each was clearly labelled. The labels showed that they had been collected from the four corners of the world. Katerina was examining a grotesque black-tongued specimen when she heard the doors creak open.

  ‘What’s so dashed urgent, Brigstock?’ The voice was testy, male and vaguely familiar. ‘If we don’t catch up with the others before they reach the stable block, then they’ll have their pick of the horses. I don’t want to be lumbered with a broken-winded nag for the race tomorrow.’

  ‘I doubt very much that the Duke of Brockmore would tolerate any nags in his stables, broken-winded or otherwise,’ the other man replied witheringly. Brigstock, Earl of Jessop. Katerina remembered him now as the man who had made such a hash of both juggling and the hoops. He had absolutely no co-ordination. She could not imagine that he would have much chance of winning a horse race even if he were riding Pegasus himself. ‘Listen here, Addington, this is a bit embarrassing, but I need to ascertain your intentions regarding the Kilmun ladies.’

  ‘Well that’s easy enough to answer, old chap. Frankly I have little, if any, intentions in that direction. Blast it all, that pair have led us a merry dance from the off, and all because I happened to call Cynthia Cecily. Or Cecily Cynthia.’

  A low chuckle met this remark. ‘Once was forgivable, but three times, Addington? If you cared a jot, you’d have made an effort.’

  ‘There’s the rub, as old man Shakespeare would say. I’m not sure I can bring myself to care.’

  Katerina was feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Hidden from sight of the newcomers by the central display of palms, she was reluctant to make her presence known. Not only would she embarrass the two men, she was horribly aware that her state of relative undress might encourage them to attempt to take advantage. She had not been aware that either of them had shown more than the tiresome but ubiquitous level of male interest she had become inured to, but she preferred not to take any chances. Shrinking against the palm tree, she had no choice but to wait until they concluded their conversation.

  ‘So you’re taking yourself out of the running then?’ Brigstock asked.

  ‘I do believe I am. Which leaves you an open field, dear boy. Which filly do you wish to capture, Cecily or Cynthia—or doesn’t it matter?’

  ‘It does matter, rather a lot actually. Would it surprise you to learn that I have been able to tell the difference between the two of them since that very first day, though I’ve been at pains to keep that to myself.’

  ‘It would astonish me. Please feel free to pursue your differentiated miss, whichever one it happens to be, Brigstock. I wish you nothing but luck.’

  ‘Much obliged. But what about you, Addington? Let us not beat about the bush, we have both come here at Brockmore’s behest to make a match of it with the twins. The duke is not a man I would care to thwart. Quite the opposite. One word from him in the right ear can make or break a man.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t have to worry about me, dear boy. The duke will get his match, though not the one he planned. I’ve a mind to make Florence Canby an offer, though it’s not settled yet, so I’d be obliged if you would keep that to yourself for the time being. Now, if you’re happy we’ve cleared this little matter up, I really would like to make haste to the stables.’

  The door closed on the two men. Never mind a hothouse, this place was a positive hotbed of intrigue, Katerina thought, as she followed them out a few minutes later, making for the walled garden. The Duke of Brockmore’s schemes were clearly not all going to plan. Though some, she suspected, were closer to his heart than others. Such as those for his niece. He would be furious when Fergus informed him that particular plan had gone awry.

  Poor Fergus.

  Oh, Fergus.

  Her stomach did a little flip. Yesterday had been one of the most delightful days she had spent in a very long time. She had not planned her confession, but though it had been painful, it had left her feeling considerably better about herself. Fergus had not condemned her. On the contrary, he thought her brave. Remembering his words made her glow. It changed none of the very hard lessons she had learnt. She was still ashamed, and she still thought herself a fool, but she did not, now, blame only herself.

  Fergus. Last night, she had been unable to sleep for thinking about him. Fergus’s kiss. Fergus’s smile. Fergus’s hands on her. Touching her. Bringing her body to life, awakening her senses. Making her crave that touch more, and more, and more. She had been lonely. In the two years since her disastrous affaire, she had been wary of the most fleeting contact with any man. They wanted only one thing from her, she had thought, not realising that there were things she was missing in return. Friendship. Laughter. Understanding. Ridiculous to imagine that you could come to know someone in just a few short days, but that is exactly how she felt about Fergus. She did know him, and he understood her in ways that no one else did. He was excited by the tightrope walker, but he was as intrigued by the person behind the performer, the woman behind the artiste, as she was by the man behind the regimentals, the person not the soldier.

  Would it be so wrong to surrender to temptation, to go so far as to make love to him? Katerina shuddered. Her body had no doubts, but it was the strength of her wanting that gave her pause. Yesterday she had assured him that he could not hurt her, certain in the knowledge that whatever they felt for each other, it could mean nothing. Fergus’s extremely modest opinion of himself was patently not shared by either Wellington or Brockmore. He would fly high in society, military, diplomatic or otherwise. Well beyond the scandalous, twilight world of a tightrope performer. And so you were right, Katerina told herself firmly, Fergus cannot hurt you, because after this house party, Fergus will be out of your life.

  But until then?

  She turned the corner, past the succession houses and the pinery, into the walled garden, and there he was. Until the party was over, there could be no reason at all to deny herself what she wanted more than anything.

  * * *

  The vaulting horse was made of leather and wood, with a carved head, a silk tail, and a fixed saddle on its back, constructed with a pommel on each side. The horse’s neck had a hidden lever which could be adjusted to lie it horizontal with its back, giving the performer more room to execute his moves. Alexei had first seen a similar one in Berlin, at Friedrich Ludwig Jahn’s gymnasium, and had had his own constructed to order.

  Fergus was in his shirt and leather breeches, bare-footed, astride the vaulting horse, the neck of which had been lowered. His shirt was open at the throat, the sleeves rolled up. He was balancing on the pommels, the sinews of his arms like cords. He had obviously seen someone perform on a vaulting horse before. Slowly, he raised his legs and tried to swing over the pommel. His leg caught. He sank on to the saddle, but only a few seconds later he tried again, and got halfway round. He had his back to her now. She could see his shoulder muscles straining as he raised himself up and tried again, but once again his leg caught. Brow furrowed, arms shaking, he tried once more and slowly managed a full circle.

  Katerina burst into applause.

  His head jerked up. A smile lit his face. His eyes were so very blue. ‘This is a private area,’ he said in a fair imitation of her own accented English, in her own words from that first day. ‘You should not be here.’

  ‘I was looking for Keaton, the gardener,’ Katerina teased.

  Fergus jumped down from the vault. ‘Would you like me to fetch him?’

  His smile was making her heart do somersaults. She pretended to consider it, then shook her head. ‘I will make do with your company, I think.’

  ‘Because any company is better than none?’

  His shirt clung to his chest. She could see the dark circles of his nipples. She reached up to smooth back his rebellious kink of hair. She leaned into him. Sweat, the leather from the pommels, soap. Her hand slid down to stroke his cheek. ‘Because your co
mpany is superior to any other,’ Katerina said.

  He hesitated for only an instant before pulling her into his arms and kissing her roughly. Without hesitation, she kissed him back, clinging to his damp body, pressing herself urgently against him. His kisses were hungry, his hands moulding her to him, roaming over her back, cupping her bottom, his mouth hot on hers. Heat swamped her. She was mindless with desire, wanting only more, ever more. Her back was pressed against the vaulting horse now. Her hands were tearing at Fergus’s shirt, feverishly seeking skin. Hot skin. Skin that rippled under her touch, the muscles beneath tensing. There was a deep gouge on his shoulder. His Waterloo wound. There was another ridge of a scar on his belly. Her robe was open. Fergus kissed her neck, the swell of her breasts in the vee of her tunic. Her heart was racing. His hands slid up her flanks, her waist, to cup her breasts. Her nipples were hard. His thumbs stroked them, making them tauten further, making her moan, sending heat sparking out, down, through her body.

  She felt as if she were flying through the air. She felt as if she was only just maintaining her balance. His arousal was pressed firmly against her belly. She stood on her tiptoes, wanting it to press lower, to where she ached and throbbed. He put his hands around her waist and lifted her on to the vault, which was set low for practice, seating her sideways in the saddle, dipping his head to take one of her nipples in his mouth, through the soft fabric of her practice tunic. Katerina caught at his shoulders, wrapping her legs around his waist. He groaned. His mouth sought out hers again, his hands claimed her breasts, and their kisses made her head spin, as it did when she looked down from the most vertiginous rope. Everything inside her tensed, clenched with the effort of preventing herself from tumbling to earth, back to reality, or perhaps with the effort of willing herself to let go and soar on wings of desire. Which, she neither knew nor cared.