She’d been married almost fourteen years to the day when her husband, Frederick, had died back in 1823, which was now seven years ago. Lord Stone had gone to sleep one night in his room and had never woken up. Despite the fact that she had grudgingly learned to love him in her own way, she lived every day of those fourteen years knowing she had married him for his money and that he had married her for her youth and her beauty.
It didn’t make for a good marriage.
Sex was scheduled. It occurred every Monday and Friday evening. If the man wasn’t busy or tired. Sometimes, she climaxed, but only when and if he put effort into it. All too many times, she learned to lay on her back, thinking about nothing in particular until he was done. He would then roll off, pat her cheek in thanks, shrug on his robe and plod back to his room. He never embraced her after the act. Nor did he ever stay in her bed to sleep. He thought it was in poor taste for a man to display any form of affection, even behind closed doors. She quickly mastered the art of using her fingers and would wantonly imagine she was being ravaged by one of her good-looking male neighbors.
Though Frederick travelled extensively prior to their marriage, he never held any interest in letting her or the children see much of the world. Going up into Scotland was considered worldwide travelling for their family. His sole interest had been collecting antiquities, attending parliament sessions during debates and taking long walks. Alone. Always alone. He spent time with her and the children only when it suited him. Which wasn’t often.
He did, however, let her buy whatever she wanted. In fact, he encouraged it because it was his way of making up for being so morbidly removed. She therefore spent a lot of time shopping with her children and together they always delivered bountiful weekly boxes of items to countless charities throughout London. It made for a rather uneventful life spent solely in shops and…well, shops.
Such was the bane of marrying a man for money. One had everything yet nothing.
Adjusting his coat, Mr. Levin smoothed out the fabric of his trousers against his knee and flicked his gaze to the window. “We are slowing. Are you getting off with me?”
“I most certainly won’t be travelling on to find out who my ‘brother with the doctor’ is,” she chided.
He smirked. “’Tis good to know you have a sense of humor about this.”
She sighed. “Panicking certainly never served me well.”
“It never serves anyone well. Chin up. We will find your son.”
The driver called out something in Russian and the carriage slowed, tugged and pulled until it clattered to a complete halt.
Silence now pulsed around them.
Mr. Levin swiped up his wool cap from the frayed upholstered seat, tugged it onto his head and grabbed up her reticule, shoving into his coat pocket. Opening the door with his shoulder and weight until it swung out, he jumped down from the coach with a resounding thud of leather boots crunching into gravel, turned and snapped out a large hand. “Our connecting coach into Saint Petersburg does not arrive for another two days. There is a small inn down the road. You and I can share a room until the coach comes in. I will pay for it.”
She tightened her hold on her shawl at the thought of sharing a room for two nights with a good-looking Russian she just met. In all her forty years, she had never strayed. As a mother to four children, she had gone above and beyond ensuring no man, especially her cousin, stepped anywhere near their lives after the death of her husband. Her children came first. And even though she had considered taking a lover, for she did get lonely, she had this irrational fear her children would somehow pick the lock at night and walk in on her doing things with men she shouldn’t.
Her fingers dug into the softness of her cashmere shawl. If she didn’t ask for a separate room she knew she would end up doing things with him. Because those green eyes made her want to shove him against a wall and show him how dangerous a deprived woman could be. “Might I ask for a separate room, Mr. Levin?”
He shifted from boot to boot, still holding out his hand. “I would offer, but my funds are limited until I get to London.”
She gaped. So much for escaping him. “London? Why are you going to London?”
He paused. “I plan to live there for a small while until I decide what to do next. Why do you ask?”
What if people found out about their association and that she had shared a room with him in Russia? Regardless of what did or did not happen, she’d be lynched by all of society. And her daughters, who were a tender thirteen, fifteen and sixteen, would never see the respectable debuts they deserved. She couldn’t breathe. “Mr. Levin. I live in London.”
“Do you?” He sounded as pleased as he was surprised. He shifted closer, his travelling coat opening wider. “How do you like it there?”
He clearly didn’t understand. “I am asking for a separate room. Please.”
He dropped his hand to his side. “As much as I would like to oblige, Lady Stone, I cannot afford two separate rooms for two nights. I barely have enough to get me into England and I still have to purchase food for you and myself over these next two days and buy us fares into Saint Petersburg.” He leaned forward and draped an arm against the open door of the coach. “I can give you the room whilst I sleep in the corridor at night. Would that be acceptable?”
She wasn’t about to let him pay for the room and then have him sleep in the corridor. Oh, dear. “There is no need for you to sleep in the corridor on my account. You and I will manage.” Somehow. “All I ask is that you not speak of this to anyone whilst in London.”
“I will tell no one. I consider myself to be a gentleman.” Pushing away from the door, he held out his hand again. “Allow me to assist you from the coach.”
He certainly did appear to be a gentleman. It was astonishing. A woman would never know it given his lack of cravat, the size of that dagger and his unshaven face. “Thank you, Mr. Levin.” She rose, gathering her skirts from around her booted feet and lowered her head through the opening of the coach.
He grabbed her hand, his rough heat penetrating the coolness of her skin. He paused, his fingers skimming her inner palm. “Your hand is cold.”
“Is it?” She hadn’t noticed. Not with him around.
The pads of his fingers pressed into her skin. He brought his other hand up and covered it, rubbing her entire hand between both of his large ones in an effort to give it warmth. “I am assuming your gloves were stolen along with everything else. I have gloves in my satchel. Do you want them?”
The strength and heat of those long fingers penetrated her to the bone. She could only imagine what the man could do with those fingers in a bed. She needed to go to church. “No, thank you.” She quickly descended the narrow, iron steps and landed onto the gravel path, away from a large patch of mud. She tugged her hand loose, trying to focus.
He turned and climbed up onto the back of the coach, retrieving a large wool satchel. Draping it onto his broad shoulder, he jumped down, strode toward her and grabbed her hand back as if it were his to grab.
Startled, she tried to tug her hand loose but his fingers were too strong. “What are you—”
“It will keep your hand warm and ensure every man knows you cannot be accosted.” He smiled down at her, wove his heated fingers effortlessly between hers and clasped them snugly against his own.
A part of her soul liquefied. Her husband had never held her hand for the sake of warming it or for the sake of anything else. They’d never had that sort of relationship.
She glanced up at Mr. Levin, scrambling to keep up with his long-legged stride, while still holding his hand. Girlish though it was, she liked the attention. It was…sweet.
He kept walking, his thumb now skimming her palm.
Her eyes widened. Why was she, a titled lady of forty, permitting this? “We really shouldn’t be holding hands,” she said rather stupidly. “It isn’t proper.”
He eyed her. “I agree.” He released her and shoved his hands into his coat pocket
s. Still striding alongside her toward a shadowed, stone building lit by lanterns that lined the wide road, he gruffly said, “You have very soft hands. Do you know that?”
She bit her lip hard. This had trouble slapped all over it.
Once the room had been paid for and a brass key was in his pocket, Konstantin strode across the dirt-pounded floor of the dilapidated lobby toward Lady Stone. She lingered by the narrow staircase leading to their lodging, scanning the brusque men around them. Men who boisterously spoke in Russian to each other across the lobby in between splashing gulps of ale and vodka that spilled from the tankards they staggered around with.
She seemed surprised. Little did she know, Russians were known to stay up all night and drink, whether they were travelling or not.
Konstantin continued to watch her. It was the first time he’d seen her in full light. She was stunning. Her travelling gown was sumptuous with all that expensive velvet and was hooked up to her chin in a refined elegance that made him want to whistle. She was curvaceous and tall. Being a touch over six feet himself, he’d never met a woman who reached his own nose. Yet she did. Her thick, dark brown hair was primly pinned up into a chignon that had grown lopsided from hours of sleep.
It didn’t make her any less attractive.
From the moment she and that expensive perfume of hers had nestled into his lap hours earlier, he had a strange, glimmering feeling they were going to imprint their breaths on each other. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt very protective of her. Like she was already his.
It was why he’d taken her hand.
And then there was the subject of the Glorious Midnight Bane. He wondered what meeting her at midnight could possibly mean. Konstantin tightened his jaw and refused to think about it. All he knew was that she needed a hero, and after too many years of being a criminal, he was more than ready to play the role of a hero to a beautiful woman who thought he was nothing more than a respectable man.
It was nice.
He approached Lady Stone.
She turned, and adjusting the shawl around her cloak, skimmed his appearance from chest to boots without any attempt to conceal her interest in his physique.
His chest tightened, knowing that look all too well. The last time a woman gave him a look like that, he’d been left unconscious and bleeding on the floor. He had to avoid a repeat of that.
Konstantin strode up to the steep, wooden staircase and leaned against the unevenly nailed railing. “The innkeeper mentioned there was a sizable bathhouse in the courtyard. Would you like hot water prepared for you before you retire? It would be no extra cost to us.”
Her pink, full lips pursed in due seriousness. “I’m exhausted. But tomorrow morning I will certainly take advantage of the offer.”
“Consider it done. We ought to retire. ’Tis late.” He pushed away from the railing and swept an open hand toward the stairs. “After you.”
“Thank you.” She breezed past, filling the air once again with expensive perfume that reminded him of a cinnamon-tinged rose. It was a scent that suited her. Reserved but spicy. She gathered her dark green velvet travelling gown and stiffly made her way up the staircase, her cloak bundling around her arms.
Konstantin gripped the wood banister and followed her. He tried not to assess her bum hidden beneath the layers of those heavy skirts but the full curve of those hips accentuated by a well-synched corset kept taunting him. It was difficult to believe she had a twenty-one-year-old son and three daughters. Her son was only nine years younger than him. When she had been a woman of twenty, he’d been a boy of ten.
He was a very bad man.
Once on the landing, he focused on getting to the room.
Reaching a narrow door with the number 12 crookedly painted with red on its wooden surface, he dug into his pocket for the key and adjusted the sack on his shoulder. With the turn of his wrist, Konstantin kicked out a booted foot, thrusting the door out of their way.
He swept a gallant hand toward the open door. “After you.”
She hesitated and then walked into the small room, her gown rustling past his booted feet.
He entered after her and pushed the oak door shut. Dropping the sack from his shoulder, he kicked it off to the side and leaned heavily against the panel. He paused. He could feel his watch shifting against the inside of his pocket. It was telling him something. What exactly, he was uncertain of.
She dragged her shawl up to her chin and turned toward the narrow bed.
Fitting two people on that bed for a night of sleep would require vast imagination. Which meant only one of them was getting the bed. So much for sleep. Or anything else. Not that she would entertain the idea of anything else. She was a lady.
Pushing away from the door in exasperation, he thumbed at the wool sack. “I have clean clothing in my travelling bag. You can borrow one of my linen shirts to sleep in.”
She smoothed her hands against the thick, velvet skirts of her travelling gown. “I will be fine sleeping in this. Thank you.” She removed her cloak and shawl and surveyed the small room that was barely a few strides wide.
At least it had a small hearth.
He knew the woman was used to far better lodgings. She was an aristocrat. The scraped oak timbers that lined the walls and the low ceiling of the room was overly rustic for a woman dressed in velvet and cashmere. And the moment she crawled into that bed, her body would quickly realize the tick was stuffed with rough straw, not plush feathers.
Why couldn’t he have had enough money to impress the woman with her own room? More importantly, why couldn’t he have met the woman after his crowned glory of one hundred thousand? “I apologize that the lodgings are a bit rough,” he finally said.
She draped her cloak and shawl onto the bed, her features softening. “There is no need to apologize, Mr. Levin. I am incredibly grateful to have a place to sleep.”
Those dark eyes were so stunning when she softened. They became warm-liquored and soulful and hinted at a different woman hidden beneath. One who enjoyed nestling against a man during cold winter nights. He liked women who nestled. “You have very pretty eyes.”
She lowered her gaze with a half-smile. “Thank you.”
He was beginning to ramble like a fourteen-year-old boy meeting a pretty girl. Shifting his jaw, he placed his right hand onto the rosewood handle of the dagger attached at his waist. “Are you hungry? I have some dried peaches and apples in my sack.”
“No thank you.” Her eyes darted to where his hand was. “Do you always carry a weapon?” she inquired.
“Yes.” He paused, realizing he probably shouldn’t have admitted that. It represented his old life and not the one he was embracing. Still, he did know women liked a man who knew how to handle a weapon. He casually removed his leather belt and tried not to vaunt. “As my father used to say, Russia has no saints.”
He carried the belt and dagger over to the small, lopsided side table beside the bed and set it down with a clatter. The side table wobbled in protest. He inwardly winced, realizing just how awful the accommodations really were and stilled the table with a hand. He turned back to her and drawled, “Let us hope the ceiling holds up, yes?”
A bubble of a laugh escaped her. “It isn’t all that bad.”
“No, I suppose not,” he muttered, glancing around. “I have seen worse.” He scuffed the bottom heel of his boot across the uneven floors. “At least it appears clean. And fortunately, there is no sign of roaches. Yet.”
She froze, a look of horror tightening her pale face. She glanced at the floors and looked as if she might leap into his arms at the sight of anything with an antenna.
He probably shouldn’t have said anything. Not that he would mind her leaping into his arms. “Roaches are annoying but harmless.”
She hesitated and then politely offered, “I suppose once we close our eyes, it will be no different than closing one’s eyes in a hotel in Paris.”
He bit back a smile, liking how unpretentious she was. The
re was clearly more to her than a pretty face and a pretty gown. “I take it you have been to Paris?”
She shook her head. “Not yet. But I do have a trip planned. Have you ever been?”
He shook his head. “My finances have never really allowed for it. But I intend to travel there sometime next year. Around June.” After he settled into his one hundred thousand.
She paused. “I plan on travelling to Paris next year in June, as well.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
It was like they were asking each other whether Paris was next.
He quickly removed his coat and tossed it to the wooden chair by the door. He also removed his waistcoat and tossed that as well. “We should sleep.” Or something like that.
“Yes. We should.” She turned and sat on the edge of the bed, reaching down. After a few attempts of swatting toward her shoes, she let out a breath and sat up. “Could you please assist me in removing my boots, Mr. Levin? I would do it myself but I cannot bend at the waist.”
This could get dangerous. He adjusted his linen shirt, reminding himself only her boots were coming off, and rounded toward the bed. He knelt before her. “Allow me.” He wagged a hand toward her.
She gingerly stuck out one booted foot.
He gently grabbed her ankle. Pushing up a section of her velvet skirt away from those feet, he loosened the fastening on each black leather half-boot. He made a valiant attempt not to notice anything other than her stockings were snow white and made out of silk. And that she had incredibly shapely calves. And that her ankles were slender enough for him to ring his entire hand around them.
His calloused fingers grazed the smooth softness of those stockings as he removed the first boot. The luxurious feel made his chest and his entire body tighten. And that was just the stockings. He removed her other boot and tightly smiled up at her, trying to assure her he wasn’t taking liberties. Even though he was.
She slid her hands across her skirts and also smiled. That smile was warm and far more inviting than he had expected.
Romancing Lady Stone (A School of Gallantry Novella) Page 4
