Romancing Lady Stone (A School of Gallantry Novella)

by Delilah Marvelle

  “Destiny. And that love can go beyond death.” A breath escaped him. “My father eventually moved on, many, many years later, and married my mother, but even my mother often told me that the largest part of my father’s soul always belonged to Miss Bane. My mother simply learned to live with it. Apparently, my mother lost every child during the first five years of their marriage until I was born. Unlike the others, I chose to arrive into the world during the annual festival of Maslenitsa at exactly four minutes to midnight. Eerily, it was the same festival and hour my father had met Miss Bane. It haunted him. Growing up, I could sense whenever he looked at me, he expected me to announce that Miss Bane sent me with a message.”

  He fingered her skin gently. “My father and I were very close. I idolized him. Despite his profession, he was a very good man. He taught me everything. From pulling out a chair for a lady to breaking a man’s nose.” He nodded. “He always claimed incredible things happened at midnight and that I was proof of it.” His voice cracked. “Deny it as I may, you and I met at midnight when you opened your eyes to me for the first time.” He slid his hand down her back. “’Tis fairly obvious what Miss Bane and destiny has in mind for us.”

  Her heart squeezed.

  He tightened his hold on her. “As my father always used to say, even if you do not believe in destiny, you will in time. Because everything happens for a reason. Which means, we will not be able to escape whatever destiny has planned. Even if we want to.”

  She pressed herself harder against Konstantin, closing her eyes in an effort to memorize the sound of his heart and the feel of his skin against her own. In that moment, she wanted to believe destiny was real and that nothing would keep them apart. Even though she knew, once they were both in London, everything would.

  The following morning

  Life had become so bizarrely perfect. It made a man wonder if something was about to go wrong. Not that it would. He had destiny and midnight on his side.

  He stretched himself fully awake and dragged Cecilia’s warmth closer against his own body. He kissed the curve of her throat, noticing he left amorous marks all over her skin. Half of which he didn’t even remember making. It was a long night. “’Tis morning,” he murmured against her skin, trying to wake her up. “We should peer in on the time. Our stagecoach leaves at noon.”

  She stirred and suddenly tightened her hold on him, digging her chin into the crook of his arm as if unwilling to let go.

  He nuzzled her throat again before slipping his arms out from around her. He sat up. “We should get dressed.”

  “No. Wait.” She scrambled up and out of bed, her bare feet thudding against the floorboards. She turned toward him, completely naked and announced, “I need you to dance with me. Before we do anything else.”

  His brows rose as he perused her nudity. “I think I have corrupted you beyond measure.”

  She leaned over the bed and grabbed at his bare arm, shaking it. “I once read that the women in France dance in the arms of their lovers naked. I want to try it.”

  He never saw this coming. Not from her. Pushing himself off the bed, he landed before her naked and held out his arms. “If it were any other woman, I would have said no.”

  She grinned. “Thank goodness I’m not any other woman.” She reached up and primly set one hand on his shoulder and took his hand into hers and pressed herself close.

  He lowered his gaze to her face, trying to focus on her and not that they were naked. He curved his other hand around her waist and set it against the middle of her smooth back. Dragging in a breath, he whisked her to their right and felt his cock swing with it. He cringed. “Pardon my friend.”

  She giggled. “It’s incredibly awkward dancing naked, isn’t it?”

  “Very. It loses its grace. Clothes keep everything in place.”

  “Why do you think the French do it?”

  He smiled. “Maybe we should go to Paris and ask them.”

  They turned and stepped as if dancing to music.

  Cecilia searched his face, tightening her hold on his hand and shoulder, her long dark hair swaying against their movements over her bare shoulders. “You make me want to dance naked, Konstantin. Do you know that?”

  His lips parted as he continued to quietly dance with her around the room, their bare feet now being the only sound. It was a moment that he, as a man, would remember for the rest of his days.

  This was not the same, panic-stricken woman he’d first met.

  This was a woman who had discovered she had been in control all along.

  “When you get back from Russia,” he murmured down at her. “I will take you to the best restaurants in London to make up for the lack of meals I subjected you to. I would also love to attend an opera with you. Is that something your girls would be interested in doing with us?”

  She glanced up at him, her features flickering with unreadable emotion. She brought them to a halt.

  He paused. “What is it?”

  She lowered her gaze, her fingers trailing down his arms, toward his chest. “The rules in London are different for a woman of my standing. I…I have a responsibility to my name. There are, however, quiet inns on the outskirts of London where we could meet on a weekly basis.” She paused. “It would be the only way I could see you.”

  He inhaled and exhaled. That hurt. More than he expected it to. He released her and rigidly stepped back. Why had he stupidly believed a woman willing to argue with him about whether he slept in a chair or whether he ate enough stew, would be willing to argue with the rest of world in his name? He held her gaze. “Maybe we should end this. Whilst we can.”

  Her features twisted. “No, I—”

  He grabbed up the linen and tossed it at her. “Cover yourself.”

  She fumbled with the linen. “Konstantin—”

  “I am done feeling like a criminal in all aspects of my life. I have to build something for myself, Cecilia. Something I have never allowed myself to do given the way I was raised. My financial circumstances have changed, and with it, an opportunity to do more with my life. I haven’t told you, but when I get to London, I will be worth more than any man in your circle. I will be wealthy and be able to afford everything and anything I want.”

  She clutched the linen.

  “I rescued a good man who is being overly generous.” He braced himself. “I have enjoyed our time together and I want to get to know you more. Am I asking too much too soon?”

  A breath escaped her. She raked her long hair away from her face with both hands and groaned. “London isn’t like Russia, Konstantin. I have to think about my daughters. People would judge them if we became publicly involved. It would be a mess.”

  His eyes burned hearing her say it. “I understand.” He didn’t. “I want more and you want less.”

  She pressed her hand against her mouth. “You are going to make me cry.”

  He didn’t look at her. “I would rather you not.”

  She grew quiet.

  If only she would fight for him. If only. He would have astounded her by giving her the world. “We have a stagecoach to board.” He pushed out a breath, walked past her and grabbed up his trousers from the floor, yanking them on. Buttoning his trousers, he stalked over to the chair, knowing he had to check the time. Digging into the inner pocket of his coat, he dragged out his watch and flipped open the silver lid.

  He froze. In the name of God. It was almost a quarter to noon. “Get dressed. The coach leaves in twenty minutes. And if we do not board it, we are stranded here for another week.”

  She stumbled against the linen and scrambled over to her clothing draped on the other chair before the hearth. Dropping the linen, she fumbled to get her chemise on but only flailed.

  He skidded over to her clothing and started grabbing it piece by piece. He tugged her chemise down to help her.

  She glanced back at him from over her shoulder. “I know everything happened so quickly between us, but—”

  “There is no nee
d to say anything more. It is what it is. Now hold still and let me focus.” He couldn’t have her talking. He just couldn’t.

  He adjusted the corset onto her body, bringing it together and laced it as fast as he could. At one point, he finally stopped thinking and did what he needed to do to get her and him dressed. So she could become a lady again. And he could become the male commoner with a criminal past who had stupidly forgotten to remember that despite his impending one hundred thousand, he was only as good as his muddy boots.

  An hour later

  She knew she should have sat by the window.

  Pressed in between two young females with straw bonnets tied over their braided heads, who kept adjusting and re-adjusting their overly large twig baskets filled with their belongings, Cecilia let out a soft breath. She tried to ignore that each basket dug into each of her thighs through her gown.

  The sway of the stagecoach and the constant clattering of wheels were also giving Cecilia a nauseating headache. All she could think about was that she was already pregnant. Never mind how it came about, or what people would do or say, another babe was not exactly what she had in mind for herself at forty.

  It was mind rattling. Since her husband’s death, she had done nothing but tend to her children and their lives. Not once had she actually considered commencing life anew for herself with the sort of man she really wanted. Tightening her hold on her empty beaded reticule, which in her opinion, was now merely vanity, she veered her gaze to Konstantin.

  He sat wedged between two much shorter men in the seat opposite her own, his wool cap slung low over his forehead. He stared out grudgingly toward the windows as passing muddy fields and budding trees blurred by.

  She regretted hurting him by proposing he was only worth midnight visits.

  But there was no setting aside the truth. He wasn’t the sort of man she could introduce to her circle. She didn’t care what it would do to her and her name. But she did have her girls to think about. Her Giselle would have her coming out in two years.

  One of the young women beside her, who couldn’t have been more than nineteen, shifted, digging the twig basket into Cecilia’s thigh even harder.

  Cecilia winced against the sharp, twisting poke.

  The young blonde paused and glanced toward Konstantin with large blue eyes, her ungloved fingers tightening around the basket. She pinched her lips, quietly observing him. After a long moment, Cecilia noted with a quick sidelong glance, the woman had tugged her shawl down and away from her shoulders to better display her calico gown and her décolletage.

  Cecilia tightened her lips.

  The young woman sat up a touch higher on the seat, bumping Cecilia with the basket again and continued to pertly watch Konstantin as if hoping he would notice her. She tugged down her décolletage a touch lower, to better showcase the upper curve of her breasts.

  Cecilia considered taking the woman’s basket and pulling it over that braided head. But that, of course, would have been something her daughters would have done.

  Konstantin paused and glanced toward the woman, as if sensing he was being watched.

  The young woman smiled brightly.

  Konstantin inclined his head but said nothing.

  Still smiling, the young woman casually rummaged through her large basket, saying something to the other female beside Cecilia.

  The other young woman, who also couldn’t have been more than nineteen, responded with a flurry of Russian and rummaged through her own basket set on her lap.

  Six hours of this was going to kill her.

  Yarn and wooden needles were pulled out in rehearsed unison. It was as if these two were about to demonstrate their household skills before a man.

  They blithely chatted a bit louder than what was necessary and stretched the wool yarn with long arm movements that nudged and shook Cecilia as they wound up spiraling yarn that kept falling toward the floor.

  All Cecilia could see was yarn and hands, yarn and hands.

  Soon, it was all over their baskets, their hands and the floor of the carriage.

  Two of the other men in the stagecoach, along with Konstantin, now stared.

  The young blonde panicked and tried to gather everything that had fallen. It only unraveled more.

  In exasperation, Cecilia glanced toward each of the young women. They reminded her of herself at their age. Wanting so desperately to impress the right man but unable to. It would seem no matter what country a woman was in, the problems were all the same.

  Setting her reticule onto her lap with a sigh, Cecilia reached over to the blonde beside her in a motherly attempt to help the poor girl. Cecilia tugged the half-unraveled bundled from the girl’s hands and expertly wound the entire yarn back onto its bundle.

  The young woman paused and watched Cecilia. Within moments, Cecilia was done. She handed it back to the blonde and then grabbed up the brunette’s unraveled bundle and wound that one, too, before handing it back.

  Konstantin shifted hard in the seat across from them.

  Cecilia snapped her gaze toward him.

  He stared, his green eyes holding hers.

  Her stomach flipped knowing he’d been watching her.

  The young blonde sat up. As if having finally found her opportunity, she quickly leaned forward in her seat and asked Konstantin something.

  Konstantin paused and also leaned forward, answering her in a husky tone.

  Cecilia gripped her reticule hard. In that moment, she realized something God awful. That she, Lady Cecilia Evangeline Stone, was actually jealous of a nineteen-year-old girl. It was stupid and it was wrong. She considered herself well-balanced in mind and in character. But apparently, she was neither. And why would she be? She had allowed a man to take over her body and her mind within a few short breaths of meeting him. What rational woman did that?

  The blonde glanced toward Cecilia and quietly commenced knitting.

  Cecilia gripped her reticule even harder. She was being discussed. She knew it. “What did she say?”

  Konstantin leaned back against the seat between the two shorter men who were reading newspapers. Intently searching Cecilia’s face, he said, “She asked if you were my mother.” With that, he slung his cap low, hiding his eyes and pretended to go to sleep without announcing what his reply was to the girl.

  Cecilia almost flung her reticule at him from where she sat, but knew he wasn’t to blame for any of this. She was. And fight it though she may, deep in her heart she knew she wasn’t ready to let him go. She had never fought for anything but herself and her girls and her son. But maybe it was time to change that. Maybe it was time to become the sort of woman she had always wanted to be and not the sort of woman society expected her to be.

  Saint Petersburg

  Evening

  As the stagecoach pulled up to the crowded gas lit theatre where Konstantin knew it was the best place to inquire about her son, Konstantin glanced toward the now empty seats where Cecilia still slept, tucked into the corner of the upholstered seat in exhaustion.

  His chest tightened. They had hardly spoken more than a few superficial words during travel. With so many people in the carriage, it had been difficult.

  Knowing she needed to rest after sitting seven full hours between two chatty young women who had talked the entire way, he exited the coach quietly.

  Once outside, Konstantin leaned toward the driver. “I will pay our fare in full upon my return. I ask that you please let her sleep. I will return shortly.”

  The driver inclined his head. “I will wait here and ensure no one gets on the coach. The amount due to me, sir, is thirty rubles.”

  “Thank you. I will return shortly.” Konstantin adjusted his coat and blowing out a breath, jogged through the gathering crowds that led into the theatre. Painted posters of Miss Katerinochkin seductively peering out from a red velvet curtain were plastered on every wall. He was relieved there was a performance happening tonight. He’d most likely be able to locate Cecilia’s son sooner
with Miss Katerinochkin about. He veered past others and strode toward the vast entryway leading inside.

  Walking into the lamp-lit quarters of the carpeted theatre, the strong, tangy smell of cigars and the heavy scent of mulled wine greeted him as men and women of all caliber lingered in the main entrance, waiting admittance into their assigned boxes or seats. His eyes darted over to a balding man dressed in a black buttoned coat and an overly starched white cravat who sat behind an open glass window leading into a small secretarial room. The man was gathering papers scattered before him and filling mail slots beside him.

  “Good-evening, sir,” he called out, quickly approaching. “I require assistance.”

  “Of course,” the balding man declared. “How might I be of service to you, sir?”

  Konstantin removed his wool cap, smoothing the sides of his hair and leaned against the ledge of the open window. “I am looking for a gentleman by the name of Lord Stone. Would you happen to know anything of his whereabouts? From my understanding, he and—”

  “Do you have an appointment?” The man lifted both bushy brows.

  “An appointment? What do I need an appointment for?”

  “To see Lord Stone, of course. So you may discuss whatever business you may have.”

  Konstantin blinked. “The man is actually here? In the theatre?”

  “Yes, sir. He is always here during performances.”

  Thank God. “Can I see him?”

  “If you have no appointment, it is best you arrange for one.” He grabbed a ledger. After scanning its pages, he dipped a quill into ink. “He is available in two weeks. May 15th. Thursday.”

  “Two weeks? No. I need to see him now.”

  The man sighed and lowered the quill. “Please try to understand that with him being the owner of the theatre, his lordship is incredibly occupied.”

  Owner of the theatre? Holy— Owning a theatre was ludicrously expensive. Apparently, Cecilia had married well. Though she somehow failed to mention her son owned the theatre.

  “His mother needs to see him at once. Might I speak to him?”