Her Cheyenne Warrior (Harlequin Historical)
Page 26
‘It may be that my niece finds the heat trying,’ the duke said stiffly, for the affront was clearly deliberate. ‘I am sure she did not intend to be rude.’
‘Indeed not,’ Fergus said tightly. ‘I am sure that if Lady Verity intended to be rude she would make a better fist of it than a mere flounce.’
‘Touché, Colonel Kennedy,’ the duchess said with a forced smile. ‘Now, who else would you like to be introduced to?’
He had already met the one person he’d come here to meet, and it had been a far from auspicious beginning. His nerves had given way to a horrible flat feeling, as if he’d been waiting all day to confront an enemy who did not show up. Not that Lady Verity was the enemy—though dammit, she had appeared more enemy than ally.
One of the many lessons Wellington had taught him was that on occasion it was prudent to beat a strategic retreat and regroup. ‘Thank you,’ Fergus replied, making his bow, ‘but I’m finding the unseasonable heat a little oppressive myself. If you will excuse me, I think I will retire outside momentarily for some fresh air.’
* * *
The sun blazed down from a cloudless, azure sky. Fergus glanced at the handy little map he’d found in his bedchamber—another example of the Duke of Brockmore’s legendary attention to detail—and reckoned he was at the top of the steps leading down to the South Lawn. Sure enough, the waters of the ornamental lake glinted in the distance. It would be much cooler there. He’d be tempted to wander down, were it not for the fact that he’d be spotted from the drawing-room windows.
He descended from the terrace to a lawn so perfect he reckoned the Duke of Brockmore’s gardeners must have trimmed it with grape scissors. Behind him, the house itself seemed to glitter in the sunshine, looking as if it was constructed from spun sugar. The beauty of the country mansion could not be denied, with its pleasing symmetry, its surprising lack of ostentation. It reminded him of an Italian palazzo he’d been billeted in once. He couldn’t remember where, but he did remember it was summer, like this, and the marble floors had been blissfully cool on his feet, which were aching and blistered from long days of marching. There had been a lake there too, where he’d swum.
And there had been a woman. Fergus smiled. There had been a good many women back in those days, and a good many wild parties too, when they were not fighting wild battles. Though he did not forget the tedium of endless drills and weeks of tense waiting, though he did not wish to relive the horrors of the aftermath of battle, he missed—oh, how he missed—the excitement, and the danger, and the thrill, the desire to make the most of every single day, knowing it might well be his last. His smile faded. Those days were most definitely long gone. He tried to conjure the elation he’d felt when he’d first heard about the Egypt posting, but that awkward moment with the woman he would have to share his future with made his doubts surface once more. He couldn’t afford to have doubts.
The formal gardens were laid out on the right-hand side of the house. There was a maze there. He’d be sure of some privacy in the maze, but his thoughts already contained enough dead ends and wrong turnings to be going on with. Instead he took the left-hand path, which his plan informed him led to the kitchen gardens.
Deciding that he could risk some concession to the heat, Fergus shrugged himself out of his dark-blue coat with some relief. Why was it that fashion went hand in hand with discomfort? He tugged longingly at his starched neckcloth, but knowing he’d only have to re-tie the blasted thing before returning to the drawing room, contented himself with rolling up his shirtsleeves.
Peering curiously into the Duchess of Brockmore’s famous Orchid House was like opening an oven. Hastily closing the door, Fergus decided against an investigation of the pinery and the huge succession house where reputedly grew the largest vine in England.
The stone archway in front of him must lead to the walled garden. Sure enough, neat vegetable plots vibrant with greenery took up most of the available space. Precisely pruned peach and apricot trees fanned against the walls, and regimented ranks of raspberry and gooseberry canes filled one sunny corner. In the centre of the garden, on the large rectangle of lawn, stood two tall poles with a thick rope strung between them. And on the rope, improbably, dressed in a tiny tunic, balanced a woman.
Fergus drew back against the archway out of the line of her sight. She was slim, slight in stature, but the flimsy fabric she wore revealed a lithe and extremely supple body, with shapely legs and slender, elegant feet clinging to the rope. Her hair was auburn. Her skin, in contrast, was creamy white. She moved expertly and fluidly along the rope, her arms spread wide, as if she were about to fly.
He watched, fascinated, as she balanced, first on one leg and then on the other, traversing the length of the rope before, to his astonishment, she leapt high into the air, executed a perfect, graceful somersault in impossibly slow motion, and landed soft as a cat on the grass. Bouncing back to her feet, she tumbled over and over in a series of one-handed cartwheels so fast that her body was a blur of cream and auburn, until she came to an abrupt halt and finished with a theatrically flourishing bow. Fergus could not resist giving her a round of applause.
Startled, she glared fiercely at him. Her eyes were emerald green, her heart-shaped face flushed. ‘This is a private area,’ she said in heavily accented English. ‘The Duke of Brockmore assured us that we would not be disturbed. Mr Keaton, the head gardener, has instructed his men to work elsewhere. Though you,’ she said, raising one brow and giving him the faintest of smiles, ‘I do not think that you are an under-gardener?’
He made an elaborate bow. ‘Colonel Fergus Kennedy at your service. And you can only be Madame Vengarov. I am sorry to intrude, but in truth, I couldn’t take my eyes off you. You looked as if that rope was glued to your feet.’
‘Spasibo. Thank you, but I am a novice compared to Alexandr.’
‘Your husband, and the other half of the famed Flying Vengarovs, I presume?’
‘Yes, but you presume too much. I am not married. Alexandr is my brother.’
‘Then I am even more delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Vengarov.’
She smiled. Her teeth were very white. Her lips were very pink. There was a smattering of freckles across her little nose and a teasing light in her almond-shaped eyes. ‘I don’t know why my lack of a husband should cause you delight.’
‘You are quite correct,’ Fergus said, with a guilty pang. ‘It should not, especially under the circumstances.’
‘Which are?’
‘I am here at the behest of one duke to make a match with the niece of another.’ His words, spoken without thinking, wiped the delightful smile from Miss Vengarov’s face. Put like that, she would think him the worst sort of social climber, and worse, a compliant pawn in someone else’s game. Fergus could feel himself flushing. What he ought to do was beat a retreat. Though he told himself the exotic Miss Vengarov’s thoughts were irrelevant, he felt compelled to explain himself. ‘It’s not how it sounds,’ he said. ‘The first duke in question is Wellington, my commander-in-chief. The second, my host the Duke of Brockmore.’
‘Wellington ordered you to marry Brockmore’s niece?’
Her tone was starkly disbelieving, and no wonder. ‘Not ordered, precisely. I am to take up a diplomatic posting to Egypt. A wife is apparently standard issue in such situations,’ Fergus said, more flippantly than he intended.
* * *
Katerina eyed the soldier in some surprise. He looked decidedly uncomfortable, clearly regretting blurting out such private matters to a complete stranger. She ought to allow him to drop the awkward subject, but she was intrigued. He must want this posting very much if he was prepared to marry a stranger in order to secure it. ‘What is so appealing about Egypt?’ she asked.
‘It is not Whitehall, for a start,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘I won’t have to sit behind a desk and compile endless lists that no one will read. I won’t have to drag myself out of bed knowing that today will be the exact same as yesterday
and the day before. In Egypt, every day will present a new challenge.’ His smile lightened. ‘I’m a soldier. Peacetime can be a bit of a double-edged sword. Inactivity doesn’t suit me at all.’
‘That, I can understand. When I am not performing, I am not living. Inactivity does not suit me one little bit either,’ Katerina said with a smile. ‘We have that in common, Colonel.’
‘It’s Fergus. Call me Fergus.’
She ought not to call him anything. She ought to ask him to leave. This was precisely the kind of situation and he was precisely the kind of man that experience had taught her to avoid, but against her will, she was interested in him. And yes, also against her will, she had to admit she was attracted.
His eyes were the most startling shade of blue—or was it green? Turquoise? Colonel Fergus Kennedy was tall, several inches taller even than Alexei, and every bit as muscular, though the colonel’s physique was broader, more solid than her brother’s, the result of a lifetime of marching and fighting presumably, rather than endless hours of acrobatic training. War had etched the tiny fan of lines around his eyes, though the grooves at his mouth, the natural curve of his lips, made her wonder if laughter had also been a significant contributor. His fair hair was cropped close to his head, though there was a rebellious wave, a little kink on his brow that mitigated the severity of it. Attractive, he was most certainly, in a rugged way, but first and foremost, the impression she had was of a man of authority, a man accustomed to giving rather than receiving orders. Slightly intimidating, he was the kind of man that turned heads when he walked into a room. Or a walled garden, come to that!
‘Fergus,’ she said. ‘And I am Katerina. Forgive me, but why can’t you marry someone of your own choosing if a diplomat must have a wife?’ She wrinkled her brow. ‘I cannot believe that you would be lacking in eager candidates.’
‘Thank you for that vote of confidence,’ he said mockingly. ‘If only it were true.’ He ran his fingers through his hair, making the kink stand up endearingly. ‘It has been decided that this will be strictly a one-horse race, if I am to claim the prize.’ He sighed heavily. ‘And so, Miss Vengarov, I fear that I have no choice at all, if Lady Verity—that’s the Duke of Brockmore’s niece—will have me.’
‘Do you doubt that she will?’
‘I don’t know what to think. She was certainly not been effusive in her welcome.’
‘So you have already met her?’
‘A wee while ago.’
‘And she did not warm instantly to you?’
He laughed shortly. ‘Is that so difficult to believe?’
His smile was charming. Not that there was any possibility of it charming her. ‘Come now, you do not need me to tell you that you are an attractive man, Colonel—Fergus,’ Katerina said. ‘Most likely, under the circumstances, the lady was simply nervous, embarrassed or both. Everyone knows the Duke of Brockmore’s Midsummer Party is simply a notorious matchmaking fair.’
‘You disapprove?’
‘I am sure it is a foolproof way to find a wife. As you see, we lowly performers are kept within the boundaries of this walled garden so there can be no confusion as to whom are the suitable candidates.’ On either part.
Fergus Kennedy was looking quite taken aback. She had not meant her own bitter experience to colour her tone quite so much. Katerina gave a careless shrug. ‘It is none of my business.’
‘True enough,’ he replied, ‘though in a sense I’ve made it so, by confiding in you. Perhaps I should not have. I don’t know why I did, to be honest, save that perhaps I disapprove a wee bit myself.’
His admission disarmed her. For some reason, she was relieved not to have to think quite so ill of him. ‘I don’t know you at all,’ Katerina said, ‘but I confess I find it strange that a man like you, so clearly accustomed to command, is allowing someone else to make such an important decision for him.’
‘The “someone else” is my commander-in-chief.’
‘Yes, you said so.’
‘I did.’ He was silent for a moment, before sighing heavily. ‘You’re right. If I was happy with the situation, I’d be back there at that welcoming party making myself amenable, instead of out here, embarrassing you with my problems in the hope that you’ll reassure me.’
She had no idea how to reply to this, as confused by his indecisiveness as he was. Was it simply an ingenious way of engaging her sympathy? He did not seem the ingenious type, but she had been fooled before. ‘I am sorry,’ Katerina said, somewhat helplessly.
‘Ach no, don’t be. You’ve not said anything I’ve not thought myself. That’s enough about me,’ he said, giving himself a little shake. ‘You’re much more interesting. Brockmore pulled off quite a coup bringing you and your brother here. The Vengarov name is one of the most respected in your field.’
‘What do you know of my field?’
‘I’ve seen a few acts such as yours in my travels, and I’ve visited that man Jahn’s gymnasium in Berlin.’
Despite herself, Katerina was impressed. ‘The Duke of Brockmore will spare no expense in obtaining the very best entertainment for his guests,’ she said drily. ‘He does not, however, share your respect for our reputation. Or our artistry. We are, in his eyes, I suspect, little more than performing monkeys.’
‘Then the man is an idiot. What is it like up there on the tightrope?’
‘Oh, there is nothing to compare it with.’
‘Save flying? You must feel as if you’re in your own wee world.’
He had one of those smiles that was impossible to ignore, and his interest really did seem genuine. ‘Wee world,’ Katerina repeated, surrendering to the temptation to smile back. ‘Your accent is strange. You are not English?’
‘Scottish. And you, I believe, are from Russia.’
‘R-r-r-russia,’ Katerina repeated, in a fair enough imitation of his accent to make him smile. ‘Yes, I am Russian.’
‘You speak excellent English.’
‘And French, and German, passable Italian and a smattering of Spanish. All my life, I have been travelling, you see, and performing too. I come from a great tradition, as you said, a long line of performers. The Vengarov family, we are the aristocrats of our world.’
‘I am aware of that, even if Brockmore is not. I’m looking forward very much to tonight’s performance. I see from the Programme of Events that you’re also holding a demonstration class for the party guests.’
‘Aristocrats from one world, mingling with the aristocrats of another,’ Katerina said sardonically. ‘Will you be taking part, Colonel Fergus?’
‘I most certainly will. Do you include the ladies in this class? I’m not sure I can picture the duchess wearing one of these wee tunic affairs. Or, indeed, care to!’
Caught up in their conversation, amazingly, astonishingly, Katerina had quite forgotten that all she was wearing was what he called her wee tunic affair, in part because Fergus too seemed to have forgotten. But now he had drawn attention to her state of dishabille and was looking at her most appreciatively, she became acutely aware of how much of her flesh was on display, and Fergus seemed to be having difficulty dragging his eyes away from her modest cleavage, and the way he was looking at her was making her flush more, with a mixture of awareness of him and anger at herself, rather than embarrassment.
‘It is not possible to practise real acrobatics in corsets and morning gowns,’ Katerina said tightly. ‘We will restrict ourselves to teaching more seemly and decorous moves.’
He flushed very faintly, making a point of turning his gaze away. ‘Curses, then I will be denied the sight of a tumbling duchess.’
‘And I will be denied the opportunity to witness a soldier falling from the tightrope.’
‘You seem very certain I will fall.’
‘You won’t have a chance. It will not be offered as an activity in the masterclass,’ Katerina told him. ‘It is too dangerous.’
Fergus eyed the rope speculatively. ‘It doesn’t look so high.’
‘Aren’t you ever afraid of falling and injuring yourself?’
‘The trick is to convince yourself that you are not afraid.’
‘It’s the same on the battlefield.’
They were no longer looking at the tightrope. He was smiling at her again, but there was something more than laughter in his eyes. Though he was not touching her, her skin tingled. Heat, that’s what it was. Katerina’s stomach fluttered in response. ‘There is no comparison,’ she said. ‘I am not brave in that way.’
‘Perhaps not,’ he replied softly, ‘but definitely fearless.’
There was a trickle of sweat on his brow. She noticed a tiny shaving nick, right in the cleft of his chin. His fair lashes were absurdly long for a man. A sharp gust of desire took her by surprise. She saw it reflected in his eyes, and the air in the walled garden seemed to still, the sun’s heat to intensify. Even the birdsong seemed momentarily muted. She curled her toes into the grass and realised she was waiting, longing for him to kiss her.
Confused and startled by her reaction, Katerina launched herself up on to the rope, taking them both aback. Safe from her own desire, she perversely fed his, wanting to show him what he could never have, what he could never attain, walking, leaping, dancing, tumbling on the rope, aware of his eyes fixed on the shapes her body was making, her naked limbs, her supple flesh. Only when she stopped, her chest heaving with the effort, and her eyes met his again, did she realise that desire fed desire, that her feelings were as nakedly exposed as his.