“I think not.” He could not imagine Natalya allowing herself to become intoxicated.
“So why is this Russian a problem?”
Creighton foiled the urge to laugh. It was tempting to answer with the truth. What would Barclay think of a Russian war hero who was, in truth, a beautiful woman with beguiling eyes? His hands recalled the smoothness of her skin against them even as the memory of the scent of her skin raced through his mind.
Fiercely, he clenched his fingers to squeeze out the sensation he could not keep from wanting to feel again. Was he queer in his attic? Her style of dress made it clear she wished nothing from any man but camaraderie. That was all to the best. He should have learned his lesson with Maeve. A teasing smile, an intoxicating touch, lips that promised him everything—as they had promised too many others.
“Forget I mentioned it,” Creighton said as he picked up his glass and drained it. The warmth of the wine could not melt the icy lump of disquiet within him.
Barclay laughed. “I think that is unlikely. I know you, too well, old man. Having this Russian about unsettles you greatly.”
“Then I would have guts in my brain to put my guest right out of my head.”
Barclay Lawson stepped from his carriage onto Berkeley Square and settled his hat on his head. Taking his gold-topped walking stick from the footman, he looked both ways along the street. It was a shame no lovely lady was about to see him when he was dressed in his finest. Beau Brummel himself would be envious of the cut of this new scarlet coat and cream breeches.
He strode out into the street, then leapt back as a horse sped past. Mud struck him, spotting from head to foot. Shaking his hands, he looked down at his ruined clothes. Mire dripped from him.
Shoving aside his footman, who was trying, in vain, to clean the filth from him, Barclay strode to where the horse had stopped. The rider was swinging down from the saddle, an expression of consternation on the young pup’s face. Barclay swore under his breath when he saw the gaudy uniform the rider wore.
Russian!
The damned Russians had infected Town with a fever of excitement and anticipation of the celebrations now that the war on the Continent was over, but they ran about as if London were their private playground. This one would learn that he could not ride down an Englishman with impunity.
“Look at what you have done!” he snapped. “I am fortunate I have suffered no more damage than this. You could have killed me! How could you be so stupid?”
Natalya held the reins easily as she listened to this bald man’s ranting. The idiot had stepped almost beneath her horse’s hoofs. If she had not pulled the beast aside, the man would be suffering more than a splattered coat. She had not been certain if Lord Ashcroft’s horse would respond with the speed of her own mount, but fortunately the steed had been well-trained.
“You should be more cautious where you walk, sir,” she said.
“Me?” He muttered something she could not understand. He gave her no chance to reply as he wagged a finger in front of her nose. “You were riding neck-or-nothing. I demand satisfaction for this indignity.”
“Satisfaction? Of what sort?”
“Look at me!”
She eyed him up and down. As far as she could see, the mud was an improvement, for it muted the garish crimson of his coat, which would have better suited a parade ground than a city street. She frowned as she realized it was not designed to be worn by a soldier. Swallowing her snicker of derision, she said, “You are lucky I did look at you, sir, or you would be lying wounded on the cobbles now.”
“I am wounded!”
“Are you?” She had been certain she had missed him by yanking wildly on the reins.
“My coat is ruined.”
“It is muddy, sir.”
“Mud will ruin good wool, even good English wool.” He looked down his long nose at her. “Which is finer than anything you might have in Russia.”
Natalya sighed. Arguing about the durability of English wool in comparison to what had been raised on her father’s land was futile. Not a single sheep remained. Nothing remained there, only scorched stones and stumps. Wondering what an English tailor would charge to make another coat in that hideous shade, she said, “You were clearly at fault on this matter. You cannot expect me to replace your coat under these circumstances.”
“’Tis not just my coat.” He slapped at his breeches, making the mess worse. “I am soaked to the skin. Everything I am wearing is ruined.”
“I shall be glad to assume the cost of your coat, sir,” she said, wanting to be done with this and be on her way, although she did not look forward to telling Petr about the general’s decision that they were to remain as Lord Ashcroft’s guests. “But you must be as willing to take your share of the blame for this accident.”
The man snarled an insult, and she clenched her hand more tightly around the reins. Becoming embroiled in an argument with this plaguily foolish man would only complicate an already complicated situation.
“Sir,” she began. “I said—”
“I would ask you to name your friends for grass before breakfast.”
“What did you say?” His words made no sense to her. Grass before breakfast. She could not guess what the bizarre phrase meant. If only these Englishmen would speak their own language!
“I challenge you—”
“To find a finer day for a ride,” interrupted a deeper voice.
Natalya watched the man in the scarlet coat whirl to confront the intruder, but she moved more cautiously. She was unsure what this half-cocked Englishman might do if she made a sudden motion. When she saw Lord Ashcroft standing with his hand on the wrought-iron fence by the walkway in front of his house, she did not know whether to feel relieved or more distressed. A smile curved along his lips, and she suspected her day was going to go from troublesome to disaster.
Five
As he listened to Barclay’s fury, Creighton kept all his thoughts from his face, but he had to fight harder to keep his gaze from following the alluring curves that Natalya’s uniform could not hide from him any longer. How much easier this would have been if she were as bracket-faced as Zass! Instead, she possessed, even in that concealing uniform, a faerie beauty that had crept into his head and refused to be dislodged. Through the night, every attempt to sleep had been haunted by the icy blue passions he had seen in her exotic eyes.
He had been a complete block to touch her last night and again today. Now his hands itched to caress her surprisingly silken skin again, to become lost in the soft jumble of her golden curls, to bring her beguiling lips to his so he could determine if they were as sweet as the strawberries they resembled or as bitter as the dregs at the bottom of a bottle of burgundy.
He resisted the yearning to seize her and discover the truth. She would fight him now as she had before. He almost smiled as he recalled her slim body against him, each motion an invitation he knew she did not mean.
“Barclay, you are late,” he said, but paused as he heard the huskiness in his voice. Damme! He would not be an air-dreamer, repining for a woman whose style of dress made it clear she had no interest in anything from a man.
“What? Speak what you have to say loud enough so I can hear past the mud cloaking me,” demanded Barclay, bristling like a rooster whose yard had been invaded.
“Mayhap I should say your timing is perfect.” Creighton walked toward the street and smiled. “Allow me to introduce a visitor to England. Captain Dmitri Dmitrieff. Captain, this is Barclay Lawson, a friend of mine.”
Creighton was not surprised Natalya was the first to react, for he had seen that her wits were as sharp as her tongue. “Zdrástvuyte, Mr. Lawson.” She smiled. “Good day.”
“This is your Russian?” Barclay choked.
Natalya’s eyes widened as she glanced at Creighton, but he had no chance to do more than smile before she said in a cool voice, “I advise you again, Mr. Lawson, to accept my generous offer of replacing your coat. I would not wish to have
a friend of my host Lord Ashcroft assume the complete damages for his foolishness of stepping in front of my horse.”
“Listen to him!” Barclay’s cheeks were becoming a choleric shade which approached the color of his coat. “He has done this to me.” He shook more mud from the tail of his coat. “Now he thinks he can allay my anger with that preposterous offer while he shunts the blame off on me. Creighton, tell me that you will be my second when—”
Creighton saw comprehension brighten Natalya’s eyes. If he did not do something quickly, he feared Barclay would become a victim of his own stubbornness. He was certain of one thing. Natalya would not back down from the challenge to a duel, for to accept would be the only way to protect her identity.
Taking his friend’s arm, he said, “Come in. Mrs. Winchell will get the worst of the mud out of your coat.”
“Not until I have had my satisfaction from this damned Russian.” He jerked his arm away and faced Natalya. “You need to learn you cannot ride hell-for-leather through London streets.”
“I have made my offer for reparation, Mr. Lawson. It is up to you to decide if you wish to accept it. I will not stand here and argue with a—” She glanced at Creighton and smiled. “I believe the term, if I heard it correctly, is carpet-knight.”
Creighton snatched his friend’s arm as it rose and pulled him toward the front door. Mrs. Winchell was peeking around it, shock on her thin face. Barclay sputtered like a man who had been dunked in the village pond, but he climbed the steps to the door.
When Creighton looked back, he did not see a triumphant smile on Natalya’s face. Uneasiness stole the light from her eyes. Something—something much more important than Barclay’s blusterings—had upset her. A pinch of sympathy startled him. He did not want to feel sorry for her. He did not want to feel anything for her. Maybe that way he could stifle the longing that rose through him like a heated well-spring each time her blue eyes turned toward him.
His curse at his own caper-witted musings was muted by Barclay’s complaints. Peeling Barclay’s coat from his shoulders, Creighton said, “Mrs. Winchell, please do what you can with this.”
“Yes, my lord.” She lowered her voice as Barclay stamped up the stairs. “I never saw its like.”
“In what way?” Mayhap Mrs. Winchell’s eyes were clearer than the others in the household.
“The count, my lord.” She leaned toward him as she continued in a conspiratorial whisper, “I saw the whole. Mr. Lawson stepped right in front of the count’s horse. I could not believe the count was able to pull his horse away from trampling Mr. Lawson. ’Twas right fine riding, Lord Ashcroft.”
“The count did ride with the cavalry into battle.”
Mrs. Winchell nodded. “True, but ’twas fine riding nonetheless. Never saw its like.” She straightened and said, “Good afternoon, my lord.”
Creighton turned to see Natalya behind him. Damme! She was as light on her feet as a will-o’-the-wisp. Clasping his hands behind his back, he said, “You continue to disrupt this household in ways I could not have imagined, Captain Dmitrieff.”
“Nor I.” She glanced up the stairs and sighed. “Please convey to Mr. Lawson that my offer still stands. I will replace his coat if he feels it is ruined beyond repair.”
Mrs. Winchell clucked her tongue. “’Twill be fine once it dries and I brush it.” Quickly, she lowered her eyes. “Excuse me, Lord Ashcroft.” She scurried away.
Natalya said, “If I misspoke—”
“You apparently have done nothing wrong through all of this, save for riding well enough to prevent Barclay’s absentmindedness from causing him to be injured.”
“Mr. Lawson does not seem the type to be absent his mind,” she replied, her forehead ruffled with bafflement.
“You do not know him well.” Creighton again fought with temptation—this time not to laugh. At the shout of his name down the stairs, he called, “I shall be with you directly, Barclay. Natalya—”
She put her gloved hand on his arm. “Please do not call me that.”
“It is your name. I do not wish to call you ‘count’ or ‘captain’ for the duration of your stay.”
“Yes,” she murmured, “the duration of my stay …”
He caught her hand before she could draw it off his sleeve and turn away. “What is it—Damme! I must have something I can call you.”
“My fellow officers called me Demi as a familiar version of Dmitri.”
“Then, Demi, what is it that upset you about what I just said?” He laughed, halting her answer when he saw the truth on her bleak face. “You went to General Miloradovich today, didn’t you?”
“He insists we serve the czar best by remaining here.” Again, charming confusion threaded her forehead, giving him a hint of the gentle young woman she might have been, save for Napoleon’s greed for power. “I fail to understand why.”
“Nor do I. What is it you told me? Ya pon—”
She laughed. “Ya ne ponimáyu. I do not understand.”
He stroked her fingers and folded them beneath his against his chest. “On that, if nothing else, we are in agreement, Demi.” Smiling, he said, “That name suits you even less well than the others you claim.”
“Demi? It is a good name.”
“But in French, demi means half, and I cannot envision you ever doing anything by half.” He watched how the soft glow in her eyes deepened as he drew her closer as he whispered, “You give all of yourself to your goals. You—”
“Creighton!” Barclay leaned over the banister on the upper floor. “Where in blazes are you?”
When Natalya snatched her hands away, Creighton did not speak the curse battering his lips. He should be grateful to his friend for interrupting. In fact, if he had half an ounce of wit about him, he would not delay in inviting Barclay to move into the townhouse as well. He had never understood the need for a watch-dog … until now when he was constantly bombarded by his curiosity to taste Natalya’s lips.
“I shall be right there,” he called back. As Barclay’s furious footfalls resounded from upstairs to the ground floor, he added, “I think it would be wise, Natalya, if you do not join us.”
“I agree.”
He was unsure if he detected a tremor of amusement in her voice, and she was striding away before he could ask her another question. When he saw something move in the shadows beyond the staircase, he frowned. He should have guessed Zass would not stray far from Natalya once she returned to the house.
Creighton took the steps, two at a time, up to his book-room. The Russian sergeant was enough to give any man second thoughts about Natalya. Wryly, he smiled. Second thoughts about her did not seem to be a problem for him. He thought about her every second.
Closing the door behind him, he hoped nothing would intrude before he convinced Barclay to forget that he had challenged her to a duel. It would not be simple. Barclay prowled about the room, his virtually bald head catching the glint of the sunshine each time he passed a window. On every step, he muttered a condemnation of the Russian who, he was certain, had humiliated him.
Creighton sat in his favorite chair and watched. When brandy was brought, he poured a glass for himself and one for his friend. He sipped his and listened to Barclay’s rumbles.
Finally, when it seemed his tie-mate could go on indefinitely, he interrupted to say, “Barclay, I can listen to no more of this. Count Dmitrieff is my guest.”
“That changes nothing.”
“The count reiterated the offer to replace your coat, although Mrs. Winchell has assured both of us that it can be cleaned without looking the worse for wear.”
“That changes nothing,” he repeated grimly. “I shall have my satisfaction for his outrageous taunts. Carpet-knight, indeed!”
“You cannot duel Count Dmitrieff.”
“Why not?”
Creighton lifted his glass of brandy. “You have no second.”
“Why not you?” He gripped the back of the chair facing Creighton and scowled.
“Tonight I plan to attend Lady Eltonville’s soirée and I have no desire to rise before the sun to stride across wet grass to allow you to vent your spleen. Even if I did, you cannot duel Count Dmitrieff.”
“If you will not stand as my second, Creighton, I shall find someone who will.”
“You cannot duel Count Dmitrieff,” he repeated, prepared to say the words over and over until his friend would listen.
Barclay slammed his fist into the chair. “Tell me one reason why not.”
“Because the count will air your skull for you with a single shot.”
“I can best any half-pint Russian in any affair of honor.”
“The count is a war hero. You have faced nothing more fierce than a fox seeking earth.”
Barclay’s lips worked, but no sound came out. Seizing his glass, he downed a hefty drink of brandy. “Are you now questioning my abilities, Creighton? I thought you were my friend.”
“I am your friend. That is why I am urging you to rethink this.” He set his glass on the table by his chair. “Barclay, you cannot duel Count Dmitrieff.”
With a curse, Barclay threw his glass onto the hearth. The flames leapt wildly. He strode toward the door and flung it open. “I shall not let my honor go unavenged. Those words were spoken publicly.”
Creighton jumped to his feet. Taking his friend by the lapel, he shook him as he kicked the door closed. “Listen, you stubborn dull-swift! You have more hair than wit, and you have no hair! Listen to me! You cannot duel Count Dmitrieff.”
“You cannot halt me.”
“I shall!”
Barclay jerked away. “If you are afraid I shall wound your guest and embarrass you—”
“I doubt you shall get a shot off before the count lets fly the pop.”
He laughed coldly. “I invite you to join us for the duel, Creighton, and you shall see how mistaken you are. My shot shall strike that damned Russian and put an end to the insults to decent Englishmen!”
“No.”
“No?”
The Counterfeit Count Page 5
