The Counterfeit Count

by Jo Ann Ferguson

“Using given names, for I fear my tongue will be sprained if I try to use your full name too many more times, Demi, as I announce my victory over you.”

  She smiled. “Do not be premature with your celebrations.”

  “I know you are the war hero, but things are different here. Look at how Creighton acts. He doesn’t parade around himself like a cheap cyprian.”

  Her smile vanished. “I know, and I don’t understand why Creighton joined the army. He hates even to speak of it.”

  “You chucklehead!” He gave her a superior grin. “Isn’t it obvious? Maeve Wilton is the reason Creighton bought that blasted commission.”

  “He wanted to prove his bravery to her?” She could imagine no better way for a man to show a woman his love than by protecting the very earth she walked upon.

  “Prove his bravery?” Barclay snorted his disagreement. “All he wanted to do was forget her, even if it took getting his head blown off his shoulders to do it. I don’t know who was more surprised—Creighton to discover she was still unwed when he returned or Maeve when she found out he did not do the heroic thing and die.”

  “What a horrible thing to say!”

  “But it is the truth.” He glanced toward the door again. “Where is Creighton with that brandy? I still haven’t boasted to him how much I won last night.”

  When he left the room, Natalya bent to retrieve her half-polished boot. This was becoming too complicated, and she feared the tangles would only tighten during the days to come. She wondered if she would be able to free herself from the snarls when the time came to leave London, or, she had to confess as she looked at the chair where Creighton had sat, if she would wish to.

  Thirteen

  “Bravo!” Creighton called above the dogs splashing into the pond. “An excellent shot, Demi!”

  As Natalya reloaded her gun with easy efficiency, she smiled. “It is much simpler, you must admit, when the beasts do not fire back at us.”

  “Now there is a horrendous thought.”

  She sat on the knoll and gazed across the pond. Beyond the trees, she could see the chimneys of Colonel Carruthers’ country home. No rustic dacha, the elegant stone house was grand enough to have at least forty rooms. Even as she watched, another carriage came up the curved drive and paused to deposit more guests.

  “I thought this was to be a quiet gathering,” she said, as Creighton took the dead bird from one of the dogs. She patted another of the brown-and-white spaniels on the head and was rewarded with a lick across her cheek. Laughing as she wiped her face on her sleeve, she motioned for the dog to take its place with the rest of the pack.

  “Anything less than one hundred people is a small gathering for the colonel. Remember that he commanded a battalion. He is accustomed to having many folks around.” He pointed skyward. “Here comes more.”

  Natalya sighted her gun on the first bird flushed out by the dogs. When Creighton grasped the barrel and pushed it toward the ground, she started to protest. Her words became a gasp as he put his other hand on her head and shoved her down, too.

  “Shh!” he said, holding his finger to his lips.

  Before she could ask what madness had possessed him now, she heard what he had. Two men were coming toward them. And they were arguing. She smiled. General Miloradovich was one of them. She did not recognize the other voice, but they were speaking in Russian.

  The men passed right behind their blind in the cattails at the edge of the pond. Natalya bit her lip to keep from laughing when she heard the general deride the mud and the steep hill and the birds which flew too fast.

  “England is too proud of itself,” mumbled the general.

  “They act as if they won the war alone.” She strained to match a name to the voice as it added, “Think how they will act when everything explodes during the czar’s visit with the Regent.”

  “It will serve them right to underestimate what the Russians have done.”

  When Natalya chuckled lowly, Creighton whispered, “What is so funny?”

  “The general is not happy with this outing or anything else about this visit to England. I think he hopes the czar will share his feelings.” She explained what General Miloradovich had said.

  “You would be wise to hide from the good general the trophies you have shot today.”

  “He would not appreciate being reminded how long it has been since he aimed at anything moving.” She sat cross-legged and balanced her gun on her knees. “Too much fresh country air unnerves him. He prefers the soot of the city, but this is what I prefer.” She leaned her elbow on her knee and rested her chin on her hand. “This is nearly as lovely as Russia.”

  Creighton could not help chuckling. When she sat there looking like a golden-topped elf and spoke of home in such wistful tones, it seemed impossible she had earned the ribbons for valor pinned to her coat. His laugh faded as he watched her stare toward the house. There might be a childlike longing in her voice, but there was nothing childlike about the angles of her body, which were revealed so beguilingly as she sat beside him. The hint of a breeze, carrying with it the scent of the mud and some fragrant soap she must have used, teased the tawny curls at her nape. He wondered if her skin would taste earthy like the mud or as sweet as the lavender. His fingers knew how silken her skin would feel. He leaned toward her.

  With a silent oath, he turned away. What a block he was! One woman had made him look the jack-a-napes in front of the élite. Hadn’t he learned his lesson then, or must he continue to yearn to hold this charming sprite whose every thought was focused on returning to her bleak homeland so many miles away?

  “The colonel’s house is quite ancient, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “At least two hundred years.” He cursed his clipped voice when she looked at him, a perplexed frown furrowing her brow.

  “Is something amiss, Creighton?”

  How could she ask? She had spent months—years—living among men. Had she learned nothing from them of the desires that captivated a man’s mind when a beautiful woman was so close?

  He feigned a smile. “How do you intend to sneak your booty past Miloradovich?”

  “It shan’t be difficult. I will leave them in the kitchen.” Her forehead ruffled again. “Something is amiss. What is it?”

  “You are trying to make something out of nothing.” Gently, he smoothed the lines from her brow. When her eyes widened, his fingers slipped along her cheek. So soft, so wondrously soft she was, despite the rich color of her tanned skin. There could be no other woman like her. Fierce warrior and sweet angel, worldly woman and innocent child.

  Don’t be a block! The warning sounded through his head again as he reached to draw her to him. Natalya might dress like a man but she was unquestionably a woman, and he had learned painfully that to trust a woman was an invitation to misery.

  He leaned against a tree behind him. “I simply wanted to be certain you were having a pleasant day.”

  “I am, Creighton. This is just the outing I needed.”

  He set his gun on the ground beside him. His arm around her shoulders drew her back against the trunk, too, but he released her as soon as she sat next to him. Touching her, even so chastely, tempted him to do far more. Again he forced a smile, but he need not have worried because she was staring at the house again.

  “What do you find so fascinating about the colonel’s house?” he asked.

  “The color of the stone and shape of the chimneys reminds me of a maison I saw a few leagues east of Paris.” Natalya pulled her gaze from the house and looked at Creighton who was regarding her with a baffled half-smile. “Would Colonel Carruthers be offended if I said something like that to him?”

  “I doubt it. He might be very intrigued, for I doubt if he has been east of Paris.” He brushed his ruddy hair from his eyes but the breeze twisted it right back. “I look forward to visiting Paris again now that Boney is safely imprisoned.”

  “I never want to go back. Going into Paris was an experience like none other I h
ave ever lived.” She rested her chin on her hand as she again propped her elbow on her knee. “Thousands of Allies died that day.”

  “And most of them were Russian.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you lose friends?”

  “Of course.” With a shuddering sigh, she turned away.

  “Did you mourn for them?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “Did you cry, Natalya?”

  “A Russian kapitán does not weep for fallen comrades. I must exult in their bravery and retell it to anyone who will listen until they are known as bogatyrs.”

  “What is that?”

  “Bogatyrs are the heroes of the poems we call byliny. Their brave exploits become legend.”

  He shook his head. “Do you use such tales to seduce another generation into believing war is glorious when it is nothing but degrading and filthy and hideous?”

  “We use them to teach that Russia has had many brave sons who were willing to defend her borders.”

  “And brave daughters?”

  She glanced around. “Be careful what you say.”

  “I merely ask a question about your history. Are all your heroes men?”

  “Most of them.”

  “Now there shall be a heroine among them.” He reached beneath his coat and said, “Here. I want you to have this.”

  She took the leather sheath he held out to her. Her mouth became as round as her eyes when she drew the hunting blade out and tilted it so the honed edge caught the light. When she saw the design engraved into the fancily carved handle, she gasped, “Isn’t this your family crest?”

  “Yes.”

  She slipped the knife back into its sheath. “Is it yours?”

  “It belonged to my brother.” He sighed and looked past her. “I think he would have liked a brave war hero using it.”

  “Your brother? I didn’t know you have a brother.”

  “I had a brother. Like your brother, Napoleon’s imperial dreams stole him from his family.”

  “He died in battle?”

  “He was wounded in battle. He died in my arms.”

  She pressed her hand to her lips as she stared at him, not sure what to say. So many men she had seen die. A few she had been able to offer comfort by telling them she would share tales of their valiant sacrifice with their families. But to imagine watching Demi or any of her siblings die as she prayed for them to live … Tears filled her eyes.

  “I did not know,” she whispered.

  “How could you?” He took in a deep breath and released it slowly as if it could cleanse his soul of pain. “It is not a memory I have shared with anyone else.”

  “Now I understand why you hate the war.”

  “No, you don’t!” He gripped her chin in his hand, twisting her to face him. “You have no idea, Natalya! You think I hate the war simply because it stole my brother from me.”

  “But don’t you?”

  “I hate it more for all those people who lauded Kenneth as a hero and then will forget him until they need to parade his name out to find volunteers for the next war.” He shook his head. “Of all I do not understand about you, Natalya, I understand least how you can love war.”

  “I do not love it.”

  He laughed tersely. “You speak of it endlessly, and you proudly wear that uniform every day.”

  “I wear this as a reminder of what has been lost and what must be recovered.” She blinked back tears. “And I would gladly trade it all to bring my family back to life. It is easy to be a hero when you have nothing to lose but grief.”

  She rose as far as her knees, then halted as he grasped her arms. Slowly, his hand slid along her right shoulder. She could not mute the heated shiver as his cool fingers glided up her neck. As he cupped her nape, teasing her curls with a gentle caress, her hands settled on his arms. Her anguish melted in the sweet fires burning in his eyes.

  “Creighton—”

  “Don’t speak,” he murmured. “I know all the perils of touching you. I know you could lose everything you have fought to hold on to, but I still profess to being curious.”

  “Curious? About what?”

  His lips brushed her ear when he murmured, “How does a mouth that is more familiar with vodka than madeira taste against my mouth?”

  “I do not drink vodka, but Petr does.” She put her hands up against his chest and pushed him away. Jumping to her feet, she said, “Mayhap he would be willing to help you satisfy your curiosity.”

  He laughed as he set himself on his feet. Closing the distance between them again, he herded her back against the tree. “Yet it is not his lips I am curious about.” Twisting his finger in some of the gold braid dripping from her shoulder, he said, “’Tis your lips.”

  “I am afraid my lips would not help you satisfy your curiosity.”

  “My curiosity is not the only thing I wish to satisfy.”

  She tried to slide away from him, but the rough bark caught at the braid on the back of her coat. From the moment he had come into her bedchamber and learned the truth, she would have had to be dull-witted not to see the desire in his eyes. She knew the ways of men, for she had lived with them for the past two years. She had heard their tales and seen the women who waited upon their favor. It would seem Creighton Marshall, whether he claimed the title captain or lord, was much the same. A woman was a challenge to be conquered. She would not be forced into surrender.

  “That you shall not satisfy with me either,” she said, but her voice grew soft as his fingers moved aimlessly across her cheek.

  “That? Of what do you speak?”

  “You know as well as I.”

  “There would be no need to ask if I did.”

  “I shall not be seduced by you, Creighton Marshall.”

  He smiled. “Such words, my dear count, when I speak only of a friendly kiss.”

  “Really?”

  “No.” He put his hands on the tree. “You are so wondrously naïve in so many ways. I would gladly teach you of maneuvers you never learned on the battlefield.”

  “I need not learn them.”

  “So you are as expert in the ways of love as in the ways of war?” When she faltered, he demanded, “What do you know of passions shared by a man and a woman?”

  “Much.”

  He leaned toward her, and she wished she had had the good sense to insist Petr ride with them. “Is that so? What vast experiences do you have, Natalya?”

  “One cannot spend more than a few minutes around a campfire before one is regaled with all sorts of stories, most of them false, about men’s conquests of women.” She brushed the hem of her coat in an effort to hide her trembling fingers. This topic was too uncomfortable, and she had been successful in avoiding such prattle as the Russian army chased Napoleon across Europe.

  “What of a woman’s conquest of a man?” he asked softly. “Did they speak of lustrous blue eyes which promise more than a woman could guess?”

  She ducked beneath his arms and scooped up her gun. Holding it across her chest, she backed away as she said, “I think we have done enough hunting today.”

  Creighton laughed lowly as he watched her rush down the hillside as if half the French army were at her heels. Clasping his hands behind his back, he said, “My dear count, the hunt has only begun.”

  Fourteen

  Natalya wandered about the grand ballroom of Carruthers’ house. She did not pause anywhere, for she did not wish to be caught up in another conversation with a young miss who was intent on making a match with a foreign officer.

  She smiled when she saw Creighton surrounded by Tatiana and several of the Englishwomen who had decided they must have the Russian woman as their bosom bow. Creighton wore the expression of a man who had been told he would have the dawn watch on a freezing night.

  “My dear count,” purred a too familiar voice as a slender arm slipped through Natalya’s.

  Her smile threatened to abandon her as she turned to face Maeve W
ilton. What was she doing here? No doubt Colonel Carruthers thought he was doing Count Dmitrieff a great favor by inviting Miss Wilton to this gathering.

  “Good evening,” Natalya said with a stiff bow.

  “I heard you were the best hunter of all who went out today.” She fluttered her gold fan, which matched her elegant gown. “Not that I am surprised by such tidings. I am sure you could capture anything you wished—whether it be the fox or a duck or …” Her voice softened to a husky whisper. “Or a woman’s heart.”

  “Well, well, who is this, Dmitrieff?” rumbled a deep voice.

  Natalya was certain she would be forever grateful to General Miloradovich for giving her an excuse not to have to answer Miss Wilton. Smiling, she said, “General Miloradovich, allow me to present Miss Maeve Wilton.”

  The general smirked at Maeve and said, “I have seen you often in the company of my aide-de-camp. My greatest regret when I leave England will be that the count caught your eye first.”

  “How kind of you, General!” cooed Maeve.

  “I only speak the truth.”

  “And so beautifully. Your English is excellent, sir.”

  Natalya locked her hands behind her back as Miss Wilton continued spewing compliments on the general. She watched as General Miloradovich ogled Miss Wilton openly. This might be the solution to her problem. The general was not accustomed to being alone, and he might be willing to invite Miss Wilton to Vienna with them. What a peculiar turn of events that would be!

  Her hopes were dashed when Miss Wilton possessively slipped her arm through Natalya’s again. “Pardon me for being bold, Count Dmitrieff,” she said with the same coo she had used to flatter the general. “I hear the music beginning. Do stand up with me.”

  She shook her head. “I do not waltz, Miss Wilton.”

  “A war injury?”

  Lies were bitter on her tongue. She decided to speak the truth. “As lief you should say, the war kept me more involved with the need to have a fencing master than a dancing master.”

  “I would gladly teach you.”

  “I doubt if your lovely slippers could endure the number of times my boots would stamp them.”