She gave him her hand, and the touch of it even through the silky material of her glove sent a pleasant shiver through him, like the touch of warm air from a fireplace after a long winter journey.
One hand lay on her waist, the other took her hand, and they began moving with the music. She was so light, and the scent of her—rose and something like lemon mixed with her own feminine scent made sweet fire run through his veins. They whirled through the falling snow, and he sank in the depths of her sparkling brown eyes, the likes of which he’d never seen before. Everything stopped existing around them. There was only the music and the snow and the two of them together.
One movement. One breath. One being.
Her hand was warm through the glove, and he did not think he had ever held anything so fragile and precious and beautiful as her.
“You should never have come out here,” Roman said. “It shall do no good if you catch pneumonia before the wedding. Then we will have two sick people on our hands. One fake, the other seriously ill.”
She chuckled softly. “Prince Roman, you and I both know the first one may never come back.”
Roman closed his eyes briefly. He was getting tired of pretending it wasn’t true. And of making sure everyone still believed the lie.
“Then, I suppose, you must marry the other Lipov brother,” he said with a chuckle. But the thought made him stop breathing.
Helen shook her head and smiled. “I do not know how you do it. One minute you are all fangs and claws, defending the honor of the family against a false threat. The next minute you protect me. You give me earrings. Then, yet again, you are joking like that. Honestly, I do not know what you want from me.”
Roman frowned. “Are you all right, Helen?”
She turned to him, her eyes big and wet. “I—I do not know. Before coming here, I was used to the idea of my life being a quiet disappointment. Then your family gave me hope that it could be different. But with Alex gone, I might need to go back to the thought of being a burden. After I have known the warmth of St. Petersburg. After I’ve known what it is to be the part of your family”—she swallowed—“I am afraid that it will break my heart.”
Roman hated Alex then as he had never hated him. “Do not lose hope, Helen. We are looking for him.”
And then, all too soon, the music stopped. And he realized he could have danced with her for all eternity.
Roman forced himself to let her go, gave a curt bow, and stood beside her. The white garden had almost disappeared in the soft mist, and Helen’s hair had gathered a sparkling net of snowflakes.
She shivered, and Roman hugged her shoulders almost instinctively, rubbing her upper arms with his hands. She turned to him, yet again in his arms, as close as never before, and her enthralling scent tickled his nostrils making him think of summer in an English garden.
Her lips were right in front of him, and she was like a snow princess from a fairy tale, right here in his arms.
Or maybe a siren. Because her lips called to him. Suddenly there was nothing more delicious than her mouth, and without knowing what he was doing, Roman leaned down and covered her lips with his.
The touch was like sinking into a heavenly sea of silk. Her lips were plush and delicate, and when he caressed them with his tongue they parted, and he dipped his tongue into the sweet depths of her mouth. He glided his tongue against hers, danced a waltz with it, aware of her body being pressed against his at the same time. The kiss brought him high and set a wildfire in his veins.
He crushed her against his chest and deepened the kiss further, but she froze and shoved him away from her. He stepped back, surprised, disoriented, and she backed away, covering her mouth.
“Oh no,” she gasped. “How could I? How could you? I am engaged to your brother.”
Roman took a step towards her, and she fled from the balcony, leaving him feeling aroused, guilty, and astounded at the same time.
Chapter 5
5th December, 1813
The kiss had left Helen bewildered. Ashamed. Embarrassed. She’d kissed him back—her fiancé’s brother!
Why had Roman kissed her?
And, most surprisingly, why had she not stopped it? Why had she felt like she never wanted it to stop? Like she was melting in his arms? Like she was warm clay and every stroke of his hands, every touch of his lips, left a permanent trace on her?
Helen had not seen Roman for several days after the fete. He had not shown up for breakfast and had sent notes twice when they were supposed to go for walks and visit different sights of St. Petersburg.
On the third day, she’d asked after him, and Prince Pavel had said he was out of town for the business of finding Alex.
Peculiarly, that knowledge, instead of giving her hope, had left an unpleasant ache in her chest.
Three days after the ball, according social rules, visits began. Everyone who had attended needed to be thanked for the reception and wanted to get to know Helen better. She enjoyed herself, but the fact that Roman had abandoned her made her stomach drop. She should be happy he’d left her alone. When had she stopped thinking him objectionable? Was she not in love with Alex?
This morning Roman had finally appeared for breakfast. He sat across from Helen, circles under his handsome eyes. He looked thinner, if that was at all possible after five days.
When he had shown up, her chest had tensed pleasantly and the snowflakes had resumed dancing in her stomach, and the last thing Helen could think of was food. Instead of eating, she drank tea and fiddled with her cold porridge.
After remarks on the weather and the visitors, silence hung in the room, and Pavel and Anna exchanged subtle glances while Roman’s directed his attention to his egg, which he carefully cut into bite-sized pieces.
“Forgive me,” Helen said. “Prince Roman, is there news?”
He stilled, carefully put his knife and fork on the table next to his plate and met her eyes. His were cold, as if behind a transparent, protective wall.
“I am sorry, Helen, no.”
Princess Anna reached out and covered Helen’s hand. “There is still hope, dear. Do not despair. Roman went to Moscow to engage another detective.”
When Helen, her stomach turning and sinking, did not say anything, Princess Anna pressed on. “Roman, why do you not try to lift her spirits. Today is a sunny day, excellent for ice-skating. River Neva has frozen enough. I am positive there are merchants with pancakes and tea. And we have plenty of skates to borrow. Do you know how to skate, dear?”
Helen shook her head, a little mortified at the prospect of attempting to move on the thin pieces of bone. She had never been allowed to skate because her aunt did not want to take care of her if she broke her neck.
“Well then, Roman will teach you. Will you not, Son?”
Helen glanced at him, and his jaw tightened. “Naturally, Mother.”
“Helen, do say yes,” Princess Anna pleaded.
Helen fiddled with her thumbs under the table. Was it the best way to move forward after their kiss? It would be so awkward. But she did not have a good reason to decline the proposition.
“Yes,” she said looking pointedly at her porridge.
“Excellent! Then it’s settled.”
On the way to the river, Roman and she were both silent and tense, looking out the carriage windows. They arrived on the other side of the Neva River, right across from the Winter Palace. It was such a magnificent sight against the blinding vastness of the snow around them and the pale blue sky. The palace seemed to emerge from the clouds, making Helen feel as though she floated somewhere between earth and sky. It was impossible to say where the bank of the river ended and the river began under the sparkling snowdrifts.
There were already gentlemen and ladies skating, as well as children, both rich and poor. Peasants were ready with baskets of pancakes and pierogies that gave off the most mouthwatering aromas of freshly baked pie. Some peasants installed samovars— big round heated containers made of copper, iron, or br
onze with a pipe in the top and a small tap in the bottom—on small tables. Pots were placed on top and concentrated tea was heated. It would be poured into a teacup and diluted with the hot water being heated in the cylinder. Once prepared, tea could be purchased for a penny. Helen felt sure she would be drinking her share on this cold winter day.
When Roman helped her out of the carriage, Helen looked dubiously at the skaters. “I don’t know if I can do that.”
“Of course you can. I’ll teach you. No one could skate before they tried.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
Why was she such a ninny? She’d always wanted to skate whenever she watched others do it. If she was honest, she was thrilled to try it. Scared but thrilled.
While Roman was taking the skates out of their purse, a peasant woman in a long woolen coat approached Helen and began speaking Russian. She had a thick woolen kerchief around her head and spread similar kerchiefs with gorgeous flower patterns on her arm in front of Helen. Although Helen was learning Russian, she could not understand everything, but she caught the words “children,” “help,” and “buy.”
“Roman, what is she saying?”
“She sells the kerchiefs to help support an orphanage,” he said, rummaging in the purse hidden under his fur cloak. “Here,” he said in Russian while giving her the money.
The woman pocketed the coins and straightened her arms again to showcase the kerchiefs. “Which one? For the beautiful lady?”
Roman smiled and looked at Helen. “Pick one, please.”
“Oh,” Helen said. “They are all so pretty. Which orphanage is it?”
“It’s the St. Vasily one.”
“Whenever I received my allowance, I always donated to one orphanage in London,” she said, brushing her fingers along the row of blue, red, black, and yellow kerchiefs. “I also went to help with little babies when we were in London. I should like to do the same here. Being an orphan… Well, of course it was much different for me since I was born into a family with money. But being an orphan is never easy, poor or rich. No money will replace parents’ love and care.”
Roman frowned, his eyes burning into her. “Of course.”
“Do you know where the orphanage is?” she asked.
Roman asked the old lady and nodded when she answered. “Yes, we shall find it, if you like.”
She smiled at the lady and picked a blue kerchief. It would remind her of the Winter Palace. Helen wrapped it around her neck under her fur coat, and the fine, smooth wool gave her a pleasant warmth.
Roman looked at her with an anguish she could not understand. She pursed her lips and looked away. Had she angered him in some way? Or was it desire that she saw? Her stomach tickled inside, and she needed to make it stop.
The old woman bowed several times, saying “spasiba, spasiba” and blessing Roman and Helen.
“Now that you have your kerchief, maybe it is time to learn ice-skating,” Roman said, the hint of a sly grin on his face.
Helen smiled, her stomach quivering in an anticipation of a new experience, of a thrill. Roman helped her put the blades on her shoes, sinking to one knee by her feet. She couldn’t help watching as his handsome face concentrated. Then he met her eyes and heat ran between them, the memory of that balcony kiss rushing over her like an avalanche. Her lips went dry as she studied his mouth, remembering the hardness and softness of those beautiful thin lips on hers, making her burn in the places she did not know could feel that way.
She needed to stop this. She turned around and tried to walk through the snow in the skates, but she lost her balance and fell right into a snowdrift. She laughed from the surprise of it and the joy of crisp, soft snow on her face. Roman came closer and held out his hand to help her up, a huge smile on his face.
“That might be the first genuine smile I’ve seen on you,” she whispered, and his face straightened. How handsome he was when he smiled like that.
He was like a black Russian crow, all serious and somber in the middle of this brilliant whiteness, but when he smiled there was so much light in him. Why did he not show it?
Well, maybe she’d help him.
She took his hand as if to let him help her stand up, but instead she pulled him down. And, caught by surprise, he fell sideways, half on top of her, half in the snow.
They both laughed at first, his laughter pure and precious. But when Helen realized that those lips were once again right in front of her, close enough to reach out and kiss, she froze. He studied her, all humor gone, as though he was gazing upon the most marvelous, beautiful, wondrous thing he’d ever seen, and her heart squeezed at the realization that no one had ever looked at her like that.
Not Alex. Not the Herberts.
No one.
Well, maybe her mother had when she was small, but she did not remember.
She smiled again, a polite smile. “Help me stand up, please.”
He flashed a tight smile back and stood up, then helped her up. They both clapped the snow off their clothes, then Roman gave her his hand and helped her walk through the soft snow towards the ice.
As she stepped onto the ice, her feet slid apart, and even Roman’s grip could not stop her from flopping right on her bottom, her legs wide under her long fur coat. She laughed, both from surprise and to conceal a little ache in her tailbone.
Roman shook his head. “I take my words back—you might need to fear this day.”
“Oh no, Prince Lipov. Even though it might hurt, I fully intend this to be one of the best days of my life.”
But the best day of her life was supposed to happen with Alex, wasn’t it?
Chapter 6
15th December, 1813
Roman took Helen to ice-skate several times over the next week and a half, but he tried not to touch her unless strictly necessary. He needed to keep his distance from her. He reminded himself that he was just doing his duty towards his family. He should not even notice those damned rosy cheeks and the squeals of delight that she emitted as she flew across the icy whiteness.
She pretended like the kiss never happened, which suited him perfectly, and he followed her example.
But at night he lay sleepless, remembering every brush of her soft, warm lips, every glide of her tongue. Memories of her taste and scent led to images of her undoubtedly flawless naked body, which made him groan from desire and clench his fists.
He was in trouble.
How could he have these feelings for his brother’s future wife?
The brother who had stolen Kitty from him, he reminded himself.
Still, he was in agony. Desire mixed with guilt and anger always seemed to overwhelm him when he was near her.
And it had gotten worse yesterday when the Moscow acquaintance he had asked to make inquiries arrived in St. Petersburg with the news. Five days ago, Alexander had been seen in Poland, and apparently, he was without Kitty and on the way back to St. Petersburg.
The news had hit Roman like a bullet. He should have told Father and Mother, and most importantly, Helen. But he could not bring himself to tell her because seeing the inevitable look of joy and relief on her face would be agony. If he was a good man, he’d tell her.
But he must not be a good man, because he wanted her all to himself.
Yes, it was selfish, but did he not deserve to be selfish for once?
Today, he had arranged for them to visit the St. Vasili orphanage. The carriage stopped in front of a three-story wooden building with stone-and-mortar walls on the ground floor, which looked like a merchant’s house. He looked at Helen’s face as she took in the old walls, the windows with ornate carvings, and the snow and icicles hanging from the roof. Although he donated money to the St. Vasili orphanage—along with five other orphanages in the city—every Christmas, he’d never been here. He always sent someone with the money.
He glanced around curiously. Maybe he should donate more for renovations. Was it even warm inside?
At the entrance, they were greeted by a
man in his forties with a long, stern face and gray hair. “Prince Lipov,” he said. “You are welcome here. My name is Pogozhin.”
“Mr. Pogozhin,” he said. “This is Miss Courtney. She asked me to bring her here because she would like to help.”
“Oh.” He looked Helen over speculatively. “We can never get too much of that. Please, come in.”
They proceeded further into the house where Pogozhin showed them different rooms for different age groups.
“This is a good orphanage,” Helen said to Roman. “It looks like it is well maintained.”
“Are you from England?” Pogozhin asked in English.
“Yes, I am.”
“Would you like to teach the girls English? They train to become governesses and servants. They all learn French, but speaking English would be quite an advantage for them.”
Helen beamed. “Oh, I should be delighted.”
“It is recreation time. Would you like to come in and get acquainted with the girls?”
Helen shot a happy glance to Roman. “Yes, with pleasure.”
They went into a room with small beds and one long but low table. The room was filled with the noise of girls talking, laughing, and singing. Ranging from ages eight to twelve, he guessed, they were busy drawing, sewing, embroidering, and reading amidst the happy chatter. A governess stood nearby, observing them.
Pogozhin announced Helen, and the girls stared at her with open mouths. Helen asked them about themselves and the projects they were working on, and they clearly enjoyed her company.
With obvious pleasure Helen used her limited Russian along English, some of which they knew. Seeing her delighted face, Roman knew that she was clearly fine and left her to her devices, taking Pogozhin into the hall to talk about the donation and what they needed exactly.
When he returned, the children were gathered around Helen, listening to her stories of life in England, and Roman felt a little out of place in this world of girls and women. Helen, seeing him, said her goodbyes and walked towards him. Then her gaze fell to Roman’s right and down.
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