by Elsa Holland
She fluttered those lashes, clearly oblivious to the impact they had on him, and tucked some stray strands of hair behind her ears. A habitual action to tame wayward hair he was starting to have fantasies about. She needn’t have bothered. All the punishment of the roses had done its damage as her glorious curls, a mass of satin tresses, was moments away from slipping out of its pins entirely.
A week and a half apart and unfortunately Georgie was as appealing as ever. The way she moved made his hands itch to hold her, to trail his palms over her form to feel her shape, the soft undulations of a body that was slim and yet beautifully feminine. And those eyes, every time her gaze snagged on his there was that vertigo sensation that warned him, he faced a stronger opponent than she knew. Another time, another set of circumstances and he may have been taking different actions.
“Where is your brother?” She demanded, thrusting her chin up with some drama and, heaven help him, her hair finally started to fall. She yelped, one hand shooting up to grab hold of it as two hair pins fell to the carpet. She bent forward and the angle was the end of any hope she had of any of it remaining in place. Her hair unfurled in slow motion, a sensual uncurling as it slid out of the pins and slinked around her neck then down her back seeming to expand as it went. What had promised to be a sensual mass of silken locks turned out to be a mane of pure, erotic fantasy.
His chest did a somersault as his mind plunged into acts conducted on satin sheets with a curtain of satin locks brushing across his skin.
“You were about to tell me about your brother?” she asked, clearly annoyed as she set to work collecting pins and placing them on the table next to her. The light from the window picked out burnished hues of amber and red as her head moved, and she…she continued as if she wasn’t turning into a siren in front of his eyes
Demetri squatted beside her and collected a few of the pins. “My brother has asked me to relay that he is detained.” She pushed his hands out of the way and rose. He picked up a couple of pins she missed and stood.
Georgie was circling the mass of hair and trying to stick the pins back in, only to have them pop back out again.
Suddenly, helping with that mane took supreme importance. It was just a matter of time before he was successful at having the Betrothal called off. The chance to touch her, to find his fingers in her hair, was not likely to present itself again. A small reward perhaps for sticking to his plan, staying on course despite her appeal.
Demetri reached forward. “I have a sister...I can help.”
She slapped his hands away but the pins that she’d placed in, fell out again. She swore in Russian and scowled at him. He bent down to pick up the newly fallen hair pins so he could hide the smile.
“That was very unladylike. Russian women do not swear.”
She swore again, except this time articulating every syllable as clearly as possible. And in that moment, he wished she were truly his. If she were, he would inflict the most delectable of punishments, would enjoy this banter on a far more erotic level.
“I can truly help,” he straightened handing the pins to her even as she continued to scowl and look at him with mistrust. Who could blame her? “Let’s call a truce until we have it tamed and then we can continue the negotiations,” he coaxed.
Her expression evolved to wary. He reached a tentative hand to her hair and she looked at him, guarded but allowing him to proceed.
He moved closer, then closer still, until the tips of his fingers touched her hair. Her breath sounded uneven as his fingers slipped into the softest, thickest of manes. It slipped through his fingers and over his hand, caressed his palm and he tightened the muscles in his abdomen, willing himself not to react. Gently he drew his other hand up.
“I’ll need both hands.” He whispered to her in Russian. Her eyes darted up to his, a flash of golden amber as he pressed the fingers of his other hand into her hair and was lost. His hands clasped her head on either side. The smallest of movements would tilt it to draw her lips up to his and kiss her.
“What are you thinking?” she whispered, the warmth of her breath dancing over his lips.
He grew harder as one inappropriate scenario followed another through his mind, those locks twisted in his hands, trailing over his heated skin, his face pressed into them.
“Nothing, turn around.”
She turned in his arms and he let his hands collect her hair, willing his body to behave as he twisted the mass of satin into a knot. His stomach twisted in unison and his thoughts buckled into and under themselves as he avoided the fantasies this closeness was generating. He forced himself to focus on the task, each loop and twist, making the movement with precision. Each thought and tempting image placed aside and out of reach.
In a few moments he had her hair contained.
“Pins.” He whispered.
She handed them to him and he slipped them into the thick bundle he’d made of her hair.
“Done.” Demetri stepped back, body tight, throat thick.
“Thank you.” Her hands felt out what he’d done.
“Come on.” He walked her over to a small mirror on the wall above the sideboard. A vase full of peacock feathers sat on the surface and next to it a small box with the lid open. In an instant he recognized the frame of miniatures of years ago, he needed to remember why he was here. Demetri turned her from left to right catching her gaze in the mirror’s reflection. “I am afraid my talents only stretch to Russian styles.”
“Styles? You were an attentive brother.” She reached out and touched the bun at the back of her head.
He was an attentive lover, but he played along. “No doubt. My sister refuses to acknowledge the fact though.”
“Where is Vladimir and when will he come and introduce himself?” Her hands had moved to her hips even as they spoke through the mirror’s reflection.
“Busy with matters of state.”
Her face turned into a scowl and the truce was clearly over.
“So, you think I can’t read?” She spun around, walked past him, over to the papers and picked one up. “Rumor has it a recent widow from the Lake District is the center of attention for Russian delights.” She read the words in a voice expressing feigned amazement.
Georgie picked up another newspaper. “What has more fun at a Bath house party, a Russian prince or a hound on heat? Or what about this one: There is cause to believe the St Petersburg is soon to sport guests from the Lake District but if only the pesky London baggage wasn’t taking all the room in the baggage rack.”
She stalked forward color high on her cheeks. “I am referred to as London Baggage! Oh, and let me tell you what else I read: Never let it be said younger brothers don’t have any of the fun. Rumor has it they get lost in the hedge maze with the hostess.”
She held up her hand to stop him from speaking as she picked up another paper.
“This is my favorite. Younger and juicier than his older brother, is he sharing his delicious nectar with both widows?”
Of course, that referred to him. He had in fact not partaken of either widow, but appearances needed to be kept up if his plan to have the betrothal called off were to succeed. And yet discomfort curled through him as she read each report. A wild success as far as his strategy was concerned.
His face strained and his jaw tightened. “We are not betrothed Georgie; I am free to do as I please.” A fragrant lie, he was her betrothed and strangely, now that he’d met her, that fact had kept his behavior in check, despite the paper’s reports. He was a man and he knew how to flirt. That was all it took, that and innuendo, to have him and his brother plastered all over the gossip columns. At another time he would have reveled in the attentions and fully enjoyed them and yet he didn’t, a fact his brother was very quick to say was out of character.
Georgie slapped the newspaper on the side table. “Your behavior amplifies your brother’s. If you both intended on behaving so badly, you could have at least ensured that the betrothal did not get a mention. I a
m a laughingstock.”
Discomfort flooded him. If he could have found a way to leave the betrothal without hurting her, he would have taken it in a heartbeat. She was undoubtedly as much at the mercy of her father’s mercenary plans as he and his family were. “As I said, I am free to do as I please.”
She slapped his arm with the paper, “As am I. You will pick me up at ten tonight and take me to the salon.”
Shock flashed through him. “Certainly not.” He stood up to full height and squared his shoulders.
“Either you take me, or I go alone.” She rolled her eyes at him and walked past him.
“Don’t be foolish. It is not your circle to frequent.” He used his most authoritative tone.
“If my betrothed can go… so can I.”
He wanted to spit out that he was her betrothed and that he did not approve.
“Don’t be naive, Georgie, stay home.”
She headed for the door.
He reached out, caught her arm and drew her close. “I will not have you going to the salon,” he growled.
“You and I are not betrothed,” her eyes flared as she threw his words back at him, “you are free to do as you please so long as that does not involve directing me.” She tried to wriggle out of his grasp.
“I act on behalf of my brother.” He stilled her movements by holding her other arm. “Be reasonable Georgina.”
The impact of her name stilled her.
“We are both aware that he has no idea that I have decided to attend the salon, nor do I think he cares.”
He drew her closer as he looked down at her, as he willed himself not to look at those lips of hers. “Georgie.” His voice growled the warning. “I know your betrothed well enough to know he would want me to ensure you removed this foolish notion from your head.”
Her eyes held his, the tension between them making his breath come faster, as did hers. What would the two of them be like…together?
And then the little minx curled her hand in his coat and drew him closer still, telling him in a language men and women had used with each other since the beginning of time that he would not intimidate her with proximity. A proximity which was delicious, sending his body into a wild rush of pleasures he would never come to sample.
“So now you have intimate knowledge of your brother’s mind, yet when I wanted to know if he would come to dinner, if he would be visiting me, you ‘didn’t know your brother’s mind’. Thank heavens you are not a statesman Demetri. You lack the strategic continuity.”
“Strategic continuity….is that so.” Clever as well as beautiful and her hair was going to fall loose again. “I think you should let me go, Bushka.”
Her lips were right there, the breath between them warm and drawing him to lean closer. “You must want to be free of this betrothal Georgie.”
Her eyes widened for a moment of surprise then a small frown of determination and anger creased between her eyebrows. Yet she didn’t step back and he didn’t have it in him to move away even an inch.
“Is that what he wants?” she whispered in Russian.
“I do not know my brother’s mind.” He replied and he had to use all his discipline not to cast another look down at her lips.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “But you know it well enough to suggest I release him.”
Her hair, praise the gods, her hair started to fall, and his fingers were threaded in it before he realized he’d moved. She sucked in a breath, her feathered lashes fluttering in uncertainty.
“Shhhh,” he soothed her, both hands in her hair, her face so close to his as he maneuverer pins in unseen. He muttered things under his breath, nonsense things in Russian, anything to keep her still, keep her right there. Breath tight and shallow. He sidled closer, body raging with a need he reigned in as best he could. His thighs pressed against her skirts. She moved, he felt the press of her thigh, then back to skirts. The glorious hair again contained, he dropped his arms, his finger aching to stroke her cheek on the way down.
“Demetri….” Her voice a hushed sound. “About the betrothal….”
He tensed. Waited for the next words, heart hammering, emotions he was not going to examine warring.
She wavered, teetered on the cusp of telling him something, something in confidence.
He imagined it was about the betrothal, that she wanted to cancel it. He would be free, his family freed from blackmail. From her…he swallowed; his breath overly tight.
Instead the knee-buckling Georgie stepped back and raised her chin, took a deep breath in and said, “Please tell your brother, the roses were delightful. Now if you’ll excuse me there is still some packing to be done before we depart.”
He stood there in shock as she walked past him and out of the room. Had he read her wrong? He didn’t think so. Was the daughter as complicit in the blackmail as the father? Was she truly the kind of woman who wanted status above fondness and respect?
Chapter 8
The gong sounded alerting salon members to another arrival. The thick burgundy velvet curtains trimmed with gold tassels rippled with movement of people on the other side. It was all rather dramatic, an ode to the theatre and therefore the theatrical nature of life. Each guest passed through them and effectively entered the stage of what was one of London’s best salons. The curtains drew back and Demetri’s rib cage contracted squeezing the breath right out of his lungs.
“Miss Georgina Franklin,” announced a clear baritone.
Pride warred with annoyance as the sumptuous Georgie strolled into Madam Debuverey’s salon as if she were a regular. Her skin glowed as her off-the-shoulder evening gown gave the perfect promise that the garment might slip off well-formed breasts at any moment. Lord Marsden turned and didn’t look away. Baron Von Bauer rose from his chair. Demetri walked toward her shooting a quelling look at each before they decided to stake a claim.
“Miss Franklin.” He took her small, warm hand and bowed over it. Bowed over it and held it for seconds longer than necessary, yet long enough to let any man in the room with any sense know that Miss Franklin was out of bounds.
“Why Demetri, I didn’t expect to see you here. I thought I would be adventuring alone.” She tried to withdraw her hand, but he held it a few moments longer.
“You have a lot to learn about Russian men.” He growled as his eye caught the Baron’s smirk. After a quick glance down to where he still held Georgie's hand, the man sat down again and turned to the woman beside him.
“Perhaps I have already learned too much,” she growled back. Those close chuckled at her response as he released his hold.
“Does your father know that you own this gown?” He murmured close to her ear, his gaze taking in the line of her neck and the simple black choker wrapped around it which spoke of eroticisms of which she had to be totally unaware. For a foolish moment he imagined the family topaz teardrop on black pearls in its stead. It was one of his family's collection which his wife would wear. A wife he had yet to find, and who could not be the enticing Miss Georgie Franklin, daughter of a blackmailing venturist.
“Does your mother know you are the toast of London?” She murmured back and moved to step past him.
The little minx thought he would let her loose in a salon. A man like him was not so easily evaded and as she passed, he stepped alongside her and linked her hand over his arm. The movement smooth...and claiming. Of course, she stiffened.
Demetri dipped his head down toward her. “Trust me to guide you through this.”
Those amber eyes flashed up to him. The look said everything she didn’t. He and his brother were the cause of embarrassment and, as he now understood, some pain. Trust was undoubtedly the last thing she felt.
“Another truce?” he whispered to her neck.
She looked around the room then back to him.
“I know this world.” He whispered again, in fact he’d whisper all night if it afforded him the small tantalizing wafts of her scent, the soft heat of her body as he leaned
close.
To her credit, her look acknowledged that he did in fact know this world and she didn’t. That despite all the gossip columns, people knew their families were possibly connected despite the lack of a formal announcement. For him to fill the role as her escort through the salon was acceptable.
She raised her chin.
He was coming to understand what that gesture meant. A signal of determination, a signal of vulnerability she overrode, and he stopped the smile of pleasure that pressed to escape his lips.
A christmas elf dressed in a tailored red and green velvet outfit, large cuffed sleeves, brass buttons and pointed caps with bells, complemented by ridiculous elven ears, glided toward them with a tray of drinks.
He reached out and took a champagne for her, only to have her reach out and select the neat whisky on offer instead. The smile he had been fighting broke through despite his efforts. She took a sip with no sign of a splutter or a wince, a man’s drink on the most feminine of lips, slipping down an elegant throat. An unexpected wave of possessiveness rolled through him.
“So how does this work?” she motioned her glass in a small arc at the salon’s rooms, oblivious to the hunger rolling through him.
Demetri placed the champagne back on the tray and matched her drink of choice. Their eyes met. Her eyebrow rose and his heart tripped.
“The art of a good salon is to have a room large enough that those in the room are privy to the exchanges of others, yet cluttered enough with plants and screens to create small areas of semi-privacy.”
“I see,” Georgie took another sip of her drink. “How does this one compare?”
Demetri watched the movement of her throat as she swallowed, let the tension build in his body as it stirred. “Madam Debuverey’s salon is a masterpiece of four interconnected rooms. It’s one of the best.”
It provided alcoves and nooks for couples to glide into, spaces where no one would think twice if he pressed her against the wall and savored her mouth. Kissed her until her hair fell down and he could press his face into it. Where he could cup those promising breasts and have the chance to slip his fingers under her neckline and feel their softness, their heat.