“I need this to end.” Ilya said in Russian.
“As do I brother.” Demetri’s face was drawn tight.
“No, I mean I need it to end.” Ilya said pointedly. “It is putting me in a compromised position.”
“You have never been compromised in your life. It’s Ilya’s way or no way at all,” Demetri said.
“Jealous of my life brother? Freedom from purpose has its own pressures.”
Demetri swore in Russian. “Ilya, just do as you promised us you would. This is not the time to be getting caught up with anyone. I need you to stay focused. The family requires you to do what you do best.” Demetri waved to the debauchery around the room. “Join in and cause a sensation.”
Ilya scowled. “Who do you think suggested the game? Besides…it’s different.”
Demetri looked uninterested. “It’s always different. Stay focused.”
Ilya swore, stood, and dragged the closest woman against him, making a parody of a kiss to a cheering room.
A vase crashed on the floor as he dipped the woman into a swoon over his arm.
A Duchess of Somerset and a Lord Marsden were announced.
There was a clear line of sight from the front room right back to where he stood in the second. The entrance curtain already open.
And there she stood, Seraphina, in her mandarin velvet dress, Marsden at her shoulder. She stood assessing the vignette they all made. Romeo and Juliet costumes, people sitting on each other’s knees. It was one of those nights where the parlor games took a racy turn.
She would have been standing there for the damned kiss. A pressing of lips. Nothing ardent, but full of drama. Meant to entertain not seduce. Yet still. His stomach knotted.
Ilya, released the woman who giggled and pretended to swoon again onto the divan.
His heart thumped harder. He’d done nothing wrong, yet he didn’t like her seeing him like this. He’d been too confident, too sure she would not come for a while longer; the theatre crowd went for supper, if she were to come it should still be an hour away…not now.
The bottle had selected its next couple to do the balcony scene and kiss, all focus was on them. Except hers. Hers was on him.
Ilya stood frozen to the spot, gut tight as Seraphina turned, a word to Marsden and then she left the salon.
Demetri reached out and tugged him to sit down.
“She’s not your type,” he consoled. “Looks far too cultured, too serious. You like the racy, giggly ones.”
“I like her.” Ilya rumbled in Russian. And that was the truth of it.
“She likes you then?” Demetri looked back to where Seraphina slipped through the salon’s red velvet curtain, Marsden sending an assessing look Ilya’s way.
“She is trying not to. I’m doing my best to help her feel conflicted about that.”
“You’re a cad.” Demetri threw back his drink. “I’d stick with those who don’t care what you are.”
What you are. And there it was again, what his family thought of him. All they thought he had to offer.
Ilya finished his drink and rose. “I’m going to follow her.”
“You have a job to do,” Demetri reminded him.
Ilya panned his hand around, raised his eyebrows. Reminding Demetri who suggested the little diversion of ‘who’s the best kisser’. That he’d just kissed a woman causing no end of trouble for himself with the woman he was captivated by.
Ilya patted Demetri on the shoulder. “And so do you, brother, so hurry up.”
Demetri nodded; the man was way too somber for a night on the town.
Something was happening that Demetri was not telling him about.
Despite his best efforts to find her, the disapproving Seraphina had disappeared for the night and Ilya drowned his frustration at Hells Hall. Perhaps not the brightest move as it only reminded him of her more. Every hand, won or lost, reminded him of how she’d beaten him. And then when she saw he took pleasure in it, she’d lost! Ha! She would give Russian women a run for their money.
Sometime in the night he stood in that small service corridor where they had been only a few nights back. He remembered the feel of her, the taste of her. The absolute intoxication of her. The Duchess of Somerset had invaded his mind, had sparked a hunger for her that was spilling through his veins.
Obsession with a conquest was not new. That wish to catch, to hunt and chase down a delicious quarry. That ardent possessiveness whenever he saw his conquest and imagined what he’d do when he won her. That was all present with Seraphina, but this was something more. He was not yet sure whether he should step away, stay clear of that deep swell she caused in him, or dive in. He had the distinct feeling that if he made the dive, he would not emerge the same man. A thought that should bother him, maybe even scare the hell out of him and yet…it didn’t.
He gamed all night, undertook the obligatory flirting. He even hired a room out the back, ensuring everyone thought he had a secret liaison arranged and a paramour tucked away. He was cheered by the men at the table to have organized trysts so soon after arriving in London. The looks of admiration and envy from the table as he headed to the room were the perfect fuel his family demanded. He entered the room, had a good sleep, and woke before dawn.
Ilya walked down the corridor into the gaming hall. There was a table still playing so he strolled up.
Lord Marsden was one of the last nine players.
“Room for a tenth?” At their nods, Ilya sat next to Marsden and was dealt into the next hand.
Heralded a scoundrel. He had everyone playing ‘who was in the room with the Russian Prince.’ Everyone except for Marsden who knew all too well a real man doesn’t tell, doesn’t boast who his paramour was.
As the table folded and men stood with their cravats pulled loose and stubble thick on their jaws, Marsden walked with him to claim their coats.
“What’s your interest in the Duchess of Somerset?” Marsden asked.
“In Russia it is seen as rude to interfere with a man’s private business.”
They slipped on their coats and held their top hats in gloved hands. The two of them facing off like the predators they were.
When Ilya looked set to walk out the door Marsden grabbed him by the arm. “If you embarrass her by involving her in your public antics, I will come for you.”
Ilya shrugged off Marsden’s hold. “Like leaving her at a table while you devoured your paramour? Or having her exposed to you taking your particular pleasures?”
Marsden scowled. “Seems to me you swooped right in.”
Ilya went to walk away and Marsden stepped in front of him. “She is someone special to me. If she chooses to dally with you that’s her business but I will be right there to ensure you do it like a gentleman.”
“And you think I wouldn’t?”
“Whispering in her ear at the theatre, then doing the salons, and now that.” Marsden nodded in the direction of the back room. “That’s not how I want her to experience pleasure, with a man who ruts around like a dog.”
Ilya stepped forward and bent into Marsden’s face. Hard brown eyes held his own giving him measure for measure. “There was no one there. I slept,” Ilya said.
“You slept?” Marsden’s face was momentarily blank.
Ilya shrugged. “I was tired.”
The tightness left Marsden’s face. “I’ve done that myself on occasion.”
“So, we are clear,” Ilya said, “the next time you call me a fucking dog, I will call you out.”
Marsden nodded, the glimmer of a smile on his chiseled features. “All right then.”
They turned and left the establishment, walked down the stone steps and into the forecourt where Marsden’s carriage waited. “Can I give you a lift?”
Ilya gave a nod, “I heard there is a coffee house open at this time. Coffee and Turkish delight?”
“I know the place. I’d recommend the Baklava.”
Chapter 6
Ilya sauntered into their
rented Mayfair house in time for breakfast. A grand affair with far too many rooms for their purposes; but Russian Princes couldn’t be seen to be poor, there were too many of them floating about the continent to risk looking shabby.
The coffee house had been an excellent suggestion. Lord Marsden was exactly his sort of man. They spoke motor cars and engines for two hours before Marsden dropped him home. It had been all he could do to contain himself from asking about Seraphina.
“Welcome back, Sir.”
“Thank you, Smithson.”
They’d gone through the whole protocol of address with the butler. Explained that he and his brother were not addressed as ‘Your Highness’ as they were not princes of the Russian court. And that Russia had all kinds of titles that often bore no weight at all. ‘Your Grace’ was also not suitable, so they suggested ‘Sir,’ much to Smithson’s displeasure. Demetri received the acknowledgement of ‘General’, which went some way toward placating the man.
Smithson took Ilya’s coat.
“Has the mail been delivered?” Ilya passed him, his top hat, gloves, and scarf.
“Not yet, Sir.”
“Bring it through when it arrives.”
“Certainly, Sir.” Smithson placed all the item sin the foyer closet.
“Is it just me or do I smell?” Ilya asked the butler, sniffing the air.
“Of smoke, Sir.”
He hated when he could smell himself like now, cigar smoke sitting stale in his clothes.
“Will you be retiring, Sir?” Smithson stood at the ready.
“No. Arrange a bath and have fresh clothes laid out. I will be motoring.” Marsden had told him of a small manufacturer in London who allowed test drives.
“As you wish, Sir.” Smithson have a small bow and went to arrange the bath.
Ilya took a few moments in front of the foyer mirror and fashioned the pound notes he’d won at Hell’s Hall so they hung out of his waistcoat pockets. Perfect. He looked the part of a reprobate. Family duty done for another day.
The breakfast room, located at the back of the house, overlooked a charming garden. Evergreens commanded attention amongst the bare branches of the deciduous trees. A white gravel path meandered around the acre lot punctuated by large urns currently waiting for spring to reveal their secret occupants. A prize in the city indeed.
“Demetri.” Ilya nodded to his brother as he entered the room, the smell of bacon announcing the breakfast service of eggs, sausages, wilted greens and grilled tomatoes, and his favorite…small pan fried potatoes with plenty of salt and pepper, tossed with parsley.
Demetri sat scanning the freshly ironed morning paper, delivered just ahead of him if Smithson was on time. It was their daily ritual to read the morning papers. Evidence that Ilya was doing his duty if he was mentioned in the columns and fresh fuel for Demetri to have his betrothal canceled.
“Late night?” Demetri glanced up then back to the paper.
“Doing my filial duty.”
Sunlight streamed through the window, one of those bright winter days that made the snow glare in your eyes. Nothing to enjoy after hours of gambling and bouncing women on his knees. The games he’d always played and enjoyed, were now more like work. Who would have thought curtailing his wild ways could be achieved by making them part of his family’s honor? That when he was required to be a rabble rouser into the early hours or face familial disappointment, the acts seemed to lack all interest. Or was it something else? He hazarded a guess it was.
“You know you should read the news section. It’s far more interesting than the gossip columns.” Ilya sank down with a cup of black coffee and drank. The bitter warmth like life blood as each sip poured into him.
“Ah, here it is.” Demetri looked up, gave him a nod of approval, then read out loud.
The Petroski brothers reigned the night at Madam Debuverey’s salon. The writer was informed that the salon was introduced to a range of Russian salon games that, rumor has it, touched the lips of many a female salon member, especially the elusive widow. Invites abound as the Petroski brothers spend their last few nights in the city.
“There was no elusive widow.” Ilya growled. No. Seraphina had scowled at him and disappeared into the night.
“Papers embellish. That works in our favor.” Demetri was already back to the column.
“As requested, the mail, Sir.” Smithson bowed over a silver tray placing it in front of Ilya.
“Thank you, Smithson.” Ilya went through the envelopes on the tray, selected his, then slid the tray over to Demetri.
Ah, and there it was, delivery details.
Demetri looked up. “It’s coming?”
“Today.” The Daimler Racing car, a Phoenix model, the same model as driven by Mercedes to win the Nice-Magagnon-Nice race this March. It didn’t have a roof but that was what fur coats were for. “I’m heading to Joel-Rosenthal’s, he manufactures here in London, if you want to come along? Lord Marsden is arranging for us to test drive one of their electric models.”
“The electric car, doesn’t seem your pace.”
“Well, if you can get on with breaking your betrothal, maybe I’ll have enough time to get to some of the manufacturers out of London before we leave.”
Demetri ignored him, folded the paper and rose from the table. Demetri liked to drive the motorized cars but didn’t see them as anything more than a hobby. To Ilya they were a passion and one he was convinced would change the world.
“I am off to address just that.” Demetri patted Ilya’s shoulder as he walked past. “Good job last night. Drive safe.”
Ilya filled a small plate of fried potatoes and ate standing at the window.
Tonight, was the Fairmont’s Ball.
A chance to redeem himself with Seraphina. Remind her how he could make her feel. Reassure her what she saw was nothing more than a parlor game.
How to address what would be daily gossip column news, the work he had yet to do to create grounds for demanding the annulment of Demetri’s betrothal, was the real problem. Women who whispered poetry to you had soft hearts.
Chapter 7
Seraphina watched Ilya as he and his brother made their way down the dramatic staircase dominating the room with its swirl of stairs. The duo looked far too handsome. General Vladimir displayed his military dress and medals while Ilya wore formal black and whites. The attire looked to have been sewn onto him. His jacket fit his form to perfection, showing his broad chest, his height, his long lean legs. And just by looking at him she smelt that deep wooded cologne of oud and cedar, remembered how it warmed on his body and what it felt like to press her face against that muscled chest and breathe him in.
They disappeared into the crush at the bottom of the stairs. There were so few formal social events outside the Season, that when one was given everyone came. Fairmont’s Ball, held in a small yet opulent ballroom, had grown to be one of the key balls of the Christmas period. People pressed closer together than they wanted along the sidelines as dancers swirled around the floor, men in black and whites and women with bare shoulders, plunging necklines, and waists synched so tight Seph had no idea how they breathed, let alone danced.
Overhead, a ceiling full of chandeliers set the room ablaze with sparkling lights and the orchestra played the best waltzes from Strauss and Tchaikovsky.
And of course, now that the insufferable Prince was at the ball, her heart thumped a little faster and her skin was all the more sensitive. Seraphina hated the way her skin heated and her heart tripped when she saw him. Hated that she was taken with a man so shallow and unreliable that he thought nothing of talking to her as he had at the theatre before she walked into Madam Debuverey’s salon to find him kissing Lady Irvine.
Rodent. Parasite. Libertine.
And yet. Most of that frustration was with herself. She should have entered the salon and joined in the fun. As a poet she was supposed to live life fearlessly, reach out prepared to experience all the emotion, the excitement, the pain that l
ife had to offer. That was how she could convey the passions and trials of life into words, passing those experiences on to others, to those who sat demurely in parlors and dreamed of such things.
Marsden handed her a glass of punch. “Your Prince is here.”
She rolled her eyes and looked bored. “He’s not mine, he’s clearly everyone’s!”
What would she do if he really was hers? What would it be like to have a man like that, full of passion and virility focused entirely on her? The idea was intoxicating as much as she fought with herself about it.
The trouble was, she was much too sensible to expose herself to a man who was honest about being shallow when it came to relationships and commitments. Yet that was the very man that was exciting. He dared to do what he felt like. Dared to experience pleasures where they were given. Clear that he was not interested in settling down with any one person. The probability was that, much like Marsden who she loved dearly, the man was not capable of it.
Marsden wore that knowing look again. She’d asked to go straight home after seeing that kiss in the salon. Not the response of someone who was worldly, nor someone thinking about having a liaison. The difficulty was that she didn’t know many rakes and those she did know, she was not remotely attracted to. Except for the Russian, he was a rake and she was attracted to him a great deal. And, given that she’d almost decided she needed a liaison to remove the last vestiges of her ignorance about the world of love and passion, being attracted to only the Russian was rather annoying.
“Don’t take it all so seriously Seph. It was a parlor game, nothing more. A room full of people. You saw it yourself, he swept her up for a hoot from the crowd. If the man were serious it would have been done somewhere private. And trust me, you would never have known about it.”
“He’s not mine and I don’t care.” Seph fluttered her fan. She did care and she was irritated with herself that she did. It pointed to the fact that she was still thinking in very conservative terms. Marsden had a fluidity about him. He moved from their world of rules and propriety into one where ‘people took their pleasure seriously’, where expectations and commitments weren’t set.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Scandal: a Christmas collection of Historical Romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 1) Page 85