“I thought you said you punched the ‘preferable Russian.’”
“Men don’t hold that against each other.”
“Oh, look there are the Dolton Twins perhaps you should rush over?” Seph hid a grin as she took her exit.
It was days later that Marsden could be found at his house, brooding.
“I have been calling by for days.” Then she took stock of him. “What’s wrong with you?” He was disheveled and hadn’t shaven.
“I am not feeling social Seph, so make it quick.” The scent of alcohol puffed into the air as he spoke.
“Are you drinking already?”
“I have only gotten home from an all-night game.”
Seph sank into her favorite parlor chair, the canary yellow brocade, overstuffed at one time and now simply a comfortable snuggle. Leaves and vines were carved into the mahogany back and the yellow brocade had vertical stitching with button tufting. It had come from Marsden’s family country house. She’d spent many a summer vacation in it during her childhood, legs tucked up under her, as she and Marsden regaled each other about how great their lives would be when set free from the constraints of youth.
Little had either of them guessed that those were the days of freedom.
“You look terrible.” She said as her friend sank into the matching sofa. “What’s wrong are you sick?”
He waved a dismissive hand.
“Have you seen a doctor?”
“What do you want Seph?”
The door opened. “Excuse me sir will you and Miss Seraphina be wanting a tray of tea?”
“Yes.” She replied as Marsden said, no.
The butler, Fredrick stood at a loss. Marsden was the master of the house and yet she was as good as family as far as the staff and Marsden’s family were concerned.
Marsden gave Fredrick the nod.
“You have dark circles under your eyes.” And a haunted look. She knew that look; it was what she saw when she looked in the mirror these past few months. “Are you in love?”
The expression he gave was wretched. “Absolutely not.”
“Who is it?” Had she been so self-obsessed she hadn’t noticed?
“No one…no one I can have. No one I want…”
He leaned back then barked a derisive laugh. “Who would have thought, the infamous Lord Marsden, rakehell to end all rakehells, the man without a heart would be so swiftly felled. Out of the blue, taken by surprise and made wretched with want and longing.”
In seconds Seph was on the small little sofa next to him. Arms slipping around his shoulders drawing him close as he rested his head on her shoulder.
“We should paint the town,” she murmured stroking his back.
“Done.”
“Crash and burn at the gaming halls…”
“Done.”
Oh dear.
“Let’s open that bottle from Egypt, the one that smells like it would kill you.”
“Finished.”
“Are you going to tell me who it is?”
He turned his face, so it was now pressed into her shoulder and mumbled something into it.
“You’ll have to enunciate…” she coaxed.
He lifted his head and leaned back. “Enough of my maudlin affairs. How are you going with your Russian?”
Seph pulled a face. “I need your help to check a few things.”
The door opened and the tea service was set out on the coffee table. Seph busied herself with it while Marsden looked up at the ceiling. Seph handed him a cup of tea.
“You need to wash. You smell.”
“I smell you say?” He sniffed himself.
“Yes, just a bit.”
When he looked at her his eyes softened. “Come on then, out with it.”
Seph drew the dance card from two nights earlier out of her purse. “Ilya said you would know he hadn’t slept with them.”
“These are the women you saw in his room?” Marsden glanced at the names and shook his head.
“Yes.” Her throat was tight.
“It’s a pity I hadn’t known earlier. I can tell you unequivocally he didn’t sleep with them. They might be married but they like to slip away and ‘tip the velvet.’”
“I don’t understand.”
“They like women, they are sapphic. A couple of us who know let them use our rooms.” Marsden raised his gaze and looked at her.
“Women?” Confusion swirled through her as she tried to put it together, but it didn’t make sense.
That indulgent smile of his formed on his lips. “Yes.”
A lightness filled her, something entirely unexpected. She smiled and foolish, foolish girl her eyes welled up. Marsden got that soft look in his eyes. And then it just broke loose, and she cried, cried with deep aching sobs. How much had she kept in, how deep had the pain gone? The relief was enormous, a shaft of light over gloom that was the past five and a half months.
It was now her turn to get her back rubbed and press her face into his shoulder while she wept.
“I am the cause of my own suffering,” she muffled against him
“Aren’t we all. Now are we done?”
She lifted her head and he pulled a rather crumpled handkerchief from his vest. She declined and took out hers from her purse. “Ilya said I should ask his brother what he has been doing since last year. He said he hasn’t had anyone since we… you know.”
“Really? Since the Bath house party? Seph, you are a torturing harpy; the poor man.”
She grinned. Hope rioting…what if he was telling the truth after all? Tears pricked her eyes again. If Ilya was telling the truth, everything…. absolutely everything, changed.
“It may be inopportune to bring this up,” Marsden said, “but what about St Alban?”
Chapter 25
Despite finding out Ilya had not slept with the duo in Bath and that he was under obligation to his family to play the rake, he was not redeemed. The fact remained that she had been heart broken and five and a half months of heartache was a long time. That he had also suffered went some way to sooth her, but it was not enough.
Seraphina had followed up with Georgie, who got information out of Demetri, Ilya had been morose, sullen, ill tempered. No parties and playing up, his mother was beside herself and women were visiting with the hope that the second Vladimir prince was ready to settle down and wed. He’d been charming but not encouraging.
The only thing that had gotten his interest and full support was a season for Tatiana in London. And his growing passion for motorcars; a foolish focus as far as his family were concerned.
Yes, they knew Prince Ulyanov. There had been stories about Bath and how he and Ilya had drunk and played cards until they fell asleep in their chairs.
Yet all of that didn’t mean that he was forgiven. That her pain was forgotten….and then there was St Alban.
The sound of a motorcar purred into the portico outside. Seph stopped herself from going to the bay window, she knew who it was. The front door opened, and the murmur of voices drifted in from the foyer. Pleasure, confusion, need, excitement they all warred inside her sending nerves in every direction.
She straightened her soft lemon-yellow skirt. Looked across the room at her reflection in the mirror, white lace blouse with a broach of soft pink camellias, she soothed back some stray curls of hair.
The door to the front parlor opened. It was afternoon teatime, a suitable time for callers to come.
“A Prince Petroski, your Grace.”
Seraphina stood, heart suddenly racing.
Ilya strode in, and warmth flushed her skin. He was in his military dress. Formal and regal. The languid rake and libertine was nowhere to be seen in his bearing. In front of her stood a man of status. Someone to rely on. A man proclaiming himself in the longest standing message between the genders.
Heat washed her cheeks with pleasure, but she was not yet ready to give him what they both wanted.
The door closed behind him and still he st
ood there waiting for her to invite him in. It was as with all invitations, an invitation for more. In this case permission to reenter her life, to advance his interest. To ask the question his appearance conveyed he wanted to ask.
The silence stretched and her heart pounded.
Not yet.
Not so easily.
Ilya drew himself up higher. He bore the tension well. His face giving nothing away, simply a man standing in front of a woman wanting her to choose him above all others.
“I heard you visited Georgina.”
“Yes.”
“You were not satisfied?” Concern slipped over his features.
“You hurt me, Ilya. You hurt me a great deal.”
“I’ll make it up to you. Name your penance of me and I will make it up to you.”
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. The idea of Ilya doing any kind of penance was ludicrous, but it was a little satisfying to imagine the possibilities.
“Do you need more time?” Ilya slipped his hands into his pockets.
She shook her head no.
“I will be at the Theatre tonight, The Magic Flute,” she said.
“I will be there. And.” He stepped forward. “If you still hold me with any fondness, wear the mandarin velvet dress.”
“And if I did?”
His eyes smoldered as he looked at her. “I would take it as permission to advance my position.”
“Your position? The one that is currently relegated to the doorstep.”
“I am not out on the street.” He wiggled his eyebrows and she laughed.
“We’ll see. I have people to call on so you must find more willing women to see you this afternoon.”
“I am at your mercy.” She rolled her eyes and he gave her a formal bow and left.
A half hour later, Seraphina was ushered into the opulent front parlor of St Alban’s Mayfair house. The family called it the rookery given its smaller size relative to the main family estate and its proximity to the other Mayfair houses.
St Alban, had lived at the ‘rookery’ for the last thirty months and despite their connection and subsequent engagement he had never looked any happier than the first time she’d seen him. There was a gravity to him, a weight. His wife had run off with a rival and disappeared in Europe. Papers followed asking for divorce and he’d obliged. He’d recognized her wound he’d said. Recognized they both needed the solitude only broken souls were able to give each other. She had agreed, had accepted the offer of marriage, they’d yet to kiss, yet to do anything amorous. Heirs were a given and of course she would have obliged.
St Alban walked in and stilled. A rueful smile. “Your Russian?”
“Yes.” She smoothed down the front of her skirt suddenly self-conscious.
“You look like Spring.” He walked in and motioned them to sit.
“Thank you.” Seph sank into a chair opposite him.
“I will release you of course.” Lovely man, stepping in to save her the difficulty of asking.
“I’m sorry.” She didn’t think she’d hurt him, simply that he was again alone.
He raised his hand. “No need. I am envious.” Those sad eyes. “I’ll have the announcement placed in the papers.”
“I have a favor to ask…something rather wicked I’m afraid so feel free to refuse.”
He smiled. She had managed to make him look softer these last few months if not happier. He had in some ways benefited from their time together, the harsh edge of solitude a little softer now.
Five hours later Seph walked into the theatre’s foyer on the arm of St Alban, and of course, wearing the mandarin velvet dress. She had gone to great pains to have her hair coiled and dressed showcasing her shoulders and neck which she knew Ilya found very alluring. Jet earrings and cascading necklaces made her shimmer as she walked.
“You look stunning.” St Alban whispered in her ear just as she caught sight of Ilya dressed in formal black and whites, so wonderfully regal as he stood alongside his sister, brother, and Georgie.
Seph leaned in closer to St Alban, her hand over his. “I am very grateful you are doing this tonight.”
They met acquaintances and St Alban released her hand, reached out for a glass of champagne, and gave it to her, one hand on her lower back.
Ilya started to stalk. He prowled the perimeter of the room, his eyes boring into them. Seph finally looked up. His gaze captured hers, and her heart leaped. She raised her glass to him and the look he gave her promised real trouble when he got her alone. Seph turned to St Alban and fluttered her eyelids at him as the bell sounded for the start of the performance.
St Alban had his own box where they overlooked the audience with Ilya and company in a larger box across the way.
“He’s seething,” St Alban murmured.
She turned to whisper in his ear. “And I am feeling better than I have in months.” She laughed and he laughed with her, lifting his hand to stroke across her cheek with his fingers. They continued with small whispered exchanges through the first act. When she eventually looked up Ilya was no longer in his box and her heart suddenly raced.
The interval bell chimed.
“Would you mind if I did the usual?”
“No, no of course not. Please go ahead.” St Alban did the round of ministers and lords of parliament at these events. His work in politics and reform was what he lived for, social events were the informal meeting places for change. He gave her a small smile and left.
Seph slowly stood scanning the boxes finding no sign of Ilya.
“No need. I have brought you a glass.”
Pleasure flushed through her at the sound of his voice. Seph schooled her features as she turned.
“Ilya. What a pleasant surprise.” She reached out to take the glass and he didn’t immediately release it.
“You are in a lot of trouble, little bird.”
The smile she had been pressing down slipped out.
“Am I now?” She looked at him over the rim of her glass as she took a sip. “Do you like my dress?”
He murmured things in Russian that made her nipples harden and her sex throb.
Perhaps she had forgiven him.
He took her glass and set it down on the small shelf attached to the seats exactly designed for wine and opera glasses to rest.
“Follow me,” he growled.
Seph followed him through the curtain at the back of the box and came to a sudden stop. He’d closed the door, so they were in a dark space between the door and curtain out of sight.
He used his body to step her back against the wall sending shards of need along her skin. Pressed himself against her bringing her hand down to feel the long thick hardness of him.
Her sex clenched; she knew exactly what that length felt like as it pumped into her.
“This is the rod I will punish you with, little bird. It will make you cry out and beg before I am done.”
Then at long, long last his lips came down on hers and she tasted him. The taste of pure pleasure. The swirl of his tongue over hers full of hungry need. The faint taste of whiskey, the scent of his cologne wrapping her up like the fragrance of home. Every stroke, every swirl of his tongue telling her she was in trouble and would pay in the most delicious of ways. Her body undulated against his, her hands clutched at him, oh so ravenous after so long apart.
He kissed her, touched and tantalized her until the bell chimed and even then, she had to press his chest to have him lift off her. She was breathless, her body humming, aching for his more intimate touch. Heart soaring as she again floated in a sky that was made of pure bliss.
Ilya guided her back into the box and helped her sit. Handed her her glass.
“You look breathtaking,” he said eyes smoldering. “We are not done yet Seraphina.” And then he departed leaving her in a delicious daze.
St Alban didn’t return until close to the end of the act. He often stayed in the foyer with his colleagues as they discussed matters of state. By that time
, her heart had settled if not the redness of her lips and chin.
When the play ended, and the lights came up. His gaze took in the small tell-tale signs, a softness in his eyes.
“Things worked out well then?”
She smiled suddenly shy. “We’ll see.”
St Alban dropped her home.
“I can’t thank you enough for troubling with me,” and Seph meant it. He would make some woman very happy and very proud.
“The pleasure was all mine.” He kissed her gloved hand. “I hope tonight had the effect you were after, he’s a lucky man.”
Chapter 26
Ilya stood in Seraphina’s back garden. Around him the moon washed over the trees, shrubs, and bushes in grey white tones. He watched the second story window, a few well spent pounds, confirmed the left far corner next to the old oak was Seraphina’s bedroom. He imagined her closing her eyes after the soft glow went out at the curtain cracks. In Bath he’d watched her while she slept. Loved those moments when she tried to stay awake and her eyelids just refused to lift, and she slipped off to sleep.
He’d been wound tight tonight, that she wore the dress, the signal he hoped she’d give him but only to turn up with another man had driven him wild. Watching as St Alban escorted Seraphina from the theatre tonight, wondering if he would kiss her when he got her home. If the man would touch her.
The images had twisted his gut so tight he had walked all the way back to the Mayfair house to try and work off the anger, the dark possessive need to go and claim her. It was by chance that he picked up the evening paper in his restlessness and read the gossip column.
‘The elusive widow is cutting her ties with the ice Baron, is it because the Russian has come back to town?’
He’d written a missive of his own and come straight over, she was free, and she was his. No point in wasting time. They’d both suffered enough. And there was the matter of a little punishment for the night’s theatrics.
Scanning his options, there were two ways he could get in, the tree or the trellis. Ilya looked up at the trellis, a clear and direct path requiring the least dexterity. The ivy was a deep covering but underneath would be hand and foot holds.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Scandal: a Christmas collection of Historical Romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 1) Page 95