“I see.” A thoughtful silence fell between them as she considered his words.
“I trust that brings us to the present day,” she said.
“It does. Six weeks ago, certain events transpired in Monaco that led me to hire a private investigator to explore their cause. In one of his reports, the man mentioned that an abbey not far from here had been broken into. It was none other than the abbey in which the third portion of the scroll has rested for centuries.”
“The abbey was broken into?” Katya echoed, unnerved. “Was the scroll taken?”
“Fortunately not. The scroll, along with several other ancient documents and artifacts, had been moved to another portion of the abbey before the theft occurred. At the time, local officials attributed the crime to the work of petty thieves. But the abbey was broken into again two weeks ago. Clearly the thief is determined to get his hands on some object in particular. Now that the scroll has been stolen from my own home, it would appear obvious that he’s after the Stone.”
“Indeed. I would have drawn the same conclusion,” she murmured, almost as though speaking to herself.
The coach slowed to a leisurely, rumbling stop. Katya heard the creak of harness leather accompanied by the sound of other horses and carriages. Glancing outside the window, she saw that they had joined the long line of carriages queuing up before the Duke of Westerly’s villa.
Nicholas looked at her. “I’ve given you this background so that you might understand the gravity of the situation. Whoever stole the scroll is serious—one might even say deadly. Therefore…”
“Therefore,” she finished for him, “should I suddenly find myself intimidated by the task, this is my opportunity to bow out.”
He inclined his head. “I would not think less of you were you to decide not to pursue this further.”
“How very reassuring.” She thought for a moment. “You mentioned the necessity of hiring a private investigator to look into events that transpired here—”
“A family matter,” he interrupted. “One that may not have anything to do with the scroll.”
Though his words were brief and to the point, there was no mistaking the tension that emanated from him as he spoke. She recalled the anxiety she had heard in the Comtesse’s voice at the end of their interview, and couldn’t help but wonder at its cause. Clearly, however, this was not the time for speculation.
The coach pulled to a final stop. One of the groomsmen climbed down from his perch, opened the door, and offered Katya his hand in disembarking. She gathered her black lace fan and satin reticule, then stepped out onto the neatly manicured lawn, mingling with the other guests who were disembarking for that evening’s fete.
As Nicholas joined her she took a few steps away from the gathered assembly, moving discreetly out of earshot. That accomplished, she met his gaze and said, “I appreciate your candor. Knowing the background colors things significantly, does it not?”
“I see.” His face carefully neutral, he gave a tight nod. “I’ll have the driver bring you back—”
“Bring me back? Just the opposite. Recall the Stantons. A bit of thievery will not deter me. I shall take great delight in unmasking whoever is behind this.”
Though his expression had been veiled only seconds earlier, there was no mistaking the relief and admiration that filled his gaze now. He placed his hand on her elbow and gently ushered her forward. “In that case, let us go inside. It’s time for the lords and ladies of Monaco to meet my new mistress.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
A steward showed them through a long, vaulted hall that led to a set of ornate double doors. They stepped through the entranceway and entered a magnificent formal ballroom. Katya drew in a deep breath as she watched the guests meander about the crowded room. She had forgotten the glamour and elegance that great wealth could radiate, the confidence and condescension possessed by the very rich.
The vaulted room resonated with the hush of polite conversation, the rustle of silks and satins, and the soft strains of a seated orchestra. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, giving the huge chamber a soft, almost ethereal glow. The mirrored walls reflected the dazzling sparkle of the brilliant jewels worn by the guests and created a sense of vivid movement. Servants circulated discreetly through the assembly offering tall glasses filled with bubbly wine.
Katya’s earlier confidence evaporated, replaced by a surge of doubt and misgiving regarding the task she was about to undertake. Nicholas must have sensed it, for his hand returned to her elbow, subtly urging her forward. Hiding her nervousness, she tilted her chin and stepped regally into the room, summoning the same grace and confidence she would have exhibited onstage.
As they strolled through the crowded room her self-consciousness slowly faded. Much to her relief, she received nothing but an occasional curious glance. Her escort, however, did not enjoy the same level of indifference. In fact, just the opposite was true. Judging from the open disdain visible on the guests’ faces, it was quickly impressed upon her that Nicholas Duvall, the Earl of Barrington, was viewed as a pariah of sorts.
While he never received what was formally known as a cut direct, the reaction to his presence by those attending the gala was nothing short of shocked disapproval. The crowd parted before them like the sea before Moses, leaving an excited murmur of conversation in their wake. Throughout it all Nicholas remained coolly composed. On second glance, however, Katya realized that he wasn’t as impassive as she had first thought.
A quiet, simmering tension radiated through his frame. It wasn’t anger, but something else… something akin to the indefinable aura of danger she had perceived in him on the day they first met. A murky combination of vengeance and honor seemed to emanate from deep within him. His dark, hawkish eyes scanned the room as though seeking out his prey, while his proud carriage asserted his irrevocable right to move among his peers. Although he had warned her that his standing in polite society was poor, she had assumed the comment nothing but a bit of self-mockery, or at worst, manly conceit at his various carnal exploits. But the fissure that existed between Nicholas and society obviously ran deeper than a bit of minor debauchery.
She watched as his gaze fastened on an elderly gentleman whose squat frame had been stuffed into a black, double-breasted formal suit with coattails that reached nearly to the backs of his knees. His attire was both the height of fashion and, given the man’s short, portly frame, the height of silliness. He looked like a proud, waddling penguin. “Come,” Nicholas said, “I’ll introduce you to our host.” They made it halfway across the crowded room when the opening strains of a waltz began and their elderly host stepped onto the dance floor with a tall, graceful young woman attired in ruby red silk.
Nicholas turned back to Katya, as though giving a mental shrug. “Shall we join them?”
She studied him in shocked surprise. “You mean dance?”
He studied her with a quizzical frown. “Of course.”
“But I thought—” she began, then stopped abruptly as she realized the absurdity of what she was about to say. She had vaguely considered that since their agreement was for the farce to be in name only, it was merely a matter of making introductions and letting others assume what they may. But as Nicholas took her arm and ushered her toward the dance floor, that ill-conceived theory took on a whole new reality.
He pulled her into his arms and grasped her hand in his, holding it lightly but securely. The fingers of his opposite hand spread open across the small of her back, nearly spanning her waist. A nervous thrill shot down her spine as they moved across the floor, as though they were embarking on a journey of momentous proportions, rather than a few steps across a ballroom floor. A skilled dance partner, Katya did not have to pay close attention to the steps or the rhythm of the dance. Nicholas guided her through the waltz with an easy, athletic grace, leaving her mind free to wander. Which was fortunate, she supposed, because at that moment she could focus on nothing but the enigmatic man with whom she danc
ed.
Although they stood the requisite distance apart, he felt much too close. Unlike most men of his station, he wore no cologne. His skin had a clean, fresh scent and the heady, masculine aroma seemed to drift around her, leaving her warm, giddy, and intoxicated. She found herself fascinated by the way his dark hair curled slightly as it touched the top of his collar. She shifted her hand onto his shoulder, noting as she did so that his jacket lacked the customary padding found in most men’s coats. Nicholas Duvall was lean, solid muscle through and through.
To her shock and embarrassment, her iron-willed resolve to remain unaffected by his touch faded completely. Although Katya tended to look upon herself as proper, decorous, and strong-willed, she had not spent her life in a nunnery. Her parents—sometimes much to her dismay—had been rather shocking freethinkers and had given her tremendous freedoms. In her travels she had been exposed to a variety of different cultures and mores. Given her rather unorthodox and unsheltered background, she considered herself fairly sophisticated when it came to understanding men.
But she had vastly underestimated the impact Nicholas Duvall would have on her. Much to her dismay, the smug confidence she had had in her ability to resist the lure of his potent attractiveness vanished like household silver at a thieves’ convention. As they swirled to the music of the waltz, Katya experienced a curious sensation of both raw awakening and heightened awareness. Although she tried not to, she couldn’t help but compare the feelings Nicholas stirred within her to the safe, comforting familiarity of William’s polite, reserved touch.
She was suddenly overwhelmed by an astonishingly wicked and unprecedented urge to let her body “accidentally” brush against his. Just once. Just one forbidden touch to satisfy the insatiable curiosity that threatened to overwhelm her. The mere idea of doing so sent a warm quiver spiraling through her limbs and made her knees go weak.
Fighting her reaction, she straightened primly and held herself deliberately erect, striving to put as much distance between herself and Nicholas as the dance allowed. She reminded herself that the Lord of Barrington was a direct descendant of her family’s ancient enemy. The man was autocratic and arrogant. She was pledged—well, nearly pledged—to another. All of that was undeniably true, yet its importance seemed to melt away with each fluid step they took.
“My congratulations, Katya.”
Startled at the intrusion of his voice, she gathered her errant thoughts and repeated, “Congratulations?”
“Indeed. You have brought bad acting to the height of perfection.”
A deep flush stained her cheeks as she realized he had somehow managed to read her mind. Somehow he had discerned that she was battling a thoroughly embarrassing urge to abandon all sense of propriety and press her body against his. “I don’t understand what you mean,” she murmured awkwardly, unable to meet his eyes.
“It may be an unbearable chore for you to dance with me, but I would appreciate it if you would make that fact a little less obvious.”
Katya’s head snapped up. So much for his being able to read her mind.
“You have two choices,” he continued, speaking in a pleasant but iron-willed tone that only she could hear. “One: you may gaze into my eyes as though you are so overcome by lust for me that you have been temporarily rendered senseless.”
She swallowed hard. As that was far too close to the emotions that had been running through her only seconds earlier, it was definitely not the most attractive of options. “And the second choice?” she asked.
“You may engage me in conversation. To do neither would indicate that a profound dislike exists between us. Need I remind you that this is exactly opposite the relationship we are trying to convince everyone in this room that we share?”
She quickly searched her mind for something to say, but was unable to find a suitable topic. Mistakenly interpreting her silence for consent to act the part of lovers, Nicholas shifted his fingers until he was gently cradling her wrist in his hand. As his ebony eyes locked on hers, he slid apart the buttons of her glove. Moving his thumb with deliberate care, he stroked the tender skin of her inner wrist in a slow, provocative caress. The gesture was profoundly sensual, yet intimate enough that only those truly close to them could see it. Before Katya could react, he lowered his head and placed a gentle kiss against her wrist, brushing his lips against the exact spot he had warmed with his thumb. Her breath caught in her throat and her pulse skyrocketed.
“What would you like to discuss?” she blurted out, her voice high and shaky.
A small, knowing smile touched his lips. “It doesn’t matter. Anything. What are you thinking about right now?”
“William,” she replied, because it was partially true, and because she could think of nothing else to say.
“Ah. No doubt I suffer in comparison.”
“There is no comparison.”
“How touchingly loyal of you. I suppose you realize, however, such virtuous declarations of devotion would be better suited for a moment when you are not locked in another man’s arms.”
”William would understand.”
Nicholas’s brows shot skyward. “Would he? Careful, Goddess. You come terribly close to calling the man a cuckold.”
She stiffened and drew back. “You deliberately twist my words.”
“My apologies, Katya,” he said, moving his hand reassuringly along the small of her back. “You’re right. My remark was out of line. Perhaps it would suit us both to find a less incendiary topic of conversation.” With a slight nod of his head, he indicated the elderly man he had sought earlier. “Our host, for example. The esteemed Duke of Westerly. A disillusioned, dishonored, disappointed man. Nothing but an aging Narcissus desperately trying to avoid the reflection in the pool.”
She followed his gaze, frowning as she studied the short, balding man and the voluptuous, crimson-clad young beauty with whom he danced. “There must be a few admirable traits to his character,” she protested. “Just look at the way his granddaughter dotes on him.”
“The lady you’re referring to happens to be his wife.”
“His wife?”
“I believe the occasion of this gala is their one-month wedding anniversary.”
She studied him for a moment in silent disapproval. “Why does shocking me seem to be a particular goal of yours?”
“Are you shocked?” he asked, sounding genuinely surprised. “Personally, I find it rather sad. A bitter old man vainly trying to cheat death by acquiring a youthful wife. I suppose the spectacle would be humorous were it not so trite.”
“That’s easy for us to judge now, when old age is nothing but a distant glimmer on the horizon. I suspect the lines will not be so easily drawn once our bones are brittle, our hearts are weak, and death is knocking at our door.”
“I sincerely doubt that fate has anything so kind in store for me,” he returned. “I expect that I shall be cut down in my prime, perishing from the bite of a rabid French poodle, or something equally embarrassing.”
Despite her attempts to restrain it, a burst of laughter bubbled from her lips at the image conveyed by his disgruntled words As the last strains of the waltz faded to a close, he drew her tightly to him.
“You should laugh more often, little gypsy.”
Her startled gaze flew to his. His eyes were dark and fathomless; yet within his expression lurked a suggestion of the same stark, earthy desire she herself had felt only moments earlier. Katya’s heart slammed against her ribs and her mouth suddenly went dry. Wordlessly taking her hand in his, Nicholas led her off the dance floor to a semi secluded corner that had been partitioned off from the rest of the room by a group of potted palm trees. Once there, he slipped his arm around her waist and drew her tightly to him. Katya’s breasts pressed against the solid expanse of his chest; her thighs entwined with his. His dark, slumberous gaze brimmed with both sensual conquest and bold confidence. Without granting her time for consent or refusal, he lowered his head and moved his lips over hers.
His kiss was feather light, a mere brush of his mouth against hers. Barely had she adjusted to the shock of that intimate contact when the kiss abruptly changed. Nicholas increased the pressure of his jaw, gently coaxing apart her lips. Boldly he thrust his tongue into her mouth. Katya stiffened instinctively at the unexpected intimacy. She tried to jerk free from his grasp, but he had guessed her intention and tightened his hold, drawing her body even more fiercely against his own. His hips pressed against hers, rocking with a slow, languid motion that mimicked the rhythm of their kiss.
The steady movement was both deeply comforting and unexpectedly exciting. Within seconds her shock and dismay turned to a pure, liquid pleasure that coursed through her veins and warmed her very bones. She tightened her arms around his neck as a jolt of fiery passion shot down her spine. For a moment she felt as though her body would surely melt into his. But she was not yet ready for total surrender. From somewhere deep within her, a small spark of self-preservation remained lit. She turned her head and pulled back, slipping free from his embrace.
The spell was abruptly broken. Like a sleepwalker jolted awake to find herself in strange and unfamiliar territory, Katya gazed up at Nicholas in anxious wonder. She took a deep, shuddering breath and protested softly, “I think you go too far.”
“But you’re not sure, are you?” His eyes locked on hers as he lifted his hand and traced one finger gently from her temple to her cheek. “The Goddess of Mystery,” he said softly. “How apt a title. Nothing about you is as it appears, is it? Beneath your prim little facade there is a fire waiting to be unleashed. I envy the man who can do so.”
“But it won’t be you.” The words tumbled softly from her lips before she could stop them.
“No, it won’t.” A look of both regret and decisiveness crossed his darkly chiseled features. Before she could summon a response, his gaze shifted almost imperceptibly, focusing on something just beyond her left shoulder. “One of the men I am about to introduce you to is Lord Thurston Teecham,” he murmured against her ear. “I suggest we begin with him. If he is carrying the scroll, I presume it will be somewhere on his person, rather than secreted away.”
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