by Stacy Reid
His cousin smiled fleetingly. “And what of her other concern?”
Mikhail’s gut clenched. “I have a great urge to submit myself to Payton’s caresses,” he admitted. “But I cannot imagine giving someone such power over my desire again.”
Calydon threw him a surprised look, and Mikhail understood. The control he had learned to exercise over his passion had been absolute.
“In what way?” the duke asked with curiosity rife in his tone.
Mikhail hesitated. Though he trusted and respected Calydon it was hard for him to bare his emotions.
“With Payton I do not have the hard-won control I worked so hard to attain.” He gritted his teeth, almost uncomfortable in telling his cousin what he had done. But Calydon needed to understand how disturbed Mikhail felt, and how significant Payton’s effect was on him.
“When I turned twenty-one, I revisited Madam Anya.”
“The hell you say!”
The cold memories of the time before, when he had been sixteen and at the madam’s brutal mercy slithered through Mikhail, leaving a vile taste in his mouth.
“I did return. After my Cossack riders tore the brothel apart and found me…” He scrubbed a hand over his face and across his nape with unnecessary roughness. It was as if he wanted to remove the lingering memory of her touch, the licks of her tongue, and the whip as it bit into his skin, leaving behind the sickening sensations of pain with pleasure.
He grabbed back the bottle and took another swig. “I spent years training, honing my body into a weapon. Never did I want to be at the mercy of another being again. And if I found myself in such a position, it would be with the full awareness I had done everything physically, and mentally I was capable of outwitting them.”
He went silent, thinking of how he had cut himself off from physical pleasures unless he commanded it. He had never allowed anyone close, friends or family. “I built such control over my physical reactions that I would only become aroused if I allowed it. And I allowed it a lot,” he admitted with a wry chuckle. “I took dozens of lovers, the raw need in me demanding to wipe away the memory of Anya’s touch, but on my terms.”
“Why the hell did you place yourself at her mercy again?” Calydon demanded, anger riding his voice. “Did she hurt you?” he growled.
Mikhail glanced at him. “I wanted to prove I had the utmost control over my passion. I had her released from prison and taken back to the brothel with orders to make herself presentable. She knew someone from the Dvoryanstvo was visiting, so she pampered and prepared her body, no doubt hoping to secure a powerful protector who could rescue her from the hell in which she had been wallowing. When I stepped through the door…I never beheld a woman more beautiful. Of course she did not understand. I laid it out for her in clear terms. Please me, arouse my body, and then ride me to fulfillment, and she would be freed from the life imprisonment sentence that had been handed to her.”
“Christ,” Sebastian snarled.
“I sat on the chaise in her boudoir and suffered her ministration. An hour later, despite all her licking, teasing, and sucking, my cock remained flaccid. In her desperation she suggested I was impotent. That my time with her before had broken me.”
Memories twisted, and he frowned, surprised the disgust he normally felt had been reduced somewhat.
“Why the hell have you stopped?” Sebastian snapped. “Finish your story.”
Mikhail chuckled mirthlessly. “A second later, my cock stood to attention because I commanded my body to feel. To be aroused by her sensuality.”
His cousin was silent, staring at him. Then he asked, “Lady Olga?”
You are cold… Did you not think your actions would drive me to find comfort elsewhere? Lady Olga had cried, tears streaming down her cheeks, her eyes wide pools of fear and hurt, when he’d learned of her sleeping with a count. Mikhail had then tried to allow her to touch him. Nausea had churned in his gut, and cold sweat had drenched his skin within seconds. “I did not allow her touch, either, nor allow her kisses unless I granted it. And during the length of our engagement, my want for her or any other woman was nonexistent. I was content with the emptiness, and I never knew I hungered for normalcy until it was at my fingertips.”
Calydon sighed. “Payton.”
Just hearing her name stirred visceral need inside of Mikhail. She aroused his mind, body, and soul, but he knew he would not be able to bear her touch because of his damnable weakness. He should let her go. “Yes…Payton.”
“And her touch disgusts you as well?”
No. The burn of dread had been different. More unusual and strange than terrible. There had been no nausea, no shaking, and no nightmares. And I was a blasted fool to let her leave. How could he have thought to relinquish her smiles, her vivacity, and the beauty of everything about her? “I crave her caresses even when I despair the ill feeling that will come with someone touching me without permission.”
He faced his cousin. “I do not think I can relinquish her. Even if it means I will not be able to suffer her touch for years to come. The possibility of a life with her is worth the risk.” Mikhail’s heart pounded unmercifully. Would a woman like Payton accept she could never touch him, possibly for months, years? Would Payton eventually turn to another man for her needs?
Never.
She would prefer to suffer in cold silence with him. And Mikhail admitted he might never possess the willpower to let her go. “Am I a selfish bastard for wanting to trap her in a life she hates?”
“No.”
“I am willing to live in a simple cottage and eschew all of society for her happiness. I confess even such an idea is appealing.”
Calydon nodded in apparent approval. “The generous woman I know Payton to be, she will love you unreservedly. Fight for her, show her how life with you can be. I know your ruthlessness, Mikhail. Employ it so she never suffers the brunt of society’s displeasure.”
He knew what he needed to do…submit to her touch, and discover if there was hope.
The carriage rocked and swayed, carrying Payton away from Sherring Cross, away from the temptation of Mikhail. She locked her heart against the need to return to him. She’d informed no one of her departure, only packing a small valise. Jocelyn had seen her determination and offered a carriage. Payton wiped at the tears streaming down her face in annoyance. She had decided to leave, so why was she hurting so much?
Marry me.
God, she wanted to, despite knowing she would never fit into his world, despite knowing the lifelong scrutiny she would be placed under, despite not really knowing the man behind the title. Surely she would come to regret it. Surely she would eventually be an embarrassment with her lack of social graces.
Breathing deeply, she struggled to quiet her mind, allowing the exhaustion to carry her under. She had been traveling for at least an hour now and should arrive in London shortly. Though she feared that was not enough time to forget Mikhail, his kisses, his touch, the devastating pleasure he had introduced her to.
Trying to direct her thoughts to less painful musings, she tugged her sketchpad out and started to draw a similar cottage to their own. She could see setting a story there, one where children enter and were transported into a magical world. Time passed as she immersed herself in the drawings of the cottage, a portal, and the five intrepid children seeking adventure. Tonight she would fill in the words to complement the illustrations.
The closer she drew to London and to Connie and Lucan’s town house on upper Brook Street, the more Payton’s disquiet grew. Connie had recently married the Duke of Mondvale amidst much scandal. Since then, she had been a reigning toast for taming the man known to all as the Lord of Sin, and many clamored to be invited to the exclusive dinner parties and soirees she hosted. She had badgered Payton relentlessly to attend one of her rare balls; Payton had kept declining.
She had grudgingly left a note to her mother and aunt, informing them where she traveled. Payton would hate for them to launch an investigation
and a manhunt into her disappearance, otherwise she doubted she would have informed her family of her departure. She loved them, but they also frustrated and hurt her deeply with their lack of support. They would be rabid because of her refusal to marry Mikhail, and her father would be certain to disinherit her for refusing a prince and a duke.
Am I being foolish?
She’d forgiven Mikhail’s deception, for she understood what it was like to be judged and measured not as the person one really was. He was a wealthy, titled aristocrat used to people toadying to his comforts, never being challenged or admired just for who he really was. While he was revered for his wealth and his ancestral heritage, she was derided for lacking what society called breeding. She had felt that no one ever took the time to peer beneath the veil into her heart. She knew it must be the same emotions and needs that had driven him to want to appear to be ordinary with her.
It was startling to feel the bittersweet ache of kinship with Mikhail.
Did she truly love him? The very idea seemed improbable. Lord Jensen had wooed and courted her for eight months before she had admitted to feeling some affection for him. She had only been with Mikhail a total of seven days, and she wanted to lay her heart and soul down before him. The idea terrified her.
Too emotionally exhausted to think further, she closed her eyes, allowing the rocking of the carriage to take her away from her troubled thoughts into deep slumber.
Chapter Seventeen
Payton doubted she had ever attended such a crush. The Duchess of Mondvale’s ball was a smashing success. Payton had arrived on Connie’s doorstep and had promptly burst into tears when her magnetic and too dashing husband, Lucan Wynwood, had opened the front door.
The tears had mortified Payton. She was not the type of female to give in to bouts of crying and vapors, but the man had been unruffled and had drawn her inside and hugged her. She had flung her arms around him, strangely glad to be able to return a comforting embrace.
His beautiful and vibrant duchess had bundled her into a guest chamber where they had spent the night talking. Payton had slid into an exhausted slumber, passing the day and majority of the following afternoon cocooned in sleep.
She roused late in the afternoon to realize she had arrived on the eve of the ball. Connie refused to accept the explanation that Payton was without a gown. They were of a similar build, so Payton had reluctantly agreed to accept one of the most glorious dresses she had ever worn.
The gown was of deep rose silk with an overskirt of silver gauze. A thick band of the rose silk encircled her tiny waist and the off-the-shoulder bodice was made in the same silk covered with silver gauze. The neckline, scalloped hem of the overskirt, and tiny sleeves were embroidered with flowers in delicate seed pearls. Her dark hair was arranged high around a cluster of roses of the palest pink in shades darkening to the pink of her dress. Her dancing slippers matched the dress, and her fan was of silver lace, embroidered with golden threads.
She had not even been at the ball for half an hour when the first whisper reached her ear.
Jilted.
Horse breeder.
Instead of hurting, her lips twitched. Society was too predictable, and it just might be possible she was becoming immune to their vicious tongues. But the greater amusement was wondering how they would react when they discovered her horse breeder was Prince Alexander Dashkova, the Duke of Avondale.
She collected a glass of champagne from a passing footman, hoping for a cool breeze to soothe the heat of the crush. The terrace doors were open, and there had been a definite nip in the air earlier in the day. All that had been stifled under the multitude of guests mingling and laughing in the duke’s grand ballroom.
Payton stood on the sidelines, content no one had asked her to dance. Connie was playing the charming yet reserved hostess, and everyone was lapping it up, pleased to garner her attention if only for a few seconds.
How fickle society was. Months ago all Connie had been to them was the beautiful bastard, and no one had wanted to be her friend.
With a snort Payton lifted the glass to her lips and drank.
“…she is Mr. Marcus Stone’s mistress, and the duchess still calls her friend,” a voice rife with appalled shock said, and with a sigh, Payton glanced toward the unfortunate female. A smile burst on her lips, as she identified Lady Charlotte Ralston, Connie’s dearest friend.
“Are you certain? She converses with my daughter, Lady Ophelia, frequently. I must stop such corrupting influence at once.”
“There is a rumor she has been seen leaving the man’s apartment at his gambling club, Decadence, and her lady’s maid told my lady’s maid Lady Ralston may be with child!”
Payton’s chest ached. She already knew how this gossip would take little or no time to spread and would create a circle of pain and heartache. She pushed through the crowd, toward Charlotte.
“Prince Alexander Konstantinovich Dashkova, His Grace, the Duke of Avondale, and the Countess of Merryweather,” the butler’s voice boomed, announcing Mikhail and—mystifyingly—her aunt.
Oh God.
Payton faltered and lifted her eyes to the grand staircase with the rest of the guests. He was every bit the arrogant and powerful aristocrat, once again dressed in sharp elegant black-and-white evening wear. It was only as he came closer that she realized his waistcoat was silver, almost as if he had known what color her dress would be.
Connie went over and greeted him, and the crowded assembly surged, no doubt eager to arrange introductions and form the connection. Unerringly his gaze found hers, and her breath caught at the possessive way his eyes lingered.
She swallowed as he pulled away from everyone and prowled toward her. Even Connie looked baffled until she saw the direction he headed, then an enchanting smile split her face, and she gave Payton an audacious wink.
Good heavens.
Mikhail was making no effort to disguise the passion he felt for her.
It was shockingly outrageous…and wonderful.
Her heart raced in earnest. It was then she realized how quiet everyone was, and the prickling sensation of being watched by so many eyes rippled over her skin with discomfort, one that melted away the second he stopped in front of her.
“Miss Peppiwell,” he greeted, and bowed over her hand, then he lifted darkening blue eyes to her face.
Memories of his tongue against her, his hands pleasuring, and his overwhelming magnetism had a soft breath shuddering from her. Her heart ached. If only.
“My dear,” her aunt said, from behind him. “Please greet your intended.”
How could she? Did Aunt Florence really believe the court of society’s opinion meant so much to Payton? There were several shocked gasps and rage burned through her. How dare they? She had said no, and her family knew very well she had meant every word.
A sharp frown flashed across Mikhail’s face, and it seemed he had not realized her aunt would try to pressure her publicly.
But had that not been his intention when he arrived with her aunt?
The anger and hurt stabbing Payton’s heart was potent. Why was it so difficult for the people who claimed to love her to respect her right to live life the way she wanted?
She pulled her hand from his, without acknowledging his generosity with a curtsy. Meeting the eyes of her aunt, Payton let the anger burn in her gaze, and Aunt Florence had the grace to blush.
She looked to Mikhail, and the cold determination was unmistakable in his eyes.
Then Payton turned away. She would be flayed for ignoring a prince, but she cared not what he or anyone thought.
She would only be encouraged by the desires in her heart.
Payton cut Mikhail dead, and pure pride swelled in his chest. He threw back his head and laughed, loving her fire, uncaring of the shocked murmurs rippling through the ballroom.
Her steps faltered at his obvious amusement, and she twisted her head and met his gaze with a fierce glare. And he was so damned glad to see it was not one
of pain. Ecstasy as if she were kissing him tingled up his spine, when her lips quirked and humor flashed deep in her golden gaze. She had not reacted from a place of hurt or deliberate spitefulness, but from a place of refusing to bow to the dictates of her family and society.
He grabbed a glass from a passing footman and raised it in her direction.
There were several gasps behind him which he ignored.
Dance with me, he mouthed, and her eyes widened, that irresistible smile he loved so much curved into her lips. Then sadness suffused her face. It pained him to see it.
Mikhail’s world shifted when she moved toward him.
A waltz started, and he drew her into his arms. “Thank you.”
“I have selfish reasons,” she said with a somber smile. “I know you dislike scandal, and I would not have you endure one because of my actions. I would prefer us to part amicably than with anger.”
She cared. “Thank you, Payton. You honor me.”
She arched an elegant brow. “I also love dancing, and it has been months since I had the pleasure, aside from our last ball.”
The unspoken words hinted of a society that had made no effort to forgive and accept.
He drew her a bit closer than what was considered appropriate and heat flared in her gaze, then she lowered her lashes, hiding from him. “Then I will dance all night with you.”
Her cheeks flushed becomingly. “Are you saying you are now comfortable with my touch?” She flexed her fingers on his shoulders.
“More so than I have ever been.”
Doubt clouded her gaze. It was not enough for him to say the words. He would have to show her. He tightened his grip and spun her with dizzying swirls, wishing he could wipe the evident heartbreak from her eyes.
Tonight.
He would wait no longer. He must know if he was capable of accepting all she had to offer, and he would act tonight.
Payton released Mikhail’s hands, curtsied, and walked away.