Inside the arena, he swung up on the horse’s back. ‘Tell Fozard’s to schedule you for three lessons a week at the end of the day.’ He’d want that, of course, she’d be less conspicuous. No one would be here waiting for a lesson to follow hers.
She grinned, but Nikolay merely shook his head and kicked Cossack into a canter, dismissing her for now. She let him go. She’d got her victory for the day.
* * *
That victory buoyed her through a tedious evening of cards with the General’s wife’s friends. Russian lessons would start tomorrow. She’d got what she wanted. She would get to learn about her heritage. Of course, her father had got what he wanted, too: an entrée into Nikolay’s personal life. She hoped Nikolay wasn’t hiding anything. She hoped there might not be anything to report, that Nikolay was exactly what he claimed to be: a prince teaching riding lessons with no ambitions.
As she claimed another trick in piquet, Klara knew that even such a simple truth couldn’t save Nikolay from her father’s net. Nikolay had already lost simply by coming into her father’s notice; if he was ‘friendly’ her father would want him for the Union of Salvation. If he refused to participate, her father would want to see him deported or dead. For Nikolay, there was no scenario where his life and his choices were any longer solely his.
Guilt pricked at her, harder and stronger now that the die had been cast. No matter what happened next, no matter what she discovered, or what she revealed, she was involved now, completely. She had to take ownership of the fact that everything had changed for Nikolay the moment she’d walked into the riding stable.
Chapter Seven
‘You don’t really believe it will stop there, do you? What do you suppose she’s really after with her Russian lessons?’ Stepan eyed him over afternoon brandy at the club, scepticism rife in his gaze. It made Nikolay regret bringing the subject up and yet he needed Stepan’s counsel.
Late afternoon was usually Nikolay’s favourite time here—not so today with Stepan’s censuring eyes on him. White’s enjoyed a brief lull before the evening crowd; gentlemen grabbing cognac and commiseration before heading out to hours of dancing and debutantes. ‘This place makes me think of our club in Kuban.’ Nikolay swirled his brandy, trying a rather obviously evasive manoeuvre. He was eager to talk about something other than Klara Grigorieva. ‘I hear during the Season it’s almost impossible to get a seat.’ White’s was an exclusive club. Their membership had been secured with the presumption of their titles. London was fascinated with foreign princes, apparently, even exiled ones.
‘Then enjoy it while it lasts.’ Stepan’s voice held a tinge of cynicism. ‘I wonder how long we’ll be allowed when London realises our limitations? That there are no thrones to inherit, not even any land or palaces, or coronets. None of the things that define a prince.’
‘We are not precisely paupers,’ Nikolay argued, willing to engage in the debate for the sake of drawing attention away from the issue of Klara.
‘No, but if money were all that mattered, merchants would be clamouring for entrance.’ Stepan’s comment reminded him their titles alone hadn’t been their only recommendation for White’s. While they’d given up considerable wealth in terms of palaces and possessions, there was other wealth that was convertible, more transportable for their flight. That wealth was now securely housed at Coutts and Company on the Strand, where it waited for each of them to decide what to do. For now, they’d limited themselves to living off a portion of the interest and reinvesting the rest. That had been Stepan’s idea.
Stepan shrugged. ‘Wealth is finite unless you do something with it. If not, it will run out.’ Like time. Time and money had a lot in common and Nikolay felt as if he were running out of both.
Nikolay signalled a waiter to refill their glasses. ‘How long do we wait?’ Stepan would know what he meant. How long did they wait before they invested in their new lives? How much longer did they live in limbo, wondering if Kuban would come after them, if there would be repercussions for their departure? It was time to start living their English lives.
‘We promised ourselves a year,’ Stepan reminded him.
‘That year is up in March,’ Nikolay pressed. When they’d arrived, they’d spent time in the country with Dimitri, then come to London after the Christmas holidays. That year was almost done. There’d been no pursuit. They’d nearly been safe. It was a damnable time for Klara Grigorieva to show up and cast doubt on that safety.
‘We are all eager,’ Stepan said, reading his impatience. ‘Perhaps we should wait until after the Season before we do anything.’ In other words, they should give Klara Grigorieva plenty of time to show her colours. But it would mean another year lost before he could set up his own riding academy in town. Another year before he could breed the Cleveland Bay. He wanted a January-February foal, which meant a March or April mating. If Stepan had his way, Klara had put those hopes at risk.
‘I know you’re anxious, but waiting is prudent,’ Stepan cautioned. ‘This wouldn’t be the first time a woman has played you. The last time was nearly deadly.’
Nikolay grimaced at the reminder, feeling the old stab of pain when he thought about the night that had changed his life. ‘Klara Grigorieva is not Helena.’
‘So you think.’ Stepan was a severe sceptic when it came to women in general. Helena had not helped his viewpoint.
‘You’ll end up a monk with an attitude like that,’ Nikolay replied drily.
‘I will never get stabbed in my own bedroom either,’ Stepan shot back with the sharp remark. ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t be so cavalier.’
‘I am not being cavalier,’ Nikolay argued. ‘What happened with Helena will never happen again. I made mistakes with her I don’t intend to repeat.’ Namely sharing too much, feeling too much and believing that level of emotional investment was reciprocated. ‘I have my rules now: don’t let them get too close. Keep it physical, keep it short.’ He shifted in his seat, restless and a little angry over being taken to task. ‘You are not my father.’
‘No, I am not. I am your friend.’ Stepan took a swallow of his brandy with a sense of finality that signalled this part of the conversation was over.
The front door opened, admitting a trio of gentlemen. The club was growing busier as the shadows lengthened. The quiet time was ending. It was time to wrap up the conversation about Klara and move on to other things. Nikolay might not be as sceptical as Stepan, but there was no reason to speak of private things where they could be overheard. One never knew who was listening. ‘I’ve found a few places with potential for the riding academy.’ Nikolay moved the conversation onwards.
Stepan was all caution again. ‘I’d wait a few months before I put money down.’
‘You would. I wouldn’t. I don’t want to miss out. If I wait until everyone comes to town for the Season, I may lose my opportunity.’ Nikolay sighed, frustrated with Stepan’s reticence, yet his friend’s caution was why he’d sought Stepan out. His caution was the perfect balance to Nikolay’s own tendencies towards recklessness. Still, there was a limit to how much caution was warranted. ‘We never said we’d be invisible, Stepan. We never said we’d let fear drive us into hiding, otherwise what’s the point of having left?’ That was more of a theoretical argument. Living was the point of having left—more so in a quantitative sense for him. He’d risked death by staying. The others had their own reasons.
‘We also never planned on falling for an ambassador’s daughter,’ Stepan countered. ‘It seems plans change.’
‘I am not falling for her,’ Nikolay argued, only to be met with a look of question from Stepan. His friend was being ridiculous. He wasn’t falling for Klara. He merely found her interesting and fresh, a woman who stood out from the rest. Besides, he’d promised himself he wouldn’t fall for anyone ever again. He blew out a breath. ‘Aren’t you tired of waiting, Stepan?’ He was restless by nature, but in London he
’d become more so. ‘These English gentlemen do nothing all day.’ He wanted to ask more, too—Don’t you miss Kuban? Do you think about home? What would Stepan say if he told him the reason he’d accepted Klara’s request was because it gave him a way to remember the home he’d given up.
‘It’s your money,’ Stepan assented without answering the question. He leaned close. ‘Promise me you won’t seduce her. Not yet. I don’t know if we can save you a second time.’ Nikolay saw the care-driven concern in his friend’s gaze. Stepan had been the one who’d had him released from the Tsar’s jail, the one who had spearheaded the getaway. Stepan had risked much for him. The Tsar was not likely to forgive Stepan easily, if ever, for that. He owed Stepan his loyalty and more.
‘I’ll be good. It will be a long time before I let a woman get close.’ Maybe not ever, Nikolay thought. He had his own scepticisms, too, when it came to the fairer sex, he just wasn’t going to be a monk about it. No more than a single night with any woman would serve in the place of celibacy. ‘Thank you.’ He gripped Stepan’s arm in gratitude. Beneath the warning, he understood the magnitude of what Stepan had given him; They would begin their English lives as planned. He could get that riding school as soon as he decided on a location.
Nikolay raised the remainder of his glass in a toast, a sense of excitement surging through him. He could proceed with his riding academy. ‘Za vashee zda-ró-vye. To our health and to new beginnings.’ The ache of purposelessness was starting to recede, the temptation to be part of Alexei Grigoriev’s revolt was ebbing, to somehow manufacture a return to his country. He just needed something to do.
‘To new beginnings,’ Stepan echoed. ‘Let’s hope our health doesn’t need it.’ Then he raised an arched brow and added wryly, ‘And to being good.’
* * *
Nikolay did mean to be good. It shouldn’t have been hard. He had a scar low on his hip to remind him of the high price of not being good and there was no mistaking the Grigorievs had a daring political agenda, the kind he was forbidden by common sense to embrace. That alone made Klara off limits. The very nature of her duality made it impossible to know what was real and what was artifice, and there was artifice aplenty. He knew already she’d sought him out for a purpose, she’d invited him to dinner to be vetted by important Russian nobles, making it clear that purpose was not based in an honest flirtation. But when he’d kissed her in the park, when she’d raged at him for changing her lesson, that had been real.
There had been no artifice in her anger. That had intrigued him. She should have been angry because of the obstacle he’d placed in her path. She could no longer continue to vet him for her father if they were not together. Yet, that had not been the entire source of her anger. She’d been angry for herself. She’d been angry because he’d denied her time with him. Just her. She’d wanted him for herself, or rather she’d wanted his knowledge just for her.
He’d seen it not only in the flash of her eyes, but in the nature of her request. She wanted him to teach her about Russia, about Kuban. That was not a request her father would have her make if he had kept her Russian heritage from her. The last thing Grigoriev would want was someone ruining the English upbringing he’d spent a lifetime cultivating.
The woman she’d been in those moments challenged him, stirred his body and his curiosity to the point of wanting to set aside his distrust of desire for just a while, to set aside what he knew of the agenda Klara had been sent to promote. He wanted to explore the possibilities of Klara Grigorieva’s passion, to explore Klara the person, instead of Klara the pawn. That was why he’d accepted the request, why he found himself sitting across from her in the tackroom-cum-classroom three nights a week, trying to resist temptation while tasting just a little of the pleasure of her company. He was hoping the taste would appease his curiosity’s appetites, hoping his fascination would wane as it so often did with pretty women after a while.
It was the devil’s own bargain, one that could so easily lead him down a slippery slope of deception. That brief dose of honest chagrin made her all the more dangerous. Her honesty made it difficult to separate the real emotions from the game. He should leave her alone. He tried to, he really did. He kept himself remote, focusing on the grammar and the alphabet instead of the culture. He ignored the brilliance and passion that was Kuban. There would only be trouble showing her that path. She would fall in love with Kuban, with its wild landscapes and rivers, the heroism of the Cossack Tsars, the rugged generation of new Princes, the exotic mysticism his country shared with the Ottomans even while repelling them. Such lessons would only torture them both.
Instead of opening up a new world to her, he kept the lessons dry, doing his best to model every tutor he’d ever hated in the hopes that she would be disappointed and leave. He taught her the alphabet, the numbers and basic conversation; My name is Klara, how are you? I am well, thank you. And it didn’t work at all. It was, in fact, making things worse. The more boring the lesson, the more flirtation she engaged in, as if she were doing it on purpose.
* * *
By the beginning of the third week, he was certain she was goading him with the toss of her hair, the leggy confidence of her stride, the lingering gazes across the table that lasted just long enough to make a man think, the sway of breeched hips as she marched down the stable aisles with a hint of feminine swagger. Never enough to call her on it, but always enough to make a man wonder, to make a man ache alone in his bed at night. By the end of the third week, he was certain: she was teasing him. Where his game of boredom had failed miserably, her flirtation had succeeded: he was a primed powder keg. It would take only the slightest provocation for him to go off.
Nikolay shifted in his seat at the tackroom table, trying to make himself comfortable, a deuced difficult task when Klara seemed intent on making sure he was quite the opposite. The damn table had shrunk, it seemed. Everything was too small tonight: the room, the table, his trousers. Klara twisted a long curl around her finger, her eyes drifting slowly over his mouth, not unlike the gesture he’d used on her at the park, as he tried to explain that the Russian language didn’t use articles.
‘Let me get this straight, there is no a, an or the.’ Klara’s voice was low and seductive, a bedroom tone to be sure. No one spoke like that at the dinner table. Her eyes were back on his mouth, tracing his lips with her gaze. That girl was a quick study. ‘As in everything is interchangeable parts. There is no difference between a kiss and the kiss. A lover and the lover. That must have its conveniences.’
Her tongue wet her lips and Nikolay snapped. ‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’
‘Learning Russian. What do you think I am doing?’ She was all surprised innocence now, so innocent, in fact, he wondered for a moment if he hadn’t misjudged her game. But, no, he knew he was right. Klara was toying with him, because she knew, dammit, that he was toying with her.
‘Exacting revenge is the response I was going for,’ Nikolay growled. It was high time for a different sort of lesson. He rose from his bench, gratified to see her gaze turn wary. As it should be. When young misses lit powder kegs, they had to be prepared for explosions.
‘Why ever would I do that?’ Her words might proclaim innocent unawareness, but she knew what she’d done and perhaps worry came to her for the first time. Klara rose, using her height to meet his.
They stood close now, his eyes boring into her sharp green ones, his voice a quiet, firm bass. ‘You know why, Klara.’
She did drop the façade then. The pulse at her neck beat fast. She narrowed her eyes, grabbing on to anger because she didn’t want to be roused by this quarrel, by this exposure, by him. Good. That made two of them. He didn’t want to be roused by her, but he was. ‘You mean the horrid lessons? Yes, I want revenge for these awful lessons I’ve had to sit through where you treat me like a child, teaching me the most basic of facts in the most basic of ways.’ Klara fumed. ‘This is not what I b
argained for.’
‘Not what you bargained for? What about me? I didn’t bargain for you to come sashaying into the stables with your father’s political agenda as a calling card.’ He was starting to catch fire now, the fuse of his temper in full spark. ‘Well, I don’t want to play.’ Not entirely true. He did want to play and he wanted to play rough. He had her backed to the wall before he could reconsider. It was time she learned the sort of man she was dealing with. He had her arms pinned over her head, his mouth on hers with ravishing authority, but Klara wasn’t done fighting.
‘This,’ she gasped between kisses, ‘is not about my father. It’s about us, about our agreement.’ Her teeth took a nip out of his bottom lip. ‘I came to you wanting to learn about Kuban and you gave me your word. But you haven’t shown me anything.’ Her hips came up hard against his. She would find more than she was looking for there if she wasn’t careful. Then again, he’d come to realise Klara Grigorieva wasn’t the careful sort.
‘You cannot walk through these stables swinging your hair and swaying your hips in those breeches and not expect a man to notice,’ Nikolay growled, taking a retaliatory bite of her earlobe and watching her suck in her breath.
‘You lied to me. You had to pay,’ Klara said fiercely, her hand sliding down to the hardness of him between them.
He covered her hand, staying her motion with a shake of his head. ‘No.’ Arguably the hardest word he’d spoken in a while, but this wasn’t going to end with an angry rut on the tackroom table for many reasons. ‘You’ve called my honour into question. I cannot let that pass. You want to see Russia? Come with me. I’ll show you Russia. Get changed. We leave in ten minutes.’ He drew back, freeing her body. ‘Unless you’re afraid?’ She was going to get what she asked for. He would take her to Soho, where the Russian immigrants lived. He would take her as close to home as he could get in London.
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