‘It was not my intention.’
‘None the less.’ Lady Verity got to her feet. ‘You are a good man. A most admirable one. I hope that the Duke of Wellington can for once overlook his ego, and award you the posting regardless. His loss would also be Egypt’s.’
‘But not yours?’ Fergus said, smiling.
She laughed. ‘I am a good deal less sure of that than I was this morning, but I suspect that matters not a jot. You would not have offered for me, Colonel, had I set out to charm you from the beginning, would you?’
‘I honestly don’t know.’ He frowned, running his hand through his hair. ‘I came here with every intention—at least, I thought I did, but—it’s such a cold-blooded way to make a match, is it not? I think we’ve both had a lucky escape. Best leave it at that.’
‘Unflattering as the sentiment is, I am forced to agree. I can only hope that the next suitor my uncle produces for me feels quite the opposite.’
‘Perhaps you should consider finding your own suitor.’
‘A novel thought.’ Lady Verity extended her hand.
Fergus brushed her fingertips with his lips. ‘It is indeed.’
* * *
Slipping her feet into a pair of soft leather slippers, Katerina quit her bedchamber. The house was quiet in the lull between the flurry of housework and the laborious preparations for dinner. The duke’s guests were, according to the Programme of Events, off on a mystery tour. Descending the stairs to the main guest floor in the hushed silence, she felt the eyes of the ancestral portraits which lined the walls around the stairwell on her, and succumbed to curiosity. Each painting was neatly labelled and in chronological order. The illustrious history of the Brockmore family was laid bare in picture form, from the first earl, his countess and their nine children, through to the current, fourth duke and his duchess.
Bloodline and pedigree, those most valuable things to the aristocracy—of their children and their horses, Katerina thought sardonically. And after that, power and influence. Oh, and wealth, of course, though that seemed to come a poor third. Pomp and circumstance, those were the things that mattered when a match was made. There was no place for love, and as to desire—desire, as she well knew, was sated in less formal relationships, with those who could not claim blood or pedigree, or whose blood and pedigree, no matter how revered in their own world, was not revered in the right world.
It did not matter what one was, but how one came to be. A mere accident of birth, yet in the Duke of Brockmore’s world, which was also Fergus’s world, her birth excluded her for ever, no matter how much of an aristocrat she was in her own right. The guests at Brockmore Manor might look up to her on the tightrope, but they would look down their noses if they encountered her on the ground. More likely, they would not even recognise her. Should she make the unforgivable mistake of trying to enter their world however, that would be a very different thing. Not that she would try. Not that she wanted to.
The space next to the portrait of the current duke and duchess, unlike all the others, was not filled with smaller portraits of children. Instead a painting of a weak-chinned man in his forties was hung just below their images. Katerina peered at the label. ‘“Robert Penrith,”’ she read. ‘“Nephew to the Fourth Duke, and Heir to the Brockmore Title.”’
Pity stirred in her breast, looking at the painting, for it starkly drew attention to the Brockmores’ childless state. A very galling state for such a dynasty, she suspected. So much power and influence, so much wealth, so much pomp and circumstance the Brockmores had, yet they were forced to expend it on nephews and nieces and cousins.
Perhaps one day Fergus’s children would adorn the walls here, if he married Lady Verity. It was an unpalatable thought. Turning away from the gallery, Katerina ran lightly down the central staircase, across the polished chequered tiles of the reception hall, through the ballroom and on to the terrace. The blue waters of the lake were irresistible. Crossing the velvet green of the lawn, a flutter of scarlet silk caught her eye. The statuesque beauty clad in her habitual crimson, Lillias Lamont had not joined the mystery tour and nor had her companion, also dressed in red silk. Sir Timothy Something. They made a very odd pair as they disappeared into the maze. Proof that opposites could attract.
Katerina did not need proof of that. She and Fergus were not so much opposites, as from opposite worlds. In many ways they were so similar, yet in that most important regard they were utterly different. Fergus and Lady Verity, now they ought to be a perfect match, yet that scene between them this morning—if she had not witnessed Lady Verity’s transformation herself, she would not have believed it. Had they resolved their differences? Fergus had been furious when he’d gone after her, but Fergus had an enormous amount at stake. Enough to force him into obeying orders, no matter how unpalatable?
He was, as yesterday’s conversation in the maze had proved, an honourable man, and at heart, above all, a soldier who loyally carried out orders. But marriage to a woman who for reasons quite unfathomable, did not understand how fortunate she was? He deserved better.
Turning the corner of the boating house, she saw the subject of her musings standing on the edge of the jetty, staring out over the water and quite lost in thought. He had changed out of the clothes he’d worn for this morning’s acrobatics. His black boots were so highly polished they shone like mirrors. Since his coat lay over one of the pier’s bollards, Katerina had the opportunity to admire the way his sand-coloured pantaloons clung to the taut contours of his rear, and she took unashamed advantage of it. The back of his waistcoat was fawn-coloured silk. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, as they had been the first time she’d met him, displaying tanned, sinewy forearms. There were golden streaks in his hair that she’d not noticed before.
As she stepped on to the jetty, Fergus turned around. He had been frowning, but the instant he saw her, his expression cleared, his mouth softened into a smile that made her stomach lurch, and he held out his hand in welcome.
‘I was just thinking about you,’ he said, ‘and here you are.’
‘I was just thinking about you,’ Katerina replied, ‘and here you are.’ She took his hand. His fingers twined with hers. ‘You did not go on the mystery tour?’
‘I’ve a mystery of my own to resolve. What to do with my life,’ he clarified, when she looked confused. ‘I’ve come to a—let’s say an arrangement—with Lady Verity, that we won’t suit. Truth is, she could just about stomach me, but she couldn’t stomach Egypt.’
‘Oh, Fergus.’ She stared at him wide-eyed, more horrified than relieved.
‘Aye, I know, it doesn’t bear thinking of, but at the end of the day, I’d rather be stuck behind a desk than stuck in a marriage of someone else’s making.’
‘Have you spoken to the duke?’
‘Which one of the two do you mean? We’ve agreed that it’s best to wait until the end of the week for me to inform Brockmore. Until then, I’ll join in enough to keep face, and no more. And after the weekend—well, then I’ll face the other duke, and—ach, but you know I will think about that later. To be honest, at the moment I’m just relieved. I should have known, when it was so bloody—blasted difficult to bring myself up to the mark, that it was wrong.’
‘You are too hard on yourself. The pressures—especially from Wellington. All of your life as a soldier, you have obeyed him.’
Fergus smiled warmly at her. ‘You understand. I somehow knew you would.’
She could not resist reaching up to smooth down his rebellious kink of hair. ‘I think it will be very difficult for you to tell him so, to his face. I think you will need every bit of your courage.’
He caught her hand in his. ‘I’ll think of you, when I do. I’ll think of you flying high on that tightrope, defying gravity. But right now, I’d rather not dwell on it, if you don’t mind. In fact, what I was actually thinking was that I�
�d like to get away from the machinations of the Brockmore family tomorrow. A day out, the chance to explore a bit of the countryside. I don’t suppose you’d like to accompany me?’
Katerina did not have to think twice. ‘I would like that very much.’
Fergus turned her hand over to press a kiss to her palm. ‘The pleasure, Miss Vengarov, will be all mine.’
Chapter Four
Tuesday June 17th
Brockmore Manor House Party
Programme of Events
Performance of Aerial Dexterity by
the Legendary Alexandr Vengarov
‘This looks like a perfect picnic spot. What do you think?’
‘Perfect,’ Katerina agreed, though she was looking at Fergus rather than their surroundings. Dressed in a bottle-green riding coat and leather breeches with top boots, there was none the less an unmistakably military air in the way he sat imperiously astride his horse. The mount which Cade Retton, the Duke of Brockmore’s discerning Master of the Horse, had selected for him was a huge, highly strung stallion, but Fergus had brought the massive beast to heel with remarkable ease. Katerina had been relieved when Mr Retton graciously provided her with a docile, impeccably behaved mare.
They had set out mid-morning, riding across country, skirting the little estate village of Brockmore, through narrow lanes redolent with the scent of honeysuckle, past fields of wheat and hops waving lazily in the breeze. Now, in the shade of a little copse, where a shallow stream burbled contentedly along its pebble-strewn bed, they dismounted, Fergus loosely tethering the horses while Katerina spread a blanket out on the grassy banks that flanked the stream.
He took off his coat and sat down beside her, stretching out his long legs in front of him. ‘I hope I’ve not bored you to tears with my stories of home.’
The skirts of her blue riding habit were brushing his leg. The hairs on the back of his hand were golden in the dappled sunlight. He was so close, and not close enough. When he smiled at her, as he was doing now, she found it hard to concentrate. ‘I’ve never been to Scotland,’ Katerina said. ‘You make it sound so beautiful.’
‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder. It is lovely, though it is also very wet. We have a hundred different ways of describing rain.’
He rolled on to his side, leaning his head on his hand. Automatically, Katerina did the same. ‘Tell me some of them,’ she said.
‘Well, when the sky’s gunmetal grey, and a constant drizzle of soft rain drifts down in a fine mist like this,’ he said, brushing his fingers lightly along her forearm, ‘we say it’s gie dreich.’
‘Guy dreeck.’
He laughed. ‘Not bad. And when it’s that heavy rain, the kind that cascades straight down like stair rods and soaks right into your bones,’ he said, drumming his fingers on her arm, ‘we say it’s pelting. Though in France, they have a much better expression for it, involving the—er—natural functions of a cow.’
‘I know that one, it is very rude indeed,’ Katerina said, smiling. ‘I thought you could not speak French, save for battle orders and menus.’
‘Oh, I have some other handy wee phrases up my sleeve in a few different languages, should circumstances demand it.’
‘Oaths and curses?’
‘Aye, a few of them, right enough.’
‘And compliments?’
‘There’s no denying they do come in handy on occasion.’ Fergus’s smile deepened. ‘Though I’m thinking that a bonnie lass like you, and one so talented, must have received a great deal more of those than I’ve ever doled out.’
‘When a man looks at me, he does not see what you call a bonnie lass. He sees a half-naked artiste seemingly flying free of any fetters, and assumes that means I am also free of any morals, and therefore easily persuaded to remove the other half of my clothing.’
Fergus sat up abruptly. ‘You jest, surely.’
Katerina shrugged. ‘You saw for yourself the reaction to our performance the other evening. It is the same wherever we go. Women are drawn to Alexei like moths to a flame, and men are likewise drawn to me. They don’t know me, they don’t want to know me, but they covet—I don’t know what it is they covet to be honest. Alexei and I, we are like trophies to be collected, you know?’
‘No, I don’t,’ Fergus said shortly. ‘You talk as if they see you as a courtesan.’
‘A very exclusive one, if that’s the case.’
‘That’s not funny.’
‘No, Fergus, but it’s true,’ Katerina said, with an edge of bitterness. ‘Not that I am a courtesan, but that is how your society views me. No matter how innocent I may be, I am not and never can be respectable. And I am not—I am not wholly innocent.’ She could feel the heat flaring on her cheeks, but she refused to look away. She had not meant to speak so frankly, but it mattered to her, that he understand. ‘I did—there was a man, once.’
‘Only one.’ Fergus covered her hand with his. ‘There have been a great deal many more women in my life.’
‘It is different for a man.’
‘It is, but it shouldn’t be.’ He touched her cheek, brushing her hair behind her ear. ‘I get the feeling that it’s not a very happy story.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because there has been only one man. Did he hurt you, Katerina?’
His unexpected tenderness brought a lump to her throat. ‘I thought he was different from the others. I thought he loved me. He said he did, and I wanted to believe him.’
‘Did you love him?’
She blinked furiously. ‘I thought so. I thought my heart was broken when he left me.’
Fergus cursed softly under his breath. ‘What happened?’
She scrubbed at her eyes. ‘He wasn’t different. He didn’t love me. I was wrong on both counts. He wanted only to prove he could have me, and then, when I did—after I had—after he had—then he wanted to tell all his friends that he had had me, and of course his friends assumed that they could have me too and...’ Katerina fumbled for her handkerchief. ‘He said we would be married. No, that is not quite true. He never actually said the words but I thought—I assumed—I was such a fool. I know that now, but at the time...’
It was too much. She covered her face with her kerchief, overcome not only by tears but by shame. ‘I’m sorry. I never talk of it, it makes Alexei so angry.’
He swore again, more viciously, and pulled her tight against him. She buried her face in his chest and sobbed. He held her tightly, smoothing her hair, stroking her back, whispering soothing words she could not understand in the soft lyrical language of his native land. Gradually, her sobs abated. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her words muffled. ‘I’ve made your shirt all wet.’
She felt the low rumble of his laughter against her cheek. Finally, she dared to look up. ‘You don’t despise me?’
He winced. ‘I despise that wee shite of a man who did this, but you—no. How could you think that?’
‘It is how he felt, afterwards. And his friends, when I would not—you know?’ Katerina wiped her eyes, sitting up reluctantly. ‘I should have known from the start that he had no intentions that were honourable,’ she said with a watery smile. ‘When he realised I’d taken his silly promises seriously, he was horrified. “Can you imagine what my mother would say?” she said, in a mocking English accent. ‘“I had as well bring an opera singer home.”’
‘Katerina...’
‘No, don’t feel sorry for me. He was right. That is exactly how his mother would have viewed me.’
Fergus swore for a third time. ‘No wonder you were so careful to keep your distance from me.’
‘In the last two years, I have kept my distance from all men.’
‘I don’t blame you.’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Is that how you see me—as a trophy hunter?�
�
Katerina flushed. ‘I told you this because I know you’re not.’
‘Thank you.’ He took her hand, pressing a fleeting kiss to her knuckles. ‘I mean it. I am more touched than I can say that you trusted me. It must have taken a good deal of courage to speak about such a very personal matter.’
‘You don’t think less of me?’
‘Katerina, I think a great deal more of you.’
‘I sometimes wish that I was more like Alexei. He takes it all so lightly. A different place, a different woman, and when it is over—well, then it is over. But I’m not like that, Fergus,’ she said plaintively, ‘you do believe me?’
‘I do believe you.’ He kissed her hand again, but then let her go, looking uncomfortable. ‘I only wish I could say the same thing of myself, but I fear I’ve been more like Alexei than I care to admit. There have been many women and much pleasure, but not a single affaire which lasted beyond a particular posting. And none at all of late. It seems my appetite for war and dalliance go hand in hand.’
‘Until now?’
‘No.’ Fergus shook his head firmly. ‘I would not call this dalliance. I told you, I’m not a trophy hunter. I’m not flirting with you, Katerina. To be honest, I don’t know what I’m doing.’
‘No more do I,’ she admitted with a sigh. ‘I do feel better though. Thank you, for listening to my sad little story.’
‘The story is sad, but you are not. You’ve survived—and how! Just look at you. You are a very brave woman. Don’t make light of it.’
She shrugged, because she did not want him to see how much his words meant. ‘I think I have been a lonely woman, a little. But I am not lonely today.’
He pressed her fingers. ‘Nor am I.’
She leant towards him. His knee brushed her leg. She tilted her face in invitation, and felt the warm, soft brush of his lips on hers. His tongue caressed her bottom lip. She sighed, lying back on the rug, pulling him with her, arching her body against his, touching her tongue to his. She could feel the solid ridge of his arousal. She opened her mouth, pressing herself against him, and their kiss deepened. Heat flooded her as his mouth shaped itself to hers, as their tongues touched, tangled, touched again, and their lips clung, and a heavy ache grew low in her belly.
Scandal at the Midsummer Ball Page 6