“Shhhh.” He crooned as she pressed against the familiar smell of wool infused with pipe smoke. “You are the very essence of your mother. A treasure. Something is clearly in the mix we do not yet understand, give it a little more time.”
“I don’t want him. I don’t think I can love a man who treats people like this.” She muffled into the comfort of him.
“Love is a strange and wondrous thing. It can come out of the blue in an instant or it can grow slow and steady over the years. Give this a chance. The apple can’t fall so far from the tree. His father was an exceptional man. Mikhail always wrote that the little Prince was a boy after his own heart as much as at the brother was after his mother’s. And look what a nice fellow Demetri is. And he was considered the mischievous one.”
“He was?”
“Yes, imagine them thinking of Demetri in that light. The Prince will be as solid as his father.”
Georgie pulled back and her father dabbed her eyes with his napkin.
“Come on, sit down. I’ll make you another crumpet and you can watch me eat my spinach,” he said.
She couldn’t help a half smile. He hated eating anything green.
“Will that make you happy?” he pinched both her cheeks.
She nodded. “Yes, the spinach and the crumpet but the rest…the betrothal…”
“Shhhh. Sit, sit I’ll butter the crumpet.”
She sat down again and waited for her father to be seated. “I am telling them the betrothal is over, father.”
He choked. Stood and paced. This was not a good sign. It was a sign she had seen only a few times and it relayed strained circumstances.
“What have you done?”
He turned, suddenly looking so much older than his forty-four years.
“I am sorry to say, I need you to hold off letting the Petroski family know of your decision.”
She waited.
“I have borrowed heavily against the Betrothal.” He said at long last, then sat down.
“I will not marry him.”
He lifted a large fork full of spinach. “I would never want you to feel forced to marry, I do ask for more time.” Then placed the fork load of greens in his mouth.
Chapter 6
The following day roses arrived, as red as the Christmas tinsel draped over the mantelpiece and curling down the balustrade. The stems had foliage as green and glossy as the holly leaves hanging at the center of the ground floor doors. The note with them read:
The Prince plans with eagerness the return trip to St Petersburg.
Salute,
General Demetri Petroski
And much like the spiky points of the holly, the newspapers and their addictive gossip columns pricked and drew blood.
The Petroski brothers returned to their Hotel in time for breakfast. We wonder what kept them out all night, not once but twice in a row. Could there be a rivalry for the remarkably beautiful and elusive widow seen with them at every venue? The writer thinks the possibility should not be overlooked.
The next day, more roses arrived, and the newspapers drew more blood.
Matters of state continue to hound my brother. I write to relay that they will take my brother and I from town. We will return with haste and convey travel and wedding plans.
Salute,
General Demetri Petroski
The cruel and addictive gossip column reported a House party in Bath regaled by the Petroski Brothers. When the blasted roses arrived again this morning, anger flushed through her like a Guy Fawkes bonfire.
“I’ll take care of them” Georgie took the vase holding the latest red and green floral insult from the maid and walked to the window, opened it and tipped the water and flowers out of it. A wonderful flush of pleasure rippled through her as she watched the hypocritical tribute fall and land on the small path that ran alongside the house. Georgie then walked around the room and did the same with each and every other arrangement sent by her Demetri on behalf of his brother. Each bunch she watched hit the path below and scatter red petals like blood. It was indescribably satisfying.
By the last bunch she had become more expressive, more abandoned in her need to purge her frustration and vexation, she raised the blooms above her head and smashed them against the windowsill. The feeling was so cathartic she did it again, and again and again, breaking the beautiful heads, stems and sending petals all over the place.
That was how she really felt about the blasted Vladimir Petroski, about the Betrothal and about the fact that she was, for the time being, locked into it in support of her father. With each swipe of the blooms and satisfying explosion of petals and leaves, some of the pent-up frustration loosened.
How could a man so thoroughly dismiss her without ever having met her? How could her father keep her in such an unpalatable situation? And…and that Demetri, how could he make her zing and tingle with every glance, smile and charm her then spend the night on the town courting elusive and beautiful widows? She slammed the decimated bunch of buds down harder.
A masculine cough came from behind her.
“Not now father, I am arranging the flowers.” She flung the broken bits out the window and spun around. “I should have done that days ago.”
General Demetri stood, hands behind his back, a picture of masculine beauty and control as he surveyed the rose petals over the floor and furnishings. Heat flushed through her body; nerves rioted as she willed herself to remain still in the sea of obliterated botanicals. Her feelings were unmistakable. And to add insult to injury, her body was turning into a whirlwind of sensations, her heart pounding against her chest because he was standing there. She swallowed. She wanted to pummel his chest for running around England delighting every woman, except her, in ways her body was telling her would be the most delicious and delectable touches and kisses she could ever imagine.
“I take it you are not fond of roses?” He said in that beautiful treacle accent, his eyes that held things in them she was unable to read. Eyes which made her body stir in a way that mixed with her anger and frustration in the most intoxicating way.
Georgie brushed some petals off the top of the wingback. “They are one of my favorites.” She lifted her gaze and squared her shoulders, “I thought you were in Bath, making elusive widows giggle and blush.” Her jaw tightened.
The man stood in front of her, stiff and silent. Nothing in his countenance gave her any indication of his thoughts, about what he saw around him, her, about anything at all. Her vulnerability escalated and she countered it by reaching for her indignation. This man may not be her betrothed, but he was certainly not stopping his brother from performing all the reported antics around town. And he had the gall to tell her it was due to matters of state. It was hopeless to ignore the fact that looking at him, looking at the roses, she was angry at him. Angry that he had been doing the gallivanting not some unknown betrothed.
“You could apologize.” The words stuck in her throat. A Russian is not a fan of apologies, given or received, even if she was.
And still he simply stood there, his face etched in stone. She scowled at him.
“You could answer me.” She stalked around the room batting petals off surfaces as she passed when she really wanted to go back to the pummeling-on-his-chest idea. “I thought you would be an ally, someone who would help remove any barriers between me and your brother.” I thought you felt it too, I thought you knew there was something between us.
He said nothing, showed nothing, his eyes simply followed her path through the room and indicated…nothing.
That unwelcome vulnerability washed through her and her hand did what it always did when she felt off balance, it stealthily clutched at the small miniature in her skirt pocket, fool that she was. Clutching no longer the man but the dream.
“I have business with your father.” He finally said, breaking eye contact and walking over to close the window behind her.
“I would have thought my betrothed has business with my father.” Georgie
flicked some more petals off the wingback willing her heart to slow down and her backbone to be strong enough to play this game.
“I am to act in his stead.”
“I see.” The only way she was going to get through this was if she started to give as good as she got. She may have promised her father she would not call the betrothal off, but her mind was made up. She was calling it off as soon as her father gave the nod that his affairs were in order.
Georgie marched over and pulled the cord to call for tea, and it would be tea, not his preferred coffee, “Let’s have tea, shall we? Did Prince Vladimir manage to draw himself away from the house party?”
“He has matters of state.” And just like that she was furious again. In her mind if not her heart, this betrothal was over. It was simply a matter of time before she could say the rewarding words even if a part of her heart would break. Georgie spun around and brushed past him as if he was in her way.
“For both our sakes please stop saying he has matters of state. I can read better than the next person and the two of you are recreating around the countryside.”
“I am not at liberty to comment.”
There was that blasted Russian pride and face. Never admit to a wrongdoing unless it gives you more power and advantage.
Georgie forced her legs to walk up to him, the man who made the strangest things happen to her body just by being in the room with her. “So, just out of curiosity, will you be saying his vows for him? Perhaps you will be there to tuck me into bed in his stead?” She sidled closer, fluttered her eyelashes in mock allure, “or perhaps he has sent you to kiss me in his stead so I will not call the whole thing off?” There seemed to be the slightest flicker of something in his eyes, but it could have been the light. Eyes that she was furious with and made her long for things she could clearly never have. She waited for the rush of words to calm her, to reassure her that her betrothed was honorable, pleading to give him another chance…they didn’t come.
And that was the trouble.
She was fast thinking an end to the betrothal was exactly what they aimed to achieve. She would be more than happy to oblige but for the promised to her father to wait. And if she had to wait, she would taunt. Taunt and plan the words she would say. The words that would deliver her the most satisfaction.
Chapter 7
Demetri quashed the desire to reach out and touch her, to reach out and sooth the suffering their actions were causing her. Yet he didn’t. There was serious business to press through today with Georgie and with her father.
She fluttered those lashes, clearly oblivious to the impact they had on him, and tucked some stray strands of hair behind her ears. A habitual action to tame wayward hair he was starting to have fantasies about. She needn’t have bothered. All the punishment of the roses had done its damage as her glorious curls, a mass of satin tresses, was moments away from slipping out of its pins entirely.
A week and a half apart and Georgie was, unfortunately, as appealing as ever. The way she moved made his hands itch to hold her, to trail his palms over her form to feel her shape, the soft undulations of a body that was slim and yet beautifully feminine. And those eyes, every time her gaze snagged on his there was that vertigo sensation that warned him, he faced a stronger opponent than she knew. Another time, another set of circumstances and he may have been taking different actions.
“Where is your brother?” She demanded, thrusting her chin up with some drama and, heaven help him, her hair finally started to fall. She yelped, one hand shooting up to grab hold of it as two hair pins fell to the carpet. She bent forward and the angle was the end of any hope she had of any of it remaining in place. Her hair unfurled in slow motion, a sensual uncurling as it slid out of the pins and slinked around her neck then down her back seeming to expand as it went. What had promised to be a sensual mass of silken locks turned out to be a mane of pure, erotic fancy.
His chest did a somersault as his mind plunged into acts conducted on satin sheets with a curtain of satin locks brushing across his skin.
“You were about to tell me about your brother?” she asked, clearly annoyed as she set to work collecting pins and placing them on the table next to her. The light from the window picked out burnished hues of amber and red as her head moved, and she…she continued as if she wasn’t turning into a siren in front of his eyes
Demetri squatted beside her and collected a few of the pins. “My brother has asked me to relay that he is detained.” She pushed his hands out of the way and rose. He picked up a couple she missed and stood.
Georgie was circling the mass of hair and trying to stick the pins back in, only to have them pop back out again.
Suddenly, helping with that mane took supreme importance. It was just a matter of time before he was successful at having the Betrothal called off. The chance to touch her, to find his fingers in her hair, was not likely to present itself again. A small reward perhaps for sticking to his plan, staying on course despite her appeal.
Demetri reached forward. “I have a sister...I can help.”
She slapped his hands away but the pins that she’d placed in, fell out again. She swore in Russian and scowled at him. He bent down to pick up the newly fallen hair pins so he could hide the smile.
“That was very unladylike. Russian women do not swear.”
She swore again, except this time articulating every syllable as clearly as possible. And in that moment, he wished she were truly his. If she were, he would inflict the most delectable of punishments, would enjoy this banter on a far more erotic level.
“I can truly help,” he straightened handing the pins to her even as she continued to scowl and look at him with mistrust. Who could blame her? “Let’s call a truce until we have it tamed and then we can continue the negotiations,” he coaxed.
Her expression evolved to wary. He reached a tentative hand to her hair and she looked at him, guarded but allowing him to proceed.
He moved closer, then closer still, until the tips of his fingers touched her hair. Her breath sounded uneven as his fingers slipped into the softest, thickest of hair. It slipped through his fingers and over his hand, caressed his palm and he tightened the muscles in his abdomen, willing himself not to react. Gently he drew his other hand up.
“I’ll need both hands.” He whispered to her in Russian. Her eyes darted up to his, a flash of golden amber as he pressed the fingers of his other hand into her hair and was lost. His fingers clasped her head on either side and the smallest of movements would tilt it to draw her lips up to his and kiss her.
“What are you thinking?” she whispered, the warmth of her breath dancing over his lips.
He grew harder as one inappropriate scenario followed another through his mind, those locks twisted in his hands, trailing over his heated skin, his face pressed into them.
“Nothing, turn around.”
She turned in his arms and he let his hands collect her hair, willing his body not to get any harder. Twisting her hair into a knot as he experienced the same, stomach twisting and thought buckling into and under themselves to avoid the fantasies their closeness was generating. He forced himself to focus on the task, each lop and twist, making it with precision. Each thought and tempting image placed aside and out of reach
In a few moments he had her hair contained. She handed him pins he slipped them into the thick bundle he’d made of her hair.
“Done.”
He walked her over to a small mirror on the wall above a sideboard. A vase full of peacock feathers sat on the surface and a small box with the lid open. In an instant he recognized the frame of miniatures of years ago, he needed to remember why he was here. Demetri turned her from left to right catching her gaze in the mirror’s reflection. “I am afraid my talents only stretch to Russian styles.”
“Styles? You were an attentive brother.” She reached out and touched the bun at the back of her head.
He was an attentive lover, but he played along. “No doubt. My sister refuses t
o acknowledge the fact though.”
“Where is Vladimir and when will he come and introduce himself?” Her hands had moved to her hips even as they spoke through the mirror’s reflection.
“Busy with matters of state.”
Her face turned into a scowl and the truce was clearly over.
“So, you think I can’t read?” She spun around, walked past him, over to the papers and picked one up. “Rumor has it a recent widow from the Lake District is the center of attention for Russian delights.” She read the words in a voice expressing feigned amazement.
Georgie picked up another newspaper. “What has more fun at a Bath house party, a Russian prince or a hound on heat?
Or what about this one: There is cause to believe the St Petersburg is soon to sport guests from the Lake District but if only the pesky London baggage wasn’t taking all the room in the baggage rack.”
She stalked forward color high on her cheeks. “I am being referred to as London Baggage! Oh, and let me tell you what else I read: Never let it be said younger brothers don’t have any of the fun. Rumor has it they get lost in the hedge maze with the hostess.”
She held up her hand to stop him from speaking as she picked up another paper.
“This is my favorite. Younger and juicer than his older brother, is he sharing his delicious nectar with both widows?”
Of course, that referred to him. He had in fact not partaken of either widow, but appearances needed to be kept up if his plan to have the betrothal called off were to succeed. And yet discomfort curled through him as she read each report. A wild success as far as his strategy was concerned.
His face strained and his jaw tightened. “We are not betrothed Georgie; I am free to do as I please.” A fragrant lie, he was her betrothed and strangely, now that he’d met her, that fact had kept his behavior in check, despite the paper’s reports. He was a man and he knew how to flirt. That was all it took, that and innuendo, to have him and his brother plastered all over the gossip columns. At another time he would have reveled in the attentions and fully enjoyed then and yet he didn’t, a fact his brother was very quick to say was out of character.
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