Keeping Katerina (The Victorians Book 1)

by Simone Beaudelaire

  Outside the cab, the shabby row houses gave way to a series of little shops: a tobacconist, a fruit seller, a milliner. He grinned at the sight of the wildly feathered and brightly colored hats in the window of the last. The shops flowed into another row of homes, this area much statelier than James' neighborhood. They pulled to a stop in front of the one on the farthest end of the street; the home of a wealthy middle-class couple, where a trio would be entertaining a few select guests on the harpsichord, voice, and flute.

  He'd arrive a little late, and the music had already begun when he handed his greatcoat to a footman and slipped into the parlor. Walking softly so as not to disrupt the performance with the sound of his boots echoing on the wooden floors, he approached the seated guests. Several were ignoring the performers and conversing softly amongst themselves.

  It only took him a moment to locate Katerina. She perched in a corner alone with empty seats on either side, her attention focused solely on the music. He slipped in beside her and placed his hand on the bare space between the top of her long glove and the arm of her pretty flowered dress. She started at the soft touch on her exposed skin and turned. Then, recognizing him, she smiled broadly.

  He returned her smile. Her skin felt silky and warm.

  “Good evening,” he said in an undertone.

  “Good evening,” she whispered a reply.

  “Is this seat taken?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes sparkled.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “It's taken by you.”

  The sweet little joke made him smile even wider. “Ah. How's the music.”

  “Fine so far, although…” she hesitated.

  “Although what?” he asked. Take your hand off the girl, Bennett. He released her reluctantly while she pondered her answer.

  “It's nothing really,” she prevaricated, her eyes skating away.

  “Tell me,” he pressed, wanting to know what she thought. At his insistence, she returned her gaze. The warmth of her brown eyes captured him.

  “I don't think the contralto is really doing her best,” Katerina murmured at last. “Perhaps because so few people are listening. The harpsichordist is excellent.”

  “And the flute?”

  “Perhaps it's best if I don't say.”

  Christopher listened for a moment. “Agreed. Say nothing. It's a performance completely unworthy of note. Neither good nor bad.”

  She nodded, agreeing with his assessment, and the light in her eyes showed his observation meant a great deal to her. “Exactly. In some ways, a truly bad performance is better than a tepid one.”

  “ `So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spue thee out of my mouth',” he quoted.

  “Revelation 3:16,” she said softly, “how apt.”

  He ran his hand down over her glove, to clasp hers gently. They listened to the ragged performance for several minutes before Katerina shuddered.

  “Have you heard enough, Miss Valentino?” he asked.

  Katerina wrinkled her nose. “Yes.”

  “Shall we step out?” he suggested. “I dislike interrupting performers.”

  That comment earned him a lovely smile.

  They left the music room and traversed a corridor lined by a rug of cream and gold scrollwork, bordered in black. Christopher took Katerina's arm and placed it around his, laying his hand on top of hers, where it rested on his bicep.

  “Well, Mr. Bennett,” Katerina said softly once they were out of earshot, “I'm rather surprised to see you this evening.”

  He glanced at her in consternation. “Why would you be? I told you I would come.”

  “Yes, you did,” she replied, not revealing anything with her noncommittal comment.

  “Did you think I would break my word?” He patted her hand gently. Why so shy, sweet girl?

  “I wouldn't hold it against you if you did.”

  This is more than shy. What's going on inside that pretty head? “No, it would have been unmannerly. Besides, I wanted to see you.” His voice grew intense as confused, affectionate feelings welled up in him.

  “You did? Why?” This time she spoke with unadorned disbelief.

  “Why not?”

  She couldn't answer the question, so she fell silent, looking at the floor.

  He stopped walking and turned to face her. Removing his hand from hers, he laid it on her chin and lifted gently, so she was looking into his eyes again. There was no need to speak. The sudden connection passing between them in that moment, in that gaze, sufficed for him to know all he needed to know, for her to see he was not jesting. I honestly want to know you. His thumb touched her full lower lip. She winced. “What?”

  She smiled ruefully. “Oh, it's nothing. I bit my lip earlier. It still stings a little.”

  He looked closer. Sure enough, there was a tiny split there. “Sorry.”

  “It's fine,” she replied, still smiling.

  “Miss Valentino…” Christopher began.

  “You don't have to,” Katerina interrupted.

  “Have to what?” he asked, not understanding her comment.

  “Call me that. I think… I think I would like to be your friend.” Then, having shocked them both senseless with her unreserved invitation, they fell silent to consider it.

  “So, I should call you Katerina then?” he asked at last.

  “Yes, please.” Her cheeks turned pink, but her gaze remained steady. She really does want this little intimacy. Good. So do I.

  “My name is Christopher, you know,” he pointed out.

  “Yes, your mother told me. May I?” Her shy expression spoke volumes of insecurity.

  “Certainly.”

  She smiled at him. Beamed, actually, her face lighting up like a star in the night of her dark hair. His hand still rested on her face, and she leaned her cheek against him.

  Her warm, soft touch elicited words that should have evoked nerves in complete comfort. “And what would you say, Katerina, if I asked you to accompany me on a drive one day?”

  Her face fell, head lowering. The light dawning between them blinked out with the effect of extinguishing of a candle. “I can't. My father would never allow it. I'm sorry.”

  Christopher ran his thumb over her cheek. “Is he so very strict then? Why does he let you come to these events? Is he here?”

  She swallowed. He could feel the movement under his hand. “Oh, no. He rarely leaves the house. I'm here because it is a public place, and there are many women around. Actually,” her voice dropped to a whisper, “he thinks I'm with your mother right now.”

  “Ah. Does he know she has a son?” Christopher asked, trying to recapture lightness, since the intoxicating connection had been broken.

  “I've never mentioned it,” she replied.

  I wonder why not. How odd. “Katerina, don't you think it might be a good idea for you to broach the subject of a… male friend with your father at some point? Does he not want you to find a husband one day?”

  “I think he does not want that,” she replied, shocking him. “He wants me to remain with him, to run the household, you see. My future is of little interest to him. I'm sorry, Christopher.”

  How selfish of him… and how sad for her. “Don't be sorry. But consider, Katerina. It's usually best to be honest with people.”

  “He's my father. I know how to handle him best.” The edge to her tone surprised him greatly.

  “Of course. You're quite right. So…” he released her face and wrapped her arm around his instead, leading her down the hallway again, “when will I see you next? Is there another public event where we might meet `accidentally'?”

  “Perhaps.” She paused to think without breaking their mutual stride. “There is a ball next week. I've received an invitation, but I haven't decided whether to attend.”

  “I haven't heard of any,” he replied. “What is it?”

  “Well it's largely for diplomats, you see,” Katerina explained, gesturing with one hand. “L
ots of foreigners. I don't like it much because the music is poor, and the swirl of languages makes my head spin.”

  “How many languages do you speak?” he blurted, not sure where the asinine question had arisen from.

  She blinked at the sudden change of topic. “Myself? Three. Can you guess?”

  “English, Italian and… French?”

  “Excellent guesses. You are correct.” She rewarded him with a pretty smile.

  She seemed willing to indulge his curiosity, so he continued questioning. “Are you fluent in Italian?”

  “It's all I speak at home. I didn't begin to learn English until I was seven.”

  So that was the source of the occasional exotic flavor he heard in her voice. “Interesting.”

  “And you?”

  “I speak French passably well, and a smattering of German, mostly vulgar words,” he admitted with a playful glance her direction.

  The admission made her smile again. “With German, even words that are not vulgar sound as though they are. It's a particularly difficult language to sing.”

  “I imagine,” he replied. “I'm also rather good with Latin,” he added immodestly.

  “So, you're educated then?” she asked, and he could almost hear her pondering it.

  “Naturally,” he replied. “One of the great benefits of being in the upper middle class is that I can dabble in a life of leisure, with all its benefits, but not be corrupted by it because I have plenty of work to do as well.”

  “Very good. I think too much leisure isn't good for a man.” It was almost unheard of for a woman to voice such an opinion, and Katerina seemed to be holding her breath waiting for his response.

  He wasn't offended in the least. “Likely not. And you? How is your education?”

  “Rather self-centered I'm afraid,” she replied. “I've never been to school and stopped having a governess quite young. So, I've taught myself things I want to know: music, literature, religion, and so on.”

  “Religion?” Christopher leaped onto a new line of inquiry. “Are you Catholic?”

  “Actually no,” Katerina explained. “My parents found it too difficult to be a Catholic resident of England, so they joined the Church of England before I was born.”

  “Interesting.”

  “You've said that several times,” she pointed out.

  “Well, Katerina, it's because you are,” he told her gently. “I really do enjoy talking with you.”

  “Why?” The stark question revealed a world of self-doubt, and he hastened to reassure her.

  “Because you're so real. You don't simper and giggle and try to guess what I want to hear. You just tell me what you think. I enjoy hearing it.”

  “Goodness.” Her eyes widened. “And here I've been told men prefer a woman with no opinion. Sounds as though nearly the reverse is true.”

  “Well I can hardly speak for everyone,” Christopher admitted, “but I prefer my friends to be who they are, so I can know them. Particularly a friend with such… potential.” He allowed a great deal of the intensity he felt to bleed into the words, and she glanced at him sharply. He continued. “Perhaps, Katerina, you might prevail upon my mother to walk with you tomorrow. And perhaps I might prevail upon her to invite me?”

  She met his eyes with an unguarded expression. “Yes, that would be very nice.”

  He continued. “And, as for the ball, do you think a non-diplomatic type such as myself would be unable to attend?”

  “Very likely,” she replied with a nod, though something of her expression suggested the turning of gears in her mind as she tried to understand where his non-sequitur was leading.

  “And your father is certain NOT to be there?” he pressed.

  “He has never once accepted that invitation in all the years I can remember,” she replied.

  “So, if you forgot your way and accidentally found yourself at a little dinner party with some friends of mine, men and women?” Christopher suggested.

  “That might happen,” she said with an impish grin. “Where?”

  “It will be at the home of the Wilder family, a couple who runs a small printing business here in London. Gordon Wilder was just finishing school the year I started, but we met several times and got to be friends. We've formed a little biweekly poetry club, him and his wife, me, my friends James Cary and Collin Butler, and a few others.” Her expression turned suspicious at the thought of so many men meeting in a home. Christopher hastened to explain. “It's a totally respectable group. No young lady who attended would need to fear for her reputation, and we have several who come regularly. Everyone takes turns ferreting out new works to share. We've hit on a writer who might… well please is the wrong word. It's terrible stuff. But it might just incite some interesting conversation.”

  Her nerves eased. “I would enjoy that. I do like poetry.”

  “It's not for the faint of heart,” he warned, wondering how she would react to the Browning.

  “I'm ready for anything.”

  Christopher grinned at her words. In another woman's mouth, they might have been seen as a flirtation, even an invitation, but Katerina's obvious innocence showed she meant the words literally; that she liked poetry and was willing to listen to it.

  “Famous last words, Katerina. Now then, my dear, here we are at the balcony.” And sure enough, the arched, wood-framed doors appeared before them. “What would you think if we… stepped outside on it?”

  * * *

  Katerina took in the door and then turned to her companion. Her breath caught, and her heart sped up. “I scarcely know. I've never been… taken to the balcony before.” How can he really be asking this of me? It seemed unreal.

  “Would you object?” he asked, and his expression looked suddenly vulnerable.

  “I don't think so.” She felt hesitant but could not disguise the note of curiosity in her voice. I hope I don't sound too eager. It won't do for Christopher to think me a hussy.

  He swept her out the door. Far from the partial warmth of the drafty parlor, the chilly wind teased her arms through the thin fabric of her gown and disarranged her hair. Instantly freezing, Katerina suppressed a shiver as best she could. A sliver of moon, like the clipping of a fingernail, peeped between the naked branches of the trees that rose from the garden below. She looked up at Christopher, wondering what was next.

  “Do you know why men take women to the balcony, Katerina?” he asked her, and the intensity in his voice had bled to heat.

  Can he really mean what he seems to be saying? Her heart began to beat faster. “Yes.”

  “And do you fancy trying it?”

  She swallowed but did not speak.

  Tell me how you want this done, love,” he urged.

  “What do you mean?” she whispered.

  “I'm offering you a kiss. Do you dream of being kissed, Katerina?”

  Oh, Lord, he does mean it, and he's such a handsome man, and so kind. What a magnificent opportunity. “Yes.” Oh, she did, and she liked Christopher so very much. He's perfect.

  “How?”

  She didn't know how to answer the question. She didn't even know how to ask for clarification. She gazed into his eyes, silently begging him to explain.

  “Do you want my hands on you?” he asked.

  Her breath caught. “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Around my waist.” She mouthed rather than spoke the words. He embraced her, his arms wonderfully warm.

  “Where would you like your hands to be?” he continued.

  “Your…” her voice stopped. She took a deep breath, drawing in the scent of cologne and aroused man, and tried again. “Your neck.”

  “Do it then.”

  She looked at him for a long moment. Then, hesitantly, she slid her arms around him.

  “There. Is that just right?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  * * *

  Beneath her barely audible reply, Christopher could feel Katerina's heart pounding against
his chest.

  “Look up at me.” Brown eyes met gray. “Close your eyes little one, and feel your first kiss.”

  Her lids dropped. He lowered his head slowly and laid his lips gently on hers. It was a kiss straight out of a dream. Her innocent mouth felt like heaven. Her lips yielded softly, but he applied no pressure, just lingered against her mouth for a long moment. And then he lifted his head. She opened her eyes.

  “Was that nice?” he asked.

  “Yes, very,” she breathed, her voice suffused with pleasure.

  “Would you like another?” I certainly do.

  “Yes.”

  His mouth brushed hers again. When he released her lips, he kept his arms around her, sharing the warmth of his body. “Please let me talk to your father,” he urged. “It's for the best. I think we're going to be seen together a great deal. Wouldn't it be better for him not to find out you've been sneaky, but to be consulted right from the first? We have nothing to hide. You're eligible. I'm eligible, and I want to be your suitor, see if whatever this is between us stays powerful over time. Don't you want to, Katerina?”

  Passion shattered in her eyes, revealing despair that streamed from her like a torrent. “I do. Believe me, I feel it too. I just… you mustn't try to talk to him. It would be terrible. Promise me.” Suddenly she sounded panicky, nearly hysterical. “Promise, Christopher. Don't seek him out. Don't ask him to be my suitor. You can't imagine… no. You mustn't!” She wrenched herself out of his grip and fled into the house. A moment later, before he could even gather his wits, she appeared outside, below the balcony. She summoned a carriage, disappearing into the night.

  Startled, Christopher left the icy balcony and stepped into the welcome shelter of the house. From the music room, he could still hear the sounds of the bored contralto, the lively harpsichord, the passionless flute. The whole conversation had taken less than half an hour.

  Still wondering what the hell had just happened, he slowly descended the stairs and summoned a hansom for himself, this one pulled by a shining black horse that pranced uncomfortably in the chilly air. But instead of going to his bachelor apartment at the hotel, he headed to his parents' home. He needed to talk to his mother. As the vehicle clattered through the slippery streets at a sedate pace, he relived the conversation and the kisses he had shared with Katerina. Perhaps she had become panicked because she had allowed the liberty at what was really only their second meeting. It's very fast to be talking of suitors, and I certainly won't for her hand. Not yet. They had barely met, and he planned to take his time wooing her. As for that kiss, it had been an impulsive move, and really too soon, but she had been so sweet, so eager. Now he knew one thing for certain. Katerina, despite her shyness, had passion hidden inside her, and that was an excellent quality for… someday.