Rejar (28 page)

In honor of the Prince, Leona had donned a clinging dress, which she had naturally dampened. The sheer, wet material was not much of a covering, yet this contained man seemed not even to notice the enticing style. It irritated Leona.

When the butler announced dinner was being served, her annoyance prompted her to loop her arm through the older brother’s. “How nice of you to escort me, Mr. Yaniff.”

Traed watched her knowingly. “Traed.” Leona, thinking he was giving her permission to use his first name, responded, “Then you may call me Leona.” She fingered the strand of pearls at her throat, “Please take care not to tread upon my dress—for nothing is under it but my modesty.”

His mocking jade glance raked over her. “I do not believe your modesty is to be found ... under there, Lee-oh-nah.”

Her pretty brown eyes flashed with annoyance at the subtle insult as he briskly marched her into the dining room.

* * *

As Rejar had predicted, course after course was presented to the table.

Lady Harcorte had taken to the Continental custom of sending footmen around with the dishes. In this way, everyone had a chance to taste everything, not simply those dishes which happened to be at one’s end of the table. Such munificence made Lady Harcorte’s table a well-sought-after one.

The first course started out with mulligatawny and turtle soups. This was followed by salmon and turbot surrounded with smelts.

Lady Harcorte, at the head of the table, addressed Rejar, who had been seated by design to her right. “Russian caviar, your Highness; I procured it expressly for you.” She nodded at the footman, who placed a spoonful on his plate.

Rejar looked at the black lumpy mass and swallowed the bile rising in his throat. By Aiyah, what was it?

“Thank you; that was most thoughtful of you, Lady Harcorte.” Gingerly, he followed her lead, spreading some of the gooey mass on a hard, flat biscuit. Lilac, seated next to him, watched him curiously out of the corner of her eye.

Taking a deep breath, he popped the noxious stuff into his mouth. He blinked. It was hideous! Forcing himself to swallow, he smiled rather sickly to Lady Harcorte. “Delicious,” he managed to croak.

Lilac dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin to hide her blossoming grin. It was obvious to her that her husband could not abide the vile stuff. An impish light imbued her green eyes. “Oh, then do have more, Nickolai! I can see how much you love it.” She snagged the footman bearing the caviar and plopped a large spoonful onto his plate.

Nickolai privately sent her a fulminating glare.

She batted her eyelashes at him, then quickly turned to engage the person on her left in conversation. Lilac tried not to giggle when she heard, him mutter something foreign under his breath. The Russian Prince was forced by politesse to take another bite of the Russian caviar.

With the serving of the first course, a curious phenomenon seemed to settle about the room. As soon as the first spoonful of soup lifted to waiting lips, a constant thirst arose out of nowhere, afflicting all of the guests at once. Port, sherry, hock, ratafia, and claret were liberally poured to stave off the malady.

And continued to be poured throughout the long feast. This naturally led to an ambiance of geniality, which, over the course of several hours, led to total stupefaction.

The second course was served.

There was roast hare, roast pheasant, roast turkey, Bolognese sausage, Laplander reindeer tongues, Westphalian ham, pistachio cream, burnt cream, roast woodcock, collared pig, and stewed mushrooms. Then came the French dishes, potatoes, cauliflower, Spanish olives—the platters kept coming.

Traed caught Rejar’s eye. Neither man could believe the lavish amount of food spread before them. On Aviara, feasts were customary, but not on this scale. Rejar could not help but think of the hungry people begging for food that he had seen wandering the streets of this savage world. In light of that, this display seemed almost obscene to him.

The various aromas mingled, filling the room with scent of gluttony.

{Did I not tell you?}

Traed inclined his head slightly, acknowledging Rejar’s thought.

“Your Highness,” Lord Wolfston, seated across the table from Rejar, addressed him, “do you think it likely Napoleon will invade your homeland?”

Rejar paused in the act of picking up his wineglass. “Who is this Napoleon?” he blandly asked.

For a tension-fraught moment the table went completely silent. Whereupon, Beau Brummell, seated at the far end of the table, burst out laughing. “Marvelous wit!” he declared, setting the tone for the rest of the diners, who immediately broke into laughter and saluted Rejar with their glasses.

The words “who is this Napoleon” echoed around the room as if it were the cleverest of jests. Lilac gave her husband the oddest look. She believed he meant exactly what he said: He had no idea who Napoleon was. Yet these people thought him a marvelous wit. She gnashed her teeth. Oh, the irony!

“Prince Azov,” Wolfston chuckled, “may I pirate your bon mot?”

Rejar, having no idea what a bon mot was, replied, “If my wife does not object to its loss, you may pirate it.”

This caused another round of raucous joviality. Lady Harcorte rested her hand on Rejar’s arm. She lifted her lashes slowly in a blatantly seductive motion. “You are a sly boots, aren’t you?”

Lilac leaned forward, taking note of their hostess’s personal gesture with her husband. For some reason, it bothered her immensely. She instantly took affrontage. Why was that woman’s claw on Nickolai’s arm?

To make matters worse, Nickolai bent close to the woman and said something in an intimate tone to her. Fuming, Lilac kicked him under the table.

Rejar paused, blinked once, then finished what he was saying to Leona Harcorte. He turned to his wife.

Lilac did not like the twinkle in his blue eye one bit. Instead of being properly chastened like any normal husband would be, he seemed greatly amused.

In fact, the expression on his face as he regarded her might be interpreted as delighted. “Something upsetting you, souk-souk?”

“Don’t souk-souk me! Stop speaking to that woman in that tone of—of face!”

He grinned at her, making her realize her faux pas. “Are you possessive of me, my Lilac?”

“Don’t be silly! I—I just think that you should be more—more circumspect in your dealings.” She stammered defensively, trying to cover her idiotic display.

Smiling triumphantly, Nickolai’s arm curved around her shoulders, his hand going up to her topknot to give it a little tug. He purred sexily in her ear. “I hate your hair.”

Her mouth rounded into a surprised O.

Taking advantage of her combination of shock and dismay, he whispered softly, “Let me release it, souk-souk, so I can see it spill down your back and I will remember how it feels as it flows over me at night like the finest krilli cloth, streaming down my chest, across my hip, feathering my—”

“Stop that!” Lilac turned beet red.

Chuckling low, her husband turned away to answer a question from across the table.

He was odious! Why couldn’t he be more well-behaved like his brother? Her sights went across the table to where Traed sat, quietly eating his meal.

The guests on either side of him had attempted to engage the stony-eyed man in conversation, but on receiving only monosyllabic replies from him, they soon turned their attentions elsewhere.

Even in a room full of people, Lilac noted that Nickolai’s brother seemed secluded and apart. She wondered why that was. On the occasions when they had engaged in conversations, she had found him to be attentive, interesting, and extremely intelligent. She was sure his present behavior was not due to reticence, for his persona was almost bold in nature.

With his captivating looks, she would have thought he would have chatted up several of the women by now. By the coveted glances some of the female guests had been sending his way, they certainly hoped he would do just that.

Yet, there he sat, patiently apart. Solitary.

Despite this, there was a quality about the lone, handsome man that evoked her compassion toward him. He was something of an enigma. As if he read her thoughts, he looked up suddenly from the forkful of food he was about to put into his mouth, catching her eye. She smiled gently at him.

He returned her smile with a small one of his own.

She read his look exactly. Unlike Nickolai, who seemed to be at ease wherever he went, neither Traed nor she really belonged here at this garish outing. It was something she had in common with Nickolai’s brother and at that moment a special, silent bond of understanding formed between them.

Plates were cleared once again and desert arrived.

Ordered up from Messrs. Grange, the dessert was, again, an extravagant affair. Fresh strawberries, exotic hothouse fruits, all manner of pies, and confections. The selections seemed endless.

Leona addressed Alvanley, “Your favorite apricot tartlet, my lord.” Lord Alvanley beamed. In spite of the outrageous expense he had an apricot tartlet every day.

A footman placed a slice of apple tarte tatin in front of Nickolai. His dual-colored eyes lit up. Lilac had long suspected her husband had something of a sweet tooth. She was proven right when he took a bite, saying to her, “Mmm, what do you call this?”

Strange, but he was pointing to the apple, not the tart itself.

Lilac looked at him askance. Was he jesting? Who didn’t know an apple when they saw one? Surely they had apples in Russia.

“A kumquat,” she replied drolly. Lilac had never actually seen a kumquat, but she had read all about the little orange fruits from China.

He looked boyishly confused. “A come-kwat?”

She nodded, hiding her grin.

“Ah. It is good.” He slowly licked the filling off his fork with the edge of his industrious tongue.

Lilac’s wide gaze riveted to that hardworking, swirling tongue of his.

Rejar watched her knowingly from beneath thick lashes.

“Have you been to Ireland or Scotland yet, your Highness?” Leona leaned forward, her deep cleavage threatening the tensile strength of her dampened gown. “The hunting and fishing there are marvelous. Perhaps you would like to join a group of us next time we go—you do hunt?” The innuendo in her throaty voice was unmistakable.

Rejar’s glance fell to his wife. “On occasion,” he murmured cryptically.

“Excellent! Then you must join us!” Leona was already making her plans.

It did not go unnoticed by Lilac that she did not seem to be included in the invitation.

Nor by Traed.

His pastel gaze shifted speculatively from his plate to Lady Harcorte.

* * *

After dinner, Madeline Fensley cornered Lilac in the drawing room while the men were still in the dining room enjoying their port.

“Is it true?” she asked her breathlessly.

Lilac furrowed her brow. “Is what true?”

“Did he really lick you all over?”

Lilac paled. Her hand went to her throat. “Who told you that?”

“Why it’s all over the ton, my dear girl!”

She suddenly felt rather sick. Whatever possessed her to trust those women? What could she have been thinking of?

It had just seemed so nice to be able to confide in other women for once.

Everyone seemed to be talking intimately about the same subject. Why had they chosen her words to bandy about? Surely, they had all experienced similar things.

Madeline Fensley nudged her out of her reverie. “Come now. Lilac, why so shy?”

The dining room doors opened and the men rejoined them.

Lilac put a hand to her perspiring forehead. What would she do if Nickolai found out? She hadn’t meant to be so indiscreet. “What?” she whispered distractedly.

“I said, cat got your tongue?”

At that precise moment Nickolai came up beside her. “Mmm, most definitely.” He winked smartly at Madeline, her unknowing pun amusing him.

Lilac blanched.

She had to get rid of Madeline right away! Before the woman alerted Nickolai to her indiscretion. “You know what they say, Madeline.” She stared pointedly at the woman, trying to give her a clue. “Curiosity killed the cat.”

Nickolai’s eyes widened slightly.

“Yes, darling.” Madeline was not going to take the bait. “But t’was information which brought him back.”

What a humorous tenet, Rejar thought, not understanding a thing that was going on between the two women. He must remember to tell it to his mother.

Lilac was beyond repartee. “Please ...” she almost begged the other woman, her eyes filling with tears.

“She’s such a sensitive little thing, your Highness.” Madeline smirked, pitiless.

Rejar’s brow furrowed. Concerned by his wife’s sudden distress, he ran his finger tenderly down her smooth cheek. “What is it, Lilac?”

A single tear slipped out of her closed eyes.

“Would you excuse us?” It was not a question. It was a royal command. Madeline Fensley immediately left them alone.

Rejar guided her into the darkened alcove to his right. “What troubles you so, souk-souk?”

“I didn’t mean to, Nickolai. I swear I didn’t!”

Rejar frowned. “What did you do?” He prepared himself for the worst.

“It was just that I thought I could trust them not to say anything—we were all talking about our husbands ...” She bit her lip.

Had she given his secret away? This could be serious for all of them. She was not ready to accept the consequences such a disclosure would entail. “Tell me exactly what you told them.” His hands cupped her shoulders.

“I told them how you liked to ... do I have to tell you, Nickolai?” she sniffed.

“Yes,” he ground out. “You must tell me, Lilac. Now. Perhaps I can undo this damage you have done.”

“I—I told them how you—you lick me.” Her voice dropped off at the end.

He was stunned. This was not what he expected to hear. “You what?”

She nodded dismally. “And how you like to use your teeth ...”

His lips parted. He just stared at her. “Is that all?”

She looked at his booted feet. “And how you take forever ...” She twisted her dress. “This is terribly embarrassing,” she mumbled into her chest.