Simply Voracious (32 page)

She moaned something incomprehensible, and he started to move his fingers in and out of her in a slow, slick rhythm that promised sexual fulfillment. He guessed it was somehow easier in this half darkness for her to respond to him, to forget about guilt and society and everything else that insisted what they were doing was wrong.

He eased another finger inside her and used his thumb on her clit. She gripped his shoulder hard, her nails digging into his skin, and he dropped his head to nuzzle and play with her breasts. Her breathing shortened, and he increased his stroke, pushing her onward toward the pleasure that they both sought, and then pushing her over into it, and burying her cries in his mouth when she finally climaxed around his still thrusting fingers.

He looked forward to making love to her properly, but not tonight, not when they were all so new to this, especially Lucinda.

Her hand tightened in his hair. “Please, Con, please don’t stop.”

His cock responded to her plea and stiffened, but again he resisted the temptation, using his fingers on her while his trapped shaft rubbed against her hip. She wrenched her mouth away from his.

“Don’t you want me after all? Was this all to get to Paul?”

He felt Paul stir close by and wondered how long his lover had been awake and listening. He cupped her chin. “Of course not. I’m just trying to be careful.”

“Of what?”

“Of you.” He gazed down at her puzzled face. “Paul might not want me inside you.”

“Why not?”

Her confusion seemed quite genuine. Con couldn’t help but glance over at Paul, who was watching them intently.

“Paul? Do you want to explain it to your wife?”

“I’m not sure what you want me to say, Con.”

Con released his hold on Lucinda. “Most men would not want me spilling my seed inside their wife.”

“Why not?” Paul asked, echoing Lucky.

Con raised his eyebrows. “Because of the succession, of course.”

“I don’t care about that.” Paul shrugged. “Do you, Lucky?”

In a sudden flurry, Lady Lucinda grabbed the nearest sheet and wrapped it around her. She was biting down on her lip and looked as if she was about to cry.

“Whatever is wrong, my lady?” Con inquired.

“Nothing is wrong. I just want to go home. I’m tired and I can’t sleep in an unfamiliar bed.” She crawled off the bed and started looking for her clothes in the darkness.

Con shared a mystified glance with Paul, who raised his shoulders in a helpless gesture that signified utter confusion.

“It’s all right, my lady.” Con came after her. “I’ll help you dress while Paul calls your carriage.”

After one more look at her distraught face, Con realized it would be pointless trying to work out exactly what had upset Lucinda. He could only suppose that the enormity of what she’d done had suddenly overwhelmed her. It wasn’t an uncommon reaction, but Con devoutly hoped she would change her mind again. If not, this might be the first and last night he spent with the St. Clares. Nothing would persuade him to continue if Lucinda wasn’t happy.

He helped her on with her clothes, asking her nothing, expecting nothing more than that she turn around at his direction. Eventually she was dressed to his satisfaction. He looked around and saw that Paul had already gone to fetch the carriage.

“If I have erred in any way, my lady, please accept my apologies.” He paused, but she didn’t say anything, so he labored on. “I should not have assumed that you wanted me in that way.”

“You didn’t assume anything. That’s because you are a good man. I’m the one who . . .” She stopped talking and pressed her lips together as if she wanted to cry.

“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” he said gently. “Or is it something that is between you and Paul?”

She shook her head, her gaze full of anguish. “It’s not you, or Paul, Constantine. It’s me. It’s all my fault.”

Before he could ask her any more, Paul returned and, after a hurried good-bye to Con, took his wife out to their waiting carriage. Con could only hope that she might confide more readily in her husband. He shoved a hand through his hair and regarded the rumpled bed. The night had proven to be far more than he had bargained for. From the ecstasy of having them both to the concern about Lucinda, his emotions were as unstable as a stormy sea.

He was too tired to do anything now. With a soft curse, he crawled back on to the bed and went to sleep.

Lucky sat in the corner of the carriage and tried to pretend that Paul wasn’t sitting right next to her. His concern for her was so palpable that she wanted to cry. Her body ached both from Paul’s lovemaking and the different, unsatisfied pain of pushing Constantine away.

He’d thought everything was his fault, when it really was Lucky’s. She’d ruined their evening because she’d suddenly realized what it would mean if she was indeed pregnant. Could she pass off Jeremy’s child as Paul’s heir? Worse, could she give Paul such a child and worry forever afterward about his somehow recognizing the child as Jeremy’s? She’d promised to be honest with him about everything, but this seemed far too complicated to confess. If she admitted she might be pregnant to him, she might have to admit it to herself.

Her mind flapped around like a canary trapped in a cage. From what Madame Helene had told her, if she was pregnant, she would have no way of knowing whether the child was Jeremy’s or Paul’s until it was born, and even then that could be difficult. So did she confess, or wait and see? Paul might not mind if she bore Constantine Delinsky’s child—he was, after all, in love with Con—but he probably wouldn’t be so sanguine if it was Jeremy’s.

It was also still possible that she was simply late with her courses....

“What’s wrong, Lucky?” Paul asked.

She turned her face away from him and pretended she hadn’t heard him speak.

24

“W
hat a wonderful gathering, Delinsky, eh?” The Russian ambassador beamed at Con and opened his arms wide. The wine had flowed lavishly at dinner, and the guests had imbibed freely. Now the footmen were circling with prized Russian vodka, while Countess Lieven dispensed tea from her samovar.

“It has indeed been wonderful.” Con spoke in French, the language of the aristocracy, as did most of the guests, although he could also hear some Russian. “I must compliment your chef.”

“Thank you.” The ambassador looked around the large room. “Now, may I suggest you seek out the representatives from our embassy in France? If anyone has any information on your wife, it will be them.”

“I will, sir.” Con bowed. “In fact, I already have an acquaintance who is stationed there.”

“Well, good, good.” The ambassador patted his shoulder. “Unofficial channels can sometimes be much more rewarding than official ones.”

Con moved away and headed for Sergei, whom he’d spotted in the far corner of the room, hanging protectively over a petite blond woman who could only be his new wife.

“Good evening, my friend.” Con bowed.

“Good evening, Delinsky.” Sergei smiled and put his arm around the woman’s shoulders in a very un-English way. “Lieutenant Colonel Delinsky. May I introduce you to my wife, Louise?”

Con took her hand and kissed it. “My pleasure, my lady. Felicitations on your recent marriage.”

“Oh, thank you, sir,” she responded after quickly glancing at her husband as if for reassurance. Con reckoned she could barely be out of the schoolroom and was charmed by her shy sweetness. Although she was closer in age to Lady Lucinda than to Con, she was nothing at all like Lucinda. Con couldn’t imagine Lucinda ever being a simpering miss.

Sergei smiled down at his wife, obviously smitten, and Con found himself smiling too. “Would you care to study the ambassador’s art collection, my lady?”

She nodded, and he offered her his arm. “How are you enjoying London so far? Is this your first visit?”

Con soon had her chatting to him like an old friend, her shyness forgotten and her pragmatic French sense of humor revealed. His years of serving with the Duke of Wellington’s staff had made him an accomplished flirt, and he was happy to use his talents to amuse his friend’s wife if it put her at ease. After procuring a glass of tea, he sat next to her on a convenient couch and Sergei joined them.

“I hear that you have been seeking information about your wife, Constantine?” Sergei asked.

“That is correct. There was some suspicion that she might have left Moscow in the train of the French army. I am wondering if she managed to find her way to France.”

Sergei patted his wife’s hand. “Louise might be able to help you with that. She grew up in diplomatic circles and knows everyone Russian in France.”

Louise turned pink. “Not quite everyone, Sergei, but I do have a wide acquaintance.” She turned to Con. “What did your wife look like?”

“In truth, she was rather like you, my lady. Her hair was blond, and she had blue eyes. Her name was Natasha.”

“How old would she be now?”

“About three-and-thirty.”

“Do you have a picture of her?”

Con thought hard. “I think I still have the miniature that was painted for our wedding.”

“Perhaps you could lend it to me. I can show it to the people I know who either fought in the war in Russia or were involved in the diplomatic efforts afterward in France.”

“That would be most kind of you, my lady,” Con murmured.

“It would be a pleasure. Such a terrible thing to have happened, Lieutenant Colonel.”

Con raised her hand to his lips. “Thank you for your help. You are an angel.”

“Now, now, Con,” Sergei laughingly admonished. “The lady is already taken.”

Con stood and smiled down at his friend. “Have no fear. Your wife has eyes for no one but you, Sergei.”

He walked over to the sideboard to fill up his vodka glass. Three hours in the ambassador’s house, and he was becoming as sentimental and flowery as any Russian.

“Constantine Delinsky?”

He looked up into a face he hadn’t expected ever to see again and went still. “Count Andrei Fedorov?”

His hand was grasped in a hearty grip. “My boy, how good it is to see you. Anna and I often wondered what had become of you during the war.”

“I’m hardly a boy any longer, sir,” Con replied. “Are you living in England now?”

“No, we’re still in France. I retired last year from the diplomatic service, and we have a house in the south of France.”

“And your wife is well?”

The count’s brown eyes darkened. “She is rather frail. But she will be delighted to hear that I have found you again.”

Con couldn’t quite believe he was standing in a London drawing room talking to the man who had been his first male lover. And they were being so civilized. It was truly amazing how time changed things.

His mouth quirked up at the corner. “Should I belatedly apologize for my appalling behavior?”

Andrei laughed. “Hardly. You were a young and passionate man. Anna and I were flattered that you tried to risk everything to run away to France with us.”

Con shrugged. “I was indeed passionate and believed my life would be over if I couldn’t leave with you both.”

“But I heard that you married.”

“After my attempt to escape to France, my family insisted I wed rather quickly. They thought it would force me to settle down. Unfortunately the war intervened and my life has been fairly chaotic ever since.”

When Andrei moved closer, Con inhaled his familiar spicy scent and was momentarily thrust back into the past when he’d been foolish enough to believe he could have anything he wanted.

“Actually, Constantine, I came over to England specifically to see you.”

Con tensed. “For what purpose?”

“I also heard that your wife was missing, presumed dead.”

“That is correct.”

Andrei hesitated and looked around the crowded room. “Perhaps I might visit you in a more private setting.”

“Can you at least tell me if Natasha is alive?”

“I can’t tell you anything until I speak to Anna. I promised her that I would seek you out and then report back to her as to what manner of man you had become. Her health is uncertain, and she rarely leaves the house.”

“I am sorry to hear that she is unwell, but she must know that I am a man of honor.” Con drew himself up to his full height.

Andrei patted his arm. “It is all right, my friend. I will tell her that you are as worthy as we both assumed you would be.”

“All I want, Andrei, is an end to this uncertainty. I don’t wish to cause any unnecessary scandal for Natasha or her family.”

“I shall tell Anna that. I’m sure she will want to see you for herself.”

Con wanted to argue, but he knew Andrei well enough to know that he would get no further. And now, at least, he had two new avenues to explore, whereas before he’d had none.

“Thank you, Andrei.” He handed the older man one of his cards. “Please come and visit me whenever it is convenient for you. I’m looking forward to hearing what you have to say.”

Andrei nodded, and Con realized he had no inclination to return to the artificial gaiety of the party. He made his excuses to the Lievens and headed out into the night. It had started to snow again, and the streets were unnaturally quiet and muffled. In his agitation, he ignored the offer of a hackney cab and struck out on his own.

Eventually he found himself standing outside Haymore House. Would the St. Clares still want to hear about his wife, or were they done with him? Damnation, he needed to share the tale with someone who cared. God, he hoped they still cared.... After a quick prayer, he walked up the stairs to the front door and knocked.