Splendor (23 page)

Sverayov was standing, everyone was standing, the crowd was roaring. Carolyn felt her heart pounding and she, too, was on her feet. "Go!" she couldn't help crying.

Nose and nose, gray and bay, the two horses battled down the final turn and mto the stretch, coming back toward the stands. And then the bay's dark nose was ahead. He was ahead. By a neck, a length, two lengths. And Topper flashed under the finish wire, followed by the gray, the crowd going wild.

Carolyn covered her racing heart with her hand, and re-

alized Sverayov was staring. "That was incredible," she said. "How did you know that he would win?"

He continued to stare, smiling slightly, not answering her. And then he threw his arm around her shoulders and pulled her tight and hard against him. For one moment, Carolyn forgot that she was supposed to be Brighton and thought he was going to kiss her. But he only embraced her.

And when he released her, leaving her breathless, her pulse pounding, desire rising like fire in her body, he said, "Because I bred Topper."

The country inn was halfway to London from Newmarket. Carolyn had not minded when Sverayov had insisted they stop for supper—and it was suppertime. She was barely hungry, but she was in no rush to end their outing. He had insisted on a private dining room. And he was still calling her Charles.

Carolyn had taken a seat at the table, watching a fire dancing in the brick hearth, while Sverayov ordered them a meal that the two of them could not possibly finish. He also ordered them two bottles of French red wine, which caused Carolyn's brows to lift questioningly. The proprietor was waiting on them himself—no one could mistake Sver-ayov's coach for anything other than what it was, a vehicle belonging to a very prominent, powerful, and wealthy nobleman, and Carolyn had overheard one of Sverayov's servants, a slim man with an accent that was suspiciously French, whispering to the proprietor's wife. Undoubtedly he had been informing the inn's owners just who was dining at their establishment that night.

A serving maid was lighting the table's candles, her eyes continually drifting toward the Russian. He sprawled indolently in his chair, staring at Carolyn. He appeared relaxed in a way that Carolyn had never really seen him be before—but then, she had never been alone with him like this before, either. He also appeared quite satisfied, for he had won several thousand pounds that day at the track.

Clearly, he was no amateur when it came to gambling. Carolyn had been encouraged to place a few bets herself, which she had done, rather reluctantly. She had no money to lose.

But she had also won—fifty pounds. Of course, she had followed Sverayov's suggestions when placing her wagers.

"Shall I pour the wine. Your Highness?" the proprietor asked.

"Please," Sverayov said with a slight inclination of his golden head.

Carolyn watched first Sverayov's and then her own goblet bemg filled. The balding innkeeper left, shutting the door behind him. Sverayov lifted his glass. "To an entertaining afternoon."

Carolyn raised her own wine glass. "To my fifty pounds—and your several thousand."

He chuckled warmly and sipped his wine.

Carolyn felt absurdly pleased that she had made him laugh, and she also took a generous sip. "This is wonderful," she said, setting her glass down.

"We are drinking Burgundy," he announced. "I prefer Bordeaux, but in this time of war, one cannot have everything."

Carolyn drank again. "May I ask how we came to have a French wine, Sverayov? This is in direct violation of the Orders in Council."

He laughed, amused. "Do you think Englishmen will stop drinking fine wines just because of a governmental decree? Have Englishwomen stopped wearing French fashions?"

"We are aiding smugglers," Carolyn said glumly. "And putting our pounds into Napoleon's coffers."

"Someone always gets rich during wars, Charles." His eyes gleamed. "And do not fear. There are British goods in France and all of the countries Napoleon controls."

She felt her insides warming considerably. Her false name had rolled off his tongue like thick, molten honey. Sverayov, she decided, was inherently sensual, and did not mean to provoke the disturbing thoughts and sensations in

her which he did. "You are very quiet," he said suddenly. "A tuppence for your thoughts."

She met his smoldering gaze. "I was recalling how enjoyable this day was for me, as well."

"Let us toast our new friendship." He raised his glass, waiting for Carolyn to imitate him, which she did. ' 'To fine friends," he said softly.

Carolyn echoed him. "To fine friends." Her pulse was racing now as she quickly drank. The wine was making her light-headed, and she knew she should be cautious, but the effect was wonderful. She was used to wine in any case, for she and her father often shared a bottle with their supper. But indulging with George was one thing, with Sver-ayov, another. Carolyn had the uncarmy feeling that she was courting danger. But she had no urge to stop herself.

Carolyn smiled widely at him.

He was startled, and his glance pierced hers. Abruptly he stood, shrugging off his dark blue tailcoat and loosening his paisley cravat. His fitted brocade waistcoat left little to Carolyn's imagination, nor did his perfectly tailored trousers. Then he stepped around the table. Carolyn's heart rate increased as he paused beside her, his thigh brushing against her arm. But he only reached for the bottle and filled her wine glass before returning to his chair.

"Have you read anything interesting lately, Charles?" Sverayov drawled as Carolyn was reaching for her glass.

She had sensed that this was coming all day. Carolyn froze, but only for an instant, then she quaffed half of her wine. "I happen to enjoy reading. I am rereading some of Burke's better works."

' 'Burke?'' His brows slashed upward. ' 'I grant that I do not know you well, but oddly enough, I am surprised to find you reading Edmund Burke when he is so conservative."

"I read from a wide range of authors." Carolyn reached for her wine again. "You are familiar with Burke?"

"Of course. I also read avidly." He sipped, peering at

her from over the rim of the goblet. "Did you not tell me the other day that you enjoy the TimesT'

She swallowed. "I believe I said I liked to know what the opposition is thinking."

"Ahh, yes. So you prefer a liberal journal like the Chronicled His smile was wide.

Carolyn felt like a mouse being pawed by a big lazy golden cat. "Sometimes."

"I wonder why, recently, my name comes up so frequently in that Copperville column." He stared.

Carolyn forced a smile, clutching her wine glass. "You are the kind of man to attract attention and speculation."

He laughed. "I am flattered that you think so." His gaze slid over her face.

Carolyn forgot to breathe. She was not imagining the smoke in his eyes. His thoughts were as illicit as hers. He knew. But why did he not say something? Surely he did not, also, like boys!

"I have enjoyed Copperville for the most part. In spite of his naivete. Until recently, that is. And you?" Sverayov asked.

She was frozen. "You think him naive?" She was not going to answer that damning question.

"Don't you? Or perhaps you agree with his fervent idealism. After all, you must be of the same age." He smiled.

"I have no idea if we are the same age. Why is he naive?"

"He wishes to reform society, does he not?"

"He appears intent upon exposing its flaws and excesses," Carolyn said carefully.

"But that implies that society could be golden, without flaws, without excess. He wishes to reform society, in favor of the working man."

She inhaled. "And what is so very wrong with that?"

"Do you approve of the anarchy we have seen in the past two decades in France? Do you approve of mobs stabbing peers to death—merely because they do not have calluses on their hands? Of noble children being torn apart

only because of their blue blood?" He stared.

"Of course not. But the anarchy that occurred in France was the result of a revolution—not of reform."

*'It began as reform."

"So you defend the stams quo. Tell me, Sverayov, how many serfs are tied to your lands?" She also stared.

"Ahh, I was wondering when the attack upon society would turn personal—against myself." He lifted his glass and saluted her. "Hundreds are bonded to my lands. Thousands."

"Are they starving? Do they die at the age of twenty-five?" Carolyn could not help herself. She had to know.

"My people are well fed, their homes have solid roofs and floors, and I would hazard to say that the average life expectancy is about fifty years of age." His eyes had become distinctly cool.

"I apologize," Carolyn said, "for being so rude to you when I invited you to the races today as my guest."

"But you still despise the institutions of my country— when you have never even been there."

She inhaled. "I despise the fact that your class attends balls in the midst of winter, while the serfs freeze in their wretched jhuts. I also despise the fact that here the peerage carries on with complete indifference to the suffering of conmiorters. Do you know that most of these people couldn't care less about the war? Couldn't care less if it never ends?"

' 'That is because most of the upper class here in Britain are wealthy enough not to feel the war's effects. You expect too much from mankind, my friend."

"Without expectation, there cannot be achievement. Without dreams, there is no hope."

Sverayov laughed softly. "You are a hopeless romantic, Charles."

"And proud of it."

"I imagine Copperville feels exactly the same way." Their gazes met.

She hesitated. "Why don't you just come out and say what is on your mind?"

Sverayov slowly smiled at her. "And what," he said, "do you think it is that I wish to say?"

Carolyn tensed. A confession was on the tip of her tongue. But at that moment the door to their dining room opened, and two servants entered carrying platters of food, followed by the balding proprietor. Sverayov met her regard, with a bigger grin.

"Ahh, Your Highness, we have a feast here fit for a king—or should I say a prince?" The innkeeper beamed as the platters were set down and uncovered. He reached for the wine bottle, emptying it into Sverayov's glass. Carolyn looked at it, then at the remaining bottle, and thought, one down, one to go. She glanced up, caught Sverayov staring with his intense eyes, and felt her heart turn over.

"Oh, dear," Carolyn said, and she heard herself giggle. In the process of standing up, she had somehow lost her balance and crashed her hip into the table.

Sverayov was at her side, smiling benevolently down at her, his eyes gleaming. His arm locked itself firmly around her waist. "Disguised, Charles?" he purred.

Carolyn blinked up at his handsome face. ' T have somehow had too much to drink." She was pleased, though, because her words did not sound slurred.

He continued to hold her upright—and pressed tightly against his strong, warm side. "You have only drunk the equivalent of a botde of wine, and of course, the two glasses of port you consumed afterward." He smiled, like a well-fed lion. Or one about to become well fed, Carolyn managed to think.

"I am afraid it all went right to my head," Carolyn apologized.

"You have the constitution of a woman," he remarked, steering her to the door. One tawny brow lifted. "No slur intended."

Carolyn gazed up at him, enjoying the sight of every

feature of his spectacular face, thinking, but I am a woman. But no, that was not right, he was calling her Charles. Had she told him she was Brighton? Copperville? Blast, but she could not remember.

"Having trouble talking?" he asked, guiding her through the public rooms.

"O' course not." She was indignant. '*I was just thinking. Actually, I was trying to remember something."

'*May I be of service?" he drawled, pausing on the threshold of the front room of the inn.

"Yon do have a way with words, Sve-Sve-Sverayov," she said. His name came out scrambled on her tongue.

"My close friends," he said softly, watching her closely, "call me Niki."

She liked the way he rolled the common nickname off his golden tongue, making it sound exotic and frankly sexual. "Niki," she tried. "I see your coach."

"It is rather hard to miss," he intoned as the six blacks were driven around to the front of the inn. "Shall we?" His grip tightened on her waist.

Carolyn leaned into him with a sigh. How she liked his body. How she wished to touch him as boldly as that beau-tifiil prostimte had. She tried to remember the raven-haired woman's name.

"Charles?" Sverayov's low tone intruded on her thoughts.

"Victoria," she said, pleased that she had remembered after all.

His eyes widened. ' 'Do you wish to pay another visit to her? Tonight? Are you, perhaps, feeling randy, my fine young friend?"

She stiffened because his words were so very explicit, the kind of comment neither she nor any woman would ever be the recipient of. But, by God, even though she was a woman, she was feeling extremely passionate. "I..." She paused. Too well, she recalled Sverayov's passionate kiss.

He smiled, his eyes trained upon her face. "Your spec-

tacles," he said softly, ''are steaming. Are you, perhaps, warm?" He removed them before she could protest.

"Yes." In fact, she was spectacularly hot, and the front room must be what the tropics, which she had only read about, were like.

He pocketed her spectacles and propelled her through the front door. "I don't think you need these," he said. "Are we paying the lovely Victoria a visit? Perhaps you are brave enough to make love for the first time?"

Carolyn felt numb. He could not mean what it felt like he meant, what it sounded like he meant. He knew, did he not, the truth? But she did feel brave enough to make love for the first time—with him. She closed her eyes, knowing she was far more inebriated than she had thought—or than she had ever been in her life. She managed to recall that he had a wife. A very beautiful wife. A wife from whom he was estranged.