Splendor (37 page)

"Oh, but you must tell us the details," Marie-Elena said. "How upset you must be. Are you hurt?"

"That is enough," Nicholas said flatly, furious. "If you cannot muster up any genuine compassion for Miss Browne, perhaps you should leave us."

Marie-Elena's eyes widened. "But I do feel terrible about Miss Browne's accident. And I only came to ask if it was true. The rumor is all over the city. I've also heard that the treaty was signed this afternoon. Is it true, Niki?" Marie-Elena asked.

For one moment, Nicholas met Carolyn's eyes. What if she did not return to Russia with them? He realized that he would miss her terribly. And that his interest in her returning with his household had become personal, not professional.

"Niki?" Anger was in her tone as she jerked on his arm. "It is true. That is why you were gone the entire day. Isn't it?"

He tore his gaze from Carolyn. "Yes. It is true. I signed in lieu of the tsar, and the prince regent also signed. Our countries are no longer at war."

"That is wonderful," Marie-Elena cried. She smiled at Carolyn. "Isn't that wonderful? Now we can go home together, Niki." Her eyes glittered. "When do we leave?" she asked Nicholas.

He hesitated, his gaze locking with Carolyn's. He did not look at Marie-Elena. "As soon as possible."

She laughed, looking from Carolyn to Nicholas and back again. She touched her heart theatrically. ' 'This is wonderful. I cannot wait. I have missed my homeland so." She was smiling.

Carolyn had remained motionless. But she looked at him, blinking furiously, the tip of her nose turning red. And she turned, rushing from the room.

"Carolyn!" he cried.

Marie-Elena took his arm. "Let her go. Just let her go. She is not for you, Niki, and you know it."

Nicholas met her gaze and did not reply.

"Signor Raffaldi, please take a seat." Nicholas regarded the Italian through shrewd eyes. Raffaldi was as pale beneath his natural olive coloring as he had been in the kitchen a few minutes ago.

The tutor did as he was asked, sitting stiffly, his gaze upon Nicholas.

"I am very concerned about what happened this afternoon," Nicholas said, standing in front of his desk.

"I am so sorry. Your Excellency, and I swear we shall never allow any bandits to ever come so near the princess again!"

Nicholas sighed. "Neither you nor Miss Browne could help the fact that a cutpurse singled your group out as a target for himself. That is not what I am concerned about. I want to know exactly what happened this afternoon. Miss Browne is not being cooperative."

Raffaldi nodded, leaning forward eagerly. "She was robbed by a boy, perhaps one thirteen years old."

"And?"

Raffaldi shook his head. "It was terrible. Excellency.

The cutpurse ran away, but a man was standing behind her, clad as a gentleman, although he was hardly that! 1 thought he was moving to help her, as the cutpurse had knocked her to her knees. Instead, Excellency, he pushed Miss Browne from behind, not only into the street, but right.into the path of an oncoming dray."

Nicholas stared. "He pushed her? Not the cutpurse?"

"No, Excellency. It was the gentleman."

"Surely he bumped into her accidentally," Nicholas said.

"It was not an accident. I saw the entire incident!" Raf-faldi cried.

Nicholas thought that he could feel the blood draining from his face. But who would push Carolyn into the street—and into the path of an oncoming dray? Had the intent been to cause an accident—or worse?

What immediately went through his mind was that her father was involved in espionage and treason, and that through Carolyn, he could be manipulated. But he also could not help suspecting his wife. She was thoughtless and spoiled and terribly vain, and she sensed how involved he was becoming. Could she go so far?

He did not think it likely. But he did not think it a possibility he could dismiss.

And if he ever found out it was Marie-Elena, he would exile her to Siberia.

"Thank God she is not hurt. Or dead," the tutor said dramatically.

"Yes. Thank God," Nicholas said.

Carolyn lay on her bed, in her cotton nightgown and robe, unable to sleep. She had finally given in to the urge to cry. She felt crushed, devastated. The treaty had been signed and Sverayov was going to leave as soon as was possible. He would return to Russia, and she would never see him again.

Unless she went with him.

She closed her eyes, one arm flung over her forehead.

imagining a battlefield filled with soldiers and horses, muskets firing, sabers rattling, cannons booming, smoke mushrooming in the air. He would rejoin his command, she had not a doubt. What if he were killed?

She hugged her pillow. She was so very tempted to go with him, and she was not thinking now of Katya's needs. She had fallen in love, and while Nicholas was, superficially, the antithesis of all she believed in, a man who represented a class system founded on privilege not merit, on autocracy not democracy, in truth, he was no jaded, self-centered aristocrat. He was a caring father, a powerful leader, a nobleman and a patriot. He was even a gentleman, for God's sake, he had proven that time and again since they had met. He was a man motivated by honor and by duty. How could she not love him?

But he was going home, and he was married. Carolyn wiped her eyes. She would be insane to remm to Russia with him and his household. Insane. For being Katya's companion—and being around him this way—was actually hurtful. No, she must be strong. She would spend whatever time she had left with Katya, and then she would return to Browne's Books, Old and New, and she would forget that Nicholas Ivanovitch Sverayov even existed.

Her bedchamber was dark. The candle had burned out hours ago. Carolyn did not care. She kept recalling the way he had been looking at her while his wife rattled on about their returning home. Carolyn did not think it was her imagination, but he had not been happy, either. He had seemed very grim.

If only they could talk about it.

Carolyn sat up, hugging her knees now. But that would be a mistake. For she imagined that he was downstairs at this hour in the library, brooding and alone. And Marie-Elena had gone out for the evening.

Carolyn tried to imagine his departure—and the days and weeks and months that would ensue. She would never see him again—she would be heartbroken. But did they not say that time healed all wounds? Even a broken heart?

But he was waiting for her reply. She had not told him that she could not go to Russia with him. Carolyn slipped from the bed, retying her wrapper very firmly. Her heart was wedged in her throat and she was grim. The damnable truth was, she wanted to go with him, she did.

She left her bedroom. The hall was unlit, black with shadow. Attempting to be soundless, she tiptoed to the stairs. And as she went down them, each step seemed to creak with deafening loudness.

The library door was open. Carolyn saw that the fire was blazing in the hearth. She swallowed, moving closer to the open doorway—close enough to peer around the corner and gaze into the room. Her heart slammed to a halt.

Sverayov lay on the sofa, but he was not asleep. He was staring, morosely, she thought, into the dancing flames of the fire.

She summoned up all of her courage. "Nicholas."

He started, sliding his legs immediately over the sofa's edge, standing. Their gazes locked.

"I know it is late, but I was hoping to speak to you,-*' she said nervously.

"You have been reading my mind," he said harshly. "For I have been willing you to come downstairs."

She stared: These were not the kind of words she wanted to hear—it would make what she had to say so much more difficult.

He moved toward her and shut the door firmly behind her. "Carolyn." His face was taut. "I am sorry about Marie-Elena's behavior this afternoon, and even sorrier that you had to learn about the treaty the way that you did."

"I was shocked," she admitted, trembling.

"I know you were," he said simply.

"When do you think you will be leaving?"

His gaze moved over her face. "I hope within a week. Davout has taken Minsk. I must rejoin Barclay, who guards the road to Moscow. It is my duty. There is no choice."

Carolyn tried to control her trembling. "Within a week," Carolyn echoed.

"Are you coming with us?"

Carolyn hesitated. "I cannot."

His eyes were intense. "I want you to come with us."

She closed her eyes, her heart hammering. When she opened them, she tried to choose her words with care— hoping he would not try to exercise his powers of persuasion on her. "My life is here. My father is here."

His nostrils flared. The firelight played off one side of his face, highlighting his Slavic cheekbones. "Katya needs you. You could try the position—say, for six months. And if you are unhappy, then I shall not try to convince you to stay."

She was tempted. Terribly so. And a part of her wanted him to acknowledge the real problem, their desire for one another—their feelings for one another—and the fact of his wife. "No." '

But he said, harshly, "It will not be dangerous. I would never put you in any danger. I will leave my household in St. Petersburg. It will be completely safe. If it becomes apparent that Napoleon will march on the north instead of Moscow, there will be plenty of time for everyone to be evacuated. I would not allow Katya—^or you—to be jeopardized." His eyes were fierce.

Carolyn stared. "No."

His golden eyes were piercing. "You are resolved."

Suddenly tears filled her eyes. She nodded.

"I cannot bear your tears," he whispered, and his hand was cupping the back of her neck, beneath the curling tendrils of her hair. "Do not cry. Why are you crying?"

"I am crying because I am a fool," she whispered.

"There is nothing foolish about you, Carolyn," he said. "Then this is good-bye." But he spoke as if it were a question.

She nodded again, incapable of speech. And it would be a final parting—within a week. How her heart hurt her now.

He stared as if undecided. And his eyes blazed. Before Carolyn could blink or protest, he pulled her forward. Carolyn found herself in his arms, and then his mouth was on

hers, and all resolutions and protestations died. Their mouths locked. Carolyn pressed against him, open for him, clinging, praying he would not die when he went to war, praying he would one day return, and praying she might forget him—while praying that she never would.

He tore his mouth from hers. "I am not good at games," he said. "I want you, Carolyn."

"I want you, too," she whispered, her palms flat on his chest.

He lifted her in his arms, carrying her to the rug in front of the fire. He laid her down on her back, one hand on each side of her shoulders. Carolyn was faint with the immensity of the feelings exploding from within. She had never dreamed that love and desire, blended together, could be so potent, so powerful, so overwhelming, so terrifying—so real. She felt more tears. She had this moment, this one single moment to love him and be loved by him, and she knew that it was going to be over and that it would never happen again. There was no way she could deny herself.

For one more moment, they looked into each other's eyes, and Carolyn felt as if she were being stripped bare to her very soul. And then he bent his head and kissed her.

He kissed her deeply. She reached up and found his hard, broad shoulders, aching to explore him. While he kissed her, she slid her palms down his arms, which were taut and bulging with muscle. She touched his flat, concave abdomen.

His mouth moved over her face, down her throat. Carolyn gripped his wrists, eyes closed, aching to be joined with him—never had she wanted anything more. He covered one of her breasts with his hand. The thin cotton of her nightclothes might as well have been nonexistent. Carolyn inhaled. "I think I might die from pleasure," she whispered impulsively.

"Many times, I hope, before the night is through," he whispered back. 'T will try very hard not to hurt you," he said. He slipped her nightgown down to her waist and caressed her breasts, his palms brushing over her nipples.

Carolyn gasped, unable to reply. And then his mouth was on hers again, hungrily, his hands on her breasts, then delving between her legs. Carolyn tensed briefly, shocked, as he stroked the folds there, generating a wet heat that left her dizzy, clinging, and breathless.

Carolyn cried out. She stroked his hair and back while he kissed her neck and throat. She managed to slide her hands into his shirt, across his chest and down his hard, flat belly. She felt him tense. How she needed him. How she wanted to explore every single inch of him.

He rose up over her, eyes hot, straddling her and ripping off his shirt. Carolyn was mesmerized, hardly able to breathe. Her gaze took in every inch of his broad, muscular shoulders, the hard slabs of his chest, the bulge of his biceps, and the flat planes of his abdomen. Tawny hair swirled just above the narrow waistband of his dove-gray pants. Her eyes froze. There was no mistaking the long, hard line pressing up against his wool trousers.

"I am very excited," he said, watching her.

Her gaze flew to his. "You are beautiful."

He smiled shghtly. "As are you, dushka." He bent and tongued one of her nipples very languidly, a shocking contrast to the way he had just been kissing her. Carolyn closed her eyes, heard herself groan helplessly.

He stood.

Carolyn's eyes flew open but she did not move. His hands were on the flap of his trousers, his long, nimble fingers unbuttoning it. Her mouth became dry. She stared, watching the fabric covering his groin parting into a vee. His manhood was visible, bursting the wool seams.

Carolyn had never felt more exquisite, more desirable, or more feminine than she did in that moment.

He slid his trousers down his long, muscular legs and kicked them aside.

Carolyn looked up. He towered over her. Allowing her, she thought, to satisfy her curiosity—but it was far more than that.

He knelt over her, unsmiling, his expression strained. She

tensed as his hands sHd over her, pulling the wrapper from her body. Her heart hammered now with lightning speed. She clenched her fists as he slowly drew the cotton nightgown up over her head, tossing it aside.