The Brigadier's Daughter (19 page)

‘I missed you.'

‘Hmm.' He gathered her close, and whispered against her temple, ‘I missed you, too.'

Then they both fell asleep, at peace in each other's arms.

 

The discordant bonging of the courtyard clock woke them again at seven o'clock. Reid groaned, and muttered, ‘I'm going to get hold of some artillery and blow that wretched clock to smithereens.'

He made a move to get up, but Sasha pulled him back, her arms around his neck. She urged him closer and pressed her lips to his, parting them, inviting his kiss. He smiled, his hands fondling her hip and her bottom, and then he turned his attention to her mouth and kissed her deeply, but with distraction, aware that he must get up, that he must not give in to temptation. He pulled away, even as she mewed in protest, ‘Don't go!'

‘I must.' He turned to look at her, lying in his bed. ‘You know I must. Come on, get up and we can have breakfast together.'

‘Can't you take the day off?' She looked up at him, her eyes glowing with the promise of seduction.

‘No.' He leaned over then, and hauled her up, despite her protests, swinging her up into his arms, kissing her lips soundly, before setting her on her feet, and playfully slapping her bottom. ‘Get dressed.'

Sasha, relieved and delighted by his mood, her worst fears laid to rest by his kisses and playfulness, hurried away to her room and quickly washed. She dressed in a lace blouse and chocolate-brown linen skirt, brushed out her hair and pinned it up. She was just adding a cameo brooch to her blouse when Reid passed her open door, and stood there as he so often did, on the threshold. Why was he so reluctant to enter her bedroom?
She smiled at him, her eyes searching his face, questions on the tip of her tongue, but she held them back, reluctant to break the magic of these short moments she could spend with him before he would be gone for the day. His answering smile was no different from his usual expression, though what exactly she had hoped for she was not sure. Reid was not the type of man to be spouting poetry on bended knee, but she had hoped for…something, some acknowledgement that their relationship was closer and deeper than it had been before they had made love.

‘Come along.' He took her hand and together they went down the stairs and into the breakfast room.

The servants appeared quickly, efficiently delivering tea and toast, and whilst they were present Sasha was careful about what she said, listening politely as Reid read his newspaper and pointed out some snippets of information about events going on in London, and then he laid aside his paper and asked her casually, ‘Have you written a note to Irena yet? Thanking her for luncheon and…the gifts.'

Sasha almost choked on her tea, and quickly set down her cup in its saucer, glanced at Good as he hovered beside the door, awaiting a tray from the kitchen bearing Reid's bacon and eggs, and asked softly, ‘Whatever do you mean?'

‘Just that it would be politic to send her a note. Do it today, please.'

‘But, Reid—'

‘I thought we might invite her to accompany us to the opera tomorrow evening.'

Sasha lowered her voice as she stared at him. ‘You can't be serious?'

‘Why not?' He avoided looking at her, scraping butter on his toast and munching it with apparent devil-may-care. ‘She's a woman of great influence. We have to be careful to keep her sweet.'

‘Keep her sweet?' Sasha thought her eyes must be about to pop out on stalks, or else the Reid she knew and loved, yes,
loved, must have disappeared in the night and been replaced by this…this lunatic. She took a deep breath, quite sure in her own mind that she wished to have nothing more to do with Irena, and could not imagine for one moment why Reid would want to, having told her only days ago to end all relations with her. ‘Are you feeling quite well this morning, Reid?'

He glanced at her. ‘Why?'

‘Well, you seemed to have changed your tune as far as Irena is concerned. You were quite adamant only a few weeks ago that I should have nothing to do with her, and—' she lowered her voice, leaning towards him ‘—I have to say that you are completely right. Irena is not the lady we think.'

Reid smiled at her, seeing her tension, her outrage, and remembering, too, that scene in the garden, convinced now that something had happened between Sasha and Irena. He laid a reassuring hand over hers, his voice low yet firm. ‘I am sure you are right, but, please, Sasha, just trust me and do as I ask.'

For long moments she stared at him, filled with misgiving, and then she inclined her head and succumbed with dignity. ‘I will write a note this morning and send Harry round with it. Shall we meet her here tomorrow evening, or at the Opera House?'

‘Excellent.' He paused as he finished a last mouthful of scrambled egg. ‘I don't particularly want her here in our home; we'll meet her at the Opera.' He rose then, dabbed his mouth with his napkin, leaned over and kissed her forehead. ‘I will see you later. Oh, and better invite John Hartley and his wife, too, it wouldn't be the done thing for Irena…' He waved his hand. ‘Well, you know, we don't want to be viewed as a
ménage à trois
.'

Sasha watched as he left her side, and listened to his footsteps as he went down the stairs and the front door banged behind him. How very strange, she thought, mulling over their conversation. He wanted to continue fraternising with Irena, but he didn't want her in the house! Sasha shook her head, confused and puzzled,
and then left the breakfast room to go to the study, find pen and paper and write a suitably polite note to Irena, however galling it was to have to do so. She rang for Harry and despatched him with it, and by late afternoon a reply came from Irena, saying that of course she would be delighted to meet them at seven o'clock at the Opera House.

 

The following day Reid was home by five o'clock, in good time to prepare for their evening. They met in the dining room to share a light supper before going out and her heart drummed at the sight of him, so handsome in his black tails and white bow tie. His jaw was scrupulously clean shaven and Sasha breathed in the scent of him, a clean, masculine tang of sandalwood soap and a subtle aftershave, and that elusive essence she could only describe as eau-de-Reid.

He drew her to him, raising her hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to the back of her gloved hand. ‘You look lovely.'

‘Thank you.'

Sasha glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She wore one of Georgia's creations, an ivory and coral-pink off-the-shoulder gown, with clusters of tiny rosettes on each shoulder. Her dark hair was coiled up on her head and fastened with matching pink rosebuds. She had done her best, but, as she feared, when they met with Irena in the foyer of the Bolshoi Theatre, her cousin was quite stunning and drew many a glance. Irena wore a dark red velvet gown adorned with jet beads, her luxuriant hair swept into ringlets, her pale marble skin and voluptuous figure perfectly accentuated by the rich red velvet and
haute couture
design of her gown.

 

Throughout the evening Sasha sat next to Mrs Emily Hartley, a quiet, middle-age woman with greying hair who was quite painfully shy and had little to say for herself. Irena sat between Reid and John Hartley, seated to Sasha's left. It was an awkward party, she thought, with three women and two men, and Sasha
was somewhat surprised that Irena had not brought a gentleman along as her escort. She tried not to pay too much attention to Irena, as she chatted with Reid. It was nothing, just a social occasion. She concentrated on the programme, on listening to the music, on smiling gently at Emily as she bent her head to try to catch her occasional murmur.

The magnificent Bolshoi was full, tiers of ornate boxes forming a curve around the stage, and it was also very hot, with ladies fanning themselves and sipping on glasses of iced pink champagne. Once the music began and the lights dimmed, Sasha glanced over to Reid and tried to catch his eye, but he seemed busy showing Irena how to use his opera glasses, leaning towards her, his arm as he held out the glasses almost touching her bosom. Sasha felt a wave of acute anger and jealousy surge through her, but resisted the urge to leap across the intervening space and haul Irena away from him. The music began, an opera entitled
Vakula the Smith
by a composer named Tchaikovsky. Sasha was not greatly familiar with his work, and it was somewhat dreary, but she sat with a smile politely fixed upon her lips and her eyes fastened upon the stage. It was a very long evening, and by its end she had the beginnings of a thumping headache. Irena invited them all to return home with her for nightcaps, but John Hartley, after one meaningful glance from his wife, declined, and Sasha, too, cried off, rubbing her temples delicately with gloved fingers.

Irena placed her arm around Sasha's waist, an intimate gesture. ‘My poor little one, another time perhaps.' She laughed, a low, sultry sound as she glanced at Reid. ‘Thank you for the evening, Major Bowen, you will of course let me return the kindness. I am having a little musical soirée on Wednesday evening. Please do attend.'

‘We'd be delighted,' Reid replied, offering his arm as he escorted Irena to her carriage.

Sasha waited in the foyer with Mr and Mrs Hartley, and then bade them farewell as Reid returned and they went to their own
waiting carriage, borrowed from the Embassy for the evening. Reid handed her up the steps and she sat down in the middle of one seat, spreading out her skirts, cloak and reticule, forcing him to take a place on the bench opposite. She sat silent and rigid as the carriage pulled away and rattled over the cobblestones homewards, her gaze turned towards the window of the carriage, although of course she could see little of the dark streets as they rumbled along.

Reid pinched his forehead with thumb and middle finger, as though he, too, had a headache, and then glanced at her, noticing her silence. ‘Sasha?'

‘Hmm?' Still she did not look at him.

‘Are you all right?'

‘Yes, thank you.'

He glanced at her profile and pursed lips, at her fingers clenched in her lap. ‘You don't look it. Are you angry?'

‘Yes.'

‘Why?'

‘Need you ask?'

‘Well,' he said with a frustrated shrug of his shoulders, ‘if I knew I wouldn't ask!'

‘If you don't know, then I shan't say—'

‘Sasha!'

She drew in a breath and said coldly, ‘I'd rather not talk about it.'

‘But…' He sighed then, and leaned forwards, hands dangling between his knees. ‘Is it because of Irena?'

She was silent.

‘Sasha?'

‘Well, for a married man you were rather friendly.'

He laughed. ‘Was I? Are married men not allowed to speak to women except their own wives?'

‘You weren't just speaking to her, you were practically undressing her with your eyes and getting far too close.'

‘Nonsense! It was the opera, in full public view.'

‘You almost had your arm on her bosom.'

‘When?'

‘When you were showing her the opera glasses!'

‘Ah. She did move rather closer than necessary, or expected.'

She glanced at him then. ‘Reid…'

‘Hmm?'

Sasha shook her head and then turned her face away. ‘Nothing.'

‘What? Tell me.' For some reason, into his mind flashed a replay of the scene he had witnessed from the upstairs window of the Sletovskaya Palace, of Irena and Sasha in the garden, and he added more gently, ‘Please, tell me.'

She looked at him again, her lips and breath drawn pensively, in her mind a memory of exactly the same scene. ‘Well…'

‘Yes?'

‘I think, well, I think Irena…wants you.'

‘Indeed?' He could see the uncertainty and fear in her eyes, and reached out to draw one of her hands into his warm clasp, his voice very soft as he reassured her. ‘As you pointed out, I am a married man, and you have nothing to be concerned about.'

‘But that's just it, Reid, you're not a married man. You can do whatever pleases you.'

‘It would not please me to—' he searched for polite words to use in front of a lady, in front of Sasha ‘—to be seduced by Countess Irena.'

‘Why not? She is very beautiful.'

‘No, she is not. On the outside maybe she has a certain structural perfection, but on the inside she has no beauty whatsoever.'

‘You sound like you're assessing a building!'

He smiled, removing her glove and feeling the need to stroke his thumb over the soft, smooth skin of her palm. The gesture sent shivers through her body and their eyes melded together in a long look. ‘Then if Irena's a building, she's a—' He thought for a moment or two and then said, ‘She would be Newgate gaol, full of dirty, nasty things.'

Sasha shook her head and smiled at his silliness, her fingers flexing in his hand, her skin flaring with delight at his touch. ‘And what sort of building would I be?'

‘Hmm.' He leaned his head to one side, considering. ‘You, my darling Sasha, you would be…the Taj Mahal.'

Sasha had no intention of relenting quite so easily, but she smiled, and was about to make a retort when the carriage suddenly lurched and she was almost thrown from her seat. The vehicle had been slowing as it turned a corner, now suddenly they came to a halt and she gave a small cry of alarm at the sound of the horses neighing and stamping, raucous voices shouting and strange thumping noises against the sides of the carriage. Amidst a sudden crack and smash of glass the shuttered window broke, scattering small shards of glass and broken slats of wood on the floor between them. Her gaze flew to Reid's in alarm, as he drew a small pistol from his pocket. They both stared at the shapeless forms crowding about the door, and the handle as someone on the outside tried to wrench it open. Reid reached out to try to hold on to the handle, but he was overpowered, the door flung open and several dark, bearded faces, capped with rough shakos, eyes wild and dark, crowded into the narrow aperture. Sasha yelped and drew back as rough hands reached blindly inwards, yet the only objects thrown at them were small square sheets of paper.