The Counterfeit Count (18 page)

She held her breath as she peeled back the tissue. Her eyes grew wide when she saw the pink silk decorated with the most delicate lace she had ever seen. Cautiously, she reached out to lift a silk chemise from the box. It had been years since she had touched anything so soft.

“Oh,
krásiv
!” she whispered.

“Is that good or bad?”

She whirled and stared at Creighton. He closed the door as quietly as he must have opened it. With a smile, he looked at the silk she held in front of her.

Her face was warm when she turned to drop the pink chemise back into the box. Fearing her cheeks were the same color as the silk, she took a deep breath before she answered. “
Krásiv
means beautiful.”

“I agree.” He crossed the floor to stand behind her. Reaching over her shoulder, he fingered the silk. He lifted the chemise from the box and ran it along her cheek. Her protest evaporated into the heat surging through her as he whispered, “
Krásiv
, indeed. This color right here is absolutely charming, Natalya.”

“You should not be here. Petr will—”

“I thought you gave him orders, not the other way about.”

She took the undergarment from him and put it back in the box, closing and latching the lid. “You should know that a good officer always depends on the counsel of his men.”

“Or
her
men.”

“That is an irrelevant comment.”

When she edged away, he chuckled. “Then let me speak of much more relevant matters. Do you like my gift?”

“For whom?”

“For you.”

“You had these made for me?”

He sat on the chaise longue and chuckled. “Who else would think of buying such a gift for Count Dmitrieff?”

“Someone with an aberrant imagination, such as one of your friends.”

“Not even Barclay has an imagination that bizarre.” He caught her hand, pulling her down beside him. “Will you wear these smallclothes which are more suitable for a lady than whatever the Russian army issued you?”

“I … I don't know.”

“You can, you know.” He loosened the button on her high collar. “No one, save you and me, will know that, beneath your austere uniform, you are wearing luscious silk.”

“Creighton, you shouldn't.” She put her hand over his, but he reached for the next button among the braid.

“You are probably right, but I want to, Natalya.” His fingers splayed across the collar of her coat. Even through the thick wool, the heat of his fingers scorched her.

With a gasp, she drew back. “I think you should leave.” Standing, she motioned toward the box. “And take that with you.”

“I do not take back gifts.”

“Then I
give
it to you.”

“Natalya—”

She folded her arms and clenched hands in front of her. “Why is this so important to you?” Her eyes narrowed. “Did you tell the seamstress that these clothes were a gift for me?”

“Your secret did not pass my lips at the
modiste's
shop.” He reopened the box and spread aside the tissue. “This is for you, Natalya. You may choose to wear it or give it away to anyone you wish or simply throw it away. I do not attach any expectations to any gift I give.”

She touched the knife she wore at her side. “You have already given me a gift.”

“And I saw the disappointment in your eyes.” He put his hands on her shoulders, but did not try to bring her near. “Just as I saw it when I bought that silly fan for Tatiana. When are you going to accept the truth, Natalya?”

“Which truth?”

“That you can pretend to be a man and that you can persuade the world and its brother that you are a man, but the truth is that deep within you beats a woman's heart.” Again he ran a finger along her open collar without touching her. “A woman's heart with a woman's desires and needs.” Picking up the chemise, he folded it into her hands. “You are what you are, Natalya. 'Tis nothing to be ashamed of, for you have done what many men could not and what few woman would dare to try.”

Natalya had no answer as he patted her cheek as he would a child. He bid her a good afternoon. When she heard him repeat those words as he opened the door, she looked over her shoulder to see Petr standing in the doorway.

“I came as soon as I heard he was within the house, Kapitán,” he said, glaring back at the door.

“I know.”

“What is that?”

Shoving the garment back into the box, she said, “A most mistaken thing from Lord Ashcroft. A gift I have no use for.” She shut the lid.

Petr's face darkened in a frown as he touched the piece of silk caught in the top. “A gift such as this will raise your father from his grave to thrash that
anglíski
lord.”

“It is nothing.” She picked up the box and dropped it on the windowseat. “I told him I do not want it. I shall find someone in the household who would like to have the garments.”

He shook his head. “I do not like this, Kapitán. For him to give you such things, for him to think of you as a woman, is
opásny
.”

“Yes,” she whispered as she sat beside the box and ran her fingers along the top. She looked again out the window at the pleasant scene, but an icy shiver cut along her shoulders. So easily again she had been tempted to succumb to the rapture of Creighton's touch. “You are right, Petr. It is very dangerous.”

Sixteen

“Will I find this less dreary than the last gathering for the Russians that I attended?” Barclay grumbled as he entered the foyer of the well-lit house. He handed his cape to a footman and stepped aside as Natalya offered her fur-edged hat to the same wide-eyed man.

She looked around and smiled. Her appreciation of elegant design had been honed during this short visit to London. Noting the round window at the turn of the stairs and the glistening stained-glass lily set in its center, she added such a window to her mental list of what she wanted in the dacha she would raise on her father's estate.

“I do so despise boring soirées,” continued Barclay.

“I have no idea what this will be like.” She hoped he did not intend to be so peevish all evening.

“Surely, Demi,” Creighton said as he shrugged off his cloak and set it on another footman's arms, “you have attended many such evenings both before you joined the army and after.”

She quickly looked away. She did not want to admire the sleek line of his silver waistcoat and how his black coat and white breeches called forth the memory of his arms around her and his chest pressed to her. Walking toward the curving stairs, she said, “I lived in the country most of my youth, and I was very young when I received my commission. Even during the rare moments when we were not concentrating on preparing for battle or recovering from our most recent confrontation with the French, I preferred the company of Petr and the other men.”

“I can understand that,” Creighton replied, motioning for Barclay to lead the way up the stairs. “Many a night I preferred the campfire where my men sat to the comfort of my colonel's tent.”

She started to smile, then forced her lips to straighten. She could not allow Creighton to persuade her to let down her guard against him. There had been no excuse that would have allowed her to have Petr join them here. Although her sergeant waited outside with the carriage, she must depend on herself within the house. No whispers from her heart could be allowed to overrule her good sense.

Creighton glanced at her when she did not reply, but she made sure she was busy admiring the friezes sculpted with cherubs and roses along the edge of the ceiling. As she walked between the two men through the broad expanse of the door into the room where the gathering was being held, she did not have to pretend to be caught by the beauty. Bronze silk covered three walls and shimmered in the light of the pair of chandeliers set in the center of the high ceiling. The fourth wall was a fantasy mural where mythical creatures wandered in a perfect garden.

“Quite the thing, isn't it?” Creighton asked lowly.

“What?”

“The painting.” He put his hand on her shoulder and steered her toward the wall. “The present Lord Lynville's mother was a bit dicked in the nob.”

“What?” she repeated.

“Insane.”

“Oh.” She peered more closely at the artwork. “I suppose if one must be deranged, this is a wondrous result.”

“So fanciful, Demi? That isn't like you.”

Standing straighter, she locked her hands behind her. “You sound so sure for someone who knows so little of me.”

“But who would like to learn more.”

She was saved from answering by the call of her name in a deep, familiar voice. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Excuse me. General Miloradovich wishes to speak to me.” She chuckled. “And I would guess, by how quickly she is fluttering her fan, Miss Suvorov wishes your company.”

Natalya did not give him a chance to retort. Crossing the room, she nodded toward the general's niece, who was dressed in a confection of pale blue. Natalya doubted if Tatiana Suvorov had worn the same dress twice since her arrival in London.

General Miloradovich raised a quizzing glass to his face and smiled. “Ah, young Dmitrieff. It is you. And Captain Marshall, good to see you again. Talk with my niece. She seems oddly anxious to discuss vodka with you.” He jabbed Creighton in the side with a beefy elbow. “If you want to know more about it, you need to ask a man. Right, Dmitrieff?”

“Yes, sir,” she answered, fighting her grin as Creighton looked uncomfortable. Served him right for trying to seduce her … and nearly succeeding.

Hoping her disquiet was not obvious, she was grateful when the general said, “Come and speak with the duke, my boy. He has many questions about our lancers. Who better than you to answer them?”

“I would be pleased to help, sir.”

The general's full face lengthened. “Talk, that is all we can do now. How long will anyone want to hear of the glories of our victories?”

“For as long as you wish to speak of them,” she hurried to assure him. She wished General Miloradovich would find a new mistress, so he would lose these glum spirits. “Excuse me, Lord Ashcroft, Miss Suvorov.”

“Lord Ashcroft?” Creighton repeated when she started to follow the general.

Again Natalya was saved from answering by the general's demand that she hurry. Throughout the eternally long hours of the gathering, she avoided Creighton. It was far easier than she had guessed, for the curiosity about Count Dmitrieff remained strong. She let the dowagers draw her into conversation and traded tales with the gentlemen, but always she was aware of Creighton watching her. Even when he went into dinner with Tatiana on his arm, Natalya was spared from speaking to him. The general's niece kept his ears busy with prattle while Natalya tried not to yawn during their host's long-winded tales of his experiences in North America during the last British war.

“Had a brangle with my friend Creighton?” The question in a bleary voice was one Natalya would have liked to ignore, but Barclay wrapped an arm around her shoulders and leaned heavily on her. His breath was thick with wine and brandy.

“No.” She tried to shrug off his arm.

“Then he must have had one with you. Just as well. Don't want my second being
your
tie-mate.” Motioning wildly, he almost fell to his knees. “Creighton, old friend, come over here.”

Creighton scowled as he saw Barclay leaning on Natalya. She refused to meet his eyes. Blast the woman! If he had had any idea a kiss would spook her like a fox in a field of hounds, he would have given in to the temptation to kiss her that first night. Then his life would be the one he had planned, the one of meaningless flirtations and card games that lasted until dawn and beyond. He had looked forward to this Season, and now … He smiled. She might be furious with him, but this could be even more intriguing.

“Barclay,” he announced, “you are sewed-up.”

“Just a dram or two.”

“You should take him home,” Natalya said, her nose wrinkling as Barclay wheezed a grin at her.

“An excellent idea.” Creighton slipped Barclay's arm from around Natalya and put it over his shoulder.

“Do you need help?” she asked.

“Another excellent idea.” He smiled when she frowned. Mayhap she had thought to be rid of both of them, hoping he would graciously decline her assistance.

Creighton was more grateful for her help than he had guessed as Natalya worked with him to guide a wobbly-legged Barclay down the stairs and out to the carriage. More than once, Barclay nearly tumbled on his nose, threatening to take them with him. More than once, Creighton was tempted to let him do just that.

Barclay laughed as he climbed into the carriage. “A grand party. The Russians are not so boring as I remembered.”

“Does he remember anything when he gets this drunk?” Natalya asked.

“Quite the roué you were, Creighton,” Barclay continued. “Tonight you were so attentive to Tatiana Suvorov, but I saw how Maeve watched you last time we were together. You shall break both women's hearts in short order if you continue on this course.”

“What would you have me do?” Creighton waited for Natalya to enter the carriage before him. He was not sure if it was because he could not disabuse himself of the habit of allowing the lady to go first or simply because he enjoyed the sight of her slender legs climbing the step in front of him.

“Choose,” Barclay crowed.

Creighton sat next to his friend, although he would have preferred to share Natalya's seat. As cold as she had been this evening, he would not put it past her to leap out of the carriage and walk back to Berkeley Square if he sat beside her. Folding his arms over his coat, he caught Natalya's eyes as he asked, “And, Barclay, whom would you have me choose?”

“It makes no difference to me.” He chortled a wine-drenched laugh. “It may to you.” Leaning forward, he slapped Natalya on the knee as the carriage lurched into motion. He nearly fell in her lap. As Creighton caught him, he asked, “What do you think, Demi?” Another roar of laughter filled the carriage.