‘It is beautiful, in a wild fashion. One has to know where to look. Kuban is full of rivers and mountains, and grassland too. We grow wheat, and rye. We fish in our rivers. We mine gems in our mountains. It’s a rich land, a diverse land.’ He poured her another glass of wine. Was this her second or her third? She never had more than two glasses at home and never more than one in public.
The room was starting to take on soft, fuzzy edges as the evening deepened. Beside her, the Prince warmed to his subject, stretching out on his pillows as he told her about Kuban; the cold snows in the mountains, the coast of the Black Sea, how Kuban geographically and culturally straddled European Russia, and the infidel influences of the Ottoman Empire. Kuban might be just outside their pavilion, England a thousand miles away, so immersive were his tales, his voice hypnotically low, his eyes starting to burn again, flames of dark agate. This time, Evie could not, would not, look away for fear she’d miss something vital.
Perhaps those stories even explained the man himself—those high cheekbones, the dark eyes, the beautiful smoothness of his olive skin a genetic memory of shared ancestry with Turkish sultans. Evie sipped her wine, letting the stories sweep her away, her mind painting imaginary pictures, mentally sketching patterns. What a fabulous tapestry these stories would make.
‘But for all that, it’s sparsely populated. In the winter, it’s easy to believe there are more wolves than men. It’s too bad the wolves can’t be recruited to help us. Our lack of population has made it difficult militarily to hold it against the Turks.’ His voice was a velvet caress in the growing darkness. ‘We are searching for alternative solutions besides wars we are ill equipped to win despite our material wealth.’
‘I want to see it.’ Her words came slow and sincere in the dark. In that moment, she wanted more than anything to see this wild land, wolves and all. ‘Do you have a picture of it? I want to see it some time.’ An idea started to take hazy shape. She yawned, her words beginning to slur with drowsiness, with wine. ‘I have to go.’
Dimitri straightened up. ‘You can’t go yet, we haven’t had our vodka. No Kubanian meal is complete without it.’ He reached for a bottle of clear liquid. It looked like water as he poured it into two small glasses.
He raised his glass, letting the candlelight catch the liquid and turn it to dancing prisms. ‘To a lovely meal, Evie, and even lovelier company.’ He swallowed his all at once and Evie followed suit. She’d been prepared for it to burn. May and Bea had got drunk once on brandy. They’d said it tasted like fire. But this was smooth. Until it hit her stomach.
‘Oh!’ Evie gasped. An explosion of heat unfurled in her abdomen. ‘That has quite the, um...’
‘Kick?’ he supplied, and they both laughed. ‘I should have warned you.’ She didn’t mind. She liked this feeling, not all of it due to the vodka. She felt warm, relaxed. Nothing mattered except what was happening right here. She hated to leave. All of this would evaporate as soon as she stepped outside. This was her Cinderella moment, but even Cinderella had to leave the ball. Too bad. But girls like her didn’t stay out all night with handsome men. Good girls, quiet girls, didn’t invite scandal. Evie stifled a yawn. Of course, it wasn’t a scandal unless one got caught. Still, she wished she could stay.
Evie put aside notions of staying. She had to leave now while she had the strength and will power to do it. She made to stand, but her feet caught in her skirts. She stumbled, taking a staggering step towards the low round table and bumping her knee.
Dimitri reached out a hand to steady her and came to his feet. ‘Whoa, Evie. I don’t think you’re fit to go anywhere.’ He had both arms about her now, a safe haven. She let him take her weight. She hadn’t realised how tired, how boneless she felt, how
right
he felt, or was that how right
she
felt with his arms about her? How would she manage to get home now? Somewhere in the back of her mind came the thought she might get what she wished for.
Chapter Eight
‘I
have to go to bed,’ Evie yawned, but it was a weak protest. Even she knew she’d given up the fight. There would be no going home. She’d have been happy to sleep right here, standing up in Dimitri’s arms. She could smell the lingering remnants of his soap with its unique notes of cloves and vanilla, she could feel the masculine heat of his body against hers. She felt warm and safe, a very delightful combination of feelings, a very
dangerous
combination of feelings. It had her wondering what he would do if she reached up and put her arms around his neck, if she drew him to her, closing the little distance between them. They were so close already, surely it would be the easiest thing in the world to brush her lips against his. So easy, in fact, she was doing it before she could think twice.
It felt natural, right. Her lips skimmed over his, a light feathering touch that lasted a fraction of a second, but it was long enough to send a shot of pure bliss straight through her. Bliss was warm, alluring, drawing her in. She wanted more; more feather brushes of lips on lips, more warm bliss.
She’d not bargained on that, on being the handmaiden of her own addiction. She had only wanted to feel what it might be like to touch him. She had never dreamed she’d want to keep touching him, tasting him. Her lips found his again. She heard him sigh, heard him breathe her name, ‘Evie.’ A caution and an invitation all in one simple word.
‘Dimitri,’ she murmured. ‘Kissing you is like drinking vodka. Warm and soft at first, but with a hidden kick.’
He gave a low growl of a laugh, his eyes dark. ‘I think you’re the one with the hidden kick.’ His mouth hovered just over hers. Her pulse raced, recognising he was in no hurry to move away and she didn’t want him to. She’d barely formed what she wanted in her mind before he did it; his hand cupping her jaw, sliding to the back of her neck, slipping beneath the heavy weight of her hair to cradle her head in his palm; all the better to kiss her, all the better to angle his mouth over hers, to take not just her lips but her mouth in his possession, no feathering passes for him. Nor for her either. They would no longer be enough. He might as well have set her on fire. How could she be content with a mere brushing of lips when all this awaited?
He coaxed her with his tongue, encouraging her to respond in kind, showing her that kissing was a full, tactile experience. Not just mouths met when they kissed, but tongues and bodies. She understood now why people kissed with their eyes shut; it heightened the other senses. She could smell him, taste him, feel him, his hands on her, his body against her. He was warm and hard, all muscle and strength. Perhaps she should drink vodka all the time if it gave her boldness with such a reward.
The kiss changed, becoming more insistent. The finesse was falling away, replaced by something more ragged and hungry. Dimitri had changed it, not she, but she strained towards it none the less. Whatever the kiss demanded, she would give. Whatever Dimitri wanted, she wanted too.
‘We have to stop.’ Dimitri’s voice was hoarse, his mouth, his body, breaking the kiss.
Apparently, she’d been wrong. She didn’t want whatever Dimitri wanted. Her arms were still about his neck. She pressed against him, wanting to pull him down to her, wanting to start it all over again. ‘I don’t want to stop,’ she murmured.
He resisted, unwrapping her arms from his neck. ‘Don’t, Evie. It is hard enough to be the voice of reason at the moment. We need to stop. It’s late. We’re tired, we’ve drank enough wine and vodka to forget our good sense. In the morning we’ll thank ourselves for showing some restraint.’ He smiled to ease the disappointment, she supposed. ‘Let’s put you to bed.’
He led her into the curtained alcove of his private chambers and turned back the silken covers of his bed, her heart leaping irrationally for a few beats. Surely he couldn’t mean... She could barely put the thought into coherent words. Perhaps she had drunk more than she ought.
‘You take the bed. I’ll take the divan. I’ve travelled enough to know it’s comfortable.’ Her heartbeat fell back to normal. No, he didn’t mean
that
. ‘I’ll send a note to your home and let everyone know you’re safe.’ He tucked the coverlet around her like a good friend, hardly at all like the lover who had plundered her mouth, whose body had strained against hers just moments ago. Fabulous. It hardly seemed fair. Vodka had turned her randy, but apparently it left him with a modicum of reason. But she hadn’t the stamina to worry over it.
Evie closed her eyes. This was nice, being fussed over, and he was right: she was tired. Perhaps she would rest just a short while. She’d think about that kiss later. A thought came to her and her eyes flew open with a sudden burst of alertness. ‘We forgot!’
‘What did we forget, Evie?’ He sat on the side of the bed, his tone humouring, but she was serious.
‘We forgot to talk about cataloguing.’ She closed her eyes, her voice already a murmur, her wakefulness already vanishing in the trail of his soft laughter, a most seductive sound to go to sleep by.
‘Another night, Evie.’ She felt his weight leave the bed, felt his body bend over hers. ‘Sleep well.’ She had the sensation he might kiss her again. And he did. This time on the forehead because even if she had gone and lost her head, he had kept his.
* * *
What had he been thinking? She’d given him the faintest of kisses and he’d gone and lost his head.
Dimitri stuffed a pillow behind his head, trying to get comfortable on the divan. He’d lied when he’d told Evie drink had driven them to carelessness. It might have driven her to a little boldness, but not him. He’d not drunk so much that he hadn’t a clue what he was doing. He’d been very aware the whole time. By the saints, he’d been aware! His whole body had been damn well aware and she couldn’t have failed to notice. Just as he hadn’t failed to notice this had likely been her first kiss. But that hadn’t stopped her from exploring, experimenting, throwing herself into it wholeheartedly.
There was something intoxicating about knowing he’d been her first kiss. His women, the women he had
affaires
with, were well past first kisses. He had no illusions there. He was the middle for them. As fine a lover as he might be, he wouldn’t be their last. There would be men after him just as there’d been men before him.
Dimitri tucked his hands behind his head and stared at the pavilion ceiling. The idea of applying that logic to Evie sat poorly with him. The problem with first kisses was that they raised a protective urge. First kisses implied next kisses, last kisses. He didn’t like thinking of not being the next kiss, the last kiss. He didn’t like thinking of who might
be
next. Andrew. Would she kiss Andrew the way she’d kissed him? Would she respond to Andrew the way she’d responded to him, with all her heart and body?
You’re being ridiculous. She can’t be a nun for you just because you kissed her first.
No, Evie wasn’t meant to be a nun. She was meant for passion and for love. She was meant for a family, a husband and children of her own to lavish her kindness, her smiles, her wit on. He could picture her in a house not that different from her parents’ home, with its wild gardens and hotch-potch architecture, out on the lawn playing with children, laughing, while something delicious baked in the kitchen.
It was too easy to imagine her on the lawns of his summer palace, laughing and playing with children. She would like his summer palace. It wasn’t too big by Kubanian standards. It was surrounded by woods and there was a lake for rowing. She would like his library. But that would be all she’d like about Kuban. She wouldn’t like court, where he spent most of his time. She wouldn’t play those games, wouldn’t know how to and it would destroy her. Even if he was free to do so, he’d never take Evie to Kuban. She would be very much the classic bird in a gilded cage.
Like him.
It was not a fate he would wish on anyone. It was his destiny because he’d chosen it and it was for a good cause: His sister, so much younger than he, so beautiful, so in need of his protection. For her, he would go home and meet the deadline of his thirtieth birthday. For her, he would marry the border sultan’s daughter under the guise of doing his patriotic duty. His marriage would keep the peace. His marriage would ensure Anna-Maria would not have to leave her home.
He conjured up a mental image of his sister, Anna-Maria, thrust into his twelve-year-old arms moments after her birth by a desperate nurse who hadn’t the presence of mind to tell him to leave the room while his mother died. He’d loved his baby sister on sight.
Love was a double-edged sword if ever there was one, making a man powerful in one moment and weak in the next. Even at twelve, he’d felt powerful holding Anna-Maria, buoyed by a surge of protectiveness that had taken up residence in him that day and had never left. But he’d seen his father’s weakness that day too; a man who he’d always looked upon as invincible. His mother’s death had changed his father, nearly broken him. Those had been his first lessons about love. He’d been very careful since then.
To date, he’d never been in love. One could have extraordinary affairs without it, thankfully. Love would not be a commodity in his marriage to the sultan’s daughter. If he was cautious, he might escape this mortal coil without further experience in the pain of love.
He turned to his side, pushing thoughts away. He didn’t
want
to think about Kuban and the future—quite the piece of sexual dissuasion, that. His erection was nearly gone now and it had taken his mind off Evie—beautiful, innocent, untried Evie, who kissed with great enthusiasm if not experience; Evie, who was sleeping just a few feet away; Evie, who of a certainty would expect love in exchange for any more kisses.
Chapter Nine
S
he’d kissed Dimitri! It was her first thought upon waking. The second being,
he
had kissed her in return. She lay quiet, letting herself remember how the evening had ended—his lips on hers, their mouths tangled, their bodies flush up against each other. She’d been hungry for him—it was an entirely new, unfamiliar and delicious sensation. She’d never been with anyone who conjured up such a depth of feeling. She shivered beneath the blankets, her body remembering his touch even now hours later. She remembered every touch, every word. Oh, sweet heavens, had she really said
that
? Had she told him kissing him was like drinking vodka? She must have. She remembered it far too clearly. Ugh. At the time it had seemed profound, witty even. This morning it just sounded half-cracked.
Evie groaned and reality began to settle. She felt awful. Now that the initial pleasure of waking to a pleasant memory had faded, practicalities set in. There was a dull throbbing behind her eyes and the brightness of the room kept them shut. Her tongue felt thick and the rest of her felt less than fresh. How would she ever face Dimitri like
this
?
There would be no escaping it. She groaned again, this time for a different reason. She pried her eyes open to confirm it hadn’t been a dream. She had indeed spent the night in Dimitri’s pavilion. How was she to walk out of the tent and explain that to anyone who saw her? She had only the clothes she slept in and none of her toiletries. There was no way her appearance would persuade anyone she hadn’t been here all night. She needed to be more careful with what she wished for.
Evie sighed. She’d best get on with it. The longer she put it off, the worse it would be. With luck, it was still early enough to go to her work station without encountering too many questioning glances. Evie sat up carefully, cautious of her aching head. A small piece of paper lay on the coverlet. It was an effort to reach out for it, but the note made her smile. Bold, flowing black script that matched the tags she spent her days reading, informed her all she needed was laid out on his trunk. It was signed with a big ‘D’ at the bottom. Dimitri. The single initial seemed intimate, an echo of the evening. Below it was a postscript: ‘breakfast will be waiting’.
She glanced over at the trunk. A dress of hers lay out with a small valise packed next to it. She could guess what was inside. He must have asked for those things when he’d sent the note so her parents didn’t worry. Not that they would. They’d been scheduled to play cards at the Ramseys’ last night and would have been out late themselves. They might not have even missed her.
The thought took some of the delight out of the surprise of finding her things here. She’d spent the night alone in the company of a man, an act that was the very definition of scandal, and her parents hadn’t noticed. She knew they loved her. They were good parents who indulged her pursuits, but she knew they’d given up on her. Oh, they’d let her live with them, they would support her, their single, spinster daughter, as long as they lived. But they’d despaired of her ever being more than that. They’d settled. After all, two out of three wasn’t bad. Two girls had married, one decently and one very well. Surely that was respectable enough, especially when the third daughter wasn’t nearly as pretty, wasn’t nearly as witty with her conversation and who had ‘quiet’ skills. She didn’t play the pianoforte at musicales like Diana, or sing like Gwen. Those were portable, public skills that could be demonstrated in polite company wherever one went. Not stitchery, not tapestry patterns, not making clothes. The former were not portable. One did not tote tapestries around to show off to eligible gentlemen. The latter was too much like being involved with trade, too much like work. A gentlewoman didn’t
make
her own clothes.
Evie swung her legs out of bed and made her way carefully to the valise. She drew out a fresh chemise and stripped out of her clothes to wash. Dimitri’s thoughtfulness had not ended with the clothes. Her own hairbrushes and ribbons had already been laid out on the bureau for her. The thought brought a blush to her face. To do that, he’d crept in here while she was sleeping. The act seemed private, intimate, somehow attached to their kisses of the night before, that their relationship had changed in some way.
She tried not to think about the kiss as she washed. She really had to reorganise her thoughts. She could not go on all day fantasising about that kiss. It might have upended her world, but it had not upended his. She’d have to get used to
not
thinking about that kiss. It could
not
be the centre of their relationship. She would only disappoint herself. The kiss had been a moment out of time, the product of a late night as Dimitri had put it and perhaps some vodka—a hypothesis that seemed more believable in morning light. It had been an enjoyable, rash moment, nothing more. And yet, it meant so much more to her. She’d never been kissed, she’d never been taken so much by surprise by her feelings, her body.
She’d been utterly unprepared for what had transpired. And yet she shouldn’t have been. He’d warned her, hadn’t he, in all their previous encounters? In his touch, in his eyes. She’d responded to those—why had she not extended that same expectation to something far more intimate? Now she knew. Now she would know for ever. Evie glanced over at the rumpled bed. Now she knew she’d been right about the kind of man who slept in that bed. Funny, the knowledge didn’t satisfy her. It only served to make her more curious.
She forced herself to redirect her thoughts. She thought instead of all she would have to tell May and Bea: about the note, about the evening, about the washing incident, about the tapestry viewing and tea afterwards. There was so much to share and they’d only been gone a week. And it was all about Dimitri. The thought stayed with her as she tidied the bed, trying to be a good guest. It was Dimitri who had dominated this week, starting with his visit to her home and his invitation to come help at the site. Other than an uneventful and somewhat disappointing curricle drive home, this week most definitively had not been about Andrew. That was another complication to think about later.
She ran a brush through her hair and selected a rosy-pink ribbon that matched the tiny flowers of her dress. She might not be able to hide the fact that she was walking out of the Prince’s tent, but at least she’d look decent doing it. She would wear her hair down today, though, out of a need to hurry. The faint scent of sausage wafted into the room, reminding her that breakfast was waiting. Dimitri Petrovich was waiting.