“So, you just assumed—”
“Yes.” He pulled his shirt over his head. “Just as you assumed I was Bella’s killer.” He moved toward her. She didn’t pull away when he slipped his arms around her.
“I’m sorry for what I thought,” he murmured against her hair. “I’m sorry I hurt you. We’ve both made horrible misjudgments about each other. Will you at least grant me the opportunity to make it right?”
He felt her nod against his chest and released her. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He reached for his waistcoat.
“I suppose I truly am your mistress now.”
How resigned she sounded. Had she believed that being a mistress would be better than the life she already had? Why hadn’t she married? She had been untouched, and her beauty and fortune made her a very desirable wife for someone of her class. Why?
“No,” he corrected, combing the tangles from her hair with his fingers. “You are not my mistress.”
Her gaze met his. To his astonishment, her eyes were dry.
“Then what am I?” she whispered.
His head lowered. “If you’ll have me, I’d like to call you my wife,” he said softly, just before his lips met hers.
“Did you let him inside you?”
Varya came up out of the bath sputtering, soap bub
bles flying from her lips and nose. She swiped a hand across her face, clearing away the suds.
“Katya!”
The Russian woman shook her head ruefully. “You did.”
Varya’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. Her shame could not have been greater if her own mother had discovered her with a lover.
“It’s none of your concern,” she replied haughtily, instantly regretting her tone. She scrubbed viciously at her face to hide her crimson cheeks.
“No, of course it is none of my concern,” Katya said stiffly, her voice low and thick with her heavy accent. “I have only watched you go from being raised to be the wife of a prince to being a nobleman’s
nariakha
!”
Varya flinched at the Russian word for “whore.” Calling herself Miles’s mistress would be easy to get used to, but hearing herself described in those base terms was degrading—especially coming from Katya. She refused to tell the older woman that Miles had actually proposed afterward. Then she would have to explain why she had refused.
“You forget your station,” she mumbled, not willing to admit how much the words had hurt.
The woman who had been like a mother to her braced a meaty hand on either side of her ample hips, and stared down at her with a countenance that refused to be bullied.
“No,
golubchik
. I have not forgotten who I am. It is
you
who has forgotten. So busy you have been—pretending to be something you are not. So busy that you do not remember who you are, but
I
remember.” One
fist came up to her impressive, bombazine-clad bosom. “You are Varvara Vladimirovna Ulyanova, daughter of Vladimir Vasilyevich, and you are a Russian pr—”
“I know who I am!” Varya cried, leaping to her feet in the tub. Water sloshed over the sides, soaking the marble floor of the bathing chamber. “I do not need you to remind me.” Her voice was shaking, her body trembling.
Jerkily, she climbed out of the tub, handfuls of suds running down her wet flesh. Katya held a towel; she snatched it out of her hands without thanks.
“So you do remember,” the older woman continued, seemingly unperturbed. “Is there a chance that you now carry your knight’s child?”
“He is not my knight,” Varya answered brusquely. She remembered the moment Miles had taken her virginity, his disappointment, and his shrinking male member. Even though she had not been expecting the sudden pain, she knew that a man had to deposit his seed inside a woman to impregnate her. She also knew, thanks to Bella, that this was a somewhat messy procedure. There had been no mess after Miles withdrew from her, only a little blood. Her own blood, which had called to mind that horrible night in Ivan’s room.
“No. There is no chance of a child.” At least she hoped there wasn’t, but if there was, she’d deal with that when the time came.
“Good.” Katya nodded. “I will show you how to use a sponge soaked in vinegar to prevent conception. I did not think I would have to teach you until after your wedding.”
But there would be no wedding—ever. After escaping both her father and Ivan, Varya had no intention of putting herself under any man’s control, not even if that man already claimed her heart. She was Miles’s as long as he wanted her, but she would never be his wife. She simply didn’t think she could trust a man that strong-willed with her soul.
But she wanted to. Telling him no had been so much harder than she ever could have dreamed. The hurt and disappointment on his face had cut her so deeply she almost changed her mind.
“I’ll never be a bride, Katya,” Varya said harshly, detesting the older women for her disappointed tone, and hating herself for being the cause of it. “So you’d better teach me everything you know.”
“D
rink?”
Miles lifted his head. “Hmm?” He hadn’t heard anyone else enter the room.
Blythe stood by the liquor cabinet, a decanter of claret in her hand and an amused glint in her eyes.
“I asked if you would like a drink.”
“Please.” Absently, he brushed a speck of lint from the arm of his jacket and tugged at his shirt sleeves so that the snowy white cuffs peeked out from beneath the stark black of his evening attire. Any diversion was preferable to thinking about the night ahead.
Two days had passed since Varya’s refusal of him. Two days he had spent playing the scene over and over in his mind, wondering how he could have done it differently—wondering what he had done wrong.
Of course he had handled it badly.
“You only want to marry me because you’ve taken my maidenhead.”
“Not only because of that.”
Where were his smooth words then?
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid
.
Why didn’t he tell her how he felt? He should have told her that he wanted to marry her because he couldn’t imagine spending the rest of his life without her. He should have told her he was willing to face all his demons for the chance to wake up beside her every morning for the next fifty years.
Of course, two days ago, in the shock of having taken her virginity, none of this even occurred to him. It was only since her curt dismissal and the agony of spending forty-eight hours watching her house, guarding her without being able to touch her or comfort her, that he realized just how deep his feelings for Varya were. He didn’t know what he could possibly say to her to fix things, but he could make certain no one tried to harm her again.
He cared enough for her not to worry whether she was beneath him. She had proven she was more of a lady than most women he knew.
And he cared enough to do the one thing he swore he’d never do again—marry. Only this time, it was desire—not duty—that motivated him.
“Here.”
He took the glass his sister offered with a mumbled thanks.
Blythe fell into the chair opposite him and lay sprawled across the wine-colored velvet in a pose that
would have done justice to any of the ton’s rakehells—except, of course, for the fact that she was wearing an evening gown.
“Mama will have a seizure if she sees you sitting like that.”
His younger sister lazily waved one elegant hand. “As long as I remember to sit properly at Carlton House, she’ll be fine, and you know I always behave myself in company.”
“Yes,” he replied absently staring into the depths of the rich claret. “You always do.”
Blythe thumped a hand against the arm of the chaise and pulled herself upright. “All right, that’s it.”
Miles looked up in confusion at her abrupt tone. “What?”
“What the devil is wrong with you? You’ve been moping around here for the last two days. Ever since your return from Rochester’s you’ve been listless and boring, and I demand to know why.” She brought her hand down on her knee with a resounding
thwap.
Miles grimaced. “Not now, Blythe.”
“Yes now, Miles,” she replied, mocking his exasperated tone. “Is it Varya?”
“She’s not the only person in my life, you know!” he snapped, slamming his glass down on the pedestal table beside his chair.
His sister grinned. “Oh? So it’s Carny who’s responsible for this depression? Maybe you shouldn’t spend so much time with him, Miles; I have always thought your relationship with him to be—
unnatural
.”
If he could have knocked her senseless with a glare, he would have. “It’s none of your concern,
brat
.” He
used her childhood nickname as an insult rather than a term of affection.
“Stop it, Miles,” Blythe ordered, unaffected by his attempted cruelty. “I’m your sister and I love you, therefore it
is
my concern. So stop behaving as if you’re playing Hamlet at Drury Lane and talk to me.”
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes. “I shouldn’t speak of such things in front of you.”
She snorted. “When has that ever stopped you? Really, Miles, who else have you got? Papa’s gone and Carny’s probably drunk.”
She had a point. The only other people he had ever trusted as much as her were his father and best friend, and unfortunately, neither of them was available.
“Varya and I…” his voice drifted off. How could he put this? “That is to say we—”
“Made love?” she suggested.
He nodded, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks. “Uh, yes. That’s exactly what we did.”
“And the problem would be?” Her eager gaze was disconcerting.
Miles cleared his throat. “Varya was—
inexperienced.
”
Blythe nodded, unruffled. Miles scowled, realizing that his sister knew more about what went on between men and women than he was comfortable with.
“This came as a surprise to you?” She took a drink.
He nodded. “Yes. Yes it did.”
“Why?”
“I should think that would be obvious—her profession, her lifestyle, her sophistication—”
Blythe laughed, cutting him off. Shaking her head, she smiled sympathetically. “Oh, Miles. For a man
who has known so many women, you really don’t know very much about them.”
“Just what the devil do you mean by that?” He couldn’t imagine that Blythe might possibly be more knowledgeable on the subject than himself. Then again, she had the benefit of actually
being
a female, so perhaps he shouldn’t discredit her opinion quite so readily.
“You know as well as I, brother dear, that a woman can present one face to the public but put on an entirely
different
one when society isn’t looking.” She smiled somewhat roguishly. “Your own sister, for example. Here in London I play the lady, but I’d rather be at home in a pair of breeches shoveling horse droppings.”
“Yes, but that’s
you
,” he argued, even as the image of Bella’s old comfortable nightgown came to mind. He had been wrong in his opinion of her, just as he had been wrong about Varya.
“That’s
many
women,” his sister corrected him with a chuckle. “So, when’s the wedding?”
Miles raked his fingers through his hair and sighed. “There isn’t one.”
“You’ve ruined her; you
must
marry her.” She wasn’t teasing now.
“I asked Varya to marry me after it happened and she refused.”
Blythe’s brow wrinkled. “She refused? You must have botched it.”
“I…me?” Miles sputtered. “Why must I be the one at fault?”
“Did you tell her you cared for her?”
He scowled. “I think she’s well aware of that fact.”
Rolling her eyes, his sister straightened in her chair. “Did you ask her to marry you, Miles or did you simply inform her of the upcoming ceremony?”
A uncomfortable heat crept up his cheeks. He really had made a mess of it. “I might have mentioned that it would be in her best interest to become my wife.”
“You idiot! No wonder she refused you. Miles, you’ve been married before, didn’t you learn anything about women?”
“No!” he cried, losing his temper and leaping to his feet. “I find your sex completely and absolutely baffling! I let her help search for Bella’s killer despite the whole mess she got us into. I let her continue to masquerade as my mistress despite my own misgivings. And then when she finally decided she actually wanted to be my mistress, I gave in and found myself in the bed of an innocent! Then when I try to do the right thing she refuses me! I’ve given the woman everything she’s asked for. What more can she want?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Respect? Trust? Someone to tell her she’s beautiful even when her nose is dripping and her throat is swollen with quinsy.” Blythe’s eyes were bright with a wisdom Miles had never seen before. “You sound like an authoritarian—a father figure telling her what’s in her ‘best interest.’”
If there was a wall nearby he would have beaten his head against it.
Father figure
. Varya didn’t say much about her father, but he had picked up enough to know that he had been very strict. And that he had tried to force her into a marriage she violently opposed.
Oh no. He had handled her well.
“Even if I could make it up to her, she’s dead set against marriage, Blythe. You heard her yourself.”
Blythe waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Oh pooh. I’m sure Varya truly believes that marriage is horrible and awful for a woman, but she just hasn’t met the right man.”
Miles cocked a disbelieving brow. “You think
I
might be the ‘right man’?”
His sister shrugged her wide shoulders. “Who knows? You can’t be all
that
wrong if she allowed you to—” She faltered and flushed a deep crimson. Miles could only imagine what she had been about to say. “—take liberties with her person,” she finished primly.
“Yes,” he agreed hesitantly, wondering why her words only served to make him feel worse about the situation with Varya instead of better.
“She’s hiding something, Blythe. There’s something she doesn’t want me to know about her past.”
“Does it matter?” his sister inquired with womanly wisdom.
“No. No, it doesn’t.” And it didn’t.
Authoritarian, indeed.
Varya was thankful for her anger toward Miles. It almost obscured her anxiety concerning the evening.
He had ignored her for two whole days before sending a dozen roses along with a note of brief apology for his
neglect
, stating that he would still expect her to accompany him to Carlton House.
She burned the note, turned the air blue cursing
him, and had eleven of the roses destroyed to make rosewater. The remaining one sat in a slim crystal vase on the table beside her bed.
Not
because it came from him, and
not
because she wanted to forgive him, but because it was a truly beautiful blossom.
If he had genuinely meant his proposal he wouldn’t have given up so easily. He would have sent flowers thrice a day, and candy. He would have come to call even though she would refuse to see him. He would pine for her.
Not
ignore her as though marriage meant nothing.
Of course he didn’t truly want to marry her. She knew him well enough to know he had never forgiven himself for Charlotte’s death, and for Bella’s as well. Miles Christian believed himself to be a harbinger of death for everything and everyone he loved. She wondered if he kept his distance from his mother and Blythe as well. He probably didn’t even realize that he did it.
Well, she didn’t want his love, and she’d rather put out her own eyes than be anyone’s wife. As it was, Miles already had too much sway over her life. If she married him he would own her completely, and she couldn’t bear it if he turned into a tyrant like her father or Ivan. Better to keep him as a beautiful fantasy than as a husband.
Oh, but she had been tempted.
Even though he had bungled it. Even though she knew he was only asking out of a sense of guilt, she had been very tempted to throw herself into his arms and shout, “Yes” at the top of her lungs.
Instead, she told him to leave. And he had.
Was she now to pretend nothing had happened?
“Have I told you how beautiful you look this evening?” he asked with a charming smile as he handed her into the coach.
He had. Three times already. Apparently the time she had spent agonizing over her wardrobe had been worth it. She told herself she hadn’t chosen the snug, royal blue velvet gown for his appreciation, but she couldn’t stop the thrill of pleasure at his notice.
Varya dragged a cool gaze over his face before settling herself rigidly on the cushions. “Thank you.”
“I don’t suppose you have forgiven me yet?” the bane of her existence asked once they were shut inside his carriage.
She flashed him a smile that felt more like a snarl than a gesture of friendliness. “Of course I have, Miles. Every woman enjoys having the loss of her virginity treated like one of Shakespeare’s tragedies.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Varya! Wouldn’t you have been surprised to discover that
I
was a virgin?”
She gave him what she hoped was an arch look. “I already knew that you weren’t, my lord.”
He surprised her by grinning. “Yes, well, you had the advantage of having read Bella’s journal. That stacked the odds in your favor, did it not?”
“It is not the same,” she argued, fighting the urge to smile. “Gentlemen are not expected to be virginal.”
“Neither are mature women who have a profession and live alone.”
She sat there, swaying back and forth as the carriage bumped along the cobblestones, her mouth gaping open. She had nothing to dispute him with; he was
right. If it had been anyone other than herself, she wouldn’t have thought any differently than he had.
“That doesn’t excuse your behavior afterward,” she admonished, attacking from another angle.
His wide shoulders flinched at the comment. “No,” he admitted. “It doesn’t.”
Well, he had acknowledged that he had been wrong. Now what? Somehow, the past two days of practicing what she would say and obsessing over his replies seemed excessive, considering with what little ease he had agreed with her.
“I thought men preferred virgins.”
He winced. “For wives, not for mistresses.”
A hollow ache formed in her stomach. “And that is why you asked me to marry you.”
The glow of the lamp cast his face into sharp relief as he leaned forward to take her hand. Lord, but no man should be allowed to be so beautiful. Her heart ached just to look at him.
“I asked you to marry me because I felt I treated you wrongly.”
Her gaze dropped. As much as she told herself it was true, it hurt to hear him say it.
“And I asked you to marry me because I realized that spending the rest of my life with you would be a grand adventure.”
Her head snapped up. “Really?”
“Really. I care for you a great deal, Varya. I had hoped that you cared for me.”
“Of course I do!”
“Then say you’ll consent to marry me. Be my lover as well as my wife.”