Elusive Passion (16 page)

He made it sound so wonderful! There was no treachery in his molten green eyes, only pleading. Ivan had seemed sincere once too.

But this was
Miles
, not Ivan. And the idea of growing old with Miles was more appealing than marriage to Ivan had been. She hadn’t loved Ivan…

“I much prefer lover to mistress,” she replied brightly, intentionally avoiding his request.

“And you prefer mistress to wife.” There was a resigned slump to his shoulders as he fell back against the squabs. His voice sounded like a stranger’s, it was so tired and soft.

Her smile crumbled. “Yes,” she replied quietly, her entire form clenched to hold her composure. “I prefer almost anything to that.”

“Why?” The pain in his voice tore at her heart. “Surely I’ve proven to you that not all men are animals.”

Not animals
, she corrected silently,
masters
.
In control of everything and everyone in their lives—servants, wives…daughters.

“I’m not certain there will ever be enough proof of that, Miles.” She wrapped her silk shawl tightly around her shoulders—not that it offered much protection against her fears and memories. “But rest assured that is not my only reason for distrusting your sex.”

“Do you trust me?” His voice was hesitant.

What a question! “With my life,” she answered honestly.
Just not with my heart
.

The carriage rolled to a stop before he could respond to her declaration. She wondered if he found it strange that she hadn’t asked him if he trusted
her
. She
honestly didn’t want to know the answer. Neither the disappointment of knowing he didn’t, nor the responsibility of learning that he did, was a burden she wanted to carry right now.

“We’re here,” he announced, peering out the window at the crowd gathering around the entrance of the prince regent’s residence.

“Wonderful.” Had that sounded as hollow to his ears as it had to hers? Here she was, about to be hand-delivered into certain exposure, and it would bring her quiet little existence crashing down around her. Well, perhaps it was time she stopped running and claimed her life as her own.

The hand she gave Miles as he helped her out of the carriage was remarkably steady. Was this the same sense of resignation some people experienced when facing death? She had heard drowning described as a peaceful feeling, and that was exactly how she felt as the wall of people closed in around her—strangely calm and peaceful.

“Excited?”

Varya turned to gaze up at her escort. There was a mixture of hope and anticipation in the depths of his eyes. She loved him. She knew it as surely as the beating of her heart. She had never expected it to hurt so much.

“Yes,” she replied with a forced smile. “I’ve never seen the inside of Carlton House.”

Miles shrugged, offering her his arm. “It’s gaudy—just like any other house of royalty.”

“Not all royal homes are vulgar and garish, Miles.”
She tapped him lightly with her fan and smiled.

His mouth quirked. “Oh? Have you been inside many palaces, Varya?”

“More than you, I’ll wager.” She chuckled at his startled expression. “I have played in many grand homes, Miles.”

“Yes, I suppose you must have.” Luckily, he dropped the subject.

It was a decided crush. Everyone who was of consequence was in attendance, anxious for a glimpse of Czar Alexander and other visiting foreign dignitaries.

The evening was cool, and Carlton House large enough that the regent’s guests need not fear becoming overheated. Varya glanced around the opulent ballroom; it was a little overdone, but she had seen far worse. In fact, she found the vaulted ceiling and gothic touches fit perfectly with her mood at the moment.

A few of the guests looked decidedly uncomfortable at their ruler’s seemingly forced gaiety. His troubles with Princess Caroline were household talk, and quite a few guests wondered aloud if Her Highness would dare attempt to embarrass the regent as he entertained foreign royalty in his own home.

The prince was across the room, deep in conversation with a mature woman rumored to be his current mistress. While most men of his years chased much younger women, the regent had a definite preference for those long past the blush of youth—often well past his own age as well. It was uncommon behavior, but Varya was well aware that royalty bred many idiosyncrasies. The prince might inspire loathing in many of
his subjects, but he was a treat when compared to historical figures such as Ivan the Terrible.

“There’s the czar’s sister,” Miles announced, interrupting her thoughts.

Varya followed his gaze through the humming crowd. Her gaze fell upon a stern Russian woman whom she instantly recognized as Catherine, Grand Duchess of Oldenburg. Silently, she prayed that Catherine would not recognize her. With any luck, neither czar nor duchess had any idea that she was living in London—or what a spectacle she had managed to make of herself with Miles.

She could only hope that the Marquess of Wynter was beyond the reach of palace gossip.

“Yes,” she said softly. “That is Alexander’s sister, Catherine.”

“Ah.” He scanned the room. “I don’t see Czar Alexander.”

Thank God
. But Varya knew her relief would be short-lived. “He’s here,” she informed him, her own gaze skipping over the features of every bejeweled guest. “If Catherine is here, so is Alexander.”

Yes, Alexander was certainly there. Even if someone of Miles’s height could not pick him out of the crowd, there was no doubt that her king was in that room with only a few dozen sweaty bodies between them. His sister would not attend without him and vice versa.

Her certainty must have surprised him, for Miles turned to her with an inquisitive expression. “Oh? How would you know that?”

Varya’s cheeks went warm. “Because they’re—that is, I’ve
heard
that the czar and duchess are very close.”

Suspicious curiosity revealed itself in his gleaming eyes and tilted mouth. “You have a better acquaintance with the habits of your country’s royal family than most English lords can claim with their own.”

“Including yourself, my lord?” she teased, hoping to change the topic. Her evening was already strained enough with his second proposal, and if the entire night was to come toppling down around her, it would not be through any fault of her own.

His smile was genuine. “Indeed, Miss Ulyanova, indeed.”

“Ulyanova? Don’t tell me we have
another
Russian in our midst?”

Varya’s heart plummeted. It was starting.

She and Miles turned to greet the florid-faced prince regent. The future monarch was dressed in white satin knee breeches and a matching waistcoat that strained across his considerable midsection. His coat was a pale blue, his cravat tied in an intricate knot. He was rumored to have been handsome in his youth, but now he reminded Varya of one of her mother’s prized pugs.

“I’m afraid so, Your Majesty,” Miles answered with a respectful bow. “But I believe you have already met Miss Varya Ulyanova.” He smiled, and Varya knew he was pleased to have pronounced her name correctly.

With a smile frozen on her face, Varya sank into a deep and elegant curtsy. The prince seemed suitably
impressed. So did Miles. Her heart hammered painfully in her chest. Soon. It would happen soon.

“Varvara Vladimirovna Ulyanova!”

Oh God. She hadn’t been expecting it
this
soon.

Varya was painfully aware of the many gazes fixed upon her as she turned to face the ruler of her homeland. She didn’t have to look at Miles to feel the weight of his frown. What a fright she must look! Her hands were cold and her face felt too heavy for her head. Her movements were slow and jerky. It seemed quiet—too quiet—as she heard her own blood pounding in her ears. She felt dizzy, and wondered if she might actually swoon.

Then she met the happy, yet reproachful gaze of Czar Alexander. At his side was the equally countenanced grand duchess.

“Varya? It is you!” He moved toward her, a sweet smile curving his lips.

“Hello, Alexi,” she managed to greet him in a soft voice that sounded nothing like her own.

She felt Miles’s strong grip on her arm, and was thankful for it. He could catch her when she fell.

“Alexi?” he inquired.

Varya raised her blurry gaze to his. It was over.

“Yes,” she whispered, just before the darkness swallowed her. “My cousin.”

W
hen Varya finally woke, she became aware of two things. First, where she lay was far too quiet to be the ballroom, or any room in Carlton House. Second, her head felt as if someone had kicked it repeatedly.

Probably Miles
, she thought.

If she opened her eyes, would there be a crowd of people gathered around her, staring at her as though she were a freak in a traveling show? Or would there be only Miles and Alexi for her to face?

Poor Alexi, what he must think of her! He would no doubt notify her father—his first cousin—of her whereabouts. How long would it take her father to arrive in London? Would he force her to return to St. Petersburg and marry Ivan, or had Ivan found someone else to torture for the rest of his life?

She could run away, but where could she go? She could speak French fluently, but the country was in such turmoil since the war and Napoleon’s abdication that moving there would be more hardship than it was worth. Perhaps she could persuade Alexi not to alert her family.

She opened her eyes, blinking rapidly against the bright sunlight that filled the room. Slowly, her vision adjusted and she was able to recognize her surroundings. She was in her own house, on her back in her own bed. She never slept on her back.

She was propped up against a mountain of cushions, practically bent in two by their support. Whoever had put her to bed had done a lousy job of it.

“Ah, the
princess
is awake,” came a drawling voice from across the room. “Must have been that pea I put beneath your mattress.”

Varya didn’t have to see the speaker to know who it was. Closing her eyes again, she leaned back wearily against the pillows.

“What happened?”

“Well,” he began, his voice coming closer, “you hit your head on the floor when you fainted last night.”

Her eyes shot open. “I thought you had hold of my arm.”

He smiled sardonically, leaning one shoulder against the bedframe. “I did, but the shock of finding out I had relieved a member of the Russian royal family of her maidenhead overwhelmed me and you slipped out of my grasp.”

She grimaced. “I am sorry for not telling you.”

His face was set, his expression as cool as granite.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” He pointed a warning finger at her, his eyes flashing with anger. “And no more lies. I won’t stand for it.”

“I’ve never lied to you,” she replied softly. She might have withheld the truth, but she had not lied. No doubt he believed she had made a fool of him.

“Conveniently forgetting to tell me you were a virginal princess who ran away during your engagement party five years ago, leaving your family to assume the worst, is the same as lying!” He paced the carpet angrily. “Your parents don’t even know where you are.”

“No doubt Alexi will inform them.”

He stared at her, so closely she shrank under the scrutiny. “Do they even know you’re alive?”

Varya felt her cheeks warm with guilt. “I do not know.” She lifted her chin defiantly.

His lip curled with a derisive snort. “I can’t even tell if you’re lying or not. I don’t know what to believe anymore. I don’t even know whether to believe that you had nothing to do with Bella’s death!”

A slap would have struck with less force than his words. “How dare you! Bella was my friend. We shared everything!”

“Yes, well, now you can add me to the list of things you’ve
shared
with Bella,” he replied coldly.

How kind of him to remind her.

“If I’m a suspect, then you are too, Miles. And you leave Bella out of this.” She pointed a trembling finger at him, as she fought to keep a rein on her temper. She had absolved herself of any guilt in making love to Bella’s former lover. She would not allow him to give it back.

“Me?” he cried incredulously.

“Yes, you.” She didn’t really believe he was capable of killing Bella, but she wanted to show him how foolish he was to accuse her.

“I saved you from meeting the same fate as Bella, remember?” he reminded her, his tone smug.

“Yes, well, I suppose that takes me off the list of potential suspects as well, doesn’t it? Unless of course I hired someone to try to murder me.”

She would have gloated at the sullen expression that came over his face as he conceded her logic, were it not for the fact that she was so miserable.

“I was afraid to tell you who I was, Miles. I was afraid you’d treat me differently, that you wouldn’t help me find Bella’s killer.”
That somehow, you would find out that my family has been searching for me for five years and would send me back to them
.

“So instead, I find out from a stranger in a crowded ballroom that the woman the whole city has believed to be my mistress is actually royalty!”

She winced at the force of his words, but did not avert her gaze.

“Is that what bothers you, Miles?” she inquired in her haughtiest tone. “Discovering that socially I am actually your superior instead of your inferior?” To think she had come to respect him.

“Yes!” he admitted. He shoved a hand through his already mussed hair. “I never would have made love to you if I had known!”

“We didn’t make love, Miles,” she coldly informed him, shaking with hurt and rage. “There was no pleasure, and certainly no
love
for either of us.” It was a lie,
but oh, if only she could hurt him as much as he had hurt her!

He couldn’t have looked more shocked—or hurt—if she had stuck a dagger in his heart, but the fleeting expression quickly gave way to one of tightly reined fury.

“How right you are, Your Highness. Nevertheless, our bodies did join, and you understand what that means, don’t you?”

She stared at him, not quite understanding what he was getting at.

“It means,” he ground out, moving toward the chamber door, “that you will no longer be my mistress.”

Her heart seized painfully. “I can accept that,” she said quietly, thinking not of how this would affect her search for Bella’s killer, but of how she would face each day knowing he would not be in it. Even though they despised each other at that moment, she still cared for him more than she was willing to admit.

“You’d better,” he warned, wrenching the door open. “Because in two weeks’ time, you and I are both going to lie in this bed we’ve made.” His gaze bore into her. “I had asked you out of desire, now I’m telling you out of duty. You will marry me, princess. Whether you like it or not.”

It was more an invitation than a summons, but when Czar Alexander’s note arrived requesting his company for dinner that evening, Miles didn’t once consider refusing.

Here was his chance to perhaps discover why Varya had fled Russia five years ago, without a second
thought to her family. His mind came up with all manner of horrifying possibilities. After all, what could induce a princess to masquerade as a mere musician?

Clad austerely in black, Miles collected his hat and cane and alighted from his coach in front of the Pulteney Hotel, where the czar and his sister were lodging.

Alexander and Catherine had been invited to stay at Carlton House, but they had refused. Rumor had it that when the grand duchess arrived in London, Prinny had paid a social call on her at this very hotel. George had arrived early, however, and found Catherine not yet dressed to receive him. A mutual dislike had blossomed during that unfortunate first meeting, and popular opinion was that Catherine had persuaded her brother to refuse the regent’s hospitality.

No matter. Miles preferred a private audience to the pomp of Carlton House.

A servant answered his knock, showing him into the czar’s sitting room. The accommodations at the Pulteney were well appointed, but certainly nothing like what Alexander must be accustomed to. Miles’s respect for the ruler went up a couple of notches that he would give up opulence in favor of family loyalty.

Would that same loyalty prevent him from discussing Varya?

Alexander rose from the sofa when Miles entered the room. He bowed stiffly.

“Lord Wynter,” he began in his heavily accented English. “I am so happy you could join me.”

“Thank you for the invitation, Your Highness.”

The czar gestured for him to sit and returned to the
sofa. “Please, call me Alexander. We are to be family soon.”

News traveled fast in London.

“Then you must call me by my given name as well.” Settling against the thick padded back of the chair, Miles watched as Alexander poured two glasses of brandy. Thank God he didn’t share Varya’s penchant for vodka. Miles’s stomach still hadn’t recovered from his last bout with the vile stuff.

Alexander passed him a glass. “I trust Varya has happily recovered from her faint?”

“She suffers no ill effects save for a bump on her head,” Miles replied before taking a sip. The brandy went down like syrup.

“Her family thought she was lost from them forever. I am glad that she is well and entering into such a good match.”

Miles arched a brow. A good match? Obviously, Russian society gave as little thought to loveless marriages as the English did.

“I’m happy you approve,” he replied softly, wondering how Alexander could possibly be pleased his niece was entering into a union based more on passion than love, protection than devotion. Quite frankly, Miles despised the idea of yet another “duty” marriage. However, he had decided his own fate when he took Varya’s virginity. Now all he could do was make the best of it.

Alexander shrugged. “She is of age; you are wealthy, titled, and strong enough to handle her.” He raised his glass. “Here is to healthy sons for you.”

The brandy turned to vinegar in Miles’s mouth, but he drank anyway. He would not tell the czar that Varya would never have his children, not in their marriage of convenience.

“Why did Varya leave Russia?”

Alexander stiffened, his gaze suddenly wary. “She did not tell you?”

Invisible fingers trailed down Miles’s spine. “Something about the man her father had chosen for her to marry.”

“Ivan.” The name was said with such disgust that Miles’s eyes widened at it.

“And you said something at Carlton House about her leaving the night of her engagement party.”

A nod. “Yes. At first her father feared she had been abducted until we learned Piotr and Katya were missing as well.”

Miles could just imagine the terror Varya’s parents felt when they discovered her absence. Kidnapping was a very real fear among the aristocracy. His fiancée was going to have a lot to make up for when she saw her parents again. No wonder she acted like she didn’t want to see them.

“How did Ivan react to her defection?”

“Ivan is dead.”

The shock was like slamming against a brick wall.

“Dead?” Good Lord! Had Varya witnessed her fiancé’s death? Had she panicked and run, thinking she might be implicated?

He cleared his throat. “How did he die?”

“It is nothing to concern yourself with, Lord Wyn
ter,” Alexander replied with a smile too bright to be genuine. “Enough of this morbid talk. What does the past matter when you and Varvara face such a happy future? Come, drink with me.”

Miles drank, even though his mind whirled with unanswered questions. He would get no more answers from the czar. He could only hope the investigator he hired could supply some. If Varya was in trouble, then Miles wanted to be prepared.

It seemed fairly obvious that Alexander meant her no harm, but could the czar protect her from whatever she was running from? For that matter, could he?

He didn’t care what she had done, didn’t care even if she had Ivan’s blood on her hands. It was too late now. He was in too deep to let her go.

No, that wouldn’t do.

There, that would tell him in no uncertain terms what she thought of his
declaration
of marriage.

What angered her even more than Miles’s heavy-handedness was the knowledge that, had he fallen down on bended knee and
asked
for her hand rather
than demanding it, she would have said yes. The nagging doubt that he was only asking because she was a princess mattered little. She loved the overbearing fool, that’s all there was to it.

Varya scrawled her signature at the bottom of the note, sanded it, and folded it. A glob of dark blue wax fell onto the paper and she pressed her seal into it, leaving behind the impression of a single rose. Now she just had to summon the nerve to actually post it.

There was a knock at the door, and Varya looked up from the desk as Katya entered the room.

“Lord Carnover is here to see you, Excellency.”

Varya’s mouth tilted slightly. “I suppose it was a good thing that you never became accustomed to not using that title, Katya. Although I’ve never liked it.”

Her maid clucked her tongue and shook her head sadly.

“Not now, Katya,” she warned. “Please show Lord Carnover in.” She didn’t want to see anyone, let alone Carny, but even he was preferable to Katya’s disapproval.

Not at all pleased with her curt dismissal, her stout employee nodded stiffly and turned her back on Varya as she exited the sitting room.

Varya smiled at the blatant act of defiance. Katya was more like a mother than a servant, but she refused to play the part of chastised child today.

A few minutes passed before Carny appeared in the doorway. He was dressed very stylishly in a pale blue coat and buff breeches. He carried a cane in one hand and his top hat in the other. Not even Brummell himself would be able to find fault with his appearance.

Varya rose, smoothing the creased skirts of her plum-colored morning dress. Despite the camaraderie she had formed with the earl, she hoped the effects of the previous night and this morning’s battle with Miles did not show on her face.

She sketched a small curtsy. “Good morning, my lord. To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”