Elusive Passion (20 page)

Varya froze. Awareness washed over Miles along with a sickening feeling of dread. He glanced at the clock in the corner. It was almost five o’clock.

Her parents were going to descend upon them at any minute.

Cursing—Miles in English and Varya in Russian—the two of them frantically struggled to set themselves and the room to rights. They crawled around on the floor, searching for the objects Miles had sent flying earlier. Varya yanked open windows, hoping the faint summer breeze would distill the lingering scent of their lovemaking.

They were seated side by side on the sofa, the picture of domestic tranquillity, when a sharp tap at the door announced Vladimir and Ana not three minutes later.

They entered the room silently, seating themselves side by side. Now she was confronted with explaining her actions to them.

Miles greeted them with a relaxed air and easy smile. He looked about as pleased with himself as a tomcat with a saucer of thick cream. Varya smiled, knowing how he felt. Even her anxiety at attending her parents couldn’t shatter the serenity making love to Miles had elicited in her.

Her mother was watching her strangely, almost as if she knew what Miles and her daughter had been doing just moments ago. Despite the disapproving expression on Ana’s aristocratic face, Varya caught a glimmer of amusement in her mother’s gaze that shocked her. Was it possible that her own mother had a warm and passionate side too?

Her father looked somewhat rested, but there was a tiredness around his eyes that Varya had never seen before. He looked years older than he actually was, and as responsible as she was for his haggard appearance, it pleased her to know he had worried about her. She hadn’t believed he would.

“I would like you to now explain, Varvara,” her father was saying in his heavily accented English, so that Miles could be privy to their conversation, “why I have spent the last five years believing my oldest child to be dead.”

As a child, Varya had only been asked to explain something to her father when she had done something horribly wrong. Feeling very much like that same frightened child, she looked to her mother for guidance.

Ana Ulyanova sat beside her husband with that same quiet, expectant countenance she had worn for the past twenty-five years. She looked more like an angel than a mother, but her eyes were bright with love and support—and still a trace of the same amusement Varya had seen just a few moments before. She smiled faintly and nodded at her daughter to speak.

Strangely, comfort came from the least expected
source. Miles reached over and gathered one of her icy hands into his own warm, strong one.

Varya hadn’t tricked herself into thinking that their lovemaking had made him forget her deception, and she hadn’t expected it to change anything between them. But perhaps the same admission of trust that had sparked his passion had also warmed her husband’s heart. He turned his head and smiled at her, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. From the warmth of his touch and the encouragement in his gaze, she felt his strength slowly seeping into her.

“You’re right, Papa,” she said evenly. “I owe you an explanation.”

And so she told him. She told him about Ivan’s depravity and their struggle. She told him how she had feared he would not believe her, of her escape, and of how Isabella Mancini had befriended her. She left out the parts about Bella’s murder, how she had met Miles, and his reasons for marrying her. She surprised herself, however, by admitting that she had wanted to marry before their arrival so they couldn’t force her to return to St. Petersburg and Ivan.

When she had finished, her father stared at her as if she were a stranger to him.

“Varenka,” he began softly, using her childhood name, “how could you think I would not believe you and force you to marry such a monster?”

He sounded so hurt. “Papa, it was you who wanted the marriage. I thought you would think I was lying to avoid marrying Ivan.”

Prince Vladimir’s fist slammed down on the ma
hogany table. “You are my daughter! Of course I would have believed you!”

“So you wouldn’t have forced me to marry Ivan?” Varya couldn’t believe it.

Her father snorted. “If you had stayed instead of running away like a coward you would know that Ivan was arrested and hanged for the murder of that girl!”

Varya was silent. So the poor maid had died and Ivan had hanged for it? All the pain she had caused herself and her family had been for naught?

“What a fool I have been,” she murmured.

Miles squeezed her hand but said nothing.

“If you had stayed with us instead of running like a coward you would be living as you should be at Alexi’s court,” her father rumbled. “Not married to an
Englishman
!” He spoke as if he had stepped in something foul.

“Papa!” Varya gasped, dismayed not only at her father’s attitude but also by the tightening of Miles’s fingers around her own.

“I don’t suppose there’s a chance the marriage can be annulled?” Vladimir continued as if Varya hadn’t spoken.

“No,” Miles answered smoothly, meeting the prince’s bellicose gaze. “Your daughter is my wife in every sense of the word, Your Highness.”

Vladimir’s face turned a mottled red. For one sickening moment, Varya was terrified he might have a seizure. Ana tried to soothe him.

“Miles,” Varya said quickly, “why don’t you let me
talk to them for a little while?” She placed her free hand lightly on his thigh. “Please?” she whispered so that her parents couldn’t hear. “Let me deal with Papa.”

Miles nodded, some of the hardness leaving his face. “I’ll go out for a bit.” Desire flickered in the depth of his gaze. “I’ll meet you in your chamber later this evening.”

The promise in his words heated Varya’s blood. “I’ll be waiting.”

“Your father means well.”

Chin-deep in fragrant bubbles, Varya rolled her eyes at her mother. She leaned back in the tub and allowed the steaming water to soothe her aching head and knotted muscles. Dealing with her father had left her feeling as though a hundred elephants had used her body as a dance floor.

“He’s a tyrant,” she replied with a smile. It had been difficult, but she had finally convinced her father that Miles was worthy to be her husband. Admitting to her responsibility in bringing the marriage about earned her more than one disparaging remark from her father, but he could not fault her for her fears. In the end he allowed that if Miles still wanted her for a wife after all she had done, then his son-in-law just might be worthy after all—despite his being English.

“Seeing you has taken ten years off his face.”

“Ten years that I put there in the first place,” Varya reminded her.

Ana made no reply, but her full lips curved in a faint smile.

Pleased that her mother didn’t pursue the subject, Varya ran a bar of rose-scented soap along her arms and shoulders.

“I will leave you to your bath,” Ana announced, stifling a yawn.

For the first time Varya noticed how drawn her mother’s face was. There were dark moons under her eyes, and fine lines fanned out from beneath her lashes and around her mouth. Guilt washed over Varya as she realized that the past five years had been just as difficult for her mother as for her father.

Her throat constricted painfully. “I’m sorry, Mama.”

Ana nodded, her eyes glistening. “I know.” She pressed a swift kiss to her daughter’s forehead. “We’ll talk more tomorrow. Good night.”

“Good night, Mama.”

With a mixture of happiness and guilt, Varya watched her mother leave. She hadn’t realized how much she missed her parents until she saw them again. She hadn’t realized how stupid and selfish she had been five years ago. How could she have gone all those years without letting them know she was alive and well? The pain and suffering she must have put them through was tremendous, yet they forgave her. The knowledge was lowering.

She was fortunate to have such parents. She was also fortunate to have Miles as a husband—a husband whose protection she hadn’t needed after all. How different her life might be right now if she took the time to think before she acted.

She had made her bed, as Miles would put it. She
had to admit that lying in it wouldn’t be punishment at all if Miles was there to share it with her.

Varya stayed in the tub until the water turned cool and her skin began to wrinkle. After drying herself with soft towels, she slipped into a silk dressing gown and padded barefoot into her bedchamber.

Removing the towel she had wrapped around her head turban-style, she glanced at the small clock in the far corner. It was almost ten o’clock.

Her heart lurched against her ribs as a knock came upon the door. Could Miles have finally returned?

“Come in,” she called in a somewhat shaky voice.

But it was only Piotr, wearing his customary scowl and carrying a package.

“This just arrived,” he said gruffly, holding up a flat parcel.

Varya sighed. She had spent the last week unwrapping more presents than she ever wanted to see again. She was tempted to tell Piotr to open it himself, but she supposed that wouldn’t do. She would have to put it with the others and catalogue it so that all the appropriate thank-you cards were sent out.

“Thank you, Piotr. I shall take care of it.”

The stocky servant brought the package to her, grumbling under his breath with every step.

“Your English husband has left you already,” he growled. “I do not like it.”

Varya managed a faint smile. “He has not left me, Piotr. He offered to go out while I spoke to Papa. Do you really think he would invite my parents to stay here if he wanted nothing more than to be rid of us?”
Even as she spoke the words, Varya doubted their validity. Miles told her he had asked her parents to stay so she could make amends, but part of her wondered if perhaps it was just a convenient excuse to avoid her. She pushed the foolish notion aside.

“Why don’t you stop fretting and go to bed?” she suggested teasingly. “You’ll want to be well rested tomorrow when you tell Papa what a hardship I’ve been.”

He stiffened at the obvious dismissal, but did as he was told. He always did. Varya wondered at his blind obedience, but she thought it had more to do with his feelings for Katya than with loyalty to her.

Once the door clicked shut behind him, Varya opened the package. Inside was what looked like a report of some kind.

“That’s odd.” Shrugging, she lifted the bundle of papers and began to read.

Varya went numb with shock. He had hired someone to pry into her past? It couldn’t be!

But it was. With growing rage she read the remainder of the report. It contained nothing that Miles did not already know by now, but that didn’t stop her from wanting to stuff every page down his hypocritical throat! All his talk about her not trusting him, and now it was painfully obvious that he hadn’t trusted her either!

But he cared for her. He actually did, she could feel it. The passion they shared wasn’t just baseborn lust; it was rooted in deeper feeling. It had to be her own secrecy that forced him to look into her past. There had to be an explanation.

She hoped.

What was that?

Varya sat up in bed, her ears straining to listen over the faint clatter of carriages. It was late and many of the ton would be returning home.

There it was again! The subtle creaking of a floor-board, no doubt caused by a certain coward who didn’t want his wife to know he was home.

Quietly she waited, her tense body coiled beneath the sheets. She strained to hear Miles’s stealthy movements. He was coming closer.

She expected to hear him enter his own chamber. He didn’t.

Varya’s heart began to pound with anticipation as she heard the latch on her door click open. She had no idea why he was coming to her, though her traitorous body thrilled at the thought of him seducing her into forgiving him. Whatever his reasoning, she knew they were about to have a confrontation—a long-awaited one. She had let her feelings for Miles overshadow her pride. She wouldn’t beg for his forgiveness anymore. Let him beg for hers.

He was as silent as death as he crossed the carpet toward the bed. Only his shadow, cast on the wall by a sliver of icy moonlight, betrayed his presence.

Varya waited until he was almost directly beside
her before tossing back the counterpane and leaping to her knees on the mattress.

“You have a lot of explaining—” She froze.

It wasn’t Miles.

S
pending his wedding night alone was
not
what Miles had planned.

He hadn’t even planned on a wedding.

And he certainly hadn’t planned on arriving home as drunk as he was, but nothing could be done about it. His friends had insisted upon celebrating his marriage, and since he had promised Varya a few hours with her father, he eagerly partook of the festivities.

Now, as he wearily hauled himself up the mammoth staircase to his bedchamber, he wondered if his bride had enjoyed a pleasant evening with her parents.

Or had she spent the evening feeling as frustrated and lonely as he had?

All he had really wanted to do was come home and make love to his wife, pretending she had never lied
to him—learning to trust her. Unfortunately, she had five years to make up for with her parents, and the idea of spending that much time with his new papa-in-law was even less appealing than an evening at White’s.

He was incredibly fatigued by the time he reached the second floor where the family rooms were. He just wanted to crawl between the soft sheets of his enormous bed and pretend the last two months of his life had been nothing more than a strange dream.

Perversely, he also wanted Varya’s lush body in bed beside him.

Forsythe met him in the hall.

“Good Lord, man, what are you doing up?” Miles demanded.

“It is my job, my lord. I sent your valet to bed hours ago, and since that odious Russian bear Piotr will take orders only from the marchioness, I’ve come to offer my assistance should it be required.”

Miles waved him away. “I can fend for myself, thank you. You may go to bed yourself if that is all.”

“There is one other thing, my lord.”

Slumping against the wall, Miles closed his eyes and sighed. “Of course there is. What is it, Forsythe?”

“One of the maids thought she heard strange noises coming from the marchioness’s bedroom earlier this evening. When she knocked the marchioness told her to go away, that she did not wish to be disturbed.”

That the butler expected Miles to check on his wife went unsaid, but he got away with the implied imper
tinence. Forsythe had always been more like a father than a servant.

“Thank you, Forsythe. I will look in on the
princess
before I retire. Now,
please
go to bed.”

A faint smile tilted Forsythe’s thin lips. “Yes, my lord.”

Miles watched the older man disappear down the corridor before lifting himself away from the wall. He half expected to see a whole circus of servants parade around the corner, barraging him with problems that no doubt could not wait until morning. He listened. There was nothing but silence.

He began undressing as soon as he entered the room. He tossed his dark green coat and sand-colored waistcoat unceremoniously onto a nearby chair. His fingers were working on the knot of his cravat when he noticed that something was not right.

Sheets of vellum covered his bed like a neatly sewn patchwork quilt. Someone had taken the effort to line them up perfectly.

With his cravat hanging limply around his neck and chest, he moved cautiously toward the bed. He lifted one of the pages by its edge, bringing it just close enough to his face to read.

Realization came on a wave of bitter guilt. The report.

There was no doubt in his mind who had laid these papers out for him to find. There was no point in trying to convince himself that she had no right to be angry. After all his lectures about trust, he had proven himself the worst kind of hypocrite.

One thing his evening of drink and reflection had made him face was that both he and Varya were to blame for the mess they now found themselves in because they could not trust each other.

For Miles, going his separate way was not an option. He wanted Varya as his wife, if only she might learn to trust him completely.

His gaze traveled over the papers. What secrets were revealed there? He only had to read them to find out all he wanted to know about Varya’s past.

Quickly, without looking at the writing, he gathered the papers up into a haphazard bundle. His first demonstration of trust would be to give the report to Varya, unread and unwanted.

Miles walked swiftly through the small sitting room that separated their chambers, pausing only to knock upon Varya’s door. When he received no answer, he opened it and walked in.

And stopped.

Candles still burned in the wall sconces. The bed was rumpled and tousled as if either passion or a struggle had taken place on the pristine sheets. The balcony doors were wide open, as was the wardrobe. Gowns tumbled out like a silk waterfall. Whether any were missing, he couldn’t tell.

Pain and rage descended upon Miles all at once. Left him, she had
left
him.

With a roar he yanked the door open, almost tearing it off the hinges, and stepped into the corridor.

He was distantly aware of the sound of the front door knocker, but he paid no attention. From the cor
ner of his eye, he saw Forsythe in his robe, scurrying through the downstairs foyer to answer.

Miles ran down the darkened hall, causing lamps to flicker in his wake. He didn’t stop until he reached the door at the furthest end.

“Ulyanov!” he bellowed, pounding his fist against the wood so hard his entire body shook with the force. “Open the goddamn door!”

There was always the chance that the prince and his wife were gone as well. They could have taken Varya with them. The door opened, revealing a disheveled, nightshirt-clad Vladimir. Muttering in Russian, he took a few seconds before he glanced up at his son-in-law.

“Have you lost your mind?”

“Where’s my wife?” Miles growled.

Vladimir scowled. “You are drunk. Go to bed. If Varya is not in her room it is because she could not stand to be near you.”

The urge to pound the older man into the carpet was tempered only by the genuine ire in his tone. He didn’t know where Varya was either.

Miles blinked. Where was she?

He was dimly aware of Vladimir cursing him in Russian. Several of the words were ones he had heard Varya use before—something about the devil coming to meet him. The smaller man kept trying to push him out the door, and, too stunned to put up a fight, Miles allowed himself to be shoved out into the hall.

“Miles? Whatever is the matter?”

He turned at the sound of his mother’s voice. She scurried down the corridor in a flurry of silk and lace with a more sedately clad Blythe jogging at her heels.

“What’s all the noise?” Blythe demanded when he did not answer their mother immediately.

He dragged his hands through his hair. “Do either of you know where Varya is?”

“She retired shortly after dinner,” Blythe replied, frowning.

“Is she not in her bedchamber?” the dowager inquired.

Miles shook his head. “She’s gone and I believe she took clothes with her.”

“What!” Blythe looked as shocked as he felt. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

The bedroom door opened again and Miles braced himself for another confrontation with Vladimir.

It was Ana, looking as distressed as only a mother could. She looked first at Blythe and the dowager’s worried faces and then to her son-in-law.

“Miles,” she said, clutching his hand. “You say Varenka is gone?”

He nodded stiffly, giving her fingers a warm squeeze. Too bad his father-in-law wasn’t as personable as his wife. “Ana, did she say anything to you tonight about leaving?”

She shook her head. “She took a bath; we talked. She was looking forward to your return.”

Inwardly Miles cursed himself. If only he had returned sooner!

“Ana,” Prince Vladimir bellowed, coming up be
hind his wife. “Come back to bed. The Englishman is drunk.” He took her arm and tugged her away from the door, attempting once again to shut it in Miles’s face. His face tight with anger, Miles slapped his palm against the smooth surface, preventing Vladimir from shutting him out.

“Do
not
close my own door against me, Prince.” If the tone of his voice wasn’t warning enough, the glare he directed at the shorter man was.

Varya’s father scowled back, his thick brows drawing together to form a black caterpillar above his icy gaze.

“My lord!”

It was Forsythe. The butler panted for breath as he ran toward them. Miles had never seen the man run before.

“What is it, Forsythe?”

The butler sagged against the doorframe, effectively preventing Prince Vladimir from retreating into his bedchamber.

“A messenger just brought this. He said it had to do with the marchioness.”

“Varya?” Miles ripped the folded paper from Forsythe’s fingers.

“My daughter is
not
a marchioness,” Vladimir reminded them with an indignation ruined by a wide yawn. “She is a
princess
.”

Miles shot him a glare. “Right now I don’t care if she’s the goddamned Queen of Egypt as long as I find her!”

Obviously the prince was ready to take him seriously, because he stiffened. “She’s really gone?”

Miles didn’t reply. He was too busy reading the message. “Send for Lord Carnover.”

“My lord?”

“Just do it, man! My wife’s been kidnapped!”

It was dark. Rough cloth covered her eyes and forehead. The knot on her crude blindfold had caught several strands of her hair and pulled painfully on her scalp. A rag sucked the moisture out of her mouth, making it impossible for her to cry out. Her arms were bound so tightly behind her back she was beginning to lose feeling in them.

With every jostling sway of the carriage her shoulders screamed in agony, despite the softness of the cushions beneath her. She bit her lip to keep from crying out.

“Why do you suppose he wants her?”

“Who cares? He offered us more money to take her than she was paying us to protect her and that’s all that concerns me.”

Varya choked back a gasp of outrage. She had been abducted by the same soldiers hired to protect her.

“We’re almost there.”

“Anxious?” the first one asked.

“Mm. As good as the money is, I’ve no taste for this kind of work.”

“Got to put food on the table somehow.”

“You’re right there, but that don’t mean I have to like it.”

If she could only speak! She would offer him a posi
tion, gold—anything he wanted just to take her back to Wynter Lane. But the gag made it impossible to say anything. She was scared but she also knew that this might be her only chance to discover the identity of Bella’s killer. It only made sense that whoever was responsible for her kidnapping had also murdered her friend.

The only problem was that discovery of the identity of the killer might not come until she met her own death. And even if it didn’t, how could she possibly escape?

The carriage rocked and bounced to a halt. Varya ground her teeth against her gag, squeezing her eyelids tightly together against the dazzling lights that danced before them.

The door opened but not even the smallest trace of moonlight could be discerned from beneath her blindfold. A cool breeze swept in, a welcome respite from the stuffy confines of the carriage.

“Help me carry her in.”

“What do you need my help for? She ain’t
that
big.”

Varya made a mental note to horsewhip the soldier if she ever discovered his identity.

“Neither am I,” came the sharp reply.

Varya frowned. Sensitive about his size, was he? Vaguely she remembered one of the men Miles had sent as being a tiny little man—about her height and very slender. No wonder he needed help. She doubted he could carry her very far on his own either.

She heard the other man sigh. “All right, but I’d better get paid extra for this.”

“You take her head. I’ll get her feet.”

Relaxing every muscle in her body as much as she could under the circumstances, Varya went completely limp. If there were some way to turn herself into stone she would have gladly done so, just to make their job more difficult.

Their groans and curses as they lifted her sagging form filled her with grim satisfaction, and took her mind off just how much danger she might be in.

“Wish we could use a light.”

“And what?” the man Varya had recognized as the short soldier demanded. “Have some of moral toffs we got as neighbors see us carrying a tied-up woman in the middle of the night? They’d have the watch on us before we even get this cow inside.”

Cow? Oh would his death be slow. If she lashed out with her foot, she might be lucky enough to strike his face. Instead, Varya was quiet. She had no way of escaping them with her arms tied behind her back and blindfolded. At least now she knew that it was still night and that they hadn’t left London.

From the smells and sounds surrounding her, Varya guessed that they were in a residential section of the city. It was reasonably quiet and the smell of fresh baked bread lingered on the air. They were also closer to the river than she was used to—the Thames in the summer had a very
distinctive
odor.

A door shut and she realized they were in the house. The smells of beeswax and baked apples warmed her senses. This house did not smell frightening at all, and that seeming normality terrified her.

“Ah, so our little bird has arrived. All trussed up like a Christmas goose.”

That voice! She knew that voice, but it was different somehow. The low timbre, the menacing singsong lilt disguised it just enough that she could not put a face to it.

“Where do you want her, sir? She’s heavy.”

“Upstairs, third door on the left. I’ve a special chamber prepared for her.”

He touched her. Cold, smooth fingers drifted across her face, like the touch of death itself. Varya stiffened in revulsion.

“Idiots!” her captor bellowed. “She’s awake.”

There was a cacophony of voices—one shouting accusations and insults, the others arguing ignorance. All the while, Varya felt the strength of the men holding her ebbing. She was starting to fold in half as her bottom sank toward the floor.

Suddenly, a damp cloth was pressed to her face. It smelled of something cloying and sweet. It was the same liquid they had used in her bedchamber.