"You prefer stories of adventure primarily about women then?"
"Yes, I do. But I also liked Robinson Crusoe." She glanced at him. "And Tom Jones."
"How very interesting," he murmured.
She laughed and returned her attention to the shelves and a set of Shakespeare's plays. "I like Shakespeare, of course, but only the comedies. I find the histories and tragedies far too dark in spirit. Although I have always been fond of Antony and Cleopatra, in spite of the ending." He moved to stand behind her and studied the shelves. If she turned abruptly, there was a very good chance she would be in his arms. And then there was an excellent possibility he would take the opportunity afforded to him to kiss—
"What about Romeo and Juliet?" He reached out and traced a title with the tip of his finger. "I thought women, particularly women with a penchant toward romance, liked Romeo and Juliet"
"And you think I have a penchant for romance?"
"I do not know." She felt him lean closer. His words sounded beside her ear. "I rather hope so."
"Do you?" She held her breath. "Why?"
"Because I have a fondness for romance myself." His words were low and seductive, his breath warm against her ear.
She swallowed hard. "I have never been particularly fond of Romeo and Juliet."
"No?" His lips brushed the side of her neck. "You do not care for Romeo's declarations of love?"
"His declarations are meaningless given the end of the play." She shook her head and tried to ignore the altogether wonderful sensations he was expertly producing. "I fear I find it entirely too sad."
"I can certainly understand that." He nuzzled the crook of her neck, and delight shuddered through her.
"They do die at the end after all."
"The entire story is heartbreaking. Star-crossed lovers doomed never to be together. Yet they could love no one else. They were destined for each other, one made for the other as if halves of the same whole."
He stilled. "Do you believe in that sort of thing?"
Was he always going to do this? Just when she was about to melt into a puddle at his feet, he changed the subject. It was becoming most annoying. "What sort of thing?"
"Destiny. That two people might be fated for one another? Halves of the same whole?"
"Yes," she said slowly. She hadn't when she'd first met him, but then all she had intended was a single night. She'd had no idea that night would stay in her dreams, in her heart, forever. Indeed, only today had she come to the realization that they were perfect for one another. That he was most likely the only man in the world for her.
He straightened. "Which play of Shakespeare's do you like best then?" She sighed. "All's Well that Ends Well suppose."
"And your favorite sweet?"
"I don't know." She wanted nothing more than to bang her head in frustration on the bookshelves.
"Strawberry tarts."
"Do you prefer dogs or cats?"
"Dogs." This was absurd.
"Your favorite place?"
"Ven—" She caught herself and whirled to face him. "Vienna." He braced a hand on the bookshelves on either side of her and grinned.
"Ven—Vienna? Charming place. I believe I visited there once. The food wasn't very good though if I recall."
"I meant to say Vienna," she said in a lofty manner.
"You meant to say Venice."
He had her effectively trapped between his arms. Not necessarily a bad position to be in if one weren't trying to evade questions and one's own growing desire. "Very well then, I confess." He chuckled. "I thought you might."
"I did indeed start to say Venice, but then I changed my mind." She smiled. "I decided that in truth I preferred Vienna."
"Come now, Pamela." He looked annoyingly smug as if he could read her very thoughts. Surely he couldn't have connected her to the woman he had met in Venice? It was entirely far-fetched even to consider that Pamela and Serenissima would be one and the same. Unless, of course, he did indeed remember their night together, and had somehow managed to match her presence there with his. He did claim a fertile imagination after all.
Still, did he care? Was it at all significant to him, or was this simply one of those puzzles he enjoyed unraveling?
"You cannot possibly prefer Vienna, or indeed anywhere else in the world, to Venice."
"And yet I do." She met his gaze coolly.
"Do you?" His gaze searched hers. "Why?"
She shrugged. "It's one of the great capitals of the world. It is the center of art and music—"
"And coffeehouses."
"And coffeehouses." She laughed.
"And yet"—he leaned close and brushed his lips lightly across hers—"it is lacking in the very element that makes Venice so very special."
"Oh?" Dear Lord he was good. He fogged her mind and muddled her senses. Was it really necessary to ignore her own desire?
"Magic," he said softly.
"I daresay Vienna has magic." After all, it wasn't as if they hadn't been together before.
"Do you realize, Pamela, you are precisely the right height for me?" His gaze bored into hers. She raised her chin slightly. "I hadn't noticed."
"It is extraordinarily easy to kiss you. As if you were made just for me."
"Perhaps you were made for me?"
He chuckled. "Perhaps."
She drew a deep breath. Either she was going to drag him bodily to his bed, or it was time to put some distance between them.
"Is there anything else you would like to know about me?" she said in a casual manner that belied the hammering of her heart.
"I should like to know everything about you." He kissed the altogether too-sensitive spot below her ears.
"Where to touch to make you tremble as you are doing now."
"I'm not trembling," she said in a voice that wasn't the least bit steady. His lips whispered against the base of her throat. "Where to kiss you to feel your skin flush beneath my lips."
She tried to ignore all the images his words brought to mind. "This really isn't—"
"Or whether you will call out my name in—"
"That's quite enough," she said in the firmest manner she could muster. "You are being entirely inappropriate. Quite scandalous and impertinent, and I should slap your face very hard for that." He grinned. "Would you?"
"No. You would like it entirely too much." She gathered the fragments of her resolve, ducked under his arm, and stepped out of reach. "Need I remind you, Alexei, the entire purpose of our engagement is to restore my position in society with the eventual goal of finding a suitable husband." He snorted. "You would not be happy with a suitable sort of husband." She stared. "Why on earth not?"
He shrugged: "I simply cannot see you with someone suitable. You would be bored within a week."
"Don't be absurd." She moved to pick up her teacup, carried it to the brandy decanter, poured a healthy dollop into her cup, and took a long swallow. Aunt Millicent had always said, and Pamela had always agreed, a touch of brandy in tea, or perhaps it was a touch of tea in brandy, helped to steady one's nerves. Her nerves could certainly use steadying at the moment. "I shall probably be quite content." He raised a brow. "Content?"
"Happy. I meant to say happy. Even blissful."
"Rubbish." He picked up his glass and swirled his brandy. "I have met any number of Englishmen, and aside from my cousin and yours as well perhaps, I have never met one who is not dull, rather sanctimonious, and surprisingly arrogant."
"You're arrogant."
"Yes, but my arrogance is justified."
She rolled her gaze toward the ceiling.
"You have spent years traveling, visiting any number of foreign lands, meeting any number of interesting people. I would wager it has changed you rather dramatically."
"I've already admitted to that."
"I do not mean the manner in which you have become more like the rest of your family. That was obviously always a part of your nature that you had yet to develop and came with age and experience and probably the absence of the influence of the Effingtons."
"Probably," she said wryly, and took another sip of the brandy-laden tea. It was really quite tasty.
"What I mean is that you are different in the way in which you see the world. Certainly, through your years of travel you have spent a great deal of time with the elite of society, the wealthy, royalty, and the like, but you have, as well, experienced cultures and customs of countries you never would have known had you not left England."
"Travel is always something of an education. It's part of the enjoyment of it."
"And I suspect it has made you far less likely to accept the suitable sort of husband you would have accepted six years ago."
She drew her brows together in annoyance. "Even then I certainly wouldn't have accepted anyone, just for the sake of marrying."
"No, I daresay you would not."
"Not that I think you're at all correct about Englishmen, mind you, but what kind of man do you think I should marry?"
"Someone with an adventurous nature. And courage, of course. I suspect marriage to you would require a fair amount of courage."
"Thank you."
"I am not entirely certain that was a compliment." He chuckled. "You require someone with a fair amount of intelligence as well. You have an exceptionally sharp mind." He raised his glass to her. "That was a compliment."
"Again, my thanks."
"Beyond that, you need someone who can appreciate the uniqueness of your character. Who will not try to mold you into the perfect, docile creature Englishmen appear to prefer. Who will see you as a challenge that stirs his blood."
"A challenge to stir the blood?" She laughed. "That is a compliment."
"Indeed it is." His gaze met hers, and her breath caught.
"Dare I hope to find such a paragon?" Although in truth I have found him already. "Indeed, he seems too perfect to be a mortal man."
"Ah, but he is not perfect, Pamela." He sipped his brandy and studied her thoughtfully. "You would not do well with perfect, nor would perfect do well with you. You need a man who would challenge you as much as you challenge him. A man to do battle with."
"And what of love?"
He chuckled. "Love is an interesting question."
"Have you ever been in love?" She held her breath.
"I do not know." He shrugged. "Perhaps. Perhaps not."
"Surely you would know if you—"
"I see your rules are for you alone."
She shook her head. "What do you mean?"
"Simply that you wish no discussion of your past, yet mine is apparently a topic of vast interest."
"You like discussing your past."
"Much of it I do." He shook his head. "But not this."
"Why not?"
"It is entirely too personal."
"More personal than your romantic conquests?"
"Apparently."
She studied him for a moment. "Was your heart broken then? At some time in the past?" He sighed. "You certainly have no understanding of the word no, do you?"
"I simply think there are some things a fiancée would know about her betrothed," she said lightly.
"I do so enjoy having my words turned around to suit you. Very well then, Pamela, no." His tone was firm. "My heart has never been broken. It was...twisted once, even bent perhaps, although I did not realize it until much later."
"Oh?" Her own heart sped up.
"It was a moment, nothing more than that. Stolen really from the realities of life." He shrugged. "It was never intended to be more than a moment and yet..."
"And yet?"
"And yet it was." He paused, and she wondered if he was thinking about their moment or if it was something altogether different. At last he drew a deep breath. "And you?"
"And I what?"
"Have you ever been in love?"
"Excellent change of topic, Alexei." She laughed softly.
His gaze met hers, sharp and intense as if he could see right through her. "And only fair that you answer."
"Yes, I suppose it is." She sipped her tea. "I thought I was in love once, but I was mistaken."
"Only once then?"
"I was mistaken only once, yes."
He stared for a moment then laughed. "And I daresay I shall get no more from you than that." She grinned. "Am I still a challenge then? Still a mystery to be unraveled?"
"Always I suspect." His tone was mild, but the look in his eye remained.
"But not today." She drained the last of her drink, placed her cup on the table, and rose to her feet.
"Clarissa and I have errands, and I must be off."
"Pity. I had rather hoped to spend the rest of the afternoon together to...talk."
"Just to talk?"
"You are annoying." He heaved a resigned sigh, set his glass down, and, before she could say a word, moved to her and took her in his arms. "Most annoying."