“I recall you kicking Bobby Blackwell in the shins when he tried to kiss you. I know you didn’t do that to your Prince. You deserve to kick your heels up before you decide what to do next.” Their gazes met across the carriage. “Besides,” Marsden’s expression grew mischievous, “I know he would be very good at playing my kind of games…” Marsden smirked, “especially if he already has you babbling poetry.”
She gave him another small kick with her foot.
The gossip column in the morning paper read:
Were the Petroski brothers in town on special business? Reportedly, a well-to-do Miss might be keeping secrets the rest of London is yet to remember? Or is it the elusive and shockingly beautiful widow haunting the salons recently that has brought them here?
Chapter 5
Last night Ilya saw her at The Royal Opera House in Covent Garden, dressed in a daring mandarin velvet dress with jet beads cascading down her bodice. Large ostrich plumes were held to her pale golden hair with marcasite clasps. She glowed in the crowd, like a shimmering sunset.
Stunning.
Seraphina would shine at any event in the Russian court.
Ilya found a way to sidle up to her, a moment in the thick interval crowd when the people around her were turned in conversation elsewhere. Champagne glasses on round trays circulated around the room as pre-orders were delivered. And white jacketed serving staff took trays laden with refreshments and nibbles to private boxes.
Seraphina faced away from him when he leaned in.
Then paused.
Took a moment to breathe her in, to feel the warmth of her so close and yet so far from receiving his touch.
“A tongue can do the most remarkable things.” Ilya whispered in her perfectly formed ear. “Your friend Marsden would have wriggled his like the vibrato of the soprano in the last act.”
She moved too slowly, gave herself away. She knew it was him. He grinned, knowing she had been aware of him in the room, aware of his approach.
“Yours obviously can’t stay still in your mouth.” Her voice was perfectly bored, but he knew the telltale signs. Her hand flicked her fan a little too fast. Her body lost its natural stance, was stiff, waiting.
A perfectly glorious ripple of satisfaction went through him. He grabbed a whiskey as a tray whizzed past. “My tongue, should it touch you, little bird, would be like the girl with the red shoes, bedeviled, dancing ceaselessly, ardently until…the cry of death.”
The pulse at her clavicle beat faster, her skin pinked and he grew thick in his trousers. Images of le petite mort, hers on his tongue, feeling her tender flesh as it pulsed and wept over his lips flickered in his mind. “Would you like to die at the thrust of my tongue, Seraphina? I wish you would.”
The bell chimed the start of the next act. Marsden scowled at him across the crowded room as he made his way over. A proprietary act, but not as her lover.
“I’m sorry did you say something?” She turned and faced him. The telltale signs of recognition or recall of that particular sexual act were not in her eyes. The beautiful Seraphina had never died le petite mort on any man’s tongue.
But she would.
Ilya bowed. “Think of me when you hear the vibrato. I understand the second act is particularly vigorous.”
She looked bored, her gaze seemingly searching for someone in the throng behind him. So alluring with her cool distain and all-too-innocent eyes.
Ilya turned and disappeared into the crowd. This battle would be won in small, repeated attacks. Which gave him time to address the conflict between what he needed to do for Demetri to extricate himself from his betrothal and at the same time, not put the soft-hearted Seraphina offside with his antics.
And as much as he wanted to watch her from across the theatre the next time the soprano did their vibrato, the family business needed attending to. And so a night of antics at the salon was required.
Three hours later Demetri walked into Madam Debuverey’s salon and into the second room where Ilya lounged.
“Oh, finally brother, I thought you had fallen for your betrothed after all. Four and a half bloody hours. How slow can a man eat?” Ilya ground out, frustration tapping through him as he sat through the banal night. He’d spent most of it imagining ways he could take the mandarin dress off Seraphina. It was not well-known, but dresses which buttoned up at the side allowed a man a delicious amount of access to the body underneath before the garment needed to come off.
Demetri lowered himself on the large burgundy chesterfield and sat next to him.
“It will take as long as it takes, brother.”
“I suggest the duration is shorter than the date of the wedding.” Ilya raised his hand and motioned for another drink and the same for his brother. A Christmas elf dressed in a tailored red and green velvet outfit with ridiculous elven ears, brought over a tray with their drinks along with a small plate of savory snacks.
“What have I missed?” Demetri surveyed the group lounging around a small stage. He appeared decidedly distracted.
“We are playing theatre.” Ilya said. “Romeo and Juliet, we have paused at the balcony scene to determine ‘who is the best kisser’.” He smirked. “I am at least taking my task seriously; you seem to be dragging your heels.”
Demetri scowled. “It’s not as easy as I had anticipated.”
Just then a man and a woman in a slightly disheveled state came from behind a curtained alcove to the hoots and howls from the room. A small apothecary bottle lay on its side. They all clapped and repeated ‘Spin, spin, spin,’ as two more were selected to go behind the curtain.
“I need this to end.” Ilya said in Russian.
“As do I brother.” Demetri’s face was drawn tight.
“No, I mean I need it to end.” Ilya said pointedly. “It is putting me in a compromised position.”
“You have never been compromised in your life. It’s Ilya’s way or no way at all,” Demetri said.
“Jealous of my life brother? Freedom from purpose has its own pressures.”
Demetri swore in Russian. “Ilya, just do as you promised us you would. This is not the time to be getting caught up with anyone. I need you to stay focused. The family requires you to do what you do best.” Demetri waved to the debauchery around the room. “Join in and cause a sensation.”
Ilya scowled. “Who do you think suggested the game? Besides…it’s different.”
Demetri looked uninterested. “It’s always different. Stay focused.”
Ilya swore, stood, and dragged the closest woman against him, making a parody of a kiss to a cheering room.
A vase crashed on the floor as he dipped the woman into a swoon over his arm.
A Duchess of Somerset and a Lord Marsden were announced.
There was a clear line of sight from the front room right back to where he stood in the second. The entrance curtain already open.
And there she stood, Seraphina, in her mandarin velvet dress, Marsden at her shoulder. She stood assessing the vignette they all made. Romeo and Juliet costumes, people sitting on each other’s knees. It was one of those nights where the parlor games took a racy turn.
She would have been standing there for the damned kiss. A pressing of lips. Nothing ardent, but full of drama. Meant to entertain not seduce. Yet still. His stomach knotted.