Ilya, released the woman who giggled and pretended to swoon again onto the divan.
His heart thumped harder. He’d done nothing wrong, yet he didn’t like her seeing him like this. He’d been too confident, too sure she would not come for a while longer; the theatre crowd went for supper, if she were to come it should still be an hour away…not now.
The bottle had selected its next couple to do the balcony scene and kiss, all focus was on them. Except hers. Hers was on him.
Ilya stood frozen to the spot, gut tight as Seraphina turned, a word to Marsden and then she left the salon.
Demetri reached out and tugged him to sit down.
“She’s not your type,” he consoled. “Looks far too cultured, too serious. You like the racy, giggly ones.”
“I like her.” Ilya rumbled in Russian. And that was the truth of it.
“She likes you then?” Demetri looked back to where Seraphina slipped through the salon’s red velvet curtain, Marsden sending an assessing look Ilya’s way.
“She is trying not to. I’m doing my best to help her feel conflicted about that.”
“You’re a cad.” Demetri threw back his drink. “I’d stick with those who don’t care what you are.”
What you are. And there it was again, what his family thought of him. All they thought he had to offer.
Ilya finished his drink and rose. “I’m going to follow her.”
“You have a job to do,” Demetri reminded him.
Ilya panned his hand around, raised his eyebrows. Reminding Demetri who suggested the little diversion of ‘who’s the best kisser’. That he’d just kissed a woman causing no end of trouble for himself with the woman he was captivated by.
Ilya patted Demetri on the shoulder. “And so do you, brother, so hurry up.”
Demetri nodded; the man was way too somber for a night on the town.
Something was happening that Demetri was not telling him about.
Despite his best efforts to find her, the disapproving Seraphina had disappeared for the night and Ilya drowned his frustration at Hells Hall. Perhaps not the brightest move as it only reminded him of her more. Every hand, won or lost, reminded him of how she’d beaten him. And then when she saw he took pleasure in it, she’d lost! Ha! She would give Russian women a run for their money.
Sometime in the night he stood in that small service corridor where they had been only a few nights back. He remembered the feel of her, the taste of her. The absolute intoxication of her. The Duchess of Somerset had invaded his mind, had sparked a hunger for her that was spilling through his veins.
Obsession with a conquest was not new. That wish to catch, to hunt and chase down a delicious quarry. That ardent possessiveness whenever he saw his conquest and imagined what he’d do when he won her. That was all present with Seraphina, but this was something more. He was not yet sure whether he should step away, stay clear of that deep swell she caused in him, or dive in. He had the distinct feeling that if he made the dive, he would not emerge the same man. A thought that should bother him, maybe even scare the hell out of him and yet…it didn’t.
He gamed all night, undertook the obligatory flirting. He even hired a room out the back, ensuring everyone thought he had a secret liaison arranged and a paramour tucked away. He was cheered by the men at the table to have organized trysts so soon after arriving in London. The looks of admiration and envy from the table as he headed to the room were the perfect fuel his family demanded. He entered the room, had a good sleep, and woke before dawn.
Ilya walked down the corridor into the gaming hall. There was a table still playing so he strolled up.
Lord Marsden was one of the last nine players.
“Room for a tenth?” At their nods, Ilya sat next to Marsden and was dealt into the next hand.
Heralded a scoundrel. He had everyone playing ‘who was in the room with the Russian Prince.’ Everyone except for Marsden who knew all too well a real man doesn’t tell, doesn’t boast who his paramour was.
As the table folded and men stood with their cravats pulled loose and stubble thick on their jaws, Marsden walked with him to claim their coats.
“What’s your interest in the Duchess of Somerset?” Marsden asked.
“In Russia it is seen as rude to interfere with a man’s private business.”
They slipped on their coats and held their top hats in gloved hands. The two of them facing off like the predators they were.
When Ilya looked set to walk out the door Marsden grabbed him by the arm. “If you embarrass her by involving her in your public antics, I will come for you.”
Ilya shrugged off Marsden’s hold. “Like leaving her at a table while you devoured your paramour? Or having her exposed to you taking your particular pleasures?”
Marsden scowled. “Seems to me you swooped right in.”
Ilya went to walk away and Marsden stepped in front of him. “She is someone special to me. If she chooses to dally with you that’s her business but I will be right there to ensure you do it like a gentleman.”
“And you think I wouldn’t?”
“Whispering in her ear at the theatre, then doing the salons, and now that.” Marsden nodded in the direction of the back room. “That’s not how I want her to experience pleasure, with a man who ruts around like a dog.”
Ilya stepped forward and bent into Marsden’s face. Hard brown eyes held his own giving him measure for measure. “There was no one there. I slept,” Ilya said.
“You slept?” Marsden’s face was momentarily blank.
Ilya shrugged. “I was tired.”
The tightness left Marsden’s face. “I’ve done that myself on occasion.”
“So, we are clear,” Ilya said, “the next time you call me a fucking dog, I will call you out.”
Marsden nodded, the glimmer of a smile on his chiseled features. “All right then.”
They turned and left the establishment, walked down the stone steps and into the forecourt where Marsden’s carriage waited. “Can I give you a lift?”
Ilya gave a nod, “I heard there is a coffee house open at this time. Coffee and Turkish delight?”
“I know the place. I’d recommend the Baklava.”
Chapter 6
Ilya sauntered into their rented Mayfair house in time for breakfast. A grand affair with far too many rooms for their purposes; but Russian Princes couldn’t be seen to be poor, there were too many of them floating about the continent to risk looking shabby.
The coffee house had been an excellent suggestion. Lord Marsden was exactly his sort of man. They spoke motor cars and engines for two hours before Marsden dropped him home. It had been all he could do to contain himself from asking about Seraphina.
“Welcome back, Sir.”
“Thank you, Smithson.”
They’d gone through the whole protocol of address with the butler. Explained that he and his brother were not addressed as ‘Your Highness’ as they were not princes of the Russian court. And that Russia had all kinds of titles that often bore no weight at all. ‘Your Grace’ was also not suitable, so they suggested ‘Sir,’ much to Smithson’s displeasure. Demetri received the acknowledgement of ‘General’, which went some way toward placating the man.