He stood, blocking her path to the counter.
“So, otherwise you would be interested?” The look in his eyes was not flirtatious. Serious. Intent. In fact, his whole face conveyed that her answer was important to him. That this wasn’t a flirtatious request that he would brush off.
She looked out the window then back at him. Would she have a tryst with a rake, with him, if the other women were all put on hold?
Seph drew herself up, throat a little tight but determined to be as brave as he.
“Yes. Yes, Ilya I think I would.”
A warm burnished look came into his eyes as he gazed at her, sending corresponding heat through her. What had she done? She thought she had politely turned him down and yet that wasn’t what the look in his eyes said. No, he looked as if he thought she had agreed.
“Allow me to see you home. I have a motorcar outside. A fur coat, blankets for your knees, you’ll stay warm.”
“A motorcar?” Seph peered out the window again to see a fine car parked near the entrance of the shop. “Where’s your driver?”
He smiled a smile she imagined he’d have worn as a young boy. A wholesome and genuinely heartfelt expression of pleasure that made her smile in return.
“Don’t tell me, I will have to put myself in your hands.”
And just like that the youth disappeared and was replaced by those dark hungry eyes. “I wish you would.”
Ilya carried her books to the counter and insisted on paying for them, waggling the periodical at her.
“Very important reading,” he said.
The humor was there but something else that was hard to read. He didn’t strike her as a man who needed her to see him in print, he was in the gossip columns every morning. And he was more than capable of telling her who he was without her having to read it. And yet the point was made. Read the article.
Outside he placed her purchases in a small boot.
“What make is she?”
Ilya took out another fur coat which he helped her slip over her own coat.
“A Phoenix Daimler, Mercedes won the Nice race in this model in March! I was exceptionally lucky to buy one.”
“So, it’s fast.”
“Very! I have yet to try it on the open road myself though.” He moved closer and lifted his hands to her hat. “If you’ll trust me.” He unpinned her hat and veil before she could answer and pressed a fur hat on her head, intimately tucking in stray locks. “The wind can be cold and unkind to hair fashions,” he explained. Then helped her into the roofless sporty red and white race motorcar.
Excitement coursed through her as she sat while Ilya settled her into the vehicle and tucked a fur-lined throw over her legs. Seph slipped her hand into her muff and in moments he had the engine started.
They drove down the street and around the park, where he jumped out and bought her roasted chestnuts, then over the London Bridge and back again, around Piccadilly Circus…three times because it made her laugh, and then he drove her home, motoring around the circular drive and parking under the portico.
“I had fun.” Even to her own ears her pleasure was evident in her voice. She was relaxed and happy.
“Good.” Her Russian smiled that same youthful smile as back in the Bookshop. It was the kind of expression she imagined he’d give to his family and one day a wife and children. A smile that was his pleasure in the moment and nothing more. Here in the car it was as if he was another man. He was energized and excited, a superb driver able to tell her all about the history of the car and its maker in entertaining detail. The hunter had taken a back seat to the man as he shared another of his passions.
Ilya stepped out of the car and came around to her side. Removed the warm fur-lined blanket then helped her out of the car. Seph reached up to remove the fur hat.
“No, no,” he said. “I will do that.”
“There is no need.” Her stomach suddenly tumbling with the delicious tension he created.
He clasped her hands as they reached up again.
“Give a man his small pleasures, Seraphina.” He winked and her heart summersaulted.
He gently removed the hat and set about smoothing her hair, small touches that ended with him tracing her lips before his hand lowered.
“I am glad you showed me this side of you,” she said as he brought her gloved fingers to his lips.
“You honored me by accepting my invitation.” Dark eyes filled with intensity pressed her to accept his other invitation.
The trepidation, the doubts…the afternoon in his car all but blew them away. She would be lying to say she didn’t want to get to know him better. To get to know him intimately.
“Will you reconsider my offer? We can try and work out the tigh…” He looked for the word.
“Thigh warmers,” she supplied, lips quirking.
“The thigh warmers!” His smile did wonderful things to her, the certainty at the bookshop that this would not work between them eroded by the simple charm of him. And she really did want to have a reason to leap, to dive into life, to live wildly for a change.
“Between us we could find a way. I am here for a few more weeks, possibly a month. Not even enough time for you to grow tired of me.”
Nerves stretched as she reconsidered.
It was just a month at most.
It was reckless.
Even in a few weeks she could still get hurt.
Yet a few weeks of fun like this afternoon, pleasure like he gave her in Hell’s Hall, what kind of woman would she be afterward? She would know more of the world, know more of herself. She would have lived with the courage that the men and women she so admired in literature had the courage to live.
Seraphina nodded and the shyest of smiles slipped over her face.
Ilya beamed.
He drew his arm around her, murmuring things in a voice thick as melting chocolate and drew her against him. Then picked her up and kissed her as the front door opened. Seph tugged away from those divine lips and he lowered her gently to her feet but didn’t let go of her. “I will make you happy you chose me,” he rumbled.
“I don’t believe I said yes.” She smiled at him as he reached helped her out of the fur coat.
“Oh, but you did,” he purred, looking at her lips making her skin heat up all over again. He retrieved her hat and veil as well as her books from the small luggage compartment at the back and handed them to her butler who stood stoic at the door.
Over the next three hours deliveries arrived until the foyer was filled to overflowing with flowers that would have emptied a good many of London’s hot houses. Along with them was a colorful bird mask delivered with a request that she wear it to the Winter Ball tomorrow night, a little drawing of a wolf mask, and a promise written in bold script: ‘Beware the wolf, little bird, he will gobble you up.’
Chapter 9
The Marquis and Marchioness of Salisbury’s Winter Ball was themed as a Versailles Masquerade. Invitations to the Russian Princes were delivered by the host’s own footman given their recent and unexpected arrival in London. Dressmakers across town had a second rush, as clients hastily sought to make improvements and embellishments to their masquerade gowns.
The residence in Park Lane swung open its opulent doors to celebrate Christmas. Anyone who resided in the city rather than a country estate did what was necessary to scrounge an invitation. And predictably, nearly everyone came as either Marie Antoinette or King Louis XIV.