It was everything Ilya could do not to punch him.
“I am losing the woman I plan to marry. She is in pain, somewhere in the city. I need to explain.”
Two days later Paris had closed ranks on him. No one knew of her nor had seen her. For all he knew Snowden had gotten it wrong all together.
And he had to travel back to St Petersburg. Be there as Demetri had requested as they finally put an end to the betrothal and blackmail.
Part II
And How It All … Ended
Chapter 20
July 1st, 1900
The floor length, thick red velvet curtain, the entrance to Madame Debuverey’s salon, drew open and the newest guest was announced.
“A Prince Vladimir Ilya Petroski.”
The room stilled. A group playing charades were the only ones who continued to laugh and talk, oblivious to the perceived cad who’d entered their midst.
“I can’t believe he’s here.”
“Who does he think he is?”
“What a poser.”
The not-so-whispered cuts and disapproval scurried around the salon.
Ilya sauntered in with a walk that belied the tension churning in his gut. He scanned the room, scanned through the arch to the room behind, noted the doors leading to the last two rooms were closed for the night.
She was supposed to be here.
He navigated around the room ensuring he could see in each sectioned area. No. Not here.
“It’s the Prince.”
“Russia was soooo last season.”
A barked laugh.
Ilya clenched his jaw tight and stopped behind a chair, placed his hands on Lord Marsden’s shoulders, and massaged them. Bent down and said in a loud whisper. “Something to say to me, friend?”
Marsden stiffened. “You couldn’t stay put in Russia?”
Ilya dug his fingers into that spot on the shoulders and…yes. Marsden’s posture crumbled as the pain in the pressure point lanced through him. All the while Ilya scanned again the darker pockets of the room in case he’d missed her. And…no. No, Seraphina.
Ilya released his friend, took a seat in the group who had heralded him as a social sovereign at Christmas last year. The same who now scowled at him as they panned the room for an exit.
“So, Russia was cold.” He lifted his hand and clicked.
The tumbler of vodka was immediate. Some people remembered him.
All the gents in the group, apart from Lord Marsden, stood and left without a word.
The Cut.
How many had he received and lived through? Too many to count.
“I told you last month in Paris to give it a few years, come back when people have other things on their mind.” Marsden growled but stayed in his seat. Still a friend then.
Ilya motioned vaguely. “Leave, go drink with the others. Personally, I recall them being rather insipid, the conversation droll and their lack of courage for life appalling.”
“You’re a bastard you know. You could have at least told me. You know I would have held your confidence. Let alone Seph.”
“Ah… but to a Russian, family business is family business.”
Madam Debuverey, standing by the bay window with guests he didn’t know, raised a glass of champagne in welcome. So, there would be no personal welcome and stroll around the room he’d merited in December. It would be up to him to re-establish his acceptance and standing in the salon, yet the visual toast was a signal to all that he had the support of the patroness.
The curtain rustled and then opened.
The Duchess of Somerset and the Baron of St Alban, was announced.
Ilya sat up straighter. Heart suddenly pounding at the sight of her.
Too long. Too long without her.
Marsden groaned and ground out under his breath. “For heaven’s sake man, leave her alone, you did enough.”
She stood, the light from the hall behind her pale hair a shining halo like something out of a fairy tale. Her face was a little thinner and the smile she beamed at the man behind her too devastating for Ilya’s liking.
“She’s engaged now. Due to tie the knot in the spring.” Marsden said in a harsh whisper.
Ilya ignored the slice in his gut the words caused and waved a dismissive hand. The man didn’t know about persistence, didn’t know anything about Russian charm.
Didn’t know what happened in December.
Ilya placed his tumbler on the side table and deliberately rose.
He wore the formal military red dress jacket he knew she always liked. ‘It makes your chest look broad,’ she’d said as she ran her hands across his back, then pressed her face against his cheek, ‘as if you were someone a girl could rely on to hold the world back.’ But he hadn’t held that world back, had he? He’d sent her running to ground in Paris, the family needing him back in St Petersburg before he found her.
Her gaze swung around the room, peppered it with smiles and a dip of her head as she recognized friends and acquaintances. Then she saw him.
Their gazes collided.
A crack of lightening flashed through him, emotions fused in a single slice of connection, of belonging, of finding your heart. In the next second his heart twisted as if wrapping around a blade that slowly sank inch by slow inch into it as he watched the smile beaming through her eyes fade at the sight of him.
The joy leaked out of her like the last rays of a spectacular sunset fading from the sky. His chest tightened. Ilya stood taller and steeled his face. He had done that to her. He was the reason she now looked haunted.
Her gaze shuttered and a smile that could fool everyone but him settled over her features. Her arm reached blindly for the man beside her and the knife in his heart sliced deeper.
The man, his competitor, Baron St Alban, bent down.
Seraphina whispered in the closeness of his chest as Ilya squeezed his palms into tight fists. Reminded himself that tonight was all about letting her know he was back. Was all about sending the message that he was single, that he was back for her. He didn’t expect a warm greeting... Didn’t expect joy or welcome, a war was not won in one bout.
They turned, pushed back through the curtain, and left.
Ilya took a single step, wanted to follow. Wanted to be in every salon she entered and silently proclaim his intent.
A hand shot out and clasped his arm.
“Sit down you bloody idiot, she’s gone.” Marsden growled next to him.
The seconds ticked by as every muscle strained, as every instinct screamed to follow.
“Ilya!” Marsden rumbled, firming his grip.
Ilya sat, heart hammering, gaze still glued to the curtain she had gone through. Willing her to walk back through it, press across the room and throw herself into his arms.
But those dramatic displays were for actresses and mistresses, not for a poet with skin as soft as satin and as pale as cream. Poets who whispered phrases, words enticed from deep in her heart, whispered them into your ear as she lay curled in your arms.
“Who is he?” Ilya growled.
“Stop looking at the bloody curtain.” Marsden clicked his fingers and pointed down at their glasses which were, in moments, refilled.
“Who is he?”
“Baron of St Alban.”
Ilya cursed in Russian, the frustration bleeding out of him. “I heard his name but what does he do, what does he have?” Why did she choose him?