Chapter 22
Seph didn’t even see the words in the book on Greek archeological sites in front of her. The June afternoon sun reflected off the glass windows across the street flickering shadows as pedestrians passed it like the reel of a movie, as she sat in her usual chair in the Bond Street Bookshop. St Alban was taking them to Greece for their honeymoon. He wanted to know her top five locations so he could have the trip planned to cover her interests as well as his. She should be thinking about St Alban and the wedding.
Yet she wasn’t.
Of course, she wasn’t. She wasn’t even interested.
How could she be, knowing that Ilya was back in town? The gossip columns were already nibbling at scraps. ‘Is the usurper prince back for the elusive widow?’ was this morning’s offering.
Idiots!
She’d asked the staff to deliver a second service as she just couldn’t face leaving and going home in case Ilya called on her there. And he would.
Marsden was right.
Ilya was here with a purpose, and his actions in Madam Debuverey’s salon made it all too clear he was going to look her up. That they were clearly not done. It sent a ripple through her even as it scared the living daylights out of her.
Some men were hard to survive.
Ilya was front and center in her thoughts today, like every other day of the last five and a half months. She’d spent the last half hour unsuccessfully swatting away the image of him standing in the salon the night before last. Unapologetic in his hungry regard as he claimed her with his eyes.
He’d come to win her back. It scared her to her very core. She was a coward. She’d run and now she was hiding.
The last two nights she’d tossed and turned so much she woke in a tangle of sheets. Yesterday she’d taken a brisk walk in Hyde Park before driving over to lambast Marsden. Today she’d skulked out of the house using the back entrance and hidden herself here at the Bond Street Bookshop.
Ilya in London just haunted her where she now looked for him everywhere.
Seph finally yielded and closed the book on Greece, placing it on the small side table as her second tea service arrived. She didn’t even want to go to Greece.
Delaying the inevitable, she poured the tea, then reached out and picked up the dastardly little seducer, the newest edition of The Motor Car Journal, A Medium For All Interested In Self Propelled Traffic. She hated herself just a little more as her heart gave a flutter of anticipation.
Since having her first experience in a motor car she had joined the growing debate as a supporter and believer that the motor car was part of their future. That the noble beast and its drawn conveyances would be a thing of the past. Those who were pro-motor car expounded the benefits including a cure for insomnia and a wealth of sensual properties such as endless and varied scenery, the whistle of the wind in one’s face and the beauty of sun and shadow.
Seph turned the page. Ah, more complaints were listed in jest. Those against the motor car complained of the noise pollution saying motorcars sounded like an avalanche of tea trays, that the dust they generated ruined washing, increased throat and eye infections, ruined crops and even clogged a woman’s typewriter. But that wasn’t why she had the periodical. No, that was because of the article on Prince Vladimir Ilya Petroski, newest member of the Royal Automobile Club and investing partner in Dennis Brothers Limited.
Some part of her couldn’t help but be proud for him. Knew the shifts he’d made to follow a passion that those closest to him doubted the validity of.
Seph took a sip of tea and picked up a short bread, drew in a large breath and turned the page.
And there he was.
A quarter page photograph, full head and shoulders. She nibbled her shortbread, her eyes gobbling up the words…investing here despite France’s lead in the automotive industry...a strong supporter of Britain’s position in the race to motorize…reforms needed…yes he intended settling in the UK. Her eyes darted back to his photo, not the one where he stood alongside the Dennis Brothers at their factory in Guildford, but the quarter page head and shoulders. She looked and nibbled, nibbled, and nibbled until the shortbread was gone. As if that delicious melt-on-the-tongue accompaniment to tea were able to fulfill the need for him rioting through her body.
Seph snapped the periodical closed. But she knew she would add it to the pile of her purchases, despite already berating herself for even taking the dastardly little seducer off the shelf in the first place.
“Do you mind if I sit down?”
Seph lurched to standing.
The periodical dropped to the floor as she instinctively stumbled backward, almost knocking the chair over.
Ilya reacted with all the speed and instinct of the predatory wolf he was. He stepped forward, arms darting out, wrapping craftily around her waist, swiftly drawing her against him to stabilize her. There was nothing short of actually launching herself at him, that could have more successfully opened the opportunity for him to hold her.
And here he was, as if her deepest desires had manifested him right here, right now, holding her close. Her hands rested naturally against his all too fine chest, so close his magical cologne of cedar an oud wash right through her, making her body purr with remembrance.
“I thought the likeness a good one,” he murmured, his delectable mouth in a half smile.
“Overly flattering portraits can lead to disappointment when one meets the subject in the flesh.” She made an unconvincing attempt to step out of his hold that even she didn’t believe. His arms tightened.
“Seraphina.” He said her name in his oh-so-delicious Russian accent and her knees wobbled. Seph’s fingers curled in his jacket, traitorous appendages.
“Did I disappoint in the flesh?” he murmured. “I am honor bound to make it up to you.”
She scowled at him. “Perhaps you need to look ‘honor’ up in the dictionary.”
“I’m here to make it up to you.” Her chest tightened, one foot wanted to leap and the other to run. The man was too dangerous this close. She needed obstacles he couldn’t ignore.
“I’m engaged to someone else.” She raised her chin.
“So I heard.” His gaze seemed caught at her lips as if her movement offered them up to him.
“I think you can let me go now.”
She didn’t move.
Neither did he.
His gaze met hers and just like that her body started to tremble. An uncontrollable shiver of emotional need, hurt, grief.
“I am free now to tell you everything.”
“I’m not even remotely interested.” He lowered her to her seat, and she clutched at the armrests, willing the sudden weakness in her body to resolve.
“I thought you might like to go for a drive.” He moved to sit. “We can talk.”
“Please do not sit down.” Her voice held the slightest trace of pending hysteria. Seph took a deep breath and started again. “I want you to leave.”
He stilled. “I deserve the chance to explain.”
She shook her head no. “I have had my fill of slumming with rakes.”
He didn’t look hurt. He looked sad and that sliced through her.
“Perhaps I can call on you?” he asked.
She shook her head no. “I will never be in residence to you.”