She lifted her head and he pulled a rather crumpled handkerchief from his vest. She declined and took out hers from her purse. “Ilya said I should ask his brother what he has been doing since last year. He said he hasn’t had anyone since we… you know.”
“Really? Since the Bath house party? Seph, you are a torturing harpy; the poor man.”
She grinned. Hope rioting…what if he was telling the truth after all? Tears pricked her eyes again. If Ilya was telling the truth, everything…. absolutely everything, changed.
“It may be inopportune to bring this up,” Marsden said, “but what about St Alban?”
Chapter 25
Despite finding out Ilya had not slept with the duo in Bath and that he was under obligation to his family to play the rake, he was not redeemed. The fact remained that she had been heart broken and five and a half months of heartache was a long time. That he had also suffered went some way to sooth her, but it was not enough.
Seraphina had followed up with Georgie, who got information out of Demetri, Ilya had been morose, sullen, ill tempered. No parties and playing up, his mother was beside herself and women were visiting with the hope that the second Vladimir prince was ready to settle down and wed. He’d been charming but not encouraging.
The only thing that had gotten his interest and full support was a season for Tatiana in London. And his growing passion for motorcars; a foolish focus as far as his family were concerned.
Yes, they knew Prince Ulyanov. There had been stories about Bath and how he and Ilya had drunk and played cards until they fell asleep in their chairs.
Yet all of that didn’t mean that he was forgiven. That her pain was forgotten….and then there was St Alban.
The sound of a motorcar purred into the portico outside. Seph stopped herself from going to the bay window, she knew who it was. The front door opened, and the murmur of voices drifted in from the foyer. Pleasure, confusion, need, excitement they all warred inside her sending nerves in every direction.
She straightened her soft lemon-yellow skirt. Looked across the room at her reflection in the mirror, white lace blouse with a broach of soft pink camellias, she soothed back some stray curls of hair.
The door to the front parlor opened. It was afternoon teatime, a suitable time for callers to come.
“A Prince Petroski, your Grace.”
Seraphina stood, heart suddenly racing.
Ilya strode in, and warmth flushed her skin. He was in his military dress. Formal and regal. The languid rake and libertine was nowhere to be seen in his bearing. In front of her stood a man of status. Someone to rely on. A man proclaiming himself in the longest standing message between the genders.
Heat washed her cheeks with pleasure, but she was not yet ready to give him what they both wanted.
The door closed behind him and still he stood there waiting for her to invite him in. It was as with all invitations, an invitation for more. In this case permission to reenter her life, to advance his interest. To ask the question his appearance conveyed he wanted to ask.
The silence stretched and her heart pounded.
Not yet.
Not so easily.
Ilya drew himself up higher. He bore the tension well. His face giving nothing away, simply a man standing in front of a woman wanting her to choose him above all others.
“I heard you visited Georgina.”
“Yes.”
“You were not satisfied?” Concern slipped over his features.
“You hurt me, Ilya. You hurt me a great deal.”
“I’ll make it up to you. Name your penance of me and I will make it up to you.”
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. The idea of Ilya doing any kind of penance was ludicrous, but it was a little satisfying to imagine the possibilities.
“Do you need more time?” Ilya slipped his hands into his pockets.
She shook her head no.
“I will be at the Theatre tonight, The Magic Flute,” she said.
“I will be there. And.” He stepped forward. “If you still hold me with any fondness, wear the mandarin velvet dress.”
“And if I did?”
His eyes smoldered as he looked at her. “I would take it as permission to advance my position.”
“Your position? The one that is currently relegated to the doorstep.”
“I am not out on the street.” He wiggled his eyebrows and she laughed.
“We’ll see. I have people to call on so you must find more willing women to see you this afternoon.”
“I am at your mercy.” She rolled her eyes and he gave her a formal bow and left.
A half hour later, Seraphina was ushered into the opulent front parlor of St Alban’s Mayfair house. The family called it the rookery given its smaller size relative to the main family estate and its proximity to the other Mayfair houses.
St Alban, had lived at the ‘rookery’ for the last thirty months and despite their connection and subsequent engagement he had never looked any happier than the first time she’d seen him. There was a gravity to him, a weight. His wife had run off with a rival and disappeared in Europe. Papers followed asking for divorce and he’d obliged. He’d recognized her wound he’d said. Recognized they both needed the solitude only broken souls were able to give each other. She had agreed, had accepted the offer of marriage, they’d yet to kiss, yet to do anything amorous. Heirs were a given and of course she would have obliged.
St Alban walked in and stilled. A rueful smile. “Your Russian?”
“Yes.” She smoothed down the front of her skirt suddenly self-conscious.
“You look like Spring.” He walked in and motioned them to sit.
“Thank you.” Seph sank into a chair opposite him.
“I will release you of course.” Lovely man, stepping in to save her the difficulty of asking.
“I’m sorry.” She didn’t think she’d hurt him, simply that he was again alone.
He raised his hand. “No need. I am envious.” Those sad eyes. “I’ll have the announcement placed in the papers.”
“I have a favor to ask…something rather wicked I’m afraid so feel free to refuse.”
He smiled. She had managed to make him look softer these last few months if not happier. He had in some ways benefited from their time together, the harsh edge of solitude a little softer now.
Five hours later Seph walked into the theatre’s foyer on the arm of St Alban, and of course, wearing the mandarin velvet dress. She had gone to great pains to have her hair coiled and dressed showcasing her shoulders and neck which she knew Ilya found very alluring. Jet earrings and cascading necklaces made her shimmer as she walked.
“You look stunning.” St Alban whispered in her ear just as she caught sight of Ilya dressed in formal black and whites, so wonderfully regal as he stood alongside his sister, brother, and Georgie.
Seph leaned in closer to St Alban, her hand over his. “I am very grateful you are doing this tonight.”
They met acquaintances and St Alban released her hand, reached out for a glass of champagne, and gave it to her, one hand on her lower back.
Ilya started to stalk. He prowled the perimeter of the room, his eyes boring into them. Seph finally looked up. His gaze captured hers, and her heart leaped. She raised her glass to him and the look he gave her promised real trouble when he got her alone. Seph turned to St Alban and fluttered her eyelids at him as the bell sounded for the start of the performance.