Romancing Lady Stone (A School of Gallantry Novella) Page 2

  Duc de Andelot

  Jesus. The offer was real.

  Pulling out a leather satchel, Boris tossed it at him.

  Konstantin caught its weight with a free hand, coins tinkering within.

  “It will cover your travelling costs,” Boris explained. “Be frugal with it. You will not see anything more until you arrive into England. He suggests taking a boat out of Saint Petersburg by way of the Baltic Sea. It will get you to London faster.”

  Slowly pushing the satchel into his pocket, Konstantin tightened his hold on the letter. This was actually happening to him. He was going to be disgustingly wealthy. He’d earned thousands merely by doing the right thing.

  Imagine that.

  Lowering his gaze to the letter, he let out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. No more trying to cover the holes in his boots with polish. No more drinking vodka that might make him blind. No more cleaver swinging at a butcher shop and inhaling acrid meat for mere rubles a week in order to get respect. Life was going to be whatever he imagined. With a hundred thousand, the possibilities were limitless.

  He’d always wanted to go to London.

  Just for the women alone.

  Much like his father, he had become obsessed with British women and had often watched them coming in and out of the expensive hotels in Moscow as they pertly bustled from shop to shop under lace parasols. They were educated, knew how to speak fluent French and smelled divinely of expensive perfume whenever they breezed past in those well-corseted hips that swayed in the latest fashion. They lacked the pretentious formality of the Russian ladies.

  Of course, women of such caliber never noticed men like him. It made for a rather pathetic life of him watching and never touching. Sadly, the last time he’d even attempted to engage any woman of any caliber was almost a year ago. He had met her during a theatrical performance he had attended. The woman was beautiful, intelligent and…married. He didn’t know she was married until after he’d had sex with her in a hotel room she had rented for them. He should have known better. He’d forgotten to wear his watch that night. Not even an hour later, her husband showed up at the hotel door with four other men and whilst two held him, the rest took turns beating the blood out of him until he lost consciousness.

  He didn’t blame the husband at all.

  But he’d stayed away from women since. He figured he would live longer.

  Folding the parchment, Konstantin tucked it deep into his pocket. He still didn’t want to believe it. “Whilst I genuinely question the duc’s sanity, tell him I am beyond grateful and will travel to London at once.”

  Boris dug out a calling card from his fur coat. He flicked it out, holding it between two thick fingers. “Should you have any other questions or concerns before leaving Moscow, please call on us in a manner that would not bring attention to your circumstance.”

  Konstantin took the card. “Thank you.”

  “We will inform the duc of your response by courier. A good-evening to you, Mr. Levin.” Both men smiled, inclined their heads and turned. Their heavy footfalls echoed on their way out before disappearing out into the wind and snow.

  Silence reigned again in the abandoned building.

  Konstantin exhaled a frosty breath, letting tension seep out from his chest. It was the strangest midnight he’d ever known. And something told him, this was just the beginning.

  Somewhere in Russia

  Weeks later

  A warm male hand smoothed away the pinned curls from her forehead and tucked her better against the curve of his arm and lap. The tips of his calloused fingers gently skimmed her cheek before resting on the curve of her chin. That lingering touch promised more than unending pleasure. It promised a lifetime of all things beautiful and romantic. It was pulse rending, genuine and divine.

  She didn’t want to wake up.

  But of course she did.

  Lady Cecilia Evangeline Stone was startled out of a deep slumber when she was jostled against the cushioned seat of the travelling coach. A strange haze edged into her vision, blurring the shadows of the night with the golden halo of a lantern that dimly illuminated the small, upholstered space. It was so odd, but everything swayed more than the actual carriage.

  She froze, realizing her cheek and pinned hair, was pressed against a trouser-clad muscled thigh and that a long, masculine arm was heavily draped around her waist. It was a male thigh and a male arm she had never remembered meeting or inviting into her life.

  Unable to breathe against the soft scent of charred wood and soap drifting from his clothing, she scrambled up and out of that lap and shoved his arm away. Stumbling toward the far end of the seat, she tightened the cashmere shawl around her cloak, gown and shoulders, unable to make sense of what was happening.

  A young, good-looking man, who clearly hadn’t shaved in days, intently searched her face from where he sat beside her. His black hair was scattered beneath a low-slung cap that shadowed the color of his eyes. His rugged intensity softened as his glance slid to her décolletage before lifting again. He inclined his head as if hopeful of an introduction.

  She gaped. Who was he? And what was he doing in her carriage? Scanning the empty seats surrounding them, which were dimly lit by the coach lanterns, she stilled. This was not her carriage. The upholstery was old, ragged and barely clung to the walls and ceiling.

  Her heart skid to a frenzied halt as she glanced toward the empty, frayed seats and the mud spattered windows that framed a black, starless night and a rapidly moving road and open fields. Dearest God. Where was her translator and travelling companion? “Mrs. Bogdanovich?” she called out in disbelief, as if the woman were hidden somewhere within the upholstery.

  Cecilia pressed a trembling hand against her mouth to keep herself from screaming as panic flared through every inch of her.

  The carriage jerked.

  She stumbled, almost falling off the seat.

  Large bare hands jumped toward her and grabbed her corseted waist. The man steadied her, pulling her back onto the seat beside him. Well-muscled arms shifted against her from beneath his travelling coat as the hilt of a large dagger attached to a sizable leather belt grazed her thigh and skirts. His hands casually slid up her back, adjusting her against his side and the seat.

  With a solid push of panicked hands, she broke his hold on her.

  He held up both hands to demonstrate that he had no intention on harming her.

  Despite the fact he wore a distinguished, pinstriped waistcoat beneath a wool coat of respectable means, there was no cravat around that neck and his linen shirt was scandalously left open, exposing a masculine throat and the upper portion of a broad, well-muscled chest that had clearly seen too many hours of labor.

  Cecilia tried not to awkwardly gape at his exposed chest. “Do you speak English, sir?”

  Enigmatic eyes, whose color she still couldn’t make out in the shadows, met hers from beneath the rim of his wool cap. He lowered his hands and to her complete astonishment, he offered in well-educated English, “I do. Were you looking for conversation?” His low, husky voice was surprisingly sophisticated and laced with a heavy Russian accent that penetrated not only the walls of the carriage but every inch of her skin.

  It was like she had never heard a man speak before. It was unbelievably sensuous and made her feel as if he was thinking about doing things to her. Her throat tightened. “Were you touching me whilst I slept?”

  He shifted his jaw, a teasing gleam flickering in his eyes. “Not in that way. I prefer my women to remember what I do.”

  She pressed herself to the opposite side of the seat, setting as much distance between them. She couldn’t breathe knowing she was alone with some Russian wielding a dagger and that her travelling companion was somewhere back in the last village. Or the last three villages, for all she knew.

  She had to speak to the driver.

  Frantically snatching up her reticule from the seat beside her, Cecilia turned and thwacked the glass window sev
eral times. “Driver?” she called out as loud as she could. “Stop the coach, please. Stop the coach!”

  A large calloused hand grabbed her wrist, stilling her hand and reticule from hitting the window again. “Ey.” He leaned in closer in reprimand, revealing the sharpening green of his eyes. “What are you doing? I have a schedule to keep.”

  Between uneven breaths, Cecilia clutched her beaded reticule higher between them with a trembling hand, signaling to him that she was ready to bash his brains out with every last bead in its stitch. “If you touch me again, sir, I will hurt you and your schedule. I am trying to speak to the driver. Now let go of me!” She shook her reticule toward him for good measure.

  Those green eyes brightened. He released her wrist. “How charming. You wish to threaten my life with a reticule.” He leaned in and lowered his voice dramatically. For effect. “If you put a few rocks in it, dorogaya moya, I guarantee it will work much better.”

  He removed his cap, causing his dark hair to cascade onto his forehead. “I doubt the driver speaks any English. Few people in Russia do. Only the upper classes know the language. Fortunately for you, my father taught me how to speak it incredibly well. He had often told me, if it were not for my Russian accent and my incredible good looks, I could have easily been British.” He smiled. “Can I be of service to you?”

  This one thought he had a sense of humor. She lowered her reticule back into her lap, trying to focus and stay calm. “Is this your carriage?”

  “No.” Leaning back against the seat, he flicked the peeling upholstery with a bare finger. “I can assure you, I have far better taste than this.” He tilted his head toward her. “This is a public stagecoach. Did you not know that when you paid your fare?”

  Her eyes widened. How had she ended up on a public stagecoach? Where was the carriage she had originally hired?

  He paused. “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes!” She gestured frantically toward the empty seat across from them. “My travelling companion is-is…missing! Have you seen her? And do you know how I got to be here? Because I…I don’t remember.” She tried to keep her voice calm lest she fall into hysterics.

  The carriage jostled against the uneven grooves of the muddy road before settling into an even, swaying rhythm.

  He shifted toward her. “How can you not remember?” His brows came together. “You were already on this stagecoach when I boarded hours ago.”

  She blinked. “Hours ago? Was anyone with me?”

  “No. Not when I boarded.”

  She almost fainted. What had happened to Mrs. Bogdanovich? And why couldn’t she remember getting into the coach after her meal at the inn?

  “You slept the whole while and kept nestling into my lap no matter what I did.” He patted his thigh to demonstrate where she had rested. “I eventually stopped moving you off my lap and simply made certain you did not fall off the seat.”

  Her lips parted. She had nestled into his lap? That certainly explained why he’d been touching her. She had left him with very little choice. “Forgive me, sir. I didn’t mean to impose or accuse you of anything inappropriate.”

  He shrugged. “I have been accused of worse. And it was hardly an imposition. You appeared exhausted.” He sounded sincere.

  Cecilia set a disbelieving hand against her throat, feeling as if they had already shared a very intimate moment she couldn’t even remember. “Apparently, the mint kvass I drank back at the inn was strong. Very strong. I don’t remember anything.” Except for his hands.

  “I take it you have very thin blood?” he asked.

  “Thin— Whatever do you mean?”

  He hesitated. “Kvass has very little alcohol. You do know that, yes?”

  She squinted. That made no sense. If it had very little alcohol, why had it affected her so? Something wasn’t right. “What time is it, sir? Do you know?”

  He dug into his inner pocket and withdrew a watch attached to a chain. Flipping open the tarnished silver lid that had several notable dents in its surface, he tilted it toward the light of the lantern shining in. He stared at the watch, his expressive, rugged face stilling.

  Something was clearly wrong. “Sir? What is it? Is the hour not showing?”

  He slowly veered his gaze to hers. “Ah…no. It is showing. It always shows.” He cleared his throat, playing with the weight of the watch against his hand. “The hour is midnight. On the tick.”

  Midnight? She had been sleeping since three in the afternoon? How was that even possible? Three o’clock had been the time she and Mrs. Bogdanovich had stopped at one of the inns for a meal. Why couldn’t she remember anything beyond that? Cecilia blinked down at her bare hands still clutching her reticule. Had she not been wearing gloves?

  He snapped the lid shut, making her look up.

  She had to do something. She had to do something before she ended up on the other side of the continent. “Forgive me, sir, but I’m going to have to stop the coach. I have to go back to Strelna. It’s the last city I remember being in.”

  “You cannot be serious.” He slipped his watch and chain back into his coat with a thumb. “Strelna is ten hours away.”

  Cecilia centered her breath. “My son is getting married against my will, and I’m alone in Russia and don’t speak the language. Mrs. Bogdanovich is my translator and travelling companion, and the fact that she is missing concerns me. Greatly. What if something happened to her?”

  His features tightened. “Let us pray nothing has.” He leaned toward her. “Might I be of assistance? What do you need?”

  She wanted to grab that unshaven face and kiss him for gallantly offering help. A breath escaped her. “Can you tell the driver to turn this coach around and go back to Strelna?”

  He stared. “I can. But I am only a half hour from my stop and Strelna is ten hours away.”

  Oh. That would be rather rude, wouldn’t it? “Forgive me. I will ensure you find your stop first.” Cecilia softened her voice. “In the meantime, could you please open the window and speak to the driver? Surely he would know how I got to be here and what happened to my travelling companion. I do not speak any Russian, sir, and therefore will require your assistance in this. Please.”

  “I am at your service.” He tossed his hat onto the seat before them. “Give me a moment.” He rose to an imposing height of over six feet and bent his head and shoulders against the low ceiling of the carriage. Glancing back at her, he unlatched the window with a quick sweep of his hand. With the dip of a broad shoulder, he leaned out the window and hollered something, his dark hair lifting and scattering against the wind that roared into the space of the coach.

  The driver hollered something back over the thundering clatter of wheels.

  The man paused and glanced back at Cecilia, his brows coming together. He hesitated, his rugged features hardening. Leaning further out, he gruffly shouted something else, his tone now feral and nothing like the tone he had offered her.

  She swallowed. What was going on?

  The driver yelled a whole flurry of words as if the world were coming to an end.

  Hitting the top of the outside carriage with a quick fist that thudded the roof, the man boomed something to the driver in reprimand.

  The driver yelled another long flurry of words.

  Leaning back in, the man latched the window, quieting the space again and shook his head. “Dolbo yeb.” He settled his large frame into the cushion beside her, causing the seat to sink. Swiping long strands of dark hair from his face, he crossed the ankle of a mud-crusted boot over his knee and scratched at his unshaven chin. “We have a little problem, dorogaya moya.”

  His tone indicated the problem was anything but little. She almost grabbed him. “What? What did he say? What is it? What happened?”

  “He was paid to take you.”

  Dread seized her. “Paid? What do you mean?”

  He dropped his hand onto his thigh. “According to him, you were delivered unconscious to his coach by two men ou
tside a tourist inn back in Strelna. Do you not remember anything?”

  Her eyes burned. “Two men?” What had she been doing with two men? “That isn’t possible. I…I wasn’t travelling with any men. I don’t even remember meeting any men.”

  He swiped his face. “They told him you had a medical condition. He was paid to drop you off three towns from the next stop so your brother could take you to the doctor.”

  She gasped. “My brother? I have no brother. Nor do I have a medical condition!”

  He intently scanned her gown. “Are you sore in any unusual places?”

  Her pulse thundered. “Are you insinuating these men might have…?”

  “Yes.” He was quiet for a moment. “Should we take you to a doctor?”

  Cecilia almost retched at the thought. But fortunately, no. Aside from the dizziness that had already waned, everything below the waist felt normal. As normal for a woman who hadn’t had sex in seven years. “No. That isn’t necessary.” She pressed a hand to her stomacher, trying to keep herself and her voice calm.

  “Are you certain?”

  Her face burned. “I appreciate your concern, but everything feels as it should.”

  He puffed out a breath. “You are incredibly fortunate.”

  Is that what he called it? “I don’t consider my situation fortunate at all. Dearest Lord, I don’t even know where I am!”

  “Try to remain calm.” He held out a coaxing hand. “The driver will be attaching new horses in less than a half hour. You will get off with me. I will help you.”

  Her lips parted. “Get off with you? But I don’t even know you.”

  “You need help. And I will help you. You cannot trust the driver or anything he says. Most of these drivers in between main cities get paid to do things they should not. You are getting off with me. Do you understand? Your safety calls for it.”

  Could she trust him? Should she trust him? “What about Mrs. Bogdanovich?”

  “What about her?”

  “I have to go back to Strelna and find her. What if these men did something to her?”

  He glanced toward the latched window. “From what I remember of the schedule, another coach heads back toward the direction of Strelna in eight days. Unfortunately, we will not be able to get to her sooner. The warm weather has melted the snow and made travel slow. The roads are very muddy.”