"I'm a cousin on your mother's side." Pasha indulgently repeated the story rehearsed countless times already. "The Teeside Ripons sent one of theirs off to France, where she married, and two generations later, voilà. Pasha Duras. And I shan't embarrass you," he assured her again. "My word on it."
"You'll be particularly careful of propriety around Chris?" she posed, as though they'd not discussed it numberless times before.
"I promise." His voice was grave; he understood her concern.
"I hope I don't stammer too much when I introduce you to the staff."
"You needn't answer—but how did you manage when Christopher's father was with you?" She seemed so abjectly nervous it seemed as if he were the only man to visit Burleigh House.
When she didn't reply, he immediately offered his apologies.
"You needn't apologize," she said at last. "You have a right to know." Her voice was so low he had to strain to hear. She bit at her lower lip before she finally said, "Actually, Christopher's father was staying with my husband's family."
It took effort to keep his voice neutral. "Where was your husband?"
"His family had put him in an asylum by then."
"I'm sorry."
She looked momentarily distracted and then uncomfortable, a small grimace evidence of her unease. "I could never feel sorry for a man completely lacking in humanity, although God knows I tried."
He knew brutal men like that. "Were you married long?" he gently asked, sympathy in his gaze.
"Five years."
"That's a long time."
"Hellishly long."
"How miserable for you," he kindly said.
"Yes," she murmured, forcibly suppressing the wash of cruel memory. "But the Grosvenors wanted my land and nothing else mattered."
"No family member intervened?"
"My parents were gone. My two uncles, who were trustees of my father's estate, compelled me to marry George. The Grosvenors are very influential in Kent."
"Good God," Pasha softly exclaimed. "Compelled?" He knew arranged marriages were common enough; his mother's first marriage, in fact, had been inflicted on her, but that was long ago, before he was born, and the concept was remote to a man disinterested in matrimony.
"It's over now," Trixi said, with such constraint he knew it would never be completely over for her. "And thank God, I'm no longer beholden to the Grosvenors."
"The land?"
Her smile was tight. "The marriage settlement was very specific—they took my land. Since I was seventeen, my uncle signed for me."
"Very convenient."
"Very. Now I intend to change the subject because it's much too nice a spring day to dwell on the past. You now know all the sordid facts relating to my life," she sardonically murmured, "and if you still choose to stay in my company, we shall soon be within view of Burleigh House."
"I very much choose." Pasha gently stroked the back of her hand. "As for sordid," he added with a half-smile, "I'm afraid my scandals have far outstripped yours. So it's rather if you choose to stay with me."
"For no sane reason in the world," she said, "I do."
"In my experience, sanity is much overrated." Leaning over, he kissed her rosy cheek.
He was like a vivifying tonic in her life, she joyously thought, all sweetness, good cheer, sumptuous, unbridled passion—stark contrast to the grim reality she'd faced for so long. "I'm very glad you came with me." Reaching up, she touched the firm line of his jaw, drew her finger down its graceful curve. "Very glad."
"You couldn't keep me away." He arrested her finger with his, nudging it upward to his mouth where he gently nibbled on it.
Her violet eyes took on a glowing warmth at his profoundly erotic tenderness. Taking his face between her hands, thanking the panoply of gods for their favor in giving him to her, she said, "Do you believe in miracles?"
"Oh, yes," he whispered, this flagrantly pagan man.
And for a brief, fleeting moment, the spring morning vanished from their consciousness, the pounding hooves and swaying carriage faded away, the rhythm, cadence, pulse of the universe stopped.
Pasha broke the silence first, his sangfroid disciplined, his avoidance of emotion ingrained. "What toy do you think Chris will like best?"
Trixi mustered her composure with effort, half breathless still. "His British army." She managed a shaky smile. "I'll never be able to sufficiently repay you for the happiness those toys will bring."
"I'm sure I can think of one or two ways." The melody of the taiga sang in his rich voice; his dark eyes were redolent of the East.
"You must behave," Trixi warned, fearful of his bold gaze.
"Certainly."
"I mean it." Although her voice suddenly trembled.
"Absolutely."
"Your word," she nervously declared. "You gave me your word."
"I won't come within a foot of you in public." A promise sure to tax his self-control.
"Oh, dear God." She wanted him and as desperately did
not
want him, every nerve in her body shakily on edge, his proximity alone arousing. "I don't know if I dare look at you… when others are around."
"Of course you can." Taking her hands in his, he firmly said, "Look at me."
Her lashes fluttered for a moment and then her gaze met his. "Everything will be fine," he assured her, his voice restrained, as were his urgent desires. "You'll be a wonderful hostess and I'll be discreet and endeavor not to be too French since the English find French affectations annoying. Additionally, I'll help entertain Christopher because with young brothers myself, I'm very good at playing their games."
"I thought you knew only amorous games," she lightly said, feeling more collected after his comforting words.
"I'm versatile." His smile was shameless.
"How versatile?" she purred.
"You'll get your chance to find out tonight when everyone is safely asleep."
"I'm thinking perhaps… an early bedtime." Her eyes gleamed with mischief.
"Or even a nap this afternoon," he lazily enticed. "Think about it."
When the carriage drove up, Christopher exploded out of the front door of Burleigh House like an unleashed dynamo, his nursemaid racing behind.
"Mama, Mama, Mama!" the four-year-old screamed, flying across the raked gravel, his arms opened wide.
Jumping out of the carriage before it had completely come to a stop, Trixi dropped to her knees and caught her exuberant son in her arms. Hugging him tightly, she cried, tears of happiness streaming down her cheeks, the feel of his sturdy little body so familiar, so precious, the scent of him crowding her with sweet memory.
She was home.
But four-year-olds defy holding and within seconds he was squirming in her arms. "What did you bring me?" he cried, breaking free, dancing from foot to foot, his dark curls bouncing, his eyes alight. "Katy saw the carriage, I knew it was you, I told her it was you. See, Katy, it
was
Mama!"
Coming to her feet, Trixi greeted her small household, who stood just outside the door of the Jacobean cottage. Mrs. Orde, plump and rosy, welcomed her home first, then young Jane, who helped Katy, gave her a blushing curtsey. "We're all so pleased you've returned," Kate Milhouse said, her face wreathed in smiles. And old Will, who'd been part of her father's generation, doffed his cap and in his gruff manner said, "Reckon all's well now, my lady, seein' you're back."
"Where I intend to stay," Trixi replied with feeling. "I was away too—" Her words were cut short by her son, impatient with adult courtesies, and grabbing her hand, he tugged hard. "Mama! Merrycat has kittens! Daisy has puppies! And you have to see them right now!" Dragging on her arm, he urged her forward. "Merrycat's kittens are all black and white and speckly and the puppies are teeny, teeny tiny. Come see, Mama! Right
now
!"
"Just a minute, darling," Trixi murmured. "There's someone—"
The carriage springs creaked at that moment, a small sound in the bright morning air but arresting, and all eyes swung around to gaze at the tall, dark stranger descending from the stylish barouche.
He looked very un-English, although his tailoring was fashionably English, understated and plain, black jacket, cream waistcoat, buckskin riding pants, and Hessians. His long hair curled on the white linen at his neck, its color so black and gleaming, it momentarily drew the eye. Until he raised his head and gazed at them with his mystical, oblique eyes.
"Hello," he said, and when he smiled they all understood why their lady had brought him home.
"Are you from China?" Chris piped up, his eyes wide with curiosity.
"Not quite," Pasha said, a faint smile twitching his mouth. "Have you heard of Siberia?"
Chris shook his head.
Pasha squatted to be at eye level with the young boy and held out a small ivory charm. "Here's something from Siberia. It's snowy there. This was part of a walrus tusk."
Chris took the small carved charm and turned it around, his fuzzy brows drawn together in concentration. "What's a walrus?"
"We brought some books I'll show you later. If your mama isn't too busy."
"Show me now," he said with childish impatience.
Pasha glanced up at Trixi; his gaze studiously bland.
"As soon as we have the carriage unpacked, darling," Trixi declared, carefully focusing on Pasha's shoulder. "Let me show Mr. Duras the cottage first."
"And Merrycat," Chris excitedly said.
"Definitely Merrycat," Pasha agreed, standing.
Trixi introduced Pasha to her household, keeping the details of his relationship to the family suitably vague. Not that any Ripons two generations past would rise to take issue with her story, but the less said the better, Pasha had suggested.
Mrs. Orde took note of Trixi's happiness and didn't care what strange and foreign land the man had come from if he could bring such joy to her ladyship. Jane and Katy blushed and stammered when Pasha spoke to them, and Will, his criteria for judging a man simple, only asked, "Do you ride?"
"We breed thoroughbreds near Chantilly. I ride some," Pasha modestly added.
"Her ladyship managed to save her bloodstock from those Grosvenor scoundrels," Will muttered. "Come down to the stables later and I'll show you a promising youngster we have out of Myrobella."
"You passed the test," Trixi murmured with pleasure as Will walked away. Her old retainer's approval was not lightly given.
Pasha acknowledged her with a private wink and then offered to unload the luggage. Carrying in the few pieces of luggage from the carriage, he set them in the entrance hall. Returning a few minutes later with a large red box, he cast a questioning glance at Trixi. "Now?" At her approving nod, he set the box on a large oak table in the center of the wainscotted hall. "Your mama thought you might like these," he said to Chris, lifting him up on the table.
Ripping off the cover, wide-eyed, Chris squealed, "Presents!" and pulled out the first toy soldier. "A grenadier!" he cried, holding up the small cast-iron soldier in his hand. "With a real fur hat!" he shouted. "Mama! Look!" Then dropping the soldier, he plunged his hand into the box of silver tissue and reached for another.
Watching her son's delight as he uncovered each of his soldiers, Trixi felt an indelible sense of homecoming, joyous and pure, warm her heart. How good it was to be back, she thought, looking up for a second to smile at Pasha. Mouthing the words
thank you
, she blew him a kiss over the head of her son.
Thank
you
, he thought, smiling back at the captivating woman who had revealed to him a new and intimate meaning to the word happiness. He quickly glanced at his watch, gauging the time until evening. Such eagerness would have shocked any of his acquaintances; women waited for Pasha, but never he for them.
When at last each toy soldier stood unwrapped atop the oak table, when the gleaming tissue floated on the floor in great billows, when Trixi's small son was awed and speechless for the first time in his mother's memory, Pasha said, "Maybe later you and your mother would like to stand battle against me."
Sitting cross-legged on the table, Chris looked up, a small frown creasing his brows. "You need an army."
"I brought Napoleon's army along, but it's with the other toys," Pasha replied. "They should be here soon."
"Other toys!" The shriek brought Mrs. Orde racing out from the drawing room where she was setting a table for tea. Between Chris's clamorous declarations that he was getting
other
toys, she was assured no calamity had transpired and after suitable admiration for the young master's soldiers, she returned to her task.
"Show me the other toys, Mama!" Chris immediately demanded. "I want to see them!"
"He'll never wait," Trixi murmured, distracted by her son's renewed pleas.
"Why not go and meet the wagon," Pasha suggested. "Chris can ride with me."
His antenna alive to all the fascinating man who brought toys might say, Chris looked at Pasha. "I don't have to ride with you. I have my
own
pony," he proclaimed. Already scrambling from the table, he hung suspended for a moment, his legs dangling just short of the floor.
"You'll have to show me." Pasha leaned over to sweep Chris up into his arms.
"Will teached me," Chris declared, his boyish gaze earnest, his arms wrapped tightly around Pasha's neck, no shyness in his nature. "And he says I'm really, really good and
he
used to ride
real
racers, didn't he, Mama? Come see my pony, Petunia," he eagerly went on, not waiting for his mother's answer. "Is your name really Pasha?" he irrepressibly inquired, his dark eyes serious. "Do you have another name, like a regular name, like regular people have?"
"My real names are harder to say," Pasha said with a grin, moving toward the door. "That's why people call me Pasha."
"Is it Chinese?"
"I'm sorry," Trixi interposed, keeping pace with them, reaching to open the front door. "Chris has a favorite storybook about China."
"I'm not offended," Pasha assured her. "I'm sure I look slightly different from Kentish folk. Possibly your neighbors will notice as well."