“Thank you, but I have no intention of pitching over onto my face,” she said wryly as he assisted her up the broad marble steps to the house. “I’m twenty-four, not ninety-four.”
He gave her a genuine, charming smile, one that quite took her breath away. “I’m not so sure about that,” he answered in a grave tone, even though his eyes gleamed with amusement. “It’s a wonder you can even stand on your own. Perhaps I should carry you into the house.” He slid a hand around her waist, as if preparing to do just that. “It wouldn’t be the first time I did so,” he finished in a low, teasing voice.
Vivien scowled, more at her body’s shivery response than to his gentle ribbing. She simply could not allow him to affect her this way.
She was preparing a scold when the door to the house flew open. Darnell, their butler, stood at the threshold, his eyes shining with a suspicious brightness.
“My lady,” he exclaimed. “Thank God you’re home.”
St. George cast him a warning glance as Vivien mentally sighed. Clearly, poor Darnell knew of her abduction. She could only hope the tale had not spread beyond the butler and Mrs. Hammond, the housekeeper, both of whom had been forced to deal with Mamma’s hysterics.
“Thank you, Darnell,” she said. “My
cold
is much better, although I’m not yet up to snuff.”
“Indeed, my lady,” he replied, striving to recapture his professional demeanor. He stepped aside, allowing St. George to hand her over the threshold. “Your brothers are waiting for you in the library,” he added. “Along with—”
The doors to the library banged open and Kit came charging out.
“Is that Vivi? Is she home?”
Her little brother—who topped her by a good six inches—dashed across the cavernous entrance hall and swept her into a fierce embrace. She squeaked, losing her breath, but hugged him back. She had little doubt Kit was up to no good. But he was her brother and she loved him, even if he could never manage to keep himself from tumbling from one mess to another.
He eased back, staring down at her, his blue eyes drenched with emotion. She saw relief in them but also stark guilt, and her heart sank. At twenty-two Kit was only two years younger, but since the death of their father Vivien had watched out for him like a mother hen. She loved him more than anything on the earth, and despaired he would ever grow out of his slapdash reckless ways.
“I’m sorry, Vivi,” he whispered in a choked voice. “I had no idea—”
“Hush, Kit,” she interrupted, casting a nervous glance at St. George, who studied them both with narrow intensity.
Blast
. She
had
to get rid of him before he started asking Kit questions.
She forced a smile at her brother, hoping her eyes conveyed a warning. “My dear, I’m feeling much better. There’s really no need for such a fuss.”
Reckless was Kit’s middle name, but thank God he was as sharp as a pin. He flinched but then gave her a boyish grin. “Glad to hear it, sis. Although I must say, you look a regular quiz. That nose of yours is as red as a sailor’s on shore leave.”
She gave him a playful slap on the arm and then turned to introduce him to St. George, who stood with his arms crossed, eyebrows raised. He clearly wasn’t fooled a bit.
Vivien repressed the impulse to glare at him. Instead, she drew Kit forward. “Kit, I’d like you to meet Captain St. George, Lady Thornbury’s son. St. George, my brother, the Honorable Christopher Shaw.”
After they exchanged formal bows, Kit grabbed the other man’s hand and practically wrung it off. “My dear sir, it’s a pleasure,” he enthused. “I can’t thank you enough for bringing my sister safely home.”
“Your thanks aren’t necessary,” St. George replied in a warning voice. “I was happy to escort my mother and Lady Vivien to Blake House.”
Kit grinned and tapped the side of his nose in understanding. Vivien gave St. George a rueful smile, shrugging her shoulders in apology.
St. George opened his mouth, but whatever he intended to say died on his tongue as he stared past her. What she had begun to think of as his warrior’s face settled over his features, rending them wary and grim.
“Vivien, you have returned home,” said her brother Cyrus from behind her. She turned with a composed smile, only to feel her jaw drop open.
Her older brother paced steadily across the marble floor of the entrance hall looking his usual pompous self. But what transfixed her was the rather squat, cold-eyed figure walking by his side, although at the moment that man’s eyes seemed to be anything but cold. In fact, if she didn’t know better, she’d think he was enraged and barely repressing the emotion behind his correct Russian demeanor.
She snapped her mouth shut as Cyrus brushed a barely-there kiss across her cheek.
“I’m happy to see you safely home, my dear,” he said in a flat voice. “And look who’s come to call, especially to enquire after your health.”
The cold-eyed Russian took her boneless fingers in his hand. Before she could stop him, he raised it to his froglike lips and pressed a damp kiss upon it. Vivien’s stomach lurched as she suddenly regretted her large breakfast.
“Lady Vivien, I am overjoyed to see you. But you are looking most unwell. I insist you repair to your bed before you suffer a relapse,” he said in his heavy-accented but fluent English.
Still struggling for words, she stared into Prince Ivan Kho-vanksy’s flat, mud-colored gaze.
Chapter Ten
Vivien stifled a shudder as Khovansky’s greedy gaze swept over her figure and came to rest on her face. She must have only imagined his anger a few moments ago, because right now he looked supremely self-satisfied, as if he’d just been proven right about something. He squeezed her hand, adopting a solicitous attitude.
“Truly, my dear lady,” he said. “You look most unwell. I insist you retire this very minute.”
He finished off his impertinent demand with an oily, intimate smile that had her palms itching to slap him. Unfortunately, it appeared that even a firmly delivered kick to the shin had failed to deter her most ardent and unwanted suitor.
She tried withdrawing her hand from his grasp but he refused to release her. When a barely audible growl sounded from behind her, she glanced over her shoulder to find St. George standing close, inspecting the prince through eyes dark with suspicion. She turned back, dismayed to see Khovansky glaring back at St. George, his lips parted in a contemptuous sneer.
Wonderful
. Two hostile males squaring off in the entrance hall, in front of the servants, no less.
She yanked her hand away from the prince. “Your Highness, how kind of you to call and enquire after my health. Kind, but unnecessary. As you can see, I’m merely suffering from a bad head cold.”
He astonished her by waving a playful finger in front of her face. “Ah, but colds can turn dangerous if not properly attended to. I would be heartbroken if you were to suffer a relapse. My lady, for my sake, you must not take any risk.”
Baffled, Vivien peered at him. Khovansky was acting like a man who had a claim on her. Where in God’s name did he get the idea he could treat her with such an inappropriate degree of intimacy?
“You needn’t worry my sister will fall sick again, sir,” Kit interrupted in an ugly voice. “We are well able to take care of her.”
“Christopher, that is no way to speak to the prince,” Cyrus snapped. “If you can’t behave with a modicum of decorum, you will excuse yourself.”
Kit bristled, ready to fire up. Vivien stepped in between her two brothers, facing Cyrus. “Kit is merely being protective, Cyrus. As it so happens, I
am
feeling rather unwell, and the last thing I wish to listen to is an argument.”
Cyrus, although not as tall as Kit, still topped her by several inches. He frowned down at her, his sharp face pinched with his habitual expression of disapproval. His mouth worked as he struggled not to snap back at her, but he finally regained control of himself.
“Of course, Vivien. I have no desire to distress you.” But he cast another resentful glance in Kit’s direction. “There was, however, no need to be rude to Prince Ivan. I, for one, was most glad to receive so gracious a visit from His Highness this morning, and exceedingly grateful to accept his solicitous generosity on your behalf.”
Vivien’s eyes almost crossed as she waded through her brother’s verbosity. He only spoke like that when he was upset or done something she would disapprove of. Cyrus could care less about Kit or Mamma, or what they thought about anything. But he could never force Vivien to accede to his will and he knew it. Even though he’d been head of the family for years, he’d learned to step carefully if he wanted something from her.
Then, like a crackling ember, understanding exploded in her tired brain. Khovansky was here because Cyrus had
asked
him to be here. Her brother had never made it a secret he wanted her to encourage the prince’s suit. Vivien had warned him just last week that she would never do so, but apparently he’d chosen to ignore her warning.
Another idea bolted through her, one that had her stomach lurching once more into her throat. Had Cyrus been idiotic enough to tell Khovansky what had really happened to her? If the prince had access to that information he could use it to ruin her, chasing away any future suitors. Though she would rather dwindle into a poor old maid than marry Ivan the Terrible, as he’d been deemed by some of the more outrageous
ton
wags, Khovansky would never understand that. He seemed incapable of understanding anything about her, including her refusal to marry him.
Unnerved, her gaze jumped back to the prince. Again he reached for her hand, adopting an expression of soulful solicitude. It only made him look even more like a toad with dyspepsia.
Vivien hastily stepped back, evading his pudgy hand. She collided with a hard and very familiar chest. A pair of black-gloved hands steadied her, and then St. George released her and stepped forward, casually inserting himself between her and Khovansky. A moment ago, she’d been wishing her savior gone. Now, she was beginning to wonder what she would do without him once he walked away.
A disturbing and lonely thought.
“Perhaps someone would be so kind as to formally introduce me to the prince,” he said in a deceptively mild tone.
“I’m afraid, sir, that I have no idea who you are,” huffed Cyrus, obviously annoyed. “For all I know, you might be Lady Thornbury’s footman, come to escort my sister home.”
Vivien practically choked. “Try not to be more of an idiot than you already are, Cyrus.” She ignored her brother’s outraged spluttering. “Prince Ivan, may I introduce you to the Countess of Thornbury’s son, Captain Aden St. George. Captain St. George, Prince Ivan Khovansky, member of the Russian ambassadorial delegation.”
St. George executed a faultlessly correct bow, while the prince responded with an imperious inclination of his head.
“Captain, you are out of uniform,” the prince said, his voice heavy with disapproval. “What is your regiment?”
“The Royal Horse Guards,” St. George responded politely. “I am currently on leave, recovering from a bad fall from my horse.”
Vivien frowned. He’d not mentioned that before, and he’d certainly not acted like he was recovering from an injury. Just the opposite, in fact. Once again, she couldn’t help wondering what it was, exactly, that St. George really did.
“Well, now that you’ve done your duty, Captain, and delivered my sister home, I’m sure you’d much rather be about your business,” Cyrus intoned. “Don’t let us keep you.”
Vivien anger’s spiked, but before she could say anything, Kit jumped into the fray. “I was just about to ask the captain if he’d like some tea. No need to run right off, is there?” Kit turned to Vivien with an eager smile. “Surely you could do with a cup of tea, couldn’t you, Vivi? Just the thing for a head cold, don’t you think?”
“I hardly think that’s wise,” Khovansky interjected. “Lady Vivien needs to be resting, not entertaining bachelors with nothing better to do than flirt with young ladies and carouse around town.”
Even Cyrus looked put out by that remark. But St. George simply adopted an expression that managed to look vaguely annoyed and yet slightly bored at the same time. Kit, however, flushed red, looking ready to pick a fight right there in the hallway before Vivien had even had a chance to divest herself of her pelisse. She had half a mind to go into the library, pull down her father’s old duelling pistols from above the fireplace, and shoot the whole lot of them.
She wrapped a hand around Kit’s wrist. “I don’t care what the rest of you do but I’m going upstairs to see Mamma,” she said in a voice that brooked no opposition. Keeping hold of Kit, she dipped a curtsy to St. George. “Sir, thank you for bringing me home, and please extend my gratitude and affection to Lady Thornbury.”
With a grave expression on his face, although his gaze held amusement, St. George accepted his dismissal with a polite bow. “It was my pleasure, my lady. I make every wish for your speedy recovery.”
He made a slight inclination of the head to Cyrus and Khovansky and gave Kit a warm, parting smile. Turning on his heel, he strode across the entrance hall, not checking his stride as Darnell scrambled to pull open the door. When it closed behind him, the echo of his absence seemed to reverberate through the high-ceilinged space. A fraught silence settled around them, one that seemed invested with a volatile, dangerous quality.
As she turned back to her older brother and his unwelcome guest, Vivien told herself that she wouldn’t miss St. George in the least. In fact, the very idea of Kit volunteering them to spend time with St. George made her break into a cold lather. She needed to get her scapegrace brother alone so she could get to the bottom of whatever trouble he had gotten himself into. And she needed to keep that trouble between Kit and herself—at least until she understood all the particulars.
“Is Mamma awake yet?” she asked. She truly wished she could avoid that meeting, since Mamma’s usual response to any major event, happy or ill, was a bout of hysterics. But she couldn’t allow her mother to suffer a moment longer than she needed to.
Kit shook his head. “No. Dr. Patterson gave her something to help her rest, because she, ah, is also under the weather. Her maid is to look for me as soon as she’s awake. I’ll tell her you’ve returned home.”
She gave Kit a grateful smile, then flicked a glance at Cyrus and his guest. “I’m going to my room and I would ask that I not be disturbed for the rest of the day. Kit will help me up, so there’s no need for you to abandon the prince to see to my comfort.”
She barely managed to temper the cynical tone in her voice. Cyrus wouldn’t give a tinker’s damn for her comfort, or dream of helping her up to her room. More likely, he wanted to drag her into his study and demand a full accounting of what had happened to her over the last few days. The only thing Cyrus truly cared about was his infernally stolid, pristine reputation and how the antics of his family affected it. Her older brother nursed rather extravagant political ambitions, and he would no doubt be terrified that her kidnapping would have a negative impact on those ambitions.
But Cyrus, ever sensitive to the nuances of insult, caught the implied criticism in her voice. He bristled, ready to defend himself, but the prince intervened.
“Of course you should retire to your bed, my dear lady,” he said, adopting a solicitous tone. “You are not to give a moment’s thought to me or to your brother. The only thing that matters is your health. I would never forgive myself if my visit this morning were to cause you any distress.” He pressed a hand to his barrel chest, looking affected in the extreme.
It was all nonsense, but if the prince prevented Cyrus from pestering her, so much the better. Feeling more charitable toward him than she normally would, she gave him a curtsy and a slight smile. “Your Highness, thank you for your kind wishes. I bid you good day.”
She spun on her heel, almost toppling over with exhaustion, and headed for the stairs. Kit kept a firm hand on her arm, the click of their shoes echoing through the silence of the entrance hall. Vivien forced herself not to look back to see what the prince and Cyrus were doing. She couldn’t shake the sense her brother had told Khovansky everything, but that was a problem she would deal with after she’d had some rest.
In her current state of weariness, the imposing central staircase of Blake House seemed an obstacle as forbidding as a snow-capped alp. If Kit had offered any resistance to accompanying her, she might have collapsed in a heap on the floor. Her leg muscles had adopted the consistency of runny blancmange, and she had to clutch Kit’s arm to remain upright.
As they mounted the stairs, her little brother tugged loose from her grasp and wrapped an arm protectively around her waist. “Hang on, sis,” he murmured. “Only a few more steps and you’ll be there.”
He glanced over his shoulder, a scowl descending on his boyish features. “Why doesn’t Cyrus take Ivan the Terrible back to his study? What the devil does the man think he’s doing, standing in the hall and staring after you like that? It’s bloody indecent.”
Prickles shivered up the back of Vivien’s neck, and she again resisted the temptation to look behind her. Obviously, the prince had decided not to relinquish his courtship, and it appeared Cyrus fully intended to support him. She would stand firm against him, of course, but it would make life more difficult at Blake House. And they were hardly a happy family to begin with.
First things first
.
And that first thing was Kit. “Just ignore him, Kit. It’s not important right now.”
He grumbled, but gave it up. “You’re right. But why the hell Cyrus agreed to see him this morning, what with—”
“Hush, Kit. Not here,” she warned as they reached the floor where the family’s private chambers were located. She smiled at an upstairs maid, who bobbed a curtsy and gave her a welcoming nod as they passed.
They turned right into the short corridor to her bedroom. Blowing out a heartfelt sigh of relief, Vivien opened the door and stepped inside, Kit following behind. She dragged herself across the room to the fireplace and collapsed onto the infinitely soft silk chaise, letting the heat and cheerful crackle of the flames wash over her.
Her gaze wandered gratefully about the cheerful space. More than once during her ordeal, she’d feared she’d never see her favorite retreat again. Finished in calming shades of white and pale blue and accented with cushions, drapes, and bedcovers of buttery yellow, Vivien’s bedroom had always been her one safe haven from chaos and trouble. Reading on her chaise, writing to friends at her elegant Sheridan desk, escaping the travails imposed on her by her family. Of course she loved them—even Cyrus, in a way—but they tried her patience to the breaking point.
Sometimes, the Blake mansion had even seemed more like a prison than a home. But in that horrible cave in Kent she’d sorely regretted her ingratitude and her careless acceptance of her privileged life. Over and over she had prayed to safely return home, vowing to shoulder any burden necessary. Now, by God’s grace and St. George’s, she’d been delivered. It was time once again to take up her responsibilities to her family.
“Mamma must have been terrified by all this,” she said, unbuttoning her pelisse. “God knows she screamed loud enough when they dragged me out of the carriage.”