Splendor (54 page)

"Sverayov. Oh, God. Carolyn!" George cried anxiously.

Feather duster in hand, an apron covering her dark gray dress, Carolyn stepped down from the stool. Now her heart

was slamming with frightening force, making her feel ill and faint.

Through the windows, she saw him approaching the store. His strides were long and filled with purpose, in spite of his uneven gait. A huge dark brown Russian fur coat swung about him as he approached.

Carolyn inhaled, seized with memories, too precious and painful to count.

"Should I leave the two of you alone?" George asked with worry.

Carolyn did not have a chance to answer. The doorbell tinkled as it opened. Nicholas stepped into the shop. His gaze found her instantly, and for a moment, they were both motionless.

Carolyn had known how much she missed him, had known how much she loved him, but had never imagined what it would feel like to see him again, after so briefly having attained her most fantastical dreams, and then having lost everything. She wanted to run to him, lose herself in his embrace, and stay in that sanctuary forever. Instead, she did not move, incapable of doing more in that instant other than stare.

George bowed. He was sweating. His bald spot glistened. "Excellency. How good to see you."

Amusement appeared in Nicholas's eyes, but he only spared George a brief glance, his attention immediately back on Carolyn. "Good afternoon, Browne. I am glad you have become so fond of me in my absence."

George looked nervously from Nicholas to Carolyn, and strode through the shop and into the kitchen, closing the door behind him.

They were alone. A vast and terrible silence surrounded them. It seemed to throb and undulate. It was painful. And Nicholas continued to stare. Carolyn realized she was perspiring, and she wiped her damp palms on her apron. She managed a feeble smile, setting the duster down. "Nicholas. I heard you were in town. This is a surprise."

He bowed, his gaze piercing. "How could my appear-

ance in London—and in your life—be a surprise?" He came forward, his regard intent.

She found herself breathless, exhilarated, and frightened all at once. For even as she faced him, wanting him so badly that it hurt, in one comer of her mind she was aware of Davison's threats and what she must do. But he was implying that it should have been obvious to her that he would seek her out. Carolyn knew she must retreat from this topic, yet a part of her eagerly went forward. "I assumed your many affairs would keep you in your homeland for some time." His many affairs—his daughter and his wife.

"You assumed erroneously," he said.

"Apparently," she said dryly. "But then, life is so full of surprises." And she thought, with real bitterness, of Marie-Elena's return from the dead.

"Surprises, and challenges, and change," Nicholas returned evenly.

She stared at him. He reached for and grasped both of her hands. "You look very well," he said, whisper-soft.

Carolyn pulled her hands away from his, and saw him start—and then disappointment flitted through his eyes. Mentally she berated herself: what was she doing? She was supposed to be a seductress, luring him forward—not pushing him away. She wet her lips. "I think I have had all the challenges a human being would ever need"

"Yes, you have." He set his cane against the counter, shrugged off his coat and laid it on the counter beside the duster. He leaned on the walking stick. "But you are strong. One of the strongest people I have ever known. If life deals you another rotten hand, you will still triumph. Of that, I have no doubt." His gaze was penetrating.

Carolyn met his eyes and wanted to cry. "You are wrong. I am beaten, Nicholas. Beaten down into the dust."

"I do not believe it," he said harshly.

She shrugged. "How is Katya?"

"Katya is'here. We are staying at the St. James for a fortnight, and then we are on to Breslau. Will you come

and see her? And will you dine with me tonight?"

She should be saying no. But she must not refuse. Oh, God, this was happening too fast. He was on his way to Breslau, a Prussian city. Carolyn was speechless, struggling for control and a strength she no longer had.

He took her hands in his again, his palms large and strong, dwarfing hers. "Carolyn. I have missed you so. You should not have run away hke that—and then refused to even speak with me before you left." He hesitated. "Marie-Elena is dead."

Carolyn's eyes widened. Before she could speak, he said, "This time there is no doubt. One night she left the house in her nightclothes. It was snowing heavily. Her body was discovered four days later. We buried her in St. Petersburg."

Carolyn was shocked. "Did... did she want to die?" She was recalling Marie-Elena's terrible vanity, and the bandages she had been wearing the last time she had seen her.

"I do not know," he said. Their gazes locked.

And images flitted through her head, wild but focused, of her and Nicholas, together, man and woman, man and wife. And then she thought about her father, and Davison's threats. "How is Katya?" she asked huskily, torn now, her emotions rioting.

"Sad. She is very sad, but somehow, oddly resigned. Before her death, Marie-Elena would see no one, not even her own daughter." Nicholas was grave.

Carolyn stared. "That is terrible."

"Yes, it is," Nicholas agreed, his gaze trained upon her face. "Katya talks about you. She misses you. As do I."

Carolyn found it hard to breathe. She was motionless, her heart beating hard and fast.

"Once, you told me our love was too precious to deny," Nicholas said.

Carolyn felt two tears rolling down her cheeks. "It is too precious," she whispered.

"I want you to be my wife, Carolyn," Nicholas said.

Carolyn tried to pull away, but he still held her hands, and it was an instant before he released them. Even if she did accept now, he would withdraw his proposal after she betrayed him. Carolyn was sure of it.

Unless he never found out.

"Carolyn." Nicholas's somber tone broke into her thoughts. "I need you. Katya needs you. We both miss you terribly."

Carolyn hugged herself, swallowing thick, hot tears. Cursing Stuart Davison. Their love was too precious to deny. Danm Davison. If only she could share her agony with Nicholas. And then she found herself on the verge of cursing her own father. Carolyn was shocked.

He laid both hands on her shoulders, and when he spoke, his voice feathered her ears. * 'Come back to the hotel with me. At the least, let us dine tonight and spend the evening together. Do not refuse me outright. You may have all the time you need to think about my proposal. I am prepared to wait."

Carolyn closed her eyes, breathing hard, seared with anguish. If only she could think clearly. But she could not. She did know, though, that she must at least accept this invitation. "Yes. I will spend the evening with you, Nicholas." And she was thinking not of the pleasure of having his company, nor of marriage, she was thinking of seduction and subterfuge.

Carolyn saw Katya, and a real gladness, one unblemished by the guilt Davison's threats had fostered within her, overwhelmed her. For one moment, as Carolyn stood with Nicholas silently in the doorway of the chamber Katya slept in, she watched the child as she read aloud to her governess by the windowsill. Katya had not seen her. How beautiful, how precious, she was. Carolyn realized she had come to love her as she would a little sister or her very own child. And then she realized Nicholas was watching her intensely.

Carolyn took a breath and entered the room. "Katya, sweetheart," she said huskily.

Katya dropped the book to the floor as she leapt to her feet with a small but potent, and very happy, cry. She rushed to Carolyn, flinging her thin arms around her. Carolyn held her hard.

"I have missed you, I have missed you so," Carolyn whispered above the child's head. Words she was not free to utter to Nicholas.

"And I have missed you too, Miss Browne. Terribly. It has been so lonely without you!" Katya cried, looking up yet still gripping Carolyn.

Carolyn smiled fondly at her. ' 'Well, then we are of accord," she said.

"And poor Father," Katya said, shooting a swift glance in Nicholas's direction. "He has been so sore of heart. Miss Browne, mourning your leaving us. Why did you leave

us?"

«»

Carolyn wet her lips. She did not know how to respond. She chose her words with care. "Perhaps because I loved you both so much."

"But that does not make sense. It was because of my mother, was it not? Because she was not dead, and you could not be my father's wife?" Katya's brown eyes were wide, but not accusing.

"Oh, God," Carolyn said, sinking to her knees and holding the child's hands. "I'm sorry about your mother," she whispered to the child.

Nicholas limped forward, nodding at the governess, who quickly left the room. "Yes, Katya, how clever you are, how astute. That is exactly why Carolyn left us."

Carolyn wasn't sure he should be telling his daughter the truth. But before she could speak, even though she had not the foggiest notion what she should say, Katya said grimly, "Maman was very ill. She refused to see anyone." Her mouth trembled as she formed an odd, heart-wrenching smile. "But she never loved me anyway."

"Oh, dear, she did, she truly did, but in her own way," Carolyn cried.

"It's all right," Katya said. "Please come home with us. Miss Browne. Please."

Carolyn hesitated, and did not dare look at Nicholas, wanting so much to tell the child yes. "I will try."

Katya nodded, mouth pursed. And then Nicholas helped Carolyn to her feet.

They dined in splendor, amongst silver and crystal, gold and china, a snowy white tablecloth covering the long dining table, which could seat sixteen guests. But there was only Carolyn and Nicholas, each at their own respective places—Nicholas at the table's head, Carolyn at its foot. Katya had gone to bed.

French wine was poured. Nicholas watched her intently as she sipped. Carolyn knew her anxiety was transparent. She was afraid she would blurt out the truth to him if he asked her what was wrong. "This is delicious," she said, stabbed with bittersweet memories.

He must have had the same recollections in the same instant, because his smile was brief and twisted. "It is. A Medoc. Carolyn, how is Copperville?"

Carolyn stiffened. "I have laid Copperville to rest."

Nicholas stared. "Why?" He was grave.

Carolyn stabbed her salad of pickled vegetables. Finally she looked up. "Writing about the extravagant behavior of the rich and titled no longer amuses me."

"I see." He sipped his wine. "That is a shame. Because your barbs were usually well placed and well timed, and I believe more than amusing to your readers. Social satire has an important place in our culture."

Carolyn laid down her fork more sharply than she had intended. It clattered on the porcelain plate. "This satirist no longer exists."

He stared. "You have been terribly wounded, have you not? I am so sorry."

Carolyn stared down at her plate. When she could speak

in a calm tone, she said, "I am writing a romantic novel."

His brows lifted. "Indeed?"

"It is titled The Refugees, and is about the adventures of a young Englishwoman who has the misfortune to be in Russia during Napoleon's invasion." Carolyn thought her tone had become belligerent. And she almost regretted telling him about the novel.

A silence reigned at the table as their plates were removed to make way for another course. Nicholas said, "And this young woman, she must fall in love, for it is a romance."

Carolyn nodded.

"And she lives happily ever after, I suppose?" But he did not smile.

"No," Carolyn said, staring down the table at him. "The novel has a tragic ending. She returns to London, where she spends the rest of her life a lonely spinster, refusing all other suitors."

Nicholas stood abruptly. A servant rushed forward to hand him his cane, which he accepted. "I am afraid I do not like your novel," he said harshly.

"I am enjoying writing it," Carolyn cried, also on her feet.

He thumped and limped around the table. "You are angry," he ground out, his eyes flashing. "I do not blame you for being angry for all that has happened." He paused in front of her, his cane thudding on the rug. "But you have no reason to be angry at me."

He was right. But she was angry, furiously so, at life, at Marie-Elena, at her father, at herself, and dammit, at him. "I did not ask for any of this!" she cried, covering her heart with both hands. "None of it!" She was shouting.

He threw the cane aside, staggered slightly, and grabbed both of her hands, holding them far too tightly. "And did I ask for this? Did I ask to fall in love? You've changed my entire life! Did I ask for anything other than to serve my country in a time of war and to be a responsible and caring father?"

Carolyn tried to jerk her hands free of his. "As neither of us has asked for anything, perhaps I should go home?" Her voice was insultingly sweet.

"Like hell." He jerked her forward and she fell against his chest, and as she did so he tipped up her chin and seized her mouth with his.

For one instant, as he kissed her with a strength and determination that was almost brutal, Carolyn was stiff, and filled with anger and resistance, ready to fight him physically if need be. But then her mind snapped. She was angry, but not at him. She was angry at fate, and God, and just about everyone, but she loved Nicholas, and soon he would leave, betrayed by her—and she would never see him again. Her eyes closed. Her mouth softened. She melted against him.

He moaned and released her wrist and chin, sliding his powerful arms around her, kissing her face now, her cheeks and eyes, her forehead, temples, and chin. Carolyn strained to find his lips. Kissing him. Desire began, incipient and tingling, but swiftly becoming demanding and urgent. And she felt his manhood, huge and hard, pressing against her hip.

Neither one of them had seen the servants disappearing, but when Nicholas broke the embrace, the dining room was empty. Candlelight flickered over them. Their shadows danced on the walls.