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A small group of women had entered the walled garden. They did not usually permit an audience to watch their practice sessions, but the Duchess of Brockmore was paying them well over the odds for their residency this week, so even Alexei would not be so bold as to deny her female guests this unscheduled opportunity to gawp at him as he went through his paces. He did not look at all enamoured though, his brow furrowed deeply in one of his most formidable frowns.
He was however, like her, an artiste above all, and once back on the rope lost himself in his performance. His audience watched him, rapt, their expressions as openly admiring as ever. To those rooted to the ground, there was a cachet and glamour attached to skilled exponents of the tightrope. For those at the very peak of their profession—as the Flying Vengarovs were—this manifested itself as a form of fame, and sometimes notoriety. Alexei professed to despise the slavish admiration he habitually received from women, but he was no saint—there had been countless affaires over the years.
She could not blame him. It was a lonely and itinerant life they led. But while her brother was happy to take what he called comfort in the arms of his admirers, Katerina had foolishly longed for something more lasting. What she had discovered was what she should have known all along. There was nothing more thrilling than the tightrope. Not for the performer. Certainly not for the men who watched her, who had no interest in the woman who walked it. And most certain of all, not that particular man who had caused her to fall to earth, where she had landed with such force that she carried the bruises still, two years later.
In a way, she envied Alexei. He stuck to the rules. He never made false promises. He never pretended to emotions he did not feel. He loved and he left. He was no more interested in the woman behind the beguiled spectator than his lover was interested in the man behind the artiste. When the Flying Vengarovs packed up their act and headed for the next venue, the next country, he did not leave behind any broken hearts or shattered dreams. He never dallied where he could compromise. His lovers were as discreet as he. Being women, they had to be. It was different for men.
Katerina pulled a chair over to the window and sat down, resting her chin on her hands. With the possible exception of the voluptuous redhead in the clinging gown, the ladies down in the walled garden were quite safe in their summer gowns the soft shades of the English countryside—rose-pink, primrose-yellow, leaf-green. Clustered together, their parasols in matching colours raised to protect their complexions from the sun, they looked like a posy of pretty blooms. Very elegant, delicate and much-prized hothouse flowers.
Though her own petite frame suited her artistic requirements to perfection, Katerina felt a pang of envy watching the tall, willowy figures possessed by the duke’s aristocratic guests. Two in particular stood out, one a disdainful blonde, the other a dusky brunette, perfect foils for each other. Perhaps one of those two was Fergus Kennedy’s intended bride. Though he’d tried not to show it, he had been hurt yesterday by whatever snub she had handed him. Perhaps she was the type who took pleasure in humiliating her admirers, or perhaps she was the type who thought her value enhanced by constant refusals. After all, men desired most what they could not have, Katerina thought bitterly, until they had it, and then it became a mere trophy.
But the Duke of Brockmore’s niece had no need to play games. Foolish woman, whichever of these beauties she was, if she continued to do so, for Fergus Kennedy was most certainly not the type of man who would meekly play along.
At least, she would not have thought he was. But then, she would not have thought he was the type of man who would allow himself to be ordered to marry. He was neither spineless nor passionless. Yesterday, when she had worked the rope as he looked on, desire had connected them like another, more ethereal, rope. Last night, when she was performing, she had had felt it tug powerfully at her again. He never took his eyes off her. Knowing that he was watching had given her display a new soaring quality, almost as if she had grown wings.
It was a sobering thought. Rather a frightening one. She could fly perfectly well without Fergus Kennedy. He was no different from all the other male admirers who found her skimpy costumes and flexible limbs alluring. Men who would boast to their friends of their exploits, but who would never dream of introducing her to their family. Men for whom the conquest was all, and the woman they had conquered—valueless. She knew that. She could not afford to forget that. Yesterday, Fergus might well have seemed interested in her, but yesterday, Fergus had arrived in the walled garden with a bruised ego and a wish to forget, for a moment, why he was here at Brockmore Manor in the first place. She had been a short-term distraction, no more. She’d do well to keep her distance from him.
A burst of applause startled her from her melancholy musings. Alexei stood in the centre of the circle of women, his arms crossed, his expression stormy. Finally, the duchess realised that she and her ladies were persona non grata, for she was leading the way out of the garden, presumably to resume their tour of the gardens and the legendary orchid house. A posy of traditional English roses to be introduced to the duchess’s exotic blooms.
* * *
Fergus grasped the oars of the rowing boat and concentrated on gently pushing it away from the little jetty on the island and out on to the lake. Lady Verity had been his allotted passenger for the return trip after the picnic luncheon, but when he’d dutifully invited her to step aboard, she had demurred, thrusting the Kilmun twins at him in her stead.
He had not attempted to cajole her. In truth, he’d felt guiltily relieved. She was very beautiful, but there was something about the haughty way she surveyed the world, the cold, clipped way she conversed, that he found most off-putting. At dinner last night he’d tried to be attentive, but to little avail. He had tried to persuade himself that she was most likely nervous given the circumstances, but today during the picnic, watching her perfectly relaxed with the other guests, he had caught glimpses of the vivaciousness that had by all accounts made her the toast of the ton. Yet in his company, he could almost see the icicles forming. And if he was brutally honest, lovely as she was, eminently suitable as she was as a diplomat’s wife, as a woman, she left him as cold as he appeared to leave her.
He wasn’t the kind of conceited dolt who expected every woman he met to fall at his feet, though he’d never before failed to charm when that was his stated intention. Was she one of those women who were incapable of feelings? No, that was his male pride talking. Besides, the point of this week was not to charm or woo, but to forge an alliance. A matchmaking fair, Katerina had called this Midsummer Party, and she was right. A marriage market is what it was.
Clear of the shallows around the island, he began to row towards the boating house with long, powerful strokes. The Kilmun twins smiled their almost-identical smiles at him.
‘You handle the oars like a master mariner, Colonel Kennedy.’
‘We are in safe hands, Sister.’
‘I rather think you were intended to be in different hands,’ Fergus said, relieved to turn his thoughts away from his own matrimonial prospects. ‘Brigstock, the Earl of Jessop, and what’s-his-name?—Addington?’
‘Yes, they were most put out, weren’t they? Brockmore has earmarked them for us, as you have correctly deduced, Colonel, but our swains cannot even tell the difference between us,’ Cynthia informed him, her pretty nose in the air.
‘And until they can, we shall make a point of snubbing them,’ Cecily added. ‘It is insulting, Colonel Kennedy, to imagine that simply because we look alike we are the same person. We are not interchangeable. I notice that you can easily distinguish me from Cecily.’
Fergus laughed. ‘And I notice that you like to exploit your remarkable likeness to play games on the unsuspecting. That is Cynthia. You are Cecily.’
The twins clapped their hands together in unison. ‘Oh, well done. You have no idea how refreshing it is for a man to take the time to tell us apart. If only you were one of the duke’s candidates for our hands.’
‘Alas,’ Cynthia chimed in archly, ‘I suspect Brockmore has other plans for you, does he not, Colonel?’
Hearing the truth spoken aloud deepened his unease. He did not like to think of himself as a fly caught in the duke’s web. ‘I have no firm plans,’ Fergus said stiffly, ‘save to enjoy the pleasant company.’
‘Oh, come, Colonel,’ Cecily exclaimed, ‘there is no need to equivocate. We are all here for a purpose. Sir Timothy for example, clearly he is not here to secure a wife.’
Cynthia giggled. ‘Like all rich men, he is married to his money. And of course some, such as the Lovely, Luscious Lillias Lamont, are here to oil the party wheels, should it flag. Have a care what you say around Lillias, Colonel, for she reports everything back to the duke.’
The dinghy bumped against the jetty. A waiting manservant caught the rope. Fergus wondered, as he helped first Cecily and then Cynthia on to the shore, whether they too would dance to the duke’s tune, by the end of the week.
Would he? He’d been so carried away by the promise of a far-flung posting, a new, exciting life away from his Whitehall desk, that he’d not really weighed up the price to be extracted. A suitable wife was all very well in theory, but the reality of this bloodless and frankly calculated marriage was proving trickier to swallow. Marriage was not a commercial transaction. A wife was not a commodity, but a flesh-and-blood woman. A husband was also a man. It disturbed him deeply, that his blood heated when he looked at Katerina, and yet it seemed to freeze in his veins when he was in Lady Verity’s company.
Katerina, now, she was another matter altogether. Not only had there been a spark between them, it had threatened to become incendiary. He’d been so close to kissing her, it made his blood heat just thinking about it. Last night, on the tightrope and on the mat, her supple body had formed impossible yet perfect shapes. She was so lithe and yet so elegant in that tiny tunic, like a tumbling constellation. It had been there again as he watched her performance, he was certain of it, that visceral pull of attraction between them.
‘A penny for them, Colonel Kennedy. You were miles away.’ Cecily slipped her arm in his, her gaze speculative, as Cynthia took his other arm.
‘I was thinking how fortunate I was to be a Scots thistle between two English roses.’
‘I am not at all convinced that is what you were thinking, but it is a delightful image. Though not as delightful an image as the thought of you in your regimentals, for we ladies love nothing more than a man in a Red Coat,’ Cynthia teased.
‘Save perhaps, a man such as the rather formidable Mr Vengarov, who wears no coat at all,’ Cecily added, with a giggle. ‘It has been a pleasure, Colonel. We trust we will see you at dinner.’
* * *
With a flutter of hands and parasols, the Kilmun twins headed off in the direction of the orchid house. Immediately lost in his own thoughts, Fergus took himself in the opposite direction through the heavily scented rose garden and into the maze. According to the Programme of Events, there was to be cards and conversation after dinner. He’d eschew winning at cards and instead do his best to make winning conversation with Lady Verity. Perhaps when she came to know him a little better she would thaw somewhat. And he would warm to her too.
Perhaps. The uneasiness in his gut was becoming more persistent. It was the same feeling he had when something wasn’t right in the field, the same instinct that had saved his life and that of many others on numerous occasions. It was becoming a struggle not to listen to it.
A false turn took him to a dead end in the maze. Fergus stared at the dense wall of hedge. The trick was always to turn right. Or was it left? There was no performance on the tightrope to look forward to tonight. He wondered how Katerina occupied herself when she was not practising. Another turn, and then another, and soon he was in the centre of the maze, and Fergus’s question was answered for there she was, in the shade of a large copper statue of Atlas.
She was asleep, her cheek resting on her clasped hands, her back against the plinth. The Greek god, crouched down carrying the world on his shoulders, cast a shadow over her, protecting her from the blazing heat of the afternoon sun. The statue was likely the duke’s little conceit, a reference to his role in underpinning English society, Fergus reckoned. ‘Though right now, I know how you feel,’ he said under his breath, eyeing the copper god’s straining muscles and pained expression with a stir of empathy.
He returned his gaze to the much more enticing sight of the sleeping Katerina. Her gown was lemon-coloured sprigged with pale green, the puffed sleeves drawing attention to her slim, toned arms, the modest neckline displaying the curve of her bosom. She had taken off her slippers, Fergus noted with amusement, and her legs were bare. Though she was wearing a great deal more than when he had previously seen her, the sight of her naked toes peeking out from the hem of her gown made his blood stir. A long tendril of hair had fallen over her face, glinting fiery red highlights in the sunshine. He fought the urge to tuck it behind her ear. He tried to force himself to turn away, to leave her undisturbed, but once again the allure of her was almost irresistible. He could not take his eyes from her.
The intensity of his gaze must have registered with her, for she woke, blinked, pushed back her hair herself, and Fergus told himself it would be rude to retreat straight away, so he remained where he was, and was rewarded with a sleepy smile.
* * *
‘Fergus.’ Katerina rubbed her eyes, just to be sure she was not still dreaming.
‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’
She got to her feet, shaking out her crushed skirts. ‘I didn’t intend to fall asleep. I was reading.’ She handed him a rather dog-eared book. ‘Les Liaisons Dangereuses. Are you familiar with the work?’
‘I’m afraid my French is not up to reading anything more substantial than captured battle orders and dinner menus,’ Fergus replied.
‘It’s quite shocking. The Vicomte de Valmont is even more of a schemer than the Duke of Brockmore—though his purposes are a good deal less benign.’
Fergus was frowning, looking distinctly uncomfortable. He ran his hand distractedly through his hair. ‘I am not sure that I’d call the Silver Fox benign. If Brockmore is anything like his good friend Wellington—and I suspect he is very similar—then he’ll take as good care to avenge his failures as to reward his successes.’
‘Perhaps he models himself on the Vicomte de Valmont after all,’ Katerina said. ‘For your sake, I hope you will be one of the duke’s success stories.’
She meant it lightly, but his frown deepened. ‘Which would be worse, do you think, a miserable marriage, or a miserable career?’
‘Must it be one or the other?’
‘The army is my life. I can’t imagine another, any more than you can.’
‘But you won’t be a soldier in Egypt, will you? I thought that the point of diplomacy was to keep the peace, not go to war.’
‘I’ll be serving my country. It’s the same thing.’
She couldn’t see how it was the same thing at all, but she could see that it was what Fergus wanted to believe. ‘I know nothing of these matters,’ Katerina said. ‘My only dealings with diplomats have been to secure appropriate travel papers. Which, given the itinerant nature of our performing life, has been a regular requirement.’
‘We must have travelled a good few of the same countries, you and I.’ Fergus lowered himself on to the grass under the statue and stretched his long legs out in front of him. ‘Mind you, I doubt we saw them in the same light,’ he added with a grin. ‘When you visit a place, I expect you’re welcomed with open arms, rather than the barrel of a gun.’
‘That very much depends on the arms,’ Katerina said wryly. ‘There are those who find our act shocking. In the early days, before we were famous, we occasionally had to abandon a performance, flee a town, having raised the ire of the local populace.’
She sat down beside him on the grass, tucking her bare feet under her skirts. ‘Our presence was not always universally welcomed. So you see, we have more in common that you thought.’
Fergus chuckled. ‘Wellington’s army never fled—at least, that’s how Wellington would tell it.’
‘I would like to hear you tell it.’
‘Do you want the death-and-glory version, or the real one?’
‘The real one, though I will be very disappointed if it contains no death or glory.’
Fergus talked reluctantly at first, but gradually, as they identified places they had both visited, as they compared and contrasted their experiences of those places, he became more at ease. He was modest when it came to himself, glowing when talking about his men. He was renowned in the Mess as the last man standing, he joked, but confessed, when she probed, that he did remain on the battlefield long after the last shot was fired, until every one of his men was accounted for. Shadows crossed his face at times, dark memories scudding past like black clouds, but they were few in number—or perhaps he was at pains to limit their appearance. By and large, those startling turquoise eyes were alight with humour, aglow with remembered excitement.
‘Enough,’ he said, too soon. ‘That’s more than enough about me. I want to hear about you.’
‘Do you want the death-and-glory version, or the real one?’
Fergus smiled. ‘Definitely the real one.’
His knee brushed hers as he turned towards her. It would be silly and churlish to move away, when he most likely had not even noticed. ‘The real one is very tedious, I doubt you will be interested.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’
Katerina leaned back on her hands. ‘The glamour of the tightrope accounts for a very small part of my life. When an audience watches me up there, they don’t realise they are seeing the result of countless hours of practice. They see an exotic wingless bird flying effortlessly through the air, and know nothing of the pain of torn muscles, the tedium of packing up our equipment and our travelling tents, the boredom of long days spent travelling from town to town.’
‘Then the life of a Flying Vengarov, and the life of an officer in the Ninety-Second really are pretty similar.’
She smiled, but shook her head. ‘On the surface, perhaps. All the time that you are packing up, marching, drilling, writing letters for your men, talking in the Mess, you are still Colonel Kennedy in his uniform, with his stripes or flashes or whatever it is that shows your rank. When I am out of my uniform, I am a shabby thing whom no one notices.’
She had not meant it to sound so pathetic. She did not like the rather too-perceptive gaze which rested on her. ‘Shabby is the very last word I’d use to describe you,’ Fergus said. ‘Then again, I didn’t have you down as the type of woman who fishes for compliments any more than I thought you were the self-pitying type.’
‘I’m neither,’ Katerina said awkwardly. ‘I’m simply not accustomed to talking about myself.’
‘Now that I can believe, though I find it difficult to believe that it’s for lack of interest.’
‘Oh, there is never any lack of interest in my ability to cling to a rope, or to bend myself backwards or in half, or—or any way you choose.’
‘Oh, if I could choose...’ Fergus said with a wicked smile that made her blush, but then immediately shook his head. ‘I’ll not pretend it isn’t a fascinating subject for any red-blooded male, but it’s not the only thing I’m interested in. I want to hear about you.’
Once again she found herself both aroused and disconcerted by him. Katerina gazed down at her hands. ‘What do you want to know?’
He raised his hands expansively. ‘Everything. Where you were born. Have you any brothers or sisters? Are your parents still alive? What is your favourite colour? Your favourite country? Your favourite food? Can you ride? Shoot? Swim? What frightens you most?’
‘Stop. Wait.’ Laughingly, Katerina counted his questions off on her fingers. ‘I was born in Kerch, in the Crimea. No sisters, only one brother. Yes, my parents are still alive. My favourite colour is the blue of the Mediterranean Sea. My favourite country—I should say Russia, but there are so many places I have not been—I would like to visit America. My favourite food is coulibiac, which is a pie, filled with salmon and boiled egg and rice. Yes, I can ride well enough. No, I have never fired a gun. Yes, I can swim very well, from having spent much of my childhood near the Black Sea. There, I think I have answered them all.’
‘You missed the last one.’
‘What frightens me the most?’ At this moment, her feelings for this man, who was frighteningly good at making her feel as if he really was interested in her. But she could not have such feelings for him. ‘Falling,’ Katerina said ambiguously.
He pressed her hand, giving her a smile that was as ambiguous as her own words. ‘I hope you don’t think my curiosity satisfied. I want to know a lot more.’
She surprised herself by obliging, not because he was persistent, but because she wanted to. She forgot all about her resolution to keep her distance, surrendering to the temptation to talk and to laugh with someone new and beguiling, just for a little while.
Though it was not such a little while. The gong sounded from the house to warn guests that it was time to change for dinner. Katerina jumped to her feet. ‘Goodness, I had no idea—we have been talking for hours.’
‘By far and away the most pleasant hours I’ve spent here.’ Fergus caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. ‘Thank you.’
His touch changed the atmosphere between them. It was there again, that tug of awareness, that tension that thickened the air, made her breath catch in her throat. The way he looked at her made her blood heat. ‘You had best go, or you will be late for dinner, which would never do.’
‘Watching you last night,’ Fergus said. ‘It was like watching stars tumbling from the sky. I was mesmerised.’
‘I know. I felt it. Felt you. Watching.’
He pulled her to him, his hands resting lightly on her waist. Heat was spreading through her in all directions. Her skirts were brushing against his legs. Her bare toes were touching his boots. ‘I hope it didn’t distract you too much.’ His hands slid from her waist to her arms. His skin on hers. ‘If I thought that you might fall, especially now I know how much it frightens you...’
‘Once, I fell.’ Katerina surrendered to the temptation to step closer. ‘That is why I will be very careful never to fall again,’ she said, shivering as her body brushed his.
He shuddered in response. ‘Never?’
She pulled his head towards her. ‘Absolutely never,’ she said, and closed her eyes as his lips met hers.
It was a kiss that felt long, long overdue. As his mouth covered hers, his hands slid around her back and moulded her to him. Too quickly, he came to his senses and with a sigh, he let her go.
She could not bring herself to be sorry. What she felt was cheated, and frustrated. If she felt regret it was only because their kiss had been all too brief. A taste, no more, of what a kiss might be.
What was Fergus thinking? He looked as confused and discomfited as she. The uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Busying herself in an effort to break the awkwardness, Katerina slipped her foot into her slipper and began to cast about for the other one.
‘Is this what you’re looking for?’
She held her foot out. He made to place the shoe on her foot, and then at the last moment handed it to her, leaning down instead to pick up her book. Didn’t he want to touch her, or didn’t he trust himself? What did it matter! ‘Thank you,’ Katerina said, ‘That’s exactly what I’m looking for.’