Книга - Scandal At The Midsummer Ball: The Officer’s Temptation / The Debutante’s Awakening

Scandal At The Midsummer Ball: The Officer's Temptation / The Debutante's Awakening
Marguerite Kaye

Bronwyn Scott


TWO FORBIDDEN RELATIONSHIPS…ONE HOUSE PARTY TO REMEMBER!The Officer’s Temptation by Marguerite KayeColonel Fergus Kennedy must make a suitable match at the Midsummer Ball. But when this officer encounters sultry acrobat Katerina Vengarov he finds himself torn between duty…and heart-stopping, irresistible passion!"The Debutante’s Awakening by Bronwyn ScottKael Gage is the last person at the Midsummer Ball Miss Zara Titus should speak to – and anything more is definitely off-limits! But the notorious rake seems determined to awaken this innocent debutante’s every desire…"







Scandal at the Midsummer Ball (#u61c0b628-914d-54f4-9dbb-503280f49b57)

Suitable matches or salacious seductions?

The Duke and Duchess of Brockmore are hosting the event of the Season—and arranging the most powerful marriages in England. But when two of their promising protégés decide to take fate into their own hands, scandal abounds!

Don’t miss this sizzling duet from

Marguerite Kaye and Bronwyn Scott

Read Fergus and Katerina’s story in

The Officer’s Temptation by Marguerite Kaye

and

Zara and Kael’s story in

The Debutante’s Awakening by Bronwyn Scott


MARGUERITE KAYE writes hot historical romances from her home in cold and usually rainy Scotland, featuring Regency rakes, Highlanders and sheikhs. She has published almost thirty books and novellas. When she’s not writing she enjoys walking, cycling—but only on the level—gardening—but only what she can eat—and cooking. She also likes to knit and occasionally drink martinis—though not at the same time. Find out more on her website: margueritekaye.com (http://margueritekaye.com).

BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and is the proud mother of three wonderful children—one boy and two girls. When she’s not teaching or writing she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages. Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, bronwynnscott.com, or at her blog, bronwynswriting.blogspot.com (http://bronwynswriting.blogspot.com). She loves to hear from readers.


Scandal at the Midsummer Ball

The Officer’s Temptation

Marguerite Kaye

The Debutante’s Awakening

Bronwyn Scott




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Table of Contents

Cover (#u5e0c2ed9-df9d-541c-bca0-ff35c0fe8d92)

Scandal at the Midsummer Ball (#u1e0cab4f-c88b-5ee4-a977-605f9d1a29bb)

About the Authors (#u4484ed05-3ac1-59bf-b583-ff3c5352398c)

Title Page (#uea9364c2-d3ed-5ca5-a9ae-921d352d81a2)

The Officer’s Temptation (#u5c955059-c627-5ed0-9aac-3468e606e7b1)

Chapter One (#u197ed7bc-dc44-5e8d-97c9-c7341605ee4b)

Chapter Two (#u02f819fb-71a3-5e0f-8aa5-fff2c7928977)

Chapter Three (#u388e0f36-657b-5ef5-8404-bc0130bfb382)

Chapter Four (#u77f0425b-7366-5d54-b56c-22fc9c821cdf)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

The Debutante’s Awakening (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Author Note (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


The Officer’s Temptation (#u61c0b628-914d-54f4-9dbb-503280f49b57)

Marguerite Kaye


Chapter One (#ulink_d0dbd668-a03f-5e72-a4c2-c2a49ecb7427)

Saturday June 14th, 1817

Brockmore Manor House Party

Programme of Events

Welcoming Party in the Drawing Room

Exhibition by the World-Famous

Russian Acrobat Troupe

The Flying Vengarovs in the Ballroom

The drawing room of Brockmore Manor faced due west, looking out over the extensive formal gardens of the Duke and Duchess of Brockmore’s country estate. The heady scent emanating from the nearby rose arbour wafted in through the open windows on the faintest of breezes. A veritable cornucopia of English roses both inside and without, Colonel Fergus Kennedy of the Ninety-Second Regiment of Foot thought wryly, eyeing the fluttering groups of ladies, their pale afternoon gowns in stark contrast to the vibrant cobalt blue of the heavy painted silk wall hangings that gave the room the appearance of an underwater cave. The marine theme was continued on the blue damask sofas which lined the drawing room walls, where naked mermaids and grotesque sea creatures were carved into the gilded arms and legs. Similar creatures were carved into the white Italian marble fireplace, and the works of art which adorned the walls had a maritime theme.

Fergus tugged at his starched neckcloth and edged closer to the open window. A trickle of sweat ran down his back. It was unseasonably hot. It seemed his host, who had a formidable reputation for scheming and machinations, had also organised the weather. He envied the ladies their light muslin gowns, so much more suited to the heat than his silk waistcoat and heavy dark-blue coat, but a quick glance around the room confirmed that he had correctly interpreted the ‘informal’ dress code stipulated for this welcoming party as being ‘London-smart.’

Fergus was not particularly in the frame of mind to be welcomed. In fact, the prospect was distinctly unwelcome. The truth was, Fergus was beginning to have some reservations as to the wisdom of accepting this invitation and the potential consequences.

‘I have made a small wager with myself that you are Colonel Kennedy. May I pat myself on the back and preen indulgently?’

The man who stood before him was of indeterminate age. Clad in what looked to Fergus like an emerald-green silk dressing gown emblazoned with gold-and-scarlet dragons, he carried a similarly painted fan. His skin was powdered, but he had a disconcertingly determined chin, and the pale-blue eyes which shone beneath the perfectly plucked arched brows were piercing.

‘You may do both if you so wish, though attempting them simultaneously may prove problematic. Fergus Kennedy, at your service. I am afraid you have the advantage of me, sir.’

The thin mouth formed into a delighted smile. ‘I knew it! One look at those shoulders and that ramrod straight back, and I knew you must be a military man. What a shame you decided against wearing your regimentals, Colonel, the ladies do love a Red Coat. I’m rather partial myself. But where are my manners! Allow me to introduce myself. Sir Timothy Farthingale, and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’

‘How do you do.’ Farthingale’s exotic appearance was decidedly at odds with his firm handshake, Fergus noted. ‘May I ask if you are acquainted with our hosts? I have not yet introduced myself to them.’

‘Never fear, they will make an appearance directly,’ Sir Timothy responded with an airy wave. ‘Marcus and Alicia always choreograph their grand entrances carefully, and I believe we are still several guests short of a party. You have been based in London since Waterloo, I believe?’

‘I am, at the War Office, on Horse Guards.’ Fergus winced inwardly. How he hated that blasted desk in that poky office. Tedious did not begin to describe his administrative duties. Someone had to keep track of supplies and equipment but why did it have to be him? It had been bad enough when he was recuperating from the injury he’d sustained at Waterloo, but he’d been fighting fit for at least eighteen months now.

‘I am surprised our paths have not crossed before now, Colonel,’ Sir Timothy said, ‘I know everyone who is anyone. It cannot be a lack of invitations which keeps you squirrelled away, for I understood you to be one of Wellington’s brightest protégés.’

As had Fergus, though his belief had waned, as request after request for a transfer to active duties had been refused, and Wellington’s vague promises of saving him for the right appointment had remained unfulfilled. Until now. ‘You seem uncommonly well informed about a man you have never met,’ Fergus said.

Sir Timothy’s smile was knowing. ‘Oh, I make it my business to be well informed, Colonel. One never knows when the information may prove useful. That man over there, for example, the one who is dressed like a vicar with the face of a cadaver, is Desmond Falkner. A very rich fish indeed, though he reeks of the city. I might—or I might not—choose to dangle a little business proposition in front of him. The three young bucks standing beside him are Douglas Brigstock, the Earl of Jessop, Jessamy Addington and Jeremy Giltner. Now, they are the duke’s ideal pawns—personable, popular, not too bright, not too dim, well connected and, I am sorry to say, utterly interchangeable.’ Sir Timothy smiled archly. ‘No doubt Brockmore has plans to match each of them up with one of the gaggle of young ladies over by the fireplace. They make a pretty picture, do they not? And don’t they know it!’

Fergus, who himself was required to have a particular interest in one as yet unidentified young lady, eyed the group with a mixture of dread and anticipation, though he made sure to keep a neutral expression, having quickly deduced that the apparently eccentric Sir Timothy was as sharp as the proverbial tack. ‘Your knowledge of our fellow guests is positively encyclopaedic,’ he said, knowing full well that the man would be unable to resist rising to the bait, thus providing him with much-needed intelligence.

He was rewarded with an indulgent smile. ‘But I have barely scratched the surface. The buxom blondes are, needless to say, the Kilmun twins, Cecily and Cynthia. Anything you wish to know about anyone—provided you cannot locate me—you will glean from them. The demure-looking lady in white over by the windows is Florence Canby. Don’t be fooled by those innocent doe eyes of hers, Colonel Kennedy. A kissing miss, who never misses a kiss, if you take my meaning?’

Fergus shifted uncomfortably. Sir Timothy tittered. ‘I see you do. I see also that one of the most lovely of the ladies has not yet arrived. Miss Zara Titus, are you acquainted? No? She is indeed a true beauty but, I regret to say, a jilt. Quite a scandal, our Miss Titus caused less than a month ago. I will wager you any amount that her mother will bag a husband for her before the week is out. There are a few candidates, though she would do well to ignore that tall, rather intimidating gentleman who has just joined the young bucks. That is Mr Kael Gage. I am not at all sure why he is here, but it is certainly not to make a match. I wonder, Colonel, if you could possibly be a candidate for Miss Titus’s hand?’

‘You have, then, eliminated yourself from the list of runners and riders?’ Fergus quipped.

‘Most people of my acquaintance would assume that I would ride a horse of a very different colour.’

‘I’m sure that’s exactly what you’d like most people of your acquaintance to think, Sir Timothy, but over the years, I have commanded men from all walks of life, and all persuasions. Your secret is safe with me.’

‘Bravo,’ Sir Timothy responded with a silent clap of his hands. ‘A man who has a sharper eye even than I. I congratulate you, Colonel Kennedy. I find that my little charade encourages people to underestimate me, which from a business perspective suits my purposes very well. You are no doubt wondering where Lady Verity is. If you will cast your eyes to the doorway, you will be rewarded. A lovely piece, the duke’s niece. You see, I do know why you are here, but your secret is safe with me. You will excuse me now. I do believe I must delve a little further into Mr Gage’s motives for turning up uninvited.’

Alone again, Fergus watched the Brockmore party make their stately progress around the room. The Duke of Brockmore, known as the Silver Fox, was a handsome man, with a broad intelligent brow under a thick coiffure of silver hair that was more leonine than fox-like. His wife, her gown of watered silk the exact same shade as her husband’s waistcoat, Fergus noted with amusement, had the kind of elegance and grace that gave the impression of timeless beauty.

And then there was the duke’s niece. Feeling slightly sick, Fergus turned his attention to Lady Verity Fairholme. Lustrous golden locks, china-blue eyes, a swan-like neck, a retroussé nose and a rosebud mouth, she was, in her blue-and-cream gown, perfection itself. Wellington had not, for once, exaggerated in order to get his way. Fergus, ridiculously, wished he had. He ought to be relieved, and extremely grateful. He ought to remember why he had agreed to be here.

He did not need much reminding. Wellington’s summons a week ago had been an enormous relief. Finally, his days languishing behind a desk were over. ‘Egypt,’ Wellington had told him with one of his rare smiles. ‘Henry Salt is the Consul-General in Cairo. A good man, though his penchant for collecting antiquities could prove a problem. Locals don’t like it. Italians and French want to beat him to it. Tricky situation, potentially. We need a practical, trusted man on the ground, and that’s where you come in.’

Relief had given way to excitement. Until Wellington explained the price. The diplomatic posting required a suitable wife to host social events and entertain guests. Apparently his friend, the Duke of Brockmore, required a husband for his niece. An excellent piece of serendipity, Wellington called it. Unfortunately, Fergus could not have one without the other—and on this, his commander-in-chief was implacable. ‘Such prestigious postings as this come up very rarely, Colonel. You may have to wait two, three, perhaps even four or five years before another becomes available. Do you really enjoy counting muskets that much?’

The Duke of Wellington’s smile this time had been thin. The threat was barely veiled. Sixteen years, Fergus had served obediently in the army. Now he must march to a different drum, or he might never march again. It stuck in his craw to be manoeuvred in this way, but if he was to be stuck behind a desk for the rest of his service, he’d likely die of boredom. A wife, an apparently beautiful, accomplished and well-born wife, was a small price to pay for such an exciting posting. Egypt—that was the thing he had to keep in mind. Egypt and escape from drudgery. Though now he was here...

Now he was here, he’d better stop wasting his time wishing that he were not. Whatever doubts he might harbour about this arranged marriage, he had no doubts at all about Wellington’s judgement. If he said that his friend’s niece would suit Fergus ‘admirably’ then it was up to Fergus to make sure that she did, because the consequences, if he failed to make a match of it, were unthinkable.

The Duke and Duchess of Brockmore were now only a few feet away. Fergus braced himself. Looking across the room, he saw Sir Timothy Farthingale deep in conversation with a statuesque flame-haired woman of about thirty, clad in a scarlet dress which clung in all the right places to her voluptuous figure. Sir Timothy, he noticed with an inward smile, was having to work very hard to keep his eyes from that magnificent bosom. Maintaining an act was hard work, it seemed.

‘Colonel Kennedy, I presume? A pleasure to make your acquaintance at last. I have heard a great deal about you from my friend, Wellington. May I present my wife, the Duchess of Brockmore, and my niece, Lady Verity Fairholme?’

Fergus bowed first to the duke, then to the duchess, and then to the niece. Lady Verity’s hand was limp in his. While they made the usual introductory small talk her eyes glazed over and her gaze drifted to the painting behind his head. Suppressing his irritation, he nodded and smiled, responding automatically to the duchess’s remarks about the weather, the duke’s enquiries as to Wellington’s health. Lady Verity’s eyes continued to drift around the room. She fluttered her fan in the direction of the Kilmun twins. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, to no one in particular, then turned her back, making for a large footstool in the middle of the room, where she ensconced herself, and was immediately joined by the twins.

‘It may be that my niece finds the heat trying,’ the duke said stiffly, for the affront was clearly deliberate. ‘I am sure she did not intend to be rude.’

‘Indeed not,’ Fergus said tightly. ‘I am sure that if Lady Verity intended to be rude she would make a better fist of it than a mere flounce.’

‘Touché, Colonel Kennedy,’ the duchess said with a forced smile. ‘Now, who else would you like to be introduced to?’

He had already met the one person he’d come here to meet, and it had been a far from auspicious beginning. His nerves had given way to a horrible flat feeling, as if he’d been waiting all day to confront an enemy who did not show up. Not that Lady Verity was the enemy—though dammit, she had appeared more enemy than ally.

One of the many lessons Wellington had taught him was that on occasion it was prudent to beat a strategic retreat and regroup. ‘Thank you,’ Fergus replied, making his bow, ‘but I’m finding the unseasonable heat a little oppressive myself. If you will excuse me, I think I will retire outside momentarily for some fresh air.’

* * *

The sun blazed down from a cloudless, azure sky. Fergus glanced at the handy little map he’d found in his bedchamber—another example of the Duke of Brockmore’s legendary attention to detail—and reckoned he was at the top of the steps leading down to the South Lawn. Sure enough, the waters of the ornamental lake glinted in the distance. It would be much cooler there. He’d be tempted to wander down, were it not for the fact that he’d be spotted from the drawing-room windows.

He descended from the terrace to a lawn so perfect he reckoned the Duke of Brockmore’s gardeners must have trimmed it with grape scissors. Behind him, the house itself seemed to glitter in the sunshine, looking as if it was constructed from spun sugar. The beauty of the country mansion could not be denied, with its pleasing symmetry, its surprising lack of ostentation. It reminded him of an Italian palazzo he’d been billeted in once. He couldn’t remember where, but he did remember it was summer, like this, and the marble floors had been blissfully cool on his feet, which were aching and blistered from long days of marching. There had been a lake there too, where he’d swum.

And there had been a woman. Fergus smiled. There had been a good many women back in those days, and a good many wild parties too, when they were not fighting wild battles. Though he did not forget the tedium of endless drills and weeks of tense waiting, though he did not wish to relive the horrors of the aftermath of battle, he missed—oh, how he missed—the excitement, and the danger, and the thrill, the desire to make the most of every single day, knowing it might well be his last. His smile faded. Those days were most definitely long gone. He tried to conjure the elation he’d felt when he’d first heard about the Egypt posting, but that awkward moment with the woman he would have to share his future with made his doubts surface once more. He couldn’t afford to have doubts.

The formal gardens were laid out on the right-hand side of the house. There was a maze there. He’d be sure of some privacy in the maze, but his thoughts already contained enough dead ends and wrong turnings to be going on with. Instead he took the left-hand path, which his plan informed him led to the kitchen gardens.

Deciding that he could risk some concession to the heat, Fergus shrugged himself out of his dark-blue coat with some relief. Why was it that fashion went hand in hand with discomfort? He tugged longingly at his starched neckcloth, but knowing he’d only have to re-tie the blasted thing before returning to the drawing room, contented himself with rolling up his shirtsleeves.

Peering curiously into the Duchess of Brockmore’s famous Orchid House was like opening an oven. Hastily closing the door, Fergus decided against an investigation of the pinery and the huge succession house where reputedly grew the largest vine in England.

The stone archway in front of him must lead to the walled garden. Sure enough, neat vegetable plots vibrant with greenery took up most of the available space. Precisely pruned peach and apricot trees fanned against the walls, and regimented ranks of raspberry and gooseberry canes filled one sunny corner. In the centre of the garden, on the large rectangle of lawn, stood two tall poles with a thick rope strung between them. And on the rope, improbably, dressed in a tiny tunic, balanced a woman.

Fergus drew back against the archway out of the line of her sight. She was slim, slight in stature, but the flimsy fabric she wore revealed a lithe and extremely supple body, with shapely legs and slender, elegant feet clinging to the rope. Her hair was auburn. Her skin, in contrast, was creamy white. She moved expertly and fluidly along the rope, her arms spread wide, as if she were about to fly.

He watched, fascinated, as she balanced, first on one leg and then on the other, traversing the length of the rope before, to his astonishment, she leapt high into the air, executed a perfect, graceful somersault in impossibly slow motion, and landed soft as a cat on the grass. Bouncing back to her feet, she tumbled over and over in a series of one-handed cartwheels so fast that her body was a blur of cream and auburn, until she came to an abrupt halt and finished with a theatrically flourishing bow. Fergus could not resist giving her a round of applause.

Startled, she glared fiercely at him. Her eyes were emerald green, her heart-shaped face flushed. ‘This is a private area,’ she said in heavily accented English. ‘The Duke of Brockmore assured us that we would not be disturbed. Mr Keaton, the head gardener, has instructed his men to work elsewhere. Though you,’ she said, raising one brow and giving him the faintest of smiles, ‘I do not think that you are an under-gardener?’

He made an elaborate bow. ‘Colonel Fergus Kennedy at your service. And you can only be Madame Vengarov. I am sorry to intrude, but in truth, I couldn’t take my eyes off you. You looked as if that rope was glued to your feet.’

‘Spasibo. Thank you, but I am a novice compared to Alexandr.’

‘Your husband, and the other half of the famed Flying Vengarovs, I presume?’

‘Yes, but you presume too much. I am not married. Alexandr is my brother.’

‘Then I am even more delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Vengarov.’

She smiled. Her teeth were very white. Her lips were very pink. There was a smattering of freckles across her little nose and a teasing light in her almond-shaped eyes. ‘I don’t know why my lack of a husband should cause you delight.’

‘You are quite correct,’ Fergus said, with a guilty pang. ‘It should not, especially under the circumstances.’

‘Which are?’

‘I am here at the behest of one duke to make a match with the niece of another.’ His words, spoken without thinking, wiped the delightful smile from Miss Vengarov’s face. Put like that, she would think him the worst sort of social climber, and worse, a compliant pawn in someone else’s game. Fergus could feel himself flushing. What he ought to do was beat a retreat. Though he told himself the exotic Miss Vengarov’s thoughts were irrelevant, he felt compelled to explain himself. ‘It’s not how it sounds,’ he said. ‘The first duke in question is Wellington, my commander-in-chief. The second, my host the Duke of Brockmore.’

‘Wellington ordered you to marry Brockmore’s niece?’

Her tone was starkly disbelieving, and no wonder. ‘Not ordered, precisely. I am to take up a diplomatic posting to Egypt. A wife is apparently standard issue in such situations,’ Fergus said, more flippantly than he intended.

* * *

Katerina eyed the soldier in some surprise. He looked decidedly uncomfortable, clearly regretting blurting out such private matters to a complete stranger. She ought to allow him to drop the awkward subject, but she was intrigued. He must want this posting very much if he was prepared to marry a stranger in order to secure it. ‘What is so appealing about Egypt?’ she asked.

‘It is not Whitehall, for a start,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘I won’t have to sit behind a desk and compile endless lists that no one will read. I won’t have to drag myself out of bed knowing that today will be the exact same as yesterday and the day before. In Egypt, every day will present a new challenge.’ His smile lightened. ‘I’m a soldier. Peacetime can be a bit of a double-edged sword. Inactivity doesn’t suit me at all.’

‘That, I can understand. When I am not performing, I am not living. Inactivity does not suit me one little bit either,’ Katerina said with a smile. ‘We have that in common, Colonel.’

‘It’s Fergus. Call me Fergus.’

She ought not to call him anything. She ought to ask him to leave. This was precisely the kind of situation and he was precisely the kind of man that experience had taught her to avoid, but against her will, she was interested in him. And yes, also against her will, she had to admit she was attracted.

His eyes were the most startling shade of blue—or was it green? Turquoise? Colonel Fergus Kennedy was tall, several inches taller even than Alexei, and every bit as muscular, though the colonel’s physique was broader, more solid than her brother’s, the result of a lifetime of marching and fighting presumably, rather than endless hours of acrobatic training. War had etched the tiny fan of lines around his eyes, though the grooves at his mouth, the natural curve of his lips, made her wonder if laughter had also been a significant contributor. His fair hair was cropped close to his head, though there was a rebellious wave, a little kink on his brow that mitigated the severity of it. Attractive, he was most certainly, in a rugged way, but first and foremost, the impression she had was of a man of authority, a man accustomed to giving rather than receiving orders. Slightly intimidating, he was the kind of man that turned heads when he walked into a room. Or a walled garden, come to that!

‘Fergus,’ she said. ‘And I am Katerina. Forgive me, but why can’t you marry someone of your own choosing if a diplomat must have a wife?’ She wrinkled her brow. ‘I cannot believe that you would be lacking in eager candidates.’

‘Thank you for that vote of confidence,’ he said mockingly. ‘If only it were true.’ He ran his fingers through his hair, making the kink stand up endearingly. ‘It has been decided that this will be strictly a one-horse race, if I am to claim the prize.’ He sighed heavily. ‘And so, Miss Vengarov, I fear that I have no choice at all, if Lady Verity—that’s the Duke of Brockmore’s niece—will have me.’

‘Do you doubt that she will?’

‘I don’t know what to think. She was certainly not been effusive in her welcome.’

‘So you have already met her?’

‘A wee while ago.’

‘And she did not warm instantly to you?’

He laughed shortly. ‘Is that so difficult to believe?’

His smile was charming. Not that there was any possibility of it charming her. ‘Come now, you do not need me to tell you that you are an attractive man, Colonel—Fergus,’ Katerina said. ‘Most likely, under the circumstances, the lady was simply nervous, embarrassed or both. Everyone knows the Duke of Brockmore’s Midsummer Party is simply a notorious matchmaking fair.’

‘You disapprove?’

‘I am sure it is a foolproof way to find a wife. As you see, we lowly performers are kept within the boundaries of this walled garden so there can be no confusion as to whom are the suitable candidates.’ On either part.

Fergus Kennedy was looking quite taken aback. She had not meant her own bitter experience to colour her tone quite so much. Katerina gave a careless shrug. ‘It is none of my business.’

‘True enough,’ he replied, ‘though in a sense I’ve made it so, by confiding in you. Perhaps I should not have. I don’t know why I did, to be honest, save that perhaps I disapprove a wee bit myself.’

His admission disarmed her. For some reason, she was relieved not to have to think quite so ill of him. ‘I don’t know you at all,’ Katerina said, ‘but I confess I find it strange that a man like you, so clearly accustomed to command, is allowing someone else to make such an important decision for him.’

‘The “someone else” is my commander-in-chief.’

‘Yes, you said so.’

‘I did.’ He was silent for a moment, before sighing heavily. ‘You’re right. If I was happy with the situation, I’d be back there at that welcoming party making myself amenable, instead of out here, embarrassing you with my problems in the hope that you’ll reassure me.’

She had no idea how to reply to this, as confused by his indecisiveness as he was. Was it simply an ingenious way of engaging her sympathy? He did not seem the ingenious type, but she had been fooled before. ‘I am sorry,’ Katerina said, somewhat helplessly.

‘Ach no, don’t be. You’ve not said anything I’ve not thought myself. That’s enough about me,’ he said, giving himself a little shake. ‘You’re much more interesting. Brockmore pulled off quite a coup bringing you and your brother here. The Vengarov name is one of the most respected in your field.’

‘What do you know of my field?’

‘I’ve seen a few acts such as yours in my travels, and I’ve visited that man Jahn’s gymnasium in Berlin.’

Despite herself, Katerina was impressed. ‘The Duke of Brockmore will spare no expense in obtaining the very best entertainment for his guests,’ she said drily. ‘He does not, however, share your respect for our reputation. Or our artistry. We are, in his eyes, I suspect, little more than performing monkeys.’

‘Then the man is an idiot. What is it like up there on the tightrope?’

‘Oh, there is nothing to compare it with.’

‘Save flying? You must feel as if you’re in your own wee world.’

He had one of those smiles that was impossible to ignore, and his interest really did seem genuine. ‘Wee world,’ Katerina repeated, surrendering to the temptation to smile back. ‘Your accent is strange. You are not English?’

‘Scottish. And you, I believe, are from Russia.’

‘R-r-r-russia,’ Katerina repeated, in a fair enough imitation of his accent to make him smile. ‘Yes, I am Russian.’

‘You speak excellent English.’

‘And French, and German, passable Italian and a smattering of Spanish. All my life, I have been travelling, you see, and performing too. I come from a great tradition, as you said, a long line of performers. The Vengarov family, we are the aristocrats of our world.’

‘I am aware of that, even if Brockmore is not. I’m looking forward very much to tonight’s performance. I see from the Programme of Events that you’re also holding a demonstration class for the party guests.’

‘Aristocrats from one world, mingling with the aristocrats of another,’ Katerina said sardonically. ‘Will you be taking part, Colonel Fergus?’

‘I most certainly will. Do you include the ladies in this class? I’m not sure I can picture the duchess wearing one of these wee tunic affairs. Or, indeed, care to!’

Caught up in their conversation, amazingly, astonishingly, Katerina had quite forgotten that all she was wearing was what he called her wee tunic affair, in part because Fergus too seemed to have forgotten. But now he had drawn attention to her state of dishabille and was looking at her most appreciatively, she became acutely aware of how much of her flesh was on display, and Fergus seemed to be having difficulty dragging his eyes away from her modest cleavage, and the way he was looking at her was making her flush more, with a mixture of awareness of him and anger at herself, rather than embarrassment.

‘It is not possible to practise real acrobatics in corsets and morning gowns,’ Katerina said tightly. ‘We will restrict ourselves to teaching more seemly and decorous moves.’

He flushed very faintly, making a point of turning his gaze away. ‘Curses, then I will be denied the sight of a tumbling duchess.’

‘And I will be denied the opportunity to witness a soldier falling from the tightrope.’

‘You seem very certain I will fall.’

‘You won’t have a chance. It will not be offered as an activity in the masterclass,’ Katerina told him. ‘It is too dangerous.’

Fergus eyed the rope speculatively. ‘It doesn’t look so high.’

‘Because this is merely a practice height—so I can reach it without a ladder. It makes no difference to me what height the rope is set at, but for the spectacle—oh, then the higher the better, as you will see tonight.’

‘Aren’t you ever afraid of falling and injuring yourself?’

‘The trick is to convince yourself that you are not afraid.’

‘It’s the same on the battlefield.’

They were no longer looking at the tightrope. He was smiling at her again, but there was something more than laughter in his eyes. Though he was not touching her, her skin tingled. Heat, that’s what it was. Katerina’s stomach fluttered in response. ‘There is no comparison,’ she said. ‘I am not brave in that way.’

‘Perhaps not,’ he replied softly, ‘but definitely fearless.’

There was a trickle of sweat on his brow. She noticed a tiny shaving nick, right in the cleft of his chin. His fair lashes were absurdly long for a man. A sharp gust of desire took her by surprise. She saw it reflected in his eyes, and the air in the walled garden seemed to still, the sun’s heat to intensify. Even the birdsong seemed momentarily muted. She curled her toes into the grass and realised she was waiting, longing for him to kiss her.

Confused and startled by her reaction, Katerina launched herself up on to the rope, taking them both aback. Safe from her own desire, she perversely fed his, wanting to show him what he could never have, what he could never attain, walking, leaping, dancing, tumbling on the rope, aware of his eyes fixed on the shapes her body was making, her naked limbs, her supple flesh. Only when she stopped, her chest heaving with the effort, and her eyes met his again, did she realise that desire fed desire, that her feelings were as nakedly exposed as his.

She hovered on the rope, furious at herself for surrendering to temptation, yet unwilling to put an end to it, waiting for the proof that he was, after all, exactly like the rest. When he gave a tiny shake of his head, turning deliberately away, it took her off guard. She vaulted down. Still averting his eyes, he disconcerted her further by holding out her robe, the robe she should have donned the moment he had appeared in the garden. Her fingers fumbled with the sash.

Fergus made a show of consulting his watch. ‘I’ve deserted the reception currently underway in the drawing room for far longer than I intended. I must re-join the others lest I blot my copybook at the first opportunity. Even in a one-horse race, one can’t afford to fall at the first fence.’ Finally, his extraordinary eyes met hers again. ‘It has been a privilege to see you practise, a privilege to make your acquaintance, but you will be wishing to return to your practice. I should not have taken up so much of your time.’

She was in danger of liking this man. She was in danger of thinking him different. She’d thought that before, and look what had happened. ‘I spend most of my time with my brother, Colonel Kennedy,’ Katerina said dismissively. ‘Any other company is a welcome distraction.’

‘Well, that’s a fine compliment indeed. Here was me thinking you enjoyed my company for its own sake. And it’s Fergus, remember?’

His quip, his smile, made the awkward moment pass. She was forced to laugh. ‘Indeed, Fergus,’ she said, ‘if the charming Mr Keaton or one of his under-gardeners should happen by, you will please send him straight in.’

‘A tour of the pinery would no doubt be entertaining.’

‘And there is the orchid house too. I believe the duchess has some rare specimens on display.’

‘Oh, when it comes to displaying rare specimens, I believe her husband has the edge.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You,’ Fergus replied. ‘I doubt very much there’s another exotic flower in the garden quite as fragrant as you. It has been a pleasure, Katerina.’ It was there again, as he covered her hands with his, the tug of desire between them. The long fingers which covered hers were calloused. His knuckles were covered in a fretwork of tiny scars. Powder burns? He lifted her hand to his lips, brushed a tantalisingly brief kiss to the tips of her fingers, then gently released her hand. ‘I very much look forward to enjoying your performance tonight.’

A straightening of the shoulders, a firming of his mouth, and his purpose was set. With a sketched bow, Fergus turned away, marching briskly across the grass in the direction of the house, looking for all the world as if he were marching into battle.

* * *

The impressive ballroom of Brockmore Manor ran the full length of the house from front to back and opened out on to the large terrace, the ceiling twice the height of the other reception rooms. Painted alabaster white, with only the ornate Adam cornicing to relieve its plainness, the pilasters running down one side gave the room the look of a Roman forum. Three huge chandeliers blazed down, their flames reflected in the highly polished wooden floor. The centre of the space was taken up by the tightrope and poles, set about fifteen feet off the ground now, surrounded by thick mats. A stack of hoops and skittles were laid out neatly to one side, beside a shallow tray of chalk.

Marcus, the Duke of Brockmore, surveying the scene from his vantage point on the balcony, permitted himself a small smile of satisfaction and a flutter of anticipation. The welcoming party earlier in the day had been but a prelude to the main event. Tonight’s performance would set the tone for the rest of the week. A spectacle never before seen in England. The Vengarov siblings would be a symbol for his guests, a reminder of how they too could fly—with his assistance.

Marcus leaned over the balustrade to direct a footman in the more precise arrangement of chairs for the audience. He swept his mane of grey hair back from his forehead as he took in the bustling scene below. The Silver Fox, they called him behind his back, and he rather enjoyed his reputation. It was not as if any of the guests were unaware of the subtle games they were being invited to play here. The Brockmore Midsummer Party was well established now, as the stage for all sorts of alliances to be made—and in some cases unmade. He and Alicia did not manipulate, but rather facilitated these affairs—of the heart, of politics, of business. Yes, they greased the wheels of power, but they did not force those wheels to turn in any particular direction. Though more often than not, of course, they did. In their later years, they would be able to look back with pride and satisfaction on their achievements. The children of the marriages they had brokered would be consolation for their own tragic lack of progeny.

The customary pang this engendered in his heart made Marcus’s thoughts turn towards his wife, and as if on cue, she entered the room ahead of their guests, glancing up and smiling, that special smile she saved for him and him alone. She was looking splendid this evening, her pale-green evening gown carefully chosen to complement the darker-green stripe of his own waistcoat. His diamond-and-emerald cravat pin matched the magnificent set of diamonds and emeralds she wore around her swan-like neck. It was these little attentions to detail that were so important. No, he could have no regrets.

He watched his duchess making her graceful way through the throng of specially invited guests, admiring the way she gently manoeuvred each into their allotted place with the skill of an orchestra conductor. There were the obvious matches to be made—and by and large he left those in Alicia’s capable hands. Viscount Monteith’s daughter would be marketable enough, a shy beauty and therefore a desirable catch, but that dragon of a mother of hers was bound to interfere. The Kilmun twins—Marcus smiled to himself as he eyed those two ladies. Cecily and Cynthia, wasn’t it? Damned if he could tell which was which. It would be interesting to see if their intended bridegrooms could—or cared to. Brigstock, Earl of Jessop, and Jessamy Addington were lined up for them. Cynthia and Cecily. Jessop and Jessamy. Sound fellows with excellent connections. He had plans for both, and frankly an alliance with either twin would suit his purposes just as well. Let them sort it out between them.

Verity now—where was Verity?—ah yes, there she was, seated as planned beside Wellington’s protégé. Colonel Kennedy looked to possess a strong will, just the type to take his headstrong niece in hand. It was not a great match in the eyes of the world, not compared to some of the offers Verity had already rejected, but in some ways this man was likely more suitable. If Wellington was in the right of it—and his old friend invariably was—the colonel would very quickly make his mark abroad, giving the Brockmore family another string to their many bows. Mind you, that first meeting between the pair today had not been auspicious. It was to be hoped that Verity had indeed been merely out of sorts due to the heat in the crowded drawing room.

As for the rest of his guests? His Grace scanned the audience, now seated, and made a rapid inventory. Sir Timothy Farthingale would be easy enough to accommodate, all he desired was to be pointed in the direction of a generous benefactor with deep pockets, but Desmond Falkner might prove just a little tricky to bleed. A canny man, he had seemed at dinner earlier, and something of a prude, if truth be told. Farthingale’s flamboyant appearance had made quite the wrong impression. What possessed the man to wear a pair of Turkish slippers and a scarlet coat to dinner, Marcus could not fathom. Alicia had seated him in the back row, but he looked more like he should be performing in tonight’s entertainment. A quiet word might be in order. A task for Lillias, perhaps? By odd coincidence, the woman he and Alicia liked to think of as their eyes and ears was already seated by Sir Timothy in her customary scarlet. The duke winced at the clash of colours. Though the Titian-haired Lovely, Luscious Lillias Lamont was a stalwart of their Midsummer Party, her flamboyant taste in clothes was really almost as suspect as Farthingale’s.

‘Your Grace?’ He turned, to find the Russian duo whose services he had secured at great expense beckoning him from the doorway. ‘We are ready to begin the performance.’

Marcus fought the urge to inform the rather arrogant young Russian man that the performance would commence when he decided it could begin. He was paying a small fortune to hire the pair for the whole week, yet each time they spoke, he had the sense the man was looking down his nose at him. There were not many people who discomfited the Duke of Brockmore. Marcus couldn’t understand it, but there was something about Alexandr Vengarov that made him feel as if he should be doing the kowtowing.

Though the blasted man was right, it was high time to get the evening’s entertainment underway. Marcus nodded his assent and the Russian performers disappeared. Moments later, the pair of them appeared in the doorway of the ballroom.

His Grace leaned over the balcony and cleared his throat. ‘My Lords, Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great privilege to present, for your delectation, the most extraordinary, the most talented, the most graceful and indeed the most flexible acrobatic performers in the civilised world. Prepare to be both astounded and amazed. I give you the Flying Vengarovs.’

Conversation stilled. Skirts rustled, painted fans were snapped shut and quizzing glasses prised open as the audience settled into their gilt-edged chairs.

The duke gestured to the performers. They were a striking pair, he so tall, and she so tiny in comparison. Both wore long cloaks, hers dark blue and his black, studded with paste diamonds that sparkled and shimmered in the candlelight. There were paste diamonds in her burnished auburn hair too. They seemed to float across the floor together like a walking constellation of stars. A hushed silence pervaded the ballroom as they stood in front of the tightrope, facing the expectant crowd. He had to admire their professionalism, the pair possessed real stage presence. The duke felt his own heart pick up a few beats. Catching his wife’s eye, they shared a smile, but his eyes were drawn, almost against his will, to the duo below. They did not look like siblings. Vengarov’s square-cut jaw, brown eyes and dark-brown hair were in stark contrast to his sister’s colouring and appearance, though they shared the same high Slavic cheekbones, and there was something about the mouth too.

They made their bow. Vengarov’s cloak dropped to the ground and there was a sharp intake of breath. The man was half-naked, wearing only a shockingly tight pair of knitted pantaloons. His muscled torso gleamed in the candlelight. The duke smothered a chuckle. Fans were being hurriedly opened, but he had no doubt that behind them the ladies were gazing with flagrant admiration at the chap’s sculpted physique. The men present, on the other hand, were bristling with purported indignation. Intimidated no doubt, rather than offended. Save Kennedy, who was smiling. And Farthingale who was looking like a dog salivating over a particularly juicy bone.

Another sharp intake of breath followed when the female acrobat dropped her cloak, and to this the duke contributed enthusiastically. She was virtually naked. A scant flesh-coloured tunic studded with more paste diamonds and little else clung to her perfectly proportioned body. It was indecent. It was also rather exciting. The rumours he’d heard regarding the exotic allure of the Vengarov siblings had not been wide of the mark. If anything, they had been understated, especially regarding the delicious Katerina. No bristling from his male guests now, that was for sure. And the smile had been wiped from Kennedy’s face. Rapt, was an accurate description of his expression. Marcus congratulated himself. He had provided something for everyone, an audacious spectacle no other host would dare commission.

Then the girl put her bare foot on her brother’s linked hands and he propelled her upwards on to the tightrope. He followed her, too fast for the duke to work out how he’d managed to leap so high. The show began, and Marcus, along with everyone else in the enthralled audience, forgot everything else and concentrated on the two graceful and impossibly skilled acrobats.


Chapter Two (#ulink_a5b0efe5-6e50-552f-9949-918b47bf1ca5)

Sunday June 15th

Brockmore Manor House Party

Programme of Events

A Tour of the Gardens for the Ladies

Al Fresco Luncheon at the Lake Summerhouse

Boating to Follow

Cards and Conversation

Katerina gazed out of the window of her bedchamber. A ripple of wispy mare’s-tail clouds streaked the hazy blue sky. It was another beautiful day, the sun already warm on her face, though it was not yet eleven in the morning. She pushed the casement as high as it would go and leaned out. A light breeze ruffled her hair, which was coming loose from its tight night-time braid. The sleeping quarters she and Alexandr had been allotted were on the top floor, one below the servants’ cramped garrets which were squashed into the attics, and one floor above the luxurious guest chambers. It summed up perfectly their place in the grand scheme of things: coveted by the elite but excluded from polite society; envied by the hoi polloi but treated with a mixture of admiration and circumspection.

Her window overlooked the working gardens. From this height, she could see down into the stables, over the top of the glinting glass of the succession house, pinery and orchid house, and into the walled garden beyond. Alexandr was walking on his hands along the practice rope. She had never seen anyone more skilled than her brother, and though she had watched him perform this trick countless times from much more vertiginous heights, she still felt that familiar combination of fear and awe. She had only managed to complete just over half the rope in this manner herself, and certainly never attempted to perform it in public. Alexei was most likely going to feature it in his solo performance scheduled for later in the week.

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.’


Chapter Three (#ulink_879277dc-0eb9-5f7b-b601-28fcff6ef550)

Monday June 16th

Brockmore Manor House Party

Programme of Events

Masterclass in the Acrobatic Arts to be

held in the Ballroom

Expedition to a Mystery Beauty Spot

Musical Evening with Recitations and

Recitals from the guests

Alicia, the Duchess of Brockmore, settled into her lone seat, strategically placed on the balcony of the ballroom, with a keen sense of anticipation. The acrobatic masterclass about to be delivered by the Vengarovs promised to be highly entertaining, though not necessarily for those guests bold or perhaps foolish enough to participate.

Engaging the services of the two Russian acrobats had been a masterstroke. They lent enormous cachet to this year’s party. Alicia had no doubt they would be the talk of the ton for months to come. The session she was about to witness was pushing propriety to the very limits. Were it being held anywhere other than Brockmore Manor, under the auspices of anyone other than a duke and duchess, she doubted very much that any of her guests would dare turn up. As it was, she had guiltily high hopes that at least some of them would be quite literally tied in knots.

The doors to the terrace were open, the gauzy curtains tied back, filling the ballroom with sunlight, which shimmered over the huge chandeliers. The polished dance floor was piled high with thick rugs to provide a soft landing in the event of mishap. Goodness knew where Mrs Phydon had found so many. Her venerable housekeeper was a positive treasure. Several stacks of equipment had been placed in the centre of the room. Their guests were to be given the opportunity to try their hands at juggling, the art of spinning hoops or, for bolder gentlemen in rude physical health, tumbling.

Alexandr Vengarov was the first on the scene, rather disappointingly quite respectably dressed in a shirt and a pair of leather breeches. My, but the man had a fine pair of calves. And really, those cheekbones could sharpen knives. The gentlemen arrived in dribs and drabs, all attired in breeches and shirts. Admittedly there were some shapely legs and fine shoulders on display, but there were some, Alicia noted, eyeing them critically, who must surely resort to padding when more conventionally dressed—and not just of the calf. However, their unexpected and indeed uninvited guest, Kael Gage, stripped down very well indeed, as did Colonel Kennedy, which was to be expected of a military man.

There was no sign of that desiccated twig of a man Falkner, and surprisingly Timothy Farthingale had made the rare decision to pass up an opportunity to make an exhibition of himself. Perhaps the pair of them were closeted elsewhere talking business. Marcus would be pleased about that, it was a partnership he was most eager to promote. Lillias would likely brief him on any progress there. She seemed to be spending an unfathomable amount of time with Farthingale.

The little Russian acrobat, demurely dressed, led the posse of blushing and giggling ladies in. This event offered an excellent opportunity to take an inventory of the early progress of the various liaisons this year’s party had set in train. Alicia studied them as they filed into the room, shockingly corsetless, wearing divided skirts. It would be fair to say that not everything was going exactly to plan. The Kilmun twins, for example, seemed determined to resist the ardent advances of Addington and Brigstock, the duke’s personal protégés. As to the other business closest to her dear husband’s heart—now that, Alicia thought with a weary sigh, was going deuced badly.

It was a relief to see that Verity had decided to honour the company with her presence. The girl had made very little attempt to endear herself to the colonel, despite the fact that her duty had been made very clear to her. Last night, in the drawing room after dinner, had been positively embarrassing. While Colonel Kennedy had made a point of seeking Verity out, the girl sat there like a wooden effigy, forcing Alicia to intervene lest further damage was done. But the conversational seeds she so carefully planted had fallen on stony ground. There was no evidence of Verity’s normal sharp-mindedness, nor of her much-vaunted wit. The poor colonel! The duchess fanned her cheeks at the memory. He at least, had emerged from the encounter with distinction. The man had shown remarkable restraint, though his mouth grew tighter with each successive silence, and those remarkable blue eyes grew stormy. In the end, she had resorted to escorting him into the card room herself.

What the devil was wrong with the girl! Colonel Kennedy was not simply presentable, he was an extremely attractive man, and quite, quite charming. Verity could do a great deal worse. He had an air about him that made one wish to do his bidding, but also made one rather tremble at the thought of not doing so. Wellington had gone out of his way to recommend his protégé to Marcus, and though Kennedy was a second son of a mere Scottish peer, Wellington’s seal of approval more than made up for a somewhat watery pedigree. Kennedy would go far under his own steam, but he would go further with the appropriate help-meet. Just as Marcus had, Alicia thought, smiling fondly. Verity was simply being stubborn. In some ways, the girl was very like her uncle. She would remind her in the sternest of terms of her obligations.

Unless the damage was already done? Rather worryingly, despite Verity’s fetching appearance in the divided skirt, Kennedy was at this moment showing little interest in his prospective wife. The duchess leaned forward over the balcony, risking discovery. It was the little acrobat that he was leaning close to, bestowing a smile on her that brought a flush to Alicia’s artfully powdered cheeks. The Vengarov woman was smiling back. She touched his arm, lightly enough, though she withdrew hurriedly. Had Verity noticed the little exchange between the female acrobat and her intended? A pinch of jealousy might rouse her from her torpor. No, blast it, Verity was pointedly staring in the opposite direction.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, if you would be kind enough to gather around, please select your preferred activity and we will begin.’ Alexandr Vengarov clapped his hands imperiously and the duchess pushed her exasperation with her niece to one side and settled back to enjoy the spectacle.

* * *

‘Very good,’ Katerina said to Lady Verity Fairholme, ‘you have excellent co-ordination, if I may say so. You are the only one to have mastered juggling with three balls.’

This was a fact not lost on those male guests who had taken what they no doubt considered the easier option. One of them, Brigstock, who was the Earl of Jessop, was all fingers and thumbs, and could barely throw and cleanly catch a single ball. When she had noticed that his lack of dexterity was an enormous source of amusement to some of the spectating ladies, Katerina had quickly moved him to the hoop-spinning group. Unfortunately, he proved no more adept at this simple trick. His face a grim mask of fierce concentration, he gyrated violently as if being assailed by a swarm of hornets, but despite his determined efforts, the hoop refused to remain around his waist and clattered repeatedly on to the rugs. It was all Katerina could do not to burst out laughing herself.

Her star pupil turned out to be the Duke of Brockmore’s niece, the woman intended for Fergus. She was extremely beautiful, though rather haughty, her manner distant at first, but during the last hour as she immersed herself in the art of juggling, she had been quite transformed. Eyeing her flushed countenance and sparkling eyes, Katerina felt an unaccustomed twist of envy. Family, breeding, looks and charm, as well as that certain something, a supreme kind of confidence that came from the security of her position in the upper echelon of society, this woman had it all. Including Fergus, if she wished. And why would she not wish for that!

Somewhat annoyingly, Lady Verity was proving to be easy to like. Her smile was completely lacking in self-consciousness. The glee she took in mastering what none of the other guests could manage was infectious. ‘You have a natural talent,’ Katerina said, and meant it.

‘Thank you.’ Her pupil beamed. ‘You are an excellent teacher. Am I ready for the skittles, do you think?’

‘You wish to learn in a morning what it takes most people years to perfect! Why not, but start with just two. Here, hold them like this. Now watch me.’

Katerina demonstrated several times, then handed two skittles to Lady Verity to try for herself. Keeping one eye on her pupil, she allowed her attention to drift back to the group of intrepid gentlemen whom Alexei was coaching in the basics of tumbling. Unsurprisingly, Fergus was one of the most successful of his pupils. He had actually managed to string a handstand and a cartwheel together. Her brother, who was ridiculously competitive, was making a point of picking holes in his technique.

Instead of taking offence, Fergus listened intently, nodding, requesting a demonstration. His next attempt was a vast improvement. He had only a fraction of Alexei’s flexibility, but he was extremely strong, with an excellent sense of balance. And he was determined. His shirt came untucked from his leather breeches on his next attempt, revealing a tautly muscled belly, a smooth, tanned expanse of chest. His next combination of handstand and tumble was almost perfect, with momentum enough to take him into a second handstand. Alexei had no choice but to applaud. Fergus caught her eye and grinned.

Flushing, for she suspected she had been staring rather too openly, Katerina turned her attention back to her pupil. Fergus, his shirt clinging to his heaving torso, rested against a nearby pillar to watch. Lady Verity, intent on her skittles, did not seem to notice, but Katerina found him too distracting for her own liking. Every time she looked over, his eyes were on her.

Why was he not looking at Lady Verity! The woman was perfect for him, for goodness’ sake. Making eyes at the hired entertainment would not assist his matrimonial cause, and it most certainly would not get him anywhere with the hired entertainment, who had no interest in him whatsoever. None!

Torn between anger and a creeping awareness engendered by his blatant staring that would not desist, she decided to give Fergus something else to look at. When Lady Verity dropped the skittles, Katerina picked them both up, setting them off using one hand, bending down to snatch another skittle with the other. She sent them in an arc high above her head. She threw them behind her back. She launched them higher, leapt after them, and caught them before her feet touched the ground. She knew Fergus was watching her. She would not look at him. She scooped up another skittle and threw it to Lady Verity who, catching on quickly, and with impressive timing, began to send and return the skittle on Katerina’s nod. She forgot about Fergus, caught up in the sheer childish pleasure of it now, until her assistant finally threw up her hands in surrender, doubling over, panting with effort and laughter, to make a bow.

Katerina, rising from her own theatrical bow, saw Fergus walking towards them. Intrigued, she glanced at Lady Verity to gauge her reaction. The smile disappeared abruptly from her face. Katerina watched in astonishment as her body seemed to freeze, her expression ice over.

‘That was most impressive, Miss Vengarov. And Lady Verity.’

Her response was as frosty as her demeanour. ‘It was a private performance, Colonel Kennedy, for our own amusement.’

‘You really were very good, my lady,’ Katerina said, now utterly bewildered. ‘I am sure the colonel merely intended—’

‘I find I am not particularly interested in the colonel’s intentions,’ Lady Verity interrupted. She gave Katerina a forced smile. ‘Thank you for your patience, but I fear I am fatigued now, and I have taken up enough of your time. You have other pupils to teach.’

Fascinated and appalled in equal measures, Katerina turned to Fergus as Lady Verity stalked off. ‘What on earth have you done to provoke such enmity?’

His eyes were stormy and dark, his mouth a grim line. ‘As you can see, my mere presence offends her. Not interested in my intentions! That, at least, has the merit of being the truth.’ He shook his head, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

‘I don’t understand.’

Fergus thumped his fist into his palm, staring off into the distance. ‘No more do I, but I intend to demand some answers. You will excuse me, if you please,’ he said, and with a curt nod, strode swiftly from the ballroom.

* * *

Fergus finally tracked Lady Verity down in the music room an hour later, where she was supervising the repositioning of a pianoforte from its normal place in the corner, into the centre of the room. She was wearing one of her pastel-coloured gowns. Her hair was freshly pinned. Her countenance was no longer flushed and her expression was, as ever when she deigned to meet his eye, quite blank.

‘I am rather busy, Colonel Kennedy,’ she said. ‘I would like to complete preparations for the musical evening before setting out on today’s mystery tour, so if you will excuse me...’

She turned her back on him. Fergus held the door wide open. ‘Leave us, if you please,’ he said firmly to the butler.

She waited until the last of the footmen had closed the door in the butler’s wake, before she turned to Fergus with raised brows.

Fergus leaned back against the closed door, eyeing her appraisingly. ‘I wish us to speak plainly.’

‘I suspect that is more of a command than a wish,’ she replied with a shadow of a smile. ‘May I assume, Colonel Kennedy, that this plain speaking does not involve a proposal?’

Her expression remained aloof, but in those china-blue eyes, there was a tiny hint of fear. There could no longer be any doubt that her snubs had been deliberate. Oddly, Fergus found this reassuring. ‘You may indeed,’ he said, crossing the room towards her and pulling out a chair from the stack waiting to be set around the pianoforte, waiting until she sat daintily down upon it before sitting astride another, facing her. ‘What I want to know, Lady Verity, is not whether or not you’ll accept my hand, but why you agreed to consider a proposal from me in the first place.’

He watched her closely, the struggle between prevarication and truth well disguised but there, none the less, in the tightening of her clasped hands, the way her eyes roamed restlessly around the room. Finally, to his relief, she seemed to reach a decision, straightening her shoulders and meeting his eyes unwaveringly.

‘It is not that I find you in any way objectionable, Colonel. On the contrary, you have borne my appalling behaviour with admirable restraint.’

She smiled then, a reserved smile, but a genuine one, allowing him a glimpse of the attractive woman behind the ice-maiden façade she routinely presented to him. He could, finally, understand why her admirers were legion, but knew too that he would never be one of them. There was still an element of calculation in the way she teased, something in her manner, a sense of entitlement that made his hackles rise. Lady Verity was lovely, and she was charming, and she knew it.

‘It is not I, but your uncle who will mete out any punishment when he discovers we are not willing to make the match he has engineered between us.’

Lady Verity blanched. ‘I fear my uncle will be furious with me.’

Fergus cursed under his breath. What a selfish oaf he had been, so caught up in his own dilemma that it hadn’t occurred to him that his were not the only strings being pulled by the twin puppet masters. ‘I apologise. I have been so concerned with the implications for my own fate that I had not thought of yours.’

‘What implications, Colonel?’

‘My posting to Egypt will be cancelled. My career as a tallyman of numbers will be extended indefinitely.’

‘How ironic. It is the posting you desire so very much which is precisely the stumbling block for me, you see. I confess that I have, to my surprise, found you to be honourable, and intelligent, and—yes—extremely attractive,’ Lady Verity said, blushing faintly. ‘Colonel Kennedy, under different circumstances, I am sure we would suit very well, for you are clearly a man whose star is on the rise, and without false modesty, I believe I would make an excellent diplomatic helpmeet, were you to be posted somewhere civilised like Paris or Rome. But Egypt! Heaven forfend, that does not suit me at all. I simply won’t be despatched to some fly-blown outpost. There, is that plain enough speaking for you?’

Completely taken aback, Fergus laughed. ‘Plain, and very unexpected. It is ironic indeed, that my idea of heaven is your idea of purgatory.’

‘No doubt you think me shallow. Perhaps I am. I prefer to think that I recognise that this particular English rose would not flourish in the desert, would rather wither and die. I know my limitations, Colonel.’

‘One of which is an inability to speak as frankly to your uncle, or even your aunt.’

Lady Verity sighed. ‘You don’t understand. I owe the duke and duchess a great deal. Since my mother died, I have been treated as the child they could not have. I have already turned down several advantageous proposals. I am testing their patience to the limit.’

‘And so this time, rather than incur your uncle’s wrath once more, you thought to shift the blame on to me.’

‘I am sorry. I had no way of knowing how much it meant to you. It is easier to think only of oneself when one is not actually acquainted with the other party.’

It was a very uncomfortable truth. ‘You are quite right,’ Fergus said, ‘it is a chastening thought.’ He got to his feet and began to pace the room. He ran his fingers across the strings of a harp, producing an appropriately discordant, jarring sound. There was no getting around the facts. He could not marry Lady Verity. The loss of his precious posting made his heart sink, but almost at once, his mood felt lighter. The uneasy feeling he’d been carrying about with him since he arrived at Brockmore Manor was quite gone. After all, a posting was hardly a lifetime’s commitment, while a wife—lord, but he’d had a narrow escape.

‘I do wish you would stop pacing, Colonel. I feel as if I am up on some sort of charge.’

‘I fear that will be my fate, when Wellington hears—but that is none of your concern.’ Fergus resumed his seat. ‘I wish I had not agreed to come here, but now that I have, and the eyes of your uncle and his guests are upon us, I think the worst possible course of action would be for me to leave, and leave you exposed to the inevitable gossip and ensuing scandal.’

Lady Verity shuddered. ‘No. Good grief, no.’

‘Aye. Well, in that case I suggest we pay lip service to our allotted roles. We’ll be polite to one another—you’ll stop publicly snubbing me—but there’s an end to it. And at the end of the week, I’ll speak to your uncle and tell him that I don’t think we’ll suit. I’ll make sure he understands that the failure to do his bidding lies at my door and not yours.’

Lady Verity flushed. ‘That is very good of you. I wish—I do sincerely wish, Colonel, that I was brave enough to shoulder the blame myself, but...’

‘There is no need for you to feel guilty.’

She smiled tightly. ‘I am afraid that if I try hard enough, I won’t. You make me rather ashamed of myself, Colonel.’

‘It was not my intention.’

‘None the less.’ Lady Verity got to her feet. ‘You are a good man. A most admirable one. I hope that the Duke of Wellington can for once overlook his ego, and award you the posting regardless. His loss would also be Egypt’s.’

‘But not yours?’ Fergus said, smiling.

She laughed. ‘I am a good deal less sure of that than I was this morning, but I suspect that matters not a jot. You would not have offered for me, Colonel, had I set out to charm you from the beginning, would you?’

‘I honestly don’t know.’ He frowned, running his hand through his hair. ‘I came here with every intention—at least, I thought I did, but—it’s such a cold-blooded way to make a match, is it not? I think we’ve both had a lucky escape. Best leave it at that.’

‘Unflattering as the sentiment is, I am forced to agree. I can only hope that the next suitor my uncle produces for me feels quite the opposite.’

‘Perhaps you should consider finding your own suitor.’

‘A novel thought.’ Lady Verity extended her hand.

Fergus brushed her fingertips with his lips. ‘It is indeed.’

* * *

Slipping her feet into a pair of soft leather slippers, Katerina quit her bedchamber. The house was quiet in the lull between the flurry of housework and the laborious preparations for dinner. The duke’s guests were, according to the Programme of Events, off on a mystery tour. Descending the stairs to the main guest floor in the hushed silence, she felt the eyes of the ancestral portraits which lined the walls around the stairwell on her, and succumbed to curiosity. Each painting was neatly labelled and in chronological order. The illustrious history of the Brockmore family was laid bare in picture form, from the first earl, his countess and their nine children, through to the current, fourth duke and his duchess.

Bloodline and pedigree, those most valuable things to the aristocracy—of their children and their horses, Katerina thought sardonically. And after that, power and influence. Oh, and wealth, of course, though that seemed to come a poor third. Pomp and circumstance, those were the things that mattered when a match was made. There was no place for love, and as to desire—desire, as she well knew, was sated in less formal relationships, with those who could not claim blood or pedigree, or whose blood and pedigree, no matter how revered in their own world, was not revered in the right world.

It did not matter what one was, but how one came to be. A mere accident of birth, yet in the Duke of Brockmore’s world, which was also Fergus’s world, her birth excluded her for ever, no matter how much of an aristocrat she was in her own right. The guests at Brockmore Manor might look up to her on the tightrope, but they would look down their noses if they encountered her on the ground. More likely, they would not even recognise her. Should she make the unforgivable mistake of trying to enter their world however, that would be a very different thing. Not that she would try. Not that she wanted to.

The space next to the portrait of the current duke and duchess, unlike all the others, was not filled with smaller portraits of children. Instead a painting of a weak-chinned man in his forties was hung just below their images. Katerina peered at the label. ‘“Robert Penrith,”’ she read. ‘“Nephew to the Fourth Duke, and Heir to the Brockmore Title.”’

Pity stirred in her breast, looking at the painting, for it starkly drew attention to the Brockmores’ childless state. A very galling state for such a dynasty, she suspected. So much power and influence, so much wealth, so much pomp and circumstance the Brockmores had, yet they were forced to expend it on nephews and nieces and cousins.

Perhaps one day Fergus’s children would adorn the walls here, if he married Lady Verity. It was an unpalatable thought. Turning away from the gallery, Katerina ran lightly down the central staircase, across the polished chequered tiles of the reception hall, through the ballroom and on to the terrace. The blue waters of the lake were irresistible. Crossing the velvet green of the lawn, a flutter of scarlet silk caught her eye. The statuesque beauty clad in her habitual crimson, Lillias Lamont had not joined the mystery tour and nor had her companion, also dressed in red silk. Sir Timothy Something. They made a very odd pair as they disappeared into the maze. Proof that opposites could attract.

Katerina did not need proof of that. She and Fergus were not so much opposites, as from opposite worlds. In many ways they were so similar, yet in that most important regard they were utterly different. Fergus and Lady Verity, now they ought to be a perfect match, yet that scene between them this morning—if she had not witnessed Lady Verity’s transformation herself, she would not have believed it. Had they resolved their differences? Fergus had been furious when he’d gone after her, but Fergus had an enormous amount at stake. Enough to force him into obeying orders, no matter how unpalatable?

He was, as yesterday’s conversation in the maze had proved, an honourable man, and at heart, above all, a soldier who loyally carried out orders. But marriage to a woman who for reasons quite unfathomable, did not understand how fortunate she was? He deserved better.

Turning the corner of the boating house, she saw the subject of her musings standing on the edge of the jetty, staring out over the water and quite lost in thought. He had changed out of the clothes he’d worn for this morning’s acrobatics. His black boots were so highly polished they shone like mirrors. Since his coat lay over one of the pier’s bollards, Katerina had the opportunity to admire the way his sand-coloured pantaloons clung to the taut contours of his rear, and she took unashamed advantage of it. The back of his waistcoat was fawn-coloured silk. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, as they had been the first time she’d met him, displaying tanned, sinewy forearms. There were golden streaks in his hair that she’d not noticed before.

As she stepped on to the jetty, Fergus turned around. He had been frowning, but the instant he saw her, his expression cleared, his mouth softened into a smile that made her stomach lurch, and he held out his hand in welcome.

‘I was just thinking about you,’ he said, ‘and here you are.’

‘I was just thinking about you,’ Katerina replied, ‘and here you are.’ She took his hand. His fingers twined with hers. ‘You did not go on the mystery tour?’

‘I’ve a mystery of my own to resolve. What to do with my life,’ he clarified, when she looked confused. ‘I’ve come to a—let’s say an arrangement—with Lady Verity, that we won’t suit. Truth is, she could just about stomach me, but she couldn’t stomach Egypt.’

‘Oh, Fergus.’ She stared at him wide-eyed, more horrified than relieved.

‘Aye, I know, it doesn’t bear thinking of, but at the end of the day, I’d rather be stuck behind a desk than stuck in a marriage of someone else’s making.’

‘Have you spoken to the duke?’

‘Which one of the two do you mean? We’ve agreed that it’s best to wait until the end of the week for me to inform Brockmore. Until then, I’ll join in enough to keep face, and no more. And after the weekend—well, then I’ll face the other duke, and—ach, but you know I will think about that later. To be honest, at the moment I’m just relieved. I should have known, when it was so bloody—blasted difficult to bring myself up to the mark, that it was wrong.’

‘You are too hard on yourself. The pressures—especially from Wellington. All of your life as a soldier, you have obeyed him.’

Fergus smiled warmly at her. ‘You understand. I somehow knew you would.’

She could not resist reaching up to smooth down his rebellious kink of hair. ‘I think it will be very difficult for you to tell him so, to his face. I think you will need every bit of your courage.’

He caught her hand in his. ‘I’ll think of you, when I do. I’ll think of you flying high on that tightrope, defying gravity. But right now, I’d rather not dwell on it, if you don’t mind. In fact, what I was actually thinking was that I’d like to get away from the machinations of the Brockmore family tomorrow. A day out, the chance to explore a bit of the countryside. I don’t suppose you’d like to accompany me?’

Katerina did not have to think twice. ‘I would like that very much.’

Fergus turned her hand over to press a kiss to her palm. ‘The pleasure, Miss Vengarov, will be all mine.’


Chapter Four (#ulink_a23d5c40-b44f-5960-a3a8-e3df51237d15)

Tuesday June 17th

Brockmore Manor House Party

Programme of Events

Performance of Aerial Dexterity by

the Legendary Alexandr Vengarov

‘This looks like a perfect picnic spot. What do you think?’

‘Perfect,’ Katerina agreed, though she was looking at Fergus rather than their surroundings. Dressed in a bottle-green riding coat and leather breeches with top boots, there was none the less an unmistakably military air in the way he sat imperiously astride his horse. The mount which Cade Retton, the Duke of Brockmore’s discerning Master of the Horse, had selected for him was a huge, highly strung stallion, but Fergus had brought the massive beast to heel with remarkable ease. Katerina had been relieved when Mr Retton graciously provided her with a docile, impeccably behaved mare.

They had set out mid-morning, riding across country, skirting the little estate village of Brockmore, through narrow lanes redolent with the scent of honeysuckle, past fields of wheat and hops waving lazily in the breeze. Now, in the shade of a little copse, where a shallow stream burbled contentedly along its pebble-strewn bed, they dismounted, Fergus loosely tethering the horses while Katerina spread a blanket out on the grassy banks that flanked the stream.

He took off his coat and sat down beside her, stretching out his long legs in front of him. ‘I hope I’ve not bored you to tears with my stories of home.’

The skirts of her blue riding habit were brushing his leg. The hairs on the back of his hand were golden in the dappled sunlight. He was so close, and not close enough. When he smiled at her, as he was doing now, she found it hard to concentrate. ‘I’ve never been to Scotland,’ Katerina said. ‘You make it sound so beautiful.’





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