Wicked:. Noelle MackЧитать онлайн книгу.
the direction of the ballroom, nonplussed by the directness of her question. “I was dancing—it is quite warm—”
She seemed uninterested in his stammered explanation. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Not very long. I am sorry if I startled you, Miss—?” he paused, hoping she would tell him her last name. Her face seemed faintly familiar, but then he had been staring at her hungrily from the first second she’d opened the curtain.
“Miss Harrow.” She seemed to take his respectful address for granted at first, then gave her head an infinitesimal shake as if she’d had second thoughts about that. It occurred to him that even if she was now a servant, she had not been born into that class. “Or if you like, just Angelica. That will do,” she said in a composed voice.
“As you wish.” Knowing her first name, another man might have attempted further liberties with her, but Semyon remained respectful—and suddenly very curious. Only a well-trusted maidservant would be given the task of seeing to expensive cloaks and furs at a grand ball, but there was nothing servile about her.
Her pride and breeding showed in the way she held herself. Not haughty but confident. And so beautiful that she would outshine all other women present tonight. She belonged on the dance floor in the arms of one adoring partner after another, not behind a curtain at the end of a hall. Semyon wondered how on earth he might speak to her where there was no chance of interruption by a returning footman or anyone else.
Not now, evidently…she was looking at him in a way that did not invite him to talk to her. He felt unnerved by the steadiness of her regard.
“Ah yes—my coat. Here you are.” He held out his coat. “As I said, it is rather warm in the ballroom.”
She came closer and inclined her head in a gracious nod that effectively dismissed him as she took it from his hands, quite careful that there was no inadvertent contact. No doubt she was accustomed to wandering men propositioning her at parties just like this one or angling to touch her in some way and she probably hated it. He glanced in to the room as she went back in, noticing with chagrin that there were no other men’s garments in sober black to be seen.
Everything else was embroidered, sequinned, furred, and patterned—all women’s things. She must think him a fool for having come here at all.
He managed a smile and made the briefest of bows, turning around to go back until he heard her soft voice.
“Sir—”
“Yes?”
“I do not know your name.” Her lips pressed tightly together as if she was trying not to laugh. “And if other men take it into their heads to do what you have done, then I might mix up your coat with someone else’s.” She reached for a small pencil and a piece of paper, placing it on a book for a hard surface to write upon and looking at him expectantly.
Semyon nodded, as if the matter was of grave importance. “I understand. If you like, I’ll take it to wherever it is supposed to be—”
She shook her head and gave him a small smile. “No, that is not necessary. But I would like to know your name.”
“Semyon Taruskin,” he said. “At your service.”
She wrote it down as if she knew how to spell it—or, indeed, knew him. Again that faint feeling of familiarity nagged at him, but he just could not place her.
With a swift gesture, she tucked the piece of paper in the pocket of his coat. “Enjoy the ball, sir,” she said matter-of-factly, essentially dismissing him.
“I shall. And I expect my coat will not mind keeping company with so much feminine frippery.”
She nodded, acknowledging his jest with only a nod.
He found himself envying the damned coat for the way she was holding it. Not too tightly. Absently stroking it with just a fingertip while she looked steadily into his face.
Her eyes were green, a springtime shade, but they held shadows. Of fear? Sadness? He could not begin to tell. A feeling of unreality stole over him, as if he had been spirited into this out-of-the-way chamber and not walked there on his own two feet, simply because he was following a footman going about an ordinary duty.
Of course, it was not by his own will that he had come here tonight at all, but his older brother Marko had dropped too many hints to ignore. Kyril, the oldest of the three Taruskins, would have insisted: the wolf-blooded Pack of St. James had to keep up public appearances while they handled other, private matters for the king—matters that required an equal measure of discretion and viciousness.
Semyon, the not very dutiful youngest of the three Taruskins, had given in, not knowing he would have to dodge the unwanted attentions of a romantic girl, or that his effort to do so would cause him to wander down a hall at random and find a veritable goddess behind a golden curtain.
A goddess who seemed to be losing patience with him at the moment.
“Thank you, Miss Harrow.”
She lifted a very elegantly arched brow.
“Angelica, I mean.” He turned away from her with an effort and strode back through the hallway, toward the distant music of a quadrille.
It was an hour later when he returned, as soon as he thought it was not too obvious an attempt to talk to her again.
He had glanced about for Jack, hoping the footman would not interrupt him with Angelica, and spotted him under the stairs, sipping from a flat brown bottle with Kittredge. No doubt it was or had been filled with whiskey. They were red in the face and laughing together.
The ball was in full swing, nearly a riot by any estimation. Puffed-up bucks were down to their waistcoats and shirts, essaying leaps and other embarrassing steps to ever-louder music, while the women looked on from behind fluttering fans. The crush of guests on the side was close to unbearable and the stench of too many people in too small a place revolted him.
No one would notice his departure and he wasn’t leaving, really. If anyone saw him leave the floor where he’d taken an obligatory turn or two with the better dancers, they would assume he was swilling punch somewhere or vomiting off a convenient balcony.
The one person in attendance who’d looked much at him, meaning the amorous young lady with the longing gaze, had disappeared, along with her mama. As to what the girl saw in him, Semyon could guess. It was not thoughts of marriage that addled her brain, but rather his reputation as a lover. He could hardly be considered all that eligible, not with his Russian name and the mystery surrounding his clan, ensconced though they were in a house so near to St. James’s Square.
Their mysterious comings and goings caused no end of whispers. As for the murders that Marko had solved a year ago—it had not helped that one of their number was among the guilty. And the bizarre affair of the tsar’s missing objet d’art, the Serpent’s Egg, had Kyril departing for the far north of Russia—well, even without those two things it was hard enough for a wolfman to hold his head up in London, let alone howl.
No, Semyon, the most English in manner of the three, had much preferred to blend in. Let sleeping wolves lie. No one had come around the Pack looking for trouble in some time and they liked it that way.
He headed down the hall again, where the sole candle was down to a nub in the sconce, flickering as if a wind were blowing through. Yet the air was more still than before. The fragrance of woman was stronger too, assaulting his sensitive nose and making him think of Angelica.
The gold curtain up ahead was still illuminated by the lantern within the space, glowing, drawing him near. There was no silhouette against it now—perhaps she was sitting down. Or perhaps she had left.
He walked the remaining distance to it, letting his boot heels strike firmly on the bare wood floor so that she would hear him coming. No one inside the curtain rose; no one spoke.
Semyon slid a hand between the panels and looked in. Angelica was there.