Compromised By The Prince’s Touch. Bronwyn ScottЧитать онлайн книгу.
are riding together on Saturday. Perhaps I can learn more.’ She said nothing of the shadow that crossed Nikolay’s face at her reference to patriotism. Her father would find that reference as encouraging as the nostalgia had been discouraging.
‘Excellent. Ask him to stay for our dinner with the Duke of Amesbury. Prince Baklanov would be a perfect addition. General Vasilev and the others will attend. We can all take his measure then.’
She nodded, not allowing her dislike for the guest list to show. Amesbury would be there. She’d rather have the Prince to dinner without the Duke. Amesbury was a formidable man with intimidating opinions. It was no secret in their circles that the Duke was a powerful politico interested in British–Russian relations. Her father had seen to it that the settlement of boundaries in the American north-west stood to benefit the Duke’s fur trade investments. She did not know what the Duke had given him in return. Something, to be sure, her father always got paid for his efforts in favours or connections. The Duke also had some very strong opinions about the backwardness of Russia. Letting the Duke expose those opinions would be the perfect test for Prince Baklanov’s loyalty. Would the Prince be a traditionalist or a modernist? A twinge of guilt pricked at her. It hardly seemed fair to invite the Prince to dinner simply to ambush him. She should warn him, but it would hardly serve her father’s purposes to have the Prince hide his true thoughts. Saturday would be...interesting.
* * *
Saturday arrived with blue skies and crisp air, the perfect—and rare—winter day for being out of doors. Everyone in London was taking advantage of it. Even though the Season wouldn’t officially start for another three months, London was always busy. Today, Hyde Park was bursting with activity—riders and carriages with their tops down, occupants bundled against the cold in fur robes. ‘I suppose the cold doesn’t bother you.’ She glanced at Nikolay riding beside her in greatcoat and muffler, a furred Russian ushanka on his head. ‘Does Kuban get terribly cold during the winters?’ She’d start her probing harmlessly enough. Everyone talked about the weather.
The Prince laughed. ‘Cold is an understatement. Below freezing many times. There is snow, of course. We have mountains. But there is also rain, a lot of rain.’ There was a hint of wistfulness in his voice. Again. Like the first time back at Fozard’s. She hadn’t invented it.
‘I imagine British mountains are more like hills to you.’ She gave a soft laugh. ‘Do you miss it? Kuban and all of its ruggedness?’ She would miss such a place. She’d not been many places outside of England, but she understood intuitively that the ruggedness of England was relegated to its borders. How did that compare to Kuban?
‘Britain does take a bit of getting used to.’ He gave her a smile, dazzling and brilliant, meant to derail. She didn’t allow herself to be distracted.
‘Why did you leave, then?’ Perhaps the casual nature of the ride, the idea that they were surrounded by others, would cause him to drop his guard. After all, how secretive could a question be if it was asked out in the open? What could she be probing for in public?
Nikolay was too astute. His response was quick and stern, all riding master. ‘Perhaps I’ll tell you some day, Miss Grigorieva, but not today.’
‘Klara,’ she corrected. She knew full well that to ask a man to use her first name was bold indeed, that such an offer implied other liberties might be welcome, but if they were to move beyond instructor and student, she had to rid them of the formalities. ‘Call me Klara, at least in private,’ she added, suggesting the idea that there could be two sides to their association.
‘Then you must call me Nikolay.’ His eyes sparked at that. He had not missed her careful invitation. More than that, he’d accepted it. It indicated she’d seen his hot gaze and had understood it. Perhaps it even suggested she was willing to act on it. Was such an invitation true? Would she act on his flirtation? In all honesty, a very curious part of her wanted to see where such a flirtation could lead. The part that obeyed her father knew better than to engage in such useless foolishness.
‘Klara,’ the Prince repeated, his tone caressing her name, making it sound exotic on his tongue, a true Russian name. Klah-rah, with soft a’s, not like the harsh, long-vowel sounds she was used to hearing; Clare-uh. He made the ordinary sound beautiful, as if the name belonged to a seductress, a woman with the power to captivate men, to captivate him. ‘Are there any less crowded routes in this park of yours?’ Now he was being bold, all but asking to be alone with her. The possibilities inherent in such a request sent a frisson of excitement down her back. She was not used to men affecting her this way.
‘There is a place where we can walk the horses down to the water.’ She gestured towards the trees, not wanting to dwell too long on comparisons between Nikolay and the English gentlemen she’d debuted amongst. The destination she had in mind would be private, away from the other riders crowding the paths. She could try her probe again from a different angle. At the trees, they dismounted and led the horses to the water’s edge. ‘Sometimes the Serpentine freezes and there’s skating.’ She smiled coyly. ‘When I was eleven, the Thames froze for a month. There was the most amazing frost fair. My father took me one day. It reminded me of the Neva River in St Petersburg. I had only been home from St Petersburg for four years, then, and still remembered it. The Neva froze every winter without fail, December through March or even April. I skated almost every day with my nyanya.’ The Russian word for nurse came easily to her after all these years.
She shrugged, surprised at herself. ‘I haven’t thought about that for years.’ It was quiet down here, the water dark and cold. Perfect for disclosures. ‘I was only there once and I was very young, but I miss it,’ she hinted carefully, hoping he would take the opportunity to share something of Kuban with her, a story of himself, a chance to get to know him. What did he miss about his home? Surely there must be something to have spoken of Kuban with such wistfulness in his brief remarks.
Nikolay did not take the hint. ‘You will go back some day.’ He was redirecting the conversation, back to her, away from him. It didn’t matter. She had her opening from his own words. If he wouldn’t tell her why he’d left, perhaps he’d tell her if he intended to return.
‘And yourself?’ she asked. ‘Do you plan to go back?’ There was no crowd to blame his reticence on now. Their horses stopped to drink and he faced her squarely, a glimmer of warning, in his eyes. ‘I cannot go back, Miss Grigorieva.’ His words were stern, a punishment for having intruded into his private realm. ‘Is that the answer you are looking for?’ She had gone too far. She immediately regretted the intrusion. She took an involuntary step back from his fierceness.
‘I’m sorry, I had no wish—’
‘To pry?’ Nikolay finished sharply, advancing, not allowing her the distance. ‘You had every wish. Do not deny it. It has been your intention since we met.’
Klara’s chin went up in defiance. She’d been caught, but she would not give him the satisfaction of making her feel ashamed or cowed. ‘If you’d been more forthcoming, I wouldn’t have to pry.’ She took another step back. This close, he was far larger than when Zvezda walked between them or when she looked down at him from Zvezda’s back.
‘Why pry at all? I was unaware riding instructors had to provide their pupils with detailed histories.’ His advance forced her back another step. She was running out of room and becoming sharply aware that the tenor of this exchange was transforming into another sort of challenge, their awareness of each other palpable.
‘Not all pupils are the daughters of foreign diplomats. Our lives are under scrutiny from two nations. We have to be careful with whom we associate.’ They stood toe to toe now and she had nowhere to go, her back firmly up against a tree.
‘I am a prince who cannot return to his kingdom. I, too, must be careful with whom I associate.’ His voice was a caress, low and husky with caution. It was not caution for himself, but for her, a warning she realised too late.
His mouth was on hers, sealing the distance between them. He kissed like a warrior; possessive and proving, a man who would not be challenged without choosing to respond in