Natalya (19 page)

Had only a day passed since their parting in Piccadilly? So much had happened, it seemed much longer, and deep inside Grey felt a pang of deprivation. He missed her. He never should have let her go with that woman, despite the invitation of her young cousin. He had promised her uncle that he would guard her, that he would not desert her in London, and now she was lost in this rakehell's paradise of sin....

Grey glimpsed the tall figure of Lord Byron first, standing not far from the painting of the wicked-looking centaur carrying a naked woman. He was staring through his quizzing-glass at something, eyebrows lifted with interest. Grey looked to the left to see what it was and discovered that the object of Byron's scrutiny was Natalya—or, more precisely, her bosom. Grey's heart clenched as he took in the sight of her sparkling eyes, flushed cheeks, and gay smile.

Natalya was laughing—and drinking champagne!

Worse, she appeared to be surrounded by drooling admirers. Bryon was on the edge of the circle, and there was that old fool Pondsmarsh, and right in front of Natalya stood Sir Christian Laidlaw, looking more like a fox than ever. As the crowd parted to let Grey through, he saw Laidlaw take Natalya's slim hand and kiss her palm lingeringly.

"Excuse me," Grey said coldly, reaching over to remove Natalya's hand from the grasp of her would-be ravisher.

"Grey!" she exclaimed, startled. "What's the matter?" Dear God, how handsome he looked, and how dangerous. He was considerably taller than most of the other guests and looked more powerful despite his leanness. Most impressive of all, however, was his proud head: the mane of black hair with gleaming strands of silver, slashing brows over stormy gray eyes, sculpted nose and cheekbones, and the hard set of his mouth and jaw.

"You are coming with me," he told her, his voice ominously low.

Sir Christian was looking on with growing annoyance. "See here, Altburne, I'm afraid you'll have to wait your turn!"

"I'll thank you to remove your hand from my arm, Laidlaw, and step aside."

"I'll do no such thing!" Rivulets of perspiration marred the layer of powder on his face. "I suggest that you take this up with Mrs. Sykes, Altburne. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I
paid
for Miss Beauvisage's company."

"What?" cried Natalya, her confusion mounting.

"I'm afraid you'll have to ask Mrs. Sykes for a
refund,"
Grey told Sir Christian in acid tones. "You see, Miss Beauvisage is not for sale."

He pulled her along after him then, and the crowd parted again. Behind them Laidlaw was shouting, "I ought to call you out for this, Altburne! You'll hear from my second!"

Grey never looked back. Natalya thought she heard him mutter, "Terrifying," in a sarcastic undertone. Her wrist chafed beneath his grip, but she was too conscious of the hundreds of silent, curious faces to protest. As they neared the edge of the crowd, Grey paused to confront Mrs. Sykes.

"I suggest that you pry Adrienne Beauvisage and her friend away from their admirers and have your carriage brought round, Mrs. Sykes. I will take Natalya home and wait for you there so that we may discuss this matter more... fully."

There was a menacing note in his voice and a steely glint in his eyes that told her all would be worse if she argued. So Mrs. Sykes gave him a short nod full of resentment and turned away.

Grey found Gib still standing near the door holding yet another glass of champagne.

"By Jupiter, old chap," Gib exclaimed, "whatever are you on about? Looks as if you've been making a tremendous scene."

"Never mind. I'll explain later. I have to leave now." Grey glanced back at Natalya, who appeared to be seething with anger. "Shall I come back for you?"

Gib blinked. "Hardly necessary, is it? Someone'll bring me along. Come by tomorrow."

Mrs. Lynchford appeared then, looking distraught. "My lord, is anything the matter?"

He gave her a tight smile. "I fear that Miss Beauvisage and I must cry off for dinner tonight, Mrs. Lynchford, but I rather doubt whether we'll be missed."

Moments later, Natalya found herself being pulled behind him down the magnificent marble staircases, her senses swimming. Servants stared as they passed, and a footman handed Grey his cape and Natalya her mantelet when they reached the front door. Because of the line of richly garbed footmen who stood in the entry hall, Natalya kept quiet as they waited for Grey's post chaise to be brought round. The deep rose staining her cheeks and the flash of her turquoise eyes were the only indications of the storm building behind her silence.

When the post chaise arrived, Grey reached for her arm, and she pulled away. "I am quite capable, sir," she said, and strode past him into the night air.

Once inside the light carriage, Natalya moved sharply away when Grey seated himself beside her. Their eyes met in the shadows and sparks seemed to fly.

"I have never been more humiliated in my life," she pronounced as the post chaise began the journey to Bennett Street.

"I should think not," Grey returned coolly. "You reek of champagne."

"I am referring, sir, to
your
conduct!" Her voice rose.

"Indeed? Perhaps more might be gained by examining your own. Or are you now in the habit of attending cyprians' balls and encouraging the attentions of lascivious men who care only to imagine how you might look in their beds?"

Her emotions ran riot and she seemed powerless to control them. "I only went to that ball because Adrienne invited me, and I have been trying to learn more about the life she is leading! Do you imagine that I know anything of cyprians outside of Greek literature?"

"You would appear to be a quick study, my dear," Grey said cynically.

"You had no right to interfere," she cried. "I am not a child!"

"That is evident, I assure you." His gaze dropped meaningfully to her breasts. He wanted to tell her that it had driven him mad to see Byron undressing her in his mind, to watch her laugh up at Laidlaw, seeming to encourage his lust. But he could say none of these things.

Natalya blushed under his regard. "You are a bigger cad than all of them! What a hypocrite you are, coming to that rout like a randy stallion and then forcing
me
to leave because you saw that I was enjoying myself. I am a grown woman,
my lord,
and I do
not need or desire your
protection."

"Exactly what do you need and desire, my beautiful little hellion?" Grey asked softly. "Perhaps I can supply it."

Suddenly she was conscious of his nearness in an entirely different way. She knew she ought to slap him but found that she could neither move nor speak. In the tense silence, Natalya was certain he must hear the pounding of her heart. We've both had too much champagne, she thought dizzily, and he thinks I'm... experienced... or something.

Lucid thought ended when his gloved forefinger touched her chin, tilting it up. "You really are—so beautiful," he said, and it sounded as if the words burned his throat. Softly his mouth grazed hers, and the feeling was so exquisite that tears sprang to her eyes. She leaned forward instinctively, and then Grey took her in his arms and her lips parted. She tasted sweetly of champagne, but also of a kind of innocence that he had nearly forgotten. Her response was passionate and guileless all at once; utterly enchanting to him. Dimly it occurred to him that they both had been locked up far too long, he in his prison and she in her chateau.

He bent her back against the velvet seat of the post chaise and ran his mouth down the soft length of her neck. When Natalya gave a low moan, he pulled off his right glove with his teeth and touched her. First his fingers traced the softness of her throat, then wandered lower, curving around the warm fullness of a breast. Strong currents of arousal washed over him full force, and he nearly bit his lip in an effort to contain them. Heat was surging in his loins.

Natalya ran her fingers through his thick hair as they kissed again, his tongue stroking hers. She loved the taste of him, the heady clean male scent of him, the strength and size of his body against her own. His hand was moving lower, over the lush curve of her hip, across the softness of her belly. Natalya gasped when he touched the throbbing place between her legs through the silk and muslin of her gown.

"Dear God, how magnificently you are made," he whispered hoarsely. "Natalya, you are made for love."

Suddenly she was frightened. What was she doing? "Grey, please—"

He drew back immediately. Reality struck him like a splash of icy water and he sat up, raking a hand through his hair. "I beg your pardon." His eyes met hers in the wavering shadows as he endeavored to forget the dull throb in his groin. "It seems you were right about me after all. I am no better than those other men."

As the post chaise drew up before Mrs. Sykes's house on Bennett Street, Natalya realized that her hands were trembling. She balled them into fists and said, "That's the reason I prefer to write about men rather than deal with the flesh-and-blood variety. In the real world, you are all far too predictable. Rather boring, actually." Was her voice shaking, too? Privately she realized that she was responsible in part for what had occurred between them, but she could not admit that to Grey.

He arched a dark brow and let her go on.

Natalya's tone became business like. "I propose that we put this... incident behind us. After all, I'll soon be gone and we shall never see each other again." She took a deep breath. "At the moment there is another matter to deal with. You see, I am very worried about my cousin. You must explain to me what it is you have learned about Mrs. Sykes, and then we must see to it that Adrienne is removed from the clutches of that woman and returned to Miss Harrington's Seminary."

As he helped her out of the carriage, Grey smiled wryly at the back of her head with its froth of honey curls. Had she called him
boring
? Aloud he said, "We'd better work fast, then, my sweet. You are sailing for America in two days—and I'm going with you."

Chapter 13

April
3-4, 1814

"You are going with me?" Natalya echoed in disbelief. She recovered herself quickly and began walking toward Mrs. Sykes's house, laughing as if amused. "I can assure you, Mr. St. James, that such drastic measures are unnecessary. I am perfectly capable—"

"I know, I know," he sighed, matching her pace. "I believe I may have memorized your speech about just how capable you are. Unfortunately there's no getting around this. You are going to have to endure my company for a few more weeks, I fear, because we will be sailing to America on board my schooner, the
Wild Rover."

"Is there no other way for me to travel?"

Grey shrugged. "Britain is at war with America, so there is risk involved in any sea voyage between the two countries. I feel responsible for your safety, whether that pleases you or not." He paused. "I also have some personal reasons of my own for making this journey, not the least of which is a desire to be at sea again. The
Rover
has scarcely left the river Thames in four years."

"This is
not
the plan I expected," Natalya declared.

"Cheer up, my dear. It won't last forever. I'll be out of your life before spring wanes." With that, he lifted the knocker on the front door just as a hack drew up with Mrs. Sykes, Adrienne, and Venetia Hedgecoe inside.

"I nearly forgot," Natalya whispered. "We couldn't have gotten in. She has no live-in servants. She only hires them when someone is coming to visit—for appearances, you understand."

Looking extremely vexed, Mrs. Sykes charged up the footpath, the two girls in tow. Adrienne's curls were disheveled, and when she nearly bumped into Grey, he could smell the champagne on her.

"You had better have some very good reasons for causing such mayhem on this of all nights, my lord," Mrs. Sykes barked as she turned the key in the lock.

"Oh, my behavior was justified," he replied, with heavy irony. "I'll be interested to learn if you can justify your own conduct."

She led the way into a dark, narrow parlor and set about lighting several candelabra on pedestals entwined with garlands. Temporarily diverted, Grey looked around the room in fascination. The windows were hung with drapes of crimson brocade embellished with golden tassels, and there was a Turkey carpet on the floor that exemplified the worst taste of its kind. He was further intrigued by the furniture, which consisted of green-striped couches with crocodile legs, lyre-back chairs, tables inlaid with marble and covered with dubious
objects d'art
, and footstools on lion legs, also glossily striped.

"Perhaps your lordship is unfamiliar with the current styles," Mrs. Sykes said defensively, noting his expression.

"That's true," he replied. "I had no opportunity to become acquainted with crocodile-legged couches while in prison." A smile played briefly about the corners of his mouth.

"It's an Egyptian influence," the older woman proclaimed, slurring the words slightly. Then she turned to her charges. "Girls, you may leave us."