Splendor (16 page)

He gave her a glance that might have been admiring— except that Carolyn had the strongest sense that she was being toyed with. "Very clever," he said.

Carolyn's heart did an odd flop as their gazes connected and held. In spite of her suspicions, she did seem to see admiration in his gaze, but there was that infernal mockery, too. What did he know, or what was he thinking, that he was not sharing with her? She glanced away as they entered the park. In truth, she hated the Times, and most of its editorials made her see red.

"I prefer the Morning Chronicle/' he said abmptly.

Her heart lurched as they tumed down a wide dirt path. Carriages, barouches, landaus, and phaetons were ahead of them, as were pairs of riders or individuals astride their

hacks. The oaks Uning the path were tall and leafy, the grounds beyond the path verdantly green. Daisies flowered randomly amongst the trees.

He was not trying to tell her something. He could not possibly connect her to Copperville—not unless he knew she was Brighton. But he would have never taken her to the brothel if he had known of her charade—no man could be so reckless, amoral, reprehensible.

"I would imagine," Carolyn said slowly, "that you preferred the Times.'' Had he read "Lost Ladies of the Night"?

"I find the Chronicle amusing," he said. "In fact, I have a copy with me—if you care to borrow it."

Carolyn stiffened.' 'When do you have time to read?'' she asked very carefully—breathlessly. "Surely your schedule as an envoy of the tsar keeps you extraordinarily occupied."

He gave her a wolfish smile. "I am one of those men who sleep very little—and do very well in spite of that. I am up before six every morning—no matter my activities of the night before. I browse the papers briefly while I sip a cup of tea, but it is after my morning ride that I read far more thoroughly while I enjoy a leisurely breakfast." His eyes gleamed.

Now she was certain that he had read Copperville's article in that day's Chronicle. She managed to smile up at him. "How I envy you your stamina," she remarked.

He slanted a glance at her. "An interesting choice of words."

"I do not understand."

He smiled at her but was saved from having to reply because they were being greeted by an oncoming rider.

"Excellency, good afternoon," the passing gentleman said, tipping his hat. Stout and elderly, he peered long and hard at Carolyn, who inmiediately decided to seize upon the new topic being provided.

"Good afternoon," Sverayov said affably.

"He cannot decide who I am," Carolyn said.

"And it is killing him," Sverayov murmured with obvious amusement.

Her gaze shot to his strong, perfect profile, and she saw the laughter in his eyes. It struck her then that he was amused by some of society's foibles, just as she was.

A open barouche was behind the rider, driven by a coachman and containing two well-dressed, attractive ladies. The two women looked from Sverayov to Carolyn and back again. "Good afternoon. Your Excellency," they said with wide smiles as then" gig passed. One of the ladies wiggled her gloved fingertips at the Russian.

"Good afternoon," Sverayov reamed, smiling.

The other lady, a pretty but plump brunette, giggled, red-faced. The first one kept regarding Carolyn, even craning her neck to do so when their rig was past.

"Everyone is wondering who I am," Carolyn remarked.

"Unmmi," Sverayov said. "It shall be the rage of gossip this evening, I imagine, who I was driving with."

"I suppose that the peerage is always gossiping about the ... er ... entanglements of its members."

He eyed her. "You do have a way with words."

"What do you mean?"

He did not answer her. "Actually, it is far worse for royalty. I cannot sleep late without some nosey columnist writing the world that I am at death's door."

Carolyn did feel guilty. "Surely it is not that bad."

"It is worse. But we Sverayovs are used to being remarked on, approached, followed, hounded, and forever gossiped about. It is a fact of royal fife. One must remain amused. I suppose most people have little to do in their own fives or they would not take such a huge interest in mine."

Carolyn felt far more guilty than before, and immediately had to protest the concept—for she herself had a ftill life, did she not? And was not hounding him out of boredom— was she? "It is natural for the average person to put someone as noble as you up on a pedestal. That hardly means

that we do not have full, interesting lives. It means we cannot help ourselves when it comes to being curious about you."

"Really? And are you curious about me, Carolyn?" His tone was silky.

She knew she flushed. She clasped her gloved hands in her lap. And avoided his penetrating amber eyes. "How could I not be curious? I have never met, face-to-face, a prince before, much less a Russian one, and here we are, driving in the park as if we are old friends."

He was silent.

She stole a glance at him and found him watching her. ' 'Well, perhaps not as if we are old friends, perhaps as if we are new friends."

It was a moment before he spoke. "In my experience, I have found it unusual for a friendship to form between the genders."

"That has not been my experience," she said quickly, wetting her lips.

He smiled. "And I am sure you have had a great deal of experience. Do you have many male friends, Carolyn? And I do mean platonic ones."

Her face fell. "Actually, I have few friends. My father is my best friend."

He nodded. "I see. Point conceded?"

"No." She was firm, and he laughed, the sound warm and rich. "Excellency," she said, when his laughter had faded into the pleasant afternoon, and she now felt somewhat relaxed and was truly enjoying his company. "Don't you think people will find it odd that you took a bookseller's daughter driving in the park?"

He shrugged. "I imagine they shall, but I have always done as I please."

How arrogant his words sounded. Carolyn twisted to gaze up at his profile. It was easy to see why women fell all over him. He was a foreigner, which was exotic, he was royalty, which was intriguing, and in sum, he was powerful, arrogant about it, and blatantly sensual as well. But she was

not going to become one of his brokenhearted victims. It was too bad, though, that he had such a charming, enjoy-able side.

"Today's Chronicle was particularly interesting," Sver-ayov said, out of the blue. "Have you had a chance to read it?"

Carolyn gulped air. Her tension returned, magnified a hundredfold. "No."

"No? Did you oversleep this morning?" He slanted her a look. "Then you have missed some very amusing columns."

He could not know, she reminded herself, that she was Copperville. Even though his look and remarks were so damnably pointed,

"Miss Browne?"

Carolyn looked up at him, struggling for composure.

"You are white. Is something wrong?" When Carolyn did not answer, he veered the cabriolet off the track, between two oaks. He proceeded to a grassy glade some distance from the track and halted the gelding. "Carolyn?"

"I'm fine," she said sharply, breathing again. But now she was more anxious than before, because they were no longer on the riding path—they were alone.

He wrapped the reins around the brake and put his arm around her. "You do not look fine. You appear shocked. Is it something I said?" His golden eyes held hers. As enigmatic as could be.

Carolyn was now pressed against his side. Her mind was assimilating many things at once, including how strong the arm around her shoulders was, the scent he wore, which she could just detect, one of both earth and spices, perhaps containing cinnabar, and the fact that his face, turned down toward hers, was but inches away. His eyes were very golden, very bright. Her father's harsh warnings—and her own assessment of his intentions—returned forcefully to mind.

"Have I alarmed you?" he asked softly, his arm remaining firmly around her.

Her pulse raced. Her body temperature was soaring. Her wits were becoming scrambled. She knew she should accuse him of foul play, demand he remove his arm, and return to the track. But would it be so terrible if he kissed her? Just once? She had only been kissed that one single, unappetizing time.

Carolyn wet her lips, and when she spoke, her tone seemed odd. "No. I am not alarmed. It is just that I have entirely forgotten to eat today." Now, she knew, she should ask him to return her home.

His gaze held hers. It was brilliant, intense. He did not speak.

Carolyn swallowed. She was not an idiot—she knew he was going to kiss her—unless she stopped him. But just now she could not bring herself to care about his many previous conquests, or if she were behaving like one of his lack wit paramours.

"I would regret very much ending our afternoon so quickly," he said.

His words did sound dangerous but Carolyn did not move.

His gaze caressed her face. "But, in spite of the defamatory remarks made about me by those who do not know me, I am not an unfeeling cad." He removed his arm and unwrapped the reins from the brake. He gave her a sidelong glance and urged the gelding back toward the track.

Carolyn hugged herself, hardly breathing more easily now, stunned by the depth of her disappointment. He had not kissed her. His behavior had been honorable. And she fully comprehended that his last barb was aimed at Cop-perville and his kin.

Suddenly Carolyn felt miserable. It had felt good being hugged to his side. She wanted him to touch her again. Never in her life had she had an outing with a man like this—much less a caress or a kiss. Images from the brothel flashed through her mind, along with her father's warnings. But George was wrong. Because Sverayov had just had the perfect opportunity to take advantage of her—and he had

not even tried. The track was just ahead, through the line of trees.

"Wait," she heard herself say.

He immediately halted the cabriolet and faced her, holding the reins lightly. His expression was not grave—it was strained.

And Carolyn thought she understood—he felt the tension, too. She looked up into his eyes, filled with reckless desire. She knew she was asking for trouble. But she could not seem to help herself.

Besides, she could not rendezvous with him now as Brighton. Who knew when—if ever—she would see him again?

"What are you thinking, Carolyn?" he asked very softly.

She wet her lips. What would he do if she told him the truth? She opened her mouth, shut it, then opened it again. Her heart was slanruning with alarming strength against her breast. "I was kissed, once, when I was fourteen," she said slowly. "It was awful."

His eyes widened, he did not move.

Carolyn prayed she was not making a fool of herself. "Since then, kisses have not interested me." She fell silent. Now she could not met his probing gaze.

"But now?" he prompted, his eyes searching her face.

"Now I..." She inhaled, staring at her hands, clenched in her lap. "Now I find myself interested," she finally said, and she dared to look up at him.

Their gazes locked. But he was not smiling—all the amusement and mockery she had thus far seen that day were gone without a trace. Carolyn did not know if she could continue to breathe.

"I am flattered," he finally said, and then he mmed slightly and slowly looped the reins back around the brake—as if he had all the time in the world to do so. Clearly he was not in a hurry.

Carolyn watched his long fingers, his powerful hands. Her pulse drummed and raced. In her mind's eye, she saw

the beautiful prostitute's hands, sculpting his hardened manhood through his clothes.

"Carolyn?" His tone was gentle.

Carolyn met his gaze, which was brilliant. She could not speak.

He reached out and tipped up her chin. "I find it amazing," he said, his head lowering, "that a woman as beautiful and curious as you has never experimented since with kissing—to say the least." His mouth hovered just an inch or two from hers. His breath, sweet and clean, feathered her hps.

"I thought it all ridiculous," she said huskily.

A smile flashed. "Indeed? I hope you do not still think 'it' ridiculous when we have finished our experiment." His gaze pierced right through her.

Oh, God, Carolyn thought, stiffening.

His hands cupped her shoulders and he pulled her forward, his mouth touching hers. The brief brushing of their hps lasted but a second, and then his mouth was on hers, demanding but not hard or hurtful, urging her lips open, wide and wider still, molding them as he chose. Carolyn was crushed against his hard, powerful frame. One of his hands cupped her hips. And his mouth, insatiable, expert, continued to devour her lips.

And now Carolyn understood passion; it was a raging conflagration of the body and the soul. She found his shoulders, clung to them with all her strength. She began kissing him back, at first tentatively, then with increasing boldness. Suddenly their tongues entwined.

Carolyn found herself in his lap, her hip on top of something brutally hard, her shoulders pressed down into the firm leather seat. His mouth moved feverishly over her throat—and then returned to her lips. Carolyn moaned.

Eyes closed, Carolyn lost herself in the hot, hot passion. She felt him pushing aside her shawl, felt his hands caressing her breasts through her mushn dress.

Carolyn gasped with pleasure as her nipples stiffened be-

neath his fingertips. "Oh, God," she thought, then reahzed, too late, she had cried out aloud.

He froze. She heard him breathing harshly, his face against her cheek. And then he lifted his head.

Carolyn opened her eyes and their gazes met. He stared. And she could not read his feelings, not a single one, as he continued to regard her.

Carolyn began to flush. Overhead, through the treetops, she saw a bright blue sky, and, in fact, a striped balloon containing several occupants. Good God. She was in Sver-ayov's carriage, flat on her back, in a public park. And she did not want their encounter to end.

Passion was hardly ridiculous.

He sat up slowly, running one hand through his thick golden hair. Then he helped her upright, too. He did not say a word, but reached for the reins and picked them up.