Splendor (24 page)

"Are you ill? Or dismayed?" he whispered in her ear.

"Dismayed," she heard herself say.

She thought she felt his mouth touch her ear as he spoke again. "Do not be dismayed by desire. It is namrai and healthy .. .Charles."

She opened her eyes and saw his face close to hers. His mouth inches from hers. "I don't..." She hesitated, afraid of what she could not refrain from saying. Her words came forth in a rush. "I don't want to make love to Victoria."

"I know you don't" Their gazes locked.

Carolyn felt the heat seething between them, smoldering inside of her. All she could think was. Oh, God.

He broke the moment by moving her forward and handing her up into the coach, climbing in behind her. The footman outside closed the door. How resounding and final it seemed. Carolyn somehow found herself seated. The interior of the coach seemed very small. Sverayov filled up that interior space as he stood between the two seats, staring down at her, his gaze brilliant. Carolyn found it difficult to breathe.

And then he sat, but not across from her. His big body

settled onto the velvet squabs beside her. Carolyn faced him, unmoving. Her heart raced.

"And I do not want to make love to Victoria, either," he said, low and husky. "I never have."

Carolyn could not believe what was happening. All thoughts slammed to a halt inside of her head.

His big hand cupped her chin. "I have become extremely fond of you—in a very short period of time," he said in his liquid tone.

Carolyn opened her mouth, closed it. She could not think of what to say, much less what to do. "Niki," she finally whispered.

"How do you feel about me?" he asked.

"I..." She swallowed. "I am also very fond of you." She wet her lips.

His eyes turned fierce. And his fingers tightened briefly on her chin. Before Carolyn could protest, his mouth claimed hers. Hard and hot and hungry.

<^ Seventeen ^

CAROLYN forgot everything, including who she was. Sver-ayov's mouth was impossibly demanding—and impossible to get enough of. She clung to his broad shoulders as he pressed her down into the seat. He urged her Ups to open and suddenly their tongues met.

Carolyn thought. This is heaven. He is heaven. And her hands slid over his broad shoulders, down his muscular back. Niki, she thought.

His mouth paused against hers. His hand was anchored in her curls. His breathing was somewhat labored against her ear. "I am so very tempted," he said.

She tried to think. Her wits were fuzzy, scattered. Her body was feverish, and nothing had ever felt this right. He was tempted—and so was she. Agonizingly so. But he was married. Married, a Russian and a prince. While she was mere Carolyn Browne. Which he knew, of course. She turned her face so she could blink at him.

His golden eyes were brilliant—yet somehow calm, too. *'You have had too much to drink, Charles," he said.

She started. "But..."

His mouth crooked into a smile, at odds with the blazing light of his golden eyes. "Do you wish to confess?" he asked, his tone strangely tender. One of his strong arms slipped beneath her, forming a pillow for her neck.

"I..." Carolyn hesitated.

"Charles?" he purred, his eyes dancing. "Your goatee is askew."

She began to smile at him, her heart impossibly warm, bursting with the power of her emotions. And in that moment, as intoxicated as she was, she felt it— le coup de foudre. The bolt of lighming. Cupid's arrow. She stared into his golden eyes, at his stunning face, immersed in his powerful, sensual aura, and her heart flipped wildly. Oh, dear God, I am in love, she thought inanely, aghast.

His hand stroked through her blond curls. "Have you seen a ghost?"

She shook her head slightly, trying to put aside her stunning realization for the moment. "How long have you known?"

"How long have I known what?" he asked with too much innocence.

"How long have you known the truth about me?" she asked huskily.

He chuckled. "From the first." Gently, he removed the goatee.

"From the first?" she echoed. "Surely not—surely you are exaggerating!"

He was smiling. "Carolyn, you are every inch a woman. That absurd disguise was just that—absurd. I understood you were a woman when you were spying outside of my house."

Because of Copperville. She swallowed. "Oh." And then she struggled to sit up. "You knew I was a woman when we went to the brothel?" she asked incredulously.

He also sat up. And he had the grace to flush. But he did not look away from her, to the contrary, he held her gaze. "I did. I thought you would turn tail and flee long before anything of consequence happened."

"And ... I abnost did."

He stared. "Fortunately, I came to my senses." Silence fell. Hot, heavy, knifelike.

She wet her lips. What would he have done if she had stayed? Her gaze fell to his arrogant, sensual mouth. She gripped the velvet seat, clawing it, and wished she had not

drunk so much wine. "But when did you know that Brighton was Carolyn?"

His mouth curied. "Immediately." And then his smile faded.

Carolyn did not speak.

He hesitated, reached out, lifted her chin. But made no move to kiss her.

"What else do you know?" she whispered, trembling, barely able to think.

He leaned toward her. ' 'What else is it that you wish for me to say?" he asked, low, his mouth very close to hers.

"Do not play any more games," she said, inhaling. His mouth brushed hers. His eyes were fire.

His smile was brief. ' 'Does this seem like a game?'' His lips feathered hers again.

Against them, her heart expanding impossibly, she said, "No." Love was not a game. Oh, God. She was doomed.

"I did not think so," he murmured, and he kissed her again, openmouthed, at once firm and possessive, sensual and tender.

Carolyn grasped his shoulders, straining for him. He wrapped her in his arms and pressed her against the seat. The kiss went on and on, increasing in its fervor.

"Carolyn."

She met his eyes, hearing the command in his tone, and with it, the question. "Don't."

His jaw flexed. "Don't what?"

"Don't ask me to make such a monumental decision— when I am as drunk as any soused lout."

His temples throbbed visibly.

"Do you read minds—as well as write colunms?"

She shook her head. But what he wanted—what she wanted—^was obvious. Just as the impossibility of a liaison was also obvious.

"I am taking you home," he said flatly.

She nodded, eyes wide and glued to his face, beginning to ache now, in her heart, only then realizing that the carriage was not even moving. He rapped on the ceiling, bark-

ing out an order to go to Browne's Books in London. And then he faced her, his expression very grim. "We shall talk in the morning," he said carefully.

Carolyn did not reply. She watched him as he carefully moved from her seat to the one opposite. She remained silent, aware of her pounding pulse, her heated loins, and worse, all the mixed-up, confused emotions in her heart. The joy had given way to wretched misery. Just as sanity had given over to madness. She kept thinking about Marie-Elena now.

"Go to sleep," he said, his eyes hard, his tone soft. "Everything will be all right."

His tone had a hypnotic effect when combined with all the red wine and port she had thus far consumed. And closing her eyes in the hope that she might sleep for the duration of the trip back to town was a relief. Carolyn obeyed, but not before doubting the veracity of his words. It was not going to be all right. How could it be?

Nicholas had knocked, somewhat unsuccessfully, upon the door of the bookshop. The maneuver was awkward because he held the sleeping Carolyn in his arms. There was no response.

But he could see a light flickering at the far end of the shop, perhaps from another room. "Damnation," he said, a growl, and he managed to turn the knob and push open the door, vaguely surprised that it was not bolted at this time of night.

But he had hardly stepped inside when he heard raised voices, both male, and realized that George was not alone. He used his hip to push the door closed. Why was George Browne so upset—and whom could he be entertaining at this hour?

The stairs were just ahead. Nicholas knew Carolyn's chamber was on the upper floor. Instead, he strode into the shop, rather soundlessly. Carolyn did not stir. He was very aware of her cheek resting against his shoulder, her curls feathering his face.

"But I am pleased with you, Browne, very pleased. Your next destination is Calais."

Nicholas stiffened.

"I have had enough," George cried, in a pleading tone. "I cannot sleep at night anymore, for fear of the authorities discovering my deceptions!"

"You should have thought of that eight years ago," a cool yet quite familiar voice returned. "Surely you do not think to ask for more money?"

"Carolyn will become suspicious. I am traveling every month now." There was a pause. "I do not wish to hang! Please, my lord, I have had enough."

"You are in far too deeply, my friend, to get out now. I cannot allow it—you are too useful. You make sure this manuscript is delivered to your contact in Calais. It is urgent, my friend. Very urgent."

Nicholas turned and strode back out of the shop. He grappled with the doorknob, Carolyn lolling in his arms, cursing inwardly. His pulse was racing with alarming speed. Good God. Browne was a courier—and if he had understood correctly, he was a traitor to his own country.

And Nicholas was also quite sure he knew the identity of the nobleman Browne had been closeted with.

Once outside, he shifted Carolyn to a more comfortable position, and banged very loudly on the door, shouting Browne's name. But he was thinking that George Browne was a fool. Did the man wish to hang? And what if his daughter ever found out the truth?

"My God!" George cried, swinging the door open. "Is she ill?"

Nicholas entered the bookstore, barely recovering from what he had just discovered. "She is not ill," he answered George, carrying his burden toward the stairs. "She is drunk." He was very angry.

"Drunk!" George raced after him. "What in bloody hell have you done to her?"

Nicholas started up the stairs and did not answer until he stood on the small landing between two open doors. ' 'Dear

Browne," he said coolly, "I have done nothing but accept her invitation. I did not force her to imbibe."

George was red-faced. "If you have touched her ..." he cried, trailing off.

Nicholas smiled coldly at him. Then he turned and shouldered open the door that let onto a small chamber with a pretty floral bedspread and equally feminine curtains. He deposited Carolyn carefully on her bed. Her eyelids did not even flicker. He watched her roll over and curl up. And an oddly tender sensation warmed his heart. And then he frowned. She would be devastated if she ever learned the truth about her father.

He could not shake his thoughts. Turning, he faced George. "And what will you do," he said coldly, "if I have touched your daughter? Shall we duel at dawn?"

George became pale. He was silent, anxiety written all over his face.

Nicholas stalked from the room, and when he and George stood once more upon the landing, he closed her bedchamber door. He smiled coolly at her father. "Do you approve of your daughter's exploits, my friend?"

George inhaled. "I do not know what you are talking about."

"Really?"

"Carolyn is strong-willed, Excellency. What have you done to her?" George clenched his fists.

"I repeat—nothing."

"I want you to stay away from her," George said, breathing harshly.

"Or what?" Nicholas queried innocently. "Perhaps you should have thought to be less approving of your daughter's iron will, my friend, that and her ever-ready quill."

"What does that mean?" George cried. Then he accused, "You wrote that last column, did you not? That was your idea of revenge—as is this, this, seduction?''

"If you choose to think I would seduce a young woman as an act of revenge for the crime of satire, then I will hardly try to dissuade you." Nicholas smiled unpleasantly

at him again and started down the stairs. When he was at the front door he turned, and smiled at George, who remained on the landing. ' 'Or are you afraid she is my target for other reasons? Good night, my friend." He smiled again. "Or should I say bonne nuitV

*'You cannot go."

Carolyn held an invitation to tea from Sverayov in her hand. She had only just awoken. Behind her, on the stove, a kettle was beginning to boil. "You opened my invitation?" she asked, aghast.

He flushed. "He brought you home last night. You were sleeping off the effects of too much wine!" he accused.

Carolyn also flushed. She had definitely imbibed far too much last night, but this morning, she could recall most of the evening with utter clarity—including her stunning realization that she was far more than attracted to Sverayov. "I did have too much to drink. For that, I apologize."

George stared, incredulous. "Is that what you have to say for yourself? That you are sorry for becoming soused? When that rake carried you in here in his arms?"

"He did?" She could not help but enjoy the idea.

"Yes, he did." George walked past her to remove the kettle from the fire, for it was singing. "Enough. Sverayov is a rake—you know that as well as I do, for God's sake. You yourself have been reporting his behavior in your columns. Do you want to be used and then tossed aside like cold, leftover meat?"

"That was a horrible thing to say," Carolyn said tersely.

"Sometimes the truth is horrible."

Carolyn stared. She knew that George was right. Which was why she felt so sick inside her heart, as if sensing impending doom. On the other hand, Sverayov had not had a normal relationship with his wife in years. That left certain possibilities open—although Carolyn knew she must not consider them. She decided that all the wine had befuddled her usually sharp mind.

"Tell me that you do not agree with me," George said.

Carolyn did sigh. "I know you are right. But Sverayov is very intelligent—he is extremely good company. I have enjoyed all of our outings."