From Governess to Countess (Matches Made in Scandal #1)(11)
‘Then you are a very singular man to have considered the problem at all,’ Allison replied, mollified. ‘I confess, there have been occasions when I have advised—not after the fact, but before—there are ways to prevent—but really! I do not know how we came to be discussing such an intimate topic.’
‘It is my fault for drawing your attention to Madame Maria Naryshkhina. My apologies.’
She was forced to smile. ‘You seem to be very well informed considering that you have not lived in St Petersburg for some years.’
‘The Romanovs are related to every other royal family in Europe. One does not have to reside in St Petersburg to remain au fait with their machinations,’ the Count replied, not bothering to hide his contempt for the Imperial family. ‘And my brother kept me informed with the latest court gossip in his occasional letters. Actually, if one were looking for a rare example of a faithful and devoted husband and father, Michael was your man.’
‘You were not—not overly fond of your older brother?’
The Count shrugged, a habit he exhibited, when he did not care to answer, but after a few moments staring down at his champagne flute, he surprised her. ‘Of course I cared for him, as one naturally cares for one’s family—he was my only sibling, after all. But we were never close, had little in common and as adults spent very little time in one another’s company. Which is why I find it so utterly confounding that he nominated me—’ He broke off, draining his champagne in one draught. ‘But it is done now, no point in lamenting over what cannot be changed. Come, it is time for the great and the good of St Petersburg to meet the new Derevenko governess.’
The Count set his empty champagne glass down on a window ledge. Allison, surprised to find her own flute also empty, followed suit. ‘I will never remember all these names and faces.’
‘It doesn’t matter, the objective is to ensure that they know yours.’ He covered her hand with his, angling his back to the room to obscure her from view. ‘You need not be so nervous, you are performing admirably.’
His smile was meant to be reassuring, she told herself, as was the clasp of his fingers. They were both wearing gloves, but her skin was tingling in response to his touch all the same. And his smile—no, it wasn’t at all reassuring, it was—she wished he wouldn’t smile like that, because she couldn’t resist smiling back, and if her smile was anything like his, he’d get the wrong idea entirely. ‘Thank you.’
She smiled. He inhaled sharply. Their eyes locked. ‘Under different circumstances,’ the Count said, ‘I would have been delighted if Arakcheev’s assumptions had foundation.’
There was no mistaking his meaning. No mistaking the unexpected, delightful frisson of her response. An inappropriate response which needed to be quelled. ‘You cannot mean you would like to marry one of your nieces!’
‘You know perfectly well that’s not what I meant.’ His fingers tightened on hers as he leaned towards her. For a dizzying moment, she thought he was going to kiss her in full public view. And she wanted him to, for that dizzying moment.
Then he snapped his head back, dropping her hand. ‘Unfortunately the circumstances are not different. We must make a circuit of the room. I would recommend another glass of champagne to fortify you for the circus you are about to experience.’
*
It had indeed been a circus, and under the scrutiny of St Petersburg society, Allison would have felt as stripped bare and vulnerable as an acrobat on a tightrope were it not for the Count’s reassuring presence by her side. By the time they left the ball it was late—or early, she could no longer tell which—and her head was pounding. But though she had fallen into a brief, shallow sleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, her churning mind did not permit her to rest for long.
Wide awake by dawn, her head whirled as she recalled the sea of faces, the inquisitive looks and the myriad of seemingly innocuous yet patently barbed questions aimed at herself and Count Derevenko as they made the circuit of the Winter Palace’s ballroom. General Arakcheev—Allison shuddered, recalling the Vampire’s empty eyes—had been only the first of many to assume the intimate nature of their relationship. In England, as she knew only too well, society would have been scandalised—or at least they would have claimed to be. In St Petersburg, no one had batted an eyelid at the notion of Count Derevenko’s mistress playing governess to his wards.
And if society did not care, why should she? She was tired of railing against assumptions and prejudice. She realised she had gradually become—not ashamed, precisely, but she had come to wish her appearance otherwise, for it did not match what her patients expected of her. But she was sick and tired of that too!
Pushing back the sheets, Allison struggled down from the high bed and threw back the curtains. Outside, the sun was rising with her spirits. Inspired by The Procurer’s example, funded by the fee she would earn here, she would find a way to take charge of her own destiny, and she would not have to give any sort of damn about what St Petersburg, or London, or any other social elite thought of her. That was why she was here. That was why she would do everything in her power to succeed, whatever it was the Count required of her.
Curling up on the window seat, Allison rested her cheek against the thick glass. Her bedroom, on the third floor next to the children’s suite, looked due east. Through the gaps in the rooftops, she could see the glitter of the Neva River, where it flowed in an elegant curve before sweeping south through St Petersburg. The bedchamber was likely plain by the standards of the Derevenko Palace, yet it was opulent beyond her ken. The walls were covered in a dark-red paper embellished with gold. Her bed, a huge affair that required a step to climb into it, was dressed in velvet and brocade, the four posts gilded, the myriad mattresses and pillows designed to cocoon one in the cosiest, warmest embrace. Carpets of woven silk were soft underfoot. Her small collection of clothes was lost in the giant lacquered chest of drawers, her plain brushes looked like interlopers atop the matching dressing table.