From Governess to Countess (Matches Made in Scandal #1)(17)
He broke off, scowling as the grandfather clock in the corner chimed the hour. ‘Talking of which, I have another appointment with Michael’s—Nikki’s—man of business which is bound to take up the rest of the day. Join me for dinner tonight,’ he said. ‘We can talk. Not about murders and poison. I’ve been starved of company for an age. And you, Allison Galbraith, are unexpectedly delightful company. I’d like to get to know you better.’
It didn’t cross her mind to turn down his offer. Hadn’t she too been starved of company? And wasn’t Aleksei also unexpectedly delightful company? ‘I’d like that.’
He smiled then, that smile that made her think of kissing, and she couldn’t help smile back at him, just as she had done last night. And just as he had done last night, he inhaled sharply. And then, unlike last night, he kissed her. Not a real kiss. Just the merest brush of his lips. Enough for her to smell the citrusy lemon tang of his soap, feel the almost-smooth skin of his freshly shaved cheek, the silk of his waistcoat, the warmth of his body, a flare of desire. And then it was over. For which she should be thankful. Though thankful was very far from the emotion she was feeling.
Chapter Four
Allison’s only evening gown had been a gift from a very grateful mother whose child she had successfully treated, a woman who apparently laboured under the misapprehension that herbalists had any number of functions to attend which required a lavish silk robe. Tonight would be its first and likely its only outing.
The gown was olive-green and, compared to those on display at the Winter Palace last night, a simple affair, the decoration confined to one pleated ruffle around the hem and some intricate smocking in the short puffed sleeves. But the skirt, below the narrow sash was composed of acres of silk, and the quality of the fabric itself infinitely superior to anything else that Allison had ever owned.
She wore silk slippers on her feet. Her best silk stockings were held up by garters tied with green ribbons. The many layers of petticoats under her gown rustled with every step she took. Though Natalya had protested that her corsets were too loosely laced, Allison was convinced they were too tight. The décolleté of her gown was modest, but she was conscious of the quivering of her exposed cleavage, the way her locket nestled in the valley between her breasts. Natalya had piled her hair high on top of her head, threading it through with ribbon and an extraordinary number of pins, allowing one long curl to fall artlessly over her bare shoulder, achieving an elegant, deceptively simple coiffure that Allison could never have attempted and which made her look considerably more sophisticated than she felt.
‘Parfait, mademoiselle.’ Natalya fastened the buttons at the wrist of Allison’s long evening gloves. ‘I hope you have a pleasant dinner.’
Madame Orlova had habitually dined alone in her private sitting room, Allison knew, because Natalya had outlined the domestic arrangements to her yesterday. Yes, Natalya had admitted, there were occasions when Madame Orlova had attended a dinner with their Serene Highnesses in order to make up the numbers, Madame Orlova being sufficiently high born not to lower the tone of a duke and duchess’s table.
Allison, whose blood was bright red and not remotely blue, would most certainly not have been invited. And in any case, she was not making up the numbers on this occasion, she was dining with the acting head of the Derevenko dynasty tête-à-tête. What Natalya made of this, she did not say, but Allison had no doubt it would be the main topic of conversation at another dinner, in the servants’ hall.
Was it foolhardy and reckless? If so, it was too late to do anything about it. Besides, she didn’t want to cancel.
‘Mademoiselle? The footman is here to show you the way.’
Allison took a final glance in the mirror. The woman who gazed back at her was not only elegant, she was a sultry creature, a vibrant one, the colour of her hair, her eyes, even her lips, enhanced by the gown. She looked, ironically, like the sophisticated twin of the harlot Allison depicted in the London gutter press. Those caricatures had shamed her. But this version of her—Allison smiled at herself—she liked what she saw.
‘You are ready, mademoiselle?’
‘Thank you, Natalya. I am more than ready.’
*
The Green Dining Room, Allison thought, as she entered the empty chamber, I have certainly dressed to match.
The room was decorated in the classical style. Pale green walls were embellished with white moulding of various toga-clad figures and Etruscan vases, above which was an elaborate cornice of trailing vines, fruits, birds and cupids. A lion rampant propped up either side of the marble fireplace. Candles on the mantel and the table gave the room a soft glow, but the huge candelabra suspended from the ceiling was unlit.
Two places had been set at the table, one at either end. Though this was, she presumed, one of the Derevenko Palace’s less formal dining rooms, the expanse of white linen, silver epergnes, and crested china plate between the settings would make conversation difficult. In fact they’d probably have to shout. Not exactly intimate then. Deliberately so?
The kid soles of her slippers skidded slightly on the highly polished parquet flooring as she crossed to the tall French windows which took up most of one wall. Pulling aside the voile, she peered out, hoping to get a glimpse of the gardens, but it was too dark to make out anything save shadowy shrub-shaped silhouettes.