From Governess to Countess (Matches Made in Scandal #1)(6)

It struck him uncomfortably, as he looked at her, that the problem with this particular woman was not that she didn’t look like his preconceived notions of either a herbalist or a governess, but that she looked like his starved body’s idea of the perfect woman to take to his bed. Her hair was the colour of fire. No, that was too obvious. It was the cover of leaves on the turn, of glossy chestnuts, of the sky as the sun sank. She was not conventionally beautiful, there was nothing of the demure English rose, so universally admired, about her. She was something wilder, untamed. Her skin seemed to glow with vitality, her figure was not willowy but voluptuous. She had a mouth that made a man think of all the places he would like those lips to touch. And then there were her eyes—what colour were they? Brown? Gold? Both? Was it her heavy lids that made him think of tumbled sheets and morning sunshine dappling her delightfully naked rump?

Aleksei cursed under his breath. Since Napoleon’s escape from Elba, followed by Waterloo, and the formal mourning period he had just completed here in St Petersburg, he had been deprived of all female company, but this was most definitely not the time and place to be having such thoughts. Allison Galbraith was not here to satisfy his inconveniently awakening desires. He should be contemplating her suitability for the task, not her body. Though he could not deny that her body was one that he’d very much like to contemplate.

Would anyone believe her a credible replacement for Anna Orlova the previous, long-serving governess? A paragon, if the servants were to be believed, utterly reliable, and much loved by the children. Whether or not she returned that affection, Aleksei had no idea, since Anna Orlova had abandoned her charges and fled the Derevenko Palace long before he had had a chance to set eyes upon her.

He picked up the teapot which sat on top of the samovar, only to drop it with a muted curse as the heated silver handle scalded his palm. Covering the handle with the embroidered linen cloth designed for that very purpose, he saw that Miss Galbraith was staring at the urn with a puzzled look. ‘You are not familiar with the ceremonial Russian tea ritual?’ Happy to buy himself time to regather his thoughts, when she shook her head Aleksei concentrated on the performance. ‘This is the zavarka, the black tea, which we brew for at least fifteen minutes, unlike you English, who barely allow the leaves to kiss the hot water before you pour.’ Kiss? An unfortunate choice of verb. Touch, then? No, that was even worse!

He concentrated on pouring a small amount of zavarka into her cup, a larger, stronger amount into his own. The samovar hissed, reminding him that he had not completed the tea-making ceremony. ‘This is kipyatok,’ he said, ‘which is simply another word for boiling water. Would you like a slice of lemon, some sugar?’

‘Is that permitted?’

‘It is not traditional, but I have both available if you wish. Our tea is something of an acquired taste.’

‘I will take it as it is meant to be served. When in Russia, as they say.’ Miss Galbraith picked up her cup and took a tentative sip.

She did not quite spit it out, but her screwed-up little nose and her watering eyes told their own tale. Biting back a smile, Aleksei held out the sugar bowl.

Using the tongs, she dropped three cubes of sugar into the tiny cup. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m being impertinent, but may I enquire why your wife is not here to greet me? I assume it is from her that I will take my instructions?’

‘Her absence is easily explained. I’m not, and never have been married.’

‘Oh.’ Miss Galbraith coloured. ‘I see,’ she said, looking like someone who did not see at all.

‘The children are not mine,’ Aleksei explained, ‘they are my brother’s.’

She frowned. ‘Then may I ask why you are—why I am not having this discussion with your brother and his wife?’

‘Because they are both dead.’ Drinking his own, thick black tea, a soldier’s brew, from the ducal cup in one gulp, Aleksei registered the widening of her eyes, and realised belatedly how stark this statement sounded. ‘Michael and Elizaveta died in May this year, within a few days of each other.’

Which attempt at tempering the shock made things worse. Miss Galbraith blanched. ‘How awful. I am so terribly sorry.’

‘Yes.’ Aleksei curbed his impatience. It was awful, but he’d had almost four months to accustom himself to it. ‘However, the formal mourning period is now over.’ Did that sound callous? ‘My brother and I were not particularly close.’ Even worse? Best to just get on with the matter in hand. ‘It is the consequences of his death which concern me, Miss Galbraith, and that is the reason you are here.’

‘Consequences?’

Though he was relieved to be back on track, Aleksei found himself in a quandary. It was already clear that the distractingly luscious Miss Galbraith had been only partially briefed by The Procurer woman. Her reputation for complete discretion was well founded, thank the stars, which meant he had the luxury of not having to launch into a full exposition of what he euphemistically referred to as consequences to a complete stranger just off the boat. But precisely how much to tell her?

Aleksei decided to proceed with caution. ‘Michael bequeathed me the guardianship of his offspring in his will—I have no idea why, for he did not consult me on the matter. I am, as my brother knew perfectly well, as unsuitable a guardian for his children as it’s possible to imagine, and have no intentions of continuing in the post once I can secure a more suitable candidate. At which point, Miss Galbraith, your duties will come to an end.’