Elusive Passion (3 page)

The entire hall seemed enthralled as her nimble fingers caressed the keys of the piano. The melody was almost mournful in its tone, but somehow she managed to make it sound sweet and full of hope.

It was over all too soon and Miles surprised himself by jumping up from the edge of his chair where he had been perched for the last hour and seizing Carny by the coat.

“We’re going backstage,” he announced, steering him toward the backstage entrance. He propelled his slow-moving friend down the crowded, humming corridor.

“What did you think?” Carny asked excitedly, seeming not to notice that he was being used as a kind of battering ram through the jostling bodies filling the narrow arcade. “Did I not tell you she was magnificent?”

“I think you grossly understated her abilities, my friend.” Miles scowled at a smaller man who tried to push in front of them, giving him a not-so-friendly shove.

Carny shrugged, too caught up in the beauty of the
music he had heard to take offense at his sarcastic friend.

They were not the only gentlemen who had pushed their way backstage in hope of begging an audience with the lovely pianist. Miles was surprised that a few of the gentlemen even had ladies with them. It meant that they actually intended to tell Victoria…Vivica…whatever her name was that they enjoyed her performance, not proposition her.

Miles’s great height and muscular build made it easy for the two of them to push their way through the crowded backstage area. A few of the gentlemen were above him in rank, but he was a well-recognized war hero, not just a lord, and this fact intimidated many into moving out of his way.

“I do so enjoy going out into society with you, Miles,” Carny commented brightly as they stepped up to the green room door long before Carny could have made it there by himself.

Miles grinned. “Remember you said that the next time I’m so foxed you have to carry me home.” He knocked on the door.

A burly man, almost as wide across the shoulders as he was tall, greeted them. He did not speak—he just gazed at them questioningly.

Miles smiled his most charming smile. “The Marquess of Wynter and the Earl of Carnover to see Miss…” He faltered, her name still escaping him.

“Varya,” Carny chirped.

“Varya,” Miles repeated, willing himself to remember.

The man stepped aside and Miles wondered why
he had allowed them to enter and no one else. Then he saw a few other guests milling about inside.

“Apparently, he’s very picky as to who he allows in to meet his employer,” Carny informed him sotto voce.

Miles nodded as if he understood the ugly guard’s reasoning, but he didn’t. What did he base his judgment on? Looks? Title? Neither was very conducive to determining who could be trusted and who couldn’t.

He spotted Varya surrounded by a small group of admirers, both male and female. She was smiling and laughing with them as if they were old friends. Miles watched, entranced by the animation on her lovely face, and was ridiculously pleased to see—even from that distance—that her eyes were blue. Sapphire blue.

As she spoke, she gestured wildly with her hands. Miles found the fluttering motions of her long, slender fingers almost mesmerizing. What would the rest of her look like beneath that silk evening gown? Was the flesh of her body as smooth and white as that of her unblemished cheek? If he pulled all the pins from her raven tresses, how far would they fall down her voluptuous form?

Lord, but he was beginning to sound like that fool Byron! It was foolish to wax poetic about a woman—even if the woman in question was
the
most enchanting creature he had ever seen.

He would be the first to admit that he had had more than his fill of women of the stage. And even though he could almost picture Bella sadly shaking her head at him, Miles still found himself wondering if Miss Varya was in want of the protection of a man such as himself.

Varya loved meeting people after each performance. Though sometimes she worried that some well-traveled lord or lady would recognize her. She knew it was unlikely, however, as the only people she had seen so far in London who were even familiar with Russia were Count Lieven and his wife, Dorothea, one of the patronesses at the exclusive Almack’s. Varya had never been invited to Almack’s, nor did she have any desire to attend. No doubt if the countess ever found out who she was, she would be more than welcome inside those hallowed walls. For now, Varya was content with her haughty distance—they had never even been introduced.

The hypocrisy of London society did not bother Varya. She’d much rather drink vodka and dance around the music room with Piotr and Katya, the maid and footman she had brought with her when she fled from St. Petersburg. She glanced over at Piotr, who was acting as doorman, and smiled warmly at the stocky Russian.

Her smile froze when she saw the men Piotr had allowed to enter the room. She was already acquainted with the Earl of Carnover, but it was his companion who captured her attention. Her heart raced at the sight of him, not just from fear but from stark awareness. Miles Christian was the kind of man a woman had no choice but to notice. What if he recognized her?

No, she told herself, trying to quell the nausea rolling through her stomach. She had kept herself disguised and it had been very dark. Even after he pulled
off her hood she had kept to the shadows, and only seconds had passed before she hit him. There was no way he could recognize her. Still, she found herself holding her breath and only half listening to the conversation around her as he approached. Blood pounded in her ears with his every step until she was fairly certain she would suffer an apoplectic fit before he even reached her.

Instinctively, she cradled the arm he had smashed onto the table against her waist. It was still tender and bruised.

In the few days that had passed since her dreadful abduction of the marquess—why couldn’t he have been a shopkeeper, or a baronet? Someone with a little less
importance!
—she had investigated his claim to have been out of town when Bella was killed. A few gentlemen had remarked on his absence from the clubs, but no one could say for certain where he had disappeared to.

His grief at the news hadn’t been feigned, and as much as she despised herself for it, Varya wanted to believe him incapable of such a crime—and not because of her own bizarre attraction to him, but because Bella had loved him.

His innocence was unlikely, but not impossible.

But if he didn’t kill Bella, who did? And how was she ever going to prove it?

Lady Milton complimented her on her gown; she smiled and nodded. Lord James asked if he might take her for a ride in Hyde Park the following afternoon; she smiled and shook her head. Somehow, she managed to maintain her composure even though the
Grim Reaper was surely approaching, lifting his gleaming scythe…

Suddenly, she was staring at a very stiff, impeccably tied cravat. She forced her gaze up even though her lungs threatened to collapse at the sight of the breathtaking face above her.

Blessed Mary, but he was a beautiful man! Never before had she seen a face so harsh and yet so handsome. His catlike eyes were large for a man’s and set beneath arched brows. Even his eyelashes were darker and thicker than any man had the right to claim. His nose was long and straight—perfectly patrician—and his mouth was wide and full, followed by a jaw that wasn’t quite square, but was still very strong. It was a face that should have been arrogant in its beauty, but smiled warmly at her instead.

Oh Bella, I think I must envy you.

Lord James introduced them. The Marquess of Wynter bowed.

“Miss Varya,” he began in his smooth, deep voice, “I am honored to make your acquaintance.” He took her offered hand and raised it to his lips.

She forced herself to speak, despite the fact that her heart was hammering in her throat. Whether it was from fear of being found out or from his touch, she had no idea. The feel of his lips through the thin silk of her gloves was shamefully erotic. Odd how he was now so gentle when just nights before he had smashed that same arm onto a rickety table.

“Thank you, my lord. It is indeed a pleasure to meet you.”

Something flickered briefly in his unusual eyes. She
watched in horror as he frowned slightly, but then it was gone and the good humor was back in his countenance. Varya had to bite her lip to keep from sighing in relief. She could feel tiny beads of perspiration forming along her hairline.

“Lord Wynter’s been honored to meet many ladies in this room, haven’t you, Miles?” Lord James announced jocularly, elbowing the marquess in the side.

Lord Wynter winced as if the jab hurt more than it should have. Varya wondered if he also carried wounds from their struggle, or if he had been injured while fighting the French in Portugal. She stepped forward.

“Do you require any assistance, my lord?” she asked, her brow furrowed with concern.

Too late she realized her folly and knew that he had realized it as well. By repeating almost word for word the taunt they had exchanged two nights before in the alley, she had revealed herself to him.

She watched, frozen as his eyes hardened into cold green-gold stones and his face stiffened. His mouth flattened into a hard, grim line and he caught her outstretched hand in a grip that made her flinch.

“Yes, madam,” he ground out between clenched teeth, “I believe I do.”

V
arya did the only thing she could in such a situation.

She feigned a swoon.

She pitched herself right into the arms of the Marquess of Wynter, who tensed and swore under his breath. Had they not been in company, she had no doubt he would have gladly dropped her.

Or worse.

He carried her to the chaise and draped her along its length as though she were the heroine in a tragedy. If she weren’t so aware of what the marquess could do to her, she would have smiled at the irony. She rather felt like an actress in a bad play.

As with most public swoonings, there was a collective gasp and immediately the crowd closed in. Piotr
and the Earl of Carnover ordered them all back while Miles made a great show of chafing her wrists.

Varya was conscious of the eyes upon her. She was also conscious of the pain in her arm caused by the marquess’s savage rubbing. She winced and slowly opened her eyes, although what she really wanted to do was club him over the head.

The chafing ceased, but he did not release her. His fingers had a death grip on hers. Avoiding his piercing gaze, she glanced around at the faces of her guests.

“Did I faint?” she inquired in a small, confused voice. Lord, could anyone else hear the deception in her tone?

“Yes,” Wynter replied, sending shivers of dread down her spine. He leaned close and whispered in her ear, “I think it would be best if everyone left now. Obviously, the night has already been too taxing for you.”

Varya forced herself to meet his cold stare and was surprised to find that it wasn’t cold at all. It was hard, yes, but seemed to radiate the heat of his anger.

With a slight nod she raised her gaze to the crowd gathered around her. A strange warmth flooded her veins, flushing her chest and neck. Despite the anxious faces, the worried murmurs, she wasn’t aware of any presence in the room other than the man sitting beside her, his hard thigh close enough for her to touch.

“Please forgive me, everyone.” How firm her voice sounded. The anxiety that bound her insides had yet to reach her tongue. “I fear the night has exhausted me
and I must cut our visit short. Please come back after my next performance.”

A low murmur of disappointment followed the crowd as Piotr began ushering people out. A torrent of farewells and felicitations rushed at Varya in a gentle buzz. She couldn’t distinguish one voice from another. Smiling at her adoring public, she waved and prayed silently for them to be gone. If they knew what she had done to their precious Marquess of Wynter, they would turn on her in a minute.

Those who still waited outside loudly voiced their discontent when they realized they would not be seeing Varya in person that evening, but left with the satisfaction of at least catching a glimpse of the elusive performer. Some of them called out to her, others tried to fight their way inside. Piotr closed the door in their faces.

Varya frowned. She found the male attention disarming. She didn’t know what kind of fantasies they had built around her, but she was certain she didn’t want to find out.

“Are you coming, Miles?” Carny asked on his way out. Varya frowned at the blatant disapproval in the man’s pale eyes. Her life was none of his business.

“No.” Miles glanced over his shoulder at his friend. “I’m going to stay and make certain that Miss Varya is set to rights.”

The young earl raised a dubious brow. “Of course. I shall see you tomorrow, then. Good luck.”

His meaning was obvious, Varya realized angrily. Many of her male admirers visited in hopes that she would take one of them as her lover. She’d heard they
even made wagers over her at their clubs. She wondered how much money Lord Carnover had already won at her expense.

“Good evening, Lord Carnover,” she called coolly.

He met her gaze with no hint of mockery whatsoever. “And to you as well, Miss Varya.” He bowed smartly, placed his hat on his fair head, and strode from the room.

With a sigh Varya briefly closed her eyes and leaned back against the chaise.

“How much do you have riding on your charm and good looks, my lord?”

Silence met her question. Looking up, she found the marquess watching her with a curious expression on his face. A half smile curved his lips, as though he had read her thoughts and found them terribly amusing.

With more hauteur than she felt, she stared imperiously down her nose at him. “If you are going to have me arrested, my lord, please do so quickly. I am very tired.”

Meanwhile, her heart hammered furiously in her chest. If he turned her over to the authorities, they would certainly discover who she was. Then they would send her back to Russia. Back to the monster waiting there.

“I’m not certain what I’m going to do with you.” Propping his elbow against the back of the chaise, he pinned her to the cushions without even touching her. “However, I can assure you that I’m not going to have you arrested—not yet.”

Uneasiness began to churn in her stomach. If he
wasn’t going to have her carted away to Newgate, what was he going to do?

“Then why are you still here?” she demanded. She glanced toward the door to make certain Piotr was there in case she needed him.

The marquess followed her gaze, and one corner of his mouth quirked as he turned back to her. Leaning closer, he brought his face down to hers. She could feel his breath against her cheek, smell the spicy sweetness of his skin.

“Why do you think?”

Varya’s cheeks—and other parts of her anatomy—flamed as his voice slid over her like silk. Surely he didn’t mean…not after all she had said and done to him!

His harsh laugh as he straightened was like a bucket of ice water in her face. Of course he didn’t want her. He hated her. And she him.

“At the risk of offending your delicate sensibilities, Miss Varya, I must assure you that I have no desire to force myself upon you. My last encounter of a physical nature with you is still rather—fresh.” His fingers went to the bruise on his temple.

Shamed that he had read her thoughts, Varya clenched her jaw. “I too remember our last meeting, my lord.” Deftly she removed her glove and unbuttoned the cuff of her sleeve. She pushed the delicate silk up her arm, revealing to his gaze a large yellow and purple bruise followed by a similarly colored—and rather large—handprint.

He winced at the sight of his handiwork, but the
gaze that met hers was devoid of any regret. “You were waving a pistol in my face, madam. I believed you were trying to kill me.”

“I was simply trying to escape.” It was true. She didn’t believe for a minute that she could have actually pulled the trigger—no matter how much she wanted to avenge Bella’s death.

“A fine job you did of it too. It was morning before I awoke.”

She lowered her sleeve and concentrated on buttoning the cuff in an effort to keep her voice steady. “If you are looking for an apology, I cannot give you one. More than I regret hurting you, I regret allowing you to hurt me.” Lifting her chin, she bit the inside of her lip to keep it from quivering.

He nodded in concession. “Then it appears that we are even on one account.”

She raised a brow. “And the other?”

He stood. “On that account, we are not even. Now, why don’t you fetch your wrap and allow me to escort you home?”

Her brow jumped even higher.

Much to her chagrin, the handsome marquess burst out laughing.

“You didn’t think I was going to let you off that easy, did you?”

Varya flushed hotly. For one moment she had thought he was just going to let her go. She should have known that as a man, he would have another agenda.

“I want some answers,” he informed her as he offered her his hand. She placed her much smaller one in
his palm and rose to her feet. “You appear to be the only one who can give them to me.”

“I suppose I owe you that much,” she allowed, lifting her gaze to his. She tried to appear calm, but inside a tiny voice was screaming for her to run before he killed her as he had killed Bella.

She could not run. And she now had some doubts that he could have murdered her friend.
Doubts
—not convictions.

He smiled down at her, but the curl of his lips held little humor. Her heart skipped a beat. Few men frightened her, and it did not comfort her to add Bella’s former lover to the list of those who did.

“It would seem we’re finally in agreement, madam,” he replied silkily. “But you’ll forgive me if I’d rather have you at my mercy than place my own throat at yours.”

Meeting an enemy on his—or in this case
her
—own territory, Miles had long ago learned, often gave that enemy a false sense of security.

Not that he planned to attack the exquisite creature sitting on the sofa opposite him, but he would rather be the one on guard in unfamiliar surroundings than the one feeling safe and comfortable in her own home. There was nothing more detrimental to one’s defenses than the sensation of being safe and comfortable.

He had expected something different from the Elusive Varya’s townhouse. He hadn’t expected it to be situated in an area as exclusive as the West End. He hadn’t expected her to have such taste and elegance in her decor. Walls painted in soft colors were accented
with delicate plaster work in the Adam style. Everywhere he looked—at a carpet, a painting—there was evidence of wealth and good taste.

Miss Varya obviously came from a different background than most women who graced the stage. She had the kind of grace, poise, and hauteur that could only come from having been raised with money and power. Interesting.

Dragging his gaze away from a Wedgwood vase, he turned his attention to the woman who had held him at gunpoint only a few nights ago. Her face was pale, but she kept her expression perfectly blank. She would not intimidate easily. He felt an odd respect for her that annoyed him.

He had almost laughed out loud when she feigned an attack of the vapors at the theater. In fact, the only thing that had kept his temper at bay was her audacity. Her skill at deception should have enraged him further, but instead he found her quest for self-preservation admirable.

And then there had been something in the swirling indigo depths of her eyes that had snuffed out his anger. Defiance. Anxiety. And a vulnerability he hadn’t expected to see.

She had been afraid of him. She was afraid of him even now, and it wasn’t just because she feared he might be a murderer. He couldn’t quite fathom why he sensed this about her, but something told him that she saw him as a threat in more ways than one. He decided not to hand her over to the authorities just yet—this could prove to be a very enjoyable mystery.

Besides, she claimed to be Bella’s friend. She might
be the only person able to give him clues to the identity of his former mistress’s murderer.

And it would be a sin to send a woman so beautiful to Newgate. Not when he could think of much more pleasurable uses for her.

How could he even consider it? The very thought of bedding such a harridan should chill his blood. Instead, he wondered if she would be as passionate in bed as she was in battle.

“You have a lovely home,” he remarked casually, forcing himself back to the matter at hand.

She frowned at the compliment. “Thank you.”

“Your landlord must be a patron of the arts.”

Varya’s only reply was to tilt her head to one side and stare at him intently. Miles was vaguely uncomfortable with the fact that his question had been so transparent.

He took a sip of his vodka. “Have you lived in London long?”

“Not quite half a year.”

“And why here? Why not Paris or Rome?”

She tilted her head again, contemplating the question as if he had just asked for the secrets of the universe. It immediately put his guard up.

“I grew tired of always traveling. I told Bella how I felt. She said, ‘Come to London,’ so I did.”

Six months would have been right around the time he and Bella had parted company.

“Bella never spoke of you. If you were such good friends, why is that?”

“Did you talk to her about your family, Lord Wynter?”

Miles’s brows drew together at the ridiculous notion. He made it a point never to discuss family with his mistresses—such intimacies only led the women to believe there was more than sexual attraction on his side.

“No. I did not.”

Again that mocking tilt of her head. Did the woman have a nervous tic?

“Then why would you expect Bella to discuss hers with you?”

“You were related?”

Varya shook her head, a slight smiling playing about her lips. “No, my lord. We weren’t. I meant that figuratively. I was the closest thing Bella had to family and vice versa. We’ve known each other since we were schoolgirls.” She arched a brow as her smile grew. “You may never have heard about me, but believe me—I heard
much
about you.”

Miles’s cheeks warmed. If she was telling the truth, he could only guess at the kinds of things Bella had discussed with this friend she had held too dear even to speak of.

Time to get back to the matter at hand. “So, you went to Bella’s townhouse because she failed to show up for a breakfast meeting the two of you had planned?”

She didn’t stop to think of her reply, which pleased him. So far she appeared to have been perfectly candid, but he would not let his guard down. If she was hiding anything about Bella’s death, he would discover it.

“Yes. The servants didn’t find it strange that Bella was still abed, but she never missed an appointment.”
Her features clouded. “I found her as soon as I entered her chamber.”

“She had been strangled?” He schooled his voice to remain level and impersonal, but inside his guts were tied up tighter than rigging in a ship. How could anyone ever harm Bella?

Varya nodded. There were tears in her eyes, he noted, and she clenched her jaw to keep them from falling. He wondered if she fought to hide her emotions only from him or if she loathed showing weakness of any kind.

“She looked so peaceful. Her eyes were closed…” She swallowed. “I almost believed she was sleeping until I saw the marks around her throat. Handprints.” She nodded toward his free hand. “A man’s hands—big.”