Lord Buckingham’s Bride (3 page)

With a sigh, Alison began to draw the hairbursh through her tangled hair, but as she did so, she was sure she heard a stealthy sound at the door. She turned quickly and was in time to see the door handle turning slowly. Her heart almost stopped with alarm, for as the handle then turned the other way, she knew that someone was trying to get in.

She pressed fearfully back against the washstand, the hairbrush almost slipping from her suddenly cold fingers. Her mouth ran dry and she could hear her heart beating fearfully as she stared at the door, praying that the chair would prevent it from opening.

For what seemed an age the would-be intruder kept trying the handle, but then it stopped moving. Alison's lips trembled, and her gray eyes remained large and frightened as she watched and waited for something that would tell her that whoever it was had gone away. The moments ticked by, and she went to the door, leaning past the chair to press her ear to the wood. The passage outside seemed
deserted, for the only sound she heard was the distant clatter of the tap room and a burst of laughter from the Russian officers on the gallery.

Slowly she backed away from the door, going to sit weakly on the edge of the bed and dropping the hairbrush on the coverlet beside her. She pressed her trembling hands to her cheeks, trying to quell the torrent of fear that still coursed through her. What might have happened if she hadn't followed Billy's advice? What fate might she now be enduring at the intruder's hands? A sob rose in her throat. Bath seemed a million miles away, as did everything else that she knew and loved, and she wished desperately that she had stood up to Miss Wright on the whole matter of this horrid, horrid journey.

She struggled to collect herself, but as she did so, a sudden breath of breeze outside dislodged the French doors. They blew open, the curtains billowing, as if someone was standing behind them. A
terrified
squeak escaped Alison's lips, and she leapt up from the bed,
staring
at the curtains, but then she realized it was just the draft. At the same time she heard someone speaking in the alley below. It was an Englishman with a refined, well-spoken voice, and he was uttering a far-from-refined English oath, albeit in an amiable tone.

‘The devil take you for a damned Swedish rogue and horse thief.'

‘But it's true, my lord, I swear it upon my life,' replied another man, a Swedish gentleman by the sound of it. ‘The horse got up and deliberately pushed the fellow into the river with its nose. I saw it with my own eyes, and I happen to know that that villain has never raised a crop to a horse again.'

The Englishman laughed, and it was such a comforting and
reassuring
sound that Alison hurried out on to the balcony.

The two men had paused outside the inn and were clearly visible in the light from the tap-room windows. The Swedish gentleman was dressed in a brown tight-fitting coat and beige breeches, with an extravagant brown-and-cream-spotted neckcloth blossoming at his throat. A matching handkerchief protruded from his hip pocket, and he stood in a rather foppish pose, flicking another handkerchief over a sleeve that appeared to be immaculate. He was of medium height and was passably good-looking, with a tall top hat tipped rakishly back on his froth of light-brown Apollo curls. He was about
twenty-one 
years old and obviously thought himself very much the thing, but when set beside the stylishness and devilish good looks of his English companion, he was practically insignificant.

The Englishman looked as if he might just have strolled down a Mayfair pavement instead of a medieval alley in Stockholm, and his clothes were all that one would expect of Bond Street's superlative tailors. A long charcoal greatcoat with an astrakhan collar rested nonchalantly around the shoulders of his burgundy coat, and he wore a silver brocade waistcoat and a gray silk neckcloth that was plentiful without being as excessive as that worn by his companion. His
skin-tight
cream breeches vanished into shining black top boots, and he carried a pair of gray kid gloves in his left hand. A signet ring graced one of his fingers, a golden seal dangled from his fob, and a pearl pin nestled tastefully in the discreet folds of the neckcloth. He was the personification of masculine style and elegance, and when he removed his top hat to run his fingers through his thick coal-black hair, Alison found herself gazing down at the most devastatingly handsome man she'd ever seen.

He was in his late twenties or early thirties, and his face was
fine-boned
and even-featured, with a complexion that was tanned from many hours spent in the open air. He had a rugged cleft in his chin, and his firm lips looked as if they would be quick to smile. His eyes were dark-lashed and of a particularly vivid blue, a fact that she could see in the light from the tap room. He wore his rather wayward black hair a little longer than might have been expected, for in London at the moment it was the fashion for gentlemen to have their hair cut very short indeed.

Alison stared down at him. She felt as if she'd suddenly awakened from a long sleep, because for the first time in her life she was conscious of an almost irresistible feeling of attraction. She was like a moth to a flame, longing to be burned. And she didn't even know who he was.

U
naware of the silent scrutiny to which they were being subjected from the balcony overhead, the two men continued their
conversation
. It concerned thoroughbred horses, a subject on which both appeared to be very knowledgeable indeed.

The Swedish gentleman was proud of a brood mare the Englishman had just purchased from his father, and he didn't hesitate to sing the animal's praises. ‘You will not regret purchasing the mare, my lord, for I promise you that the foal she carries is bred for stamina.'

‘I know that now, since your father was at last persuaded to let me see the stud books,' replied the Englishman somewhat dryly. ‘What dark secret is he trying to keep hidden? He's like a miser with his hoard.'

His Swedish friend laughed. ‘He is a shrewd man, my lord, and keeps his own counsel. When he chose to show you the stud books, he paid you a great compliment.'

‘As I paid him when I chose to buy the mare,' came the frank reply.

‘That is very true. So, after a lack of success in France, Belgium, Holland, and Denmark, your expedition so far has only resulted in this one purchase. I trust that you are more fortunate in St Petersburg, although I understand that there are only one or two significant animals in the imperial stables.'

‘There is one chestnut colt that is of great interest to me, since it's descended from the red Barbary stallion the czar's great-grandfather acquired in Syria. I have the promise of an audience with his imperial majesty, and I trust I will be able to, er, persuade him that the colt would be a shining example of Russian stud management if allowed to run on English turf.'

‘If anyone can persuade him, you can, my lord,' replied the
Swedish gentleman, but then he shook his head doubtfully. ‘I am told that Czar Alexander is an indifferent horseman, and is therefore not likely to show a great deal of interest. He is much more concerned these days with the many whims of his mistress, the Countess Irina.'

‘So I understand,' murmured the Englishman.

‘Well, my lord, perhaps we should adjourn to the quay, for the
Pavlovsk
may have arrived by now.'

‘And she may not. No, my friend. When she arrives, my luggage will be duly taken on board and placed in the cabin reserved for me, but I mean to spend the rest of the night in a comfortable bed in a
comfortable
inn. This inn, to be precise.' He indicated the Dog and Flute.

The Swedish gentleman pursed his lips. ‘Where it just so happens that you might encounter the czar's envoy, Prince Naryshky?'

‘The possibility had occurred to me, yes,' the Englishman replied.

His friend glanced around and then dropped his voice
considerably
, so much so that Alison had to strain to hear. ‘My lord, you would be wise to avoid him at all costs, for he is dangerous,
scheming
, capricious, high-handed, and always acts in his own interests. There is no one more treacherous and devious than he, and it is said that the devil would be the one requiring the long spoon were any supping to be done with this particular Russian princeling.'

Alison's eyes widened with surprise that anyone could speak so indiscreetly and unflatteringly about a man like the prince, especially in a place as public as an alley in the middle of Stockholm. If she could hear, who else might be doing just the same?

The Englishman had also lowered his voice. ‘Naryshky can hardly be described as a princeling, my friend, for he is now one of the most influential men in St Petersburg.'

‘Only because his sister, the Countess Irina, graces the czar's bed. If it were not for that fact, Naryshky would simply be another
strutting
aristocrat in the famous Preobrazensky Regiment. He owes his grand rank to her, and he wouldn't stand nearly so high in Czar Alexander's favor were it not for her constant importuning. Naryshky owes nothing to his own talents, of that you may be sure. Oh, he thinks he's set to be a great man, and his vanity is such that he even made a bid for the hand of the czar's sister, the Grand-Duchess Helen, but not even Alexander is besotted enough to bestow such grandeur
upon his mistress's swaggering brother.'

‘You speak as if you know a great deal about him.'

‘Everyone in Stockholm knows Naryshky, my lord, for whenever he has come here, his activities have made him much despised. He is without conscience and without morals, and our authorities never raise a protest because King Gustavus Adolphus wishes to court the new czar, and the new czar is disposed to show great favor to Naryshky. Take my advice, my lord, stay somewhere else tonight, somewhere well away from Nikolai Ivanovich Naryshky, who is no admirer of the British.'

‘My mind is made up, I fear.'

The Swedish gentleman shrugged regretfully. ‘As you wish, my friend. So, now we must bid each other farewell.'

‘Perhaps not farewell, for I would consider it a great honor and pleasure if you and your father were to visit me in England. I can promise you a very hospitable welcome, one of the best studs in the country, and some excellent days' racing.'

‘Your invitation will be accepted with alacrity, my lord. I wish you
bon voyage
.'

The two men shook hands and then the Swedish gentleman walked quickly away in the direction of the quay. The Englishman watched him for a moment and then turned to look at the brightly lit tap-room windows. His blue eyes were thoughtful, then he tapped his top hat on his head and went swiftly up the steps into the inn.

Alison lingered on the balcony. The Englishman's name hadn't been mentioned at all, beyond the fact that he'd been addressed as ‘my lord,' and so she had no idea who he was, but she was bound to find out, either at breakfast in the morning or certainly on board the
Pavlovsk
. She wondered if he was married. Surely he must be, for how could such a man have eluded the wiles of some determined woman? Someone as good-looking and undoubtedly charming as he must constantly receive flattering attention from the opposite sex. She gazed down at the spot where he had been, thinking that it was very doubtful indeed that such a man would so much as glance at a green girl straight out of a Bath academy for young ladies.

She shivered a little, suddenly realizing that she'd been standing out in the bitter cold for quite some time in only her gown and shawl. The
gray of dawn had now illuminated the eastern sky much more, and soon Stockholm would be bathed in that pale silver light that was neither day nor night. She didn't like these short nights, for they didn't invite a deep restorative slumber, but rather filled one with an odd sort of restlessness. What she would do in St Petersburg she didn't know, for she'd been told that from the end of June until the beginning of July there was hardly any night at all, just half an hour of strangely subdued light between sunset and sunrise. It had sounded novel when she heard of it in England, but now that she had begun to experience the
ever-shortening
hours of darkness this far north, she didn't like it at all.

With a last glance down into the alley where she had seen the
handsome
English lord, she turned and went back into her room. She closed the French doors as firmly as she could, using the wedge of paper, and then she drew the curtains. Still feeling uncomfortably cold, she hurried to the fire, holding out her hands to the warmth of the flames. Gradually she felt better and so went to finish brushing and pinning her hair, achieving a reasonably creditable knot at the back of her head. It had always been Miss Wright's policy to teach her young ladies how to attend to their own toilette, for the headmistress warned that there might come a time when a maid wasn't to hand, and a lady's hair must always be perfect. Most of the pupils had resented such lessons, for the daughters of earls and dukes would never be without the services of a maid, but now Alison was glad of the lessons, for her maid had left her in order to be married and she wouldn't have another until she reached St Petersburg.

Before going to sit on the bed with her book, she tested the armchair's firmness under the door handle. It didn't move at all, and she was satisfied that it would serve its purpose until it was time for her to go down to breakfast. Drawing her shawl more warmly around her shoulders, she propped the pillows against the back of the bed and then made herself comfortable, pulling the coverlet lightly over her knees. With a sigh she opened the book, wishing again that it was now at the bottom of the harbor instead of her precious reticule.

A serving girl hurried past the door to the next room, and Alison heard the unmistakable sound of the fire being prepared. Could it mean that the Englishman was to occupy the room? She looked up from the book, and as she did so, she was sure she heard the door of the other
adjoining room open and close very softly indeed. Her eyes flew toward the other wall, but she heard nothing more; then the serving girl hurried away again, her light footsteps diminishing along the corridor.

Alison sat very still, listening carefully, but there wasn't a sound from the other adjoining room. After a moment, just as she was about to resume reading her book, voices approached, and she recognized that of the Englishman. He was conducted to the room next to hers, where the fire had been lit, and then the serving girl hurried away again. The Englishman closed the door firmly.

Alison suddenly felt much safer, knowing that a fellow countryman was in the next room. Should she approach him and tell him that
someone
had tried to enter her room? Putting the book aside, she got up from the bed and went to pull the armchair aside, but even as she pushed it back into place by the fire, she knew that it wouldn't do at all to approach a total stranger in the middle of the night in an inn. Indeed, such a move would be considered most improper, especially when the incident concerned had long since past, and if the truth be known, she didn't even know if the would-be intruder had meant to enter her room. What if someone had been attempting to keep an assignation and had then realized his mistake and gone away? It could be as simple as that, and she'd allowed her imagination to run away with her.

She glanced back toward the door. Should she push the wretched armchair back to wedge the handle? As she stood there undecided what to do, again she heard a soft, stealthy noise, and this time it didn't come from one of the adjoining rooms, but apparently from her balcony. A cold finger of fear touched her, and she turned slowly, her frightened gaze drawn toward the windows. As she looked, she saw the curtains tremble a little. It wasn't the slight motion caused by the breeze having opened the glazed doors, but the surreptitious movement made by someone hiding there. She'd left the tiniest crack between the two curtains, and she knew that someone was observing her through it.

With a stifled cry she fled toward the door, but before she could reach it, the curtains were flung aside and Prince Nikolai dashed across the room to seize her, forcing his hand over her mouth to silence her.

‘Don't be foolish, Miss Clearwell, for I mean you no harm,' he breathed.

Terrified, she could only stare at him. Her strength seemed to have deserted her, and she couldn't even struggle to save herself. Her heart was pounding unbearably in her breast, and her whole body was ice cold with dread.

His dark eyes were intense, and his hand was still pressed roughly over her mouth. ‘I don't wish to hurt you, Miss Clearwell, so I want you to promise me that you will not scream if I take my hand away. Do I have your promise?'

For a moment she couldn't respond, but then she managed to nod.

Slowly he removed his hand, but he still held her in a viselike grip from which she couldn't possibly have escaped. His lips were only inches from hers, and he held her body against his. He could smell the lavender water she used, and he found it arousing. ‘How very resourceful of you to put the chair against the door, Miss Clearwell, for at first it confounded my efforts, but then I remembered that the adjoining rooms are unoccupied and that earlier today I heard the landlord mention that he would have to send for a locksmith to mend the doors on to your balcony. Dame Fortune is determined to place you in my hands tonight.'

‘Please let me go,' she whispered, terrified.

‘Let you go? My dear Miss Clearwell, I will only do that when I've enjoyed your charms to the full.'

‘No! Please, no!' She tried to pull away.

‘Don't be foolish, Miss Clearwell, for there is so much pleasure to be had. I intend to possess you, and I will do so whether you struggle or whether you consent. Of course, it would be so much better if you consented, because it would please me to introduce you to the delights of making love.'

‘Please leave me alone,' she begged, tears stinging her eyes.

‘Leave you all on your own? What gentleman of honor would do that?' he murmured, a sensuous smile curving his lips.

She stared at him, and then, from out of nowhere, inspiration came to her. ‘I – I'm not alone, sir,' she said, the plot of her book suddenly coming to mind.

A quick suspicious light passed through his eyes, but then he gave a soft laugh. ‘Oh, but you are, my dear. You're totally alone and unprotected.'

A jumble of thoughts milled in her head, and she strove with all her might to sort them into a believable story. ‘I may appear to be alone, sir, but the truth is that I traveled from England with my chaperone, who left me earlier today in order to run off with a Swedish
nobleman
. But I am still not alone, because I've come to Stockholm to meet the man I'm to marry, and we're traveling on to St Petersburg on the
Pavlovsk
because the
Duchess of Albemarle
sank. We're running away to be married, sir, because my father wishes me to enter an arranged match with a man I detest, and in St Petersburg we are sure that my uncle will lend us his assistance.'