Vienna Waltz (The Imperial Season Book 1) (15 page)

Even if he hadn’t been looking for her, she would have been easy to spy. With their beguiling mixture of vitality, fun, and beauty, it was no wonder the Viennese seemed to have made the English family into pets, an attraction to rival the crowned heads they’d come along to watch. And there
she
was, in her darned gown and her unfashionable bonnet and pelisse; and she seemed to be watching not his incorrigible show-offs, or even the tsar, but
him
.

His smile was totally spontaneous, not just because she was
there
, and more beautiful than all the bejeweled and fashionable women he’d find tonight, but because of the sudden widening of her eyes, a leap of surprise and excitement, wonder and confusion. Oh yes, he’d made an impression. It was all he could do not to wheel his horse around and gallop, straight for her, sweep her off her feet and away from the world.

It was the soldier in him who turned first to his duties and then to the realization that he was being unkind to both Lizzie and himself. There would be no more intoxicating flirtation with her. It was time even for Johnnie to extricate himself from her life.

Going through the motions as required, he ordered the men picked out to follow Metternich’s servant through the grounds to a make-believe village. There, dressed as peasants, they were to perform dancing for the edification of the royal guests. He then directed the others to join the soldiers inside the house to show off their drill with their Austrian and Prussian allies.

But while he presented his most respectful and sociable manner to the distinguished world, he could feel the bitter recklessness rising up, clawing to get out. It was inevitable that it should; worse, he wanted it, too, because this was the kind of pain he couldn’t deal with, the kind he couldn’t solve, like losing his father, like losing Katia, like misjudging and losing more men than he should. Like being bored.

As soon as the soldiers were dismissed, to the appreciative applause of the sovereigns, he handed command to his lieutenant and swiped two glasses of champagne from the passing servant, who may have imagined he was carrying one to a lady. He drank them down, one after the other, mainly because he couldn’t lay his hands on vodka, which worked much more quickly.

“That bad?” drawled a voice at his side.

Vanya brought his furious gaze back into focus on Blonsky. He laughed. “How perfect. Have you come to pick a fight with me?”

“Whenever you like,” Blonsky said at once.

Vanya regarded him, considering. It seemed he could remember Katia’s laughing face after all. And right or wrong, he still blamed Blonsky for her death. He flexed his fingers.

“Do you both want to be exiled?” Boris hissed, emerging at Blonsky’s shoulder. “Because that’s what’ll happen if the tsar so much as gets wind of another duel.”

“Vanya doesn’t care for the tsar’s approval anymore,” Blonsky sneered. “His English ship has come in.”

That gave Vanya momentary pause. “Where did you hear that?”

“A letter from home. I look forward to greeting your lady mother when she reaches Vienna. I only hope she brings your delectable sister.”

If Blonsky imagined the bombshell of his mother’s approach would save him, he was vastly mistaken. All the old pain over Katia swept over Vanya, rushing against the new pain he didn’t yet understand but which definitely surrounded Lizzie Gaunt.

Boris scowled. “Mind your manners, Blonsky.”

Blonsky was already turning away, smirking because he imagined there was nothing Vanya could do. Wrong.

Vanya hooked his foot around Blonsky’s ankle and jerked. He was already moving on as Blonsky clattered to the floor. “So slippery,” he said savagely.

Boris, of course, did his best to limit the damage, helping Blonsky rise as if he really had slipped on the polished floor. That irritated Vanya, too. He wanted a fight and, on the whole, he would far rather it were with Blonsky than with anyone else. He’d wanted to kill him for a long time. Failing that, he’d have to go to some low tavern and brawl like his Cossacks at their worst.

Or he could drink. He found another couple of glasses in the ballroom, drank one immediately and carried the other with him in search of distraction.

Unfortunately, the first people to attract his attention were Mrs. Daniels in her diamond necklace—he wondered what Lizzie had made of that—and her daughter, who was silently twisting her fingers together in clear discomfort if not actual distress. Some people thrived on huge social gatherings. To others, the quieter, shyer spirits, it was pure torture. And for a young, marriageable lady of Minerva’s class, there was no choice.

He didn’t want to feel sorry for the girl. He wanted to feel sorry for himself and wallow in a night—probably several nights, merging with the days between—of self-pity and overindulgence. And yet, the thought crept into his head that if Lizzie were only with her, she’d bear it better and Lizzie could enjoy some fun for a change. Worse, he knew what Lizzie would expect him to do for her wallflower cousin.

But he wouldn’t. It wouldn’t be a distraction at all.

He even walked right past them before, with an inward curse, he swerved back and bowed to the surprised matron. “Mrs. Daniels, good evening. We met last night at the Emperor’s ball.”

Gratified, Mrs. Daniels murmured a greeting, but before she could push her daughter forward—he could almost feel the girl tensing with the threatened humiliation—he’d spoken the words soliciting Minerva’s hand for the waltz. He even expressed surprise that she wasn’t already spoken for. As she took his hand mechanically, she seemed stunned.

Vanya was well aware he wasn’t considered much of a catch by the parents of marriageable daughters. On the other hand, without any effort on his part, he had the kind of reckless cachet that induced foolish young men—and not just Russians—to admire him. To many such, if Vanya danced with a girl, she must be worth the effort.

As he’d fully expected, Minerva danced with grace but no joy. He could see only one way to get them both out of this: the direct approach.

“You hate this, don’t you?” he observed, without heat or malice.

“Oh no, quite delightful,” she protested, flushing.

“Whopper,” he observed, borrowing from her young cousins’ vocabulary, which at least won a surprised laugh.

“Not entirely, sir,” she promised. “I just get a little…lost in such crowds of people.”

“I’m not surprised,” Vanya sympathized.

“Do you find that, too?” she asked, almost hopefully.

“Not lost exactly. I just ignore whatever doesn’t amuse me and there is always
something
amusing somewhere. For example, did you see anyone purloining teaspoons at last night’s ball?”

Minerva blinked. “Purloining…are you joking me?” she asked uncertainly.

“No, it’s quite true. I have it on the best authority that half of the Emperor’s silver teaspoons vanished overnight. So be vigilant next time you drink tea with your friends. See who serves it with Imperial teaspoons.”

She gave another slightly shocked little laugh and he smiled encouragingly. By the time the dance had ended, she was almost relaxed. And by the time he returned her to her mother, several young men—not all entirely reputable—were waiting to be introduced.

At least it would pass the time for her. Vanya stayed for a moment to exchange banter and a few friendly insults, and then made good his escape.

Boris came up behind him as he downed another glass of champagne and reached for another. “Drinking in pairs tonight?” Boris inquired sardonically.

Vanya raised the next glass to him and drank about half of it.

“You’re looking for trouble, aren’t you?” Boris said worriedly.

“Well, I’m looking for something,” Vanya acknowledged. “Another war, maybe, if only I could stomach it. Maybe a fight would do. Is Blonsky still pawing the ground?”

“Nothing so obvious. He doesn’t believe you’ll fight him again.”

“He didn’t believe I’d fight him the last time, either.”

“Yes, he did. He just thought he could humiliate you as he did when we were children.”

“I can’t think why that upset me so much as a boy,” Vanya said with odd detachment.

“Because he was supposed to be your friend. Because he enjoyed it. And because you were four years younger and easy meat for a bully. For what it’s worth, it never made him the leader of all those boys.”

“Oh, I discovered that quite early on. I knew we’d always be enemies because of it, too. I just stopped caring. Boris, what is this about my mother? Is she really coming to Vienna?”

“Apparently so. How come I know more than you?”

“I told you, she’s not speaking to me and I never bother to write back to anyone else.”

“So I’ve noticed. Why isn’t she speaking to you?”

“I forget. Anyway,
I’m
not speaking to her now she’s interfered in my English ship.”

Boris blinked. “What the devil is that supposed to mean?”

“I might tell you one day,” Vanya said, reaching for yet another glass of champagne. “Now, where’s the card table with the most ruinously high stakes?”

Boris threw up his hands and left him, muttering that there was no doing anything with him in this mood. With a provoking laugh, Vanya took his champagne out of the ballroom and into the card rooms.

But even here, the distractions all seemed to speak of Lizzie. A very young man playing very deep caught his attention, mainly because he sat at the same table as Fischer. He wondered how that weasel had obtained an invitation from the fastidious Metternich and suspected Louise, who was probably here somewhere, too, if he could be bothered looking.

A quick question to a fellow officer elicited the losing boy’s name as Daniels and the information that his father was on Castlereagh’s staff.

Judging by the empty glass and the sick frown on the boy’s face, it was already too late to save him. But there was a quick way to stop it from getting any worse. Irritated, because yet again he was going out of his way for a girl he couldn’t have in any sense of the word, he strolled over to young Fischer’s table and watched. The boy was still losing.

After a few moments, Vanya placed his hand on Fischer’s shoulder and leaned. Startled, Fischer jerked around.

Vanya smiled into his shocked face. “Don’t get up,” he said and bent his head. “The Daniels boy has nothing, you know. So good to see you wasting your time,” he murmured in the man’s reptilian ear and walked away. He thought of searching out the Cossacks waiting to escort the tsar back to the Hofburg. Misha would have vodka or something just as bad.

But as he passed through the ballroom with focused intent, he finally found his distraction and the night’s salvation. She looked beautiful in her low cut white dress trimmed with delicate orange. Her lovely, plump bosom hinted most temptingly at what lay hidden. Vanya already knew, of course, but he felt he should make sure.

“Sonia,” he said, smiling and taking her hand, although she was in mid-conversation with several other people.

She broke off to greet him coolly, but he could see the conflict in her eyes. Although she wished to be distant, for some reason, she was actually flattered by his attention. He made the most of it, smiling into her eyes as he drew her toward the dance floor.

“My waltz, I think.”

Protesting would have caused a scene. Perhaps that was why she came without demur. But in his arms, her stiffness relaxed and, with massive relief, he knew he would at least be able to lose the night in blind lust.

E
leanor Fawcett dozed
in the chair beside her patient’s bed. She hadn’t meant to and the commotion in the yard woke her after only a moment. Horses’ hooves galloped on the cobbles; a peremptory shout for attention went up.

A quick glance at the injured man assured Eleanor that he still breathed, if not very comfortably, and so she stood and went to the window. A soldier threw himself off a very fine black stallion she’d seen before. Although she’d seen the rider before, too, his clothes were different. This time, he wore a very fetching military uniform.

“Well, well,” Eleanor murmured. “The Cossack again. Or are you?”

A sleepy ostler emerged to care for the horse, which the soldier abandoned to his care with apparent reluctance before striding into the inn. Eleanor returned to her patient, bathing his hot face and neck and arms again. He shivered, thrashing his head in protest while his tight skin burned up. She heard the Cossack clattering on the stairs, charging along the corridor and then he barged into the room, kicking the door shut behind him.

He was halfway across the floor before he noticed Eleanor and pulled up short, staring.

As Eleanor had suspected, he was drunk. His face was clearly flushed from more than arduous riding and his eyes held a dangerous glitter that began to die under her calm scrutiny. She could see him wondering wildly if he’d just intruded on some stranger’s room by accident, perhaps even if his man had died.

He looked every inch what he undoubtedly was: a handsome, young reprobate.

He dragged a hand through his tousled hair, roughly rubbed his eyes and his face before glancing at the bed, and then back to Eleanor. “Is he dead?”

Since he spoke in French, she answered in the same language. “No, not yet, but his fever is high.”

To her surprise, the wild young man actually bowed to her with something approaching grace. “Forgive me, Madame, but I’ve no idea who you are.”

“Then I have the advantage of you. You are, if I’m not mistaken, Johnnie.”

He blinked, but didn’t otherwise look remotely put out. In fact, he bowed again with a little more flourish. “At your service, Madame.”

“I doubt that. You have an odd name for a Cossack.”

“But then I’m not a Cossack.”

She glanced pointedly at his uniform.

“I may command Cossacks,” he allowed, “but I’m not one. I’m not really anything. While you, I have to guess, are a friend of Lizzie’s.”

“I was certainly a friend of her parents. Elizabeth is something in the way of a goddaughter to me.”

“She never mentioned you,” Johnnie observed.