had reason to be, she supposed. Tonight had been her first encounter with the man behind the gentlemanly façade. So far, he lived up to his legend. The breathless whispers about his prowess as a lover—she had overheard those—were undoubtedly right. The subtlety and skillfulness of his lovemaking made her want more. Far more.
Vivienne opened the window at last, heedless of the rain. She needed a breath of air. Without his vital presence, the drawing room seemed dull and stifling. She was restless, as she so often was at night, hating to be confined.
During the hours of daylight, she might walk out when she pleased, unaccompanied, but night was a very different matter. The duke had seldom come to her then, saying that once the sun went down, she became a different woman.
Her own woman. Not properly attentive to his dull anecdotes or his sexual demands. Those at least had the advantage of being quickly satisfied at any hour of the day.
She looked again for the beggar in the long coat but saw no sign of him. He was hidden in the shadows or no longer there at all. Drawing a deep breath, Vivienne closed her eyes, refreshed by the cool air. Despite the storm, she could just hear the Thames, flowing through the darkness of the London night toward the distant sea.
After a few minutes, Vivienne closed the window quietly. She might as well retreat to her study and read through the lonely hours that remained of the night. Kyril’s kisses had stirred her too much to sleep.
Sexual desire, if satisfied, was as good a cure for loneliness as any. Love was not. A dalliance with the mysterious Russian would do no harm. How odd that he thought of her as dangerous. Surely he was teasing.
Once downstairs, she entered the study and locked the door behind her. A servant had lit an oil lamp some hours ago and forgotten to blow it out. The golden glow brightened the pleasantly cluttered room. Vivienne pushed aside a small crate with her foot. She still had not unpacked everything she had brought from her apartments in Audley Street.
But the house already looked like hers. Most of the rooms were furnished to her taste, if haphazardly. She sank with a sigh upon the chaise. There were books stacked upon a small table by its side, not very neatly.
She looked at the titles imprinted in worn gold letters upon their spines and picked out one Kyril had given her months ago. Folktales, translated from the Russian.
Vivienne kicked off her embroidered shoes. Then she swung her legs up and made herself comfortable, opening the book without looking inside it. She set it down upon the front of her dress, and got a pillow behind her neck.
Lying down, relaxing, she could not help but think of Kyril and wish again that he were lying by her, holding her in his strong arms, warming her body with his own. His expert kisses—his masterful strength—his passionate whispers and his repeated invitations to come away with him—ah, she had been far too quick to say no.
He intended to become her lover, though love would have nothing to do with what she wanted from him. However, she intended to say yes the very next time she saw him.
Vivienne let her eyes drift closed, seeing his dark blue ones as clearly as if he were above her. Her hand rested on the book of fairytales.
Imagining him pressing down upon her, his long thigh between hers as he worked her dress up to her waist, arousing her with ardent caresses…then…naked…their bodies entwined…her sensual fantasy became a dream of pure pleasure.
Vivienne did not remember falling asleep.
She wakened just before dawn. The lamp was still lit, but the clear oil in the reservoir was nearly gone. She glanced at the clock on the mantel to confirm the hour: five o’clock. Then she looked down at her disheveled dress, remembering what she had done. She must have pulled it down to keep herself warm.
She hugged a pillow to herself, pretending it was Kyril.
Something was poking her in the side—the book of folktales. In his own way, he was with her. The thought pleased her and she took it up again. Vivienne yawned and stretched with the book in her hand. Once awake, she rarely went back to sleep. She opened the small volume, not awake enough to read, either, but willing to glance at the illustrations. She rifled through it and stopped at a thin sheet of crinkled, transparent paper protecting a hand-colored page underneath.
This she lifted carefully, revealing a picture of a Russian church, its onion-shaped domes decorated with dazzling touches of real gold. Peasant women in bright skirts and shawls stood by its massive doors.
Then, before her disbelieving eyes, the doors in the picture swung open and the women passed between them, their skirts swaying. She even heard their voices, tiny, sweet, and distant—and was that thread of smoke issuing from the sanctuary…incense? She swore she could smell it.
No. It could not be.
For the second time in one night, she had seen things that were not there. She was awake but still somehow dreaming. The solution to that was to go to her bed. Something about the comfortable chaise made her indulge in wayward fantasies, and Kyril had made them worse.
Unless there was some hidden magic in the book of Russian folktales…she dismissed the thought as impossible and slid the thin ribbon bound into the spine over the page to mark her place.
Vivienne raised her head, looking toward the window. Black, utterly black, the sky showed not a trace of morning light. The darkness outside seemed to press against the panes. She was glad for the circle of light that the lamp provided.
Her bedroom would be just as dark and her bed would be cold. If the chambermaid had brought up a warming pan of coals, the effect would be long gone. Slipping between chilly sheets by herself did not appeal to her. She decided to stay where she was. Vivienne opened the book at random to another page and began to read.
In the far, far north lived the Roemi, men like no other, warriors of legendary strength, born under the blue sun that never sets. They were magi, endowed with supernatural powers…and masters of the great ice wolves that are no more. The Roemi rode the freezing winds that howled down over the vast steppes of Russia…
The tale captivated her. So did the illustration of a Roemi warrior. She marveled at his fierce beauty. For all that he was standing in snow, he wore a loincloth and not much else. There were tattoos upon his bare chest that outlined his muscle.
The picture was beautifully detailed. She could see the stippled patterns on the soft boots laced with hide that covered his calves. His mighty thighs were bare, bulging with more muscle that looked real enough to touch. The warrior was about to throw a spear, his brawny upper body half-twisted, his throwing arm drawn back. His hair was long and dark, with thin braids at the temple.
Vivienne admired him, noting with an inward smile how much he resembled Kyril, who was also tall and dark and beautiful in a very masculine way. His movements had the same quality of utmost readiness as this imaginary warrior, eternally poised to strike down an unseen enemy.
She read more of the fanciful tale, then turned back to the picture, touching the Roemi man with a fingertip. He felt…warm. How very odd. She touched the middle of his chest and—dear God—felt a faint but unmistakable heartbeat. Vivienne flung the book away from her.
It fell facedown on the floor and lay there. She put a hand over her own heart, willing it to stop racing, and breathed deeply.
She sat upon the chaise and extended her foot toward the book, pushing it away from her with
