enough,’ he replied, ‘though in a sense I’ve made it so, by confiding in you. Perhaps I should not have. I don’t know why I did, to be honest, save that perhaps I disapprove a wee bit myself.’
His admission disarmed her. For some reason, she was relieved not to have to think quite so ill of him. ‘I don’t know you at all,’ Katerina said, ‘but I confess I find it strange that a man like you, so clearly accustomed to command, is allowing someone else to make such an important decision for him.’
‘The “someone else” is my commander-in-chief.’
‘Yes, you said so.’
‘I did.’ He was silent for a moment, before sighing heavily. ‘You’re right. If I was happy with the situation, I’d be back there at that welcoming party making myself amenable, instead of out here, embarrassing you with my problems in the hope that you’ll reassure me.’
She had no idea how to reply to this, as confused by his indecisiveness as he was. Was it simply an ingenious way of engaging her sympathy? He did not seem the ingenious type, but she had been fooled before. ‘I am sorry,’ Katerina said, somewhat helplessly.
‘Ach no, don’t be. You’ve not said anything I’ve not thought myself. That’s enough about me,’ he said, giving himself a little shake. ‘You’re much more interesting. Brockmore pulled off quite a coup bringing you and your brother here. The Vengarov name is one of the most respected in your field.’
‘What do you know of my field?’
‘I’ve seen a few acts such as yours in my travels, and I’ve visited that man Jahn’s gymnasium in Berlin.’
Despite herself, Katerina was impressed. ‘The Duke of Brockmore will spare no expense in obtaining the very best entertainment for his guests,’ she said drily. ‘He does not, however, share your respect for our reputation. Or our artistry. We are, in his eyes, I suspect, little more than performing monkeys.’
‘Then the man is an idiot. What is it like up there on the tightrope?’
‘Oh, there is nothing to compare it with.’
‘Save flying? You must feel as if you’re in your own wee world.’
He had one of those smiles that was impossible to ignore, and his interest really did seem genuine. ‘Wee world,’ Katerina repeated, surrendering to the temptation to smile back. ‘Your accent is strange. You are not English?’
‘Scottish. And you, I believe, are from Russia.’
‘R-r-r-russia,’ Katerina repeated, in a fair enough imitation of his accent to make him smile. ‘Yes, I am Russian.’
‘You speak excellent English.’
‘And French, and German, passable Italian and a smattering of Spanish. All my life, I have been travelling, you see, and performing too. I come from a great tradition, as you said, a long line of performers. The Vengarov family, we are the aristocrats of our world.’
‘I am aware of that, even if Brockmore is not. I’m looking forward very much to tonight’s performance. I see from the Programme of Events that you’re also holding a demonstration class for the party guests.’
‘Aristocrats from one world, mingling with the aristocrats of another,’ Katerina said sardonically. ‘Will you be taking part, Colonel Fergus?’
‘I most certainly will. Do you include the ladies in this class? I’m not sure I can picture the duchess wearing one of these wee tunic affairs. Or, indeed, care to!’
Caught up in their conversation, amazingly, astonishingly, Katerina had quite forgotten that all she was wearing was what he called her wee tunic affair, in part because Fergus too seemed to have forgotten. But now he had drawn attention to her state of dishabille and was looking at her most appreciatively, she became acutely aware of how much of her flesh was on display, and Fergus seemed to be having difficulty dragging his eyes away from her modest cleavage, and the way he was looking at her was making her flush more, with a mixture of awareness of him and anger at herself, rather than embarrassment.
‘It is not possible to practise real acrobatics in corsets and morning gowns,’ Katerina said tightly. ‘We will restrict ourselves to teaching more seemly and decorous moves.’
He flushed very faintly, making a point of turning his gaze away. ‘Curses, then I will be denied the sight of a tumbling duchess.’
‘And I will be denied the opportunity to witness a soldier falling from the tightrope.’
‘You seem very certain I will fall.’
‘You won’t have a chance. It will not be offered as an activity in the masterclass,’ Katerina told him. ‘It is too dangerous.’
Fergus eyed the rope speculatively. ‘It doesn’t look so high.’
‘Because this is merely a practice height—so I can reach it without a ladder. It makes no difference to me what height the rope is set at, but for the spectacle—oh, then the higher the better, as you will see tonight.’
‘Aren’t you ever afraid of falling and injuring yourself?’
‘The trick is to convince yourself that you are not afraid.’
‘It’s the same on the battlefield.’
They were no longer looking at the tightrope. He was smiling at her again, but there was something more than laughter in his eyes. Though he was not touching her, her skin tingled. Heat, that’s what it was. Katerina’s stomach fluttered in response. ‘There is no comparison,’ she said. ‘I am not brave in that way.’
‘Perhaps not,’ he replied softly, ‘but definitely fearless.’
There was a trickle of sweat on his brow. She noticed a tiny shaving nick, right in the cleft of his chin. His fair lashes were absurdly long for a man. A sharp gust of desire took her by surprise. She saw it reflected in his eyes, and the air in the walled garden seemed to still, the sun’s heat to intensify. Even the birdsong seemed momentarily muted. She curled her toes into the grass and realised she was waiting, longing for him to kiss her.
Confused and startled by her reaction, Katerina launched herself up on to the rope, taking them both aback. Safe from her own desire, she perversely fed his, wanting to show him what he could never have, what he could never attain, walking, leaping, dancing, tumbling on the rope, aware of his eyes fixed on the shapes her body was making, her naked limbs, her supple flesh. Only when she stopped, her chest heaving with the effort, and her eyes met his again, did she realise that desire fed desire, that her feelings were as nakedly exposed as his.
She hovered on the rope, furious at herself for surrendering to temptation, yet unwilling to put an end to it, waiting for the proof that he was, after all, exactly like the rest. When he gave a tiny shake of his head, turning deliberately away, it took her off guard. She vaulted down. Still averting his eyes, he disconcerted her further by holding out her robe, the robe she should have donned the moment he had appeared in the garden. Her fingers fumbled with the sash.
Fergus made a show of consulting his watch. ‘I’ve deserted the reception currently underway in the drawing room for far longer than I intended. I must re-join the
