not see you again!” Mrs. Fulwell’s faded English-rose cheeks were crumpled with dismay. “Why, I have called to invite you to join us for a visit to the Opera.”
“Alas, the next time I sit down in a theatre it will be the Maryinsky!” Arkady said and his heart felt suddenly winged and light at the thought of the long journey he was about to begin.
And he mused about the glorious Maryinsky, the most famous theatre in Russia, where the very best singers and dancers in the world performed before the Czar and Czarina and all the assembled Nobility.
“You are so impulsive, Count,” Mrs. Fulwell was saying. “Why, you have only just returned from your visit to Sandringham. Marigold and Eglantine will be absolutely desolate. They have been so looking forward to seeing you again.”
‘So who can she be talking about?’ Arkady thought and then he remembered the two awkward fair-haired girls who had come to visit a few weeks previously and who had spluttered so impolitely over their glasses of Russian tea.
He had completely forgotten about them. He looked at Mrs. Fulwell, disappointment so clearly written on her face and realised that she had been hoping he might fall in love with one of her girls.
Would he ever escape the ceaseless attentions from mothers desperate to foist their unmarried daughters upon him?
And Mrs. Fulwell was not even a member of the aristocracy. She was setting her ambitions very high.
He felt a twitch of amusement.
“Well, madame , you must look me up when you are in St. Petersburg. My mother, the Dowager Countess, will be very delighted to make your acquaintance.”
He could not believe that this little Englishwoman would ever manage the long journey to Russia. The very thought of her and her silly daughters entering the great salon at his Palace!
The expression on his mother’s aristocratic face, if they should suddenly arrive and announce themselves as his guests! That would soon put them to flight!
The laughter that bubbled up inside him subsided and a sweet painful vision sprang up in its place.
The beautiful dark-haired angel, so slim and so wild and so exquisite in her soft white dress, would not be out of place in the salon. She would easily meet the noble gaze of the Countess with perfect grace.
“Why, Count! That is most generous of you.” Mrs. Fulwell’s face was pink with pleasure. “I shall certainly do so, if we ever come to Russia.”
The Count bowed and made his profuse apologies. The butler would bring coffee for her, but he could not stay to enjoy her company. He must prepare for the journey.
He left the drawing room, his mind still full of the enchanting angel he had danced with. If only it had been she who had come to take tea with him.
He pictured her, sitting gracefully on the sofa in this cramped London drawing room, her tea glass held in her slender hand and her magical blue eyes fixed on his, full of the wildness and beauty of the open sea and sky.
If she was here this afternoon, he would not be in such a hurry to leave. But then the voice of reason spoke up, banishing his daydream,
‘Arkady, you are a complete idiot. She is nothing but a frivolous English Society girl – a little prettier than the rest, maybe, and a better horsewoman!
‘She belongs with that crowd of drunken fools who fell about on the dance floor. You are deceiving yourself, if you think she is anything more.’
His heart shrank inside him, but he could not ignore the scenes he had witnessed in the ballroom. The sooner he was back in St. Petersburg, the better.
*
“Sweetheart! Why are you being so distant?”
Mervyn Hunter’s cold eyes were fixed on Chiara’s face, as he stood with his booted legs wide apart on the carpet in front of the drawing room fire.
She flinched at the sound of the word ‘sweetheart’.
But he was behaving with unexpected politeness and formality. There was no trace of the awful lop-sided, drunken grin she had seen on his face last night and he
“Alas, the next time I sit down in a theatre it will be the Maryinsky!” Arkady said and his heart felt suddenly winged and light at the thought of the long journey he was about to begin.
And he mused about the glorious Maryinsky, the most famous theatre in Russia, where the very best singers and dancers in the world performed before the Czar and Czarina and all the assembled Nobility.
“You are so impulsive, Count,” Mrs. Fulwell was saying. “Why, you have only just returned from your visit to Sandringham. Marigold and Eglantine will be absolutely desolate. They have been so looking forward to seeing you again.”
‘So who can she be talking about?’ Arkady thought and then he remembered the two awkward fair-haired girls who had come to visit a few weeks previously and who had spluttered so impolitely over their glasses of Russian tea.
He had completely forgotten about them. He looked at Mrs. Fulwell, disappointment so clearly written on her face and realised that she had been hoping he might fall in love with one of her girls.
Would he ever escape the ceaseless attentions from mothers desperate to foist their unmarried daughters upon him?
And Mrs. Fulwell was not even a member of the aristocracy. She was setting her ambitions very high.
He felt a twitch of amusement.
“Well, madame , you must look me up when you are in St. Petersburg. My mother, the Dowager Countess, will be very delighted to make your acquaintance.”
He could not believe that this little Englishwoman would ever manage the long journey to Russia. The very thought of her and her silly daughters entering the great salon at his Palace!
The expression on his mother’s aristocratic face, if they should suddenly arrive and announce themselves as his guests! That would soon put them to flight!
The laughter that bubbled up inside him subsided and a sweet painful vision sprang up in its place.
The beautiful dark-haired angel, so slim and so wild and so exquisite in her soft white dress, would not be out of place in the salon. She would easily meet the noble gaze of the Countess with perfect grace.
“Why, Count! That is most generous of you.” Mrs. Fulwell’s face was pink with pleasure. “I shall certainly do so, if we ever come to Russia.”
The Count bowed and made his profuse apologies. The butler would bring coffee for her, but he could not stay to enjoy her company. He must prepare for the journey.
He left the drawing room, his mind still full of the enchanting angel he had danced with. If only it had been she who had come to take tea with him.
He pictured her, sitting gracefully on the sofa in this cramped London drawing room, her tea glass held in her slender hand and her magical blue eyes fixed on his, full of the wildness and beauty of the open sea and sky.
If she was here this afternoon, he would not be in such a hurry to leave. But then the voice of reason spoke up, banishing his daydream,
‘Arkady, you are a complete idiot. She is nothing but a frivolous English Society girl – a little prettier than the rest, maybe, and a better horsewoman!
‘She belongs with that crowd of drunken fools who fell about on the dance floor. You are deceiving yourself, if you think she is anything more.’
His heart shrank inside him, but he could not ignore the scenes he had witnessed in the ballroom. The sooner he was back in St. Petersburg, the better.
*
“Sweetheart! Why are you being so distant?”
Mervyn Hunter’s cold eyes were fixed on Chiara’s face, as he stood with his booted legs wide apart on the carpet in front of the drawing room fire.
She flinched at the sound of the word ‘sweetheart’.
But he was behaving with unexpected politeness and formality. There was no trace of the awful lop-sided, drunken grin she had seen on his face last night and he
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