The Counterfeit Count by Jo Ann Ferguson Page A

to keep her smile from vanishing as she tried to ease away from the circle of women which had formed around her within seconds of her arrival in the bright gold ballroom. It was impossible. She was defeated more soundly than she had ever believed possible. Elbowing aside one of the women, all of whom were dressed in white silk as foamy as the plaster friezes edging the ceiling, was unthinkable. How easily she had forgotten the skills women employed when they wished to flirt with an unknown gentleman! Now she knew why she had so readily assumed the plain-speaking ways of the men in her command.
    â€œYou would be better served by asking the Grand Duchess what colors the ladies prefer,” she said to a slender blonde who was nearly as tall as Creighton.
    â€œBut you, Count Dmitrieff, are a man, and we wish to know what the Russian men have noticed about the gowns that are worn by the ladies of Russia—” The blond Englishwoman took a step closer and flashed a coquettish smile. “—and England.”
    â€œMiss—”
    â€œWilton, my lord.” The elegant design of her gown, which gained her envious stares from the other women, shimmered in the candlelight. Holding out her hand, she offered Natalya a warm smile.
    Too warm for Natalya’s comfort, but she took the woman’s hand and bowed over it as she had bowed over what seemed like countless hands since her arrival in England.
    â€œCount Dmitrieff, meeting you is a pleasure I have been anticipating with the greatest pleasure.” Her low voice was husky and inviting.
    â€œI am pleased to meet you, Miss Wilton,” she mumbled.
    Natalya noted Miss Wilton’s superior smile. If these ladies thought to compete for her favor, they were sadly wasting their time. Although a flirtation with one of the women would serve her disguise well, she did not want to risk hurting anyone.
    â€œMiss Wilton,” she asked, hoping this excuse would allow her to make her escape, “may I get a glass of something cool for you?”
    She held up a goblet of champagne. “No need, my lord.” Linking her arm through Natalya’s, she glanced around the circle of women and said, “Allow me to steal you from these admirers so I might introduce you to some of the other ladies who are eager to make the acquaintance of one of Russia’s greatest heroes.”
    â€œYou flatter me.” Natalya tried to think of some other reason to free herself from this predicament. If she had had half an ounce of foresight, she would have remained in the card room where she could have avoided this discomfort. “However, I have to speak with General Miloradovich about a matter he expressed interest in earlier this afternoon. If you will excuse me …”
    â€œDo stay and speak with us a moment longer.” Miss Wilton squeezed her arm.
    Again the volley of voices bounced over Natalya.
    â€œYes, do. Do stay and speak with us.”
    â€œTell us about what you saw in Paris.”
    â€œYes, what are they wearing?”
    â€œDid you see Napoleon before he was exiled?”
    â€œWhen is the czar arriving in England?”
    Natalya longed to roll her eyes, spit a curse that was sure to offend all of them, and leave. In near desperation, she glanced around the room. She wished she had brought Petr with her. He always could be depended on to know when she needed his assistance. Somewhere there must be help to escape this silliness.
    Her breath caught as her gaze locked with Creighton’s. He stood in one of the trio of doorways opening into the corridor. With him were the gentlemen who had joined them at the card table, but she took no more than casual note of them. Every thought was focused on Creighton. Her feet yearned to run across the ballroom to bring her against the firm warmth of his chest.
    Impossible! Had she lost every bit of sense she possessed? Tonight she was Count Dmitrieff, not a woman determined to capture a