The Counterfeit Count by Jo Ann Ferguson Page B

man’s attention.
    â€œCount Dmitrieff,” said Miss Wilton, “do tell us how you won that medal.” She put her finger out to the ribbon set above the braid on Natalya’s uniform.
    Natalya drew back before Miss Wilton could touch her breast. Forcing a smile, she said, “That was for a battle whose retelling may not be fit for the ears of ladies.”
    â€œOh, do tell us,” Miss Wilton urged. Her blue eyes were tinted with specks as gold as her lashes. “We would so like to know.”
    â€œYes, yes,” said another of the ladies, and they all echoed the words like well-trained acolytes.
    â€œIf you wish …” Natalya glanced again at Creighton. He had not moved, so she would have to devise her own escape.
    Creighton surrendered to his urge to smile as Natalya turned back to speak to the group of ladies who had clumped around her. One had her arm through Natalya’s. This late in the Season, some women were willing to chance even exile in distant Russia in order to win a titled husband. He chuckled to himself. What a surprise would await that bride on their wedding night!
    â€œCount Dmitrieff is quite the ladies’ man, I would say,” murmured Lord Pleasonton.”
    â€œI think I shall play the good host and rescue my guest from Lady Eltonville’s guests,” Creighton replied.
    â€œI doubt the man wants rescuing. Even icy Russian blood needs heating once in a while, I suspect.” Lord Pleasonton sighed. “As for me, I profess an interest in what our hostess has provided for us to drink this evening. I know my black coat is no match in the ladies’ eyes for Count Dmitrieff’s gold piping and buttons.”
    â€œCount Dmitrieff?” intruded a voice laced with rum. “Where in perdition is that blackguard?”
    Creighton caught Barclay’s arm as his friend was about to stride across the ballroom in pursuit of Natalya, although Creighton doubted Barclay could see anything clearly past the tip of his nose. “Slow down,” Creighton ordered.
    â€œWant to talk to him. Now!”
    Lord Pleasonton cleared his throat, gave Creighton a pitying smile, and then turned to talk to someone else.
    Creighton steered his friend in the other direction. “We shall talk, Barclay, but later.”
    â€œI want to talk to him now!” He raised his hand and fired an invisible pistol. At least it was invisible to Creighton. He was unsure what Barclay was seeing right now.
    â€œBarclay?” Creighton did not want to leave his friend, who was top-heavy with wine, among ears which would be delighted to listen to his challenge to Count Dmitrieff. They did not need an audience for this blasted duel.
    Barclay pulled away and dropped into a chair. “Go and get your count. I shall wait right here like a good lad and speak only when spoken to.”
    â€œI doubt that.”
    Creighton got a grin in response. With a deep sigh, he tried to guess what he had done to deserve this muddle being dumped in his lap. It was enough to persuade him to volunteer for service at the farthest edge of England’s holdings. He frowned. Mayhap that had been Colonel Carruthers’ intention from the beginning with this assignment. If so, Creighton would endure being Natalya’s host until he could get that damned commission transferred.
    He offered a smile to a pair of dowagers as he crossed the smooth marble floor. Lady Eltonville’s assemblies were without par, but tonight he wished he had stayed home. There was something unsettling about catching only the attention of two women old enough to be his mother while half the ladies in the room were clustered around Natalya. He never thought he would have to consider a woman as a rival for the eyes of the ladies.
    â€œGood evening,” he said, as he came to stand behind Natalya. “I hope I am not interrupting something that cannot be continued. I …” He took a step back as the