Winter Rose
Previously...
"Your Majesty, perhaps Prince Kuragin should be put to the test for his hospitality? Or?"
"An excellent proposal, my dear." The Tsar patted his wife's hand. "Kuragin?"
Violet saw the black eyes shift, the laughter falling way to calculation. Without missing the beat, Igor Kuragin turned to catch his wife's hand in his own. As a united front, they faced their sovereign. But it was the Prince who spoke.
"What better forfeit can your loyal subject offer, your Majesty, than a chance to prove his skill? A skating party." A low buzz of chatter broke amongst the courtiers. The English visitors glanced at each other in surprise. "To celebrate the traditions shared between Mother Russia and our English guests." The dark-haired Prince made a bow to the Prince of Wales.
The Tsar smiled. He opened his mouth as if to speak but Kuragin was too quick. He spread his hands wide, as though ready to feed the three thousand. "And, of course, your Majesty, I must have Lord and Lady Grantham as my most honoured guests."
Alexander II, Tsar of the Russias, acknowledged his subject's proposal with a gracious nod, his lips twitching.
"We shall consider it satisfactory. Do you agree, Prince Edward?"
"Indeed, your Majesty." Under heavy lids, the Prince's eyes gleamed with speculation. "A neat solution, all told."
Beside her husband, Alix, the Princess of Wales tossed back her dark curls. Her eyes glimmering with fun, she clapped her hands. "Such a clever idea, Prince Kuragin. And how better to draw English and Russian together, nein?"
"Devil a bit, m'dear." Prince Edward resettled his cummerbund. "You'll have us drawing up treaties at the race-track next."
"No objections here." The Duke of Edinburgh, flushed from the dancing and a glass too much champagne, butted in to the party. He smiled down at the young Grand Duchess Maria Alexandrovna, hanging on his arm. "The new way to conduct diplomacy, eh?"
His bride blushed, heightening the colour in her china-pale cheeks. In hesitant English, she replied. "It is very better than too-hot drawings rooms, I think."
"Almost as good as dancing, hmmm?" The Tsar's eagle eye softened for his favourite daughter, shy as a little mouse amongst the glamour of the English party and her young fiance.
"Your Majesty remembers," The Tsarevitch, stroking his thinning moustache with his mother's long, pale fingers, interrupted the run of conversation. His eyes rested on Patrick, who had yet to speak a word. "The Granthams are the guests of honour. The fate of the party rests on their shoulders."
A dozen pairs of eyes turned to the Earl.
"Well, Lord Grantham?"
Patrick was not a stupid man. He knew some deeper game was at play here. A tiny furrow married the pale skin of his forehead. His thumb flicked against his sword belt in rhythm with the thoughts Violet could nearly see spinning around his mind. Prince Kuragin's offer had been too prompt, too neat. Almost as though it were a trap.
It was. But not the kind that Patrick would ever imagine.
Slowly, her husband bowed to Igor Kuragin, a shallow incline of his head. "How could I refuse so generous an offer? My wife and I would be delighted to accept."
He reached out a hand. Boney, pale skinned. Violet took it. The first touch of skin was chilly. Patrick's hands were always cold. Her fingers slid into his grip and he pulled her closer, tucking her arm into his.
Kuragin's smile did not waver. If anything, it widened. It was a grin, bright with a flash of teeth. "The Princess and I are delighted that you accept."
The Princess murmured something inaudible and inclined her head. The expression on her face was anything but delighted.
Sly glances darted in between the courtiers gathered like starlings behind the royal attendees. The English Prince tilted his head to the side, his lips pursed under his beard.
"Excellent." If he entertained the same amusement as his subjects at the brittle meeting of two noble houses, the Tsar gave no indication of it. He waved his hand briskly. "I trust we shall speak before you leave, Lord Grantham. Lady Grantham, I am certain of it. Kuragin, you and the Princess shall…?"
"My tsar." Kuragin bowed once more. The Princess swept a deep curtsey, as elegant as a Russian ballerina.
With that, they were dismissed.
Rising up from her curtsey, Violet took Patrick's arm once more. A flicker of his eyes indicated a space away from the royal gathering, less crowded than the rest in the ballroom. Violet let her chin dip a little in agreement and stooped to pick up her train.
"Allow me."
Blue eyes shot up. The courteous words slid over the air like oil on fish. Violet stood, the train forgotten, her free hand pressed against the barrier of her corset.
"Lord Hepworth. What are you doing here?"
The words slipped out before she had the sense to call them back. Hepworth gave one of his little laughs. The arch chuckle rasped across Violet's nerves. "I received an invitation, Lady Grantham. How else? Did you imagine I would tackle the Tsar's ferocious number of household guards?"
"You cannot blame my wife, Hepworth. You're not usually a fan of these sort of things." Patrick nodded a greeting to the slender viscount.
"Where the Prince demands to go, I must be a humble attendant." Hepworth spread his hands in an innocent gesture. His obsequious air made Violet want to spit like a wetted cat. No doubt Hepworth hung so close to the Prince and his group in hopes of being called to the Tsar's attention himself.
"Humble? What a novelty to hear that word next to your name, Lord Hepworth."
The full lips widened. "I do so adore your conversation, Lady Grantham. So bracing. Like a chill breeze."
Violet narrowed her eyes. Her fingers, splayed against the silk skirts of her dress, tensed. Before she could open her mouth, a cough rumbled from behind. "Please. We have not been introduced."
Patrick, caught in a social lapse, flushed along the scimitar of his cheekbones. "Of course. Forgive me." He stepped to the side, pressing against Violet so the Kuragins had space to move up toward the intruder in their midst. "Hepworth, Prince and Princess Kuragin. Your highness, Viscount Lord Harold Hepworth."
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, your Highness."
Igor Kuragin's gaze shifted from Hepworth to Patrick. His expression was inscrutable. "Thank you."
"Another Englishman!" The Princess shook her head with delicate laugh. The pearls clacked gently. "We Russians shall soon be outnumbered."
"In a country of millions, Princess, I can hardly think that to be the case." Patrick attempted a joke. The Princess flicked her fan up, as though to cover her grimace of distaste.
"But is it not one of your so-English sayings, Lord Grantham? One bad apple spoils the tree, no?"
"Lord Hepworth, you will join our entertainment, yes?" Kuragin cut his wife short with a deft change of subject.
"Entertainment?" Hepworth pretended ignorance. Violet knew well he had heard every word of the interchange with the Tsar. Like a large rat, Hepworth consumed every crumb of cheese or gossip that fell within his general vicinity.
"The Princess and I hold a skating party. Before the wedding. To celebrate the closeness of our Russian and English traditions."
"At the Tsar's suggestion." Patrick remarked.
"Yes." Kuragin's eyes settled on Patrick. The amusement was gone. Instead, he studied the pale features coolly. His gaze slipped to Patrick's arm, to the pale hand with the Grantham signet that pressed down on Violet's arm. "At the Tsar's suggestion."
"Well, I should be delighted." Hepworth laid his hand on his chest. "And Lord and Lady Grantham?"
"We are both to attend."
"How splendid." Hepworth glanced sideway with a smile. He touched Violet's elbow with his fingertips. "And Lady Grantham will surely take time to teach an old duffer like me the ropes?"
Violet turned her elbow away from his grasp, tucking it in tighter. "I wonder you should ask, Lord Hepworth. I have not skated in years."
"I'm told it is a childhood skill." The Princess unfurled her fan. She waved the dyed feathers in a lazy tick in front of her face. The feathers did not quite cover the smirk on her face. "Lady Grantham will surely remember all once she steps on the ice."
"You flatter me too much, Princess."
"Not at all, Lady Grantham. I am told Englishwomen are most enterprising."
She said enterprising like an insult, dragging the syllables out to their fullest extent. The pansy eyes were narrowed to slits of dislike.
"What a novel choice of words, Princess." Violet's throat prickled with heat. She swallowed hard and pasted on her courtier's smile.
"It is, Irina." Igor Kuragin took up the Princess's hand, hooking it under his own. "You will scare our guests away."
"Of course, Igor."
"As our Tsar said, you are our guests of honour." Kuragin's voice softened, rich as honey. It lingered for a second. Then, even as his wife opened her mouth, he continued. "Both of you." Again, the black eyes shot up to Patrick's.
Patrick's lips twitched. "How can it be otherwise?" His voice rasped on the words.
The corner of Igor Kuragin's lips curled up. It was a hint, a taster. Such a smile, a man might throw his opponent on the duelling field. Before he shot him dead.
Violet knew she had to break the tension. There was little hope turning to the Princess. Irina Kuragin had made her feelings towards Violet clear. She would not help, even if it benefitted herself. The two men stared at each other like a pair of dogs snarling over a bone. Patrick, she was sure, was merely feeding off Igor Kuragin, responding to the other man's bait. And for Kuragin…
In the end, her saviour was an entirely unexpected source.
"Ah." Harold Hepworth raised his head. The first strains of a waltz began to sweep from the head of the ballroom. The violins throbbed in invitation. "I do believe they are playing our dance."
All eyes snapped to the slender Viscount.
"What?" Igor Kuragin barked the word. The mocking curl of his lip took a distinct downturn.
"Our dance." Hepworth turned to Violet with a condescending smile. "Don't you recall, Lady Grantham?"
"I don't ever…"
Hepworth flicked up a slim booklet. Embossed in silver, with a tiny silver pencil tied to it, it was the same item he had stooped to pick up.
Violet's dance card.
"If I may." He parted the leaves. His eyes widened. In silence, he turned the pages towards her. There, under the second waltz, scrawled in pencil: Viscount Hepworth.
Would it be possible to shout 'fraud' at an imperial reception?
"I do fancy that we should hurry, Lady Grantham."
The couples were dripping onto the dance floor, several at a time. Soon it would be too crowded to breathe, let alone waltz. They would be forced to shuffle in a three-beat time. With Hepworth's arms and hands crawling all over her torso.
Violet's fingers tightened on Patrick's sleeve. Would her husband's newly discovered cordiality extend to rescuing her from this waltz? She turned to look up at Patrick, biting her lower lip. Surely, he would understand. He was not unaware of her disinclination towards Hepworth, even if it pleased him to forget it so often…
But Patrick was already distracted. His gaze looked above her, somewhere in the distance of the hall. He gave a quick nod of agreement. He glanced down, as though surprised to see Violet still clinging to his arm.
A quick pat was given to her hand. "Hepworth is right, my dear. If you will excuse me the pleasure? I see the Prince is asking for me."
Violet's eyes widened. The blow smacked a wave of bitterness in her stomach, roiling against the wine and food of her dinner. How could she think that she would ever succeed against Patrick's first love: his 'career'?
"Lady Grantham?" Hepworth's gloved hand was held out to her.
Violet lifted her hand from Patrick's sleeve. The broadcloth was wrinkled from her grip, the buttons a little askew. The Earl made a grimace of annoyance and smoothed out the sleeve to army perfection once again.
Violet turned to laid her hand in Hepworth's palm. Under the cover of his bow, the Viscount flashed her a triumphant smile. Violet felt her stomach clench in rude anticipation.
"Are you sure this is wise?"
Violet jumped. She had been so intent on the trial ahead, she had nearly forgotten they stood in a group of strangers. And now one of them decided to intervene.
"Forgive me." Igor Kuragin brushed away the outraged glances as coolly as he would a servant offering champagne. "But Lady Grantham is pale."
The Princess laughed. "Igor, you are ridiculous! With such hair, pale skin is natural. Is that not so, Lady Grantham?"
Violet held her breath. Was Prince Kuragin, the arrogant, self-centred Prince Kuragin offering her a life line?
"Of course, Irina. How clever you notice." Igor Kuragin shrugged. "I merely think, this hall, it is so crowded. In London, Lord Grantham, gatherings are not usually so… Big?"
"I dare say not." Patrick stared at the Russian in astonishment. He wet his lips. "I do not attend many such events."
"Of course. The English, they do not have time for pleasure. It is well known." Before the Earl could do more than gape at the casual insult, Prince Kuragin had turned back to his wife. A charming smile showed his teeth. "Irina, katyonak, you will oblige the Lord Hoppy and take Lady Grantham's place?"
"Hepworth." The Viscount ground his name through gritted teeth.
"But of course."
"Igor, I will not."
"Katyonak," He touched her chin, drawing out the endearment indulgently, to the embarrassment of the onlookers. "I know how you love to dance. And with my old war wound, I cannot waltz as you would wish."
"But-"
"Go with Lord Hepping, my love. Enjoy the dance."
"Princess." Hepworth clipped the word to the barest hint of civility.
Irina Kuragin did not even reach that level. With a flounce of disgust, she took the outstretched hand. If intentions were weapons, a thousand daggers would have been buried deep in Violet's heart from those wide brown eyes.
The Prince watched his wife depart with a smiling shake of the head. He turned back to the Granthams. "Lord Grantham, of course, I shall escort Lady Grantham to a suitable seat, should you wish to depart." He glanced in the same direction as Patrick and pursed his lips. "How do you put it? Duty shouts?"
Duty did and Violet could see Patrick struggle. On the one hand, he needed to join the Prince of Wales, offering him a chance to polish the reputation for diplomacy he worked so hard to cultivate. On the other, some more primitive instinct set his teeth on edge at the thought of his wife in the care of this… foreigner.
"The Prince of Wales, he beckons." Like Eve in the garden, Kuragin's voice tempted Patrick on. He raised his eyebrows.
"My dear." Patrick looked down at Violet. His face was set in firm lines. He had made his decision. "You will send word? If you need to return home?"
What?
"Of course." How astonishing, Violet marvelled as her hand was once again passed between two men, that one's voice can remain steady even when one is quaking inside? She set her hand on the Prince's sleeve. Through the green cloth, heat rose and tickled her fingers.
The Prince lifted his own hand. He set it above hers, covering her wedding band from view. "I can assure you, Lord Grantham, I shall care for your wife as though she were my own." His voice lowered to a deeper rumble. He shifted his shoulders, as though to shield around Violet and she swallowed deeply. Self-conscious, she tucked a loose curl behind her ear.
"My thanks, Prince Kuragin."
Her husband's voice seemed far away, as distant as the fading of his footsteps on the panelled floor. Violet wet her lips. Even if she could not meet his gaze, every inch of her exposed neck and face could feel the Prince's gaze. It was unsettling. It was uncalled for and, in the middle of a public ballroom, utterly indecent. She stepped forward briskly, determined to escape to clear air.
"Not so fast." The hand tightened on hers. The rumble was rich with humour, like a honey vein running through it. "You forget, you are having the vapours."
"I am not!" She turned back and that was a mistake. Because she met his smiling gaze and was stuck. Violet straightened her shoulders with pride. "I cannot think what made you create such a ridiculous story."
"So you wanted to dance with the Lord Hepworth?"
The best way to avoid a question was to deflect with another. Violet raised her eyebrows. "So you do know his name?"
"Of course." Igor Kuragin shrugged again, and tugged her back. When they were once again side by side, he continued, matching his pace to his slow murmur. "But I do not like him. And neither do you."
"My opinion of Lord Hepworth is none of your concern."
"That is true." They moved through the crowd, dodging sly glances and stray feet. More than once, Prince Kuragin pulled Violet closer, so their side stood aligned and she could feel the curves and bumps of his waist and hips, hard against her own. The pretence of dodging the dancing partners lasted long enough for Violet to feel her cheeks heat and her breath come shallow.
"I am surprised your husband permitted his attentions."
"I cannot think what you mean."
"Do you not? I mean why he permits a rogue to waltz with his lovely wife."
"He permitted a rogue to escort me to a couch for fresh air."
He laughed, startled at first then mellowing. "I see your Prince is right, no? The sharpest tongue in London."
They had reached a free couch now. Violet thought he would stand beside her, perhaps offer a moment or two more of his uncomfortable conversation before another woman claimed his attention.
She should have known. She was scarcely seated on the yellow silk cushions before he was there beside her. His legs in their high, shining boots, sprawled in front. They brushed her skirts and his thigh rested in casual unconcern against her knee. He looked like Bacchus, Violet thought, her mind skittering about. Bacchus, relaxing in divine unconcern, promising temptation to the unwary.
She unfurled her fan. The painted panels cooled her cheeks and gave lie to the fib he had concocted. "My tongue is none of your Highness's concern."
"I would it were." He remarked. His eyes settled there, even as he spoke. "I would very much enjoy the subject of your tongue, my lady. And your lips. And…"
"That will do." The fan beat faster. Violet glanced to the side. "Are you aware we are in a public ballroom?"
"Why do you think I am so restrained?"
"Restrained?" She scoffed. "I dread to imagine you uninhibited."
"You do not have to imagine, my Lady Violet. Only ask."
"I am married." She threw it out. A final bastion of virtue.
"So am I. What of it? We are not considering an elopement?" His eyes danced. Hidden from the view of the other guests, his hand slid free. It slid up the side of her leg, dragging her silk skirt against the flow.
Violet nearly leapt out of her skin. No man had ever touched her in that way. Only Patrick and even then, only in the privacy of their bedchamber. Hepworth at his worst had never dared more than a sly press to the small of her back, below the level of proper.
"That will do!" She twisted her knees away so there was space between then. Inches, maybe. But space. His hand fell flat to the cushions. Yet his smile never faltered.
"I like it when you are shocked, Violet." He sat up. Reaching into her lap, he stole her free hand. He slipped it between his own, his thumbs brushed the ridges of her knuckles under the linen gloves. "I like how your lips part and the colour goes to your cheeks and neck. I like how your hair crackles with outrage. Like fire."
A thousand thoughts battered against her brain, demanding release. Set-downs, insults, questions. Yet the only one to come to mind was terrible, so childish, Violet cringed the instant the words left her lips. "My hair is not like fire!"
He smiled and she knew he was satisfied. He had needled her, drawn her out and now she could not cut him off. "It is, solnyshka. Like fire on the snow. I would I could see it loose, solnyshka. Long red curls, spilling in my hands. I've thought of little else since I saw you."
Her pulse hammered in her throat. She wanted to pull her hand back. No, she needed her hand back, she needed that shield to hide the tell-tale heat inching up her throat. Every nerve stood on end, rubbed to friction as easily as his fingers stroked patterns on the black of her glove. Violet couldn't look away from his dark, smiling face, the eyebrow quirked in question, his eyes on her lips.
She cleared her throat. "How distressing for you."
Somehow, her voice could not gather up the venom she usually summoned.
"You think so? I find it very enjoyable."
"I'm sure it passes the time."
His voice lowered, scarcely above a whisper. "Some day, I will show you."
Violet's stomach dropped to her toes.
She snatched back her hand, as though his grip was scalding iron. For once, Igor Kuragin did not try to hold her back. He closed his fingers one at a time into a loose fist as if locking away the sensation of her hand between his. Violet shook her head, breaking her gaze from the sight.
What she losing her wits? Because a man held her hand? This was not Violet Crawley, Countess of Grantham. This simple-minded creature stared with her mouth open while an insolent… Prince propositioned her in front of the cream of Petersburg society!
Her eyes narrowed as righteous indignation burnt away the spell. It was, perhaps, as childish a reaction to his mockery as her earlier retort. Grown women reacted to every situation with grace and poise, accepting praise and blame with indifferent equanimity. Her mother would have counselled a cool head, using modesty and logic to deflect any indecent proposal.
Was it likely, Violet wondered ruefully, that her mother ever faced down a proposal like this? The smile that promised so much, that whispered of long nights doing things no lady should imagine? The new burning in her legs and arms, like liquid fire seeping along each vein? The horrid, yet wonderful and wondering, sensitivity along her skin as though his gaze as a breeze, sending the hairs on end in tension and awareness?
She wanted to blush and turn away, run away. Yet at the same time, another Violet, hidden in the darker corners of her mind, gloried in the attention, in the admiration. The same Violet who wanted nothing more than to mimic Kuragin, run her own hand down his thigh and feel the muscles there clench under her fingers and hear his own breath inhale sharply on the same desire that afflicted her…
"Violet?"
His voice was a breath above a whisper. Her so very English name seemed to take on an exotic tint in his voice. It was different, closer to Nashtya's French pronunciation. Violet's breath sounded loud in her ears, even if she could swear her breathing had not changed. She licked her lips.
"I…" Her fan beat faster, as fast as her heart. "I… I think I am having the vapours now."
Oh God.
Igor Kuragin stared at her as though he could not quite believe his ears. His mouth hung open, the confident smile frozen in place. Lazy amusement vanished from his eyes. In its place, confusion blinked as though Violet had taken a wet fish and smacked him across the cheek.
He looked stupefied and… funny.
Hysterical giggles bubbled up Violet's nose. She slapped her hand to her mouth but it was not enough. She couldn't help it. The laughter escaped from her lips, bouncing between them. So she stopped trying and gave in to the hysteria that carried her along.
She stole a glance from between her fingers at Igor Kuragin. Would the great seducer give up? March away in disgust from her childish spectacle? Patrick would never have stood to be the subject of ridicule, particularly of his wife.
Kuragin was stretched back across the couch. At first, she wondered if this was another mockery, to show his indifference to her amusement. Then she saw the silver star on his chest shake, saw the silver braid and green cloth tremble. He lifted his head and the boyish curl danced above a wide grin.
"Ah, Violet!" Uncaring of the nobles around them, he leaned forward and snatched her hand, planting a smacking kiss on the knuckles. "Tell me all Englishwomen are like you, my Violet. I will move to London at once and to hell with the weather."
"Prince Kuragin!" Still breathless from laughter, Violet shook her head. She aimed for forbidding but it could not come. Her lips curved so wide, she wondered it was not seen across the room. "No, indeed. In England, this is not appropriate."
"Then I will stay here. With you." His eyes softened. It was not desire there now, not the same heat to which Violet had grown accustomed. Something gentle lurked there. A featherlight touch brushed against her chin, lifting her face to stare at his, full-on.
"It is good to see you smile, solnyshka. You do not smile enough, I think."
"Prince Kuragin-"
"Lady Grantham?"
The strange voice was like a douse of cold water. With a jerk of her head, Violet pulled back. Beside the couch, an imperial equerry stood, his hands hooked behind his back. One bored eyebrow raised in insolent question.
The diamonds around her throat seemed to clutch like a jewelled collar belted too tight. Violet raised her hand, pushing the gems about to try and breathe.
"Yes?"
Her voice was too breathy. It sounded utterly unlike her familiar tones, too husky and low to be the clipped politeness of the Countess of Grantham.
The equerry bowed. Not once did his eyes flicker to the man beside her on the couch.
"Lord Grantham, he sends compliments, my lady. He waits for you at the door."
"Patrick… My husband is leaving?" Her skirts rustled like a chatter of starlings scared to flight. Violet stood, clutching her reticule to her stomach. "I must go."
She turned. Manners dictated she thank Prince Kuragin for his escort and his care. The proper words were simple enough. Still, she hesitated.
He did not make it difficult. With a graceful gesture, he rose to his feet and nodded. "Good night, Lady Grantham." He was as distant as a stranger, as if the past moments were a hallucination in her own fevered mind. "I will see you again."
This time, it did not sound like a threat.
Violet nodded in return. "Good night, your highness." She could not thank him. She did not even know if she could.
She turned back to the equerry. "If you please."
The servant bowed once more, low enough to see the powder grains on his white wig. He indicated a side door to the left of the great double-doomed entrance of the ballroom. Violet followed him. She did not look back. She promised herself she would not.
If she had, she would have seen the Prince Kuragin study his bare left hand, a perplexed frown digging deep lines in between his dark eyebrows. Slowly, he closed over each finger, until his hand closed in a fist.
I'm sorry I took longer than usual to post up this chapter - to be honest I hadn't expected it to go on as long as it did. I hope you enjoyed it (and the Violet/Igor moment - yup, she can't seem to escape him!) and thank you all for the lovely reviews! I really appreciate them and they give a great kick to keep writing!