From Governess To Countess

Allison startled the pair of them with a peal of laughter. ‘Madam, you have ignited the flame of hope I thought was quite extinguished. You have my word of honour, and you can have it signed in blood if you wish it. Now please, tell me, where is it I am to go, and who is this mysterious client of yours?’

Chapter One (#u8389316a-1f91-5eb2-8398-0769950bc358)

St Petersburg—six weeks later

The voyage across the North Sea to the Baltic coast had been both speedy and surprisingly comfortable. Standing on the deck of the ship as they docked at the port on the delta of the Neva River, Allison wondered if The Procurer had, amongst other things, arranged for the winds to consistently blow in the most advantageous direction, and instructed the sun to welcome her arrival. It beamed down from the cobalt-blue sky, making the majestic buildings which fronted the river glitter as if studded with jewels.

Allison had been prepared, by several enthusiastic fellow travellers, for the grandeur of St Petersburg, but the city known as the Venice of the North by dint of having been constructed from thirty-three islands, was, in reality, infinitely more beautiful than she could have envisioned. She gazed around her, quite dazzled by grand frontages in pastel colours, huge pillars supporting imposing porticoes, golden domes soaring into the sky, and as the Neva River wended its way into the heart of the city, a vista of bridge after bridge spanning its banks.

A flotilla of small boats bobbed on the azure-blue waters. Stevedores called to each other in what she assumed was Russian, the words like no others she had ever heard, and Allison began to panic. The Procurer had assured her that French and English were the languages used by the aristocracy and their entourages with whom she would be mingling, but what if The Procurer was mistaken? What if this was an elaborate trap? What if The Procurer was in actual fact a procuress? What if she had been brought here under false pretences, to serve not as a...

‘Miss Galbraith?’ The man made a bow. Just in time, she noticed he wore a royal blue-and-gold livery, and spared herself the embarrassment of addressing him as her new employer.

‘I am come to escort you to the Derevenko Palace,’ the servant said, speaking just as The Procurer had promised, in perfect, if heavily accented, English. ‘I have a carriage waiting to take you there.’

Allison picked up her travelling herb chest by the brass handles, staggering under its weight, but waving the servant away when he made to take it from her. ‘No, I prefer to keep this with me, the contents are extremely precious. The rest of my baggage...’

‘All necessary arrangements have been made. The journey is a brief one. If you will follow me?’

She did as he bid, swaying a little as her feet adjusted to the solid ground beneath, coming to an abrupt, awed halt in front of the transport which awaited her. The carriage was duck-egg blue elaborately trimmed with gold, a coat of arms emblazoned on the doors. Another servant in the same livery sat on the boxed seat, holding the reins of two perfectly matched white horses. Inside, the plush squabs were the same royal-blue velvet as the groom’s livery, the floor covered in furs.

Peering through the large window as they trundled into motion, Allison observed that they turned immediately inland, following a road alongside a canal. The waters sparkled. The grand houses glittered. The sun shone. Everything looked so very perfect, so very beautiful, so very, very foreign and strange. A bridge spanned a small river not straight enough to be a canal, and the carriage followed the embankment for a short distance, passing ever more majestic mansions, before slowly drawing to a halt.

The groom opened the door and folded down the step. ‘Welcome to the Derevenko Palace, Miss Galbraith.’

It was indeed a palace. The edifice faced out over the river, on the other side of which was a vast expanse of open ground where what looked like a cathedral was under construction. Her first impression of the Derevenko Palace was that it reminded her of Somerset House on the Strand, neo-classical in style, three storeys high, with two wings stretching from the central portico, terminating in two smaller pedimented wings set at right angles, the shallow roof partially hidden by a carved balustrade. Above the central section, which was constructed almost like a square tower, a massive eagle-like stone bird was perched, gazing imperiously down its vicious curved beak at the shallow, sweeping staircase, and on Allison, who stood in trepidation on the bottom step. She shivered, thoroughly intimidated and battling the urge to turn tail and flee.

And where did she think she would go? Back on to the ship, back to the reclusive life she had been so delighted to leave behind?

Absolutely not! This was her second chance. She would not fail the woman who had presented her with it. More importantly, she would not fail herself. Not this time. Reluctantly handing her herb chest over to the groom, Allison straightened her shoulders, gathered up the folds of her travelling cloak and followed the manservant inside.

* * *

The interior made the façade of Derevenko Palace seem almost plain. A long strip of rich blue-and-gold carpet covered a floor of silver-and-pink stone laid in a herringbone pattern, which glittered under the glow of a magnificent chandelier. The carpet continued straight through a small entrance hall into another, bigger reception hall where two huge bronze lamps lit with a halo of candles flanked a sweep of enclosed stairs. Allison had a fleeting impression of immensely high and ornately corniced ceilings, before she was led up three flights of stairs to a half-landing, which then opened out into two stairways with elaborate bronze-gilt balustrades which in turn led to a massive atrium lit from above by light pouring through a central glass dome.

The servant paused in front of a set of double doors elaborately inlaid with ivory, mother of pearl and copper. He straightened his already perfectly straight jacket, and knocked softly before throwing the doors open. ‘Miss Galbraith, Your Illustrious Highness,’ he declared, waiting only until Allison edged her way into the room before exiting.

Your Illustrious Highness? Allison was expecting to meet a minor member of the aristocracy. She must surely be in the wrong room. Sinking into a low curtsy, she saw her own surprise reflected in the man’s demeanour. He had turned as the servant announced her, but took only one step towards her before coming to an abrupt halt. From her position, on legs still adjusting to being back on land, precariously close to toppling over, he looked ridiculously tall. Black leather boots, highly polished, stopped just above the knee, where a pair of dark-blue pantaloons clung to a pair of long, muscular legs. Which began to move towards her.

‘Surely there is some mistake?’ the imposing figure said. His voice had a low timbre, his English accent soft and pleasing to the ear.

‘I think there must be, your—your Illustrious Highness,’ Allison mumbled. She looked up, past the skirts of his coat, which was fastened with a row of polished silver buttons across an impressive span of chest. The coat was braided with scarlet. A pair of epaulettes adorned a pair of very broad shoulders. Not court dress, but a uniform. A military man.

‘Madam?’ The hand extended was tanned, and though the nails were clean and neatly trimmed, the skin was much scarred and calloused. ‘There really is no need to abase yourself as if I were royalty.’

His tone carried just a trace of amusement. He was not exactly an Adonis, there was nothing of the cupid in that mouth, which was too wide, the top lip too thin, the bottom too full. This man looked like a sculpture, with high Slavic cheekbones, a very determined chin, and an even more determined nose. Close-cropped dark-blond hair, darker brows. And his eyes. A deep Arctic blue, the blue of the Baltic Sea. Despite his extremely attractive exterior, there was something in those eyes that made Allison very certain she would not want to get on the wrong side of him. Whoever he was.

Belatedly, she realised she was still poised in her curtsy, and her knees were protesting. Rising shakily, refusing the extended hand, she tried to collect herself. ‘My name is Miss Allison Galbraith and I have travelled here from England at the request of Count Aleksei Derevenko to take up the appointment of governess.’

His brows shot up and he muttered something under his breath. Clearly flustered, he ran his hand through his hair, before shaking his head. ‘You are not what I was expecting. You do not look at all like a governess, and you most certainly don’t look like a herbalist.’

Allison, dressed in the most sombre of her consulting attire beneath her travelling cloak, bristled. ‘Ah, you were expecting a crone!’

‘A wizened one with a hairy chin,’ he said, with a smile that managed to be both apologetic and unrepentant.

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you on both counts,’ Allison replied, finding it surprisingly hard not to be charmed.

His smile broadened. ‘I find your appearance surprising, but far from disappointing. In my defence, I should tell you that I have very little experience on which to base my assumptions. I’ve never hired a governess until now and I’ve never before required a herbalist’s services. Forgive me, I am being remiss. I am Count Aleksei Derevenko,’ he said, making a brief bow. ‘How do you do, Miss Galbraith?’

Hers was not the only appearance to evoke surprise. This man did not look remotely like the father of three children in poor health and in need of English lessons. Portly, middle-aged, whiskered, red of face, bulbous of nose, is how she would have pictured such a man if she was in the habit of making sweeping assumptions. He would not have long, muscled legs that so perfectly filled those ridiculously tight breeches as to leave almost nothing to the imagination. He most certainly would not have the kind of mouth that made a woman’s thoughts turn to kissing. Or those eyes. Such a perfect, startling blue. Why couldn’t they have been watery or better still, bloodshot? And why, for heaven’s sake, was she thinking about him in such a manner in the first place?

‘I am not at all sure how I do, to be perfectly honest,’ Allison replied, inordinately flustered.

To her surprise, he laughed. ‘No more do I. It seems we have both confounded expectations. It is to be hoped that the person who brokered our temporary alliance knows her business. Let us sit and take some tea. We have a great deal to discuss.’

* * *

Aleksei ushered the Englishwoman to the far end of the reception room where the tea things had been set out on a low table, the samovar hissing steam from its perch on the woodchips. Solid silver, enamelled with white, blue and gold flowers, the delicate cups a matching pattern, the service was, like everything in this huge palace, designed to demonstrate the Derevenko dynasty’s wealth and lofty status. He had forgotten just how important appearances were, here in St Petersburg. No other European court—and on his travels, he’d been obliged to attend many—was as status conscious or such a hotbed of intrigue and ever-shifting alliances. No wonder that the woman now sitting opposite him on one of those ridiculously flimsy and uncomfortable little chairs had mistaken him for a prince, hearing that preposterous epithet. His Illustrious Highness, indeed.

She was clearly nervous, though she was trying not to show it, compulsively smoothing her gloves out on her lap. He still couldn’t quite believe that this was the woman The Procurer had promised him would be the answer to his urgent plea, that this was the woman whose arrival would signal the end of his agonising enforced spell of inactivity and allow him, finally, to begin his search to uncover the truth.

It struck him uncomfortably, as he looked at her, that the problem with this particular woman was not that she didn’t look like his preconceived notions of either a herbalist or a governess, but that she looked like his starved body’s idea of the perfect woman to take to his bed. Her hair was the colour of fire. No, that was too obvious. It was the cover of leaves on the turn, of glossy chestnuts, of the sky as the sun sank. She was not conventionally beautiful, there was nothing of the demure English rose, so universally admired, about her. She was something wilder, untamed. Her skin seemed to glow with vitality, her figure was not willowy but voluptuous. She had a mouth that made a man think of all the places he would like those lips to touch. And then there were her eyes—what colour were they? Brown? Gold? Both? Was it her heavy lids that made him think of tumbled sheets and morning sunshine dappling her delightfully naked rump?

Aleksei cursed under his breath. Since Napoleon’s escape from Elba, followed by Waterloo, and the formal mourning period he had just completed here in St Petersburg, he had been deprived of all female company, but this was most definitely not the time and place to be having such thoughts. Allison Galbraith was not here to satisfy his inconveniently awakening desires. He should be contemplating her suitability for the task, not her body. Though he could not deny that her body was one that he’d very much like to contemplate.

Would anyone believe her a credible replacement for Anna Orlova the previous, long-serving governess? A paragon, if the servants were to be believed, utterly reliable, and much loved by the children. Whether or not she returned that affection, Aleksei had no idea, since Anna Orlova had abandoned her charges and fled the Derevenko Palace long before he had had a chance to set eyes upon her.

He picked up the teapot which sat on top of the samovar, only to drop it with a muted curse as the heated silver handle scalded his palm. Covering the handle with the embroidered linen cloth designed for that very purpose, he saw that Miss Galbraith was staring at the urn with a puzzled look. ‘You are not familiar with the ceremonial Russian tea ritual?’ Happy to buy himself time to regather his thoughts, when she shook her head Aleksei concentrated on the performance. ‘This is the zavarka, the black tea, which we brew for at least fifteen minutes, unlike you English, who barely allow the leaves to kiss the hot water before you pour.’ Kiss? An unfortunate choice of verb. Touch, then? No, that was even worse!

He concentrated on pouring a small amount of zavarka into her cup, a larger, stronger amount into his own. The samovar hissed, reminding him that he had not completed the tea-making ceremony. ‘This is kipyatok,’ he said, ‘which is simply another word for boiling water. Would you like a slice of lemon, some sugar?’

‘Is that permitted?’

‘It is not traditional, but I have both available if you wish. Our tea is something of an acquired taste.’

‘I will take it as it is meant to be served. When in Russia, as they say.’ Miss Galbraith picked up her cup and took a tentative sip.

She did not quite spit it out, but her screwed-up little nose and her watering eyes told their own tale. Biting back a smile, Aleksei held out the sugar bowl.

Using the tongs, she dropped three cubes of sugar into the tiny cup. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m being impertinent, but may I enquire why your wife is not here to greet me? I assume it is from her that I will take my instructions?’

‘Her absence is easily explained. I’m not, and never have been married.’

‘Oh.’ Miss Galbraith coloured. ‘I see,’ she said, looking like someone who did not see at all.

‘The children are not mine,’ Aleksei explained, ‘they are my brother’s.’

She frowned. ‘Then may I ask why you are—why I am not having this discussion with your brother and his wife?’