Scandal At The Midsummer Ball: The Officer's Temptation / The Debutante's Awakening

‘Save flying? You must feel as if you’re in your own wee world.’

He had one of those smiles that was impossible to ignore, and his interest really did seem genuine. ‘Wee world,’ Katerina repeated, surrendering to the temptation to smile back. ‘Your accent is strange. You are not English?’

‘Scottish. And you, I believe, are from Russia.’

‘R-r-r-russia,’ Katerina repeated, in a fair enough imitation of his accent to make him smile. ‘Yes, I am Russian.’

‘You speak excellent English.’

‘And French, and German, passable Italian and a smattering of Spanish. All my life, I have been travelling, you see, and performing too. I come from a great tradition, as you said, a long line of performers. The Vengarov family, we are the aristocrats of our world.’

‘I am aware of that, even if Brockmore is not. I’m looking forward very much to tonight’s performance. I see from the Programme of Events that you’re also holding a demonstration class for the party guests.’

‘Aristocrats from one world, mingling with the aristocrats of another,’ Katerina said sardonically. ‘Will you be taking part, Colonel Fergus?’

‘I most certainly will. Do you include the ladies in this class? I’m not sure I can picture the duchess wearing one of these wee tunic affairs. Or, indeed, care to!’

Caught up in their conversation, amazingly, astonishingly, Katerina had quite forgotten that all she was wearing was what he called her wee tunic affair, in part because Fergus too seemed to have forgotten. But now he had drawn attention to her state of dishabille and was looking at her most appreciatively, she became acutely aware of how much of her flesh was on display, and Fergus seemed to be having difficulty dragging his eyes away from her modest cleavage, and the way he was looking at her was making her flush more, with a mixture of awareness of him and anger at herself, rather than embarrassment.

‘It is not possible to practise real acrobatics in corsets and morning gowns,’ Katerina said tightly. ‘We will restrict ourselves to teaching more seemly and decorous moves.’

He flushed very faintly, making a point of turning his gaze away. ‘Curses, then I will be denied the sight of a tumbling duchess.’

‘And I will be denied the opportunity to witness a soldier falling from the tightrope.’

‘You seem very certain I will fall.’

‘You won’t have a chance. It will not be offered as an activity in the masterclass,’ Katerina told him. ‘It is too dangerous.’

Fergus eyed the rope speculatively. ‘It doesn’t look so high.’

‘Because this is merely a practice height—so I can reach it without a ladder. It makes no difference to me what height the rope is set at, but for the spectacle—oh, then the higher the better, as you will see tonight.’

‘Aren’t you ever afraid of falling and injuring yourself?’

‘The trick is to convince yourself that you are not afraid.’

‘It’s the same on the battlefield.’

They were no longer looking at the tightrope. He was smiling at her again, but there was something more than laughter in his eyes. Though he was not touching her, her skin tingled. Heat, that’s what it was. Katerina’s stomach fluttered in response. ‘There is no comparison,’ she said. ‘I am not brave in that way.’

‘Perhaps not,’ he replied softly, ‘but definitely fearless.’

There was a trickle of sweat on his brow. She noticed a tiny shaving nick, right in the cleft of his chin. His fair lashes were absurdly long for a man. A sharp gust of desire took her by surprise. She saw it reflected in his eyes, and the air in the walled garden seemed to still, the sun’s heat to intensify. Even the birdsong seemed momentarily muted. She curled her toes into the grass and realised she was waiting, longing for him to kiss her.

Confused and startled by her reaction, Katerina launched herself up on to the rope, taking them both aback. Safe from her own desire, she perversely fed his, wanting to show him what he could never have, what he could never attain, walking, leaping, dancing, tumbling on the rope, aware of his eyes fixed on the shapes her body was making, her naked limbs, her supple flesh. Only when she stopped, her chest heaving with the effort, and her eyes met his again, did she realise that desire fed desire, that her feelings were as nakedly exposed as his.

She hovered on the rope, furious at herself for surrendering to temptation, yet unwilling to put an end to it, waiting for the proof that he was, after all, exactly like the rest. When he gave a tiny shake of his head, turning deliberately away, it took her off guard. She vaulted down. Still averting his eyes, he disconcerted her further by holding out her robe, the robe she should have donned the moment he had appeared in the garden. Her fingers fumbled with the sash.

Fergus made a show of consulting his watch. ‘I’ve deserted the reception currently underway in the drawing room for far longer than I intended. I must re-join the others lest I blot my copybook at the first opportunity. Even in a one-horse race, one can’t afford to fall at the first fence.’ Finally, his extraordinary eyes met hers again. ‘It has been a privilege to see you practise, a privilege to make your acquaintance, but you will be wishing to return to your practice. I should not have taken up so much of your time.’

She was in danger of liking this man. She was in danger of thinking him different. She’d thought that before, and look what had happened. ‘I spend most of my time with my brother, Colonel Kennedy,’ Katerina said dismissively. ‘Any other company is a welcome distraction.’

‘Well, that’s a fine compliment indeed. Here was me thinking you enjoyed my company for its own sake. And it’s Fergus, remember?’

His quip, his smile, made the awkward moment pass. She was forced to laugh. ‘Indeed, Fergus,’ she said, ‘if the charming Mr Keaton or one of his under-gardeners should happen by, you will please send him straight in.’

‘A tour of the pinery would no doubt be entertaining.’

‘And there is the orchid house too. I believe the duchess has some rare specimens on display.’

‘Oh, when it comes to displaying rare specimens, I believe her husband has the edge.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You,’ Fergus replied. ‘I doubt very much there’s another exotic flower in the garden quite as fragrant as you. It has been a pleasure, Katerina.’ It was there again, as he covered her hands with his, the tug of desire between them. The long fingers which covered hers were calloused. His knuckles were covered in a fretwork of tiny scars. Powder burns? He lifted her hand to his lips, brushed a tantalisingly brief kiss to the tips of her fingers, then gently released her hand. ‘I very much look forward to enjoying your performance tonight.’

A straightening of the shoulders, a firming of his mouth, and his purpose was set. With a sketched bow, Fergus turned away, marching briskly across the grass in the direction of the house, looking for all the world as if he were marching into battle.

* * *

The impressive ballroom of Brockmore Manor ran the full length of the house from front to back and opened out on to the large terrace, the ceiling twice the height of the other reception rooms. Painted alabaster white, with only the ornate Adam cornicing to relieve its plainness, the pilasters running down one side gave the room the look of a Roman forum. Three huge chandeliers blazed down, their flames reflected in the highly polished wooden floor. The centre of the space was taken up by the tightrope and poles, set about fifteen feet off the ground now, surrounded by thick mats. A stack of hoops and skittles were laid out neatly to one side, beside a shallow tray of chalk.

Marcus, the Duke of Brockmore, surveying the scene from his vantage point on the balcony, permitted himself a small smile of satisfaction and a flutter of anticipation. The welcoming party earlier in the day had been but a prelude to the main event. Tonight’s performance would set the tone for the rest of the week. A spectacle never before seen in England. The Vengarov siblings would be a symbol for his guests, a reminder of how they too could fly—with his assistance.

Marcus leaned over the balustrade to direct a footman in the more precise arrangement of chairs for the audience. He swept his mane of grey hair back from his forehead as he took in the bustling scene below. The Silver Fox, they called him behind his back, and he rather enjoyed his reputation. It was not as if any of the guests were unaware of the subtle games they were being invited to play here. The Brockmore Midsummer Party was well established now, as the stage for all sorts of alliances to be made—and in some cases unmade. He and Alicia did not manipulate, but rather facilitated these affairs—of the heart, of politics, of business. Yes, they greased the wheels of power, but they did not force those wheels to turn in any particular direction. Though more often than not, of course, they did. In their later years, they would be able to look back with pride and satisfaction on their achievements. The children of the marriages they had brokered would be consolation for their own tragic lack of progeny.

The customary pang this engendered in his heart made Marcus’s thoughts turn towards his wife, and as if on cue, she entered the room ahead of their guests, glancing up and smiling, that special smile she saved for him and him alone. She was looking splendid this evening, her pale-green evening gown carefully chosen to complement the darker-green stripe of his own waistcoat. His diamond-and-emerald cravat pin matched the magnificent set of diamonds and emeralds she wore around her swan-like neck. It was these little attentions to detail that were so important. No, he could have no regrets.

He watched his duchess making her graceful way through the throng of specially invited guests, admiring the way she gently manoeuvred each into their allotted place with the skill of an orchestra conductor. There were the obvious matches to be made—and by and large he left those in Alicia’s capable hands. Viscount Monteith’s daughter would be marketable enough, a shy beauty and therefore a desirable catch, but that dragon of a mother of hers was bound to interfere. The Kilmun twins—Marcus smiled to himself as he eyed those two ladies. Cecily and Cynthia, wasn’t it? Damned if he could tell which was which. It would be interesting to see if their intended bridegrooms could—or cared to. Brigstock, Earl of Jessop, and Jessamy Addington were lined up for them. Cynthia and Cecily. Jessop and Jessamy. Sound fellows with excellent connections. He had plans for both, and frankly an alliance with either twin would suit his purposes just as well. Let them sort it out between them.

Verity now—where was Verity?—ah yes, there she was, seated as planned beside Wellington’s protégé. Colonel Kennedy looked to possess a strong will, just the type to take his headstrong niece in hand. It was not a great match in the eyes of the world, not compared to some of the offers Verity had already rejected, but in some ways this man was likely more suitable. If Wellington was in the right of it—and his old friend invariably was—the colonel would very quickly make his mark abroad, giving the Brockmore family another string to their many bows. Mind you, that first meeting between the pair today had not been auspicious. It was to be hoped that Verity had indeed been merely out of sorts due to the heat in the crowded drawing room.

As for the rest of his guests? His Grace scanned the audience, now seated, and made a rapid inventory. Sir Timothy Farthingale would be easy enough to accommodate, all he desired was to be pointed in the direction of a generous benefactor with deep pockets, but Desmond Falkner might prove just a little tricky to bleed. A canny man, he had seemed at dinner earlier, and something of a prude, if truth be told. Farthingale’s flamboyant appearance had made quite the wrong impression. What possessed the man to wear a pair of Turkish slippers and a scarlet coat to dinner, Marcus could not fathom. Alicia had seated him in the back row, but he looked more like he should be performing in tonight’s entertainment. A quiet word might be in order. A task for Lillias, perhaps? By odd coincidence, the woman he and Alicia liked to think of as their eyes and ears was already seated by Sir Timothy in her customary scarlet. The duke winced at the clash of colours. Though the Titian-haired Lovely, Luscious Lillias Lamont was a stalwart of their Midsummer Party, her flamboyant taste in clothes was really almost as suspect as Farthingale’s.

‘Your Grace?’ He turned, to find the Russian duo whose services he had secured at great expense beckoning him from the doorway. ‘We are ready to begin the performance.’

Marcus fought the urge to inform the rather arrogant young Russian man that the performance would commence when he decided it could begin. He was paying a small fortune to hire the pair for the whole week, yet each time they spoke, he had the sense the man was looking down his nose at him. There were not many people who discomfited the Duke of Brockmore. Marcus couldn’t understand it, but there was something about Alexandr Vengarov that made him feel as if he should be doing the kowtowing.

Though the blasted man was right, it was high time to get the evening’s entertainment underway. Marcus nodded his assent and the Russian performers disappeared. Moments later, the pair of them appeared in the doorway of the ballroom.

His Grace leaned over the balcony and cleared his throat. ‘My Lords, Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great privilege to present, for your delectation, the most extraordinary, the most talented, the most graceful and indeed the most flexible acrobatic performers in the civilised world. Prepare to be both astounded and amazed. I give you the Flying Vengarovs.’

Conversation stilled. Skirts rustled, painted fans were snapped shut and quizzing glasses prised open as the audience settled into their gilt-edged chairs.

The duke gestured to the performers. They were a striking pair, he so tall, and she so tiny in comparison. Both wore long cloaks, hers dark blue and his black, studded with paste diamonds that sparkled and shimmered in the candlelight. There were paste diamonds in her burnished auburn hair too. They seemed to float across the floor together like a walking constellation of stars. A hushed silence pervaded the ballroom as they stood in front of the tightrope, facing the expectant crowd. He had to admire their professionalism, the pair possessed real stage presence. The duke felt his own heart pick up a few beats. Catching his wife’s eye, they shared a smile, but his eyes were drawn, almost against his will, to the duo below. They did not look like siblings. Vengarov’s square-cut jaw, brown eyes and dark-brown hair were in stark contrast to his sister’s colouring and appearance, though they shared the same high Slavic cheekbones, and there was something about the mouth too.

They made their bow. Vengarov’s cloak dropped to the ground and there was a sharp intake of breath. The man was half-naked, wearing only a shockingly tight pair of knitted pantaloons. His muscled torso gleamed in the candlelight. The duke smothered a chuckle. Fans were being hurriedly opened, but he had no doubt that behind them the ladies were gazing with flagrant admiration at the chap’s sculpted physique. The men present, on the other hand, were bristling with purported indignation. Intimidated no doubt, rather than offended. Save Kennedy, who was smiling. And Farthingale who was looking like a dog salivating over a particularly juicy bone.