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

Another sharp intake of breath followed when the female acrobat dropped her cloak, and to this the duke contributed enthusiastically. She was virtually naked. A scant flesh-coloured tunic studded with more paste diamonds and little else clung to her perfectly proportioned body. It was indecent. It was also rather exciting. The rumours he’d heard regarding the exotic allure of the Vengarov siblings had not been wide of the mark. If anything, they had been understated, especially regarding the delicious Katerina. No bristling from his male guests now, that was for sure. And the smile had been wiped from Kennedy’s face. Rapt, was an accurate description of his expression. Marcus congratulated himself. He had provided something for everyone, an audacious spectacle no other host would dare commission.

Then the girl put her bare foot on her brother’s linked hands and he propelled her upwards on to the tightrope. He followed her, too fast for the duke to work out how he’d managed to leap so high. The show began, and Marcus, along with everyone else in the enthralled audience, forgot everything else and concentrated on the two graceful and impossibly skilled acrobats.

Chapter Two (#ulink_a5b0efe5-6e50-552f-9949-918b47bf1ca5)

Sunday June 15th

Brockmore Manor House Party

Programme of Events

A Tour of the Gardens for the Ladies

Al Fresco Luncheon at the Lake Summerhouse

Boating to Follow

Cards and Conversation

Katerina gazed out of the window of her bedchamber. A ripple of wispy mare’s-tail clouds streaked the hazy blue sky. It was another beautiful day, the sun already warm on her face, though it was not yet eleven in the morning. She pushed the casement as high as it would go and leaned out. A light breeze ruffled her hair, which was coming loose from its tight night-time braid. The sleeping quarters she and Alexandr had been allotted were on the top floor, one below the servants’ cramped garrets which were squashed into the attics, and one floor above the luxurious guest chambers. It summed up perfectly their place in the grand scheme of things: coveted by the elite but excluded from polite society; envied by the hoi polloi but treated with a mixture of admiration and circumspection.

Her window overlooked the working gardens. From this height, she could see down into the stables, over the top of the glinting glass of the succession house, pinery and orchid house, and into the walled garden beyond. Alexandr was walking on his hands along the practice rope. She had never seen anyone more skilled than her brother, and though she had watched him perform this trick countless times from much more vertiginous heights, she still felt that familiar combination of fear and awe. She had only managed to complete just over half the rope in this manner herself, and certainly never attempted to perform it in public. Alexei was most likely going to feature it in his solo performance scheduled for later in the week.

A small group of women had entered the walled garden. They did not usually permit an audience to watch their practice sessions, but the Duchess of Brockmore was paying them well over the odds for their residency this week, so even Alexei would not be so bold as to deny her female guests this unscheduled opportunity to gawp at him as he went through his paces. He did not look at all enamoured though, his brow furrowed deeply in one of his most formidable frowns.

He was however, like her, an artiste above all, and once back on the rope lost himself in his performance. His audience watched him, rapt, their expressions as openly admiring as ever. To those rooted to the ground, there was a cachet and glamour attached to skilled exponents of the tightrope. For those at the very peak of their profession—as the Flying Vengarovs were—this manifested itself as a form of fame, and sometimes notoriety. Alexei professed to despise the slavish admiration he habitually received from women, but he was no saint—there had been countless affaires over the years.

She could not blame him. It was a lonely and itinerant life they led. But while her brother was happy to take what he called comfort in the arms of his admirers, Katerina had foolishly longed for something more lasting. What she had discovered was what she should have known all along. There was nothing more thrilling than the tightrope. Not for the performer. Certainly not for the men who watched her, who had no interest in the woman who walked it. And most certain of all, not that particular man who had caused her to fall to earth, where she had landed with such force that she carried the bruises still, two years later.

In a way, she envied Alexei. He stuck to the rules. He never made false promises. He never pretended to emotions he did not feel. He loved and he left. He was no more interested in the woman behind the beguiled spectator than his lover was interested in the man behind the artiste. When the Flying Vengarovs packed up their act and headed for the next venue, the next country, he did not leave behind any broken hearts or shattered dreams. He never dallied where he could compromise. His lovers were as discreet as he. Being women, they had to be. It was different for men.

Katerina pulled a chair over to the window and sat down, resting her chin on her hands. With the possible exception of the voluptuous redhead in the clinging gown, the ladies down in the walled garden were quite safe in their summer gowns the soft shades of the English countryside—rose-pink, primrose-yellow, leaf-green. Clustered together, their parasols in matching colours raised to protect their complexions from the sun, they looked like a posy of pretty blooms. Very elegant, delicate and much-prized hothouse flowers.

Though her own petite frame suited her artistic requirements to perfection, Katerina felt a pang of envy watching the tall, willowy figures possessed by the duke’s aristocratic guests. Two in particular stood out, one a disdainful blonde, the other a dusky brunette, perfect foils for each other. Perhaps one of those two was Fergus Kennedy’s intended bride. Though he’d tried not to show it, he had been hurt yesterday by whatever snub she had handed him. Perhaps she was the type who took pleasure in humiliating her admirers, or perhaps she was the type who thought her value enhanced by constant refusals. After all, men desired most what they could not have, Katerina thought bitterly, until they had it, and then it became a mere trophy.

But the Duke of Brockmore’s niece had no need to play games. Foolish woman, whichever of these beauties she was, if she continued to do so, for Fergus Kennedy was most certainly not the type of man who would meekly play along.

At least, she would not have thought he was. But then, she would not have thought he was the type of man who would allow himself to be ordered to marry. He was neither spineless nor passionless. Yesterday, when she had worked the rope as he looked on, desire had connected them like another, more ethereal, rope. Last night, when she was performing, she had had felt it tug powerfully at her again. He never took his eyes off her. Knowing that he was watching had given her display a new soaring quality, almost as if she had grown wings.

It was a sobering thought. Rather a frightening one. She could fly perfectly well without Fergus Kennedy. He was no different from all the other male admirers who found her skimpy costumes and flexible limbs alluring. Men who would boast to their friends of their exploits, but who would never dream of introducing her to their family. Men for whom the conquest was all, and the woman they had conquered—valueless. She knew that. She could not afford to forget that. Yesterday, Fergus might well have seemed interested in her, but yesterday, Fergus had arrived in the walled garden with a bruised ego and a wish to forget, for a moment, why he was here at Brockmore Manor in the first place. She had been a short-term distraction, no more. She’d do well to keep her distance from him.

A burst of applause startled her from her melancholy musings. Alexei stood in the centre of the circle of women, his arms crossed, his expression stormy. Finally, the duchess realised that she and her ladies were persona non grata, for she was leading the way out of the garden, presumably to resume their tour of the gardens and the legendary orchid house. A posy of traditional English roses to be introduced to the duchess’s exotic blooms.

* * *

Fergus grasped the oars of the rowing boat and concentrated on gently pushing it away from the little jetty on the island and out on to the lake. Lady Verity had been his allotted passenger for the return trip after the picnic luncheon, but when he’d dutifully invited her to step aboard, she had demurred, thrusting the Kilmun twins at him in her stead.

He had not attempted to cajole her. In truth, he’d felt guiltily relieved. She was very beautiful, but there was something about the haughty way she surveyed the world, the cold, clipped way she conversed, that he found most off-putting. At dinner last night he’d tried to be attentive, but to little avail. He had tried to persuade himself that she was most likely nervous given the circumstances, but today during the picnic, watching her perfectly relaxed with the other guests, he had caught glimpses of the vivaciousness that had by all accounts made her the toast of the ton. Yet in his company, he could almost see the icicles forming. And if he was brutally honest, lovely as she was, eminently suitable as she was as a diplomat’s wife, as a woman, she left him as cold as he appeared to leave her.

He wasn’t the kind of conceited dolt who expected every woman he met to fall at his feet, though he’d never before failed to charm when that was his stated intention. Was she one of those women who were incapable of feelings? No, that was his male pride talking. Besides, the point of this week was not to charm or woo, but to forge an alliance. A matchmaking fair, Katerina had called this Midsummer Party, and she was right. A marriage market is what it was.

Clear of the shallows around the island, he began to row towards the boating house with long, powerful strokes. The Kilmun twins smiled their almost-identical smiles at him.

‘You handle the oars like a master mariner, Colonel Kennedy.’

‘We are in safe hands, Sister.’

‘I rather think you were intended to be in different hands,’ Fergus said, relieved to turn his thoughts away from his own matrimonial prospects. ‘Brigstock, the Earl of Jessop, and what’s-his-name?—Addington?’

‘Yes, they were most put out, weren’t they? Brockmore has earmarked them for us, as you have correctly deduced, Colonel, but our swains cannot even tell the difference between us,’ Cynthia informed him, her pretty nose in the air.

‘And until they can, we shall make a point of snubbing them,’ Cecily added. ‘It is insulting, Colonel Kennedy, to imagine that simply because we look alike we are the same person. We are not interchangeable. I notice that you can easily distinguish me from Cecily.’

Fergus laughed. ‘And I notice that you like to exploit your remarkable likeness to play games on the unsuspecting. That is Cynthia. You are Cecily.’

The twins clapped their hands together in unison. ‘Oh, well done. You have no idea how refreshing it is for a man to take the time to tell us apart. If only you were one of the duke’s candidates for our hands.’

‘Alas,’ Cynthia chimed in archly, ‘I suspect Brockmore has other plans for you, does he not, Colonel?’

Hearing the truth spoken aloud deepened his unease. He did not like to think of himself as a fly caught in the duke’s web. ‘I have no firm plans,’ Fergus said stiffly, ‘save to enjoy the pleasant company.’

‘Oh, come, Colonel,’ Cecily exclaimed, ‘there is no need to equivocate. We are all here for a purpose. Sir Timothy for example, clearly he is not here to secure a wife.’

Cynthia giggled. ‘Like all rich men, he is married to his money. And of course some, such as the Lovely, Luscious Lillias Lamont, are here to oil the party wheels, should it flag. Have a care what you say around Lillias, Colonel, for she reports everything back to the duke.’

The dinghy bumped against the jetty. A waiting manservant caught the rope. Fergus wondered, as he helped first Cecily and then Cynthia on to the shore, whether they too would dance to the duke’s tune, by the end of the week.

Would he? He’d been so carried away by the promise of a far-flung posting, a new, exciting life away from his Whitehall desk, that he’d not really weighed up the price to be extracted. A suitable wife was all very well in theory, but the reality of this bloodless and frankly calculated marriage was proving trickier to swallow. Marriage was not a commercial transaction. A wife was not a commodity, but a flesh-and-blood woman. A husband was also a man. It disturbed him deeply, that his blood heated when he looked at Katerina, and yet it seemed to freeze in his veins when he was in Lady Verity’s company.

Katerina, now, she was another matter altogether. Not only had there been a spark between them, it had threatened to become incendiary. He’d been so close to kissing her, it made his blood heat just thinking about it. Last night, on the tightrope and on the mat, her supple body had formed impossible yet perfect shapes. She was so lithe and yet so elegant in that tiny tunic, like a tumbling constellation. It had been there again as he watched her performance, he was certain of it, that visceral pull of attraction between them.

‘A penny for them, Colonel Kennedy. You were miles away.’ Cecily slipped her arm in his, her gaze speculative, as Cynthia took his other arm.

‘I was thinking how fortunate I was to be a Scots thistle between two English roses.’

‘I am not at all convinced that is what you were thinking, but it is a delightful image. Though not as delightful an image as the thought of you in your regimentals, for we ladies love nothing more than a man in a Red Coat,’ Cynthia teased.

‘Save perhaps, a man such as the rather formidable Mr Vengarov, who wears no coat at all,’ Cecily added, with a giggle. ‘It has been a pleasure, Colonel. We trust we will see you at dinner.’

* * *

With a flutter of hands and parasols, the Kilmun twins headed off in the direction of the orchid house. Immediately lost in his own thoughts, Fergus took himself in the opposite direction through the heavily scented rose garden and into the maze. According to the Programme of Events, there was to be cards and conversation after dinner. He’d eschew winning at cards and instead do his best to make winning conversation with Lady Verity. Perhaps when she came to know him a little better she would thaw somewhat. And he would warm to her too.

Perhaps. The uneasiness in his gut was becoming more persistent. It was the same feeling he had when something wasn’t right in the field, the same instinct that had saved his life and that of many others on numerous occasions. It was becoming a struggle not to listen to it.

A false turn took him to a dead end in the maze. Fergus stared at the dense wall of hedge. The trick was always to turn right. Or was it left? There was no performance on the tightrope to look forward to tonight. He wondered how Katerina occupied herself when she was not practising. Another turn, and then another, and soon he was in the centre of the maze, and Fergus’s question was answered for there she was, in the shade of a large copper statue of Atlas.

She was asleep, her cheek resting on her clasped hands, her back against the plinth. The Greek god, crouched down carrying the world on his shoulders, cast a shadow over her, protecting her from the blazing heat of the afternoon sun. The statue was likely the duke’s little conceit, a reference to his role in underpinning English society, Fergus reckoned. ‘Though right now, I know how you feel,’ he said under his breath, eyeing the copper god’s straining muscles and pained expression with a stir of empathy.