From Governess To Countess

The Count shrugged, a habit he exhibited, when he did not care to answer, but after a few moments staring down at his champagne flute, he surprised her. ‘Of course I cared for him, as one naturally cares for one’s family—he was my only sibling, after all. But we were never close, had little in common and as adults spent very little time in one another’s company. Which is why I find it so utterly confounding that he nominated me—’ He broke off, draining his champagne in one draught. ‘But it is done now, no point in lamenting over what cannot be changed. Come, it is time for the great and the good of St Petersburg to meet the new Derevenko governess.’

The Count set his empty champagne glass down on a window ledge. Allison, surprised to find her own flute also empty, followed suit. ‘I will never remember all these names and faces.’

‘It doesn’t matter, the objective is to ensure that they know yours.’ He covered her hand with his, angling his back to the room to obscure her from view. ‘You need not be so nervous, you are performing admirably.’

His smile was meant to be reassuring, she told herself, as was the clasp of his fingers. They were both wearing gloves, but her skin was tingling in response to his touch all the same. And his smile—no, it wasn’t at all reassuring, it was—she wished he wouldn’t smile like that, because she couldn’t resist smiling back, and if her smile was anything like his, he’d get the wrong idea entirely. ‘Thank you.’

She smiled. He inhaled sharply. Their eyes locked. ‘Under different circumstances,’ the Count said, ‘I would have been delighted if Arakcheev’s assumptions had foundation.’

There was no mistaking his meaning. No mistaking the unexpected, delightful frisson of her response. An inappropriate response which needed to be quelled. ‘You cannot mean you would like to marry one of your nieces!’

‘You know perfectly well that’s not what I meant.’ His fingers tightened on hers as he leaned towards her. For a dizzying moment, she thought he was going to kiss her in full public view. And she wanted him to, for that dizzying moment.

Then he snapped his head back, dropping her hand. ‘Unfortunately the circumstances are not different. We must make a circuit of the room. I would recommend another glass of champagne to fortify you for the circus you are about to experience.’

* * *

It had indeed been a circus, and under the scrutiny of St Petersburg society, Allison would have felt as stripped bare and vulnerable as an acrobat on a tightrope were it not for the Count’s reassuring presence by her side. By the time they left the ball it was late—or early, she could no longer tell which—and her head was pounding. But though she had fallen into a brief, shallow sleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, her churning mind did not permit her to rest for long.

Wide awake by dawn, her head whirled as she recalled the sea of faces, the inquisitive looks and the myriad of seemingly innocuous yet patently barbed questions aimed at herself and Count Derevenko as they made the circuit of the Winter Palace’s ballroom. General Arakcheev—Allison shuddered, recalling the Vampire’s empty eyes—had been only the first of many to assume the intimate nature of their relationship. In England, as she knew only too well, society would have been scandalised—or at least they would have claimed to be. In St Petersburg, no one had batted an eyelid at the notion of Count Derevenko’s mistress playing governess to his wards.

And if society did not care, why should she? She was tired of railing against assumptions and prejudice. She realised she had gradually become—not ashamed, precisely, but she had come to wish her appearance otherwise, for it did not match what her patients expected of her. But she was sick and tired of that too!

Pushing back the sheets, Allison struggled down from the high bed and threw back the curtains. Outside, the sun was rising with her spirits. Inspired by The Procurer’s example, funded by the fee she would earn here, she would find a way to take charge of her own destiny, and she would not have to give any sort of damn about what St Petersburg, or London, or any other social elite thought of her. That was why she was here. That was why she would do everything in her power to succeed, whatever it was the Count required of her.

Curling up on the window seat, Allison rested her cheek against the thick glass. Her bedroom, on the third floor next to the children’s suite, looked due east. Through the gaps in the rooftops, she could see the glitter of the Neva River, where it flowed in an elegant curve before sweeping south through St Petersburg. The bedchamber was likely plain by the standards of the Derevenko Palace, yet it was opulent beyond her ken. The walls were covered in a dark-red paper embellished with gold. Her bed, a huge affair that required a step to climb into it, was dressed in velvet and brocade, the four posts gilded, the myriad mattresses and pillows designed to cocoon one in the cosiest, warmest embrace. Carpets of woven silk were soft underfoot. Her small collection of clothes was lost in the giant lacquered chest of drawers, her plain brushes looked like interlopers atop the matching dressing table.

Which was exactly what she was. An interloper. A stranger. A foreigner. Apparently the only person in this city that Count Derevenko could trust. Which begged the question, why couldn’t he trust anyone else? And why did he require his governess to be a herbalist? She’d assumed the children were poorly. Neither he nor The Procurer had either confirmed or denied this, yet what other reason could there be? Even before she met her charges, Allison was beginning to feel very sorry indeed for them. Poor little orphans, they must be feeling wholly abandoned. Something she could certainly empathise with.

Pulling on her robe, she quit her chamber and walked the distance along the corridor to the series of connected rooms allocated to the children. It was the custom, in some English aristocratic households, to confine the children to the basement or the attic, to furnish their rooms as spartanly as those belonging to the lowliest of servants. She’d tended to sick children shivering in bedchambers where the wind whistled through the bare floorboards, children living like moles in windowless rooms below stairs. Ideal preparation, she’d been informed time and again, for the character-building privations of the boarding school which almost every little boy attended, and an increasing number of girls too. The process of estrangement happened, in many cases, from birth, when babies were handed immediately to a wet nurse, and thence on to a nanny, a governess, a tutor.

Or in her case a grandmother, an arrangement which had turned out to be permanent. Her mother had not even deigned to turn up for Seanmhair’s funeral seven years ago. Or perhaps she had simply not dared. Seven years, during which Allison had worked tirelessly to establish herself. And now that life too was gone.

But now, she had been given the chance to make a new future for herself. Her charges might well have lacked parental affection but their material needs were abundantly satisfied. The children’s quarters were sumptuous, as richly decorated as the one she occupied. The playroom was an Aladdin’s Cave of toys. Wondering why the doll’s house looked familiar, Allison realised it was a miniature replica of the Derevenko Palace. The rocking horse which stood in the window had the look of an Arabian thoroughbred. A positive army of lead soldiers were lined up in one corner commanded, she noted with a wry smile, by an officer wearing Count Derevenko’s regimental colours. Next door to the playroom was a schoolroom complete with three desks and a large slate board, a cupboard full of text books, all in French and English. And next door to that, what must have been the nursery, but which now seemed to be the nanny’s room. There was no evidence of any sort of sick room.

Allison made her way back to her own chamber. She had thought herself accustomed to children, but really, she was only accustomed to children in distress, in the throes of illness. Fractious children, sobbing children, suffering children whose pain she relieved, whose maladies she remedied. Children who were grateful for her soothing presence, and whose parents too were grateful. But these three orphans were an entirely different proposition. Her presence would surely emphasise the absence of their mother and father. No matter how distant those parents had been, the children must be grieving. And then there was the governess who had also, mysteriously, deserted them.

There was no getting away from it, Allison must prepare herself to be perceived as an unwelcome intruder, and an inadequate one at that. Empathy did not make a teacher of her, and one thing she did know about children was that they were not easily fooled, seeing a great deal more than most adults realised. Her charges would likely sense she was a fraud.

Oh, for heaven’s sake! She was overthinking the situation. Honestly, Allison chastised herself, how hard could it be, really? Her life had been dedicated to caring for sufferers. Sympathy and understanding were as much a part of her armoury as her precious herb chest. What’s more, she had been selected, interviewed and judged capable. She had passed muster last night, she knew that, for if she had failed, she would have been ushered out of that hot, glittering ballroom tout de suite. The Count was not a man to tolerate failure. He hadn’t exactly relaxed by the end of the evening, in fact he’d been watching her like a hawk, but several times, when she had found the confidence to riposte some of the sly remarks, he had pressed her hand in approval or given her the most fleeting of nods.

Everyone to whom he introduced her had been informed that she was the new English governess. Everyone assumed she was also her employer’s mistress. ‘You are the envy of every unmarried lady in St Petersburg, Miss Galbraith,’ one of the courtiers had confided sotto voce. ‘As next in line to the dukedom, Aleksei is now one of the most eligible bachelors in the city. How unfair of you to force us to wait until he is done with you. You will understand why I hope that your liaison is short-lived. Though I cannot blame you for wanting to keep him to yourself. There is something about an officer in uniform, is there not? It makes one almost indifferent to the possibility that a ducal coronet may follow. Almost.’

That the Count was sought after did not surprise Allison. That she herself was drawn to him however, surprised her very much. That the attraction was mutual—now that was the biggest surprise of all.

Time and again, she had been propositioned, by husbands and fathers and brothers of her patients, by apothecaries and physicians. Not once had she been tempted, knowing full well that her reputation must be above reproach. All very well for a man in her profession to take a lover, but as a woman, she must be either an angel or a whore, to paraphrase The Procurer. Save for that one secret, salutary entanglement, Allison had never had any difficulty in opting to be the former. Which made it all the more infuriating that the gutter press had branded her a Jezebel with no more evidence than her hair and her figure and the vengeful mud-slinging of a few medical men intent upon protecting their own interests. It was so unfair it made her blood boil. At least, she thought sardonically, if it had been true she would have had some pleasurable memories to bolster her. Instead, ironically, she was a fallen woman with a past that was only one step removed from the virginal. Though as far as London society was concerned, she was irrecoverably ruined.

Which was, if one turned the idea on its head, rather a liberating thought, for the worst that could be said of her had already been said. Allison smiled slowly. What’s more, what was damned in London was positively encouraged in St Petersburg. Why should she make a virtue of resistance?

She enjoyed sparring with the Count. He brought out a teasing, playful side of her that she didn’t recognise. Another sign that she was emerging from the fog of the last six months? Smiling to herself, Allison sat down at the dressing table and took a brush to her hair. Perhaps so, but it wasn’t only that. It was him. Count Aleksei Derevenko. If she was being skittish—and she did feel rather skittish—then she’d have said that he had been fashioned to her precise design. She’d responded to his body on a basic, visceral level that was unknown to her, and she had flirted—yes, unbelievably, that is what she had done, she’d flirted with him. What’s more, she’d enjoyed it.

And so had he. He’d wanted to kiss her last night. Had they not been in the ballroom of the Winter Palace—Allison paused mid-brushstroke. She couldn’t believe they had nearly kissed in the middle of a ball in the Winter Palace.

She resumed her brushing and rolled her eyes at her reflection. She had far too much to lose to make a fool of herself over a man who was her employer, but provided she kept that salient fact in her head, where was the harm in indulging in a light flirtation, if he too was so inclined? She had nothing to lose. She was in St Petersburg, after all. It was pretty much expected of her. What the hell, why not!

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

The Square Room, where Aleksei had first encountered Allison Galbraith, was a suitably private and soberly oppressive venue for their next, crucial meeting. A room which epitomised the suffocating world of the Imperial court. A world which he had rejected and in which his brother had flourished, strangely enough, for though Michael had been a pompous prig, he’d had integrity and he had been scrupulously honest, both qualities in short supply in the court of the Tsars.

The aristocrats he had mingled with last night at the Winter Palace ball seemed like strangers to Aleksei. It was not on their behalf that he had fought for his homeland. Last night had confirmed what his gut had told him from the moment he arrived: he did not belong here in this chaotic city so singularly lacking the rules, discipline, the sense of order to which he was accustomed. The sooner he could escape it the better. Which meant getting to the bottom of the conundrum he faced.

He checked his watch. Five minutes before Miss Galbraith was due. He got to his feet. One thing to be said for the sprawling Derevenko Palace, it provided abundant opportunities for anxious pacing. He hadn’t expected to enjoy the company of the woman who would assist him in his search for the truth, but he had, very much. She had resolve, she had a ready wit and a great deal of poise. Her early encounter with Arakcheev had unsettled her, the general’s salacious remarks had made her furious, but she had quickly regained her composure, deftly handling the gossip and speculation which had followed them around the ballroom for the rest of the evening.

Gossip and speculation which, given her appearance, he ought to have anticipated. Allison Galbraith had a lush sensuality that was all the more enticing because she seemed blissfully unaware of it. No doubt she received more than her fair share of unwelcome propositions. And last night, he’d actually suggested that if circumstances were different...

Aleksei winced. He hadn’t actually propositioned her, but the implication had been there. To be fair to himself, he was pretty certain that the attraction was astonishingly, delightfully—and extremely inconveniently, mutual. Though by all that was precious, wasn’t the situation complicated enough without that!

It had been too long since he’d been able to enjoy the company of any woman. Frustration, that was all it was, he told himself. Though if that was true, why hadn’t he been attracted to one of the many other beautiful women he had been introduced to last night?

Because he couldn’t trust any of them, of course. And because none of them had that—that certain something which Allison Galbraith possessed. Something which made him sure, absolutely certain, that together they would be...

Dammit! She was here for a very specific purpose, and if he wanted to take advantage of her skills, he could not risk being distracted by her body. He was a rational man, he was a man who had forged a very successful military career by putting discipline above all else. Now was not the moment to change the habit of a lifetime.

But on the other hand, must a desire to conclude his business here as quickly as possible preclude enjoying the company of the woman who would help him do just that? How long had it been since he’d been able to indulge in even the lightest of dalliances? Months? It felt more like years. He would not go so far as to say he deserved the tempting Miss Galbraith, but didn’t he deserve some sort of mild flirtation?

But what if he was mistaken? What if he was imagining the attraction to be mutual simply because he wanted it to be? And really, wasn’t he getting his priorities all wrong?

As if in agreement with this very point, the double doors were flung open, the servant announced her, and Allison made a curtsy. ‘Good morning, your Illustrious Highness.’

* * *

He looked just as striking as he had at the ball, Allison thought to herself. Last night had not been a dream, then.

‘Good morning,’ the Count said, ‘and it is Aleksei while we are alone, if you please. In company, Count Derevenko will suffice. Hearing Your Illustrious Highness makes me want to glance over my shoulder to see my brother enter the room. Though actually he preferred Your Serene Highness. Michael was a stickler for etiquette, with a predilection for pomp and ceremony. As you’ll have gathered from our surroundings,’ he added, waving vaguely at the huge reception room in which they were ensconced.

‘What I gather, is that it is decidedly not to your taste,’ Allison said, crossing the room to join him.

‘I’ve been away on active service for so long, I have no idea what my taste in interiors is,’ the Count—Aleksei—replied with a faint smile. ‘It mostly revolves around canvas tents and wooden trunks. Last night at the Winter Palace, I felt even more of a foreigner than you.’

She took the seat opposite him, the same one she had occupied yesterday. He handed her a cup of black tea into which, to her relief, he had already added three sugars. Allison took a tentative sip from her cup. The taste of the tea was odd, the contrast of the sweet and bitter one that she could, despite her reservations, grow to like. Opposite her, the Count—no, Aleksei! She tried his name out for herself, mouthing it silently as she studied him. It suited him. Strong. Forthright. He was not wearing his uniform today, for which she was—shamefully—grateful, for it was true, what the courtier had whispered salaciously last night, there was something about a man in uniform. Or at least, something about this man in uniform. Though if she was being scrupulous about it, his attraction was in no way diminished by the austerity of his breeches and short boots, the long black coat and pristine white shirt with its starched collar. There was a rebellious and endearing kink in his hair, almost silver compared to the dark blond, which stood up on his brow like a comma. The slight frown which seemed to be permanently etched into his face was bisected by a faint scar which she hadn’t noticed yesterday. He sat awkwardly in the little chair, his long legs crossed at the ankles, his shoulders hunched, grasping the delicate teacup with both hands.

‘What is it that you find amusing?’

She hadn’t realised she was smiling. ‘You look like a giant squatting on a child’s seat.’

He grinned. ‘The furniture in this room is designed to discourage use.’

‘Similar to the chairs in the ballroom last night.’