He felt Mary’s shiver. “But Damien talked you out of it.”
Valentin nodded, remembering the day he’d crept into the palace, knife hard under his coat, ready to both kill and die. He’d managed to get all the way into the Imperial Prince’s private rooms, to take the place of one of the servers at his dinner table, to stand behind Damien’s chair. He’d lifted his dagger to drive it into Damien’s neck.
Damien’s wife Penelope, a young Englishwoman, had seen and screamed, and Damien had dived aside just in time. Valentin’s blade had slashed Damien’s coat, missing the prince by a hair’s breadth. And then Damien’s bodyguards had piled on Valentin and dragged him away.
Valentin had been thrown into a cell. They’d known somehow that he was half logosh, and had reinforced the cell against his unnatural strength. They’d let him stew a few days, and then Prince Damien himself had come to talk to him. Every day.
Valentin had been sullen at first, refusing to speak, but gradually he’d opened up. Valentin found himself telling Damien about Sophie, what the now-dead Imperial Prince had done to his family, and about all his rage and grief.
Eventually Valentin had come to understand that Damien was intelligent, shrewd, generous-hearted, and wise, very different from his horrible father. Valentin had grown to respect and then to like Damien.
“Prince Damien can talk very well,” Valentin said with a touch of amusement. “He is, as you say, a raconteur. But it was his wife’s love for him that convinced me I had it wrong. She is pure of heart and could not love a monster.”
Mary gave him an assessing look. “Then your quest for vengeance is over? And the duchess is mistaken?”
Valentin nodded. “My quest is of a different kind now.”
Her gaze remained shrewd. “To catch the ambassador doing something that will condemn him?”
Valentin slid his arms around Mary’s waist. “My quest was to find a woman with eyes the color of chocolate.” The soft round of her breasts pressed his coat, and Valentin lowered his head to lick the hollow of her throat. Her skin was salty, warm from their walk.
“Valentin.” Mary’s voice was a whisper.
“I do not ask lightly.” Valentin raised his head and pushed her hood back, letting his lips skim the line of her hair. “I want you as my lover. To give you all that the word means.”
He felt her shiver again. “While you are in London, fulfilling your task of spying on the ambassador?”
“For as long as you’ll have me.”
Valentin sensed the strain in her, the fear, saw it in her eyes. “Now, we’re speaking again of me traveling to Nvengaria, a land I know nothing of. I’ve never been farther from home than Brighton, and I didn’t think much of that.”
Valentin touched her hair, loving the silk of it. “Do you wait for me to offer marriage?”
Mary shook her head. She broke his hold and walked on, her plaid skirts brushing his legs as she passed him.
Valentin caught up to her with ease. “The reason I do not offer marriage is because I have nothing,” he said, truth tumbling out again. “My estate is bankrupt. I lost everything even before my sister died. It was one reason the Imperial Prince could not understand why Sophie resisted him. He offered to clear our debts—which he had caused in the first place. My father had made him his enemy.”
Anger flared on Mary’s face, and Valentin liked that anger. She understood. “The loathsome man,” she said in a ringing voice. “I do hope he died painfully.”
“Rumors say that Grand Duke Alexander poisoned him, but no one has proved it.” Valentin shook his head. “No one wishes to.” There were many rumors about the old prince’s death, but no investigation had come from it. Everyone was simply relieved the evil old man had gone.
“I can believe it of the ruthlessly efficient Grand Duke Alexander,” Mary said decidedly. “But surely Alexander can help restore your estate. As can Prince Damien, if he has become so pleased with you.”
“The Grand Duke pays for my services, but not enough to keep a wife.” Valentin took Mary’s hand and turned her to him again. “I know that your husband left you destitute. I would never saddle you with another penniless husband.”
A fleeting smile touched her face. “Mr. Cameron was not so much penniless as profligate. You seem the frugal sort.”
“Mary.” Valentin lifted her hand to his lips. “I can offer you so little.”
“That’s not true, you know.” Her dark eyes sparkled in the winter light. “You can offer yourself.”
But for Valentin, that was not enough. He wanted to give her everything a beautiful woman should have: gowns, jewels, horses, a grand carriage, a beautiful house full of beautiful things. He wanted her to be the envy of every lady in Nvengaria—he wanted to be the envy of every gentleman that he had such a lady on his arm.
“I do offer myself.” Valentin pressed firm kisses on each of her fingers, then held her hand against his own cheek. “My friends would think you prudent for not tying yourself to me in marriage. You would be free to leave at any time, free to live your own life, with your own money.”
Mary blinked. “Let me understand you. You are saying that people in Nvengaria live together openly, without marriage, and consider it prudent?”
He nodded. “If a woman risked beggaring herself by marrying, yes.”
She let out a breath. “This Nvengaria is a strange place.”
“It is a beautiful place.” Mary would love it—knife-sharp mountains, deep blue lakes, emerald meadows that were a carpet of brilliant flowers in the spring. “Nvengarians would also think you prudent because I am logosh. They are still not comfortable with wild creatures in their midst.”
Mary looked away. “Neither am I, to tell you the truth.” Her voice was soft, uncertain.
Valentin ran his thumb across the backs of her fingers in her skintight leather gloves. “Then it would be wise for you not to marry me.”
Mary disengaged her hand and shook her head. “You’ve run mad, you know. You wish me to travel with you to Nvengaria—whenever your duty here ends—and live with you openly as your mistress. So that the allowance my brother gives me will keep me well in your drafty house, and if your ability to change into a wolf becomes too much for me, I can leave with impunity.”
Valentin nodded. “Yes. To all of that.”
She gave him a narrow look. “You do realize that most Englishwomen would consider your offer not only shocking but a grave insult? They’d be swooning in the space of a moment.”
“Would they?” The English never ceased to amaze him.
Mary’s mouth curved, and her eyes filled with wicked beauty. “How fortunate for you that I am Scottish.”
Hope flared in his heart. “Then you will agree?”
“I mean I will give it careful consideration.” Mary turned from him again. This time Valentin let her walk away, liking how her cloak flowed over the curve of her hips.
After a few yards, Mary turned back. “I refuse to believe that you arranged this assignation simply to make your shocking proposal,” she said, cocking her head. “Why did you truly wish to meet?”
Chapter 5
Valentin no longer wanted to talk about business. He felt light, almost giddy, with the possibility that Mary would throw everything to the wind and return with him to Nvengaria. He’d show her his world, see that she loved it as he did. They could travel to Scotland from there anytime she wanted—there was beauty in that land too.
He forced himself back to the matter at hand and moved to stand near Mary again. He did not reach for her, but he let his leg touch the fold of her skirt. “I wish to ask you about Miss Lincolnbury’s father,” he said.
Mary’s brows rose sharply. “Sir John? What about him?”
“Who is he? What sort of business does he conduct, and why is he here in London over Christmas?”
“Goodness, is that all?” Mary gave him a shrewd look. “Why do you wish to know?”
“Because Ambassador Rudolf
o seems interested in him. More than a Nvengarian duke should be interested in a plain English baronet.”
Valentin did not understand why Rudolfo seemed determined to find out all about Sir John, and this gnawed at him. As they’d played billiards, Rudolfo had questioned Sir John about everything—why he’d come to London for the winter, what house he’d hired, where his estate was in the north of England, what he did in the country. Valentin had looked on, watchful.
That is, until he’d been drawn to watching Mary play. The tune she’d chosen had been Sophie’s favorite, which Valentin had not been able to listen to since her death. He’d been known to rise and leave concert rooms when it was played, unable to bear it.
Under Mary’s fingers, the piece had taken a different nature. It had become beautiful again, a fond memory rather than a thing to tear at him.
Mary was giving him a thoughtful look. “Duchess Mina too seems quite interested in Julia. I am fond of Julia and Sir John for my friend Allison’s sake, but they are not among the great and titled. Though Sir John is very rich.”
“How did he make this money? Is he in employ of your government?”
Mary shook her head. “Allison—Sir John’s late wife—told me his wealth came from family money and good investments,” she said. “He is forever going to the City and the Corn Exchange, and Julia will become a very wealthy young lady upon her majority. I’m certain the gentlemen will come out of the woodwork for Julia then,” she finished cynically.
“I wondered if Rudolfo wishes Sir John to be his liaison to the English government,” Valentin said. “A way for the ambassador to betray Nvengarian secrets.”
Mary looked skeptical. “If so, Ambassador Rudolfo could choose a better conspirator. Sir John is a kind man, and Allison loved him, but he’s not very bright, except when it comes to money. He has a knack there.”
“Hmm. Perhaps he is the exact kind of man the ambassador needs. One known to be slow-witted and innocent. Who would suspect him?”
Mary’s eyes widened. “Goodness, you see plots everywhere. Perhaps the ambassador and his wife simply like Sir John and Julia. The duke and duchess seem a bit slow-witted themselves.”
“When Nvengaria is involved there are plots everywhere,” Valentin said darkly. “And conspirators and spies.”
“Like you.” Mary smiled.
Her smile could stop his heart. It made him want to be the best man in the world—honorable, noble, virtuous, and wealthy for her sake. Valentin was none of those things.
If he could hold Mary in his arms, bury himself in her, breathe her scent all night, he was certain he would be well again. His wounds might heal, and Valentin might forget, for just a little while, how he’d failed everyone in his life.
“Like me,” he agreed in a quiet voice.
He’d kissed her at the ball last night in a fever of longing. His longing was no less today, but he wanted to take things slowly this time. Valentin leaned down, and Mary readily lifted herself to him, their mouths meeting in for long, hot kiss.
I need you to make me whole, he wanted to say. Did he have the right to ask that of her?
Mary slid her arms around Valentin’s neck. Her lips were warm in the cold December air, the heat in her mouth as he kissed her a haven. He loved the sharp taste of her, like cinnamon and exotic spices.
He eased the kiss to its end. “Be with me, Mary,” he said. “Please.”
The sudden longing in her eyes wasn’t masked. But then Mary looked stricken and shook her head. “I can’t. Not right now. I am Julia’s chaperone. If I do anything untoward, I could compromise her chances.”
Valentin’s temper splintered. “In Scotland, you were tied to no one. You were ready to leave the castle to your brother and Zarabeth. Now I find you with these people you do not even respect. When will you free yourself to simply be Mary?”
Mary flushed. “Julia is the daughter of my closest friend, who died some years ago. Julia needs help, and I will not let her drift. I owe it to Allison.”
“You like to tie yourself to needy people,” Valentin said, unable to stop the blunt words. “They take advantage of you.”
“That might be true.” Mary’s voice softened. “But it’s nice to be needed.”
“I need you,” he growled.
Mary clasped Valentin’s arms, her fingers closing firmly on him. “You are the strongest man I know.” Her dark eyes held conviction, hope, clarity, and a watchfulness. “You take care of everyone—Zarabeth, the ambassador, Prince Damien. When will you release yourself to be Valentin?”
Valentin’s throat tightened. “It is not the same thing. I am atoning for my past.”
“For trying to stab Prince Damien? I thought you’d been forgiven that.”
“Not for Damien,” Valentin said impatiently. “For Sophie.”
“How on earth are you to blame for that?” Mary’s tone held incredulity. “From what I understand, no one could stop the old Imperial Prince from doing whatever he wanted.”
Valentin shook his head, his eyes stinging. “I was not there to defend her. I’d gone off and left Sophie alone.”
“Not alone, surely,” practical-minded Mary said. “I imaging you had servants and bodyguards in your house. Every Nvengarian nobleman and noblewoman has bodyguards, I’ve been given to understand.”
“If they’d tried to stand against the Imperial Prince, he’d have had them shot.” Valentin’s heart burned with fierce fire. “Sophie knew that. She wouldn’t let them stop him.”
Tears trickled down his face, hot on his cold skin. Englishmen avoided showing emotion, but Nvengarians were not ashamed to weep.
He saw Mary’s anguished face before her arms were around him. Her embrace held heat against the winter day, the fur of her cloak tickling his cheek. Her body against his comforted him as though he floated without care in a warm sea.
The feeling of her heart beating between her breasts soothed his hurt a little. Valentin pressed his lips to her neck and absorbed the warmth trapped inside her cloak.
If he could stay in Mary’s arms forever, all would be well. He was certain of it.
* * *
Mary’s mind spun with conflicting thoughts the rest of the evening and through the long winter night, and on into morning as she finished packing Julia’s things for the visit to Hertfordshire.
The pain in Valentin’s eyes when he’d spoken of his sister had been raw. Mary ached for him, had felt the heartbreak in him when she’d held him. She’d wanted to keep on holding him as the park darkened, wanting to soothe him until he ceased shaking.
But he’d raised his head, wiping his eyes of his unashamed tears, and conceded that they needed to return home before either of them was gone too long.
Valentin had walked her to the edge of the park, her disapproving maid trailing them, his body tall and strong next to hers, and handed her into a hackney coach to take her back to Sir John’s Curzon Street house. He’d touched her fingers as he’d withdrawn to let her ride in the hackney without him, the look in his eyes as tender as his kisses.
A man who knew how to love. Who wanted her as his lover.
Those two thoughts kept Mary awake most of the night and had her sandy-eyed and impatient the next morning.
Mary and Julia rode to Hertfordshire with Duchess Mina in a traveling coach that was a decadence of cushions and velvet upholstery. Ingenious fold-down cabinets contained food, drink, books, and magazines, everything the well-heeled traveler could want. Punched tin boxes of glowing coals warmed their feet. The duchess even had a hand-warmer—a small metal box wrapped in a cloth with a bit of coal inside—tucked into her muff. She generously let Julia use the warmer when Julia complained of cold fingers.
The morning was cold and crisp, the sky bright blue, the air dry and clear. Perfect for a journey out of the city. Pristine English countryside unfolded around them as the four horses in gleaming harness jogged along. Hedge-lined lanes led through a patchwork quilt of small farms; woods and gentle hi
lls flowed to the horizon.
Julia and the duchess exclaimed at the prettiness. Mary, used to rugged Scottish mountains that dropped into churning seas, found the scenery tame and a bit dull.
The house in Hertfordshire was breathtaking. Good King George must have wished to keep the Nvengarians happy, because he’d given them an enormous Palladian mansion that rose, escarpment-like, from a vast snow-covered lawn. The extensive park ran to woods to the east, and a frozen pond glimmered like a fallen mirror across the grounds to the west before it bent out of sight around a stand of trees.
The park even had a ha-ha—a green bank, now dusted with snow, that rose gently to end in an abrupt drop. A trespasser dashing across the great English lord’s land in the middle of the night would suddenly find himself falling five feet down, landing flat on his face in the mud. Ha, ha.
Mary disapproved. Scottish castles were open to the entire clan, places to gather in times of trouble and equally for celebration. English houses, beautiful to look at, shut out all but the privileged few.
The house inside was a typical stately home, with high-ceilinged rooms, a central elegant staircase, myriad halls, and paintings of two hundred years of the house’s inhabitants. As they entered, the butler informed the duchess that the pond was indeed safe for skating. The duchess squealed and clapped her hands in excitement.
It was the twenty-first of December, Yule, the longest night. They would have a skating party this afternoon, Duchess Mina declared, and then they’d burn the Yule log and have all kinds of festivities after dark. The ambassador had said he could join them that evening, and he’d bring Julia’s father with him. It would be a fine celebration.
That meant Valentin would come. Mary both wanted him here and feared his presence. His bold offer in the park and her glimpse behind his stoicism had unnerved her deeply.