Memory of the artless hunger in her gaze and tentative smile swam across Mikhail’s vision, and he had to grit his teeth against the arousal curling through him. “Maybe.”
He could feel the shock pouring from his cousin, and Mikhail understood. It had been years since he admitted interest in a woman.
“You do not sound pleased.”
He met Sebastian’s gaze. “She is the only woman to challenge my discipline in years.” Mikhail had spent years distancing himself from the women of the Russian court, content to live with the coldness encasing his heart. Now this slip of a girl threatened his resolve. Was it even prudent to think about a woman who made those walls quaver? He could not allow anything to reduce him again to the pitiful boy he’d been after surviving Madam Anya’s depravity. He closed his eyes, drawing upon his iron control, forcing all pain and regret into abeyance.
He should relinquish all thoughts of Payton Peppiwell.
A thoughtful frown settled on the duke’s face. “Are you saying you have a different reaction to her than with other women?”
“Yes.”
Calydon slowly rose and moved to stand beside him. “Do you intend to pursue her?”
Mikhail’s mind muddled. No. She had only been a dangerous anomaly, albeit intriguing. He grunted, unable to give voice to the dual need warring inside.
“Mikhail,” Sebastian said softly, a note of apology in his tone.
Mikhail braced himself against the last thing he wanted to speak. Do not mention Madam Anya.
Sebastian hesitated as if sensing his turmoil. “If you do decide to explore the interest she stirred, be kind to her.”
Mikhail clenched his jaw. He knew his cousin wanted to say more, and he appreciated the restraint. “If I did, I would not treat her unkindly.”
“Not intentionally. But we both know you will hold back a part of yourself with Payton at all times. She deserves so much more.”
Why were they even having this pointless discourse? “I would not waste my time with a pursuit. That would require me revealing my status, and I welcome solitude too much now to think of courtship.”
But what if you could endure a normal relationship?
It was as if the devil himself slinked from the bowels of hell and whispered the thought in his ear. Mikhail was almost certain he could touch the spot beneath his ear and feel temptation’s cold kiss.
Blasted hell.
What in God’s name was a normal relationship? Since his kidnapping, and sexual torture at the hands of one of Russia’s most infamous courtesans, Mikhail abhorred touch. Even when he eventually took a wife, he faced the risk of having her turn to another man for affections he could not give.
Christ. He had already experienced it with a woman he’d thought he loved. Lady Olga. He’d always recoiled from the icy pain of her grasping touch, and she’d sought another.
So why was he even thinking of taking Payton on a picnic?
The mere thought of pursuing her had emotions he’d not felt in years twisting in his gut—anxiety, dread, and electrifying excitement. He preferred to dwell in the cold void where no pain or memory of humiliation resided. But what if learning her allowed him something he’d thought he would never reclaim—the sensual glide of a lover’s touch, the press of her lips against his throat, the fan of her breath as she trailed hot kisses down to his stomach and enveloped his cock in her sublime heat, a simple hug when he was weary?
Mikhail had never suffered such a quandary.
Chapter Five
Proper young ladies did not imagine being kissed senseless, of being ravished and held in an illicit embrace by unknown gentlemen. Never had it been more evident that Payton was not proper, nor a well-bred young lady, like those who peppered the haute monde. She had fantasized about how Mikhail’s hands would feel against her bare skin, dreamed of his lips pressed softly to hers, of waltzing with him under the stars. Of what it would have been like if he had taken her in his arms and kissed her. Gently marauding or savagely ravishing?
Dear heavens.
Payton dried her hair fully and changed into a soft blue day dress, but it seemed she had not escaped a cold and fever as she had hoped. It was the only explanation for the burning curiosity that had lighted in her veins as they had played cards by the fire and now continued to torment her hours later.
The whole encounter had been so surreal, so appealing. Since living in England, this had been the first time she had gotten a glimpse of what life with an ordinary man could be like. A small cottage…well mayhap not so small, but the quiet intimacy while they lazed by the fire, talking, reading, playing chess or cards with not a care in the world.
Blast the man. He made her question the resolve to guard her heart so stringently, and he was untitled. Her family would have a fit if they could peek at Payton’s intimate thoughts, and she finally admitted she must do something about their incessant badgering her to marry. She craved something else, not a life of adventure or wealth, but one filled with calm acceptance of her abilities and passion. She had never imagined it would be so daunting to inform her mother and aunt she desired simply to marry a man of her choosing.
Lifting the pen from the inkwell, she wrote to her sister Phillipa. Payton felt as if their relationship had been strained since Lord Jensen jilted her, but Phillipa insisted it was not so. Payton knew better. Hurting, she had thoughtlessly blamed her sister for Lord Jensen’s coolness, when he was the one who had been lacking. They had since repaired their relationship, but Payton had not unwound to confide in her sister the way she had done in the past. Her embarrassment and hurt had been too profound.
Payton hoped sharing with her sister now would reaffirm the closeness they’d once had. And she also desperately wanted the counsel of someone who did not live for high society. She snatched a piece of foolscap paper from the desk drawer, placed it on the small walnut desk where she settled, and started to write.
Dearest Phillipa,
I have missed you so, sister. It has been a few weeks since we last exchanged letters. How are you and Lord Anthony? I tried to escape Mother and Aunt Florence to visit you in Baybrook, but I fear they would only follow me and ruin the idyllic and blissful time you must be enjoying with Anthony.
I have met someone
I confess I write to you now because I am in desperate need of your guidance. I met someone this morning on an early morning ride; a Mr. Mikhail Konstantinovich. The inclement weather forced us to share a cottage together, alone, for
a few hours. I have never met a man so alarmingly handsome and fascinating. Though he acted gentlemanly, for the most part, the force of his presence was felt in a manner I have never encountered before. From a mere stare, my heart raced, and I ached with the need for him to press his lips to mine.
There, I have immortalized my scandalous thoughts. He has crumbled the disinterest I had formed in courtship. He is a mister, a man of affairs of sorts to Calydon, so mother and father would never approve of me walking with him, yet I desire to. The knowledge he would have no expectation of strict behavior and this ridiculous notion of ladylike propriety from me, is so refreshing and tempting. He invited me to a picnic, and I eagerly consented. Now I doubt my actions. What would be the purpose of walking with someone our parents would never approve of? I will also admit the knowledge that I will turn twenty-one in several months has been hovering. If I were to really form an attachment with Mr. Konstantinovich I could eventually marry him without Father’s consent. I would hate to disappoint them so, and I may be getting ahead of myself. In fact, mayhap it was our unusual situation that has led me to believe he is charming.
Though I find him interesting, there is also a deeper dread slowly rearing its head. What if beneath the surface of his handsomeness he is just as callous and unfeeling as Lord Jensen? I had thought I would have only been leery of someone belonging to the haute monde, however, it seems men in general have gained my mistrust.
I fear I am rambling.
On to other news. I have started a new story which I hope to gift to the twins. I am quite aware they will not be able to read it, so please quit rolling your eyes. But when they are older, they will know this wonderful story, of a brother and sister flying on dragons to save the kingdom of Gruyn, was written for them.
I wish you and Lord Anthony would visit Sherring Cross. You are missing the twins’ rapid growth, and our dear sister Phoebe is blossoming too fast. She turns sixteen in a few weeks and she eagerly speaks of having a season. She needs your guidance as well, for we know how treacherous those waters can be. If I do not see you in the next couple of weeks, I will resolve to steal away for a visit without Mama and Aunt Florence.