My laughter fills the cavernous hallway. I take his ears in my hands and press a kiss to his massive head. “You know I love to hear your gulag stories.”
“You have a very strange sense of humor.”
“And you don’t have one,” I retort, patting his cheek as I move past him.
“I know enough about your sex life to know that your uncle is right. It’s time you got married.”
“Ah, so you want to curtail my sex life, just like him.” I shake my head.
“Ahpeteet prihohdit va vryemya yedy,” he mutters. Appetite comes with eating, so the proverb goes. For Isla Dalforth, I’d happily gorge myself to death
“The jealousy of the older generation.” I shake my head mockingly.
“The lack of respect from the younger. Your uncle likes the duke.”
“Likes the idea of him being in his pocket, you mean.” Marrying his only nephew into the aristocracy would elevate his already overinflated sense of self. He’d get off on ruining her family by tying them to us, embroiling them in our business dealings and death. “But why buy the cow when the milk is going for free?” The analogy isn’t a pleasant one, but it’s a necessary lie. Isla Dalforth would be nothing but an empty husk, drained of her lust for life if she were forced to be tied to me. And that’s what it would come to because he’d see to that. The man can’t help but view people as commodities—pieces to be moved around the chess board of his life. “Let my uncle enjoy his vacation,” I add with a dismissive wave. “Don’t bother him with any of this.”
“You are his only family. He wants what’s best for you.”
“Of course,” I lie. And the best for me, according to him, is to make the best of myself. To join myself to the British elite. Not to fashion myself in his image.
“Nikolai,” I can almost hear him say, “what was the point of paying the fees for Winchester, for Eton, for Oxford University, if you’re not going to make the most of your connections?”
He’d milk me dry too, if I’d let him. But I tread my own path, I don’t dance to his tune, and I show no interest in joining him. To risk doing so would only end my life prematurely, I’m sure. Konstantin likes to see himself as my benevolent uncle, but I do wonder if he’d gut me if he thought I had plans for his empire. Which I don’t.
“He is enjoying his holiday!” Sergei gives a deep belly laugh. “Last night, I heard he chopped up some Albanian upstart in one of his clubs.”
“Murder on the dance floor,” I drawl. Sergei frowns then shrugs. I can only guess he’s not a fan of Sophie Ellis-Bexter’s music. I can’t stop the low rumble of my sigh. “The man has no finesse.”
“No, but he does have la policía in his pocket.”
That stands to reason because why else would he chop someone up with an audience.
“Lady Isla would be useful to you,” Sergei adds, falling in behind me. “No one says marriage has to curtail your other activities.”
As I grasp the door handle, I turn my head over my shoulder. “You have been listening at keyholes?”
“Your uncle—”
“I know what he wants. He might pay your salary, but he doesn’t rule me. Let him stick to ruling—ruining?—the Canary Islands, instead of ruling,”—and ruining—“my life.”
“He wants what’s best for you, the son of his only brother.”
“And I don’t want a fucking wife.” The rest I swallow down. My uncle’s best was for me was to be raised by a succession of maids and housekeepers until, at the first opportunity, I was dumped at the gates of the best school’s money could buy. I learned to ape and to infiltrate influential circles. To make friends with the sons of princes and prime ministers, dictators and diplomats. Because who knew when those connections would come in useful to Konstantin Vanyin.
And now he’d have me pick a bride for the same reasons. To better his influence. To poison. To invade. To corrupt. The Dalforths deserve better than that.
“You sound like a child,” Sergei grumbles.
“Think before you speak, old man,” I growl, swinging around and stepping into him. “Who will be left holding the reins when Konstantin is gone?”
Sergei’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t step back. “Kolya,” he soothes using my father’s nickname for me. “This life was never meant for you. Your uncle respects what your father planned.”
“But my father isn’t here.”
“This life—”
I turn for the door again, my shoulders aching as though the world is balanced there. I won’t have him interfering in my life. I won’t let him sully Isla. “I need to take care of this svoloch',” I mutter, pushing the door wide.
“He’s not a bastard, and his father is a viscount.”