Wild:. Noelle Mack
like a little book but was made of engraved metal. It held a miniature that she often looked at. She had taken it out from her desk just that morning. She had painted the image herself, with mousehair brushes on an ivory oval, of a small face, like an angel, with closed eyes. It was a face she had seen only once, as if in a dream, when she had been nearly out of her mind with grief. But she had captured its delicacy of features and expression. The miniature had become a sort of amulet that she always kept nigh, but not where anyone would see it.
Vivienne crossed in front of the window and swiftly picked it up. She opened a drawer in her desk and put the little case away, then happened to touch the letter that had come for her today.
Her hand drew back as if she touched something filthy. But the folded paper was immaculately white, folded to hide the lines penned upon it. It had come from someone demanding a meeting. Someone she knew well—and never wanted to see again. But she would have to.
If only…. Suddenly she wanted Kyril to hold her, right now, until the sun came up. For whatever reason he pleased. He might do as he wished with her. She craved his warmth, his sensuality, his amorous determination—animal qualities that had nothing to do with romantic nonsense. Not loving but definitely life-giving. He might ease the coldness in her heart. That would be enough.
The wheels of the black coach moved slowly forward, then back, as the horses strained against their harnesses. Radiating misery from his dripping hat to his drenched back, the coachman settled himself stolidly upon his high seat and flicked the whip at the horses. The carriage lurched a little over the cobblestones of Cheyne Row and rolled on. She watched it rattle away around a corner.
He would be home soon. She had never been to his house but she knew that Kyril lived only a few miles away, near Grosvenor Square. She pulled the drape closed, imagining the place for a few seconds.
His clothes were not at all showy; his house was likely to be just as sober. It would have, oh, tall columns framing the entrance. It would be built of pale stone blocks fitted together with the utmost precision. A paneled black door with no glass inserts and no hint of what was beyond it. She added just one touch of whimsy to her mental picture: a polished doorknocker in the shape of an animal’s head, holding the heavy ring that did the actual knocking in its brass jaws. He was not British, so it did not have to be the obligatory lion. No, a wolf would do nicely.
He had money. What of it? So did she. But she was not sure where his came from. Months ago, a mutual friend had explained the Taruskin family’s long association with the British Society of Merchant-Adventurers. She had not listened closely, preferring to look at Kyril.
Now, with nothing else to do but think, she tried to remember what bits she had heard. The immense wealth of the Russian aristocracy…the vast country’s unexploited riches, there for the taking…the necessity for the Society’s foreign agents to learn excellent English…
Glancing constantly at Kyril as her friend spoke, captivated by everything from his handsomeness to his height, she had paid little attention to any of it.
Her former lover, a duke who lived apart from his cantankerous duchess, had introduced her to Kyril—without explanations—shortly after his arrival in London. Horace had seen to it that Vivienne was often thrust into the company of the dashing newcomer at the assemblees and balls they attended, social occasions at which the duchess never appeared.
Had Horace hoped Kyril would sweep her off her feet when he was bored with her?
It had not happened. Kyril had been the soul of propriety until tonight. Horace had been forced to take up with someone else and incur the expenses of two mistresses for a while. The duke had complained that Vivienne was as serene as a statue when his eye wandered elsewhere.
He had not been entirely wrong about Kyril, however. Her attraction to him had been obvious to an old roué like Horace. Vivienne had been curious about Kyril, invited him to several soirées of her own, hoping to draw him out or at least overhear if he talked of anything more personal than the theater and music and books. But he never had. Kyril was discreet to a fault.
He had reason to be, she supposed. Tonight had been her first encounter with the man behind the gentlemanly façade. So far, he lived up to his legend. The breathless whispers about his prowess as a lover—she had overheard those—were undoubtedly right. The subtlety and skillfulness of his lovemaking made her want more. Far more.
Vivienne opened the window at last, heedless of the rain. She needed a breath of air. Without his vital presence, the drawing room seemed dull and stifling. She was restless, as she so often was at night, hating to be confined.
During the hours of daylight, she might walk out when she pleased, unaccompanied, but night was a very different matter. The duke had seldom come to her then, saying that once the sun went down, she became a different woman.
Her own woman. Not properly attentive to his dull anecdotes or his sexual demands. Those at least had the advantage of being quickly satisfied at any hour of the day.
She looked again for the beggar in the long coat but saw no sign of him. He was hidden in the shadows or no longer there at all. Drawing a deep breath, Vivienne closed her eyes, refreshed by the cool air. Despite the storm, she could just hear the Thames, flowing through the darkness of the London night toward the distant sea.
After a few minutes, Vivienne closed the window quietly. She might as well retreat to her study and read through the lonely hours that remained of the night. Kyril’s kisses had stirred her too much to sleep.
Sexual desire, if satisfied, was as good a cure for loneliness as any. Love was not. A dalliance with the mysterious Russian would do no harm. How odd that he thought of her as dangerous. Surely he was teasing.
Once downstairs, she entered the study and locked the door behind her. A servant had lit an oil lamp some hours ago and forgotten to blow it out. The golden glow brightened the pleasantly cluttered room. Vivienne pushed aside a small crate with her foot. She still had not unpacked everything she had brought from her apartments in Audley Street.
But the house already looked like hers. Most of the rooms were furnished to her taste, if haphazardly. She sank with a sigh upon the chaise. There were books stacked upon a small table by its side, not very neatly.
She looked at the titles imprinted in worn gold letters upon their spines and picked out one Kyril had given her months ago. Folktales, translated from the Russian.
Vivienne kicked off her embroidered shoes. Then she swung her legs up and made herself comfortable, opening the book without looking inside it. She set it down upon the front of her dress, and got a pillow behind her neck.
Lying down, relaxing, she could not help but think of Kyril and wish again that he were lying by her, holding her in his strong arms, warming her body with his own. His expert kisses—his masterful strength—his passionate whispers and his repeated invitations to come away with him—ah, she had been far too quick to say no.
He intended to become her lover, though love would have nothing to do with what she wanted from him. However, she intended to say yes the very next time she saw him.
Vivienne let her eyes drift closed, seeing his dark blue ones as clearly as if he were above her. Her hand rested on the book of fairytales.
Imagining him pressing down upon her, his long thigh between hers as he worked her dress up to her waist, arousing her with ardent caresses…then…naked…their bodies entwined…her sensual fantasy became a dream of pure pleasure.
Vivienne did not remember falling asleep.
She wakened just before dawn. The lamp was still lit, but the clear oil in the reservoir was nearly gone. She glanced at the clock on the mantel to confirm the hour: five o’clock. Then she looked down at her disheveled dress, remembering what she had done. She must have pulled it down to keep herself warm.
She hugged a pillow to herself, pretending it was Kyril.
Something was poking her in the side—the book of folktales. In his own way, he was with her. The thought pleased her and she took it up again.