Kiss of Scandal
Isabel Roman
Kiss of Scandal
A Ravenous Romance™ Once Upon a Time™ Original Publication
Copyright © 2009 by Isabel Roman
Ravenous Romance™
100 Cummings Center
Suite 123A
Beverly, MA 01915
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review.
ISBN-13: 978-1-60777-294-9
This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Dedication
To my dear friend from Texas, Raelyn. All this is her fault. To Christine and Jeannette, you know why. Special thanks to Evangeline Holland for the map.
Chapter One
St. Petersburg, Russia
February 5, 1855
Georgian Calendar
Bastard.
Count Peter Andreiovitch Orlov pounded his silver-tipped walking stick on the roof of the carriage. His heart pounded in time to the quick clatter of the horses’ hooves, which moved too slowly.
“Faster!” he bellowed to the driver. Gusts of wind and snow howled around the carriage, impeding their rapid movement.
His hand drifted to the case on the seat beside him, checking once again that his proof lay safe. He’d long suspected something these past years, perhaps a bit of smuggling or tidbits of information passed to the enemy. But nothing as deep-rooted as he’d found.
The tsar will crush his family.
The metal sled suspending the carriage tore through the heavy snow blanketing the streets. Jerking the curtain back to check their progress, Peter stared past the frost as the glowing lampposts blinked by. At this speed, they should reach the Winter Palace within minutes. With impatient fingers, he opened his pocket watch and noticed it was almost two in the morning. There’d be a delay in waking the tsar, and the attendants would try to block his visit. Hell, they’d commit murder before waking the emperor.
Tapping the case once again, though it could not have disappeared, Peter nodded to himself. “He has to know now.”
Leaning forward, as if by sheer will he could move the carriage faster, Peter thought of his family and the politics of this untenable situation. The tsar’s temper would flare uncontrollably, but they’d have to consider the nobility. This must be handled with utmost caution.
Peter’s head jerked up; he’d heard a distinctive sound through the howl. A pistol shot. Wiping the fog off the window, he peered out once more.
The carriage veered sharply to the right, away from the Palace route. “Driver!” he yelled. “Stay on course!”
Looking out the window, he saw two other horses, each with a rider, racing alongside the carriage. His driver screamed something he couldn’t make out as the carriage rocked violently from the sharp turn.
Opening his case, Peter removed several of the more important papers: detailed expenses, a travel itinerary, and a small leather book listing accounts. Without a second thought, he knelt on the floor and separated the seat from its frame with a hard yank. Stuffing the papers into the hollow gap, he pushed it back. Sitting down again and bracing his feet on the opposite bench for more leverage, Peter pushed the edge with his walking stick, wedging the frame into place. Glancing around the interior to make sure nothing was amiss, he snapped the lid of his case shut.
Peter pulled out his revolver. With the erratic rocking of the carriage slowing, he opened the door just in time to see one of the riders throw something at his driver. He tried to block the onslaught of snow hitting his face with his left hand, and leaned his shoulder against the door frame to steady himself.
Over the howl of the winter storm, the horses cried and the carriage came to a jolting stop. Peter jumped from the velvet interior into the whipping snow, gun held high before him. With a steady pace, he approached the rider he could see. There had been two, but he dared not look for the second man.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “Dismount immediately!”
The man jumped off his horse, face covered with heavy winter garb. Peter noticed, in the dim light from the lamppost, that he was dressed as a gentleman.
“I was trying to help,” the rider screamed through the biting wind. “You were about to race into an overturned carriage. There is an accident down Nevsky Prospekt, near the Palace.”
“Where’s my driver?” Peter kept the revolver aimed squarely at the stranger’s chest.
Looking around as if the driver lay buried in the snow bank, the man gestured for Peter to lower his weapon. “He must have dismounted from the other side.” The stranger pointed. “There, behind you—your driver.”
Keeping aim on the stranger, Peter turned his head and was met with a strike to the temple. He collapsed, but didn’t lose consciousness. He felt groggy, as if struggling to wake from a dream. Blinking, he searched for his pistol, his bleary eyes focusing enough to see someone snatch it from the cushions of snow.
“Don’t leave any blood on the ground,” he heard one of them yell as they picked him up to move him back into the carriage.
Once inside the velvet box, the relative warmth seeped into his bones and he struggled to clear his head. Instinct told him this was no simple robbery. Without the screeching wind drowning everything out, he found he could hear them more clearly.
“Get the papers from the case. Hurry.”
Peter tried to move but found he’d lost control of his limbs. Pain spiked through him, momentarily blinding him as he struggled not to moan aloud.
“Give me those and take these,” the stranger commanded. That voice, Peter thought as his vision cleared. He knew that damn voice.
“Good. Done.” One of the men opened the door. “Finish it.”
The last thing Count Peter Andreiovitch Orlov saw was the metal base of the carriage’s light fixture before he felt it crash against his head.
* * * *
February 6, 1855
Georgian Calendar
The Winter Palace—St. Petersburg, Russia
A summer’s day, Countess Katria Viktorevna Markova thought.
The Palace reminded her of a brilliant summer’s day every time she entered. No matter that it was winter in Russia. Even with her velvet gown and sable cloak, she could barely stand the bitter winds that whipped through the air as she stepped from her carriage to the interior. Inside these walls, exotic plants flourished and the gilded accents sparkled like the sun at their summer villa on the Black Sea.
The beauty of the Palace served as a stark contrast to many who wandered her halls. The tsar’s royal court gathered here for their daily rituals, peacocks prancing about and scheming with every breath. They were up there, strolling the Palace’s state rooms. She could practically hear their venomous tongues working on whatever soul was the latest to fall into disfavor.
“Your Grace!” Katria called as she handed her cloak with a smile and a nod to a scarlet-liveried servant. Spotting her uncle about to ascend the ornate rococo staircase, she moved forward toward Bishop Anatoli Mikhailivitch Markova. His dark eyes watched her, his hand absently smoothing his long, impeccably trimmed beard. The medallion atop his black robes glittered like the gilded accents along the Palace walls.
“Good, you’ve arrived. I’ve been watching for you.” Anatoli waved the hovering servant away with an imperious hand.
Katria started to bow from the waist, her right hand extending downward. She prepared to continue with the ritual when Anatoli laughed. “Shall we dispense with pretense?” He took her elbow, straightening her, and offered a welcoming embrace.
“Uncle, there never has and never will be pretense between us.” Kissing him on both cheeks, Katria smoothed down his long, prickly beard before glancing curiously up the staircase. She could hear muffled voices floating down from the state rooms, and anticipation quickened through her blood.
“Are the vipers biting today or just snapping?” Her wry comment caused Anatoli’s grin to widen.
She’d referred to the courtiers as vipers since she was a child; it was an apt description of more than half of them. But they were not the reason she wished to hurry to the rooms. Nor was the tempting array of food and drink, nor even the chance to interact with the tsar.
“I expect venom to spew forth momentarily,” a deep voice rumbled from behind her.
She could feel his hot breath tickling her shoulder, skin tingling with awareness. His lips brushed the base of her neck, there and gone in a heartbeat. Scandalous in so public a setting. Heart racing, she forced herself to turn slowly, arching an eyebrow as Count Nikolai Andreiovitch Orlov joined her and Anatoli in front of the Jordan Staircase.
Her need to rush up to the state rooms vanished.
Drinking in his appearance, Katria kicked the hem of her heavy skirt as she faced him. Her focus left his eyes to slide down his tall, muscular frame. As tall as Anatoli, Nikolai towered over her. It was the look, however, the one she now knew he reserved for her, that inspired sinful thoughts whenever they met. She smiled.
“Count Orlov.” She extended her hand, but instead of delicately kissing the back of it, Nikolai raised his dark eyes to meet hers and kissed her gloved palm. Katria tilted her head and offered a cordial nod for the benefit of any who may be watching.
“Countess.” Nikolai offered his arm and they started up the stairs behind Anatoli. He closed his other hand over hers, keeping her close by his side. Katria couldn’t say she minded. “The vipers are restless, slithering about the rooms in search of prey.”
The way he’d said “prey,” the hungry look he slanted in her direction, made her shiver. Her fingers tightened on his arm, and Katria was certain he noticed. Then again, everything about Nikolai elicited reaction, from the strength of his arm to the power in his smooth, deep voice. Now, as they climbed the stairs, his fingers brushed over her wrist, teasing the bare inch of skin between glove and dress.
“I’ve missed you,” Nikolai said. The words were so low, for a moment she wasn’t certain she’d heard them. Then he chuckled, and the sultry sound went straight through her.
Katria shook her head, temporarily clearing her thoughts. What had they been talking about? Court, yes. Unsure why she’d shared it with him in the first place, she noticed he’d taken to her vipers metaphor. Only a handful knew of her habit of denigrating the tsar’s court. It wasn’t something she often shared, too used to hiding her true opinions.
“Father was called to a special meeting this morning, and I’ve come out of curiosity,” Katria whispered as she paused on the stairs for a better hold of her skirt.
“I’ve heard there was an upset this morning. Before you ask, I am not privy to the details as yet.” Anatoli offered. His strong voice, which usually reverberated along the huge Palace rooms, was hushed now so as not to be overheard as they continued to ascend the marble steps. The cavernous stairs could carry a voice to the very top, and none of them wished to have their conversation heard.
“You will be,” she said with a quick grin up at him. Anatoli was one of the few people she believed in. She’d long wished he was her father instead of Viktor.
“You give me entirely too much credit, Katria.”
“I doubt that, Your Grace,” Nikolai said. But Katria noticed his gaze shifted to her, and offered a slight smile.
Each time their eyes met, she felt he wanted to possess her, devour her. At first, unbalanced by his attentions, his aggressiveness, she’d challenged him. Life at the royal court had taught her a great deal. Russian court was the most vicious arena, and she’d sworn at a very young age that she wouldn’t be eaten alive. She’d find a way to bite back.
“That isn’t possible, Uncle,” she agreed. Pausing as they reached the top step, Katria peered across the landing through the opened archway, familiar with the court scene. Politics breathed life into Russian society.
“What intrigue is rattling the nest here today?” she asked, looking between the two men. Arm still secure through Nikolai’s, she was grateful Anatoli was with them. Though part of her had grown to crave time alone with Nikolai, another part of her recognized his possessive need and bristled.
“Several, including a plot against General Khrulev which disturbs me greatly.” Anatoli’s voice hardened. “He’s the only hope we have in this tangled mess of a war.”
“He’s one of our few competent generals.” Nikolai’s dry words were all too true.
“Who’s spreading these plots? Radoff? Ulensky?” Katria removed her hand from Nikolai’s arm to walk a few steps in front of him. “Those two see Khrulev in the way of their own military ambitions.”
“Among others,” Nikolai added with a hint of annoyance in his voice.
Katria stilled, looking back at Nikolai. Was that annoyance because of the latest plot? Or because she’d stepped away from him? She tried to discern the reason by watching him out of the corner of her eye, but couldn’t tell.
A master of court life, Nikolai let nothing show he did not wish to. With her own private smile, she chose to believe he was annoyed that she moved away. There was a certain power in commanding such attention. Power that she rather enjoyed. She’d need to cultivate the way she used it. Especially since he had managed to best her at the most important turn in their game.
“Perhaps we can divert attention away from the general for a time?” Smiling back at her companions, Katria caught Nikolai’s eye.
His smile changed: no more the playful political one, but one she couldn’t describe. Deeper; inviting, even. She could see the look in his dark gaze follow her, feel it from a distance. She would never admit he could unnerve her. Never.
“We are of the same mind, Katria.” Anatoli pushed his robe to one side to pace out of view of the open archway.
Anatoli was an imposing sight when his thick eyebrows furrowed. Katria, forcing her gaze from Nikolai to blindly watch her uncle pace, believed the tsar was slightly intimidated by her uncle’s six-foot-tall, stocky frame. The thought always amused her.
“What shall we feed to those ravenous snakes?” Anatoli asked.
“I think you know, Uncle, and are wondering if I do as well.” Katria shot him a sly gaze, one she would have prolonged had she not felt the urgent need to remove her jacket. She’d been chilled to the bone traveling the short distance from her home to here. How the tsar managed to keep this enormous Palace as warm as it was mystified her.
“The tsar’s council of ministers. Galensky is finally going to relinquish his seat due to poor health.” Returning her attention to Nikolai, she saw her statement invoked the half-smile, half-smirk she’d grown to recognize when something pleased him.
“I’m impressed, Katria. How did you discover this so quickly?” Anatoli’s approving smile widened as he approached her.
“By way of maid and tailor. You’ve instructed me well, Uncle,” she shot back in a conspiratorial tone.
Nikolai studied her. Over the last months, she’d often caught him watching her. No, not watching. Admiring. A surge of heat coursed through her.
It had become an obsessive diversion between them, this watching. This studying. She’d become keenly aware of it over the past months, of their own private chess match.
“You’ll need every bit of skill for the future.” The bishop’s dark eyes turned serious. “When I leave this world, I want to be secure in the knowledge you are well prepared to navigate these rooms.”
Warmth filled her at his words. Her uncle didn’t often say such things or express much emotion. When he did, her affection deepened for the bishop, as did the resentment she held toward her father. The look in Anatoli’s eyes said what he could not say aloud, and Katria smiled up at him.
“If you’ll both excuse me.” Nikolai’s smooth voice brought her back to the moment. “I believe it’s time the others learned of Galensky.” Taking her by the shoulders, Nikolai kissed her temple. “Don’t go far,” he whispered. “Your Grace.” He nodded before heading across the hall and through the archway.
“He is just the man to divert attention from Khrulev to Galensky,” Anatoli said as Nikolai disappeared into the crowd. She could still feel his lips on her temple, but refused to touch the area he’d kissed. “We spoke about it just before you arrived.”
Then her uncle paused to stare at her. Katria raised an inquiring eyebrow and maintained eye contact with him, though she wanted to track Nikolai’s movements. Anatoli shook his head and sighed reprovingly. “It is written clearly on your face, my dear.”
“What is?” Smoothing her bodice, Katria tilted her head toward the open state room, unable to resist following with her gaze Nikolai’s tall form through the crowd.
“The love you have for your Nikolai. Every one of your features becomes radiant when his name is mentioned. When you are together it is painfully obvious.”
Startled, Katria swung her gaze to her uncle. Love? Is that what he saw? Did she love Nikolai? Fascinated by him, yes, she felt the pull—the need—between them, but love? No, Anatoli was mistaken. He confused the heat they shared with love.
Still, it wouldn’t do to show the vipers her emotions, no matter what they were—or were not. Annoyed with herself, believing she’d long ago learned to control her features, Katria deliberately blanked her face of the—attraction she felt for Nikolai.
Yes, “attraction” fit perfectly.
“We play the game, Uncle.” Carefully choosing her words as they took a few leisurely steps down the spacious hall, she offered a small laugh. “My fate with him is sealed. Nikolai saw to that when he arranged our betrothal.” The crowning move in their match: one she had not and did not wish to dispute. “I cannot say it will be a displeasure to marry Count Orlov. I do find him intriguing. But I wouldn’t necessarily call it love.”
“Whatever it is I see in you, you must control it. You cannot allow others to see this…this emotion. It’s dangerous.” His hand squeezed hers, one quick movement. “The jealousy of others can be a sharp knife. Keep it hidden. Keep it between the two of you, the soon-to-be Countess Orlov.”
Chapter Two
Katria spun sharply at the new voice, instantly spotting Count Sergey Ivanovitch Radoff and his younger son, Pavel Sergeivitch. They approached with their insidious grins.
True vipers.
Keeping her expression cool, she awaited them. Pavel leered at her, making her skin crawl. Dismissing him with a glare, she turned to his father.
Count Radoff bowed before her, but Katria refused to offer her hand. She wasn’t positive she’d receive it back in the same condition—that was, attached. The slight was not unnoticed, but it didn’t seem to bother him as he straightened. His light brown hair shimmered in the gilded light, but his dark brown eyes were flat. Although it remained steadily on her, Katria had the impression his gaze took in everything around them. His face was angular, lined around the eyes, with a heavy mustache in the style of the tsar and tsarevich. He held himself tall despite his stout build.
All in all, he served to look both handsome and conniving. Menacing, if she had to choose a word. And yet he’d never done anything overt to cause this suspicion, to have her believe so ill of him.
Pavel Sergeivitch, on the other hand—his look, his glare. He’d always had it, always seemed to be plotting something, Katria thought. It made her uncomfortable. Worse than having her skin crawl. As if she were in some sort of danger.
Several of her friends believed him to be a fine catch despite the fact that he wasn’t the eldest son. Katria disagreed, but couldn’t persuade them to see things her way.
To Anatoli, Radoff bowed at the waist, right hand touching the floor, then straightened with his right hand over his left, palms upward. “Bless Your Grace.”
Anatoli began the sign of the cross and intoned, “May the Lord bless you.”
Katria watched him carefully, but he showed no distaste as he placed his right hand in Radoff’s hands and Radoff kissed it. She waited while Pavel greeted her uncle as well.
Though this greeting was quick, it needed to be performed every time someone approached Anatoli. She wondered if he tired of it, but she supposed not. He was a bishop in the Church, the living icon of Christ.
“I presume you’ve heard about Galensky?” Radoff asked Anatoli in his smooth, cultured voice.
“Talk of politics instead of war,” Katria interjected, thinking Nikolai certainly passed the information toward Radoff swiftly enough. She nodded toward the doors, where the rest of court congregated. “They speak only of the Oriental War, the latest maneuvers of the English and French in the Ukraine, and the Turkish ships in the Gulf of Finland. Politics is a refreshing change of pace, gentlemen.”
“Domestic politics are oftentimes more dangerous than fighting on the front lines,” Radoff added.
“I do not disagree,” Katria said.
“As can be family politics,” Radoff continued. “Which brings me to your betrothal. I’ve not yet had the chance to congratulate you on the tsar’s approval, Countess Markova.”
“It’s a pity,” Pavel spoke up, one of the few times Katria heard him speak. She much preferred his silence.
“Pity?” she forced herself to ask when he said no more.
“Pity that you could not join our family.” His leer was back, twisting the handsome features he inherited from his father into a grotesque mask of innuendo and intimidation.
Glancing away with a barely concealed sneer of dismissal, Katria smiled at her uncle and Radoff. “I believe Galensky has made his way into the rooms, perhaps we shou—”
“Yes,” Radoff interrupted with a parting bow to them. “Yes, I wish to speak with him.”
Katria nodded stiffly to Radoff, ignored Pavel completely, and took Anatoli’s arm. The two of them walked into the state room, which was hot and noisy, the conversations of three hundred courtiers vying for precedence. Snippets reached her ears, but Katria ignored them all. Despite Anatoli’s earlier words about not showing her regard for Nikolai, she couldn’t help but search for him now.
She didn’t think of herself as the kind of woman to be taken so completely by a man’s appearance. She’d met many handsome men before. Court was full of handsome, ambitious men. The way Nikolai held himself, his aloof manner, his Western appearance was so different from many Russians. He wore no mustache, his clothes were cut slightly differently—even his scent was different.
His nearly black eyes seemed to look through her and discover her secrets. Beyond that, his confidence was arrogant, but not, she sensed, unwarranted. Katria knew many arrogant nobles, men and women. In Nikolai, she knew it wasn’t misplaced. But she’d never tell him so.
Recognition passed between them at their first meeting. It had been a connection she couldn’t explain even now. She’d known his brother, Peter, for years, but hadn’t met Nikolai until a few months ago when he returned from Austria.
That meeting changed everything she’d ever thought about herself and her life, awakened a part of her she hadn’t known slept. Sharpened her senses. Even made her reckless in her desire for Nikolai.
“I’ll see you soon, Uncle,” she said, squeezing his arm. Katria moved into the crowd with her well-practiced smile. She nodded in greeting to those she passed and stopped to receive a compliment on her attire or a bit of gossip. Her mind, however, still mused over Nikolai.
It had taken her years and many near misses to assert a semblance of control over her own life. Her father used her ruthlessly. Viktor had promised her at age fifteen to one of the tsar’s favorite ministers. The minister had been a diseased old man of sixty-eight, and she’d been saved only when he died mere weeks later. Since then, she’d maneuvered around her father’s machinations, skillfully avoiding unwelcome marriages.
Control was what she wanted, and Nikolai was uncontrollable. Her feelings toward him represented a seismic shift in the way she considered her future. Her carefully constructed façade cracked just enough to peer out at him.
Somehow Anatoli knew it, too, when he’d introduced them. One day, she’d ask her uncle about that introduction. And maybe, maybe one day she’d ask Nikolai what prompted his proposal.
Now, as she continued across the room, she took this time to find her fiancé. Spotting her dearest friend instead, she stopped.
Making her way through the cluster of people toward Anna Petrovena Tiomkin, Katria caught sight of Nikolai. He slipped through the vipers liked a skilled predator. He was dangerous, of that she had no doubt. His uncle, Count Alexey Fyodorovitch Orlov, headed Russia’s secret police, the Third Section. Nikolai’s brother, Peter, had no official position within the Third Section, but she’d long ago gathered his diplomatic missions had more to do with them than not.
How deep did Nikolai’s connections with the Third Section run?
And Peter, where was he? Nikolai had said he’d return in a few weeks, but his tone implied he knew more about Peter’s whereabouts than he let on. Katria longed to see her friend, but nerves bested her over his reappearance in St. Petersburg. Once Peter was in town, there would be no holding off the wedding between her and Nikolai. Her future would begin. The unknown.
Embracing Anna, she glanced about the room.
“Have you heard of Galensky?” Anna asked.
Katria nodded absently, shooting Anna a reproachful glance. Anna laughed, a light breezy sound. “Of course you have,” she corrected herself. “When I need to know anything, I should ask you first. Galensky is the latest gossip, but the tsar has yet to make an appearance. There are rumors something is stirring behind closed doors.”
“There always are, but it’ll be interesting to learn what takes up the tsar’s time,” Katria agreed.
“Most likely something to do with the war—” Anna cut herself off when Katria took an involuntary step forward. Composing herself, Anatoli’s words echoing in her mind, Katria turned to look back at her friend.
“Go.” Anna laughed, not the least put off. “We’ll dine together tomorrow.”
She kissed her friend on the cheek, but Anna held her arm. Looking at Anna, she raised both eyebrows in question.
“How are things between you and Nikolai progressing?”
The smile was there and gone in a flash. Katria had a feeling it expressed more than she wished. Even to Anna, with whom she had grown up, navigated these rooms, and shared her first impressions of Nikolai.
“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” she promised.
Anna, more serious than was normal, released her arm. “Be careful, Katria.”
Nodding at the warning in her friend’s voice, she made her way through the crowd to the archway. Nikolai caught her attention and, with a knowing look, vanished from the room.
Discreetly, Katria slipped from the hot and noisy state room. She knew eyes followed her and made certain to pause before a mirror, to look behind her, to check her appearance. Greeting others as they arrived, she headed down the hall.
* * * *
In the empty salon, Nikolai leaned negligently against the gilt gold-and-cream door, arms folded. He didn’t care for the décor, but realized, as he awaited Katria, he had missed its distinctly Russian look. He’d been among non-Russians for so long, his former friends accused him of having become Westernized.
If only they knew, he thought. Pushing off the door, he stalked the room, restless. When he returned to St. Petersburg this past summer, he’d done so because his father died. Close to the old man, he knew Andrei Vladivitch silently disapproved of his travels outside the empire.
Upon his return to Russia, Nikolai hadn’t expected to meet Katria. European women were beautiful, skilled in the arts of love and court, and yet he’d never met a woman like her. She was beautiful, walked through the tsar’s court with her head held high, her pride and reputation intact—to be expected, he supposed, of one in her twentieth year. But she wasn’t like others her age. Her soul was older, more astute.
There was something about her, however, that drew his attention as no other woman had. Fleeting though that interest should have been, when Nikolai spoke to her, his fascination—expanded, turned to more.
“Damn it.”
Months later, he still couldn’t accurately explain what he felt for her.
“Why I have to have you,” he muttered into the empty room.
He knew she entered when the din from the courtiers grew louder. Nikolai turned and watched her close the door behind her with a soft click. Defiance and passion lit her eyes, and she tilted her chin as she watched him from across the lavish room. Shoulders back, she stood straight and confident.
The fingers of her left hand twitched in her skirt, the only telltale sign she was anything other than completely composed.
He wanted to shatter that composure, watch her passion consume her. Needed to do so. Wanted to taste that passion, feel her around him as he took her. His own control close to breaking, he smiled wickedly at her. The blue-green of her eyes darkened, deepened. She took a step closer, the break in her pretense widening.