“As I told you the night I proposed, you may think of this as a business transaction offered to you because it was the right thing to do. I can offer you a good position in society where you will lack for nothing and enjoy the comforts to which you are accustomed. And despite your perseverance to convince me otherwise, I enjoy your company and wish to continue doing so.”
“My part in this transaction is companionship?”
“Yes.”
She watched him, waiting to cut apart his answers to find the true meaning behind his words. She’d lived in a shroud of secrecy for too long. Was it any wonder she craved the truth? He wanted her to count on him for that.
“Because I’m drawn to you.”
A simple confession, yet he could not mean it more.
She turned away and faced the window. Whatever response he was hoping for, cold dismissal wasn’t it.
He stood. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.”
“You haven’t.” She turned back to face him. Her cool reserve dropped as faint pink dusted her cheeks. “In Russia we are not accustomed to sharing such straightforward sentiments. Forgive me if I do not always know how to respond.”
“Honesty. That’s all I ask. In return I’ll be honest with you.”
She nodded. “Honesty between us always.”
Her simple wedding band winked in the candlelight. He longed to kiss it as affirmation of the vows he’d made to honor and protect her. He longed to kiss the tender inside of her wrist, trailing kisses up her arm and over the curve of her shoulder. He longed to press his lips to her throat, feeling her pulse increase as he moved to her jaw and finally to her lips. More than anything he longed to kiss her. His wife. He had every right to, but he wouldn’t violate the tenuous trust between them. He would wait for her.
“Good night, Svetlana.” Gathering his self-control, he crossed to the door.
“Wynn.” He stopped and turned back. She didn’t smile often enough, but now she did. And she was smiling at him. “Thank you.”
Nodding, he stepped into the hallway and closed the door softly behind him, heart nearly beating out of his chest. His wife might like him after all. In the books, November the tenth would go down as the best day of his life.
Chapter 16
“Where is all that noise coming from?” Svetlana got up from her chair, crossed to the window, and drew open the yellow drapes. Light flooded the bedchamber in a golden halo.
Marina roused in her bed. “Are we being invaded?”
“If we are, the citizens of Paris look quite jubilant about it.”
A sea of humanity swept down the street in front of the townhouse with shouts of celebration and fluttering of blue, white, and red flags. Svetlana opened the glass door and stepped onto the small balcony. Canons shot in the distance as a wave of voices singing “La Marseillaise” rose higher and higher above the din. Tears and smiles glistened on the peoples’ faces as they marched south toward the Place de la Concorde. This was no invasion.
She spotted Wynn’s head weaving through the crowd. The only one without a hat. He looked up and saw her. A wide grin split his face, and he waved before shouldering his way to the front door. A few seconds later, feet pounded on the stairs. He bounded into the room and swept her off her feet, swinging her in a circle and laughing.
“It’s over! The war. At eleven o’clock this morning. Our lads are no longer fighting.”
Elation like she’d never known flooded her and she laughed along with him. The horrible nightmare that had swept the world into death had gasped its last destructive breath. Wynn set her on her feet but didn’t let go. Pressed close to him, her face inches from his, the world and its celebrations narrowed to the space between them. For an instant she forgot about the happenings that brought them together, the vows that claimed her as his wife. All she saw was the deepened desire in his golden eyes, knowing it reflected in her own and drew her to him.
She stepped back, out of his arms, away from his pull, and clasped her hands in front of her for protection. Against his magnetism or her own unsettling reaction to it she couldn’t decide. This was a business arrangement, a mutual companionship. Not a romantic fantasy to be swept away in.
“I’m delighted there will be peace at last.”
The desire in his eyes flickered then snuffed out and a polite expression slipped in place. “They said it would be over by Christmas the first year. So far, we’ve had four Christmases pass, but this year we can finally celebrate.” He walked to Marina’s bed and grasped her hand. “How about that? Would you like to have a festive Christmas in Scotland this year?”
Marina nodded eagerly. A light no longer feverish danced in her eyes. “How wonderful! We can see if the sochivo sticks to the ceiling. After all this misfortune, I bet it will.”
Wynn frowned. “You throw socks at the ceiling?”
“Sochivo. It’s a porridge made with wheat, honey, and fruits. It’s good luck if it sticks to the ceiling.”
“The dining hall at Thornhill is near three stories tall, but I’ll make a go of getting porridge up there if it brings us luck.”
Marina laughed again, but it quickly turned to coughing. Wynn placed a hand on her back. “Breathe deeply through your nose. Good. Again.” He poured water into a glass from the bedside table and handed it to her. “Small sips. We need to calm the bronchial hairs from agitating your lungs.”
Marina’s eyes widened over the rim of her cup. “I have hairs in my lungs?”
Wynn nodded. “When they get tickled, we cough.” He tossed a wink in Svetlana’s direction.
How effortless he made it all look. Never rushing but always moving with purpose and complete embodiment of his confidence. He was easy to get caught up in. If she wasn’t careful, she might do just that.
Mama ran into the room, her hair still in rag curls and sleep blinking in her panicked eyes. “Has a herd of elephants come crashing in?” Her attention shot to Marina. “Kotyonok! What has happened? Do we need the hospital?”
Coughing less, Marina batted Mama away as she came at her with hands aflutter. “I’m well enough. We have our own doctor here.”
Mama grabbed Wynn by the lapels of his coat, clinging to him like a scuff on a shoe. “I was resting—my nerves, you understand—when I heard a terrible noise like thunderclaps.”
Wynn tried to loosen her grip. “Probably me running up the stairs. Or the captured German canons they’re hauling down the Champs Élysées.”
“I dreamed we were in Petersburg—I mean, Petrograd—again and the revolutionaries were coming.”
“They aren’t. No one is. The war is over.”
Mama glared at his outrageous claim. “Do not tell me the war is over when those crazy men sit in the Winter Palace as if they own— What do you mean? Which war?”
“The Great War. The one the nations of Europe have been waging for four years.”
“No one is dying?”
Wynn pried her fingers loose from his crimped lapels. “Hopefully not anymore.”
“This is wonderful news! Why did you not tell me right away?” Mama clapped her hands. “We must celebrate. I’ll have that maid fetch us chicken and beef, vegetables, fruit, and pastries, and anything left from the wedding feast yesterday. You really must hire a trained cook. I found part of an eggshell in my soup last night.”
“Food will be rationed for some time to come, but I’ll give her a few more coins to find what she can. We do deserve a celebration.”
“And dresses. We must all have new wardrobes now.” Mama twirled about the room with a dreamy smile on her face. A look that was always expensive.