The pleats of his kilt flared as he pivoted on his heel, dark shadows breaking the fall of blue moonlight. “And if this is the life I now choose?”
“I do not believe that. This is the life you’re wallowing in. A pathetic submission that is below your standards. You try to hide your misery, but I see it in the cracks of your smile. The dullness in your eyes where fire once shone. Even your banter has fallen flat of late.”
“No need to kick a man when he’s down,” he mumbled.
“I am not trying to kick you. I am trying to help you.”
“By pointing out everything I’m doing wrong?”
“By pointing out that you do not need to hide. Not from me.” She stepped in front of him. He flinched at her closeness but didn’t move. She took that as encouragement. If the truth was coming out, it might as well be all of it. “When we first met, trust was a nonnegotiable after the things I had been through. I feared for my life every second, jumping at the slightest noises, waiting for the black gloves to seize me in my bed at night. Then I met you. Kind, considerate, and always trying to make me smile all the while I eyed you with suspicion. I fought against it, but you earned my trust, and now I can rest knowing I’m safe. Because of you, Wynn. Will you honor me now with your trust?”
Pain still trembled in his eyes, but his waves of anger stilled. His shoulders sagged as he looked to the floor. “I don’t deserve you.”
“I know, but here we are.”
His gaze flickered up to catch her smile. He raised his hand and drew his thumb across her cheek and along her jaw. “I cannot stand to lose you, not now, but if you truly knew— If you truly knew, I fear you might think less of me. My pride as a man could not handle that, and with that confession you can see how fragile my ego is.” He tried to laugh, but there was no humor to be found in the admission.
“What is pride between us as long as there is trust?” She touched his hand, holding it to her cheek. “I wish to know all of you, as you have seen me. Even the fearful parts.”
He took a deep breath, summoning the words. “In Glasgow—”
“Pardon the intrusion, Your Graces, but the auction is about to begin.” Glasby stood in the doorway, polished shoes reflecting the moonlight. He’d kept to his impeccable white tie and black tails instead of donning a kilt.
Wynn raked another impatient hand through his hair, standing it up like quills. “Stall them. Bring out more wine and whisky if you have to. I need a moment with my wife.”
“I would, sir, but the duchess’s mother has other ideas.”
Dread flooded Svetlana, drowning all concern for what Wynn had been about to say. “What has she done?”
“It’s more what she’s threatening to do.” Glasby’s expression remained professionally bland. A credit in this unusual household. “Princess Ana wishes to make a speech. I believe she has sampled each of the bottles of scotch.”
“We need to stop her before she finds a captive audience.”
Wynn must have realized the state of his hair, for his hands flew to it, attempting to squash it back into a semblance of order. “How much damage can she do?”
“Do you remember that time you had to carry her from the carriage to the church in Paris? That was on one bottle of champagne.”
“I see your point.”
They hurried out of the solarium and into the Stone Hall where Svetlana’s mother stood three steps up on the grand staircase flapping her arms as if to entice the drawing crowd closer. Having declared it unnecessary to mourn for a man she’d never met, she’d dressed in green silk with emerald accessories liberally borrowed from Svetlana’s jewelry box. Jewelry Wynn had presented her with as duchess.
“Ladies and gentlemen, or in Russian we say damy i gospoda, welcome to Thorphill. Pardon, Thornhill. Home of the dukes of my son-in-law.” Mama smiled with the generous cheer of spirits. “I hope you all have been having a splendid time—I know I have—but there is one question I have for all of you. Why must it rain here so much? In Russia I do not recall it raining nearly as much. What you lack in pleasant weather you more than make up for in drink.” She tipped a crystal-cut tumbler to her red-painted lips.
Wynn covered the three steps in one long stride. “Thank you, Princess Ana. Always a delightful addition to any gathering.”
Mama elbowed him. “I wasn’t finished welcoming our guests.”
Wynn ignored her. “If everyone would like to grab a final glass before we start the auction, now is the time to do so. Otherwise, please be patient while the tallies are made. Remember that all of your generous proceeds will go toward new construction on a training center for education and work experience for those most affected by the war’s suffering.”
Applause rounded the room, echoing off the smooth stones that amplified it to thunder. Svetlana eased a tremulous pent-up breath. What a tremendous moment for their community, one she was so delighted to share with Wynn. A task they were taking on together. He may have deceived himself into thinking he was no longer vital to the medical world—a view she was determined to change—but in no way could he deny the good he was doing this night. May it prove to be the push he needed.
A disturbance rippled from the back of the crowd. A head bobbed closer and closer until the press of guests peeled back to reveal a ghost. Curly hair black as a Siberian night, trimmed mustache, tall and slim with long limbs accustomed to climbing in and out of carriages before palaces. Eyes so dark Svetlana could drown in them. And they were pinned directly on her.
“Sergey?” Mama called as if from a long distance away, barely registering as Svetlana fuzzily tried to piece together the apparition before her. It wasn’t possible.
Sergey’s ghost strode toward her. Svetlana didn’t have time to speak before his arms were around her, dipping her backward, and his mouth devouring hers, proving he was very much alive.
She froze. This wasn’t happening.
Righting her, Sergey pulled back and beamed a smile that outshone the moon.
“Hello, Svetka. I told you I would come, lyubimaya.”
“My love.” Disorientated, Svetlana shook her head as her gaze skittered around the hall in search of Wynn. Where was her unchanging mark as the night slanted sideways? Around her the crowd of guests murmured with what was surely to be tomorrow’s gossip. How could she explain?
She frantically searched the crowd. At last her eyes slammed onto her husband standing rooted to the steps. She caught one glimpse of the horror paling his face before the crowd surrounded her and Sergey, swallowing them whole.
Chapter 23
The guests had dispersed home amid the last drops of wine and buzzing with gossip of the duchess and her unexpected paramour. Another revolution could have sprung and Svetlana would not have noticed as she sat on the settee in the library with her arms wrapped tightly around her middle. The room had been a sanctuary when she’d first arrived with its overstuffed pillows and pages to pour through that recounted exploits of her new home, but she saw none of it now. Not even the blazing fire could stave off her chills, which had little to do with the formidable Scottish weather.
For his part Sergey appeared not the least concerned with the spectacle and ensuing fallout it caused as he recounted his tale.
“The Bolsheviks dragged me to one of the many buildings they had commandeered and threw me into the basement with the other loyalists they’d managed to capture that night you escaped.” He paced slowly in front of the large fireplace, the flames burning bright orange behind him to elongate his already lanky shadow. “When they weren’t interrogating me, I was beaten and starved. Brutal tactics by beasts.”