Romancing Lady Stone (A School of Gallantry Novella) (5 page)

He slowly shook his head from side to side. “Here in Russia, where land is vast and the people are desperate, such respectable thinking ends badly. Most robberies in Russia result in death. Why? Because the majority of swindlers have
no
understanding as to how much laudanum goes into a cup. Given how deeply and how long you slept, I have no doubt if you had been given a touch more laudanum, you would have been dead. You
should
have been dead if Strelna was where you were drugged. Because that means you have slept for over ten hours.”

She swallowed knowing he was right. She would have been dead without having ever gotten around to seeing her daughters or her son properly marry. She would have been dead before she could hold her grandchildren or travel to Paris and breathe in the sort of wild adventure she had always yearned for. She had once read in the gossip papers that Parisian women waltzed naked with their lovers in the privacy of their flats and smoked cheroots in public. Secretly, she had always wanted to try both.

Mr. Levin leaned back against the seat. “Fortunately for you, Lady Stone, your son is associating with a well-known actress, which will make it easy to find him. All we have to do is inquire at the theatre she performs in when we get into Saint Petersburg. Depending on how well that goes, you should be with your son in two days. Three at most.”

She almost slumped back against the seat. She had never been more thankful. “Your kindness has no bounds.”

“Let us not exaggerate. It has its bounds.”

She bit back a smile. She liked him. He didn’t pretend to be anything more than what he was. She envied people who didn’t have to lead their lives according to a title. Unlike her, they could waltz naked with a cigar. “I cannot thank you enough. Is there anything I can offer you in return for the assistance you are providing?”

He extended his long, trouser-clad leg and let his worn, leather boot hit the upholstered seat across from them. Flakes of dried mud spattered the seat. “A beautiful woman should
never
ask a man what he really wants.” His green eyes studied her and his mouth quirked. “He may tell you.”

Her pulse fluttered knowing he was flirting with her. She tightened her hold on her shawl. “You certainly are anything but coy, Mr. Levin,” she countered.

He dropped his leg from the seat and took back his arm from the seat. His eyes brightened as he shifted toward her. “Being coy never got me anywhere.”

She locked her knees together. “My son will pay you when we find him,” she offered, trying to change the course of their conversation. “I will ensure it is generous.”

“I would never take anything for assisting a woman.” He leaned in across the seat, that charred, smoky scent of wood drifting in from the heat of his body. “Even if there was something I wanted.”

Unspoken words of ‘
Which there is
’ hung between them.

She felt her entire body ripple in awareness. She leaned back, her shoulder bumping into the wall of the carriage behind her.

He smirked. “You are not as bold as you paint yourself, Lady Stone, are you?” Drawing in closer, he brushed a hand over her shoulder, lowering his gaze to his fingers that traced an area of her cashmere shawl. “Sadly, there appears to be some damage to your shawl. A part of it is unraveling.”

She swallowed, feeling faint from the tips of her ungloved fingers down to the tips of her toes buried in her stockings and half boots. Her shawl wasn’t the only thing unraveling. For some reason, she now envisioned him shredding apart her clothing at the stitch with bare hands and whispering words in Russian to her until she herself spoke Russian. Her heart lurched, her breath coming in uneven takes. It was amazing how being away from her three girls had suddenly turned her into a woman. Not a mother. A woman. She had honestly forgotten what that was.

Almost dying apparently did something to a woman’s mind.

He took back his hand. “Forgive me. I should not have touched you.” Rising from the seat, he turned and fell back into the seat across from hers. His sharp features dimmed. He dragged out his watch and flipping it to the backside of the silver casing he slid a finger across what appeared to be etched words. He tucked it back into his waistcoat pocket and shifted his unshaven jaw, watching her.

Despite the coolness of the air in the carriage, her palms grew moist. The man made her want to do things she thought she’d long outgrown. Because, holy heaven, he was everything her husband had never been. Young, good-looking, dashing and outspoken.

She’d been married almost fourteen years to the day when her husband, Frederick, had died back in 1823, which was now seven years ago. Lord Stone had gone to sleep one night in his room and had never woken up. Despite the fact that she had grudgingly learned to love him in her own way, she lived every day of those fourteen years knowing she had married him for his money and that he had married her for her youth and her beauty.

It didn’t make for a good marriage.

Sex was scheduled. It occurred every Monday and Friday evening. If the man wasn’t busy or tired. Sometimes, she climaxed, but only when and if he put effort into it. All too many times, she learned to lay on her back, thinking about nothing in particular until he was done. He would then roll off, pat her cheek in thanks, shrug on his robe and plod back to his room. He never embraced her after the act. Nor did he ever stay in her bed to sleep. He thought it was in poor taste for a man to display any form of affection, even behind closed doors. She quickly mastered the art of using her fingers and would wantonly imagine she was being ravaged by one of her good-looking male neighbors.

Though Frederick travelled extensively prior to their marriage, he never held any interest in letting her or the children see much of the world. Going up into Scotland was considered worldwide travelling for their family. His sole interest had been collecting antiquities, attending parliament sessions during debates and taking long walks. Alone. Always alone. He spent time with her and the children only when it suited him. Which wasn’t often.

He did, however, let her buy whatever she wanted. In fact, he encouraged it because it was his way of making up for being so morbidly removed. She therefore spent a lot of time shopping with her children and together they always delivered bountiful weekly boxes of items to countless charities throughout London. It made for a rather uneventful life spent solely in shops and…well, shops.

Such was the bane of marrying a man for money. One had everything yet nothing.

Adjusting his coat, Mr. Levin smoothed out the fabric of his trousers against his knee and flicked his gaze to the window. “We are slowing. Are you getting off with me?”

“I most certainly won’t be travelling on to find out who my ‘brother with the doctor’ is,” she chided.

He smirked. “’Tis good to know you have a sense of humor about this.”

She sighed. “Panicking certainly never served me well.”

“It never serves anyone well. Chin up. We will find your son.”

The driver called out something in Russian and the carriage slowed, tugged and pulled until it clattered to a complete halt.

Silence now pulsed around them.

Mr. Levin swiped up his wool cap from the frayed upholstered seat, tugged it onto his head and grabbed up her reticule, shoving into his coat pocket. Opening the door with his shoulder and weight until it swung out, he jumped down from the coach with a resounding thud of leather boots crunching into gravel, turned and snapped out a large hand. “Our connecting coach into Saint Petersburg does not arrive for another two days. There is a small inn down the road. You and I can share a room until the coach comes in. I will pay for it.”

She tightened her hold on her shawl at the thought of sharing a room for two nights with a good-looking Russian she just met. In all her forty years, she had never strayed. As a mother to four children, she had gone above and beyond ensuring no man, especially her cousin, stepped anywhere near their lives after the death of her husband. Her children came first. And even though she
had
considered taking a lover, for she did get lonely, she had this irrational fear her children would somehow pick the lock at night and walk in on her doing things with men she shouldn’t.

Her fingers dug into the softness of her cashmere shawl. If she didn’t ask for a separate room she
knew
she would end up doing things with him. Because those green eyes made her want to shove him against a wall and show him how dangerous a deprived woman could be. “Might I ask for a separate room, Mr. Levin?”

He shifted from boot to boot, still holding out his hand. “I would offer, but my funds are limited until I get to London.”

She gaped. So much for escaping him. “London? Why are you going to London?”

He paused. “I plan to live there for a small while until I decide what to do next. Why do you ask?”

What if people found out about their association and that she had shared a room with him in Russia? Regardless of what did or did not happen, she’d be lynched by all of society. And her daughters, who were a tender thirteen, fifteen and sixteen, would never see the respectable debuts they deserved. She couldn’t breathe. “Mr. Levin. I live in London.”

“Do you?” He sounded as pleased as he was surprised. He shifted closer, his travelling coat opening wider. “How do you like it there?”

He clearly didn’t understand. “I am asking for a separate room. Please.”

He dropped his hand to his side. “As much as I would like to oblige, Lady Stone, I cannot afford two separate rooms for two nights. I barely have enough to get me into England and I still have to purchase food for you and myself over these next two days
and
buy us fares into Saint Petersburg.” He leaned forward and draped an arm against the open door of the coach. “I can give you the room whilst I sleep in the corridor at night. Would that be acceptable?”

She wasn’t about to let him pay for the room and then have him sleep in the corridor. Oh, dear. “There is no need for you to sleep in the corridor on my account. You and I will manage.” Somehow. “All I ask is that you not speak of this to anyone whilst in London.”

“I will tell no one. I consider myself to be a gentleman.” Pushing away from the door, he held out his hand again. “Allow me to assist you from the coach.”

He certainly did appear to be a gentleman. It was astonishing. A woman would never know it given his lack of cravat, the size of that dagger and his unshaven face. “Thank you, Mr. Levin.” She rose, gathering her skirts from around her booted feet and lowered her head through the opening of the coach.

He grabbed her hand, his rough heat penetrating the coolness of her skin. He paused, his fingers skimming her inner palm. “Your hand is cold.”

“Is it?” She hadn’t noticed. Not with him around.

The pads of his fingers pressed into her skin. He brought his other hand up and covered it, rubbing her entire hand between both of his large ones in an effort to give it warmth. “I am assuming your gloves were stolen along with everything else. I have gloves in my satchel. Do you want them?”

The strength and heat of those long fingers penetrated her to the bone. She could only imagine what the man could do with those fingers in a bed. She needed to go to church. “No, thank you.” She quickly descended the narrow, iron steps and landed onto the gravel path, away from a large patch of mud. She tugged her hand loose, trying to focus.

He turned and climbed up onto the back of the coach, retrieving a large wool satchel. Draping it onto his broad shoulder, he jumped down, strode toward her and grabbed her hand back as if it were his to grab.

Startled, she tried to tug her hand loose but his fingers were too strong. “What are you—”

“It will keep your hand warm and ensure every man knows you cannot be accosted.” He smiled down at her, wove his heated fingers effortlessly between hers and clasped them snugly against his own.

A part of her soul liquefied. Her husband had never held her hand for the sake of warming it or for the sake of anything else. They’d never had that sort of relationship.

She glanced up at Mr. Levin, scrambling to keep up with his long-legged stride, while still holding his hand. Girlish though it was, she liked the attention. It was…sweet.

He kept walking, his thumb now skimming her palm.

Her eyes widened. Why was she, a titled lady of forty, permitting this? “We really shouldn’t be holding hands,” she said rather stupidly. “It isn’t proper.”

He eyed her. “I agree.” He released her and shoved his hands into his coat pockets. Still striding alongside her toward a shadowed, stone building lit by lanterns that lined the wide road, he gruffly said, “You have very soft hands. Do you know that?”

She bit her lip hard. This had trouble slapped all over it.