From Governess To Countess. Marguerite Kaye

A long strip of rich blue-and-gold carpet covered a floor of silver-and-pink stone laid in a herringbone pattern, which glittered under the glow of a magnificent chandelier. The carpet continued straight through a small entrance hall into another, bigger reception hall where two huge bronze lamps lit with a halo of candles flanked a sweep of enclosed stairs. Allison had a fleeting impression of immensely high and ornately corniced ceilings, before she was led up three flights of stairs to a half-landing, which then opened out into two stairways with elaborate bronze-gilt balustrades which in turn led to a massive atrium lit from above by light pouring through a central glass dome.

      The servant paused in front of a set of double doors elaborately inlaid with ivory, mother of pearl and copper. He straightened his already perfectly straight jacket, and knocked softly before throwing the doors open. ‘Miss Galbraith, Your Illustrious Highness,’ he declared, waiting only until Allison edged her way into the room before exiting.

      Your Illustrious Highness? Allison was expecting to meet a minor member of the aristocracy. She must surely be in the wrong room. Sinking into a low curtsy, she saw her own surprise reflected in the man’s demeanour. He had turned as the servant announced her, but took only one step towards her before coming to an abrupt halt. From her position, on legs still adjusting to being back on land, precariously close to toppling over, he looked ridiculously tall. Black leather boots, highly polished, stopped just above the knee, where a pair of dark-blue pantaloons clung to a pair of long, muscular legs. Which began to move towards her.

      ‘Surely there is some mistake?’ the imposing figure said. His voice had a low timbre, his English accent soft and pleasing to the ear.

      ‘I think there must be, your—your Illustrious Highness,’ Allison mumbled. She looked up, past the skirts of his coat, which was fastened with a row of polished silver buttons across an impressive span of chest. The coat was braided with scarlet. A pair of epaulettes adorned a pair of very broad shoulders. Not court dress, but a uniform. A military man.

      ‘Madam?’ The hand extended was tanned, and though the nails were clean and neatly trimmed, the skin was much scarred and calloused. ‘There really is no need to abase yourself as if I were royalty.’

      His tone carried just a trace of amusement. He was not exactly an Adonis, there was nothing of the cupid in that mouth, which was too wide, the top lip too thin, the bottom too full. This man looked like a sculpture, with high Slavic cheekbones, a very determined chin, and an even more determined nose. Close-cropped dark-blond hair, darker brows. And his eyes. A deep Arctic blue, the blue of the Baltic Sea. Despite his extremely attractive exterior, there was something in those eyes that made Allison very certain she would not want to get on the wrong side of him. Whoever he was.

      Belatedly, she realised she was still poised in her curtsy, and her knees were protesting. Rising shakily, refusing the extended hand, she tried to collect herself. ‘My name is Miss Allison Galbraith and I have travelled here from England at the request of Count Aleksei Derevenko to take up the appointment of governess.’

      His brows shot up and he muttered something under his breath. Clearly flustered, he ran his hand through his hair, before shaking his head. ‘You are not what I was expecting. You do not look at all like a governess, and you most certainly don’t look like a herbalist.’

      Allison, dressed in the most sombre of her consulting attire beneath her travelling cloak, bristled. ‘Ah, you were expecting a crone!’

      ‘A wizened one with a hairy chin,’ he said, with a smile that managed to be both apologetic and unrepentant.

      ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you on both counts,’ Allison replied, finding it surprisingly hard not to be charmed.

      His smile broadened. ‘I find your appearance surprising, but far from disappointing. In my defence, I should tell you that I have very little experience on which to base my assumptions. I’ve never hired a governess until now and I’ve never before required a herbalist’s services. Forgive me, I am being remiss. I am Count Aleksei Derevenko,’ he said, making a brief bow. ‘How do you do, Miss Galbraith?’

      Hers was not the only appearance to evoke surprise. This man did not look remotely like the father of three children in poor health and in need of English lessons. Portly, middle-aged, whiskered, red of face, bulbous of nose, is how she would have pictured such a man if she was in the habit of making sweeping assumptions. He would not have long, muscled legs that so perfectly filled those ridiculously tight breeches as to leave almost nothing to the imagination. He most certainly would not have the kind of mouth that made a woman’s thoughts turn to kissing. Or those eyes. Such a perfect, startling blue. Why couldn’t they have been watery or better still, bloodshot? And why, for heaven’s sake, was she thinking about him in such a manner in the first place?

      ‘I am not at all sure how I do, to be perfectly honest,’ Allison replied, inordinately flustered.

      To her surprise, he laughed. ‘No more do I. It seems we have both confounded expectations. It is to be hoped that the person who brokered our temporary alliance knows her business. Let us sit and take some tea. We have a great deal to discuss.’

      * * *

      Aleksei ushered the Englishwoman to the far end of the reception room where the tea things had been set out on a low table, the samovar hissing steam from its perch on the woodchips. Solid silver, enamelled with white, blue and gold flowers, the delicate cups a matching pattern, the service was, like everything in this huge palace, designed to demonstrate the Derevenko dynasty’s wealth and lofty status. He had forgotten just how important appearances were, here in St Petersburg. No other European court—and on his travels, he’d been obliged to attend many—was as status conscious or such a hotbed of intrigue and ever-shifting alliances. No wonder that the woman now sitting opposite him on one of those ridiculously flimsy and uncomfortable little chairs had mistaken him for a prince, hearing that preposterous epithet. His Illustrious Highness, indeed.

      She was clearly nervous, though she was trying not to show it, compulsively smoothing her gloves out on her lap. He still couldn’t quite believe that this was the woman The Procurer had promised him would be the answer to his urgent plea, that this was the woman whose arrival would signal the end of his agonising enforced spell of inactivity and allow him, finally, to begin his search to uncover the truth.

      It struck him uncomfortably, as he looked at her, that the problem with this particular woman was not that she didn’t look like his preconceived notions of either a herbalist or a governess, but that she looked like his starved body’s idea of the perfect woman to take to his bed. Her hair was the colour of fire. No, that was too obvious. It was the cover of leaves on the turn, of glossy chestnuts, of the sky as the sun sank. She was not conventionally beautiful, there was nothing of the demure English rose, so universally admired, about her. She was something wilder, untamed. Her skin seemed to glow with vitality, her figure was not willowy but voluptuous. She had a mouth that made a man think of all the places he would like those lips to touch. And then there were her eyes—what colour were they? Brown? Gold? Both? Was it her heavy lids that made him think of tumbled sheets and morning sunshine dappling her delightfully naked rump?

      Aleksei cursed under his breath. Since Napoleon’s escape from Elba, followed by Waterloo, and the formal mourning period he had just completed here in St Petersburg, he had been deprived of all female company, but this was most definitely not the time and place to be having such thoughts. Allison Galbraith was not here to satisfy his inconveniently awakening desires. He should be contemplating her suitability for the task, not her body. Though he could not deny that her body was one that he’d very much like to contemplate.

      Would anyone believe her a credible replacement for Anna Orlova the previous, long-serving governess? A paragon, if the servants were to be believed, utterly reliable, and much loved by the children. Whether or not she returned that affection, Aleksei had no idea, since Anna Orlova had abandoned her charges and fled the Derevenko Palace long before he had had a chance to set eyes upon her.

      He picked up the teapot which sat on top of the samovar, only to drop it with a muted curse as the heated silver handle scalded his palm. Covering the handle with the embroidered linen cloth designed for that very purpose,