Marguerite Kaye - Scandal At The Midsummer Ball

‘That, I can understand. When I am not performing, I am not living. Inactivity does not suit me one little bit either,’ Katerina said with a smile. ‘We have that in common, Colonel.’

‘It’s Fergus. Call me Fergus.’

She ought not to call him anything. She ought to ask him to leave. This was precisely the kind of situation and he was precisely the kind of man that experience had taught her to avoid, but against her will, she was interested in him. And yes, also against her will, she had to admit she was attracted.

His eyes were the most startling shade of blue—or was it green? Turquoise? Colonel Fergus Kennedy was tall, several inches taller even than Alexei, and every bit as muscular, though the colonel’s physique was broader, more solid than her brother’s, the result of a lifetime of marching and fighting presumably, rather than endless hours of acrobatic training. War had etched the tiny fan of lines around his eyes, though the grooves at his mouth, the natural curve of his lips, made her wonder if laughter had also been a significant contributor. His fair hair was cropped close to his head, though there was a rebellious wave, a little kink on his brow that mitigated the severity of it. Attractive, he was most certainly, in a rugged way, but first and foremost, the impression she had was of a man of authority, a man accustomed to giving rather than receiving orders. Slightly intimidating, he was the kind of man that turned heads when he walked into a room. Or a walled garden, come to that!

‘Fergus,’ she said. ‘And I am Katerina. Forgive me, but why can’t you marry someone of your own choosing if a diplomat must have a wife?’ She wrinkled her brow. ‘I cannot believe that you would be lacking in eager candidates.’

‘Thank you for that vote of confidence,’ he said mockingly. ‘If only it were true.’ He ran his fingers through his hair, making the kink stand up endearingly. ‘It has been decided that this will be strictly a one-horse race, if I am to claim the prize.’ He sighed heavily. ‘And so, Miss Vengarov, I fear that I have no choice at all, if Lady Verity—that’s the Duke of Brockmore’s niece—will have me.’

‘Do you doubt that she will?’

‘I don’t know what to think. She was certainly not been effusive in her welcome.’

‘So you have already met her?’

‘A wee while ago.’

‘And she did not warm instantly to you?’

He laughed shortly. ‘Is that so difficult to believe?’

His smile was charming. Not that there was any possibility of it charming her. ‘Come now, you do not need me to tell you that you are an attractive man, Colonel—Fergus,’ Katerina said. ‘Most likely, under the circumstances, the lady was simply nervous, embarrassed or both. Everyone knows the Duke of Brockmore’s Midsummer Party is simply a notorious matchmaking fair.’

‘You disapprove?’

‘I am sure it is a foolproof way to find a wife. As you see, we lowly performers are kept within the boundaries of this walled garden so there can be no confusion as to whom are the suitable candidates.’ On either part.

Fergus Kennedy was looking quite taken aback. She had not meant her own bitter experience to colour her tone quite so much. Katerina gave a careless shrug. ‘It is none of my business.’

‘True enough,’ he replied, ‘though in a sense I’ve made it so, by confiding in you. Perhaps I should not have. I don’t know why I did, to be honest, save that perhaps I disapprove a wee bit myself.’

His admission disarmed her. For some reason, she was relieved not to have to think quite so ill of him. ‘I don’t know you at all,’ Katerina said, ‘but I confess I find it strange that a man like you, so clearly accustomed to command, is allowing someone else to make such an important decision for him.’

‘The “someone else” is my commander-in-chief.’

‘Yes, you said so.’

‘I did.’ He was silent for a moment, before sighing heavily. ‘You’re right. If I was happy with the situation, I’d be back there at that welcoming party making myself amenable, instead of out here, embarrassing you with my problems in the hope that you’ll reassure me.’

She had no idea how to reply to this, as confused by his indecisiveness as he was. Was it simply an ingenious way of engaging her sympathy? He did not seem the ingenious type, but she had been fooled before. ‘I am sorry,’ Katerina said, somewhat helplessly.

‘Ach no, don’t be. You’ve not said anything I’ve not thought myself. That’s enough about me,’ he said, giving himself a little shake. ‘You’re much more interesting. Brockmore pulled off quite a coup bringing you and your brother here. The Vengarov name is one of the most respected in your field.’

‘What do you know of my field?’

‘I’ve seen a few acts such as yours in my travels, and I’ve visited that man Jahn’s gymnasium in Berlin.’

Despite herself, Katerina was impressed. ‘The Duke of Brockmore will spare no expense in obtaining the very best entertainment for his guests,’ she said drily. ‘He does not, however, share your respect for our reputation. Or our artistry. We are, in his eyes, I suspect, little more than performing monkeys.’

‘Then the man is an idiot. What is it like up there on the tightrope?’

‘Oh, there is nothing to compare it with.’

‘Save flying? You must feel as if you’re in your own wee world.’

He had one of those smiles that was impossible to ignore, and his interest really did seem genuine. ‘Wee world,’ Katerina repeated, surrendering to the temptation to smile back. ‘Your accent is strange. You are not English?’

‘Scottish. And you, I believe, are from Russia.’

‘R-r-r-russia,’ Katerina repeated, in a fair enough imitation of his accent to make him smile. ‘Yes, I am Russian.’

‘You speak excellent English.’

‘And French, and German, passable Italian and a smattering of Spanish. All my life, I have been travelling, you see, and performing too. I come from a great tradition, as you said, a long line of performers. The Vengarov family, we are the aristocrats of our world.’

‘I am aware of that, even if Brockmore is not. I’m looking forward very much to tonight’s performance. I see from the Programme of Events that you’re also holding a demonstration class for the party guests.’

‘Aristocrats from one world, mingling with the aristocrats of another,’ Katerina said sardonically. ‘Will you be taking part, Colonel Fergus?’

‘I most certainly will. Do you include the ladies in this class? I’m not sure I can picture the duchess wearing one of these wee tunic affairs. Or, indeed, care to!’

Caught up in their conversation, amazingly, astonishingly, Katerina had quite forgotten that all she was wearing was what he called her wee tunic affair, in part because Fergus too seemed to have forgotten. But now he had drawn attention to her state of dishabille and was looking at her most appreciatively, she became acutely aware of how much of her flesh was on display, and Fergus seemed to be having difficulty dragging his eyes away from her modest cleavage, and the way he was looking at her was making her flush more, with a mixture of awareness of him and anger at herself, rather than embarrassment.

‘It is not possible to practise real acrobatics in corsets and morning gowns,’ Katerina said tightly. ‘We will restrict ourselves to teaching more seemly and decorous moves.’

He flushed very faintly, making a point of turning his gaze away. ‘Curses, then I will be denied the sight of a tumbling duchess.’

‘And I will be denied the opportunity to witness a soldier falling from the tightrope.’

‘You seem very certain I will fall.’

‘You won’t have a chance. It will not be offered as an activity in the masterclass,’ Katerina told him. ‘It is too dangerous.’