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Marguerite closed her eyes in dismay. When she opened them again she watched the Count wander casually into the room and close the door behind him. She was suddenly hit with the strong sense of being trapped and didn’t like it one bit.
“I was just leaving,” she murmured politely, desperately hoping he would do the decent thing and move away from the door, or at least open it for her so she could leave. Unsurprisingly, he did neither. Instead, he stood with his back to the door, purposely blocking her exit, and studied her lasciviously.
Suddenly, the muted din of the rest of the evening’s guests didn’t seem all that reassuring. They sounded too far away, especially if she needed to call on them for help.
“Er, I need to leave,” she murmured, trying hard not to let him see how unnerved she was.
“I need to speak with you before you go,” the Count murmured.
He made no attempt to move out of her way. His demeanour was almost mocking, challenging her to move toward him. Marguerite shivered and took a step back instead. She had no intention of allowing the man anywhere near her. When it became evident that he wasn’t going to move despite being asked, she carefully retreated to safety behind a high backed chair.
There was something about the smirk on his face that was annoying. It made her want to smack him because she suspected that he was aware his presence in the room made her uncomfortable, and he was enjoying her discomfiture.
Suddenly, he bowed theatrically, his pale blue eyes openly mocking as they met hers.
“Please forgive me,” he drawled in heavily accented Russian. “I forgot to introduce myself. I am Count Vladimir Valentin.”
Marguerite stared at him and wondered if she had missed something. “I know. We were introduced by the hostess earlier.”
Well, Papa wanted me to meet him, and now that I have-twice-I really don’t like him. Can I go now?
“Miss-”
She wondered if the man was dense or just playing for time so they were in the room together far longer than was polite. She eyed the door behind him again and longed to be able to push him out of the way and use it, but she daren’t venture near him.
“Miss Marguerite Smisby. Yes, I know. I have been watching you, dear,” the Count declared, a little too knowingly for her peace of mind.
It was on the tip of her tongue to say, ‘yes, I know’, but she didn’t. Instead, she kept her face devoid of expression and in doing so hoped to discourage him. It didn’t work. Either the Count was too dim to realise her coldness was a set down, or he was blithely ignoring it and didn’t care one bit about what she wanted, her reputation, his honour, or the devastation the countless gossips would wreak upon them should they be caught alone together in a darkened room.
“Oh?” Marguerite’s gaze turned frosty. She tensed and waited. The atmosphere within the room became heavy. She watched the man study the distance between them, and silently willed him to stay where he was.
He didn’t.
When he began to move toward her in a random circuit of the room, Marguerite carefully placed yet more distance between them. Eventually, his lack of progress made him stop. He stared at the distance still between them with a frown on his brow. He then scowled his displeasure at her. Marguerite refused to be cowed by him and tipped her chin up defiantly.
“I will bid you good evening,” she murmured coldly.
You will leave you ill-manner guttersnipe because I know you won’t, she thought snidely.
The only benefit of the last few, rather odd, moments was that she was now closer to the door than he was. Now that the opportunity had blessedly presented itself she wasted no time taking advantage of it. But, before she took more than a handful of steps, a wild flurry of black material made her gasp. She watched in horror as the Count suddenly planted himself firmly in front of the door again. Her mouth opened but she didn’t know what to say. What could she say? What could she do now? If she screamed they would have every guest in attendance upon them in a matter of minutes. While she would then get the rescue she needed her reputation would lie in ruins. However, if she didn’t do something she was likely to be stuck in the room with the oaf all evening.
“I have wanted to speak with you,” the Count murmured, seemingly oblivious to her distress. “But the hosts won’t leave me alone.”
“I don’t think we have anything to discuss. I have already told you that I wish to leave,” she replied firmly, or as firmly as she could manage. She mentally winced because the nervous quiver in her voice was audible even to herself. Still, she forced herself to meet his gaze and tipped her chin up.
“I know your father,” the Count murmured as though this meant something.
Marguerite wondered if he had intended to make that sound like a threat. Strangely, when their eyes met she read the calculation hidden in those dark orbs. It warned her that he couldn’t be trusted. Whatever he wanted, it wasn’t anything nice; of that, there could be little doubt. Confused, she wondered if she was mistaken. This was the man everyone liked and wanted to include on their guest lists. Yet to her he was creepy, and someone she wanted, and needed, to avoid at all costs.
“He mentioned it,” she replied evasively.
He lies, she mused thoughtfully. She knew her father would have mentioned it.
“Good.” The Count nodded slowly, a secretive smile curving his thin lips.
Marguerite frowned a little. “Your acquaintance with my father is relatively new, though.”
“I have an acquaintance with a lot of people,” the Count assured her. “It is wise to have acquaintances with connections, don’t you think?”
