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“Well, whatever you claim my father owes you, I am not part of the deal and will not have a price put on my head in this way. I refuse to have any part in it,” she declared defiantly.
“I will thoroughly enjoy changing your mind, my dear,” the Count announced coldly.
Marguerite froze and studied him curiously. There had just been a hint of something undefinable in his tone that was disturbing. She knew then that this man was not all that he appeared to be. She wondered if he was aware of his faux pas, but suspected that he wasn’t.
“You can’t,” she replied bluntly, but with a little more confidence now that she suspected she knew his secret. “I have no intention of being married to any Russian, Count or otherwise, or any Englishman.”
Her gaze met his as she spoke. She saw the instinctive widening of his eyes that he wasn’t quick enough to prevent a mere fraction of a second before his face went blank.
A small, somewhat triumphant smile curved her lips.
“I apologise if I have offended you, sir,” she added with a somewhat mocking curtsey, emphasised by the way she held her skirts out to each side. Her eyes met his as she smiled without mirth. “But I don’t like pretence.”
From the cold ruthlessness that immediately swept over his face, she knew she had overstepped the boundaries of this man’s short, and very lethal, patience. It was now time to leave.
If only he would move away from the door, she mused as she studied the doorway behind him.
With that exit barred to her, she had to find another way out. Climbing out of the window was impossible with a dress on. The only other escape route was the door a few feet away from her on the opposite side of the room. She had no idea what was on the other side of it but, as long as it wasn’t the Count, it was a considerably better place to be than the room she stood in.
Oblivious to her scheming, the Count bowed. “I apologise if I have offended you with my bluntness. I know how you ladies prefer to be romanced. I should like the opportunity to further our acquaintance and would ask that you give me the opportunity to allay any fears you might have as to our permanent union, Marlene.”
Never in a month of Sundays, Marguerite thought with a sigh.
“My name is Marguerite,” she snapped.
The Count merely shrugged unconcernedly and sauntered closer.
Marguerite took another step back.
“I cannot be here with you like this,” she replied. “I must go. If you wish to discuss anything with me, maybe you should try at the end of the recital. Better yet, go back to my father. I don’t care what he has told you, I am not going to agree to your plans.”
“Like I said, Magdaline, you don’t get a choice.”
Marguerite wondered if the man was dense, or just bad with names. Either way, she gave up trying to correct him and decided to take her leave of him before he tried to grab her again. Deeply disturbed by what had happened, and with the pressing urge to speak with her father always in the back of her mind, she hurried around the chaise toward the side door, aware that her legs trembled far more than they should.
Why am I so scared of him? She thought desperately.
Deep inside, she suspected that her fear of him didn’t have anything to do with the way he had grabbed her, or his declaration that he had entered into an arrangement with her father for her hand in marriage. It was more the fact that this man was no Russian. He was someone in disguise. Someone cold, hard, and inherently dangerous. Count Vladimir Valentin was a man who would not allow anything to stand in his way when he wanted someone, and they, in turn, would be drawn into whatever schemes he was involved in.
He has got a scheme going, I just know it, she mused.
“But, Matilda, our acquaintance has become so important to me that I cannot conceive of coming to one of these social engagements and not finding you present,” the Count began
in earnest as he hurried across the room toward her, evidently determined to block that exit too.
The intensity in his voice alarmed her.
“Your beauty overwhelms me, Matilda,” the Count continued before she could reply.
She began to wonder if he was in full possession of his faculties. Later, she would try to work out what this changing persona was all about. Whatever was behind it, she didn’t trust the man within an inch, especially now, and refused to be swayed by the almost insipid look on his ashen features.
His voice dropped to what she assumed he believed was a sultry tone. In reality, he sounded hoarse and just a little desperate when he spoke again.
“You have to know that you have captured my attention,” the Count declared dramatically.
“I had noticed,” Marguerite replied dryly.
It is hard to ignore when you lunge at me with all the determination of an overzealous mongrel, she thought.
