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‘I was out on the balcony, if you must know.’
‘I want to know.’
She was demanding. It was all or nothing with Libby—that was how she lived her life. With Daniil she felt she was supposed to hold back, to restrain herself, to feign nonchalance, but that wasn’t who she was.
‘Did you know anything about a letter for me?’
‘Yes, about your inheritance, I think...’ Libby was vague.
‘Actually, no, it was a letter to me.’
‘Well, how would I know that?’ she said.
‘Go to sleep,’ he said.
‘If only it were that easy. I’m sorry if I’m not laid-back enough for you. I apologise if I can’t sleep the sleep of the dead when I’ve no idea where you are.’
No one had ever waited up for him.
Occasionally Marcus had let him in if he’d had arrived home late minus his keys. That was the sum of concern in this place.
He recalled one Christmas Eve, when he’d been about seventeen, and a night at the local pub had seemed more palatable than a night spent with his parents, George and Dr Stephenson and family.
He’d been unable to get a taxi from the village and had rather foolishly decided to take the long walk home in the snow. He hadn’t counted on the lack of landmarks, or that a few drinks on a stomach of dread might make for a difficult journey. He had given in and holed up in a barn, waking to a weak silvery sunrise before tackling the last mile home.
Marcus had let him in and, following voices, Daniil had walked into the drawing room to see his parents opening their presents, along with George.
They had all turned as he had stepped in, his black hair white with snow, his clothes damp from a night sleeping out, but what had truly frozen out that Christmas morning had been his mother’s slight shrug. ‘Oh!’ she had said. ‘We thought you were still in bed.’
Daniil looked over to where Libby lay. He knew that his anger was misplaced.
‘I thought you would be asleep.’
‘Well, I wasn’t.’
‘I know that now.’
He’d entered the room determined to stay away but now he rolled towards her, his cold mouth seeking hers, his hands everywhere, but she slapped them off.
‘You’d rather screw me than talk to me.’
‘Tonight, yes.’
‘Well, tough,’ she said. ‘You can’t ignore me for half the night and then expect peak performance...’
He rolled away from her and she lay regretting her stance and yet refusing to relent.
She lay facing away from him perhaps as lonely and scared as Daniil had been all those years ago in this very room. After all, her problem was the same as his had been—it was hard to accept that you weren’t really wanted.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LIBBY MUST HAVE drifted off to sleep because she woke to the sound of Daniil in the shower and the recollection of their row.
Maybe she had been too harsh. Libby knew from the little he had told her that coming back here would prove hard but, hell, she was tired of numbing their issues with sex.
She watched as he walked out of the en suite, still sulking.
He dried himself and she looked at his beautiful, toned, sensual body and really she should give herself a gold star for managing to say no to that last night.
She was tired of the roller-coaster ride, though.
For the best part of a year she had lived on one, courtesy of her fading career. Having stepped off that one, she had promptly climbed into a carriage named Daniil, yet she had forgotten to strap herself in.
It was time to rectify that.
‘Are we going down for breakfast?’ she asked, as her stomach declared it would like some.
‘No,’ Daniil said.
‘Well, thanks for keeping me informed.’
She headed into the en suite and looked at her pale complexion and white lips and prayed her pallor was down to the fact she was getting her period.
Her breasts certainly felt as if she was, Libby thought as she showered and felt them swollen and sensitive beneath her fingers.
She simply couldn’t be pregnant.
Apart from the fact that it would mean the father was possibly London’s most notorious rake, there was a little thing called the Libby Tennent School of Dance to consider. It was the summation of her life’s work and her entire future. The dance school had felt for a while like a last resort but it was where all her hope resided now.
Yes, maybe her anger last night and this morning was a touch illogical and misdirected, yet that was how she felt—illogical and misdirected were apt words to describe her behaviour since Daniil had come into her life.
