She resisted for the briefest moment because the simple act of holding his hand was doing disastrous things to her heart rate. And what could they possibly have to discuss? she thought, after last night. She said exactly that the next moment, and his voice was solemn when he replied, "I'm abysmally sorry, dushka. I was jealous and that's the honest truth."
She looked up at him, surprised, and he was startled himself at his admission.
"So we should talk," he said, tugging at her hand, and this time, touched by his candor, she followed him. They sat on an Empire sofa, rose-colored like the carpet, with a careful distance between them, both cautious and circumspect, both plagued by a sleepless night… and touchy.
"Since there's no way to lead urbanely into this," Stefan said, feeling more like a young lad than the Commander of the Tsar's Cavalry, "I'll simply say-" he took a short extra breath for courage against the coolness of her eyes "-Nikki told me you're pregnant."
"It doesn't concern you."
He should have been ecstatic with her temperate reply; it had in fact been his own first reaction to Nikki's disclosure. Inexplicably, he wasn't. He was annoyed. "Of course it concerns me," he said, sounding pompously stuffy even to himself.
"Look, Stefan…" It was the first time she'd used his Christian name since she'd walked into that room, and it gave him pleasure, as if somehow he were succeeding against her cool reserve. "Nikki may not have told you…the-" Her hesitation over the word pregnancy charmed him. She was in many ways too sweetly naive for the brutality of the world, and a novel sense of protection overcame him. "The…situation," she went on, "may not develop into anything you need concern yourself with."
"Are you pregnant?" Suddenly he wanted to know rather than be left out with her equivocation.
"I don't know," she said, a blush pinking her pale cheeks.
"What do you mean," he inquired, his voice hushed, "you don't know? Have you or have you not missed your menses?" he asked bluntly.
The flush on her face deepened, but her voice when she spoke was firm. "I don't answer questions like that." She thought he looked tired, his dark eyes underscored with faint shadows and half-lidded, as if it were an effort to hold them open, and he was here this morning because he'd talked to Nikki last night. Because Nikki had talked to him. About her. And she resented the notion that Prince Bariatinsky was trying, under duress, to distinguish what his minimum responsibilities were.
"Actually," she said decisively, "I don't answer to you at all. As a matter of fact," she added, "I'm quite independent of you. As you no doubt prefer, since I don't recall any discussion of a future when we parted after our holiday at your lodge."
"Hell, Lise, you're making this difficult."
"On the contrary, I'll make it very easy. Shall we drop the subject?"
"Maybe I don't care to drop the subject."
"And maybe I don't care whether you care or not."
"Dammit, I'm just trying to get to the bottom of this."
"And then what, Prince Bariatinsky, will you do?"
There was a short silence. "Nikki says I have to marry you."
Lisaveta's eyes took on the gelid glint of an arctic winter. "Is this a marriage proposal?" she inquired in a sherbet-sweet accent.
"Yes, dammit, it is," he growled, exasperated at her evasion, frustrated with her disinterest.
"Well, then, dammit, I refuse your gracious offer," she snapped.
"You can't refuse me," he snapped back, this man who only hours before had been appalled at the prospect of marriage.
"But I just have and that, I think, concludes our conversation. If you'll excuse me, Prince Bariatinsky. Your fiancée, perhaps, would be a more suitable recipient of your charming proposals." And she abruptly stood.
As abruptly his hand closed around her wrist and he dragged her back down. "You'll leave when I tell you to leave." He hadn't traveled five swift and fatiguing days across the Empire to be dismissed like some servant.
"You forget, General, you're not dealing with a subaltern," Lisaveta wrathfully flared, struggling to free herself from his steely grasp. "Your orders mean nothing to me."
"Does this mean something, then?" he asked, and pulled her roughly into his arms and kissed her, something he'd been wanting to do since she'd first entered the room.
She fought against his strength and his encroaching mouth and tongue, but she was effectively imprisoned in his arms despite her violent efforts. And unlike last night, when only consummation was a priority, Stefan lingered and teased, he tasted the sweetness of her lips as if she were new to him, as though young ladies wearing coronet braids were an untried flavor, as though he'd traveled five days and nights to exchange kisses like a proper gentleman.
She was surprised at first, after the initial shock of his aggression, because she'd expected his anger again and found instead a tenderness and restraint. He only kissed her, dulcetly, delicately, on her mouth, her cheek, her eyes, on the tip and slender fine bridge of her nose. And only when at last, at long last, she began kissing him back, did his mouth slowly drift downward over the silky curve of her jaw onto the warming flesh of her throat.
He carefully released her arms, which he'd been restraining at her sides in measured degrees until she leaned into him of her own accord, and he began breathing again in a normal rhythm.
"I shouldn't let you kiss me," she murmured above his bent head, her hands resting lightly on the solid muscle of his shoulders.
"But you are," he answered, his deep voice a husky low resonance against her throat, his slender dark fingers beginning to slide the small jet buttons at her collar free.
"You're too practiced…I should resist," she whispered, her eyes half-shut against the tremors of pleasure rushing through her senses.
"And you're not practiced at all," he whispered back, raising his head to look at her. "I find it arousing." He smiled then, a small faint smile of gratification. "Although resist if you like, Countess. I'd find that arousing, as well."
"I hate your licentiousness," she quietly said, her tawny eyes accusing in a curiously erotic way. Perhaps it was the feline quality of her slightly oriental eyes or the manner in which she surveyed him from beneath the lacy fringe of her lashes.
"I can tell," he said, brushing his palms over the tips of her hardened nipples visible through the cucumber-colored silk of her gown.
"And I hate your damnable assurance," she added hotly, but her voice was husky with a desire he recognized.
"I, however," he murmured, his hands moving upward to slip two more buttons free, "adore your temper." His fingers slid inside the eight inches of open neckline he'd freed and he slowly stroked the mounded fullness of her breasts. His hands were as warm as she remembered, and gentle and skilled. Lisaveta's eyes briefly shut and she moaned in warming bliss as luxurious sensation flooded through her body.
But a moment later she sharply said, "No," steeling herself against the pleasure he so easily roused, refusing to willingly surrender again, wishing to save herself from the humiliation she'd experienced last night. Her eyes were focused once again and aggressive, her hand coming out to rest on his wrist. "Don't touch me."
His wrist, muscular and strong-boned, dwarfed her small hand. "I want to," he replied, no aggression in his voice, only patience and courtesy.
"You must allow me my prerogatives," she said quietly, and waited.
His wrist moved under her hand and drawing back, he shook her hand free. "Your obedient servant, mademoiselle," he said in a parody of good manners, but his voice was tinged with surliness, like a restive boy called to order.
"You're sulking," she declared, her tone suddenly teasing, because he was moody and scowling, his large frame sprawled against the pink feminine sofa like some great dark thundercloud.
"I don't sulk," he said with unmistakable sulkiness.