Lord Buckingham’s Bride by Sandra Heath Page A

friend willattempt anything else, but there’s no need to take unnecessary chances.’
    She didn’t know what to say, but she could well imagine what Miss Wright would have had to say. However, she knew that his intention was only to protect her.
    He smiled at the various expressions crossing her face. ‘I trust you don’t fear that I, too, have dark designs upon you, Alison?’
    â€˜Of course not,’ she said quickly, conscious of hot color rushing into her cheeks.
    â€˜Just remember that no one of consequence to either of us will ever hear about anything that’s taken place here. Good night, Alison.’ With that he went to the chair and flung himself into it, his long legs stretching out toward the fire. Leaning his head back, he ran his fingers through his dark hair and then closed his eyes.
    Alison hesitated for a moment and then went to the bed, where she made herself as comfortable as possible in her previous position, the book open on her lap. She reflected upon the events of the past hour or so, and upon her shameful ability to tell exceedingly plausible fibs. But then it suddenly occurred to her that one didn’t have to fib to avoid telling the truth; one could also change the subject and allow a question to remain unanswered, just as Francis had done when he’d disconcerted her by suggesting that he stay in her room overnight. There was something else behind his visit to St Petersburg, she was quite certain of that, even though he had yet to admit it.
    She looked at him as he lounged back in the chair. His eyes were still closed, but she didn’t know if he was asleep. His lashes were thick and dark and his coal-black hair was tousled because he’d just run his fingers through it, a habit of his she was to come to know in the ensuing days. Her glance lingered on his lips as she remembered how he had kissed her. Was it really possible that in the tension and fear of that moment, she found herself responding to him? When she had looked down from the balcony and gazed upon him for the first time, something strange had happened to her, something she had never encountered before, and she knew that nothing would ever be the same again.
    She lowered her eyes. She envied Pamela, she envied her with all her heart.

5
    T he short Scandivanian night was at an end and the sun had risen in the sky over Stockholm, but the city was still asleep. All was quiet at the Dog and Flute, where the guests had long since gone to their rooms and there was as yet no activity in the kitchens. In the tap room, the only sounds were those made by the small boy whose duty it was to look after the fire. He was scraping out the birchwood ashes and shoveling them into a bucket.
    Up on the gallery, Nikolai lounged alone at the table where he and his companions had whiled away the night hours. The others had retired now, but he had too much on his mind to think of sleep. Agnetha had been there for the taking – she had made that plain enough – but she didn’t have ash-blonde hair and big gray eyes, nor did she possess that beguiling air of innocence that aroused his desire to fever pitch. Beguiling indeed, for the last thing that could really be said of Miss Alison Clearwell was that she was innocent, for her lover had remained in her room since he, Nikolai, had left.
    Nikolai’s dark eyes flickered as he riffled some playing cards in his hands. His gleaming spurred boots rested on the tabletop, where glasses, empty bottles, dice, and cards from the night’s gaming still lay scattered. A candle burned on in its holder, the flame sunk low in a sea of melted wax. Little daylight penetrated the gallery, and the glow of the candle shone on his gold-braided uniform and burnished his blond hair with hints of copper as he pondered the intriguing question of the lovely young Englishwoman and her dashing lord. They had taken him in completely; he had really believed their story, and he