Strange. The doors of Paris had slammed shut on her in her hour of need—both French and Russian. Only one dared to crack open with exception and show her kindness. And a second with a man who loved nothing more than to take advantage of her kind.
She crushed one of the dead leaves in her palm. The brittle pieces crunched under her thumb. “Did you ever come across a Sheremetev?”
Sergey’s fingers stilled for the briefest of moments. “As in the Muscovy Sheremetevs? Who ruled half the shipping and trading on the Black Sea before the Revolution? I don’t believe so. Why do you ask?”
“The man who rules Little Neva—the Russian neighborhood in Paris. His presence was everywhere, particularly at a club called the White Bear.”
“I kept my profile low and away from places like that. Any inquiries I made were with discretion and never with names.”
“One of Sheremetev’s greatest abilities is using discretion to his purposes.” She watched for any flicker of recognition on his face. And why should there be? This was one of her oldest friends in the world who had sacrificed himself for her well-being. She had no reason to believe he would lie to her. Had the Revolution and scraping by to survive turned her so cynical? It had turned her desperate and look where that got her. Straight under the thumb of the vilest man on earth. She glanced down at the band of gold wrapped around her finger and covered it with her other hand, safe and protected. Without it she would still be under that hideously fat thumb. “Wynn tried to warn me.”
Abruptly, Sergey stood and paced away. “The duke proves himself invaluable on more than one occasion. How fortunate for you to find such a man.” Though he pulled his lips into a smile, it didn’t mask his clipped words.
A mingling of sadness and guilt weighed on her heart. “I know my marriage was a shock to you. It was to me as well, but times were desperate. I’m sorry for any heartache I may have caused you.”
“We were never formally engaged, it’s true, but I felt as if there was an understanding between us. As a gentleman I cannot hold you accountable for my fault in not proposing when I had the chance. Are you happy with your choice?”
“Wynn is a good man. He’s kind, and generous, and brilliant.”
“You avoid my question. I asked if you are happy.”
She’d once told Wynn happiness was a foreign illusion to Russians. Their national inclination was given to sadness and stoic reality. He’d laughed. Of course he had. It made her see the lightness missing from her life. A lightness that had stolen into her to make her realize she didn’t miss the stoicism quite as much as she thought she would.
“Despite the hardships and sorrows, yes, I’ve found happiness.”
“Do you love him?”
“Sergey! That is not an appropriate question to demand of a lady.”
He fell to his knees in front of her, knocking the dead leaves from her hands and scattering them about the floor. She moved to clean them up, but he blocked her.
“Leave those for the servants to clean. As you did in the Blue Palace. I fear your time here has altered you.”
“If by altered you mean I take more responsibility, then yes. And that starts by not creating messes for others to clean.”
Still, he did not move. “I apologize. My feelings have led carelessness to overtake me.” Anguish roamed in his dark eyes. “I ask this as a friend. As a man you once cared for. Has your love slipped from me to another?”
Apart from the wild impertinence of the question, Svetlana couldn’t bring herself to tell him no, she’d never loved him. In her own way, perhaps, knowing that most marriages started without the sentiment but with hope of growing into love, but that deep, head-over-heels thrill of exhilaration had never consumed her when it came to Sergey.
“I did have affection for you, Sergey, that I can never deny—”
“Then don’t!”
“But it is a feeling that belongs in the past. Wynn has become my future.”
“Your future was planned with me. There’s still time to make it so.” He grabbed her hand, cradling it between his own. His fingers were long and cool, matching the iciness of hers. Unlike Wynn’s warm ones, which could immediately draw the coldness from her.
“Come away with me. Now. To a place where no one can find us.”
She withdrew her hand from Sergey’s. “I am Wynn’s wife. I pledged my loyalty to him.”
“But you didn’t want to.” Sergey’s eyes flickered over her shoulder, then back to her as he leaned closer. “We’re destined to be together.”
Svetlana opened her mouth, but promptly closed it. She didn’t need to explain herself nor defend her decisions. She regretted the forced haste of her union, but not once had she had cause to regret marrying Wynn.