“I’m still deciding, but it’ll be worth the patience.” His gaze lingered on her, allowing the words to settle deep inside her. Given enough time they might take root. That she could not allow.
“Dr. MacCallan. Marquess, or whatever you wish to be called—”
“Wynn.”
“I think it best—” A sequined hip swung into her, knocking her practically onto Wynn’s lap. He steadied her, but not before her lips came dangerously close to grazing his neck. He smelled even better at this proximity. She jerked upright in her chair and smoothed her skirt before her hands could tremble. “Forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive when a lady falls into my arms.” A charming quip for every situation. The flame in his eyes warmed to pure gold. “I very much wanted to escort you tonight, but I hope the carriage eased your troubles.”
“It was very thoughtful for you to think of us in that way. We are grateful.”
His brow creased. “We?”
“My mother insisted on attending with me.” Svetlana inclined her head to where her mother lounged in Sheremetev’s booth guzzling wine and preening like a peacock too long displaced from her court of honor. Some things never changed.
Wynn followed her gaze. “Ah, I see your mother got the flower I sent you.”
“It was lovely.” Svetlana touched the spot on her gown where she would’ve pinned the flower, then quickly brushed at it. Did she imagine him wooing her? Certainly not. “I wanted to correct the misunderstanding, but that often leads to greater troubles, and Mama is rather—”
“Difficult?”
“Unchangeable.”
Wynn turned back to her, expression softening. “I’m almost glad you’re not wearing it. You would shame any rose daring to call itself lovely.”
This man and his charm!
As the dancers took their bow, a parade of chilled buckets filled with champagne, trays loaded with food, and stacks of cigarettes in silver cases arrived at their table with Leonid leading the grand procession just in time to save her. The atmosphere, having grown densely warm over the past several minutes, eased.
“Enjoy party,
“Is that pickled beets?” Wynn’s questioning gaze lifted to Svetlana.
She shrugged, sending her blousy sleeve sliding down. “Pickle everything.”
Hesitating under Leonid’s waiting eye, Wynn forked a single beet and tucked it into his mouth. His expression shifted as he chewed and swallowed, followed by a quick gulp of champagne.
“I’ve never had beets prepared that way.”
“You honorary Russian now. Eat beets and cabbage. Drink vodka.” Leonid tried pushing a glass of vodka into Wynn’s hands.
“No, thank you. Have to stay sharp in case I’m called to operate, but in the meantime allow me to present something to you.” Reaching into his jacket pocket, Wynn pulled out a small package wrapped in gauze and tied with twine. “Sorry about the wrapping. I couldn’t find proper gifting paper, but I didn’t want to arrive empty-handed to your name day celebration. Which I’m still not clear about.”
“I named after saint. Anointed day on calendar he has. His day. My day. It same. Like birthday.” Leonid tore off the gift wrapping and howled with delight at the bullet cartridge in his palm. “Is mine?”
Wynn nodded. “I found it on the footpath behind you. Thought you might like a souvenir. Many of the soldiers do when they’re wounded.”
“Soldiers see enemy across line, no back of alley.” Words steely, Leonid’s fingers curled over the bullet. “They pay.”
“Do you know who attacked you?”
“
A look dawned across Wynn’s face as he settled back in his chair and gazed at her. She glanced away as he probed into her, overturning truths she wished to remain hidden and safe.
“He is here! Here is famous surgeon saving my son’s life.” Sheremetev barreled through the throng with thick arms spread wide and switching to English for Wynn’s sake. Anyone not coherent enough to leap from his path was knocked out by his rotund belly. Seizing Wynn by the shoulders, he hauled him to his feet and into a hug that could have cracked ribs. “Owe you everything. Tell me, what I do for you? I get anything for show appreciation. Name it only.”
“Your son alive is all the gratitude I need, sir.”
“Englishmen too modest. Come, come. Accept humble token.” Sheremetev snapped his fingers and a finely wrapped box appeared in his fleshy palm. “For you. It great insult to refusals.”