Betrothed (Russian Hearts Series Book 1) Page 2

  Georgie turned to face the parlor door where her father stood and in an instant, over his shoulder she locked gazes with her betrothed. Her father’s voice faded as a cacophony of sensations burst under her skin and her legs turned oddly weak. She gripped the railing tighter to steady herself, to stop from turning into a pool of aspic as she stared.

  His return stare raced to fill every corner of her being. She was no longer in the overeager blouse. She was entirely exposed, heart, body and soul, in the most alarming and yet delicious way. There would be no defenses against this man. There would be no protecting her heart from him as he had, in a very instant, sucked it straight out of her too-tight chest and taken it captive.

  “Come in and meet General Petroski, he’s stopped by to talk about travel plans.” Her father secretly motioned her to hurry over with his hand.

  Her mind was blank as they still held each other’s gaze, a current so vital and vibrant passed between them setting her body into a turmoil of distracting and unfamiliar sensations.

  General Petroski?

  Her brow creased as she tried to recall all her betrothed’s names and titles, Russians had more variations in name and title than a debutant had dresses. And…nothing.

  Georgie looked away, had to look away to breathe. She drew air deep into her lungs and collected her thoughts. Yet only one thought went through her mind. The very real, deep seated recognition frightened her more than anything else in her life… he was the one. Ridiculous, of course. She swept the thought aside, once, twice, slammed a door in her mind on it, only to have it return wrapped in the confidence of a deep-seated knowing. Her hands clenched at how vulnerable that left her even as her foolish heart danced in her chest.

  Desperately, she sought some counterbalance for her defenselessness. And then it floated to the surface …. The thought that surely, feeling like this could not possibly be one-sided. It was logical to assume that, if she was impacted so strongly at the sight of him, then he must surely be strongly impacted by the sight of her as well, even though his eyes gave nothing away.

  Releasing the balustrade, holding on to that somewhat tenuous logic, she walked down the steps and across the hall. Her father said something that didn’t register as she stepped into the room with as much dignity as she could muster while her hands suddenly felt aimless, without purpose.

  The parlor, which should have been her domain was now most clearly his. It was bathed in his presence. Every breath filled her lungs with air pulsing of him. He must feel something too, she reassured herself as she lifted her head and met his ongoing gaze.

  Her body swirled with sensations which ran under her skin, hot, delicious and full of promise.

  “Georgie let me introduce you to General Petroski,” her father stepped next to them.

  Steps she hardly was aware she took brought her to a standstill in front of him, the man whose features she had memorized over the years. The miniatures which would accompany his mother’s apologies and later his, for failing to attend a holiday designed to bring the two of them together, to give them a chance to get to know each other. There had been six events over her childhood to now, all designed to ensure they didn’t marry as strangers. And yet here they stood facing each other for the first time and the wedding, not yet posted as was proper, was weeks away.

  She curtsied and bowed her head as she had been taught, as she had practiced until it flowed out of her with ease. How much had her father spent on tutors getting her ready for a station in life far above her own?

  He leaned forward and her breath froze, “You should curtsy after I introduce myself.” He said under his breath in a remarkable accent. He was right of course.

  His heels clicked and he gave a nod of his head. “General Demetri Petroski, at your service.”

  The breath shuddered out of her.

  “Georgina Franklin,” she didn’t curtsy again, her body felt as if it would fall in on itself if she had to try it again. The omission was noted with the smallest movement of his eyebrow. A deliciously perfect eyebrow.

  “You don’t use the title of Prince?” She reached for something to say. If she got talking, if he stopped looking at her, making her body behave like a perfect stranger, she had a chance of coming out of the exchange without looking like some empty-headed Harriet.

  “That would be my brother.”

  Pain sliced through her…that would be my brother….my brother… like a knife carving out a heart.

  Georgie spun around as her stomach roiled and she thought she might throw up. It wasn’t him. The all too certain, he-is-the-one, stood its ground. It’s not him, she threw at it, yet it didn’t waiver and her chest squeezed tighter.

  General Petroski’s voice came from behind her, perfunctory and full of authority. “I have come to offer my brother’s apologies. Matters of state which have followed him to London keep him from his greatly anticipated meeting with you, his betrothed.”

  She took a few steps to the small Edwardian chair, a comforting favorite, took a steadying breath and turned around, tilted her chin up to gaze at the glorious man who was not her betrothed and her chest curled tighter. “You’re his brother?”

  Ridiculous to confirm, he had said as much. Yet, that confident he-is-the-one bundle in her chest, refused to believe what was said.

  His heels clicked again. “At your service.”

  She clamped down on disappointment as it trembled through her, that this man was not her betrothed, this perfect man whom she felt was hers at first glance… was not hers at all. Instead she focused on the other more important disappointment…her betrothed had not come.

  “A Prince is a busy man. He will be here to meet you immediately, isn’t that correct, General?” her father added with an overly bright expression and eyes that warned her not to cause a fuss. Eyes which moved between her and the General in such a way she knew saw what she hoped would be hidden. Her stomach churned. Had the General noticed his impact on her too? Suddenly the idea that it must surely be a shared impact seemed foolish and full of girlish romanticism rather than likely. Which meant that he most likely noted her response and felt nothing in return as his face seemed to support. How mortifying!

  Big breath in. Georgie reached for the rituals of parlors all across the country, questions and practices which normalized everything. Even the most dire and awkward of situations like hers. She would be the perfect sister-in-law and look to him for clues as to what her betrothed would be like, similar surely?

  “Please be seated. Can we offer tea?” She motioned him to a chair giving her a chance to look at him more closely. Long muscular legs, narrow hips that flared into a broad back stretching his military uniform in a very flattering fit. In those seconds as he moved to the chair, she took in every detail that might give her indication of what his brother would look like, what the man who had no interest in her would look like. Then he turned as he sat, their eyes connected and just like that he set her skin aflame again.

  Georgie couldn’t help herself, she leaned toward him peering at his face, it was uncannily similar to his brother’s. Naturally, she expected her betrothed to look like him. Maybe her ridiculously exaggerated response to the General was because of the family resemblance to her betrothed.

  “Do you resemble your brother?”

  “Georgie.” Her father warned, she was supposed to exhibit her training where she was courtly and witty. Personal questions were not asked, neither were direct queries which did not pertain to refreshments, the weather, and light topics of interest.

  The General held up his hand silencing her father, “Naturally Miss Georgina will have questions. We are to be family. This more open discussion is allowable.” He returned his regard to her and that strange zinging sensation rippled through her again. “We have a clear family resemblance. And coffee would be welcome.”

  “Coffee?” She’d had the house stocked with every Russian tea imaginable.

  “Coffee is my preference ….” Their eyes locked and
the intensity of him sent that sizzle through her body yet again. Would his brother impact her in the same way? “However, if there is none in the house?” Those eyes locked with hers seemed to indicate he knew how he was unsettling her. However if she had an impact on him, she was yet to see any indication of it.

  She broke their gaze and sat straighter, ringing for service. “Of course, we have many of the continent’s offerings, General Demetri.”

  She ordered a tray of….coffee in Russian. A totally redundant thing to do as she had to repeat her instructions again in English for the staff.

  “Your accent is excellent.” His eyes now looked …softer…or something like that, something other than unreadable.

  “Georgie has been tutored since the commencement of the betrothal,” her father said with clear pride. Bless him but she was an idiot. This wasn’t her betrothed.

  The unreadable veil again shuttered across the General’s eyes.

  “That is to be commended, Miss Franklin.” He indicated with a bow of his head.

  “You are Prince Vladimir’s twin brother?” she asked, needing to check yet again the uncanny resemblance and at this point not caring what impression she was making.

  “No.” He adjusted himself in the small chair.

  “You look identical to the miniature I was sent,” she pulled the most recent one from her skirt pocket. “Perhaps you sat for them in his stead because he had matters of state to attend to?” The annoyance finally returned, giving her some backbone if a little late.

  An uncomfortable silence filled the air. She ignored her father’s finger as it moved side to side in their signal that she should manage herself. However, things had to be said and as she had already made such an idiot of herself, she may as well ask what was really on her mind. “We expected your brother to send word,” she said, and her father sighed audibly. She turned to him, “Well we did…” They had in fact waited for years! She turned back to the General, squaring her shoulders.

  “I thought a visit would be more familial,” he said. The smile, although devastatingly charming, didn’t reach his eyes. Georgie creased her brows at him. He would be a fool not to know the impact of his unannounced call, but clever of him for referring to them as already family and thus permitting the familiarity.

  “And familial we are.” Her father chimed as she slipped the miniature back in the small pocket where it resided during the day.

  “You keep his portrait on you?” General Demetri asked.

  Damn, the last thing she needed was for either Petroski to know the extent of her attachment to it and by extension to her betrothal.

  “No,” she lied. “Only recently. I was terrified I would accidentally overlook him in the street.” Foolish girl, she had carried his small miniatures around every day since the first one arrived on her ninth birthday. Those damn miniatures knew all her secrets, her hopes and fears as the man they portrayed would never know and never care.

  And there went her father’s hand again signaling she should ease off. Her jaw tightened. Maybe because she had had enough of those sizzling sensations and feeling off balance, or maybe because the balance was finally tipping, she squared her shoulders and stood her ground. Why should she swallow each and every slight and the Petroski brothers be tiptoed around? If they had the gumption to turn up unannounced and gallivant around London, then she could ask questions. In fact, her questions required answers if she was going to even remotely consider marrying anyone.

  Chapter 3

  That unwanted sensation curled around his chest again as Demetri saw Miss Georgina Franklin’s brow crease. He hadn’t been prepared for her, hadn’t expected to find her so breathtakingly attractive. Another time, another place, another set of circumstances and he would give her his undivided attention, make the effort to get to know her. However, those were not their circumstances.

  No.

  He sat in the room with a man who had blackmailed his father into a betrothal which no one wanted upheld. His father had died shortly after the announcement and, even though Demetri was only just eleven at the time, his mother had set him straight on what had happened to them and his filial duty to restore the honor of his family and his own.

  He and his brother were in London with one purpose: to have the betrothal annulled. To that end his brother, the natural libertine of the family, was masquerading as her betrothed while he did the delicate task of navigating the end of the said betrothal with the father and daughter.

  Demetri could have played himself in this masquerade, but he would never dream of delegating to his brother a task as delicate as destroying his betrothal. His brother was doing what he did best, bounding about the salons and no doubt the brothel circuits of London, causing scandal and gossip all in the name of Prince Vladimir Petroski. As much as the indiscretions under his name irked him, it suited this specific purpose. If the family Franklin thought Prince Petroski a cad, all the more reason for them to rethink launching their seemingly delightful daughter his way. She would call off the betrothal and he and his family would be free from the shame of blackmail, a situation which had caused his mother a great deal of ill health over the years.

  “And what of my miniatures? Do you know if your brother liked them? I received no word.” The beat of her heart at her clavicle, the soft touch of pink at the base of her neck alerted him to the importance of the casual question.

  Of course, he had received them and…never opened them. In the family’s cavernous library was a drawer in the desk where he did his lessons and now attended to matters of state, in which he’d placed each and every one of the miniatures, unopened. His responsibilities had been made very clear on his father’s death – end the betrothal. There had been no need to put a face to the far away betrothed. No need to know who he was betrothed to, only that he had to find a way to be released from that shameful event.

  “Men do not bother themselves with such matters.” He clipped out and regretted his words as soon as he saw the impact of them on her face. A face which apparently held no secrets, something very unusual where he came from.

  The uncomfortable sensation was back in his chest.

  It was one thing to plan his exit from the betrothal and another thing altogether to come face to face with the person most affected by his plan, the most enchanting Miss Georgina Franklin.

  Gilded eyes held his. “What are men interested in when it comes to matters concerning their betrothed?” They were framed in thick long lashes that when she slept, would rest on her cheeks like black newborn chick feathers which curled at their tips. “Perhaps a brother’s advice might lend me more success.”

  He wanted to shake his head as she viewed him through those lashes like a siren, unaware of the power she had. And yet for such a woman she had not thrown him out. In Russia, he would not have had to come to the house, the betrothal papers would have been returned and the person delivering the papers would have been given instructions to burn them at his door if not in his face. In England it seemed, women were far more forgiving. Or was it something else…that miniature in her pocket…she had formed an attachment, of course she would have. His chest warmed despite himself.

  “A man is more interested in what’s in front of him than painted. The artist is, after all, paid by the sitter. A self-commissioned portrait has often been overly kind.” He adjusted his posture again in the chair.

  She leaned forward, the light through the window caught the side of her face, pale, smooth as cream and her hair, like tangled fire. It would be like this, so ironic that the one woman he was honor driven to reject, required to repel, was turning him inside out. Had made his heart thunder in his chest as if some primal roar was about to burst from it and announce his claim to the world. He had no claim he intended to keep. The last fourteen years had seen his betrothal come up at small family gatherings, a mark of shame as his mother told the story of how their father had foolishly allowed himself to be blackmailed, had given his eldest son as compensation, that the
shame on the family name was not to be borne.

  “Were mine overly kind?” That vulnerability crossed her face again, “Did your brother show them to you?” She was twisting him in knots. She shifted in the chair.

  “No.” He hardened himself.

  “No?”

  He crossed his legs. Then his arms. The small chair creaked. “That’s correct.”

  She reached back into her pocket and took out the image of him which he sat for two years past. She was killing him.

  “Is this an accurate rendering or would you say it is overly kind to the Prince’s likeness?”

  He reached out and took the miniature, warm from her body. He didn’t look at it. Of course, he didn’t have to. It was a good likeness of him. Instead, he held her gaze as the miniature’s soft warmth sat in his closed palm.

  Her eyes held his, brave and vulnerable. He had never realized the wonderful appeal of freckles. She looked young and fresh, as if the summer sun had left messages on her skin to remind those who beheld her that it had passed over her, that it had trailed it’s heat over her skin and left reminders that when the winter was done the sun would again return. A man could find himself tracing them under fingertips, with the tip of his nose followed by lips.

  She looked away. He opened his palm and looked at the image. He saw what she obviously didn’t, the resentment and anger to yet again have to sit for a miniature which was to be sent to a betrothed he had no intention of ever marrying. Now that he’d met her those years of anger at her felt misplaced. After all, she was not responsible for the betrothal. In fact, she was betrothed to someone who had neglected her. A wish that she had had another, someone who would have made her feel cherished, twisted oddly through him.

  “It’s a good likeness,” he said curtly.

  “Is he always so serious?”

  He nodded. “He has often been told he needs to relax more.” And he had. His brother and mother said he worked too hard, should take more time to relax and enjoy life. His sister was serious like him and simply smiled knowing he could be no other way than he was, as neither could she.