Vienna Dawn (The Imperial Season Book 3) Page 6

  To Etienne, she was perfect. Apart, of course, from the fact that she was engaged to someone else. But to a man of resource and imagination, such an obstacle was not insurmountable. Especially not since she liked him.

  Etienne bided his time, conversing with acquaintances, dancing with other beautiful women. He knew she’d recognized him. For one thing, he’d told her he’d wear a burgundy domino. For another, he danced past her and Mr. Fawcett, her betrothed, speaking French and laughing, so that she would definitely know his voice. And he was aware of her gaze brushing over him several times. For himself, he didn’t mind being seen gazing at her. The world should know he was at Miss Reid’s elegant feet. And she should be flattered by it.

  He waited until the second waltz, until, he hoped, she was in a state of high anticipation, before he pounced.

  Mr. Fawcett was doing his duty by some other lady. His mother, distracted from her conversation with two other overdressed matrons, had just waved her permission for Miss Reid to dance with the exotically mustachioed Prussian officer, his rival in many matters, Major von Wahrschein. Nimbly, Etienne nipped in and whisked his prize away from under her partner’s nose.

  “Sir, I am promised to another for the waltz,” she protested. “You must let me go.”

  “I don’t ever want to let you go,” he said at once.

  A little color seeped into her pale, sculpted face. “You mustn’t say such things.”

  “I always speak what’s in my heart.”

  “Even when it pains me?”

  “How can a man’s devotion pain you?”

  “When I do not want it,” she almost whispered. “I am betrothed to Mr. Fawcett.”

  “But not chained to him. Surely other men may speak to you?”

  “Not to torment me.”

  Etienne smiled into her eyes, well aware of the effect. “I torment you?” he murmured. “How?”

  “By speaking as you do. May we not discuss the weather? Or the jewels of the ladies present?”

  “Other ladies bore me,” Etienne insisted.

  “You didn’t look bored,” Miss Reid said dryly.

  Again Etienne smiled with a hint of triumph. “Then you noticed me, Miss Reid.”

  “Why, look at those beautiful ladies, stepping into the ballroom,” she interrupted in clear desperation. “I am sure they are new to Vienna.”

  “I don’t care,” Etienne said, his gaze still fixed on his partner’s face.

  “You must look,” she said, with such anguish that, knowing she was all but won, he gave in and cast a quick glance toward the ballroom entrance, where Mrs. Fawcett was greeting late arrivals.

  Masked as they were and among so many others, he probably wouldn’t have recognized any of them if they hadn’t actually been standing in a group. Three women, one older and haughtier—he’d been avoiding her for weeks, ever since he’d arrived in Vienna. The other two were young, beautiful, and vivacious. The younger’s simply dressed hair ornamented with three pearls, was of a particular distinctive shade, like burnt gold.

  The Russian women were here. And the youngest might just spoil his carefully laid plans.

  “I don’t know about the others,” he said carelessly. “But the older lady is clearly Countess Savarina.”

  “You are acquainted with her?” Miss Reid said, clearly relieved to be talking about anything unexceptionable.

  “I met her in Russia when I was in exile there. Terrifying lady, I assure you. Fortunately, she has forgotten me, so we don’t notice each other. Promise yourself to me for the supper dance.”

  “No!”

  Etienne laughed, turning her so that he could see the newcomers from the corner of his eye. “Where is the harm? Two dances are perfectly respectable. Even your dragon could not object.”

  Dunya was curtseying to Mrs. Fawcett, her eyes sparkling with excitement through the slits of her mask as she smiled and spoke, making a quick, encompassing gesture with her arm. Something stirred within Etienne. It wasn’t even memory. It felt like…regret. The girl had always been charming and pretty but now, God help the male of the species, she’d turned into the loveliest, liveliest swan in the room.

  Sadly, despite her brother’s wealth, she was still poor.

  He smiled into the eyes of Miss Reid, the heiress. “So, I may have the supper dance?”

  “I suppose you may, since you wish it so much.”

  *

  Dunya was enchanted. A masquerade ball, she decided, was the best entertainment ever. She danced with several charming men and, despite her mother’s warnings that gentlemen were inclined to take liberties under the excuse of masks that they wouldn’t dream of normally, she darted off on her own when she could. Once, she did so because she’d glimpsed a one-armed man entering the card room, but when she found him seated at one of the tables, it was clearly a much older gentleman than Captain Trelawny.

  But all was not lost, for two men begged her to dance with them, and one tried to entice her on to the terrace.

  “It is far too cold, monsieur,” she said at once, fixing him with a stern stare. “And besides, it would not be safe for you.”

  “For me?” her admired repeated, clearly unsure whether to be amused or affronted. Several other gentlemen around them, smiled.

  “You have a large, frightening brother, perhaps?” someone in a grey mask suggested.

  “I do,” she agreed, “but actually, he would not be safe because I would shoot him.”

  An explosion of laughter greeted this breezy assurance.

  Her admirer smiled, although around his mask, his face flushed. “But where do you keep your weapon, mademoiselle?”

  “Close by,” she said, patting her reticule. They all looked, and perhaps because it was larger than some and clearly carried more than a spare pair of gloves, no one expressed any doubt in her lie.

  “A shooting contest, then,” her admirer suggested.

  “You don’t have your weapon with you,” someone mocked.

  “Another day,” Dunya pronounced airily and walked away.

  Since she didn’t really wish to cause a scandal, she meant to return directly to her mother, only, as she left the teasing group, another man caught her eye. Although he stood with a young lady and her family, his gaze was upon her. He wore a burgundy mask and domino over strict black evening attire and a snowy white cravat. But she was sure, suddenly, that she knew that dark gaze and the shape of his face. His very posture seemed familiar.

  Etienne.

  She nearly ruined everything by running to him. Fortunately, she remembered her plan in time. She was engaged to the gallant Captain Trelawny—wherever he was—and had quite forgotten the Comte de la Tour, her childish first love. So, although her heart thundered in her chest, she let her gaze drift over him and away as she walked across the room, forcing herself to concentrate on other things.

  Anastasia was dancing with a military gentleman with very fine moustaches. Dunya was glad to see her smiling and enjoying herself. A solid diet of Nikolai couldn’t be good for anyone.

  Masquerade balls were not Nikolai’s cup of tea, as her old English governess might have put it. He didn’t understand the point, felt silly in a mask, and didn’t like either dancing or conversing with people whose faces he couldn’t see. Dunya, despite several other more tempting offers, took pity on him, danced with him, and accompanied him to supper.

  This was not, of course, a wholly selfless act. Her brother-in-law, being basically good-natured beneath his stuffed shirt, would allow her to maneuver him wherever she wished to go, so long as he was there to keep her in order. And he had never met Etienne.

  Dunya had kept Etienne in view. He had a tall, elegant, dark-haired young lady on his arm. And when this female turned her head to glance up at him, Dunya’s heart twisted with jealousy. For beneath the dusky pink mask, her rival seemed to be beautiful in the kind of way Dunya had always envied—cool and poised and self-controlled.

  An elegant collation had been laid
out for the guests to choose from. By dithering over her choice of cold meats, Dunya ensured she now stood beside this young lady.

  “Oh, I’m sorry!” she said contritely. “I stood on your gown! Have I torn it?”

  Both the lady and Etienne glanced at her in quick surprise. Surely, Etienne had recognized her voice.

  The young lady glanced downward. “No, it’s quite undamaged,” she said in halting, English-accented French. “Please don’t worry.”

  “You’re English,” Dunya stated, switching at once to that language. “I apologize for my clumsiness. I confess I’m starving and was paying more attention to the food than my feet.”

  “It is a delicious spread,” the lady agreed.

  They moved on, collecting food, occasionally exchanging mundane or, in Dunya’s case, genuinely enthusiastic comments about particular dishes. In this way, it seemed quite natural for Dunya and Nikolai to sit next to her new friend and Etienne. Since it was a masquerade, no names were exchanged, though Dunya did let slip that her partner was her brother-in-law and that she was engaged to be married to an Englishman.

  As she chattered, she could feel Etienne’s gaze upon her, which was a triumph, although he spoke little and mostly directed to his partner, although he smiled in a friendly enough manner at both Nikolai and Dunya. It struck her that he didn’t want to be recognized, which made her more than a little angry, until she considered that a public reunion here would be most undesirable and liable to damage an unmarried lady’s reputation. Etienne, of all people, knew she was impulsive to a fault and so was, presumably, trying to avert her self-destruction.

  And so they parted company after supper and returned to the ballroom. Dunya watched jealously as Etienne returned the English girl to a stout, rigid matron in black, stayed for a few words and then wandered away.

  “Where is Anastasia?” Nikolai wondered, looking about him.

  “She had supper with an army officer,” said Dunya, who missed very little. “He had quite magnificent whiskers. Ah, there they are.” She nodded across the ballroom. Between the returning couples, Anastasia could be glimpsed strolling on the arm of the same bewhiskered officer who was clearly making her laugh.

  Nikolai frowned, for no obvious reason. “This is the last dance before the unmasking. Your mother is quite adamant that we should slip away.”

  “I know,” Dunya replied regretfully. She would rather have stayed until the end for any number of reasons, but since this promised to be the first of many such events, she gave in with good grace to Nikolai’s urging. They crossed the ballroom toward Anastasia.

  “I’ll go and find Mother,” Dunya said. “I don’t know whether she wishes to go now or after this dance.”

  Without waiting to discover if anyone objected, she flitted away, searching around the ballroom for signs of her mother, whom she eventually discovered seated beside a straight-backed balding gentleman whose mask dangled from his wrist.

  “Ah, I don’t mind telling you,” the countess confided to this gentleman, “this is my younger daughter Avdotya. We call her Dunya. Dunya, General Lisle. His daughter is a particular friend of Lizzie’s.”

  Dunya, unsure why her mother felt it necessary to explain this to her, curtseyed to the general and moved to stand behind her mother, so that she could see the whole ballroom. She thought again about Captain Trelawny, hoping he was well, and that Misha had discovered his address. She remembered what Jenkins had said about his will to live, and recalled the easy kindness of his eyes, his almost surprised smile, and his steady arm as he’d aimed his pistol unflinchingly at Sebastian Niven. Such a man was too… valuable to have given up on life.

  “Dunya,” a man’s voice murmured beside her, dragging her out of her reverie.

  She turned her head to see a man in a burgundy mask and domino. At last!

  “Monsieur Burgundy,” she murmured in return. “How is it you know my name?”

  “Dunya!” She was sure he scowled under the mask. “It is I,” he breathed. “Etienne.”

  She raised her brows. “Etienne? Etienne de la Tour? Goodness, I did not know you. To think we actually sat together at supper. How are you?”

  This calm, very un-Dunya-like reaction to his revelation, clearly baffled him. He’d truly expected to have to calm her indiscreet cries of joy. After a distinct pause while he searched her masked face—perhaps wondering if he’d made an appalling mistake and spoken to the wrong woman—he smiled uncertainly. “I’m well, of course, as, I can see, are you. Even masked, you are beautiful, more beautiful even than I remember.”

  “Thank you,” she said carelessly, while her heart began to sing with fresh triumph.

  “Come, dance with me,” he urged. “Reminisce with me.”

  She almost gave in. But that would not do. That would not be the way to win him for more than one dance.

  “Perhaps another time, since we are both fixed in Vienna for now. We’re about to leave.”

  “Before the unmasking?” he asked incredulously.

  “Oh, yes. It’s been enormous fun, but you know I find I don’t enjoy anything half so much when he is not with me.”

  “He?” Etienne looked baffled.

  “Captain Trelawny. My betrothed.” Catching sight of her sister, she leaned over her mother’s shoulder to say in her ear, “Look, here are Asya and Nikolai. Shall we go, now?”

  “Let me escort you all to your carriage,” General Lisle offered.

  Dunya swept off to give Anastasia the good news. As she turned back with her sister, she caught a glimpse of Etienne still standing there, ignored by her for the first time ever. It gave her an ill-natured sense of power. But more than that, she knew she’d gained his attention.

  Chapter Six

  Instead of kicking his heels in the French embassy while the Prince de Talleyrand, France’s delegate to the Peace Congress, completed his elaborate and time-consuming toilette, Etienne betook himself to one of the city’s many coffee houses. There, he encountered his rival, Major von Wahrschein, thoughtfully stirring his coffee until he seemed likely to bore a hole through the bottom of the cup.

  “Don’t take it so hard, old fellow,” Etienne advised, sitting beside him without invitation.

  Wahrschein blinked. “Take what hard?”

  “That the delectable Miss Reid clearly prefers me.”

  “Well, the delectable Miss Reid is engaged elsewhere, so don’t get your hopes up,” Wahrschein retorted.

  “How can I help it when yours are so cast down?”

  Wahrschein shrugged. “If you can entice her away from Fawcett, good luck. But you know, even for a fortune, I don’t believe I’m ready to be leg-shackled. And the only way you’d get Miss Reid is through marriage.”

  “Certainly wouldn’t get her fortune any other way,” Etienne agreed. “Are you telling me, the field is clear, as it were, for me?”

  “Apart from Fawcett,” Wahrschein pointed out with a hint of sarcasm. “And his own fortune. And the lady’s good taste, of course.”

  Etienne sat back in his seat, considering the Prussian. “It’s not like you to give up,” he observed.

  “I haven’t so much given up as moved on, old boy. Got a new filly in my sights.” He threw down his spoon at last and fixed Etienne with his gaze. “You spent time in Russia, didn’t you? Ever come across Countess Savarina?”

  Etienne blinked. “She’s a fine woman, but a little long in the tooth!”

  Wahrschein barked out a laugh. “Not her, imbecile, her daughter!”

  In spite of himself, Etienne narrowed his gaze. “I wouldn’t play there, my friend. The lady is spoken for.”

  “So is Miss Reid,” Wahrschein retorted. “Mind your own business.”

  “Oh, I will,” Etienne assured him. “But you do know who her brother is, don’t you? Vanya Savarin? Lord Launceton?”

  “Heard of him. Never met him,” Wahrschein said carelessly.

  “No novice dueler from all I hear,” Etienne said maliciously, signa
ling the waiter for coffee.

  He wasn’t quite sure why he wanted to keep the rakish Wahrschein away from Dunya. Etienne wasn’t normally so dog-in-the-manger. But although he had no intention of giving up his pursuit of the wealthy Miss Reid, he’d been somewhat piqued not to have retained little Dunya’s devotion. Especially now that the vivacious girl had developed into such a beautiful, intriguing woman. “Besides, you know, the girl still carries a torch for me.”

  Wahrschein laughed. “Well, if she does, it’s a dashed dim one and makes no odds to my chances. Go chase your heiress, Monsieur le Comte. I shall settle for a cozy affair.”

  The thought of Dunya in Wahrschein’s arms infuriated Etienne far more than he was prepared to show. But he’d no intention of letting the Prussian ruin Dunya. If anyone had her before her husband-to-be, it would be Etienne. If only he could manage it discreetly…at the same time as securing the hand of Miss Reid.

  His first step was clearly to go to the concert at the Redoutensaal this evening. Unless Dunya had changed utterly, she would never miss such an event. And since the British were largely ignoring it as an expression of protest against its Russian sponsors, Miss Reid was unlikely to be present.

  In the meantime, there was money to be made on the side. He smiled at Wahrschein. “What do say to a wager, my friend?”

  “On what?” Wahrschein asked, straightening in his chair.

  “Which of us is first to bring a lady away from her home to a place of our choice. Not just any lady, but a virtuous one already spoken for, married or engaged. An extra hundred for more than one.”

  Wahrschein laughed. “More than one at the same time? You’re ridiculously full of yourself! But I’ll take your wager, Etienne, and you’ll lose, even attempting one lady! Just name the time and the place.”