Keeping Katerina (The Victorians Book 1) Read online

  Her second husband, Colonel Turner, oversaw the factory Christopher's father owned. While certainly not nobility -a rank given at birth and rarely attained by other means - they were two comfortably wealthy middle-class families, apart from the fact that her son and Christopher's closest friend Collin had a seat in the House of Lords and a struggling estate to try to resurrect from the ashes of his late father's excessive lifestyle. It would likely take his whole life.

  Since Christopher's father and the colonel were nowhere to be seen, Christopher assumed they had decided to spend a bit of time playing cards before dinner and would join the dancing afterwards.

  Christopher approached his mother. Tonight, she wore a lovely dress in a shade of soft blue, which complemented her rich, fiery hair. She had just celebrated her fortieth birthday and was starting to have a few silver streaks in the glowing mass, a few crow's feet around her eyes, but that made her no less lovely. Standing with the ladies was a taller, younger woman. This must be the one I'm supposed to meet.

  He appraised her as he approached. She certainly looks Italian, with her dark brown hair. Her skin was a darker shade than Julia's, not dusky precisely, but with a hint of warmth to the tone, which spoke of foreign shores and stronger sun. She also didn't look particularly shy. She held her head up, her brown eyes meeting his mother's and Mrs. Turner's quite easily. She has quite a pretty face, he noted, pleased. Her nose was a trifle on the bold side, but not hideously so, and her teeth flashed white and straight. She met his eyes for a frozen moment before her gaze skated nervously away, but in that heartbeat of connection, Christopher discovered something extraordinary. She's more than pretty. She's lovely.

  Her nervous retreat broke the spell and he turned, masking his reaction by feigning normalcy. “Good evening, Mother,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Mrs. Turner.” He clasped her hand.

  “Good evening, Christopher,” the lovely blonde greeted him warmly, sounding very much like another mother, which in a sense she was. “How are you?”

  “I'm well thank you,” he replied. “Your son sends his regrets.”

  “I'm sure.” Regret tightened her face. While she and her husband did all they could to help Collin, the needs of his floundering estate exceeded what his parents could overcome, and Mrs. Turner suffered endless guilt over her inability to fix his problems.

  “Good evening, son,” Julia said turning the attention from Collin's hopeless mess to the present. “May I introduce you to a friend of mine?”

  “Certainly, Mother.” Christopher's gaze turned from Mrs. Turner to the lovely woman his mother wanted him to meet.

  “This is Miss Katerina Valentino. Katerina, my son Christopher Bennett.”

  He took the delicate, long-fingered hand and lifted it to his lips, and then raised his eyes to hers. She met his gaze for another long unguarded moment, and then a wave of nervousness visibly washed over her and she dropped her eyes to the floor. As Collin said, powerfully timid.

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Valentino. How do you like the party?”

  She replied so softly he couldn't hear her.

  “Katerina,” his mother said gently, “It's very loud in here. You needn't screech but do raise your voice a little.”

  She took a deep breath. “It's … crowded. The hosts must be quite popular.” Her voice had a delicate and well-modulated pitch, and the sound sent an agreeable shiver up Christopher's spine.

  I could listen to this woman talk for hours. “Yes, they are. Very,” he said.

  “I was… glad to be invited,” she commented idly, though the force of will required for her to utter the simple phrase made it seem more important than it was. She tugged on her hand. Christopher blinked, suddenly realizing he'd forgotten to let go. Her fingers fell from his grip.

  “I am also glad you were invited,” he said, trying to be charming. A hint of color stained her cheeks. So, she's susceptible to a compliment. Good.

  She glanced up at him again, meeting his eyes briefly. “The violin is… out of tune.”

  Christopher listened. What an astute comment. “You're right. I suppose hiring the highest level of musicians isn't necessary in this din. Do you like music then, Miss Valentino?”

  “Yes, very much.” She raised her head at that, and he saw a hint of passion in her eyes.

  “Do you play any instruments?” he asked, thankful to have stumbled upon a means of prolonging the conversation.

  “The pianoforte,” she replied.

  “Well?” he pressed.

  Her eyes met his. “Yes.”

  He raised his eyebrows. While most young ladies did learn to play the instrument, admitting right out that one played well, rather than well enough or some other self-deprecating comment, might be considered immodest. However, given how shy she was, that might be a modest assessment of her talent. How interesting it would be to hear that hint of passion expressed in music. He hoped she wasn't too shy to play for him some time.

  “I would enjoy hearing it,” he told her sincerely. “I love music. Alas, I have no talent.”

  “He exaggerates,” Julia interjected. “He sings rather well.”

  Christopher shrugged. Only in your mind, Mother. I sing like an amorous bullfrog. “Perhaps. Well, Miss Valentino, would you care to dance?”

  The young woman looked up at him again briefly and then nodded once, returning her gaze to the floor while her cheeks flamed.

  “Very good.” He extended his hand. Hesitantly, she placed her palm in his and let him lead her onto the floor.

  “My dear,” he told her as the waltz began, “I have a singular problem making conversation with your hairline. If you're a musician, then I'm sure you have enough rhythm to take your eyes off your feet and look at me. Can you do that?”

  She raised her face. This close to her, he could see the luscious curve of her lower lip. She had a mouth made for kissing. Her slender body fit perfectly in his arms. She was tall enough that their position aligned naturally with no need for him to stoop, which he found quite unusually pleasing.

  “Thank you for asking me to dance,” she said softly. “I know your mother put you up to it.”

  Christopher inhaled in preparation to speak and the soft aroma of lilacs teased him. In the heart of icy winter, this woman smelled like spring. He answered her honestly. “Not at all. She put me up to meeting you. I asked you to dance because I wanted to.”

  That hint of color darkened her cheeks again. “Why on earth would you?”

  “You're quite… pretty, you like music, and you're interesting. Why would I not?”

  Her blush darkened further. “Never mind.”

  It appears her susceptibility to compliments is limited. “Right. So, let's talk about something.” She gave him a considering look but remained silent, so he cast about for a topic. “Since you like music a great deal, do you have any favorite composers?”

  “Beethoven,” she replied promptly. “I also like Chopin very much.”

  He acknowledged her comment with a brief nod. “Not surprising. Do you play other instruments besides pianoforte?”

  “Harpsichord. I'm afraid I'm useless on the organ. Those foot pedals defeat me.” A hint of a smile teased the corners of her mouth.

  Christopher considered for the first time in his life what playing the organ must be like. He couldn't even manage the pianoforte. “No doubt. Do you sing?”

  “I sing well enough.”

  Now there's the common response. “Alto?” he pressed, not ready to abandon such a promising topic.

  “Soprano.”

  Their progress had led them to the open balcony door and a waft of welcome coolness washed over the couple. “Hmmm. I would like to hear that as well.”

  “Why?” she asked, tilting her head and regarding him with confusion.

  “You're Italian, and you're a soprano. Sounds like opera to me,” he teased.

  She grinned. “Nothing like that, I assure you.”

  At the sight of her shy smile,
Christopher became even more entranced. She's more than lovely. She's… glorious. Between one heartbeat and the next, getting to know this woman changed from being his mother's desire to his own.

  The conversation died, and they continued to dance in silence, but not the uncomfortable kind of silence that speaks of a desire to get away from each other. Instead, they engaged in a wordless exchange of attraction. He studied the details of his dance partner… the curve of her ear, the smooth line of her jaw, the slender column of her throat, the softness of her shoulder where it disappeared into her gleaming white dress, the dip of the bodice where it created the tiniest hint of cleavage. He could see her bosom was small, but she was so slender it only looked proportional. In fact, she was rather more than slender, almost emaciated. Her body felt fragile in his arms. A surge of protective attraction welled up and he squashed it down. It won't do to become too enamored too quickly.

  She shifted her fingers in his grip and he made himself relax. The hand in his captured his attention as well; dainty, but strong, the hand of a keyboard player. What would it be like to have those little hands apply themselves to caressing a man's body?

  Christopher shook himself again. What's wrong with you? This is no time for lewd speculations. She's a decent girl, so the only opportunity to be touched by her would be in a marriage bed, and I'm certainly not ready to commit to that.

  But he would commit himself to furthering the acquaintance. He disagreed with Cary. She was not boring in the slightest. She was… entrancing.

  The music ground to a halt with a long trill on the out-of-tune violin. Katerina winced.

  “Thank you, my dear, for dancing with me,” he said as he took her arm in his and led her back to his mother. “May I claim another, later this evening?”

  She looked at him, startled.

  “Oh, is your card full?” he asked.

  “Heavens, no,” she replied, as though the answer were obvious. “But don't you think you've fulfilled your duty to your mother?”

  “Yes,” he agreed easily. “She asked me to meet you. I did. Wanting to dance with you again has nothing to do with her.”

  Katerina blinked. “Are you… joking?”

  “Not at all,” he assured her. “Will you consider it, Miss Valentino?”

  “I will,” she replied.

  “Consider it?” he pressed.

  “Dance with you.” Her cheeks flamed, but she met his eyes steadily.

  He smiled at her. “By any chance, do you have the supper dance free?”

  Her eyes widened. She understood the unspoken message in that choice. “Yes, if you would like.”

  “I would like that,” he said, allowing a hint of intensity to filter into his voice. “Shall we plan on it?”

  “Yes.” But her smile turned shy and she looked away.

  He accepted the retreat with easy confidence. She didn't trust him yet. It would be up to him to prove she could. “All right then, here's my mother, and I shall be back to claim you later.” He kissed her hand again and headed out of the room.

  The crowd thinned in the hallway, dropping the temperature significantly. Christopher sighed in relief. His evening wear felt uncomfortably hot, and his sudden arousal further intensified the sweaty closeness.

  “Blast,” he muttered. The last thing he wanted was to be struck by a mad attraction. On the other hand, not exploring this feeling would be much more foolish. Miss Valentino is delightful, and I want to know her. I will know her. There really is no help for it.

  Chapter 4

  “Good, Lord, Bennett,” Cary mocked as he opened the door and admitted his friend into the familiar parlor. “Late again? I think for your next birthday I'm buying you a pocket watch.” This time the offered drink was a glass of hot spiced wine, perfect for a chilly evening.

  “Sorry, Cary. I've been rather busy lately,” Christopher replied, cradling the warm beverage in his icy hands as he took his customary seat on the sofa. He had lost his gloves somewhere and was freezing. “Father and I are making several improvements at the cotton mill.”

  Cary nodded. The Bennetts' mill was already one of the most progressive, with children under twelve and pregnant women forbidden to work there, rather high wages, and safeguards on the equipment to minimize injuries. All this cut into profits, but for the Bennetts, good working conditions made for the best employees. They certainly attracted the hardest workers with their congenial environment, and Christopher and his father always strived to make the mill an even better place to work.

  “Where's Collin tonight?” Christopher asked. While he liked Cary well enough in a group, he was not as close a friend as Collin, whom Christopher had known since childhood.

  “Meeting with a potential creditor,” Cary replied grimly. “The tenant houses on his estate are falling into ruin and the workers are leaving. He's hoping to get a loan to improve the buildings so people will stay and work the land.”

  “I must say, the aristocracy's in trouble,” Christopher commented.

  “They are,” Cary agreed. “Poor Collin. He's too stubborn to admit defeat.”

  “What choice does he have?” Christopher asked, pointing out the obvious.

  “None,” Cary agreed, “but the land on his estate is so overworked, he'll never grow enough to earn a profit.”

  Both friends shook their heads at their friend's woes.

  “So, what did you find to read tonight?” Christopher asked, changing the subject.

  Cary grinned and swallowed his mouthful of wine. “Well, I recall you enjoyed the first Browning poem, so I found you another.”

  “Lovely,” Christopher said sarcastically. “What's this one called?”

  “ `My Last Duchess.' ” Cary replied, waving his familiar folio.

  “Good Lord, the nobility again? All right, let's hear it,” Christopher urged.

  So, Cary read it. And then he looked at his friend, puzzled. “What happened? I don't understand.”

  Christopher shook his head. “He killed his wife.”

  “How on earth do you know that?” Cary demanded.

  Christopher crossed to his friend's spot on the armchair and indicated the line with one finger. “Right here. Look. `I gave commands/Then all smiles stopped together'.”

  Cary regarded the paper with lips drawn downward and eyebrows nearly meeting. Then he raised his head, his expression stony. “He killed her for smiling too much? That's just unrealistic. No one would do such a thing.”

  A thought occurred to Christopher. “Do you really believe every woman in this world who is abused has earned it with bad behavior?”

  “Well, no, but for smiling?” Cary said incredulously. “And who's the old man telling this to?”

  “To the representative of the woman he wants to marry. See the reference to a dowry?” Christopher pointed again.

  “Good Lord.” Cary shook his head. “I don't like this Browning fellow at all.”

  “Why? Because he wants us to think and not merely enjoy pretty words?” Christopher insisted. “There are women in the world who are treated terribly. Remember the sister of that fellow we knew at Oxford?”

  “Which one?” Cary demanded.

  “Williams. She was beaten by her husband, remember? It was so bad she miscarried. Then Williams went and beat him.”

  Understanding dawned in Cary's expression. “You're right. He took his sister and fled to the continent.”

  Good Lord, man, you're a vicar. You should be telling me these things. “That's the one. Can you imagine someone hurting Nellie, Cary?”

  At the mention of Cary's beloved teenaged sister, his jaw tightened. “Fine. You win. People shouldn't be treated this way.”

  “Right.” Christopher dipped his chin in a curt nod.

  Cary shook off the heavy topic. “So, would you like to go for some dinner tonight?”

  Christopher shook his head. “I can't. I promised I would attend a musicale this evening.”

  “What?” Now instead of confu
sed, Cary looked incredulous. “Not the one we talked about last week?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you didn't want to go,” he protested.

  “Now I do,” Christopher replied blandly.

  “Why?” his friend demanded.

  “There's someone I want to see,” Christopher said, remaining deliberately vague.

  “Not that one your mother arranged…” Cary rolled his eyes. “Oh, Lord, Bennett, you're going on purpose to see Katerina Valentino?”

  “Yes,” Christopher replied simply, but a hint of irritation spiked.

  “Why?” Cary asked, and his tone had the air of asking why someone would hand over a whip and remove his shirt.

  “She's intriguing,” Christopher said, willing his molars not to grind.

  “She hasn't got anything to say,” Cary protested.

  Christopher's mouth tightened. His eyes narrowed. “True she's not inclined to prattle, but when she does speak she's articulate and intelligent,” Christopher insisted, defending his new friend.

  Finally noticing Christopher's reaction, Cary softened his tone. “You got her to talk?”

  “Yes.”

  “About what?” he asked, and it sounded as though he were merely requesting information.

  “Music.” Christopher wasn't giving an inch. His curt reply revealed his lingering anger. You never took a second to try, did you? You waited for her to speak and when she didn't, you dismissed her.

  “Oh.”

  “Yes. Hence the musicale.” He raised one eyebrow, daring Cary to comment further.

  Cary conceded with a wry twist of his lips. “Well, good luck to you then. I'll see you next week.”

  Christopher accepted the capitulation with a parting shot. “Yes. Try to find something more uplifting next time, would you?”

  “I'll try.” The men shook hands, but the gesture lacked any hint of friendliness.

  Christopher left the townhouse and hailed a hansom cab to drive him across town. A hefty bay horse pulled the shiny, black-lacquered vehicle along on two oversized wheels, controlled by a driver seated high on the back, behind the passenger bench. Christopher climbed into the open-sided conveyance and tucked his hands under his legs, thinking longingly of his missing gloves.