Scoundrel's Honor (Russian Connection 3)

“Dimitri, get up.”

Slowly, he pulled back, studying her flushed face with a brooding gaze. His lips thinned as he easily read the panic threatening to overtake her. He leaned down to steal a frustrated kiss before he straightened and watched her awkwardly tug her gown back into place.

Emma was acutely aware of his unwavering attention as she fumbled with her buttons and shoved the thick tumble of hair out of her face. His dark, beautiful features were tightly composed, but it was his unyielding scrutiny that made her shift uneasily into the corner of the settee.

A tense silence filled the saloon, then with a sharp motion Dimitri was on his feet and heading toward the door.

“Remain here.”

Did she truly have a choice?

Emma lowered her head into her hands, attempting to sort through her baffled emotions. She was embarrassed, of course. She had behaved as a wanton in Dimitri’s arms and he had every right to consider her no better than a tart. But the regret she should have felt was decidedly absent.

Indeed, there was a traitorous part of her that savored the vivid memories of Dimitri’s every touch and caress, as if they were treasures she intended to harbor deep in her heart.

The thought was more unnerving than being trapped alone in this elegant house with a lawless scoundrel who could make her melt with a smile.

With a shake of her head, Emma shoved away her bewilderment and wrapped herself in the cool composure she had forged and tempered by a life of hardship. She would have ample opportunity to dwell on her reaction to Dimitri when she returned to her home.

For all that mattered now was finding the means to follow her sister to England.

She was busy sifting through her limited possibilities when Dimitri returned to the saloon, a large tray balanced in his hands.

Her brows lifted in surprise as he set his burden on the low table in front of the settee. Good heavens, did Dimitri’s cook prepare such a massive dinner every night?

Her stomach rumbled as her gaze took in the roasted veal, the pickled cucumbers and the traditional pancak

es stuffed with mushrooms and rice. To drink there was a bottle of medovukha that had been made with honey, and for dessert were plates of syrniki, fried fritters garnished with sour cream and jam.

“I trust you are hungry?” Dimitri demanded, settling next to her and filling two plates with the delectable meal. “Irina left us a small feast.”

She frowned. “I cannot remain here for dinner.”

“You have a pressing engagement?” he demanded, forcing the plate into her unwilling hands.

Her mouth went dry as she glanced at his absurdly handsome face. During his absence Dimitri had removed his jacket and waistcoat, revealing the fine lawn shirt that was thin enough to hint at the muscular chest. His raven hair was still ruffled from her frantic fingers and the shadow of whiskers darkened his jaw. With his eyes glimmering like liquid gold in the candlelight he had never appeared more dangerous. Or beautiful.

“Vanya will be expecting me.”

“I sent word that her little chick would be returned safely to her nest.”

Her teeth clenched at his arrogance, a heat staining her cheeks.

“And, of course, it did not occur to you that I might not wish to have all of St. Petersburg know that I am here alone with a man?” she asked tartly.

He regarded her with mocking disbelief. “You have flouted every rule of decorum since leaving your home and now you are concerned for your reputation?”

“It is enough that I must be a source of amusement, I will not also be considered a—”

She bit off her words, belatedly noticing the flare of fury in Dimitri’s eyes.

“A whore?” he silkily demanded.

Her gaze lowered to the plate still clutched in her hands, regretting the painful reminder of his mother. No matter how angry Dimitri might make her, she deeply respected the woman who had sacrificed her life for him.

“Please, let me go,” she whispered.

He heaved an explosive sigh, ramming his fingers through his tangled hair.