Bound by Love (Russian Connection 2)

“It would cause a scandal.”

“A scandal for you, perhaps, but as you so recently pointed out, I am a duke and there is precious little that can tarnish my very old and very respected title.” He paused as she shivered, glancing down at her amber silk gown over a silver gauze underskirt. With a frown he moved to collect a matching shawl that she had left at the edge of the bed and carefully wrapped it around her shoulders. “I had forgotten your love for warmth. I shall have a maid light a fire for you while we are at dinner.”

She clenched her teeth, refusing to be touched by his seeming concern.

“Do not pretend that you care for my comfort.”

“But I do, my dove.” His hands lightly circled her neck, his thumb stroking the pulse that pounded at the base of her throat. “I am quite determined to do everything in my power to please you.”

“Except leave me in peace,” she said huskily.

“Is that what you truly want?” He snared her gaze, his expression brooding. “Peace?”

“Yes,” she whispered, even as she knew that was not entirely the truth.

He sensed it as well, his eyes narrowing. “Liar.”

“What do you know of me?”

“Not nearly so much as I intend to know. But I can recognize loneliness when it haunts a pair of exquisite blue eyes.”

With a burst of alarm Leonida pushed Stefan away, turning from his perceptive gaze.

“Do not.”

His hands settled on her shoulders, but he made no effort to turn her around. “Am I wrong?”

“I…miss home.”

“Do you truly have a home, Leonida Karkoff?” he whispered.

Her long-buried pain wrenched through her heart, making her feel annoyingly vulnerable.

Stefan had already seduced her body; he could not be allowed to steal her heart

.

“What a ridiculous question. I happen to live in one of the finest houses in all of St. Petersburg.”

He bent his head to whisper directly in her ear. “A house is not necessarily a home, as I have discovered.”

Her eyes fluttered closed as a delicious heat flowed through her body. When Stefan was near she had no fear of being cold.

“You are not happy at Meadowland?”

“I am content…for the most part.”

“Contentment and happiness are not the same.”

“No, they are not,” he said, the hint of wistful yearning tugging at her heart.

Abruptly she turned to face him, her expression wary. Dear lord. What was the matter with her? The Duke of Huntley was the last man who needed or deserved her sympathy.

He was handsome and wealthy and utterly ruthless in getting whatever he desired.

If he was alone, it was by choice, not fate.

“I suppose you will not leave until I agree to join you for dinner?”