Page 8 of You Belong to Me
“Yes, but you did the warming.”
“So thank me. I’m no longer in the mood, anyway, thinking about that appointment with my mother and having to endure one of her lectures. If you insist on coming along, I’ll insist you endure it with me.”
“In that case, we’ll see you tomorrow.”
3
Vasili’s mother wasn’t wearing the correct expression when she joined him in her parlor later that night. At least her expression wasn’t the one he’d come to associate with her lectures. In fact, her expression was so pleased and happy, he had to wonder if he’d mistaken the reason for her summons.
Long experience assured him that good news would have brought her to him, and he wouldn’t have even considered turning her away at his door as he had her messenger. After all, he did love her, and did try to please her when it was reasonably possible to do so.
It was only for the scoldings and the lectures, when she anticipated arguments from him, that she wanted him in her own territory, which was here in the house he had grown up in. It didn’t matter that he’d moved out of the family home some twelve years ago, first into the palace to be closer at hand for Stefan’s impromptu outings, then into his own town house after he had taken the grand European tour. His mother still felt that this house, andher own parlor in particular, somehow enhanced her authority. The hell of it was, it did.
The evening was young enough that he had caught the countess before she left for whichever party she was attending tonight. That was exactly what he had counted on, so he could get this over with and enjoy the rest of the night himself. He hoped her party was an important one for which she wouldn’t want to arrive late, thereby keeping this meeting short. Her clothes were no indication, nor the amount of jewels she was wearing, for she never attended any social engagement without being decked out in grand style.
Maria Petroff was a handsome woman in her later years, perhaps more handsome now than she had been in her youth, for no one had ever considered her a beauty. Her thrusting chin and patrician nose, which weren’t exactly feminine, endowed her with a close resemblance to her brother Sandor, the late king, and she’d never been far from robust and stocky of build, which now could kindly be termed matronly.
It had always been a source of bewilderment to her, as well as fierce pride, that she had produced a son like Vasili. But then he took after his father in his looks. All that he had from her were the Barony eyes, eyes so light a brown that strong emotion turned them golden.
On Cardinia’s young King Stefan, with his raven-black hair and dark complexion, people called them devil’s eyes. Buton Vasili, with his golden hair and skin tone, they were merely beautiful, a complement to the fine bone structure that made him so very handsome.
“You look disgraceful,” was the first thing Vasili’s mother said to him.
Since he hadn’t bothered to go home and change before making his appearance, his shirt and jacket were both understandably wrinkled. His hair was also a mess, after so many hands had tested its softness tonight, but on Vasili, anything less than impeccable only gave him a rakish look that women found incredibly sensual.
But his mother’s remark made him instantly nervous, for she’d been smiling when she’d said it. Something was definitely not right here.
His eyes narrowed suspiciously now, he demanded, “What are you gloating about, Mother?”
She actually laughed. “What a distasteful word, and something I would never do, of course.” And with another smile: “Why don’t you pour us a drink?”
He returned her smile, deciding to go along with her for the moment. “An excellent idea,” he said, but as he headed for the sideboard where a variety of spirits were kept on hand for guests, he added under his breath, “Obviously I’m going to need it.”
“I’ll have some of that fine Russian vodka I keep stocked just for you,” she said before he began to pour exactly that for himself.
The request arrested his hand and made him frown. “You don’t like vodka,” he reminded her.
“True,” she replied with a shrug. “But it seems…appropriate tonight.”
She was smiling again. He brought her a small amount of the potent liquor, but he went back to get the bottle for himself and took it with him to the chair opposite the sofa she had settled on. He had filled his glass twice, draining it both times, before he felt fortified enough to say, “All right, Mother, let’s have it. What are you so disgustingly thrilled about?”
“You’re going to have to leave within the week for a trip to Russia.”
“Andthatdelights you?”
She nodded, her smile positively glowing now. “Indeed it does, since you will be collecting your bride while you’re there.”
Vasili went very still, and the only thing he could think to say to that alarming statement was, “I’m not Stefan, Mother. He had to go and collect a bride. I don’t happen to have one, thank God.”
“You do now.”
He shot out of his chair and came to stand over her, the very image of bristling male chagrin. He couldn’t remember when he had ever been this annoyed with his mother. Interfering in his life was unacceptable. She knew that and had always respected it. Lectures and sermons she was allowed, worry and concern she was permitted, but something like this?What the devil had made her think she could get away with it?
“Whatever you have done, Mother, you can just undo. Whatever embarrassment you’ll have to suffer for it, you’ll suffer on your own. I don’t even want to hear another word about it.”
Incredibly, she was still smiling, and she didn’t keep him in suspense as to why. “You might have to hear one or two more words about it, dearest—”
“Mother—” he tried to cut in warningly.
