Polly and the Prince by Carola Dunn Read Free Book Online Page B

thinkNed will teach me to drive the gig?”
    Polly scarcely heard him. She sped to the drawing room. Pausing on the threshold she saw, sitting opposite the door, a young lady in a carriage dress of straw-coloured gros de Naples ornamented with bows of mahogany velvet down the front and around the hem. Her velvet bonnet matched the dress and boasted three curling, mahogany-dyed ostrich plumes. She smiled shyly at Polly.
    Behind her stood a large, dark, handsome gentleman, who nodded. Polly’s gaze moved on and found her mother’s aghast face. Suddenly she realised that she was still wearing her painting smock.
    “Lady John,” Mrs. Howard said bravely, “may I present my daughter?”
    “How do you do, Miss Howard?” If her ladyship was shocked by Polly’s appearance, her soft voice and delicate features gave no hint of it.
    Polly curtsied, smiling at her, already determined to paint her some day.
    Her husband bowed. “Miss Howard.” He looked more amused than offended by her disgraceful apparel. “I understand you are acquainted with my friend, Volkov.”
    Turning, she came face to face with Kolya. For a moment all she was aware of was his eyes laughing at her, and her heart leaped with gladness. Then she noticed that he was elegantly clad in a close-fitting tan riding coat, starched cravat tied in an immaculate Waterfall, spotless buckskin breeches, and glossy black boots. How could she ever have supposed he was anything other than a gentleman?
    What a quiz he must think her, bursting into the room in her painting clothes. Her cheeks grew hot and she stammered, “P-pray excuse me. I left my brushes out. I must go and wash them.”
    He put out a detaining hand. “May I go with you, Miss Howard? Madame tells me you have a new studio. I should like to see.”
    “Volkov has told us that you are an artist, Miss Howard,” said Lord John. “One day we should like to see your work, should we not, my dear?” He laid a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “But not today, I think, as we have a number of other calls to make. We just wanted to welcome you to Loxwood, ma’am, Miss Howard. Kolya, we shall see you later.”
    The Danvilles made their farewells and departed, Nick dashing out after them to see the bang-up curricle bowl away down the lane. Still feeling flustered, Polly took Kolya—Mr. Volkov, she must call him now-out to the back garden.
    As they walked towards the studio, she noticed that he was walking awkwardly.
    “You are limping,” she exclaimed. “Have you hurt yourself?”
    “No, ma’am, but I am wearing Danville’s boots.” He sighed ruefully. “Are the excellent boots, but his feet are shorter and wider than mine. Is easy to change the size of the clothes. The feetwear are more difficult.”
    “Much more difficult,” she agreed, laughing. Her bashfulness fled at the realization that his finery was borrowed. She hoped Lord John was going to have some “feetwear” made to measure for his friend. “I did not expect to see you again,” she confessed.
    “Did I not say to you do svidaniya?” He was teasing.
    “What does that mean?”
    “Is same as French au revoir. Until we meet.”
    “Well, how could I have guessed? Here is my studio. Dear Ned had it all ready for me when we arrived.”
    He looked around. “Is good. I may see the pictures?”
    Polly hesitated. She had a score or so of paintings that she had kept because she was particularly fond of them, or because Mr. Irving had not thought them suitable for display in his shop. To be sure, visitors to the Wells had bought her work, but that did not mean it was fit to be displayed to a cosmopolitan gentleman like Kolya—Mr. Volkov.
    She knew that the Russian army had looted Paris and carried off to St Petersburg half the art treasures that Napoleon had stolen from all over Europe. As an officer in that army, Mr. Volkov had probably seen them.
    “You do not want to show, I will not press,” he said gently.
    “No, no, you may look. I just