Wearing British clothes as a second-generation aristocrat

Chapter 142 This is unfair to the son-in-law

Kutuzova's heart was pounding.

She knew that when dancing the waltz, men and women needed to hold each other's waists and spin around, which meant being closely entwined with this elegant man in front of everyone, which was considered extremely indecent by the conservative old-fashioned aristocracy.

But she didn't want to refuse. In the brief moment of their brief encounter, through Kadrier's poetry, she had already developed an inexplicable dependence on the British major general.

"certainly!"

Dugan extended his right hand and, through the thin layer of purple cotton fabric and gray squirrel fur shawl, gently placed it on her waist.

His palms were large and warm, and even through two layers of fabric, he could still feel the slenderness and suppleness of her waist.

The distance between the two was reduced to within half a fist, and Kutuzova could even feel Dugan's breathing.

As the music flowed, Dugan spun her around.

He danced exceptionally well, with steady steps and precise rhythm. But he deliberately controlled the amplitude, not spinning rapidly like those enthusiastic young people, but gliding her across the dance floor at a gentle and graceful pace.

With each spin, Kutuzova's skirt billowed, its pale iris purple hue shimmering in the candlelight like a flower blooming in the wind.

"Don't be afraid," Dugan whispered in her ear, his voice muffled by the music, so only she could hear him, "follow my rhythm. Here, it's just the two of us."

Kutuzova closed her eyes, feeling the dizzying sensation of the world spinning around her.

This was not fear, but a long-awaited release. She temporarily forgot her husband far away on the front lines, forgot her father who worried about the country and its people all day long. In this moment, in the arms of this Englishman, she felt as if she had taken flight, temporarily escaping everything.

As the music reached its climax, Dugan led her through a large, tilting spin.

Kutuzova let out a very soft gasp and instinctively gripped his shoulders.

At that moment, their bodies were pressed even closer together. She could feel the heat from his chest and smell the scent (hormones) emanating from him that made her blush and her heart race.

Naryshkina watched from the sidelines, a satisfied smile playing on her lips.

When the waltz ended, Kutuzova was a little unsteady on her feet, and Dugan quickly steadied her arm.

Their eyes met at close range, and it felt as if an electric current was passing through the air.

"Thank you, Sir." Kutuzova's voice was slightly out of breath, and her cheeks were flushed.

"It is my pleasure, Madam." Dugen released his hand, took a step back, and gave a standard bow.

The applause was sparse, and the old-fashioned nobles continued to whisper among themselves, criticizing the dance moves as frivolous.

But Dugan and Kutuzova didn't care. They knew that some things had changed.

Naryshkina stood up, clapped her hands, and drew everyone's attention: "Alright, everyone, tonight's ball is now over. Let's look forward to our next gathering and hearing more news of our victory over the French."

The crowd began to disperse, and Dugan escorted Kutuzova out of the ballroom.

Kutuzova walked to her family's carriage and found the driver looking at her with a troubled expression. "Miss, I'm sorry, the carriage axle is broken, and it will probably take a long time to repair."

"Oh, this is terrible." Kutuzova frowned.

Dugan replied very politely, "Or, my carriage can give you a ride along the way."

"Isn't this a bit inappropriate?" Kutuzova hesitated.

"It doesn't matter, it's on the way anyway." Dugen opened his carriage door and gestured for him to enter.

Kutuzova ultimately couldn't resist the devil's temptation. After a slight smile, she got into Dugan's carriage.

With a soft "click," the coachman closed the carriage door from the outside.

The interior of this British-made enclosed carriage was not large, with dark gray velvet cushions and a copper fireplace in the corner.

It exudes a constant warmth, keeping out the chill brought by the Neva River.

Once the carriage had gone some distance, one of Naryshkina's servants came over and gave Kutuzova's coachman a few coins.

The coachman nodded his thanks and then drove the carriage away quickly.

The restrained yet ambiguous waltz they had just performed in the ballroom had brought the distance between them to its limit.

Now, inside the enclosed carriage, that sense of distance has completely disappeared.

Kutuzova still clutched the linen handkerchief Dugan had just handed her, her knuckles slightly white from the pressure. She could clearly smell Dugan's scent on the handkerchief, making her heart pound even harder than when she was dancing.

"Madam," Dugan's voice was particularly deep in the quiet carriage, with a magnetic huskiness, "you still look a little pale. Is it because the waltz was too tiring, or—is the bumpy ride in the carriage making you uncomfortable?"

Kutuzova looked up and met Dugan's unfathomable blue-gray eyes.

Those eyes no longer held the aloofness and politeness they displayed in the center of the dance floor; only pure, undisguised aggression and desire remained.

She opened her mouth, but found her throat was dry, so she could only shake her head, her voice barely audible: "No—no, Sir. I'm fine."

"That's good." Dugan leaned forward slightly, their knees almost touching in the narrow space.

He reached out, not to take the handkerchief back, but to gently cover the hand that was holding it.

“In the salon, I have to be mindful of etiquette and can’t get too close,” Dugan’s voice drew closer, his breath brushing against her ear. “But here, it’s just the two of us. You don’t have to pretend to be calm anymore, and you don’t have to worry about the stares of those old fogies.”

Kutuzova's body trembled slightly.

"But—Father and Mother are still waiting for us." She tried to regain a shred of reason, but her tone no longer had the strength to refuse; instead, it carried a hint of dependent pleading.

"I know." Dugan gently stroked her cheek with his other hand, his thumb lightly tracing the beauty mark under her eye. "So, we need to hurry. Before we get to your doorstep, let me—take a good look at you."

"Sir, I am married, my husband—" Kutuzova was still resisting in a self-deceptive way.

He gave her no more chance to hesitate.

Dugan lowered his head and captured her lips precisely.

At first, it was just a gentle touch, like a butterfly flitting across a petal.

But in just a moment, this restraint was broken by the surging emotions.

Dugan's tongue pried open Kutuzova's slightly parted teeth in surprise, its tip plunging deep inside with an undeniable force.

Its domineering nature.

This was a feeling Kutuzova had never experienced before, unlike the rough bites of Russian men, but a skillful, tender French kiss.

His tongue deftly swept across her gums, licked her palate, and intertwined with her tongue, guiding and teasing her until she clumsily began to respond.

"Ugh—" Kutuzova let out a muffled whimper, her mind blank.

She felt like she was melting, all her strength drained away by the kiss, and she could only lean softly against Dugan's arms.

With each jolt of the carriage, their bodies pressed even closer together. Dugan's hand slid down her cheek, through the thin layer of purple cotton fabric and gray squirrel fur shawl, and firmly embraced her slender waist, pulling her into his arms.

She could clearly feel the powerful heartbeat in his chest, the sound of which intertwined with her own frantic pulse, indistinguishable from one another.

The kiss lasted a long time, so long that the outline of Kutuzov's mansion was already visible through the carriage window.

It wasn't until the driver coughed softly outside, indicating that they were almost there, that Dugen reluctantly let go of her.

Kutuzova, her face flushed and panting, leaned on Dugan's shoulder with a dazed look in her eyes. She was momentarily stunned and just wanted to stay in this warm embrace.

"We've arrived, madam." Dugan's voice was a little hoarse. He smoothed her disheveled hair and gently wiped away a few glistening drops of water from the corner of her lips with his fingertips. "Your parents should be waiting for you."

Kutuzova finally came to her senses, so embarrassed that she wanted to disappear into the ground.

She hurriedly sat up straight, adjusting her skirt and shawl, only to find her fingertips still trembling slightly. She dared not look at Dugen, and could only lower her head.

"I know." Dugan smiled, reaching out to lift her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes, his gaze filled with possessiveness and reassurance. "You belong to me, Elizabeth. From tonight onward, remember that."

The carriage came to a stop.

Dugan got out of the car first, then turned around and extended his hand in a gentlemanly manner, just like before.

Kutuzova took his hand and stepped off the carriage. Her feet felt a little weak as she stepped onto the stone pavement of the foundry road.

She stood beside the carriage, looking up at the man with longing in her eyes, not wanting to part ways like this.

"When will you come again?" she couldn't help but ask, her tone carrying a barely perceptible pleading.

"Soon." Dugan squeezed her hand, then released it, maintaining a proper distance. "I will visit General Kutuzov, and then we will meet in detail."

Just as the two were gazing at each other with reluctance, a window on the second floor was pushed open.

The Kutuzovs were standing there.

Old Kutuzov, dressed in a house robe and holding his ever-present pipe, looked down at his daughter and the British major general with a complex expression.

He wasn't furious or surprised; he just coughed lightly, a soft sound that was clearly audible on the quiet street.

"cough."

That cough was like a bucket of cold water, instantly waking the two people who were immersed in their tenderness.

Kutuzova's face flushed red to the roots of her neck, and she hurriedly lowered her head, wringing her handkerchief like a child who had done something wrong.

Dugan remained expressionless. He turned to face the second floor, straightened his collar, touched the brim of his hat, and gave a perfect, impeccable salute: "Good night, Your Excellency General and Madam!"

His tone was calm and gentlemanly.

"Good night, Sir!" Kutuzov replied.

Then, Dugan got into his carriage and left.

"You saw it?" Kutuzova's mother, Ekaterina Yi. Kutuzova, turned to look at her husband, her eyes...

Instead of blaming him, Zhong's expression gleamed with shrewdness. "Naryshkina didn't lie to us. That Englishman was serious. Elizabeth—she's never smiled like that at a man before, not even at Fedya (her husband)."

Kutuzov took a deep drag on his unlit pipe, his brow furrowed: "She is Zisenhausen's wife!"

Fedia is going to the battlefield with me next month! How could she—how could she be with another man at this time—it's not fair! It's not fair to Fedia!

"Fairness?" Catherine sneered. "My dear Mikhail, what fairness are you thinking about? Look at the court now! Arakcheyev controls the military budget, and although His Majesty the Tsar wants to fight, his hands are tied by those peacemakers! Your soldiers don't even have decent boots! Elizabeth's relationship with that Englishman isn't just about romance; it's the only way I can feed your lads! It's the ladder for you to win the war and preserve our family's status!"

"But—" Kutuzov still couldn't accept it.

However, the lady said, "Fedya is a soldier; he knew what it meant from the day he went to the battlefield. If Elizabeth could use this British major general to get you 100,000 pairs of boots and 10,000 warhorses, do you think Fedya would blame her? Or do you think it's 'fair' to Fedya to watch our son and son-in-law freeze to death in the mud, and watch you be ousted by Arakcheyev?"

Kutuzov fell silent. He looked down at the British major general who had taken a deep breath, turned, and boarded the carriage, then at his daughter, whose face was flushed and whose eyes still held a lingering affection.

He knew his wife was right. This wasn't a fairy tale about love; it was a war for survival. The Englishman hadn't come to destroy his family; he had come to deliver pay, food, and weapons.

"But—" Kutuzov's voice was old and weary, "that way, Rikazan (Kutuzova) will be happy."

"Is that right?"

"As long as this family is saved, as long as you defeat Napoleon, she will be happy," Catherine said resolutely. "As for that Englishman—he's a smart man and a gentleman. He won't mistreat Elizabeth. Even if it's just for his reputation in Russia, he'll cherish her. That's a thousand times better than living in fear with Fedia on the battlefield."

Kutuzov fell silent. He simply stood by the window, watching Dugan's carriage disappear into the white night of St. Petersburg.