And then it was time to go down, to welcome the guests who were staying and those who were just beginning to arrive at the front door. The orchestra, brought specially from London, were playing quietly in the gallery, preparing for the first dance.
Although she tried not to be, Alba was aware as soon as Volkov entered the ballroom with Oscar and Rawley. He looked so extraordinarily handsome in his gold-braided uniform that her foolish heart skipped a beat.
Snow Queen? she thought in despair. Me?
This feeling, this weakness, was so unexpected that she had no idea what to do about it. All she could do was pray for it to go away so she could get back to the familiar business of missing Harry, as was only right and proper.
But she soon had more than that to worry about. Although Rose was clearly not short of dancing partners, introduced by her mother, Alba was besieged. And while being asked by several gentlemen at once was a great means of dancing with none of them, it did draw the jealous attention of her sister, who had developed a somewhat hard look in her eyes. In desperation, Alba danced with the Earl of Boodle’s son, Lord Kirkland, a small, serious young man with little social charm. Only when they were in the midst of the dance did she remember that the Boodles were appallingly wealthy. And the duchess’s glare told her that the young heir had been particularly wanted for Rose.
Doing her best, as soon as the dance finished, Alba asked to be taken back to her mother and sister, and engineered matters so that they arrived just as Rose’s previous cavalier was departing.
“You’ll know my stepmother, the duchess, of course,” Alba said cheerfully. “And this is my sister, Lady Rose.”
For an instant, Rose looked as if she would dismiss any cast-off of Alba’s—until the duchess surreptitiously kicked her in the ankle.
The whole situation suddenly struck Alba as exquisitely humorous and she had to turn away to hide the upsurge of inappropriate mirth. Unfortunately, she almost walked into Volkov, who had Lady Harley on his arm.
Alba smiled a little tremulously, for the hysterical laughter was still alarmingly near the surface, and turned hastily away.
“Do you know Mr. Bethurst?” she heard Volkov say. “He is a neighbor of the duke’s and most knowledgeable about the local scenery. Bethurst, Lady Harley.” And a second later, Volkov caught up with her.
“This is the waltz,” he said. “May I offer to save you from someone worse?”
There is no one worse. Not for me. “Don’t be silly. If you wish to oblige me, ask my sister.”
“I will. Civility compels me to ask the older sister first.”
“Before I stick to the shelf?” she asked wryly.
“Before you stick yourself to the shelf,” he corrected. “You said we were friends. Why should you not dance with me?”
“Because I can’t,” she blurted, and broke off in embarrassment, biting her lip.
The orchestra struck up and Volkov simply took the matter out of her hands. Circling her waist with his arm, he swept her onto the dancefloor and into the waltz.
“It’s the only way to talk in privacy,” he told her. “So, tell me, if I have not angered you, how have I managed to offend you?”
She shook her head. There was a sweet torture in being so close to him. Lacking the courage to meet his gaze, she kept her own determinedly on the region of his chin.
He said, “I’m too quick, too impulsive. My only excuse is I will have to leave England soon with the Tsar.”
“I know.”
“Then you forgive me?”
“There is nothing to forgive.” Forcing herself, she dragged her gaze upward. His eyes, warm, intense, almost fierce, seemed to devour her, depriving her of breath. I did this to him. “It is you who must forgive me, though I cannot forgive myself.”
His eyes widened in startlement. “For what?”
“For kissing you,” she whispered. “For I did.”
His eyes blazed, all but melting her, and his lips curved. “Yes, you did. I’ve never found such sweetness in a kiss.”
“Stop.” She closed her eyes, following blindly wherever he led. “Please, stop,”
“Alba.” His voice was warm, like a teasing caress, and he held her too close, for his breath stirred her hair. “A kiss does not make you a fallen woman. I would marry you, you know.”
Her eyes snapped open, staring at him. “Marry me?”
Laughter hissed between his teeth. “Is that so strange?”
“Yes! You barely know me.” But some wild, excited happiness was struggling into her heart, almost frightening her with its intensity. So, she took refuge with the familiar, “Besides, I shall never marry.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
He regarded her for a moment and then, without warning, whisked her out of the open French doors onto the terrace. It was a warm evening and several people were already taking the cooler air. Although the area was well-lit and a respectable place to be among so many guests, her heart beat painfully in her breast. His arm fell from her waist at once, drawing her into a more decorous pose with her hand in the crook of his arm as they walked the length of the terrace.
As so often with Volkov, Alba felt adrift, as if she’d lost control of her world. And yet, she didn’t make a fuss. She went along with him, because she owed him an explanation. At least, she told herself that was the reason.
“So,” he murmured. “You are… what? Two-and-twenty years old? And you have decided never to marry?”
“Yes, you were right,” she said lightly. “I have put myself on the shelf.”
“Because your first love died when you were seventeen,” he said without emphasis.
She lifted her chin, sensing a criticism she would not tolerate. “Yes.”
He glanced at her. “He must have been a wonderful man to win you.”
Unable to speak, she nodded.
“Then I fail to see,” Volkov said, “why he would expect you to mourn him forever and deprive yourself of possible happiness and fulfilment.”
“He wouldn’t!” she exclaimed. “It is my choice.”
“To be miserable? Over the loss of one happiness? One thing I have learned in the last two years is that one really should seize the day, for you never know what’s around the corner. You were seventeen years old, Alba. That is too young to give up on love.”
“But I don’t love you,” she said brutally. “How could I? I have known you barely a week. And you needn’t pretend you love me for—”
“But I do,” he said matter-of-factly. “There is no pretense. I knew as soon as I saw you in the carriage during my silly duel.”
“You were intoxicated.”
He waved that aside. “The point is, time doesn’t matter. A week, a year, a minute—love takes its own time. You may not love me completely, but you are not indifferent. I knew that even before you kissed me.”
She flushed. They had walked down the steps from the terrace and around the corner of the house where there were no lights, only the silvery glow from the moon and stars. She paused, giving his arm a faint tug to draw him back toward the ballroom, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was making for the rose garden. Her rose garden, where she had always felt at peace. She stopped resisting.
Besides, only honesty would do here. “You are a personable man, Prince. I like you more than most, but that is hardly enough for love, let alone marriage. I’m sorry, but I don’t want to marry you and must decline your kind offer.”
“Perhaps you want simply to kiss me?” he said outrageously.
“Of course, I don’t!”
Without warning, he swung her around and into his arms. The buttons of his uniform pressed into her breast. Beneath the coat, his hard, warm body fitted to hers so closely that heat flooded her. In the moonlight, his eyes glittered.
Her breath came in short pants. She became fascinated by the texture of his parted lips, every crease and subtle movement.
“Liar,” he whispered and, with slow de
liberation, bent and took her mouth.
She could do nothing but cling to his shoulder. One hand, trapped between their bodies, made a twitch to push him off, but ended by clutching his coat. If she had sensed passion in his first kiss, this one showed her. He took utter possession of her mouth, plundering, demanding, shaking her to her core. He cupped her face, holding her steady for his onslaught. The kiss was heady, and wild, and made her body ache with longing. Her lips moved beneath his, but she had forgotten if she was trying to speak or kiss him back.
But the emotion was too much. Gasping, she tore her mouth free. “Stop, stop,” she said brokenly. “How can I still love him, and you?”
“Because you will always love him,” Volkov whispered. “With the part of you that belonged to him. But I am here. I’m real, I’m alive and so are you. There are many, many shades of love and this one is so bright—” he broke off, kissing her again, and her hand crept up to his rough cheek, softly caressing, learning the hard lines and curves of his face. Her tears fell unheeded, until she could taste them in her mouth and his. Because he was right. She could love Harry’s memory and still love him.
He drew back, brushing the dampness with his fingertips. “I didn’t mean to make you weep,” he whispered. “I won’t press you, I promise. Only think of loving me. And if you find you do, I’ll come back.”
“From Russia?” she said tremulously.
“Or Vienna or the ends of the earth. Wherever I am, wherever the Tsar sends me, I’ll come back to you.”
She took his face between her hands. “This is madness. How can you love me? How can I love you? Perhaps I am just wanton, deprived of kisses…”
“I can help with that,” he said unsteadily.
She reached up to his mouth, and he sighed as she kissed him, returning the embrace with fervor.
When the kiss ended, he held her more gently, pressing his cheek to hers. “We must go back. If we stay here, I will only ravish you.”
A choke of shocked laughter spilled from her. “You say such wicked things.”
“Oh, trust me, there are many even more wicked things I shall do to you in time. And I’ll make sure you love them all. For now, I need to keep your father on my side.”
“I’m more than twenty-one,” she said. “I can marry where I choose.”
He paused in the act of smoothing her gown and stared at her. “You would do that for me?”
It seemed to be a night for recklessness. “I might,” she said breathlessly.
He reached for her again, then stopped himself with a short, shaken laugh. “You are wonderful and I shall protect you from me for just a little longer. Come.”
With her hand in his arm, she felt as if she were walking on air. Bemused, she could barely believe in this sudden new joy. She didn’t know how it had happened, but quite suddenly, she wanted to hold on to it, fiercely.
“I think we might have been indiscreet,” he murmured as they walked among the others on the ballroom terrace. “They are no longer playing a waltz.”
Alba did not care. When she re-entered the ballroom on his arm, she saw at once that Rose was sitting talking animatedly with young Lord Kirkland. She looked at her best and so did he. That would not be such a terrible match, she thought, if they just waited a little.
“Champagne,” Volkov said, with pleasure, grasping two glasses from the tray of a passing footman. He presented one to Alba and raised his own in a smiling, silent toast. Her heart turned over. They walked together, unhurriedly around the ballroom, talking of unimportant things and indulging in gentle, enjoyable banter. Alba realized they were attracting a certain amount of attention. She supposed no one had seen her smile so much, but in truth she did not care for that either, nor for the disapproving stare of her stepmother, or the strange narrowed look in the eyes of Lady Harley as they walked past.
The latter made her glance quickly at him. “You and Lady Harley—”
“Don’t ask,” he said hastily. “You know I have not been a good man.”
“You’ve known many women,” she realized, wondering if it mattered.
“I’ve had affairs and infatuations and known affections that were almost love,” he admitted, low, “but nothing that comes close to what I feel for you.”
“Why?” she wondered. “Why me?”
“That isn’t the biggest mystery of the evening.”
“Alba.” The duke accosted them without warning. “Her Grace has sent me to steal you from Prince Volkov.”
“Actually, sir, I was hoping for a word with you,” Volkov said at once.
Alba swallowed. He was going to speak to her father now, ask his permission, make an offer for her hand… Panic and excitement blended in her stomach, but it felt pleasurable, wonderful.
“Then if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go to Her Grace,” she said breathlessly.
Volkov took her free hand and bowed over it. Smiling, she walked around the dancers toward the duchess.
“Making a figure of yourself with Volkov,” Her Grace accused below her breath when Alba sat down beside her. “If this is simply to annoy me or Rose…”
“It has nothing to do with you or Rose,” she said intensely. “And I resent that you could even think so.”
The duchess blinked in surprise, for Alba rarely troubled to answer back.
“Then I beg your pardon,” the duchess said defensively.
“In any case, you must know he is not interested in Rose. She is too young for him.”
“Of course, she is,” agreed Her Grace. “I merely like to keep open as many options as possible. Kirkland is a better match, with the advantage of him living in the same country.”
“They seem to be getting on,” Alba agreed. “But surely, you are in no hurry to marry her off?”
“Well, you are not likely to oblige us!” the duchess retorted.
“Oh, I might surprise you yet,” Alba murmured, and smiled at the approaching gentleman. “Mr. Bethurst, how are you? I have not laid eyes on you all evening.”
“Lady Alba. Your Grace.” He bowed to them both and turned to Alba. “I was hoping to solicit your hand for the next dance?”
“Of course,” Alba said.
While they waited for the present dance to end and the new one to begin, they discussed the ball and his mother’s health and other local issues. But Alba kept an anxious eye on the ballroom steps, afraid to see Volkov come back down too soon with a ducal flea in his ear.
But she saw neither of them.
Instead, a footman came up to her. “His Grace requests your presence in the office.”
She stood at once, murmuring her excuses to Ralph and her stepmother and hastened across the ballroom, up the steps to the estate office where her father and his stewards usually conducted their business. Her heart drummed like a rabbit’s.
She knocked the door and went in to discover Volkov and the duke sitting on opposite sides of the desk. They both stood as she entered.
“Volkov assures me you won’t be surprised to hear I’ve received an offer from him for your hand,” the duke said briskly. “Though I’ve accepted on condition of your own agreement, I’ve warned him not to get his hopes up. But you may tell him yourself. Two minutes, Volkov. I’ll be—”
“You don’t need to go, Papa,” Alba interrupted. “I’ve already accepted Prince Volkov’s offer.”
Her father’s jaw dropped. “That’s what he said. I was sure he’d misunderstood you. You mean…you mean to marry him? And go to Russia?”
“I hope you will visit often,” Volkov said. He held out both hands to Alba, who all but ran to take them.
“You’re a perverse creature,” her fond father told her. “Your brothers and sisters will miss you.”
Taking this as a rare admission that he himself would miss her, Alba smiled. “We’ll visit often, too.”
The duke coughed. “We’ll make no formal announcement now. We’ll need to talk more tomorrow… You’re due to return to the Emperor any day, ar
e you not?”
“I had better ride back to London and beg a delay of him,” Volkov said. “Otherwise, it will be quite a rush to be married and pack before we sail.”
“Or you could come back in a few months,” the duke suggested, “Once you’ve both had time to think. After all, this is very sudden, very quick. But, we’ll talk about it tomorrow. Come, we’ll go back to this wretched ball and I’ll drink a toast with you, Prince.”
Chapter Seven
Alba didn’t sleep at all that night. Siddons helped her undress at some point after the ball finished at three o’clock in the morning, but she couldn’t even think about getting into bed. Instead, she sat by the window, wrapped in her dressing gown and a shawl, and daydreamed, remembering Yuri’s loving words and kisses, and their second waltz together, which was full of happiness and fun. It was still a secret delight to think of him as Yuri, now, instead of Prince Volkov, to admit to friendship and love…
She had an assignation with him in the rose garden at seven, long before the household would rise. She could sleep after that, maybe.
Someone else was up early, too. As she began to dress herself once more, she heard the rumbling of carriage wheels and the clop of horses’ hooves. An early departure, no doubt for someone else who hadn’t been to bed yet.
A scratch sounded at her bedchamber door, just as she climbed into her favorite riding habit—she liked the idea of riding with Yuri in the sunshine. Wrestling herself the rest of the way into the garment, she went to open the door. The twins slid through, fully dressed.
“Rose isn’t in bed,” Gerda said.
Alba blinked. “Well, neither are we.”
“But we can’t find her, and we think she might have gone in that carriage that just left.”
Alba frowned and sat down on the bed to let Gerda lace her up. “I heard a carriage but I’ve no idea why you should think Rose was in it. Whose was it?”
Of course, they knew. “Lord Kirkland’s,” Kai said.
A pang of unease twisted through Alba. “He came alone, didn’t he? Rose couldn’t possibly have gone with him. What does Her Grace say?”
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