Alba shook her head. “She brought herself near me, harming my stepmother, trying to harm my sister. I will deal with her.”
Lady Harley had vanished by the time they entered the house, but Alba wanted the matter over with.
“The rose garden,” Yuri said under his breath. “At two.”
She smiled. By then, life would be perfect.
She went straight to her room under pretense of changing out of her riding habit. With Siddons help, she donned instead her best morning gown. It was not new, but it lent her a sense of regality.
Dismissing Siddons, she rummaged for the carpet bag at the back of her cupboard and drew it out. She had only a vague idea how much money it contained. Although she resented giving it to the Harley woman rather than using it to found an orphanage or a school, she couldn’t deny it was owed, and the debt had to be paid.
Taking it with her, she left her chamber and walked downstairs. “Ask Lady Harley to attend me in the morning room,” she said to the first footman, choosing an apartment that tended to be empty at this time of day.
There, she sat at the writing desk and placed the bag on the stool at her feet. She didn’t have long to wait before Lady Harley strolled into the room as though she owned it.
“Lady Alba,” she drawled. “I was hoping to speak to Her Grace your stepmother before I left.”
“That won’t be possible,” Alba said coldly. “In fact, it won’t be possible for Her Grace to speak to you at all. If you have any pride, you may wish to avoid the humiliation of the cut direct. Please take the bag at my feet and consider it payment in full of Her Grace’s debt.”
Lady Harley’s eyes widened. She hadn’t expected to be paid today, not after Kirkland’s obvious failure. “I shall have to count it to be sure of that.”
“Count it on your own time, madam, not on mine. You’ll find it is all there, less our household’s charge for your board here.”
Lady Harley’s jaw dropped. It took her a moment to recover. Then she laughed, a harsh, angry sound. “You really wish it to be known that you charge your guests for the privilege of enjoying your—forgive me—second rate hospitality?”
“If that’s a story you wish to tell, carry on,” Alba said, allowing amusement into her voice. “It has never happened to anyone else, so perhaps you should just rejoice in your—er—uniqueness. For the rest, spreading salacious tales of my family will only bring your own name into further disrepute. So much so that your questionable means of subsistence may be curtailed. I trust I make myself plain. Good day, madam.”
Lady Harley’s bewildered eyes blinked and then seemed to spit. “You expect me to haul around a bag of money like some dubious cit?”
“I really don’t care. It’s all you will ever have from us. What you do with it is your own business.”
She held Lady Harley’s glare which had, no doubt, overwhelmed many more timid women, even the redoubtable duchess. Everyone had their fears and Alba suspected Lady Harley found them and played on them without mercy. But with Yuri’s love, Alba had never felt so indomitable.
Lady Harley seemed to know it. Her eyes fell first. She snatched up the bag and left the room without a word. She didn’t trouble to close the door.
Alba drew in a deep breath. She had done it. And she couldn’t wait until two o’clock —not just to tell Yuri but to take comfort from him. For her knees were shaking after the confrontation. She was not used to this kind of thing.
She gave herself a moment, .then jumped up and went in search of him.
“I think he’s in the billiard room,” James told her, rushing past in the opposite direction.
The door to the billiard room was open, so she saw at once that Yuri was not playing there. Both players had their backs to her, Lord Rawley bending over the table and lining up his cue, and another friend of Oscar’s, Sir Anthony Murdle, leaning on his cue to watch.
Alba, not wishing to interrupt Lord Rawley’s shot, paused at the door and used the opportunity to make sure Yuri was not elsewhere in the room. But the two men were alone.
“No, no,” Rawley was saying. “He won’t take the money now, the fellow’s not a complete scoundrel. Just saying, he won.”
“No, you said the bet was, he’d melt the snow queen’s heart,” Murdle disputed. “No proof that he has!”
“He’s just become engaged to marry her,” Rawley said dryly. “The snow queen who’s been avoiding everyone’s advances for years. I’d say that counts as melting her heart. Volkov won the queen and the wager.”
Stricken, Alba stood rooted to the spot. Then Rawley took his shot and the clatter of the balls pierced her paralysis. She fled.
Suddenly, her throat felt tight and she tugged at the neck of her gown as if that would help her breathe.
A wager? A cynical wager? Could that truly be all this was between her and Yuri? Her heart drummed with panic, with fear of being misled, of being alone, of losing him, of never having him in the first place. It had all been too fast, too intense to be real.
As she stumbled out of doors into the fresh sunshine, she remembered his tender eyes, his passionate kisses, his many smiles. The confidences he had given to her. The way he had ridden with her to recue Rose. He had struck Kirkland to the ground for his crime.
No, whatever the truth behind Rawley’s remarks, they changed nothing. Perhaps it had begun as a wager. But no one engaged themselves to be married just for a bet. Even Rawley had acknowledged that.
So soon on the heels of her confrontation with Lady Harley, the talk of wagers had upset her. Even discounting its importance, she needed the calmness of her rose garden. Her feet had already turned toward it, and she hurried there now, hoping to calm herself before Yuri would join her.
He would laugh, confess whatever idiocy he was guilty of and convince her of his love. She didn’t doubt him. How could she?
She stepped into the rose garden, inhaling the sweet, familiar scents. The stem of one of the red roses had broken, leaving the flower drooping sadly. Alba reached out and plucked it free. As she walked on, she absently broke the thorns off the remaining stem. She smiled. She would give the rose to Yuri.
But she was not alone in the garden. On the other side of the hedge formed by tall rose trees, a woman’s voice said softly, “I don’t blame you, Yuri, she’s beautiful as well as quite vulgarly wealthy. But you won’t forget me, will you?”
Lady Harley. She had dismissed the wretched woman and would tolerate no more of her poison. Furiously, she strode around the hedge and came to an abrupt halt. The rose fell from her nerveless fingers.
Facing her, Lady Harley had her arms wound around Yuri’s bent neck. His hands were on her shoulders and she was pressed as close to him as Alba had been last night. They were kissing.
Until Lady Harley broke free, her gaze on Alba. She laughed, and walked toward her. “A return gift to you, my pet,” she said insolently. “A little truth. Never trust a rake.” She even brushed against Alba as she rounded the hedge and walked away.
Leaving her to face Yuri.
***
Yuri had turned, smiling, at the quick footsteps in the rose garden. He had hoped she would come early. But it was not Alba. It was Cordelia Harley.
“Well, Yuri,” she drawled. “It seems you’ve found yourself a bit of a firebrand. I always thought her a cold nothing, but she has character beneath the insipid beauty. I’ll allow you that.”
“I’m sure your compliment will delight her.”
She laughed, which is when he realized just how angry she was. Anger in such a woman was dangerous and he was conscious of unease, of a need to protect Alba.
“I think I have delighted her enough for one day,” she said with a curl of the lip. She walked past him and he turned with her, following her with his wary gaze. “She paid her mother’s debt. Most of it.”
“All of it,” Yuri said gently.
Lady Harley waved one dismissive hand. “I came to say goodbye, since her ladyship has dismisse
d me. I am forbidden to even speak to her family, so I presume that will include you when you are married. Still, you’ll know where to find me if you’re feeling…disobedient.”
“From Russia, it will be hard,” he said carelessly. “Goodbye, Cordelia.”
Behind him, he was aware of quick, light footsteps on the gravel. They slowed on entering the rose garden. Alba. It had to be. He wanted Lady Harley away from her. Especially since she smiled and he knew she had heard the footfalls, too.
“Then you really will marry her? I don’t blame you, Yuri, she’s beautiful as well as quite vulgarly wealthy. But you won’t forget me, will you?” Without warning, she stepped close, pressing herself against him as she wrapped her arms around his neck, dragging his mouth down to hers.
He had had one debauched night with this woman when he’d first come to London. Beautiful, willing, and deliciously experienced, she had been just what he’d sought at the time. But her kiss was the kiss of a viper and it repelled him. He placed his hands on her shoulders to push her off just as she broke free and laughed and he knew that Alba was there. This was all deliberate.
“A return gift to you, my pet,” Lady Harley drawled. “A little truth. Never trust a rake.”
As he turned, the woman walked away, brushing against Alba’s still figure as she went.
“The woman’s toxic,” he said in disgust, striding to Alba. “Don’t let her upset you.”
But it was obviously too late for that. Sheer, desperate misery stood out in her eyes. Her mouth drooped tragically. And yet, there were no tears.
“That drama wasn’t for me, Alba,” he said urgently. “It was for you.”
He took her hand but she drew free at once. “Then you and she—?”
He knew what she was asking. He couldn’t lie, and yet she suddenly seemed too fragile to bear it.
“One drunken night in London. She is nothing to me, Alba. She only wants to hurt you. Don’t let her.”
She didn’t meet his gaze, but was frowning blindly in the general direction of his uniform buttons. “And did you make a wager with Lord Rawley?” she asked unexpectedly.
“Rawley?” he said in surprise. “Several, probably. Why?”
“To do with me?”
“Of course not!” He paused, frowning uneasily as a memory resurfaced.
“You really think you can melt the snow queen’s heart, where the rest of the country has failed?” Rawley had mocked him. “A hundred says you don’t even get close enough for a kiss.”
“Done”
“She has to kiss you, mind. No stealing.”
He groaned. “There was some nonsense flung between us in London, when I was still trying to find out who you were. I had forgotten about it.”
“Lord Rawley hasn’t.” The ice in her voice chilled him. He could almost see frost closing around her like a protective cocoon. Unmeltable, unbreakable.
“No, Alba,” he said warningly. “Stop it.”
“I can’t,” she whispered.
He seized her in his arms, crushing her mouth under his, breathing into her all the warmth, life and love he had. And for a moment, just a moment, her lips parted with a gasp, letting him in, as though accepting his love. But her tears flowed into their mouths, cold and harsh and she tore herself free.
“I can’t trust you, Yuri. My fault or yours, I cannot bear it. It’s over.”
She bolted from him, running for the house.
He started after her, but something on the ground caught his eye. A rose which she must have dropped when she had seen him and Cordelia Harley together. He bent and picked it up. It looked just a little damaged, like the innocence of Alba’s love for him.
Ruefully, he shoved it in his pocket and strode after her to make her see sense.
***
Two days later, he left Winbourne without ever seeing her again. She was ill and took all her meals in her room. His messages, smuggled in by the twins, received no reply. His efforts to barge into her apartments were thwarted by her brothers.
“Leave it, Volkov,” Oscar urged. “Be reasonable, we can’t let you in there. Give her time.”
“But she’s…she’s…icing up again,” he said furiously. “I can’t let her do that. It’s all misunderstanding.”
“She’s not stupid. She’ll come around.”
But he couldn’t wait any longer. A missive from the Tsar summoned him immediately to Portsmouth where there would be a naval review before the Tsar and the other victorious heads of state set sail, Yuri with them.
He sent the twins with another note and waited for three hours in the darkness of the rose garden for her to join him there. She didn’t come.
And so, he left his direction with Oscar and departed first thing in the morning. It was raining.
Chapter Nine
Snow came early to Winbourne that year and stayed. From mid-November, the fields and marshes and gardens were white, and by the end of the month, the duke’s ornamental lake had frozen over and people began to skate on it.
Although the lake was quite definitely on Winbourne land, the duke had given permission for everyone in the neighborhood to make use of it, and Alba was vaguely aware of a skating party being organized around her. Ralph Bethurst called to invite her to join them.
“Oh no, I won’t today,” she said. “I was skating yesterday with the children.”
“Rose is going again,” the duchess said pointedly.
“I, however, am not,” Alba insisted.
Ralph left shortly afterward, escorting Rose and Mrs. Fenman, the vicar’s wife.
“It would have cost you nothing to go, Alba,” Her Grace said, frowning. “Your refusals verge on rudeness.”
Alba shrugged. “Then he might stop haunting us.”
“Alba! The man wants to marry you.”
“Who wouldn’t want to marry a woman with five thousand pounds a year plus a substantial dowry?”
“That is a very vulgar remark and quite unworthy of you. I believe Mr. Bethurst loves you.”
“I refer you to my previous comment,” Alba said dryly. “You go, if you wish. I would rather be alone, in any case.” She drifted off to her chamber and donned her boots and the white fur pelisse and hat which had been her birthday gift from the duke and duchess. They were useful against the cold.
In spite of everything that had happened there, the rose garden remained her favorite place to be. Even covered in snow, it had its own beauty. Yuri had once waxed poetical on the beauty of snowflakes and she had come to realize that he was right. Every flake of snow held its own unique loveliness. Every crystal of ice enchanted her. There was only cold and visual beauty to appreciate, no disturbing emotion or character in the frozen weather, nothing to remind her of what she had lost in Yuri Volkov. Or what she had never had.
As she walked in the white garden, Alba hoped the weather would keep most of her family away this Christmas. Oscar was too jolly to suit her mood these days and Augusta, breeding at last, had become unbearably smug.
A tiny flash of color caught her eye as her pelisse brushed against the smaller rose plants. Bending, she saw a tiny, red bud. She couldn’t tell if it was a frozen relic from the summer or some foolishly optimistic new bud. It was a long time until spring.
She walked on, but for some reason the image stayed with her. Unlike just about anything else over the last few months, it disturbed her.
***
Yuri Volkov was anything but pleased to be back in London. Having finally returned to his home and the bosom of his family, he had not wanted to leave again. But it was not possible to refuse His Imperial Majesty.
Walking from Carleton House, where he had just delivered the Tsar’s private letter to the Prince Regent, he made his way back to Claridge’s Hotel by the quieter streets where he was unlikely to run into anyone who remembered him. He scowled as he walked off his ill-temper. He was a nobleman, an officer, a soldier who had fought for his country, literally kicking many Frenchmen out of it. He
had been honored for his courage and endurance, and yet here he was no better than a glorified message boy. Without the glory.
As ill-luck would have it, having avoided acquaintances for the whole journey, someone hailed him just as he leapt up the front steps of the hotel.
“Volkov?”
He pretended not to hear and kept on going, but someone ran up after him and caught up with him just inside the door. “It is you! How are you, old chap?”
It was just about as bad as it could be. Lord Oscar Snowden stood grinning at him with his hand thrust out in open friendliness.
After a moment, Yuri shook his hand, but briefly. “How do you do? Sorry, I can’t stop.”
“Are you staying here? I’ll call on you tomorrow.”
“Don’t waste your time. I’ll probably be gone by then. Sorry, my friend. Take care.”
All but tearing himself free, he strode across the foyer, seeking only the sanctuary of his own rooms. And his own bottle.
***
Of course, the bottle—well, bottles, plural—were his undoing. He slept right through the time he had meant to rise, gather his things and remove to some less respectable hostelry where no one would find him. Certainly no one related to the snow queen.
Whenever he thought of her, the dull ache of loss sharpened into a furious pain. He didn’t know if he was angrier with her or with himself, just that he didn’t bear it easily. Everything he had begun to hope for in his life had crumbled to nothing along with Alba’s shallow, worthless love. He tried not to say her name, even in his thoughts, but it didn’t stop him dreaming of her, or prevent his mother and sisters asking questions, for they knew something was wrong. Something more than the late war and the loss of so many family and friends.
Groaning, he waded his way through the empty bottles, plunged his whole head into the washing bowl and shook like a dog. He was still climbing into his clothes when a brief knock heralded the arrival of Lord Oscar Snowden.
“Go away, Snowden,” he growled. “I’ve a head like one of those infernal steam engines and I can’t talk.”
Melting the Snow Queen Page 9
