Katerina laughed. “It is most gratifying to see you in love.”
“And with love”—Tatiana rose and pulled Katerina to her feet—“is it not said all things are possible?”
“Indeed it is. But, as you well know, love alone is not enough”—Katerina’s gaze searched her princess’s face—“without trust.”
“I do wish you had not mentioned trust.”
“And honesty.”
Tatiana wrinkled her nose. “I am not nearly as fond of honesty as I am of love.”
“But is it fair to—”
“Probably not.” She shook her head. “It does get more and more complicated, does it not? With Valentina about, I cannot in all conscience keep him completely unaware. He deserves some warning. Not that I think she is truly dangerous—”
Katerina raised a brow.
“At least allow me to lie to myself on occasion.”
“Lying to yourself may well prove a greater danger than your cousin.”
“Perhaps. However, I will think of something to tell Lord Matthew.” Tatiana shook her head. “When he left, I thought we had all the time in the world; now there is no time to waste. We must think of a way to lure him away from his work. Or perhaps”—an altogether excellent idea popped into her head—“we need not get him away from his work at all.” She crossed the room to a small writing table and sat down.
“You have quite changed the subject.” Katerina studied her suspiciously. “Are you going to tell him the truth or not?”
“Don’t be absurd,” Tatiana said without thinking and pulled open a drawer, searching for paper and pens. “I cannot possibly tell him the truth about everything.”
Katerina narrowed her eyes. “You cannot?”
“What I meant to say is that I cannot tell him the truth yet,” Tatiana said quickly. “I will when the time is right.”
“I understand your hesitation about the Heavens. However”—Katerina pinned her with a firm gaze—“there are other matters, other truths, he should know.”
“Possibly.”
“Is it not past time?”
“Probably.” Tatiana cast her friend an irritated glance. “I do so hate it when you play the part of my conscience.”
Katerina adopted a prim manner, but her eyes twinkled. “It is my job, Your Highness.”
“Indeed it is, and you do it far too well.” She sighed with resignation. “I will tell him what he should know—”
“What he deserves to know,” Katerina said firmly.
“Of course. At the first opportunity. But…” Tatiana hesitated for a long moment. “I must confess, I am somewhat afraid of how he might react. I do not think I could bear it if he was angry, or worse, did not care.”
“Still…”
“Yes, yes, I know. And I shall make every effort to inform him of the facts, although I have no idea how.” She shook her head. “How do I tell a man I did not carry out my promise to annul our marriage? What words do I use to tell him he is still my husband?
“And I am, in truth, Lady Matthew.”
“You are in remarkably good spirits, all things considered.” Ephraim sat with his feet propped up on his desk, a cigar in one hand, a whiskey in the other.
“I am, Ephraim.” Matt’s position mirrored the other man’s. “I am indeed.”
The hour was late, but neither man was in the mood to retire. They were the only two left in the Messenger building and Matt could well understand his friend’s fondness for spending his evenings here in the solitude of this place where the silence late at night reverberated deep in a man’s soul. A reverent temple to the gods of mechanics and progress.
“I’m sorry I could not uncover anything that might be useful to you.” Ephraim puffed thoughtfully on his cigar. “Aside from recent unrest in Avalonia, apparently resolved at this point, there is little else I could find. And that’s really only interesting if one looks at the factions involved.”
“Oh?”
“Apparently members of the royal family of Avalonia are not especially fond of one another. It seems while your princess’s branch of the House of Prune-something—”
“Pruzinsky.”
“That’s it. Anyway, while they have been the rightful rulers for the last few centuries, various and assorted relatives have regularly challenged them for power.” Ephraim snorted with amusement. “It’s almost a tradition.”
“Probably triggered by the brandy.”
“As for this Princess Sophia, there’s not much I can tell you that you don’t already know.” Ephraim drained the rest of his glass and eyed the bottle on the desk. “Ignoring small skirmishes, minor uprisings and the like, the last major insurrection in Avalonia was half a century ago. The princess’s husband was killed and she fled to England with her daughter. A few months later she married the Earl of Worthington and spent the rest of her days living in a castle somewhere in the country.” With an air of regret, he turned his attention away from the bottle and toward his friend.
“There’s little of interest after the marriage. Lady Worthington’s life was pretty sedate, from what I hear. No scandal, no intrigue—”
“No murder?”
“Not a thing.” The publisher shook his head in disgust. “The woman rarely left her castle.”
“And before her marriage?”
“Again, nothing you don’t know. You’re already aware that the lady was sheltered by several families. Then she met the earl, married him and that’s it. She died about twenty years ago. As I said, there isn’t much to tell.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Ephraim studied Matt over the end of his cigar. “You still think your princess is up to something, don’t you?”
“More than ever.” Matt thought for a moment. “Do you know what happened to the daughter?”
“That one was easy. The daughter married a viscount. Beaumont, I believe. The current viscount is her son.”
“Really? For some reason I was under the impression they were all dead.” Matt took a sip of his whiskey, then a puff of the cigar, relishing the mix of flavors. “One would think, if one were indeed writing a family history, that the first people you would go to would be family.”
“Keep in mind I've had little time to look into this, but I did learn both the mother and son have been out of the country. I have not yet determined when they are expected to return, or, indeed, if they already have.”
“And this history is so pressing, so urgent, it could not wait?”
“It does make one wonder." Ephraim grinned. “I'm damn proud of you for thinking of it. We'll make a journalist out of you yet.”
“Don't count on it, my friend. What little I've written thus far is the work of an amateur.”
“I want the story, not the words. Words can be edited.”
“Don't expect to get either. I plan on remaining an amateur.” Matt considered the whiskey in his glass and wondered if it was yet time for a refill. “You, Ephraim, have your gaze set too firmly on reality for me. I want to see the possibilities in the distance, not the facts of the here and now. I've enjoyed the feel of a ship and the sea beneath me, and a gondola and the open sky and who knows what lies ahead.”
“On that score, how goes the work? Will you be able to make enough progress in the coming week to . . .”
For a long time they discussed the progression of Matt's work, the possible contenders for the prize, the mysterious group sponsoring the design competition as well as the latest political scandals and life in general. They talked late into the night of matters both noteworthy and trivial until Ephraim’s bottle was empty and Matt’s cigars little more than lingering blue smoke and scattered ash.
“You never did explain one thing.” Ephraim squinted at the other man. “Why are you in such a bloody fine mood tonight?”
“This morning,” Matt corrected.
“This morning, last night, the day after tomorrow.” Ephraim studied him with the kind of suspicious stare seen only on th
e faces of men who have shared a long night and a great deal of drink. “There is something you have not told me.”
“Indeed there is.”
“Well, aren’t you going to tell me now?”
Matt grinned.
“Not for publication.” Ephraim heaved a sigh. “All I do these days is work, you know. I have to live vicariously through you. The least you can do is share your exploits. If I had a princess, I’d share with you.”
“You’re right. It’s only fair. Very well.” Matt paused for dramatic effect. “She wants me, Ephraim, she said it herself. She wants me.”
“Wants you? You mean…”
Matt’s grin widened.
Ephraim blew a long, low whistle. “Oh, that is good. She wants you. Bloody hell. Some men have all the luck.” Ephraim planted his elbows on the desk and propped his chin in his hands. “And what do you plan on doing about that?”
“Why, old friend, I’m going to do what any man who finds himself in my position would do.” Matt leaned back, puffed on his stub of a cigar and blew a perfect smoke ring toward the ceiling. “I’m going to let her have me.”
Chapter 10
“Did you miss me?”
Tatiana’s voice registered somewhere in the dim recesses of Matt’s mind, but he paid it no heed. She was in his head as often as not these days, although her face, her form, her voice did not usually intrude when he was deep in thought.
“My lord”—impatience colored the words—“I asked if you missed me.”
Matt jerked his head up and stared at the figure in the stables’ entry, for a moment not entirely certain if she was real. He shook his head and squinted against the sunlight behind her. “What are you doing here?”
“That is not at all the greeting I had hoped for.” Tatiana sauntered into the stables.
“Nonetheless, that is all the greeting you shall get.” He drew his brows together. “Especially as you’ve not answered my question. Once again, what are you doing here?”
“I shall answer your question when you answer mine.” She located a battered stool, similar to the one he sat on if not quite as steady, dusted it off, then pulled it up to the table, seating herself across from him. She folded her hands and rested them primly on the rough wooden surface. “Did you miss me?”
“No,” he snapped.
“Come, now, Matthew.” She rolled her gaze toward the heavens. “I do not believe you for a moment. Surely you missed me a bit? Perhaps as the horse—”
“Why are you here?”
“Oh, dear, I quite forgot. It is morning and you are never at your best in the morning. You shall have to work on that.”
He drew a deep breath for calm. “Indeed I shall. Now, then—”
“Well, I missed you.”
“As charming as that is to hear, I must admit to a certain amount of skepticism. It’s been but two days since we parted. I would think you would not miss me for at least fifteen—”
“Matthew.” Her voice was cool and controlled, in the manner of a reproachful governess. “First of all, you have apparently forgotten but you did promise to be more agreeable in the morning. You are not at all pleasant to be with at this time of day. And secondly,” her eyes narrowed, “you have no idea whether I missed you or not. Not yesterday, nor the day before, nor the months before that. For all you know, I might have been pining away, counting the hours, the days—”
“The year,” he said pointedly.
“—until I could return to you. Now, if you bring up the subject again for anything other than rational discussion—which I might consider, although I am not inclined to at the moment—I shall be forced to have Captain Petrov, Dimitri, shoot you.”
“Hah!” Matt got to his feet, braced his hands on the table edge and loomed toward her. “He can’t shoot me. This is my country, not yours. He would be hung for it.”
“Nonetheless, he is my subject. He will do as I command regardless of the legal ramifications. Furthermore, he would quite enjoy shooting you. He would consider it a pleasure.” She slipped off her stool and mimicked his stance. “As would I!”
His gaze locked with hers and for an endless moment they glared at one another. Her lush green eyes flashed in the shadows. Wild tendrils of golden hair escaped from their knotted confinement to tease her cheeks and dance along the lines of her lovely neck. Her breasts heaved enticingly with every breath. She was magnificent and damn near irresistible.
He tried to ignore the racing beat of his pulse in her presence. The dryness of his mouth. The tightness in his chest. It was lust, of course, simple desire, perhaps even anticipation, but nothing more complicated than that. Still, whatever the cause of the tumult in his stomach and elsewhere, he was hard-pressed to remain annoyed when she fixed him with the erotic promise of those eyes.
“Very well, Your Highness, I may have missed you for a moment.”
“I thought you might.” She grinned in a knowing manner.
“And?”
“I may have missed you for a moment as well.” She hopped back on the stool. “As for why I am here, I have been doing a great deal of thinking.”
He sat down with a resigned groan. “I’m not at all sure I like the sound of that.”
“I have come to fetch you so we may be on our way.” Tatiana’s tone was casual and he didn’t trust it for a minute. “I have decided my work cannot wait.”
“I thought a few days wouldn’t matter.”
“I had forgotten that the anniversary of the birth of the Princess Sophia is fast approaching and I did wish to have this history compiled before then.” The explanation flowed from her lips smoothly. Far too smoothly. As if it had been rehearsed.
“Really?” He raised a brow. “When?”
“Next month,” she said without hesitation.
“What day?”
Indecision flashed in her eyes.
He smirked. He was right. This was another lie.
“The fourth.” She smirked right back. “I am certain it is the fourth.”
“Regardless”—he nodded at the papers and assorted paraphernalia spread across the table—“I too have work that cannot wait.”
“What exactly are you doing?”
“I told you. I am trying to develop a type of heating system, really more of a method than a—”
“Yes, yes, I believe you mentioned that.” She waved impatiently, her gaze skimming across the mechanical bits and pieces on the table. “But it seems rather complicated and I must confess I do not quite understand.”
“I explained much of this on the way to Canterbury.” He fixed her with a pointed stare. “You found it so fascinating you were compelled to sleep through it.”
“I do that in carriages,” she murmured. “However, I am fully awake now and would very much like to hear about your efforts.”
“Very well.” He shrugged in an offhand manner as if he didn’t care one way or the other but he did. “As you know, a balloon can be inflated by the simple process of building a fire and tunneling the resulting hot air into the balloon. Here, let me show you.”
He reached for the papers covering a good portion of the tabletop. Every free inch of the large sheets was jammed with sketches and notations. He found the one he wanted, then stepped around the table to her side, smoothing the drawing out in front of her.
“You can see what I mean.” He pointed out the various elements, accompanied by a cursory explanation. “The problem occurs when one tries to keep the balloon aloft as the air cools.”
“That much I do know.”
“In the past”—he pulled out another drawing to illustrate his words—“a fire on a grate beneath the balloon has been employed, but that requires carrying a great deal of fuel.”
“Which is why many of your balloonists, aeronauts, have turned to hydrogen,” she said.
He nodded. Even now, it was exceedingly pleasant to note she had taken the time during their separation to acquaint herself with his interests. She had definitely
thought of him. Perhaps she had missed him after all.
“Yes, but hydrogen carries with it an entirely new set of problems, including production and its combustible nature. Ultimately, the length of an ascent is limited.
“Hydrogen can only be created on the ground and it’s a massive and tedious process. But heating air is child’s work.”
“Still you do need a fire.”
“Indeed. However, the question that now arises is just how great a fire is necessary. If one wants to reduce the size of the fire, the best way to do that is to use a substance that burns at a hotter temperature. Oil burns hotter than wood, as do spirits, alcohol, and so forth. I have experimented with a number of possibilities. What I propose to do is fill the balloon itself—”
“Aerostat,” she said sweetly.
“Aerostat with hot air in a conventional fashion. Then keep it aloft by burning something far more convenient to carry. Look here.” He shuffled through the assorted papers until he found the one with his most current design. “While it is still necessary to have a heating area larger than that provided by a single flame, I have determined binding several containers together, each burning independently with its own fuel source will produce the desired effect.”
She glanced up at him. “Will it work?”
“It has worked, although not as well as I would like. I am still tinkering with the valves, as well as the fuel. I have tried a number of combinations. Types of oils, various spirits—”
“Spirits? You mean brandy? Such as Avalonian brandy?”
He laughed. “That would, no doubt, be an appropriate use for Avalonian brandy.”
Her expression fell. “You really do not like it, then.”
“Nothing of the sort,” he said quickly. “You yourself said it was an acquired taste. I simply have not acquired a taste for it yet.”
“I have an excellent idea.” She beamed up at him. “While I do have a bottle or two with me now—”
Her Highness, My Wife Page 12
