by Lara Temple
‘That is a wondrous image, your Excellency, but I am not certain I find it complimentary to have my people compared to an ice-bound hellish chaos whose only redeeming feature is their dry wit.’
His smile widened.
‘I say this with the greatest admiration, Miss James. The English capacity for self-restraint is legend. Take our friend here...’ He lowered his voice and glanced down the table at Alex. ‘You would not guess from seeing him today he was the same man I knew five years ago. That was when he was still engaged in the dubious activities many of us were forced to entertain both before and after Napoleon dragged the Continent into such chaos. Those were very different times. Now we have all become sadly respectable. And older.’ He sighed and patted his receding hairline. ‘But then we were young and rash and a challenge was a challenge.’
‘A challenge?’
He focused back on her, a touch of malice in his dark eyes. ‘Women do love the scent of a duello, don’t they? Hard to believe it of our respectable Lord Stanton, but as I said we were all rather more fiery in those days, him more than most. But he is precisely an example of what I spoke of. The moment the balance between chaos and ice was upset, ice won and chaos was banished and the result is our very esteemed Lord Stanton, rising star of the Foreign Office. Had you told me of this development six or seven years ago I would have toasted your fertile imagination. As it is it reinforces my conviction that we Russians could use a little more ice and a little less chaos. As for wit, we have our own brand, but mostly we have our poetry. And our vodka.’ He glanced mournfully at his wine glass.
‘Don’t worry, you will have your vodka, Dimitri Dimitrovich; though you don’t appear to need its aid to sink into maudlin reminiscences.’
They both turned to Alex and Christina hoped the candlelight disguised her flush. Razumov didn’t appear to share her embarrassment at being caught gossiping about their host, nor did Alex appear bothered about continuing the King’s breach of form by addressing them across Princess Ariadne.
‘Ah, but vodka makes them so much more palatable, for me at least.’ Razumov replied. ‘I am afraid Miss James’s charm is just as effective to that end as the finest vodka.’
Alex’s mouth quirked up at one end, but the same faint question was in his eyes as they settled back on Christina.
‘Slowly. Miss James isn’t familiar with your particular style of...diplomacy.’
‘I presume it is like most diplomacy, a shiny veneer with an agenda beneath it,’ Christina replied. It was a little too honest a reply and she smiled at Razumov to take the sting out of it.
‘You have a low opinion of diplomats, then, Miss James?’ Alex asked.
‘Not at all. It requires talent to keep veneer and agenda untangled; I am all admiration for those who do it well. We meet a great many diplomats at court, don’t we, Princess Ariadne?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Ari said. ‘There are always statesmen coming to see Papa and he insists we be present for most important meetings. After all, I shall be Queen one day and it is important I understand how to be a good ruler.’
‘I am convinced you will be, your Highness.’
Ari returned Alex’s smile and Christina’s heart stuttered. Her mind was still stumbling over Razumov’s words and what they revealed about Alex and she did not need to add jealousy to the mix, especially not of Ari.
‘I will certainly try. Father said one key is finding people you trust and listening especially hard when they disagree with you.’ Ari’s expression sank from seriousness into a grin. ‘Which means I listen especially hard to Tina.’
‘Unfair. I rarely disagree with you.’
‘But when you do, goodness!’
‘Miss James has a temper, then?’ Razumov asked, a little too hopefully.
‘Well, not like Papa. He can make the windows rattle. Tina merely has this look. Her eyebrows go up, just a little. It is terrifying. There, you see?’
Christina shook her head and picked up her wineglass, trying not to smile. It was impossible to be annoyed with Ari when she was so clearly enjoying herself, even at her expense.
‘Formidable.’
She met Alex’s gaze and again felt her stomach clench around a sensation she had not felt for many years.
Ari nodded. ‘Yes, that’s a better word. Formidable. I sometimes practise that look for when I shall be Queen. Shall I show you?’
Alex transferred his gaze to Ari and smiled.
‘Do. Let us see the formidable Queen Ariadne.’
‘Well?’
‘Well what? I’m waiting,’ he said, his eyes softening. Christina tried not to look because this was probably what it felt like to be kicked down a very long flight of stairs, one by one.
‘But that was it! See?’
‘Are you certain that was it? I must have blinked and missed it.’
Ari giggled. ‘Is he making game of me, Tina?’
‘I’m afraid he is, your Majesty. Not very diplomatic at all.’
‘Well, as Count Razumov pointed out, I am somewhat new to the diplomatic game, Miss James, so you must excuse my deficiencies. Perhaps if you demonstrate your formidable look I shall know what to look for. Or does it only appear when one transgresses? Shall I?’
‘It would have to be something big for Tina to lose her temper,’ Ari said doubtfully. ‘Like the time I ran away and went down to the beach below the castle on my own; do you remember, Tina?’
‘I do. You were only seven. You fell asleep behind some rocks and it took us hours to find you. I don’t remember being angry, though, merely frightened. I believe your father was doing all the shouting.’
‘Yes, but I remember how you looked and I remember being afraid you would leave me. I didn’t know you were scared, too.’ Ari laughed, clearly embarrassed. ‘But this is a silly topic for the dinner table. Not at all the impression a formidable queen should make.’
‘I disagree.’ Alex said. ‘If more people with power over others’ lives experienced fear and need, we might have fewer wars and more compassion for those who had to endure them. I think you do have the makings of a truly formidable queen, Princess Ariadne.’
‘Indeed,’ Razumov agreed. ‘I would toast you, but I am saving myself for this vodka you promised, Stanton. Is it chilled?’
‘Of course. It is in the icehouse and will only be brought in when we are ready for it. You and Count Nesselrode trained me well.’
‘May the saints and their icons bless your soul, Stanton.’
‘What is this?’ the King interrupted his discussion with Von Haas and Sir Oswald. ‘What are we blessing?’
‘Vodka. Chilled. That demands a benediction,’ Razumov announced.
‘There is ouzo as well, your Majesty,’ Alex said before the King unleashed his opinion of the Russian beverage, and the King’s lowering brows rose again.
‘Excellent. Everything is always clearer with a glass of ouzo in one’s hand.’
‘Once the ladies retire, of course,’ Alex continued, smiling at Ari who pouted charmingly, her discomfort flown. Lady Albinia proved she had been listening closely enough to meet her cue to announce the withdrawal of the ladies while the men lingered over their port and more exotic libations and Christina rose with relief. She might have her share of English restraint, but there was a limit and she had exhausted hers for the day.
Chapter Five
‘Yesterday set the stage quite well, don’t you think? The vodka was a clever move. I think our Russian friend is feeling a tad less beleaguered.’ Sir Oswald polished his quizzing glass as the King and Princess strolled ahead with Lady Albinia and the two foreign dignitaries.
Alex nodded, pausing at the head of the path towards the lake. King Darius and his daughter would be fine without their presence. Whatever the King’s hopes for a more personal alliance between England and his daughter, Alex wasn’t in
terested and the very last thing he wanted was to excite unwarranted expectations. He had learned his lesson well. Where he couldn’t avoid susceptible young women he made certain they regarded him just as his sisters did.
‘With any luck we can have a decent agreement signed in a week.’
‘A little longer, I believe,’ Sir Oswald replied as they turned back towards the house. ‘The general line is clear, but we must pace this. This is the most monumental decision in King Darius’s political life, Alexander. He will not wish to be perceived as rushing into anything.’
‘I know that.’
‘I know you do, hence my surprise at the pace you are setting. Razumov and Von Haas are also still hoping for some more decisive concessions and we must dress the scraps so they can make them look succulent to their superiors. It has been many years since I have had to caution you to patience. Is there something the matter?’
Alex shook his head, resisting the urge to rub at the scar below his ribs; it was humming with discomfort, something that hadn’t happened in quite a while. Also for the first time in many years he had dreamt of being back on Illiakos, a veiled woman standing over him as he tried to disentangle himself from a blanket of seaweed while the sea flooded the room.
There was no point in sharing his unease about Miss James with his uncle. He was still both convinced this was the girl and convinced it wasn’t. Not that it made any difference either way, did it? Except perhaps to his vanity.
‘Did anything strike you as strange about yesterday’s dinner?’ his uncle asked.
Alex shrugged, wishing his uncle had stayed in London; he was far too perceptive. When he didn’t answer, Sir Oswald continued.
‘I found the King’s choice of appealing to Miss James as an authority on his diplomatic affairs rather telling. I was already a little surprised when Albinia informed me the King insisted on including his daughter’s companion-cum-governess in the social events, but now I wonder if perhaps she is a little more than that despite the disparity in their ages. There was an assumption of intimacy even in the way she scolded him. Perhaps you should make an effort to charm the young woman and discover the nature of her hold on the King. I know you no longer like to employ those methods, though it is a sad shame as you were so very good at it, but perhaps judiciously applied... She doesn’t strike me as particularly susceptible, though. There is more beneath the surface than above it there.’
Alex looked out over the familiar, orderly beauty of the garden. It was possible Miss James was the King’s mistress. He would not have thought it from his meeting with her in the library or from her cool elegance at the dinner, but he had to agree with his uncle that a great deal more was happening beneath her surface than above it. There was nothing about her to draw attention and yet for some unfathomable reason she did. Everything else that had occurred at dinner had been almost tediously predictable, but every time he had looked down the table, his attention had stumbled over her, his mind worrying over the question as it would over a stubborn code.
At the first possible opportunity he would just ask her outright and get this over with. He was allowing the puzzle to become entangled in wholly unnecessary observations, like lingering over the way she drank her wine, of all things, almost feeling the impression of her glass pressing down on her lush lower lip—cool, rounded, smooth. He had found himself raising his own glass, as if he could feel her through that mirrored action. He had put it down and forced himself to return his attention to the Princess and the business at hand, but for the rest of that meal he had remained unnaturally aware of Miss James, as if she constituted a threat to the proceedings, which was ridiculous. It had certainly coloured his response to Razumov’s flirtatious nonsense. That final discussion had been far too personal on all fronts. Not something he would normally encourage unless he had a specific objective in mind, but in this case he had none, just this cursed curiosity.
‘I’m going for a walk. I need some air.’
Sir Oswald nodded in approval.
‘Good. Clear your head. I need you focused to keep all these balls in the air.’
Alex raised a brow.
‘I hadn’t realised I had dropped any.’
‘You haven’t. Let us ensure you don’t.’
Alex mouthed a curse that almost made his uncle’s thin lips stretch into a smile, then he turned in the other direction. He didn’t have time to go riding or sink into any new project in his workshop, but he needed a moment of quiet and the herb gardens should be empty.
Except they weren’t. He entered through the gate in the moss-covered stone wall enclosing Albinia’s extensive herb gardens and stopped. First his library window seat and now Alby’s garden. There was surely something wrong about this young woman’s tendency to infiltrate places not meant for guests.
She was even kneeling on Lady Albinia’s cushioned gardening board by a rambling dark-green plant with spiky leaves and humming to herself, her mouth bowed in a smile. The same sense of discomfort that had beset him last night during dinner returned—she seemed far too present for someone who should be utterly negligible in the scheme of things. She didn’t even have the grace to notice him standing there as he inspected her, trying to untangle the problem. She didn’t look threatening in the least—at the moment she looked like a painting titled Young Woman in Herb Garden. Her bonnet lay on its side by her skirts, its ribbons like outflung arms on the grass. The sun struck through the chestnut tree behind the garden wall in hazy streaks, adding strawberry lights to her mahogany hair. It was gathered in a simple knot, but by its weight he could tell it was thick and heavy, made to be set loose down her back.
Then she would belong in a different kind of painting altogether.
He pushed that thought aside and focused on the problem. She looked different than she had at dinner. The watchful control was gone, as if the warmth and scents of the garden had shed years and barriers, leaving only a young English girl, ready to embrace life wholeheartedly. He had been wrong about her looks, too. She might not be a beauty like the Princess, but under the cool mask was a very feminine invitation she was probably not even aware of since she made no use of it—in fact, so far she had done everything to school it into non-existence. But with her smile, and her hair only loosely gathered it was as evident as the sun warming her contrasting colours.
He breathed in and moved forward as resolutely as if he were cresting a hill with full expectation of meeting a hostile army on the other side. He watched her fingers move through the plant, seeking the paler leaves and putting her clippings into the wicker basket by her side. Time to pull this particular thorn.
‘What is that?’
She gasped and dropped the shears, swivelling towards him. He crouched down and fished the delicate scissors from the tangle of greenery. A lemony tang wafted up from it, but underneath was another scent, cooler and deeper, and he had to hold himself back from leaning in to capture it. He handed her the scissors and looked down at the plant, trying to redirect his thoughts.
‘Here. I apologise for startling you. What is this plant? It smells of lemons.’
‘It is called pelargonium and it is good for all manner of needs, including chasing away mosquitos, though that isn’t quite as relevant here as it is back on Illiakos.’
He raised the edge of the linen napkin draped over the wicker basket and a swirl of scents rose, heightened by the sun that warmed the fabric of his coat against his back. It all contributed to a distinct sinking feeling in his stomach—a proficiency in the healing powers of herbs was definitely weighing in on the wrong side of the scales.
‘What else have you purloined from Cousin Alby’s garden?’
Her smile was as bright and as sudden as lightning and just as potent, but her answer was restrained.
‘I have full permission to take what I need, my lord.’
‘I am not here in the guise of magistrate, Miss Jame
s. My cousin is not in the least possessive about her herbs, but she usually doesn’t invite just anyone into her gardens. This is a serious compliment.’
The smile returned and this time it lingered.
‘I am not just anyone. Apparently I am neither herb nor flower, or was it that I am both? Whatever the case I think she is studying me and perhaps allowing me into the garden is in the manner of a test. Does she categorise everyone?’
‘Usually only those who don’t bore her. She won’t tell me what I am, which bodes ill for me. People can be a vegetable or fruit as well, you know. Since she told my father he was a turnip, I am rather relieved to be excluded.’
‘A turnip? Then I hope I remain a mystery as well. All my expectations will be dashed if I discover I am merely a cabbage, or worse, fennel. I hate fennel.’ She laughed, a warm joyous sound that reflected in the warming teal of her eyes. The scales sank further. He remembered that laugh from when he had teased her about her agony columns, inventing nonsensical sequels just so he could hear it. He had forgotten doing that.
Oh, hell.
At least it explained his immediate discomfort upon meeting her in the library. Her voice and her scent must have triggered his memory even if it had not fully broken surface immediately. So Miss James was his little nurse after all.
Well, not his. The realisation was no excuse for his body to transform one form of curiosity for another. Except that he couldn’t deny she looked so very right here, her eyes brimming with laughter and her plain muslin skirts rumpled against the grass, but clearly outlining the rounded curves of her thighs and hips and then over that backside she had so innocently exhibited while plumping the window-seat pillows. She was not in the least like the women who he usually made arrangements with, but he couldn’t deny he would have been very willing to explore new avenues of femininity if only she had been more experienced and available for discreet liaisons. Though if his uncle’s insinuations had any merit and she was the King’s mistress she might be quite experienced, though not available.
