by Lara Temple
‘I am afraid not, your Excellency,’ she replied correctly, but without the warmth his uncle had elicited.
‘A pity. You put me in mind of a favourite poem of mine. I do not know it in its English version but in Russian it goes thus: Ona khodit v krasote, kak noch...’
Alex had never liked Byron’s poetry and Russian made it only a little more bearable as Razumov’s voice moved between the guttural rasps and the warm liquid sounds of the language. But in Christina’s presence it reached its full glory—she became that dark-haired beauty described in the poem, the failing light of the afternoon sun was her starlight, her essence almost liquid, weaving and flowing. Her shoulders sank as she listened, the tension seeping out of her with the music and rhythm of the words, her mouth softening.
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent...
He gritted his teeth as Razumov finished, but she smiled, her face transforming as her composed mask fell away.
‘That sounds beautiful... Is it a Russian poet?’
‘No. One of yours. Byron.’
Her eyes lit, completing her transition to beauty. Of course she would like Byron. All women liked Byron.
‘Oh! Which poem?’
‘It is called “She Walks in Beauty”. I thought it appropriate when faced with such a vision.’
Her eyes narrowed, and once again the light utterly faded from their teal depths. She curtsied, her eyes flicking upwards towards him, and Alex felt them like a sting.
‘I am glad you did not find my performance contemptible, Count Razumov. Enjoy your bottle of ouzo, your Majesty. Good evening, gentlemen.’
Her swift exit was followed by another moment of silence, then Sir Oswald signalled to the other three secretaries who dutifully filed out in her wake.
Von Haas chuckled as the door closed behind them.
‘There is a temper there, without a doubt, despite her demure look.’
The King grinned as well.
‘True, but like Vulcano it only rumbles and refuses to erupt. Athena is not merely goddess of wisdom, but also of war, yet Miss James refuses to embrace that side of her nature. Believe me, I have tried often enough to goad her into a reaction, but English phlegm wins every time over her Latin temper.’
‘What she needs is some vodka.’ Razumov laughed aloud at his sally.
‘What she will receive while a guest in my home is respect.’ Alex kept his voice calm, barely. He felt a little like a volcano on the simmer himself.
The three other men hastily laughed away their descent into bawdiness and Sir Oswald raised his quizzing glass briefly at Alex, dragging him back from the verge of his temper.
‘I think we have achieved enough for today, gentlemen,’ Alex continued, more calmly. ‘With any luck another day should suffice to cover all our needs and then you may depart to confer with your Ambassadors, Count Razumov and Graf Von Haas, and see if there are any issues which remain outstanding before we finalise the treaty.’
As the other men filed out, each to their room, Alex lingered and was still standing by the table when Watkins entered, hesitating on the threshold.
‘Shall I clear the glasses and refill the decanters, my lord?’
‘Yes, thank you, Watkins. And air the room please, it is stifling in here.’
‘Of course, my lord. Shall I send a maid to assist Miss James? Or perhaps ask Lady Albinia?’
Alex paused by the door at Watkin’s strange question.
‘What do you mean? Has Miss James not returned upstairs?’
‘No, my lord. She did indeed approach the stairs, but she then turned towards the conservatory instead. Perhaps the smoke has rendered her unwell?’
‘Perhaps. There is no need for you to send anyone, Watkins, I will ensure she returns to the Princess.’
* * *
Beyond the glass walls of the conservatory the sun had already sunk behind the low bank of clouds at the edge of the forest and the lake sat still and grey, redeemed only by a faint and fading pearly gloss. He had seen this view a hundred times. This was his home and one day it would be his legacy. It made absolutely no sense for him to feel he had entered a foreign land.
At first he did not even see her, she had tucked herself between the urns of flowering plants by the far glass wall and it was only the shimmer of her yellow dress through the dark-green foliage that gave her away. She either did not hear him or did not care because she remained as still as the plant until the last rays of the sun suddenly burst through a rip in the clouds, transforming her skin from ivory to cream and raising a golden sheen on her hair, like sun glinting off obsidian. The lush red-and-peach flowers behind her made the whole tableau resemble a tapestry and she a medieval maiden caught in the moment of yearning for some long-lost knight, wistful and tragic.
He might not like Byron, but right now the poem Razumov had recited was dancing through his unsettled mind—it was not yet night, but those lines might have easily been written for Christina James. Except for the last three lines—this young woman’s mind was clearly not at peace and her relationship with the King might be far from innocent.
‘Are you unwell, Miss James?’
‘If you have come to comment on my performance or deliver more demands, then go away.’
More of the poem crumbled. Serenely sweet she was not. The ice maiden was melting fast into a rock-spewing volcano.
It was her tension, even more than his, that held him there. Whatever she was, she was upset. The least he could do as her host was calm her before he sent her to her room.
‘I shouldn’t have allowed that,’ he offered, aware of the weakness of his apology. Apparently so was she. Her shoulders rose and fell.
‘What difference does it make? It all serves your purpose, doesn’t it? All this charming male camaraderie just makes King Darius easier to manipulate, doesn’t it?’
The truth of that only made it worse. But her concern for the King sank its teeth deeper into his control. He tried to rein in his resentment, but the words came out anyway.
‘Does he often do this? Have you jump through hoops? What else do you do at his command, Athena?’
‘Don’t call me that!’
‘Why not? Is that his exclusive domain? Does he own that as well?’
‘I am not King Darius’s property. I am no one’s property!’ Her voice was always deep, but her denial came out almost as a growl.
He gathered his scattering control and tried to correct course.
‘Miss James...’
‘No. You... This is all your fault!’
‘Mine?’
‘Yes, if... Oh, never mind.’ She moved past him, but he caught her arm.
‘What do you mean it is all my fault?’
‘I mean nothing. I. Mean. Nothing.’ She tugged at her arm with each punctuation, but he just grasped the other one as well. Her skin was firm and warm under his fingers, he could feel her pulse, hard and fast under his thumb.
‘That isn’t true.’
‘What on earth do you know about it?’ The incredulity in her voice was so powerful he almost let her go. ‘You were born to mean something! Lord Stanton, one day Marquess of Wentworth, with your fingers deep in all these international pies, able to shape and change the way the world is going... I am not one of your diplomatic tasks, don’t you dare try to pacify me!’
She tugged again, but he wouldn’t let her go. He couldn’t. His hands were moulding themselves to her arms. Becoming acquainted with the texture of her skin, claiming it. He had wondered what lay behind her veils and here it was—fire, need, demanding. He had been right about her—under her proper façade she was probably like Vera Vidanich, like his mother. Dangerous. But his whole body was humming with the release of a suppressed need to act, to touch, to take...
He had watched many disasters shape and for
m in politics. Sometimes it was possible to intervene and deflect their progression, sometimes there was nothing to do but stand back and watch and then pick up the pieces. Except that for the first time in five years the disaster in the making was of his own doing.
He should avoid her like the plague. He shouldn’t listen to the urge to apologise for what had happened in there, to soothe her and ease that frustrated pain that was already all the warning he needed that this woman was trouble. Could he so easily have forgotten the damage he had inflicted with Vera? How mere chance had prevented him from being to all intents and purposes a murderer?
But even in Vera’s case his actions might have been misguided, but his motivations had at least been altruistic. Here his only intent was to take what he wanted and finally put to rest the niggling frustration that had lingered ever since Illiakos. The most sensible course of action was to put this desire aside. Eventually it would dissipate; these urges always did. He softened his hold and his hands ran down from their clasp on her arms, but snagged on her fisted hands.
Let go.
He breathed in, his mind confounding his good intentions by embellishing her image onto the clearing in the forest where the bluebells were most abundant in spring—a Venus with mahogany hair and lush curves spread on that green carpet, the tiny blue flowers shuddering against her soft flesh, outlining her, buoying her like water.
As he stood there, his mind miles away and utterly with her, it was the most natural thing in the world to touch his lips to the shadow of the veins at her wrist, breaking through the cool scents of lavender and mint to her—to the warm wildflower concoction that had tantalised him six years ago. It was wrong that it should linger so long in his mind and he felt a shudder of fear as it occurred to him he might never be free of that scent.
Let go.
He couldn’t do it. As in a dream his mind was shouting orders and his body did as it willed. His lips brushed over the mound just below her thumb, his tongue sweeping gently over that curve as it ached to do elsewhere. Her pulse thudded just below the surface of her skin, each surge asking him for something more.
‘Christina.’
It was a mistake to speak her name. She breathed in, twice, her hand relaxing in his. It wasn’t surrender, not even an invitation, but it swept over his crumbling defences. ‘I’m sorry.’
He had no idea what he was apologising for—failing to protect her, for the obvious privilege of his existence in contrast to hers, for his disdainful thoughts about her, or for what he was about to do. Probably the latter.
She wasn’t a child, he rationalised. She could walk out of the conservatory and he wouldn’t stop her. She was still standing there, after all, and that in itself was a choice.
As for himself, he was in no danger of losing ultimate control so he shouldn’t make more of this than it was. It was merely a kiss, to put to rest a foolish old fantasy. A quick kiss and he would send her upstairs to safety. That was all.
* * *
Christina felt the tension in his hands as he cupped her face, their heat, the shift between the smooth and rough texture of his palms. She knew he was going to kiss her. It was inevitable. Finally.
She stood as still as possible as he brushed a finger down the curve of her cheek, but she couldn’t help the way her eyelids sank as his finger stopped at the corner of her mouth, or the shift of her head towards that contact. He met it, his hand rising to spread along her jawline, his thumb pressing on the pucker of her lower lip as if to silence a protest. When she remained silent it shifted, grazing her lips, the sensation lingering, a burning mark. It made no sense that something so simple could be more devastating than she had ever imagined a kiss to be and he had not even begun. She couldn’t take her eyes off his mouth, the beautifully carved lines, softening as she watched. Her whole body softened, obeying an unspoken command, tension turning inside even as her skin became pliant, warm, heating the air around them.
She should protest—she didn’t want to be appeased or silenced and that was clearly what he was doing. But her pride shrivelled and faded as his head descended towards her and her eyes drifted shut without any conscious thought at all. Her body was gathered as before a blow, her pulse ringing through her like a struck bell. She felt his breath a moment before the feather brush of his lips, a sweep of warmth, soft as the finest silk, but it struck at her like the clash of two flints, a cascade of sparks bursting over her lips and spreading deep inside her.
His hand slid over the curve of her waist, holding her against him as if she might float away, which was close to what she felt as she waited for what was to come. But he just held her there, his lips slanted over hers, wreaking unbearable damage just by the warmth of his breath and the shift of his flesh on hers. She could feel the resolve gathering in him, the tightening of his fingers on the curve of her hips. He was about to pull away, to make this embrace nothing more than an overly familiar apology.
No. For once she was going to take what she wanted and everyone could go to...to the devil! Herself, too, if need be.
She leaned into his hands and breathed. She didn’t need to know what to do because her body clearly did. Her lips parted, her lower lip sliding against the gentle parting between his until she felt the moist pucker catch against the smooth, heated surface of his upper lip, that rigidly cut, perfect line. She tasted it, the tip of her tongue tingling at the contact. It tasted like nothing else, a veneer of cognac over a deeper flavour that echoed the scent she had treasured ever since Illiakos, comparing and eliminating all men but him. His presence had lingered with her all those years ago and now it was a thousand times worse. Now she could feel him and taste him as well and it just fed her hunger. She wanted...she needed more.
His mouth parted against hers, but she knew it was to voice a denial and she couldn’t bear that, not yet. Her hand rose to his nape, anchoring her as she rose on tiptoe, her lips pressing against his to stifle his rejection.
‘Please...’
For a moment he remained rigid as a statue against her, even his breathing seemed to stop. But when it came, his surrender to her plea was so absolute it shook her to her core.
‘Christina.’ Her name melted against her mouth in a rough groan, as with one arm he pulled her waist against him, his other digging deep into her hair, each finger pressing into her scalp as he showed her precisely what a kiss was meant to be. Not a civilised English taste, but a methodical demolishing of her defences, or what was left of them.
She hadn’t known this was what she wanted. Her dreams of gentle kisses, mouth against mouth like the brush of a butterfly’s wing against a petal, had nothing to do with this. This was animal, deep, demanding and scorching. It was like the half-naked boys plunging off the cliffs on Illiakos, slamming into the water between the jagged rocks, risking everything for the exhilaration, the dare of feeling alive. It was mad, dangerous.
Intoxicating.
‘I want...’
His hands moved roughly over her dress, dragging the muslin over her thighs and hips. There was a fury of need there and she felt its mirror in her.
‘What do you want, Christina?’
It wasn’t a question. He was going to show her. She knew it. One hand was wrapped deep in her hair, his fingers warm and insistent against her scalp as he nipped and suckled and plundered her mouth, the other hand shaping the slope of her hips, her backside, gathering her towards him. She felt the hard slopes of muscle beneath his coat and she was back on Illiakos, her hands on his bare shoulders, pressing him back, but caught in the revelation of their bodies. Oh, God, she wanted to feel him again, her hands ached with it...
And then it stopped. He was a statue again, his hand still warm against her nape but as rigid as a wooden puppet. Her mouth opened in protest, but then she heard the voices coming from the hallway as well.
‘Are you certain she went upstairs, Watkins?’
‘
Quite certain, Lady Albinia.’
‘How peculiar. I must have just missed her. Thank you, Watkins.’
‘You are welcome, Lady Albinia. Goodnight.’
Her hands fell away as he moved back, coming into contact with the cold glass behind her.
‘Bloody hell.’ He half-turned away and the curse was so English she almost laughed. ‘I never should have... Bloody hell. You must go upstairs or Alby will hunt you down. And probably shoot me if she finds...’ He ran his hand through his hair, rumpling it and making her wish she could do the same. She was tipsy with the need to touch him so she closed her eyes, blocking him from view.
‘I am sorry, Miss James. That was unpardonable. I never should have...’ He ran aground again, but she finally managed to gather herself together. Miss James.
‘Neither should I. Goodnight, Lord Stanton.’
She moved past him with as much dignity as she could force into her shaking limbs. The length of the conservatory felt endless, but finally she was in the hall and thankfully met no one during her retreat.
Chapter Nine
There had been many points in his life Alex had faced and overcome adversity and felt he had thoroughly deserved whatever accolades he gathered. In the present case steering and managing the conflicting demands of three empires and one obstinate pawn wasn’t easy, but the participants in this particular meeting were all sensible men and understood the need for compromise, so he doubted anyone would consider this his most challenging hour.
But it wasn’t the political challenge that was testing his resolve. Not even the scouring of his conscience and common sense at his abject stupidity in the conservatory the previous evening. He had paid the price for that with a night of dreams that alternated between disaster and even more aggravating pleasure. He had woken early, exhausted, painfully aroused and cursing fate. But a cold bath, a long gallop and a pot of coffee had cleared his mind and he had felt moderately prepared to face the challenges of the day, not least of which was the humiliation of facing the author of his discomfort scribbling away at her desk while he tried to conclude the negotiations.
