The King of Threadneedle Street

by Moriah Densley

  Is it Philip Cavendish? He tormented her with his hands, while his lips nipped the tender place between her earlobe and the corner of her jaw that both tingled and thrilled at the touch of his lips.

  “I wish,” she sighed in answer then felt Andrew tense. His hands stilled. Did he growl? “I wish I wanted Philip, but he doesn’t make me feel this way,” she explained in a groggy murmur that sounded barely coherent to herself.

  “No?”

  “I am cursed, Drew,” she moaned. “I want only the man I can’t have.” Her words were sleepy and muted to a mumble.

  He ran his hands down her body again. “You have me now.”

  She reached for his arms and found them bare, and recognized the heated, luxurious feel of his skin against her back. Her fingers teased the hair dusting his forearms and traced the dramatic curves of muscle along his upper arms.

  “Hmm,” she responded, stretching her spine and nestling against him. “This is a good dream.”

  When she woke to a lonely bed, she didn’t want to admit to being disappointed. Even in the reality of the morning light, the dream still seemed tactile; his lips on her neck, his voice in her ear. She pressed her face to the spot where she imagined he had lain and inhaled the tangible scent, ignoring the truth — hallucinations were not the product of a whole and well mind.

  She half expected to find traces of pink marks on her neck as Andrew sometimes left from his rough kisses. It was uncouth, but she had always taken a sort of secret satisfaction in it. Alysia stared at her unmarked neck in the mirror as she dressed in a hurry, trying to come to terms with the reality that Andrew was lost to her. Again. When would she learn?

  She avoided breakfast with the family. It wasn’t logical, but she couldn’t face them. She also didn’t want to share the morning with anyone, preferring to bask in the glow of her memories. Feeling maudlin and aimless, she retreated to the library to sketch while waiting for Madeline and Christian.

  Automatically her fingers flipped through her sketchbook to the life-sized portrait of Andrew’s head. She traced his features with her forefinger, hovering a quarter inch from the paper to avoid smudging the pencil. She toasted his two-dimensional image with her teacup then swallowed to ease the tightness in her throat signaling tears.

  Angry with herself, she slammed the book shut. Was she really going to do this every day until she had creaky knees and swilled castor oil in a cottage filled with cats and tea cozies?

  Alysia wiped her face, went upstairs to change into a plaid walking gown, and sent Philip a note, asking him to escort her to the village. At first, she planned to invent the excuse of needing to post letters in Cockington then decided on the plain truth. I would greatly appreciate the pleasure of your company, she wrote.

  It had taken her years to fall in love with Andrew, and he was a troll. Surely she could fall in love with Philip much quicker. They had the makings of a happy couple, and she would be stupid to let him go. He was practically perfect. He even kissed heroically. In truth, she could see herself as a captain’s wife. Given enough time, she would want him in every way.

  She must.

  ****

  Madeline read Louisa May Alcott, and so became obsessed with creating a “Rougemont Dramatic Society.” Alysia found herself in the attic wearing a sheet for a toga tied haphazardly over her dress, playing the death of Julius Caesar — complete with a dagger and stage blood mixed in the kitchen by Christian, who had just finished “stabbing” her, and rather brutally. She released the pouch of “blood” she held under her arm and gaped in comical horror at her fictitious stab wounds. Disturbing, how lifelike Christian’s mixture looked.

  “Et tu, Brute! Then fall Caesar!” she quoted then dropped melodramatically to the ground, with all the appropriate groans of agony. She heard heavy booted footsteps coming up the wooden stairs and wondered what Lord Devon would say about their play-acting Shakespeare in the attic.

  “What happened here?” came a familiar velvety bass.

  She froze and worked through her shock. He was here, truly. She opened one eye to find him visibly relieved to recognize the blood as a stage prop.

  “Andrew, you are ruining my death scene.”

  “That is not the greeting I expected.”

  “What are you doing here?” She tried to give the impression of being unaffected by the sudden sight of him. The chances that her dream the night before was in fact real…

  “That is not what I imagined, either. What is going on?”

  “I am Julius Caesar.” She gestured to the makeshift crown of laurels on her head.

  “But you are a woman.”

  “Well-spotted, Andrew.” She turned to Madeline and Christian. “Perhaps you should recruit him. His astounding intellect might be useful.” The sarcasm was a shield. In truth her heart still lodged in her throat.

  “You deal me a great injury. Where is my tender embrace?”

  “Sorry, Lord Preston, but I am working. You will have to register your complaints with my managers, Marc Antony and Cleopatra.”

  “But it’s Octavius Caesar, not Julius in that story,” he protested.

  “Tell them so. I am merely the actress.”

  “We needed a fantastic betrayal and murder,” Madeline explained, still holding the ‘asp’ sewn by Mary.

  “The blood? It looks real. Dark clumps and thick juice, and all.” Andrew grimaced. “Disgusting.”

  Christian beamed, as thought it had been a compliment. “Crushed blackberries blended with syrup and tomato paste.” Christian held up the bloody dagger in demonstration. He seemed cheerful and undisturbed at the sight of his errant older brother.

  Andrew helped Alysia to her feet then wiped smudges of stage blood from his hands using a corner of her sheet-toga.

  “Change of casting!” Madeline exclaimed, an eager gleam in her eye and her fairy-tale imagination busy, no doubt. Christian looked puzzled. “Alysia shall be Juliet. And can you play Romeo? Please, Lord Preston?”

  “I am covered in blood,” Alysia argued.

  “Well, Juliet did kill herself with a dagger.” Christian offered his knife. “Here you are, Lisa.”

  “No, let us begin in act one, scene five.” Andrew exchanged appreciative glances with Madeline, then in character, leaned toward Christian. “What lady is that, which doth enrich the hand of yonder knight?”

  Christian scratched his head, and Madeline whispered the line. He recited, “I know not, sir.”

  Alysia shrugged out of the soiled toga, glad her dress wasn’t completely ruined.

  Playing along, Andrew peered at Alysia as though spying her from across the room. “Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.”

  Alysia raised her eyebrows at his recitation while her heart danced. Andrew knew she adored Shakespeare, but she didn’t know he had memorized verse.

  Andrew raised his hands in surrender. “I can’t remember the rest. Not until, Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged. Or is it, O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again?”

  Liar. He had learned four exotic languages in addition to all the Romance languages by age sixteen; he had the sharpest memory in the entire world, she would wager. He just wanted to skip to the kissing part. Feeling fragile, she turned her face as he leaned in, and his lips landed on the bridge of her nose.

  “Poor aim, Romeo.” Good, she sounded unaffected.

  Andrew laughed, making a delicious lusty sound that vibrated in her spine. He gathered her in his arms, and at once she caved, all pliant. Like coming home, resting her head on his shoulder. He lifted her chin, which must have looked like a gentle, romantic gesture, but in truth his hand was a vise. He pecked a short kiss on her mouth as if to say So there, then came back for more. She would blush to quote the message he implied then.

  Christian cleared his throat. Andrew lifted his hand in a dismissive gesture without breaking rhythm. He nudged her lips apart and angled his head to kiss her deepl
y, as though he intended to ravish her the next moment right there on the attic floor.

  Alysia was struck stupid and made no effort to resist. It was too wonderful.

  Finally Madeline and Christian’s giggling made him quit. Alysia scowled and added the last line for their benefit, “You kiss by the book.” That sent them roaring.

  ****

  “I found your father.” Andrew handed Alysia a heavy sealed envelope. “I requested to deliver this myself.”

  She dropped it when she saw the Austrian crest on the back. It was a seal she recognized but hadn’t seen for many years. She shook her head and stepped back as though it was poisonous.

  Andrew’s face fell. “What is the matter? It’s all good news, I assure you.”

  “But that is the seal of the Archduke Franz Joseph.”

  “His Imperial Majesty the Emperor, of course.” He retrieved the letter. “You seem to have an inkling, and you are right. Please read it.” He made it easier by sliding the letter from the offensive envelope and placing it in her hands.

  Andrew watched while she read, expecting a thrilled reaction she couldn’t muster.

  “Your Highness.” He dipped in a courtly bow. “I believe you outrank me.” A slow grin spread on his face. “His Majesty was pleased to hear news of you, Lisa. He wishes for you to come to court.”

  At once, she recalled that Sir Mandley had insisted he recognized her as an Austrian courtier — it would have been her mother, the first infamous Villier.

  Fashionable society was treacherous enough, but royalty? Fear turned to panic, and she tried to swallow it. “I can’t do that!” She waved the letter, as though it held a death sentence rather than affectionate tidings.

  “Austrian court is different than in England. A sovereign may recognize his illegitimate children if he wishes to do so. Your father wants to acknowledge you officially. He also adores your art, Alysia. You might please him with a few well-placed portraits,” he suggested cheerily.

  “You have been in Austria these past months?”

  “Well, yes, and I also set up new offices in Bombay and Lisbon. Sorry my correspondence went delinquent, foreign post is—” He took in her bewildered expression and scowled back. “Why? Did you believe the nonsense in the papers?”

  “They say you are engaged.”

  “The gossip columnists announce an engagement on my behalf at least once each Season.”

  “But are you, or not? And what about your reputation?”

  “I will sort it out. Never mind that.”

  She inhaled to argue then decided to choose her battles more wisely. She swatted him in the chest with the letter. “How did you discover this?”

  “A little investigative work with the help of Lord Devon and a few letters, that is all. Franzl was rather candid, I thought.”

  Franzl? Andrew called the Emperor by his nickname?

  “You made him a handsome profit as well, I assume,” Alysia accused. “Let me guess: the recent Semmering-Alberg railway purchase?”

  Andrew acknowledged the truth with a careless Hmm. “Go to court, Alysia. You will have valuable opportunities there.” He argued with a pointing finger, “I know Madeline Cavendish was accepted at the Academie des Beaux Arts. The Montegues can do without your help now. You should go to Austria.”

  “Madeline may or may not go, and I would pref—”

  “Just for one Season,” he insisted. “You really have no choice. I have come to take Christian back with me to Dunsbury. Madeline is going off to school. You have no reason to stay at Rougemont.”

  Except Philip Cavendish. Unspoken, but it lingered thick in the air.

  “Besides, you would surely not defy a direct request from your father, the Emperor of Austria?”

  Alysia sighed and blinked slowly in concession. “Very well. One Season.”

  “Most advisable, Your Highness.”

  “Stop that!”

  “Now you understand why titles irritate me.” He furrowed his brows. “I expected you would be pleased to hear you are a princess, and a little grateful.”

  “I am still a bastard, regardless of my father.” It felt strange to even say the word, father.

  “At the least he will give you a title. No one will refute it. Think of it: Lady Alysia.”

  She sighed again and matched his provoking tone, “Well then, thank you, my errant knight, for your noble quest on my behalf.”

  Her sour expression and mocking tone somehow inspired him to chuckle and pull her into an embrace. “I have come to escort you, in fact, as soon as you are ready.”

  Alysia narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Why have you come to take Christian? He enjoys being here.”

  “The renovation at Dunsbury has progressed well, it is habitable. I think Christian would enjoy helping me with the project.” He tossed his head irritably. “I can help him study, Lisa — stop looking at me that way. I know he would rather do this than go away to Eton. He would outsmart the professors and cause all sorts of mischief out of boredom.”

  “What about my commissions? I am obliged—”

  “You can paint as well in Austria as you can in England. Ship them over.”

  Their voices climbed; Alysia glanced at the open sitting room doors, afraid of being heard down the hall. She stepped toward the doors to close them, but Andrew must have thought she meant to storm out of the room; he grasped her arm and held her in place.

  She yanked her arm back. He retreated a step at the sight of her furious scowl.

  “I know what you are about, and I will not be ordered around like a pawn on a chessboard!”

  “What the deuce do you mean?” he shouted back.

  “You know full well what I mean, Andrew Tilmore!”

  He gestured angrily. “You are an Austrian princess. Your father has every right to send for you. Show a little gratitude and obedience, woman!”

  She huffed and struck his chest as hard as she could. “How dare you?”

  “Oh, I dare!” he countered, jutting his chin inches from hers. “You need protecting. Someone had better guide and command you—”

  Alysia shrieked, “Command?” She thumped him again, and he ignored it. “Command!”

  “I should have said instruct—”

  “You think you can—”

  “You are mine!” he thundered, gripping her shoulders.

  “I am not!” she yelled back, trying to shrug out of his hold. “And you are engaged, or else you face a lawsuit, I hear. Why don’t you concern yourself with straightening out that mess?” She dismissed his sneer, too heated to care that they were now in a full-blown shouting match.

  “You only want me away from Philip Cavendish,” she accused with a stabbing finger on his collar. She had no idea why she hit his chest when she fought with him, but she had always done so, and now it was a habit.

  “Absurd!” He raked a hand through his hair and clenched his jaw, nostrils flared. She could see she had struck a nerve.

  “You are jealous!”

  “I am always jealous!”

  “My dealings with Philip Cavendish are not your concern!”

  He scoffed, and it sounded like an eruption. “Dealings? Dealings! Alysia, you sound like a harlot! Listen to yourself!”

  Alysia heard the doors strike the walls as they flew open and the staccato of booted footsteps only moments before she felt a jarring impact. She stumbled and saw a blur of dark hair and flying fists, then realized Philip had barged in and tackled Andrew.

  They rolled on the floor, knocking over tables and lamps; grunting and rumbling curses. She wondered if Andrew knew how to fight, then thought that it didn’t matter, since the two men grappling on the floor like rabid alley cats were not engaging in something so civil as a fistfight. They were sincerely trying to kill each other.

  She backed out of the way, unsure of how to make them break apart. It seemed Philip had the upper hand with his arm slung across Andrew’s neck while Andrew coughed and gagged, but then Andr
ew swung his fist and cracked Philip on the jaw. Philip’s head tossed back, and Andrew took the opportunity to bloody Philip’s nose with his other fist.

  Alysia thought of Lady Devon’s lovely Oriental carpet and decided to go for help.

  Philip darted at Andrew again in a low tackle. They toppled a marble statue as each wrestled to gain a chokehold on the other. She left the room with them both grasping the others’ neck. She heard a crash behind her and suspected the buffet with a tray of bottles and glass snifters had met its end.

  Men are positively ridiculous.

  In the hallway she passed a maid carrying an ewer of water. Alysia snatched it and breathed her thanks as she ran back to the sitting room. She found Andrew and Philip still locked in struggle, writhing on the floor. Andrew’s lip was cut and bleeding. She chased after them then dumped the full pitcher of hot water on their heads.

  They shouted in surprise, sputtered, and thankfully broke apart. She placed herself between them while they scrambled to their feet, literally steaming.

  Mary and Rose appeared in the doorway, followed by Lord Devon and Martin, the butler. They stared wordlessly at the spectacle of Andrew and Philip, heaving and bloodied, riled like bulls before a matador. Each sported disheveled hair dripping water while curls of steam rose from their shoulders in a sight that would have been comical if not for their hostility.

  Alysia turned to the company and smiled, still holding the dripping pitcher.

  “Is… everything all right, miss?” Martin finally offered, with admirable disinterest.

  “I believe it is under control now, Martin, thank you. I have a few words to say to these gentlemen, if you don’t mind.” She smiled warmly to the company but could see by their reactions that her anger made it rather frightening.

  Lord Devon apparently struggled to hold back a smile, and he nudged the girls away from the doors before Martin closed them.

  Once they were alone, Alysia scolded, “You idiotic, overgrown boys!” She threw her hands up in resignation.

  Philip said with a sharp nod, “I will not stand for any man to dishonor you, Alysia!”

  Andrew’s voice lowered in a threatening tone, “That is Miss Villier to you.”