Undoubtedly some recognized the signs: domestic funds collapsing, a shift in political propaganda, shortages in supply that gradually affected every level of the market from manufacturers to consumers… Instability, distrust, aversion to risk, ignorant preemption; all enemies to the healthy rhythm of an economy.
As Andrew studied the sum of what it all meant, how the players would react and catalyze the event, what the result would be on the country as a whole — he panicked.
His instinct was to fix it, to wrest control and solve it. He currently had little clout to wield and certainly no command over foreign entities, such as Austria.
Just earlier that year they had held a national exhibition in tribute to their “economic achievements,” which would soon be blown to kingdom come. Few would believe it until it had already happened.
Economic turmoil was one thing, but since Austria was so recently recovered from a revolution, struggling to enforce its fledgling constitution, there was no telling what the people of Austria would do. Their memories were long, and they were a volatile people.
It was no place for Alysia.
If he wasn’t already frantic about the impending doom of Austria, he might have reacted calmly to another wire on his desk, the one informing him that Alysia was no longer in residence at Schönbrunn Palace and had taken one of the Emperor’s country estates. That was all the information he could find. There was no word from the Emperor. He is away, they reported.
None of the royal family would be safe. The one moment Andrew desperately needed to find Alysia, she was lost. Again.
He rang for his steward before consciously deciding what to do. He gave orders for his estate to be managed by proxy while he was away. He wired Lord Devon, asking to send Christian to Rougemont for a few weeks. Marsden was busy packing his luggage, and Andrew vaguely realized he was leaving immediately. Heaven help him if he couldn’t find Alysia before harm did.
****
March of 1873, Countryside West of Vienna, Austria
“Fürstin, you are requested downstairs. Your escort has arrived.”
Alysia nodded and thanked the housekeeper, then delayed a while, scrubbing the paint spatters from her face. Was it time to visit Schönbrunn already?
Celluloid substitute for tortoise shell.
Spain’s deposition of King Amadeus.
The sinking of steamship White Star off the coast of Nova Scotia.
Alysia sighed, resisting the urge to write those prompts on her palm in case she needed to cheat. She rehearsed current events, topics of conversation to entertain her father with, and to distract everyone else from asking about Lord Preston. If she didn’t gather her thoughts beforehand, she risked being cornered.
Ungrateful of her, but the more she had of fine society, the less she cared for it. Further proving she was not at all like her mother, Alysia had been happiest managing the household at Ashton, and as a tutor at Rougemont. A country lass, not a courtier.
A flux of commissions — courtesy of Lord Devon’s glowing recommendation — had provided the perfect excuse to set up in the country and do nothing but paint all day; what she had always wanted. A convincing story, unless she looked herself in the eye and recognized homesickness in her reflection.
She smoothed the über-precise concoction of Austrian-style braids on her head and practiced smiling in the mirror, but it looked more like a bad crack in her face. She simply didn’t have it in her to sparkle today. Saints, she looked a mess, and her father would not be pleased.
Best get it over with.
Abolishment of slavery in Puerto Rico.
Monet and the Impressionist movement.
Downstairs, she found a footman waiting for her. He gestured for her to follow him through the entrance then handed her inside an unmarked carriage with the shades drawn. The carriage rolled away from the steps before her eyes adjusted.
She saw who occupied the seat opposite and startled. “Andrew! What are you doing here?”
“Rescuing you. Again.”
“Rescuing? What do you mean? What is going on?” She pulled the window shade aside — no liveried cavalry as escort.
“Lisa, my love, have you not missed me?”
“Do you know what will happen when I am discovered missing?”
“I have a fair idea.”
“Andrew, I can’t get much farther away from you than Austria!” He glared, silent, and she dropped her head into her hands. “You should not have interfered. Take me back, please. I really, truly, do not want to see you.” Her voice sounded cold and flat. She didn’t mean to come off quite so jaded, but she had already vowed to overcome her weakness for him. She suspected she would have to start all over again, a battle she lacked the energy for.
He pulled her hands away and raised her chin. He stared so long it made her squirm, certain he could hear her traitorous thoughts. “Alysia, what has happened to you?”
She turned her head to look out the window, which was shuttered. “Nothing at all.”
“You look like death warmed over.”
“Why, thank you.”
“Sad, I mean. Hollow. What is wrong?” His voice rose. “Have you been mistreated?”
“Of course not. I am deep into my work, night and day. I am a marginally famous painter now, or haven’t you heard?” Her hint at his own infamy seemed to have missed its mark. “I am a bit tired, that is all. Why has the carriage not turned around yet?”
“Because we are going home. I think you have had enough of Austria.”
She turned to glare at Andrew. He appeared fatigued, but his eyes burned with energy. “And what do you suppose I shall do with myself there? Other than hiding from lynch mobs?”
His careless shrug made her angry. “There are options. If you will let me explain, you will see—”
“Andrew! This is not a game! I promised to let you go. We should not be alone together!” She leaned across the space so she could lower her voice. “It can never be.”
He scowled, and she could tell by his expression he would say something rude next. “If Philip Cavendish came to fetch you, would you throw yourself in his arms and be grateful?”
She glared back, weighing the unmistakable hurt she recognized in his expression with her anger. “Yes, I suppose I would.”
“Liar.”
She should have seen it coming. Andrew grasped her by the waist and she tumbled into his lap. He turned sideways to put his feet on the bench and leaned back against the wall, pulling her onto his chest.
She fought and twisted in his arms until he moved a hand to her face and stroked his thumb along her cheek. The look in his eyes drained her ire. He held her captive with one hand on the small of her back and the other rubbing behind her neck. With his face so near, his mouth filled her view, pulled upward in a hubristic smile. He had gone mad.
Lips to her ear, he spoke in a quiet, deep voice that sank straight to her stomach and made her spine tingle, “Kiss me, Lisa. For no other reason than you desire to.”
Her chest heaved against his; she was still flushed from arguing with him. Long seconds ticked past as she chanted No, no no! the same time her resistance faded. Deprivation had made her weak. It hardly made any difference, considering how many times she had already given in to him. The end result would be the same as always. But now — kiss him? She could only think that she wanted to.
She surprised even herself by attacking him with an angry, desperate kiss. He steadied himself under the assault of her lips, her arms gripped around his neck. He hummed in approval and argued back with his mouth. She nipped at him not so gently, then he bit her lower lip and let it slide out between his teeth. She tried not to gasp.
Once her anger simmered to a low boil, her mind became absorbed in the sole function of feeling sensation. Her lips quit punishing and fell into a familiar, lovely rhythm with his. She had already tossed his necktie away, and with a resigned inward sigh for her weakness, she opened his shirt to satisfy the craving to feel his
chest beneath her hands. It might have been her favorite thing to do with him; to feel him so alive, so distinctly masculine.
She stroked him from ribs to navel, as though creating him from clay. Masterpiece, she said with her hands. He laid his head back and exhaled through clenched teeth. Perhaps being touched this way meant for him what his kisses on the neck did to her — instant arousal.
“Hmm. Yes, Lisa. Touch me.” His eyes closed and his hands rested idly on her backside; she wondered if he noticed.
She brushed her lips first along his collar and shoulders, then kissed him everywhere her hands roamed. His breath seized, then he broke into a jagged rhythm that hitched every time she tried something new.
With her lips teasing the dimple where his neck met the bulky muscles of his shoulder, her hands skimmed over his abdomen again. It gave her a primitive sort of satisfaction to discover she could taste him; balsam, ink, clean starch, and the leathery scent of his skin she would never again take for granted.
Her fingers tickled the narrow trail of hair around his navel. Curious, she traced the dramatic lines there made by his hipbones.
Andrew seized her wrists and hauled her up against his chest, making a garbled sound of protest with his head tossed back. She listened to his panting breath and understood she had pushed him too far.
Mercy, what had she been thinking? A woman did not behave this way with a man and expect to escape the consequences. That made her a tease. One who depended on his self-control. Loads of foolishness, that.
Andrew moaned and thumped his head on the paneling in frustration. The driver slid the window open, thinking he had been summoned. Andrew dismissed him in terse German.
Her hands tingled under his tight grip. “Let me go, Drew.”
“No!” His nostrils flared as though he was in pain.
“I am sorry, I lost my mind.”
“Just keep still a moment.” She tugged against his grip on her wrists, and he sucked in a breath. “Alysia, I mean it! Do not move like that. Unless you want to be had on a carriage seat.”
Alysia shut her eyes, trying to banish the image she had just invited into her mind. Shameful, wanton daughter of a French courtesan; it sounded marvelous to her.
She dropped her head onto his shoulder. “Andrew, you are hurting me.”
He released her wrists and slumped in the seat. Cautiously she rubbed circles on his shoulders. It had the effect on him she hoped for; the tension in his body dissolved and his breathing returned to normal.
“Two years, nine months, sixteen days…”
“What?”
“I have burned for you.” His eyes still closed, he didn’t sound pleased. “Do you comprehend, even in some small way, what it is like for me?”
That should have been a declaration of war. Did she comprehend?
Instead of picking a fight, she turned her head to kiss him chastely on the cheek, then his temple.
“I am not cross with you. Only frustrated. It’s not your fault. Not exactly,” he modified.
“I know.”
She stroked his neck and tousled his hair. The only solution she could see, trapped somewhere between Vienna and Salzburg, was to put him to sleep. She rubbed his ears and brushed her fingertips on his face. He draped his arms around her and leaned back.
“Two and a half years of abstinence would make any fellow temperamental.”
“Yes, Andrew.”
“I know what you are doing,” he complained.
“Hmm.” She stroked the hair at the back of his neck to work the effect more quickly. He made a bass purring sound when she scraped her nails on his scalp.
“I don’t mind. Keep doing it.” After a few minutes he added, “I would rather ravish you.”
“Me too.”
Andrew chuckled, a lazy, content sound. He nestled his face in her hair and inhaled. “If Wil can do it, I can too,” he mumbled.
“Wil? Do what?”
“Wilhelm Montegue. Lord Devon. He not only left Sophia a virgin until after the wedding, but he was a virgin himself.”
Alysia blinked, both embarrassed and shocked. Perhaps Andrew was half asleep and didn’t know he was rambling, likely breaking confidences. “Unheard of.”
“He was thirty and four.”
“Remarkable.” Lord Devon? War hero, expert equestrian, passionate musician: chaste?
Andrew was no virgin, of course. If he hadn’t already admitted so himself, the papers told the whole world about his conquests. Alysia supposed two years of abstinence was a trial for Andrew, so she resisted commenting on his comparison.
“Only four months, eighteen days left.”
“Andrew, I can’t marry you.”
“Yes, you will,” he argued. “Meanwhile, love, do keep your hands away from my pirate.”
She stifled a giggle. “Pirate?”
He cracked one eye open. “Do you really want me to say it?”
“No!”
He settled deeper into the seat cushion. “You are mine, Lisa.”
She didn’t have the heart to argue aloud, But you are not mine.
She watched forest shadows dance across the window shades in silhouette, and soon Andrew fell asleep. She shouldn’t be cooperating with his harebrained kidnapping. She certainly should not be lying in his lap, alone with him in a carriage. But in truth, her soul was delighted to see him. Then it was easier to admit she welcomed the chance to return to England.
But not with Andrew. Stubborn, wonderful man.
Chapter Sixteen
Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.
Hamlet, William Shakespeare
Before dawn Andrew rolled her out of bed and to a foggy railway station in Salzburg. She recognized the border of France, and knew when they neared Burgundy and into Dijon by the change of air: mulchy, vinegar-honey, grapevine bloom borne on the wind sweeping from the vineyards.
She sat, rocking with the rhythm of the rail car, and sort of reading Wilkie Collins’ Poor Miss Finch. At the moment, Andrew’s mind was far away, and his fidgeting distracted her. In the throes of his financial voodoo, he drummed his fingers and stared with narrowed eyes out the window. Occasionally he muttered to himself.
He stewed over something, she could tell, and it worried him. Absently he traced over her thumbnail then suddenly rifled through a Viennese newspaper, checked it against his illegible scrawls in the ledger, and circled a few lines emphatically. He sighed as though he had solved a mystery then returned to playing with her hands.
As Andrew sat deliberating, no doubt deciding the fate of nations, she thought on why she couldn’t seem to let him go. Every time he burst back into her life, she fell into his arms like a ridiculous Arthurian damsel. Just then, Andrew chased away her mulling as he leaned over and engaged her in a leisurely kiss, his lips soft and playful. It felt so much like home, her heart clenched and her eyes stung — he had no idea how he affected her.
“Austria is in trouble,” he said abruptly. “It is one of the reasons I came for you so soon.”
“In trouble? How?” Alysia gave a short laugh. “Other than a shortage of soap, I can see no impending disaster.” She saw he was serious and wiped the smirk from her face.
“Yes, you have seen it: Jews. The Austrians hate them.”
“The Jews are not precisely welcome at Almack’s in London, either.”
“Worse than that. There is a particular loathing and fear of wealthy Jews. They are being boycotted in every industry from banking to manufacturing to importing. There has been persecution for years, but now there is money behind it.”
“But the Emperor is eager to demonstrate his support of the Jews. He will—”
“That is the problem. Austrians blame the Jews for his favor and perceive it as a slight. In turn, they punish Jewish businessmen in the financial arena. Then what do you suppose will follow? Instability. The collapse of one group of investors and merchants will topple another.”
“So I understand,” Alys
ia answered as plainly as she could manage.
Andrew’s eyes flashed with amusement, catching her intent, but he showed no trace of distress or shame for his own debacle in the stock market.
“When?” She thought of the Emperor and the society she left behind in Vienna. Proud, exacting people. Sincere, loyal people. Impossible to imagine them in disarray.
“Now. It is happening already. Some crucial funds have folded, and it won’t be long until their entire economy implodes. I had to get you out. I don’t want you anywhere near irate revolutionaries.”
Alysia sat back and cooled her forehead with her hand. She believed him, absolutely. He was never wrong in such matters. It made her skin creep with chills. “You must warn them. Surely the Emperor will listen to you.”
“I did, Lisa. I made recommendations to your father, which he accepted. But events have already been set in motion.” He laughed humorlessly. “There are not many who would hear advice from me now, anyway. And I am right pleased with it!”
Thinking of the horde of irritating clerks who used to trail after him, she silently agreed.
He tugged on his bottom lip, staring intently out the window at neat rows of vineyards finally visible after their scent heralded proximity.
“What else is the matter?” she prompted, too impatient to wait out his trance.
“I don’t like being foiled.”
“So I have noticed.”
“I mean, your position in the royal court. This means your father, the Emperor, will not be able to provide the support I expected.”
She winced, not eager to throw the matter of her squandered fortune in his face. “I have enough commissions to keep myself busy into next year. Money will not be a problem.”
“You will not have to work to support yourself!”
She startled at the ire in his tone. “Drew, it’s all right. It’s not as though I am scrubbing floors.” She bit her tongue to keep from adding, Or on my back.
“Please trust me, Lisa. And don’t speak like that. I meant your debut into London society. I had planned on your father escorting you to the annual ambassador’s banquet at Buckingham, to start with. Sadly, he will have his hands full.”
The King of Threadneedle Street Page 19
