Stefan's deep laughter resounded through the high-ceilinged room. He was unused to seeing his poised and sophisticated younger sister at a complete loss. He lifted her chin, his gray eyes twinkling with merriment, a tender smile curving his lips. It was best to have her think she had some hand in the matter, he decided quickly.
"Your matchmaking has been no secret to me, Isabel," he said fondly. "Let me think. I believe you said something about my being a . . . now, what was it again? Oh yes. A warrior knight."
Isabel blushed anew at his teasing, but she smiled back at him. "You're impossible, Stefan," she blurted. "Now tell me, when did you propose—"
"Last night," he broke in, his smile tightening imperceptibly. "When I returned from Vienna."
"It must have been late. I waited up for you until ten o'clock, then decided to broach the matter this morning."
"What matter?"
"About Kassandra. She spent the entire day locked in her room," she said with concern, as Stefan turned his attention to the table, absently toying with the fork beside his plate, a plausible story taking shape in his mind. "Gisela saw her come in from her ride. She fled to her room without a word to anyone, slammed and bolted her door shut, and when I pleaded with her to come out, she would only say she wanted to be left alone!"
"I can easily explain, Isabel," Stefan said, turning back to her. "We had a slight disagreement before I left for Vienna yesterday morning, a situation that could not be remedied until I returned late last night. But all is well now, as you can surmise from my news."
"So that was it . . . a lover's quarrel," Isabel breathed with relief. She regarded him sharply. "You must have really upset her, Stefan. I have never heard her so distressed. What could you have possibly—"
"The matter was between Kassandra and myself," Stefan interjected, his expression strained. "Forgive me, Stefan," Isabel apologized, chiding herself for overstepping her bounds. They might be brother and sister, and very close, but they each had the right to privacy when it came to personal matters. She would no doubt have done the same if he had questioned her so tactlessly about Miles.
Isabel immediately sought to brighten the tone of the conversation and dispel the unsettling tension. "Have you considered a date for the wedding ceremony?" she asked lightly, curling her small hand within his.
Stefan sighed, his brow furrowing. The thought of possibly waiting until early spring to claim Kassandra as his own was almost more than he could bear. "That decision will have to wait until your Miles returns from Hanover and gives his consent to the marriage," he stated darkly.
Isabel did not miss the sudden coldness in his eyes, though she misread it. "But surely you don't think he will deny you, Stefan," she exclaimed. "He will be most amenable, I am sure of it."
She rose with a rustle of crisp silk and rested her arm reassuringly across his broad shoulders. "I will write to him this very moment, before I leave for Countess von Thurn's gala, and tell him the happy news. Then if you could post the letter in the city today" —she paused, thinking out loud— "let me see, it will probably take the post-carriage one or two weeks to reach Hanover, hmmm, maybe longer if the snows are deep . . ." She shrugged. "Well, he shall at least have it soon after the New Year."
Small comfort, Stefan thought wryly. Even if Lord Harrington received the letter within a few weeks, it did not necessarily mean its contents would hasten his return to Vienna. He would probably remain in Hanover as long as King George and his entourage were holding court there, in all likelihood until the worst of the snow had melted and the roads were once again safe to travel. It was well known that the German-born king of England held little regard for the city of London, and no ability or inclination to speak the language. Surely he would linger in his home city to the last possible moment.
Stefan shook off his disgruntled thoughts, forcing a smile. "Go write your letter, Isabel, and bring it to me in the library when you are finished. I have an appointment this afternoon in the city, so I will post it then."
"An appointment?" Isabel asked, searching his face. An odd thought struck her, her red lips drawing into a pout. Surely he wasn't going to visit Sophia, not after what he had told her about Kassandra. "Stefan—"
"You know me too well, sister," Stefan interrupted her, reading her sullen expression. "Yes, I'm going to see Sophia—"
"But surely it is over between you," Isabel blurted angrily. "How can you do this—"
"Hear me out," Stefan admonished gently, taking her hand. "It is for that very reason that I must see her. Sophia and I have been friends—"
"Friends?" Isabel interjected with unusual sarcasm, her eyes flashing.
"Yes, friends, for a long time. And it's best she hear of Kassandra, and our plans to be married, from me. She deserves that much, Isabel."
Isabel sighed in frustration. Archduchess von Starenberg deserved nothing, as far as she was concerned. But she knew she had little sway over her brother's will. When he made up his mind to do something, it might as well be set in stone. "Very well, Stefan, do what you must. I am only glad you are at last breaking your . . . ties with that woman."
Her mood lifted at that gratifying thought. She bent and kissed him on the cheek, then hurried through the open archway. "It won't take long to write my letter, Stefan," she said over her shoulder. "I shall only fill it with news of you and Kassandra. I have another letter already written for Miles, if you could post it as well." Then she was gone, her footsteps tapping across the parquet floor.
Stefan groaned, rubbing his forehead. His life had certainly changed since his return from the campaign, yet it was much the same. Just a few months ago he had been in the lowlands of Hungary, fighting alongside his men against the Turks, Tartars, and fierce Magyar tribesmen, and now here he was, doing battle with women instead.
He rose from the chair, threw his linen napkin on the table, and strode from the dining room. He only hoped his meeting with Sophia would be less fraught with difficulty.
***
Kassandra walked briskly up the steps leading to the front entrance of the mansion, exhilarated from her morning ride, her troubles temporarily forgotten. She cast a casual glance at the carriage fronted by four horses pawing anxiously at the frozen ground of the drive, then smiled broadly as she spied Zoltan atop the coachman's seat.
"Good morning to ye, miss," he shouted out heartily, lifting the woolen cap off his dark head with a flourish.
"And to you, Zoltan," she enthused, pausing on the last step. "Where are you bound this morning?"
"I'm takin' the countess to the von Thurn estate, not far from here," he replied, turning from her suddenly to scold one of the lead horses for leaning too heavily into its harness. "Whoa there, boy," he yelled out, pulling hard on the reins. "We'll be off in a flash, ye devil, so hold with ye."
Kassandra could not help laughing at Zoltan's colorful oaths. Her eyes were still on him as she moved toward the door, and she almost bumped into Isabel, who was just stepping outside. She gasped in surprise, drawing back.
"Kassandra!" Isabel exclaimed. "I was hoping to see you before I left for the gala. Stefan has told me your wonderful news. I'm so happy for both of you!"
Kassandra blushed hotly, the feelings she had managed to escape during her ride overpowering her once again. So already he was proclaiming his victory to the world, she thought angrily. She swallowed hard, stiffening as Isabel embraced her.
No, she must not give Isabel cause to think anything was amiss, Kassandra chided herself, willing her body to relax. She suddenly remembered something Stefan had said the night before about putting an end to the charade. She smiled at the irony. For her, the charade was only beginning.
"Th-thank you, Isabel," Kassandra murmured, bringing her arms up from her sides and returning the countess's embrace.
Isabel drew back, chattering excitedly. "There's so much we have to talk about, and so much to do. Perhaps we could even share a ceremony, Kassandra; wouldn't that be lovely? You and Stefan, your f
ather and me." She smiled and pulled two sealed envelopes from her pocket. "And I have already written a letter to Miles, this one here; the other I wrote to him yesterday" —she flushed a becoming pink— "urging him to return as soon as possible. I know he has his diplomatic mission to consider, but perhaps it is nearing completion. We shall hope as much . . . "
Isabel stopped, a frown creasing her forehead. "I asked Stefan if he would post these letters for me when he goes into the city this afternoon, but he's not in the library. I thought perhaps he might be in the stable, saddling Brand, and I was about to take them to him."
"I just came from the stable," Kassandra said, her eyes fixed on the letters. "I didn't see him there."
"Oh, dear, and I really don't have time to look for him." Isabel sighed, then brightened. "Could you find him, Kassandra, and give him my letters?"
"Of-of course," she replied, her mouth suddenly dry. Her fingers trembled as Isabel handed her the two small packets.
"Good! Now I must go, or I will be late for Countess von Thurn's gala. We can talk more when I return." Isabel clasped Kassandra's arm, squeezing it warmly. "I'm so glad you're to be not only my stepdaughter, but my sister as well," she said sincerely. Then she turned away in a swirl of luxuriant gray fur and dusky blue velvet, and walked quickly to the carriage while Kassandra stepped through the front door, held open for her by the bewigged footman.
"And do tell Stefan not to worry about your father's consent," Kassandra heard her call as the carriage pulled away. "I'm sure Miles will be elated with your choice of a husband."
Kassandra flinched at Isabel's words, tightly clenching the letters. When she realized with a start what she was doing, she opened her palm and stared at them, the fine loops and curves of Isabel's handwriting burning like a brand into her mind. It was only the sound of Stefan's footsteps moving along the corridor at the top of the staircase that brought her back to reality, and she quickly came to a decision.
Kassandra held her breath as she tiptoed down the hall to the drawing room and closed the door quietly behind her. She dashed to the lacquered cabinet where Isabel usually wrote her letters and sat down on the delicate gilded chair. After pulling out several of the tiny drawers stacked one atop the other, she found what she was looking for, a thin silver letter opener with an ivory handle and the colored wax used for sealing envelopes.
Which one had Isabel said she wrote today? Kassandra tried to recall, her eyes darting back and forth between the two envelopes lying side by side in front of her. She shrugged, picking one. She slit open the fine cream paper, removed the one-page letter, and quickly perused it. Her expression tightened.
"A lucky guess," she whispered caustically under her breath, then tucked the paper into her bodice. This was one letter her father would never receive. Though she missed him terribly, she had no wish to hasten his return . . . and her cursed wedding. She would burn the letter later in her fireplace.
Kassandra replaced the letter with a blank sheet of paper she had hurriedly folded, then heated the stick of red wax over the candle burning brightly within a glass chimney on the top shelf of the cabinet, and dripped it over the back of the envelope. Lastly, she pressed Isabel's gold stamp into the warm wax, leaving the imprint of a rose.
With trembling fingers Kassandra cleared the polished surface of the cabinet and closed the drawers, then tentatively touched the wax on the letter. It had hardened. She swept up both letters and walked to the door, opening it slightly so she could peek into the hall. Feigning an air of nonchalance despite the wild beating of her heart, she stepped from the drawing room just as Stefan's voice rang out in the entranceway.
"Isabel?" Stefan queried, looking down the hallway leading to the drawing room. Expecting to see his sister, he was pleasantly surprised when Kassandra walked toward him, holding out the letters. He stared at her, appreciatively noting the form-fitting cut of her riding habit of rich russet wool, which heightened her vivid coloring.
"Isabel asked that I give you these," she murmured, meeting his admiring gaze with icy reserve as she handed him the letters. She might have to live a lie to Isabel, and others, she thought defiantly, but she would not hide her true feelings from him. "She was in a great hurry, and could not find you in the library, so she left them with me. Now if you will excuse me," she finished pointedly, her gaze indicating she wished to pass by him to the staircase. "I must go and pack my things."
Stefan stepped back, obliging her with a slight bow and a rakish smile. Again he received only a withering glance as she rounded the banister and turned her back to him, walking stiffly up the stairs. He watched her until she had disappeared down the corridor, then he turned on his heel and strode to the front door.
He might be determined to win her favor, Stefan told himself, but she would fight him every inch of the way. Strangely enough, the thought did not displease him.
Chapter 16
From her vantage point on the chaise longue, Archduchess Sophia von Starenberg surveyed with a jaundiced eye the cluster of elegantly dressed men and women. She was already bored to tears by their predictable chatter and idle gossip, and could hardly wait to leave, although she had arrived at her cousin Countess Maria von Thurn's gala only an hour ago.
She thumped her fan irritably on the brocaded cushion in response to a whispered conversation nearby, certain that if she heard one more miserable tale about a lover's infidelity, she would scream. How they ran on, she raged. The anecdote for that malady was simple. Find another lover.
Sophia sighed with annoyance and shifted on the plump cushions, carefully rearranging the glistening folds of her mauve damask gown. She had been longing for some harmless diversion, some trifling pastime, when Maria's invitation to this afternoon's gala had arrived at her country villa only yesterday. She had hoped it would be just the tonic to free her mind from plaguing thoughts of Stefan von Furstenberg. But she realized now such an escape was impossible. She could think of nothing, and no one, else.
Sophia chewed her lip. Damn him, where was he? What could he possibly be doing that would keep him from her these past weeks? It was so unlike him to ignore her, especially after returning from such a long military campaign. She had envisioned them spending many luxurious hours in her bed, wanton hours filled with the sensual pleasures only she could give him. Instead they had shared just one fleeting moment of passion in the Hofburg gardens, hardly enough to satisfy her insatiable desire for such a magnificent man.
And why hadn't he answered her letters? She had never before deigned to write to any man. On the contrary, it was she who received the frantic, pleading missives from her lovers, fervent letters that did little more than amuse her. With Stefan it was different. For him, she would do anything.
Sophia leaned her head against the chaise and closed her eyes, rubbing her cheek thoughtfully with the mother-of-pearl fan. She summoned forth vivid memories of their other separations and impatiently awaited reunions, and she shivered deliciously, recalling the feel of him, the taste of him.
A wry smile curved her mouth, a slim eyebrow lifted archly. Who would have ever thought it? she mused. Sophia von Starenberg had finally fallen in love . . .
Certainly she had never expected it. She had been a young girl of sixteen when she had married her husband, a stooped, time-worn figure of three score years. But it had been an admirable match nonetheless, masterfully arranged by her debt-ridden parents. She had wanted it just as much as they, and had gladly traded the threadbare existence brought on by their incessant gambling for a life of wealth and luxury.
Her only regret was that she had wasted her virginity on such a man. Sophia grimaced with distaste, remembering. Fortunately the archduke's sexual demands had been mercifully few and had ceased altogether several years ago, but even now the memories of his fumbling, slack-lipped lovemaking were enough to fill her with disgust. Not long after the marriage she had taken a lover, the first of many, beginning eight years of casual alliances in which she honed her erotic skills to
perfection.
Casual, until she met Stefan. From the moment she looked into his eyes, she knew she was lost. He was everything she craved in a lover, everything she admired in a man. After they had loved for the first time, when he lay sated and sleeping in her arms, she had sworn somehow she would become Countess von Furstenberg. She had only to rid herself of the one detestable thing standing in her way . . . her husband.
Sophia's eyes flew open, her grip tightening on her fan, her skin flushing with uncomfortable warmth. If only that man would die! She had gone herself to the poorest section of Vienna, where coin was precious and scruples unknown, her servant Adolph leading the way, to seek out an apothecary. They had finally stopped at a makeshift structure built against the city wall, and a small man with hawkish features had shuffled forth from the shadowed interior to greet them. She had not minced words. It was poison she wanted, but of a special nature.
"I believe what you are seeking is this," he rasped, holding up a dusty vial containing a grayish powder. He eyed her shrewdly. "But it is costly, my lady."
"Of that I have no doubt," Sophia replied tersely, without blinking. "Have no fear, man. I will pay you well for your powder . . . and your silence."
He nodded, a look of tacit understanding passing between them. "Dissolve a small portion into your . . . friend's tea or coffee once a day. It will bring about a creeping death that has the appearance of natural causes, like dying in one's sleep." He laughed shortly, revealing a jagged row of blackened teeth. "We should all be as fortunate, eh?"
"How long will it take?" she demanded, ignoring his remark and anxious to be gone from the place. It rankled her nerves, what with rats skittering about and the putrid stench of garbage.
"Two, maybe three weeks."
Liar! Sophia seethed. It had been two months since her visit to the apothecary, and almost that long since she had begun to poison her husband. It was true his speech had become increasingly slurred, his gait awkward and weaving, yet he clung to life as tenaciously as he clung to his money. He even managed to attend court functions, such as the reception at the Hofburg, though he fell asleep at the most inopportune moments. And she had wanted to be done with the unsavory business by the time Stefan returned from Hungary.
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