Aleksender slid the ring onto his wedding finger, movements lethargic and lifeless, a withheld sigh caught in his chest. “It’s not so simple.”
Christophe laughed once more, this time feigning no humor. “That’s Paris’s ol’ vicomte for you. Takes a blessin’ and shoves it up the ass.”
Indeed, Aleksender de Lefèvre was none other than Paris’s vicomte. And the very thought disturbed him greatly and to no end. He had no interest in handling the mundane affairs bestowed upon a comte—affairs that had become steadily more mundane over the last decades. Despite the abolishment of aristocratic rights, an unspoken hierarchy still existed. The prerogative of the nobility was as strong as ever, forging a social barrier between titled peers, common citizens, and the bourgeoisie class. And that insufferable gap that separated rich from the poor, fortunate from the unfortunate—was widening with each season.
Devil take it. Aleksender wanted no part in the fate of Paris. He only prayed that his dear father might live to see one-thousand years. Since boyhood, he and his father had been impossibly close. His death would have imparted far more than the curse of a noble title. The death of Comte Philippe de Lefèvre would have devastated Aleksender beyond reason.
Christophe slumped both shoulders in defeat and drew a beaten case of cigars from his coat. Aleksender waved a declining gesture as he was offered a smoke. Nine years ago, he’d quit the habit.
“Ah, yes, that’s right. No cigars for dear Alek. Slipped my mind, I suppose …” After an uneasy silence, Christophe balled his fist and slammed it on the countertop. Aleksender tensed at the sound, startled by the jarring crack of flesh against wood. “Holy hell, what damned horrific service this is.”
Cafe Roux’s round-faced-jolly-bartender buzzed about, pouring drinks this way and that, his bloated face grinning wide. The prospect of wealth kept his attention at bay as tips were passed into his pudgy hands by the dozens. Tossing a wave in the wretch’s general direction, Christophe scoffed and gestured the aloof bartender. “Correct me if I’m mistaken … but the fool once knew our preference of drink, oui?”
How many nights had Aleksender and Christophe spent in this very establishment, listening to Round-face-jolly-bartender’s outlandish conspiracies—both of their faces plastered with feigned amazement?
A particular rambling came to Aleksender’s mind: “I tell you, the Revolution was a ploy!” Purely for dramatic emphasis, Round-face-jolly-bartender had tossed a dishrag over his shoulder, propped both hands on the counter, and leaned in close. White whiskers sprouting from his jowls twitched along with the words. In the same breath, his English accent thickened to the point of incoherency. “A ploy to overthrow the crown and church, it was. Good riddance I say to the crown. But as for the church—ah, our Lord and savior ain’t so easily duped like them knaves.”
Shrugging his sturdy shoulders, Aleksender offered Christophe no direct comment. The tone of his voice was thick and hauntingly composed—much like the calm before a storm. “It is not so great a mystery. A year of war tends to have that retrograde effect. No good comes of it.”
“Ha! Imagine that—we bled our souls for these, uh, broken fellows, womanizers, wretches … and yet, here I sit dry as a bone! Where’s the good ol’ show of patriotic hospitality, eh?”
“Still blind are you?” Aleksender shot in quick reply. “Paris could not care less. Our sacrifice was moot. The war has not ended. It has merely followed us home.”
Christophe heaved a sigh and stroked the curve of his chin. “Splendid. There’s a bit of irony for you.”
Two glasses were finally passed down the counter and into their hands. Christophe raised his drink to Round-face-jolly-bartender in a mock toast.
Inhaling a generous swig of alcohol, Aleksender closed the topic. “I daresay irony at its finest.”
Minutes later Christophe finished off his drink in a single swallow. “Alek, Alek, Alek …” he said through a constricted chuckle, already more than a bit tipsy. He draped a muscular arm over his friend’s shoulder and clenched the cigar between barred teeth. The faint and fair mustache dusting his upper lip strained in triumph. “I must say, you’re quite likely to be the Third Empire’s downfall. Either that or the Third Empire shall be your downfall.”
Scowling, Aleksender shrugged Christophe from his shoulder. “The day France falls will be no fault of mine. I have found my peace. Damn it to hell France shall deny me my liberty.” He stared off, mysterious emotions crossing his features by turns. “I have served her well.”
“Eh, you serve only yourself. Always have, always will.”
Aleksender drew silent as a dull ache tugged at his chest. That look—the disdain in his comrade’s eyes—would follow him well beyond the grave. In endless ways, he and Christophe were as opposite as day and night.
Within that moment, a strange question rose inside Aleksender’s mind: out of the two of them—he and Christophe—who was day and who was night?
Interrupting his thoughts, Christophe rotated in the stool and moaned an incoherent grumble. A lovely barmaid shimmied by, trotting to the opposite side of the room, moving with the gait of a prized pony. Christophe called out to the chit. He whistled and snapped his fingers, battling for her attention in the rudest ways imaginable. It was certainly no way to win a lady.
But the proud creature was no lady.
“Suppose I should announce we’re in the light of the great vicomte, himself?” Christophe complained, pouting like a young tot and mumbling his unhappiness. “Surely I’d have another brandy by now.”
The cynicism in his comrade’s voice did not go unheard. Aleksender shoved his glass into Christophe’s hand, wishing he could impart his noble title with just as much grace.
CHAPTER TWO
It was five minutes till striking eight AM. Salle Le Peletier, the temporary quarters of the renowned Paris Opera, appeared regal beneath the glowing sun.
Once completed, it was rumored that Opera Garnier would dwarf Salle Le Peletier with its massive scale, sophisticated lighting, and sixteen hundred seats. Such mutterings seemed to be remnants of wishful thinking and nothing more. The opera house’s construction had been called to a halt ever since Paris had been under siege, and the city’s condition was far from improving. Even well before the invasion, Opera Garnier’s progress had been painfully slow. One setback had been encountered after another.
As it happened, the opera house had required a much deeper basement than most buildings. As architects and laborers had cut into the earth and gutted the land, the groundwater level was reported suspiciously high.
This first obstacle had led to the discovery of the vast underground lake. Paris’s catacombs and underground waterway were found to be intimately connected through twisting tunnels, sweeping archways and haunted sepulchers. Grounded upon death and decay, it seemed that the fate of Opera Garnier had been doomed from the start.
But nearly a decade had passed since the discovery, and the new opera house was on the brink of completion. As it stood, Opera Garnier was already enchanting. Perched amongst the three domes and solitary pediment, the lyre of Apollo was held high and proud as it kissed the heavens, sunlight seeping through the instrument’s precious strings of gold. And, on the clearest of days, the towering stone walls resembled Mount Olympus—the home of the twelve Olympian gods. Within this edifice, the God of Music and Light reigned all.
Aleksender stood off to the side and surveyed the glorious monument erected before him. Granted, Salle Le Peletier didn’t have Apollo’s protection or his godly wisdom. But the place was far from lacking.
The building held a power of its own. Angels carved from stone graced the columns, their features cold and unfeeling, bodies stronger than a warrior’s. Epically handsome and still as death, those divine sculptures seemed to echo Aleksender’s gaze. Such a thing was beyond unsettling—one might even say demonic. Salle Le Peletier was no Mount Olympus or kingdom of light. Aleksender neurotically threaded fingertips through his hairline and forced his eyes upon
brighter pastures.
And then it happened.
A young lady with striking beauty rounded one of Salle Le Peletier’s corners in a frantic rush. She clutched at the hem of her skirts and raced up the winding steps, nearly tripping over herself in the process. Aleksender emerged from his shadowy concealment in a swift movement. He grasped the girl’s slender forearm and spun her round in a remarkably graceful dance.
Really! She’d half-expected to be tossed into the waltz! Instead, she shrieked and collided with a wall of masculine flesh. Very masculine flesh that roused her senses and smelled vaguely familiar.
An exotic blend of Persian spices.
Sofia fell into stunned silence as the revelation crashed down like a crystal chandelier.
In the same breath, Aleksender shamelessly returned her stare as he examined his ward from head to toe. Mon Dieu. She was slender and fragile—beyond gentle and angelic. Her petite height reached the middle of his chest and came not an inch more.
Curls descended just past the small of her waist in lush ringlets. Her lips quivered as the blue of her eyes flooded with a storm of unshed tears. And those eyes were truly breathtaking to behold. Her sapphire gaze sparkled, shining like twin diamonds, running over his features in pure disbelief.
Aleksender felt something contract inside his chest.
After gathering the slightest sense of composure, Sofia managed to utter all but a single word. “You …”
She splayed a hand over her bosom, entirely breathless. Aleksender’s eyes followed the unconscious motion and lowered to the tender swell. Transferring his attention to one of Salle Le Peletier’s forsaken stone angels, he cursed himself and averted his piercing stare.
Just who was this woman? She was incredible.
“Sofia …”
Aleksender whispered the name with unearthly reverence. He dared to step intimately close, drawn to Sofia much like a moth is drawn to the promising heat of the flame. Unsteady hands rose from his sides in a tentative and suave movement. They cupped her cheeks and deftly lifted her downcast face with the pads of twiddling thumbs.
He drew invisible circles along her flesh, worshiping everything that was his beloved ward, tracing down the smooth bend of each cheek and back up again. A solitary tear streamed over the curve of her chin and vanished between her lips. Aleksender’s eyes traced the liquid path and settled upon the lush flesh of her mouth. Sparks of awareness coiled through every inch of his body. Clasping Sofia’s chin, he gently swiped away her tears and offered a weak smile.
“Sofia,” he repeated, stunned by her appearance, adoration lacing all three syllables.
“I thought you for dead. A year and not so much as a word?” She sniffled, surrendering to a smile that melted Aleksender’s heart into ashes. “I was sure I’d never see you again.” Luscious curls fell across her shoulders as she inclined her chin. “Oh, Alek. How I missed you.” She lunged forward and threw her arms around the circumference of his waist, tugging Aleksender impossibly closer. “You—here in my arms.” Her lashes fluttered shut. “Tomorrow I shall think this was all a dream.”
“A dream we have both shared.” Aleksender sighed and inhaled her sweet essence.
Roses and the frost of wintertime.
“You’ve truly grown up,” he whispered, speaking more to himself.
With Sofia resting in his arms, Aleksender felt strangely content. Strangely happy. And the epiphany frightened him half to death.
At nineteen years, she was terribly young and naive. Was she even aware of how she affected him? Did she know of the burning desires that ignited from her soft embrace? Could she sense—Dieu, could she feel—the extent of his passion?
The truth was mind-boggling. The realization was terrifying. And the onslaught of unorthodox urges paralyzed his mind and body in a thick haze. It had taken, damn it, just over a year for the inevitable to happen: his ward had matured during his absence.
And little Sofia was not so little anymore.
Granted, she’d always possessed promising beauty. It could not be ignored then and it certainly could not be denied now. Ever since Sofia’s seventeenth birthday, innocent nudges were no longer so innocent. Sarcastic insults had become tentative flirtations. In a way, Aleksender freely admitted to himself, enlisting in the military had been an escape from the inevitable.
Luckily, for him, the pains of jealousy had never fully surfaced. Over the years, Sofia had never expressed the desire to court a gentleman nor seek out a proper suitor for marriage. He’d reluctantly questioned her disinterest in acquiring a husband—and her response had pleased him far more than it should have.
“Oh, my silly, silly, Alek!” she’d exclaimed, ever the actress, clutching her heart with a rather comedic and melodramatic passion. “Why, don’t you know? You, mon amour, are the man of my life!”
The man of Sofia’s life.
Those playful words had behaved as a rude awakening. Aleksender had known he was in terrible trouble. Whether she’d been aware of it or not, they were trudging dangerous grounds. After all—some lines simply could not be crossed.
The recollection violently tore through his thoughts. On the afternoon of his departure, they had embraced, and he had kissed her. Within the potency of that moment, it had seemed an incredibly natural thing to do—kissing Sofia on her lips. He could have died out on the battlefield, alone and empty, without ever knowing her taste. Only now did he realize the gravity of such a thing.
But then again Aleksender could have never anticipated this.
Where was the little one who he’d taught the alphabet? Where was the weeping child who’d sneak to the de Lefèvre chateau in the middle of the night and toss herself in the shelter of his arms, seeking comfort from her reoccurring nightmares? Where was the bright-eyed child who shuddered at the thought of a snowstorm? And what had ever become of the girl who’d lie in his drawing room—sprawled across the warmed floorboards like a feline—lost within the throes of his elaborate stories?
Gone was the child who he’d once adored. And it was a breathtaking woman who now stood in her place.
CHAPTER THREE
Sofia Rose had first decided she’d marry Aleksender de Lefèvre nine years ago. Such longings were all in good fantasy. Her attachment was to be expected.
The man had rescued her from the endless floggings of her mother. He’d saved her dignity from the life of a whore. He had educated her, cared for her, dressed and fed her, built an entire convent house in the saving grace of her name. He’d fueled her talents and secured her a position in the opera’s chorus line. He’d hired none other than Marie Taglioni, the widely adored Swedish prima ballerina, as her private dancing instructor. He had dried her tears and chased away the monsters of her nightmares.
He had been her everything—her hope, her inspiration, and even her despair. Days before Aleksender had left for the war, he’d sworn to write weekly. Months had passed without a single utterance. The grave realization had been soul-shattering for Sofia.
A life without Aleksender? What life? Without his gentle touches, without his guidance and devotion, she could have let Death claim her. And he almost had. Sofia had fallen deathly ill.
By strict order of her doctor, she was pardoned from Salle Le Peletier for bed rest. Aleksender had been her other half. She’d never felt such pain, such indescribable sorrow and heartache. The beatings of her mother had paled in comparison. Endless nights were dedicated to mourning a love she never had. Each waking moment was spent weeping over an internal loss, a painful void, which could never again be made complete.
At the tragic acceptance of his death, Sofia had divulged herself within a fantasy world that began and ended with Alek.
Her Alek.
The characteristic shine had returned to her skin in a matter of weeks. She resumed her role at the opera house and was back on her toes once more. In that time, she’d playfully decided that if Aleksender were to ever return, he’d belong to her and her alone.
&nb
sp; Behind her shut eyes and most private thoughts, touches that had always been paternal and protective turned intimate. Wildly possessive. Her white knight mutated into a black knight. Within the impossible realm of sleep, they would merge together as one—mind, body and soul. These surreal thoughts, Sofia had imagined, were a happiness that harmed no one. But now, as Aleksender embraced her to the rhythmic beat of his heart, the line separating reality from fantasy became obscured.
He was her Alek.
“Sofia …” She snapped from her whirlwind of thoughts. The husky accent in his voice sounded foreign to her ears and positively thrilling. It was sultry and rich, smoother than any lullaby. Sofia felt the baritone resonate deep inside her.
Grinning from ear to ear like a pretty fool, she freed Aleksender from her clutches and took a demure step back, moving with the grace of a true ballerina. She kissed each cheek, just below the arch of his chin and the very tip of his nose, concluding her darling ministrations by running fingertips though his coal-black hair.
In spite of all notions of right and wrong, Aleksender found himself mimicking her affection tenfold. His hands were possessed with desire, and they moved on their own accord.
“Sofia, chérie, have I ever told you how lovely you are?”
Her eyes lowered at his praise. Swatting away tears, she blushed. “Now you’re just flattering me.”
Aleksender slid his fingers through her curls a last time. He balled his hand into a tight fist and brushed his knuckles against her cheek. She smiled, covering them with the creamy flesh of her palm. Returning her warmth, he grasped her hand, entwined their fingers, and laid the united grip over his lips. “My sweet Sofia.”
There was no war. There was no duty to his father or homeland. There was no vicomtesse who was sadly awaiting his return. There was only Aleksender and his little Sofia. He sighed, momentarily lost to a world that began and ended with the two of them, a cocoon of happy thoughts, surreal thoughts that harmed no one, an unblemished realm of oblivion.
The Frost of Springtime Page 3
