Elise should have stumbled to her feet with a darling curtsy and attempted to win Vicomte de Lefèvre over with pretty excuses—but she simply could not bring herself to move. She stared up in horrified silence, her tiny form cast beneath the eclipse of Richard’s shadow.
Not sparing an inch, he planted a hand on either side of his hip, his strong back straight as an arrow. “I suppose you are a deaf, dumb mute?”
Elise jerked at his vicious tone. She stifled a cry as a monstrous glass shard sliced her palm. A stream of blood ran down her arm and mingled with the red wine.
“Just leave it!” he scoffed. “Leave it and be gone, you daft girl!”
“My a-a-pologies, Monsieur le Vicomte—”
“And you best keep silent! If one word escapes—should you utter so much as a single word—on my father’s grave, I swear you shall pay in blood!”
“I-I-I heard nothing! I swear it, Monsieur le V-Vicomte!”
“Idle threats are not becoming of you.” Aleksender threw Elise a gentle, almost comforting glance. Still seated and staring into her glazed eyes, he murmured, “Save your breath, child.” Twisting back to Richard, “My brother forgets himself.”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Come over to me.”
Elise obeyed, shuffling forward with baby steps.
“Your hand—let me see the damage you’ve managed to inflict on yourself.” Elise outstretched her trembling palm. It shook midair as Aleksender observed, studying the laceration with an acquired medical eye.
He squinted as a fingertip danced across the surface of her pale flesh. Elise immediately coiled her hand into a little ball. Aleksender straightened out her fingers in a deft touch, lifting her palm to the level of his eyes. “Fairly deep. Quite prone to infection. Go to the kitchens. One of the other servants will surely assist you.”
Elise gave a bumbling curtsy and smoothed down her apron before making leave.
Richard sighed and brushed out his double-breasted morning coat. He shook his downcast face, propping both hands on back of his chair. He stared straight into the jaded depths of Aleksender’s eyes and spoke to his brother’s soul. “You listen to me and listen well. It is a dangerous game you dare play. Though, I do suppose it is easy enough for you, basking beneath your false solace. But you tread dangerous waters, Monsieur le Comte.”
Richard spat the formal name with a faint shred of mockery. But his eyes were only sincere; they begged for Aleksender’s understanding with desperation and awakened sadness.
“The anniversary of Father’s death falls within next month. A memorial has been arranged at Père Lachaise. An informal affair. I knew you would have appreciated a proper goodbye.”
Richard fetched the newspapers from the table and fanned through the morbid collection of articles. The fate of Paris passed by in a black and white blur.
“Alek, my dear brother, you disappoint me. One day, I fear your apathy will catch up to you. And, on that day, you shall feel the burn of true loss. The fate of Paris lies at your feet. Have faith in your home, if not yourself …”
The newspapers fluttered to the ground as Richard freed them from his clutch. They settled around Aleksender’s heels, recklessly strewn about, lying in a state of pure disorder.
CHAPTER FIVE
A forest of ancient oaks, locusts and redwoods spread farther than the eye could see. Maneuvering in a graceful dance, two lakes wove in and out of the towering trees and merged together through the waterfall that lay beyond the horizon.
Aleksender wandered Bois de Boulogne’s impressive length, hands snugly tucked inside his coat pockets. Located in the sixteenth arrondissement, the park’s endless amusements and picturesque setting were adored by everyone. The last streaks of daylight twinkled across the dirt pathways and tugged at Aleksender’s imagination.
During his adolescence, wasting away the hours at Bois de Boulogne had quickly become one of his and Comte Philippe de Lefèvre’s favorite pastimes. Indeed—fishing, bird-watching, ogling the menagerie’s exotic creatures, and wagering on horses were some of his most prized memories.
Home life had been a far cry from flawless. During those rockier days and nights, Bois de Boulogne had transformed into a secretive land—a private sanctuary shared by father and son—a safe and silent corner of the world reserved solely for the two of them. And for Aleksender, Bois de Boulogne would forever remain a place of rest and tranquility.
He absently scaled the surrounding beauty and sought escape. A father and son stood along a glittering water-bank, fishing poles close in hand, sharing stories and laugher. Aleksender pressed his back against a large oak tree. An overwhelming pang of nostalgia bloomed within his chest as he watched the father and son’s tender interaction. The mirage of memories took hold without warning—
Learning how to fish for the first time. Father showing him how to balance the pole just right. Father threading the hook as Mother often threaded a bobbin. Father’s smile as the line twitched about, moving this way and that, gliding below the lake’s glassy surface. Watching Bois de Boulogne’s renowned horse races. Asking Father if he might wager on Champion—a rather sorry-looking gelding without so much as a ribbon to his name. Father’s smile and gentle laugh, followed by, “A worthy choice, my son! Hopefully he shall live up to his name. You there—twenty francs on ol’ Champion, monsieur!”
Aleksender shook away the ghosts of his past and returned to the present. As if on cue, the boy’s fishing line began to erratically whiz about. It sliced through the water like some crazed serpent and glided three feet in every direction. Both father and son cried out in triumph and reeled in their catch—an embarrassingly small salmon. And for all the pride on the man’s face, the thing might have been a prizewinning marlin. The father rewarded his boy with words of praise and a sturdy slap to the shoulder.
Aleksender turned away. He couldn’t bring himself to stomach the sight. And the rest of the world offered only mockery and no comfort. Off in the distance, a couple embraced beneath the bough of an old elm. The gnarled trunk hovered above them, its twisted mass grotesquely deformed and wrought with age. The thing reminded Aleksender of a wounded soldier who’d been blown halfway to hell and was in urgent need of an amputation.
In contrast, the young man was dashing and clearly in the prime of his life. Leaning in close, he clung to his darling’s waist, never intending to let go. Beneath a reverent sigh, he whispered sweet nothings and pressed tender kisses upon her brow. A chain of heartfelt laughter was carried by the wind as she reciprocated the affection tenfold. Ever so gently, he cupped her cheeks and lured her into a timeless kiss. It was a kiss she’d remember for years to come—one that whispered a thousand unspoken secrets. In the midst of such dark times, the two adolescents perceived only beauty. Standing below that monstrous elm, they were positively shameless—shamelessly head over heels in love.
Aleksender’s lashes fluttered shut as he imagined his mother and father in place of the young couple.
The need for companionship, the sincere warmth of another, violently took hold of him. And remarkably, when he glanced upon the lovers once more, it was not his parents he envisioned.
It was him and his little Sofia.
•
The evening’s ballet had concluded thirty minutes earlier. With keen interest, Aleksender had observed as the various performers, stagehands and managers claimed carriages for the night. Each time the ancient door swung open, the expanse of black had been stabbed by a shaft of light. Each time an absurd blend of emotions had welled inside his gut.
And each time Aleksender had been left feeling emptier and more alone than ever before.
Where was she? Where was his Sofia?
Needing some form of distraction, Aleksender paced the length of the alleyway and studied his barren surroundings. Almost all the street lanterns had prematurely burned out, and those that remained shed dismal amounts of light. A deep and not altogether cynical sigh swelled his lungs.
Ga
s, along with everything else, had become a rare luxury since the siege. “Many weeks were spent in pure darkness,” Elizabeth had told him with a shudder. And although the streets shined once more, it was a mere flicker compared to the brilliant lighting of Paris as it used to be.
Indeed. The City of Lights had never been darker.
Aleksender’s pensive thoughts were cropped short as the door moaned open. He held his breath in suspenseful anticipation. Two of Salle Le Peletier’s corps de ballet dancers appeared—one of whom he immediately recognized as Sofia.
She’d always held a strange calming effect over him. It was a phenomenon that he’d never been able to put into words. Something which betrayed logic. Something he couldn’t fully understand nor intended to. In the midst of his personal agony, the mere sight of his ward was balm upon his soul. Dark feelings and even darker thoughts were replaced by a faint ray of hope. And the bitterness that had grown to be an integral part of himself miraculously faded away.
Standing at the stairwell’s landing, Aleksender propped a hand on either side of the rail, cocked his head, and intently observed his ward. Sofia’s girlfriend tugged at her cloak and whispered some nonsense into her ear. Blue eyes pierced the black as melodious laughter flooded the alleyway.
Aleksender exhaled, releasing a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. His heart raced at breakneck speed. His palms grew clammy, weighed down with buckets of sweat. Perspiration formed along the lining of his gloves, plastering silk to flesh. And the metal railing was unbearably cool … a startling contrast to the current state of certain nether regions. Disgusted with himself, Aleksender groaned and adjusted his posture.
Dieu—what was happening to him?
•
Sofia fell into silence as she gazed at Aleksender’s dark form beneath the rim of her hood.
Butterflies fluttered inside her tummy and tickled her with their silky wings. He was a vision to be reckoned with and handsomer than sin. A double-breasted coat wrapped his impressive body like a glove, the top hat camouflaging with a multitude of thick waves to perfection.
And he was her Alek. Her dark knight and eternal protector.
Sofia’s eyes came to life as a smile stretched her lips from ear to ear. Grasping the elegant folds of her cloak, she rushed down the five cobblestone steps and threw herself into Aleksender’s arms. He weakly returned her embrace. Every inch of his body was coarser than stone. She felt his chest tighten as he glanced down at their joined bodies. Long, inky lashes shadowed his cheekbones with delicate crescent moons. They were a sensual contrast to the golden hue of his skin.
“You’re here.” Sofia sighed and nuzzled against his cravat, increasing the pressure of her hold. She swung both arms around his neck, perched onto her ballerina tiptoes, and pressed a kiss just below the arch of his chin. Day-old stubble pierced her lips at the contact.
A deep sigh resonated within Aleksender’s chest.
“Say, why the big reunion?” Aleksender muttered beneath an airy chuckle. His hands were painfully gentle as he grazed the material of her cloak.
Coming to his senses, he outstretched both limbs and held Sofia at a proper arm’s length. An oversized hand crashed down on either side of her shoulders, firmly rooting her in place. She giggled and swayed, struggling against the iron clasp.
“Oh, just couldn’t contain myself, I suppose.” Sofia closed the space between them and took Aleksender within her clutches once more. “I’ve just never felt anything more wonderful than having you back in my arms.” Delicate fingertips grazed his cloak in a tentative and experimental touch. She sighed and laid her cheek across his chest, inhaling the exotic blend of Persian spices that was uniquely Aleksender. “I’ve missed you more than I can say.” Sofia’s head teeter-tottered as his body rose and sank with deep, soulful breaths.
“Alek?” Her voice was swallowed up by the material of his coat and barely coherent.
“Hmm?”
“Your heart is beating so fast.”
Those words sobered Aleksender.
He inhaled a shaky breath and took several generous steps backward. The softness of Sofia’s body slipped away and made the streets of Paris feel remarkably colder.
He pried the top hat from his hair and passed a hand over the glossy strands. They were heavy with perspiration, soaked through and through. His fingertips skirted across the top hat’s velvet rim as he replaced it.
The girl cleared her throat, sufficiently yanking Aleksender from his haze.
“Oh! Heather! Forgive me. This … this is le Comte de Lefèvre.”
Heather looked Aleksender up and down, folding both arms across her breasts. A sly and almost knowing smile tugged at her lips. She eased forward, the flaming mass of red curls rivaling her attitude. “So, you are Sofia’s Alek?”
Aleksender angled his chin and glanced at Sofia who was singed by Heather’s words, her cheeks flushed a severe red. She groped at her skirts without conscious effort and twisted the material between two slender fingertips. “Yes. This is him. This is my Alek. He is my guardian.”
Something in her voice made Aleksender’s heart skip a beat. Then she stared into his eyes and it skipped several more.
“You have a carriage?” Aleksender asked Heather.
After a speculative glance, the girl nodded, lifted her hood, and vanished into the shadows.
A heavy silence descended.
Sofia eyed Aleksender’s elegant dress from head to toe, a subtle grin plastered to her lips. She tugged at the folded cravat with a playful smile, blue eyes shining like beacons. “Look at you, monsieur, so very formal. Off to the races, I suppose?”
Aleksender slipped the cravat from her fingertips. Smoothing the material into place, he sprawled a hand across the small of Sofia’s back.
“I’ve a coach waiting.”
Sofia grinned. “Oh, I see. Goin’ to wine and dine me in Paris’s finest, are you?” she teased, arms propped onto either side of her hips. Then her form shook with happy and heartfelt laughter. She laughed for no apparent reason. She laughed just for the sake of laughing.
The sound was beautiful and brimming with life. The bleak alleyway seemed to lighten the slightest bit.
A wink was Aleksender’s sole response as he further expanded the mystery at hand. Together, they wandered down the slim alleyway in silence until reaching Salle Le Peletier’s carriage house.
De Lefèvre and a coat of arms were printed across the vehicle’s black lacquered door. Aleksender tentatively outstretched his hand and helped Sofia into the coach. A magnetic spark flared between Aleksender and Sofia’s fingers, sending currents of awareness shooting through their bodies. Blushing deeply, Sofia cleared her throat and lifted her skirts. Heart beating like a bunny rabbit’s, she settled against the fine upholstery and awaited her dashing escort. He propped a hand on the archway and studied her with an intense, unwavering gaze. She felt his eyes bear deeply into her own, drinking her in.
“So wherever are you taking me? I must say—the suspense is nearly too great.”
Aleksender shot her a crooked grin. He turned away, directing his response at the driver who was perched in the box seat. As usual, the portly gentleman wore a powdered wig, elaborate garb, and a pensive scowl. “Voisin of Rue Saint-Honoré.”
The driver dipped his head in understanding. The walls seemed to shrink as Aleksender tugged the door shut and claimed a seat beside Sofia. After a moment, he pounded the rooftop with his fist and sent the coach rolling into motion.
Scone lanterns flashed across the scarlet walls, bathing the lush interior with gentle glows. The wide expanse of Aleksender’s shoulders filled the space with ease. Each bump in the road connected their bodies together—and each collision made Aleksender’s cheeks a flaming red. He adjusted his posture, attempting to erect a barrier between him and Sofia without luck.
Dark curls tumbled down and over her shoulders as she pulled back her hood. Aleksender studied her beautiful profile, allowing a comfortable s
ilence to fill the coach.
Sofia swept the curtain aside and glanced into the empty and dimly lit streets. Beyond the coach’s scarlet curtains, a father and son waded through the darkness in a protective huddle. Mindful of their seedy surroundings, the man shielded his boy with a watchful eye and sturdy hand to the shoulder. Sofia eased against the upholstery. A cloud formed within the pit of her chest and shadowed her heart. She bowed her head, aching with multitudes of pain. Unbeknown to her, the subtle motion sent a tear rolling down the slope of her cheek.
“Sofia?”
“Yes?”
Aleksender closed the space between them without a moment’s hesitation. He lightly touched her chin and rotated her face toward his own. Worry creased his brow as his eyes deepened in concern. His thumb pad massaged the arch of her chin in slow, tentative circles. “What is it, ma petit? You know it pains me to see you cry.”
She smiled at Aleksender’s words and took his hands in a solid grasp. She stared down at their united grip, thumbs drawing invisible circles along the cool silk of his glove.
“My Alek, I … I’m so sorry.” She smiled though her tears and continued to caress his hand. A whirlwind of curls slid down her shoulders, framing her body with the elegance of a gossamer shawl. “You know that I loved your father dearly. And you meant the world to him.”
Aleksender wrapped an arm around her slender shoulders and tugged Sofia firmly against his body. “You truly are an angel.”
She peered up at him. Their faces were intimately close—mere inches away—mouths sharing the same intakes of air. “All those months I thought I’d lost you.” Sofia gazed into her lap as her complexion turned a ghostly white. “Our parting was nearly my death,” she confided through an unsteady whisper.
Aleksender swallowed and shook his face. “You could never lose me. Never.”
Sofia tightened her grasp on Aleksender’s hand. “Sometimes I fear I shall wake up and you’ll still be gone.” Freeing him, she turned away and stared into the black of night. “And when I imagine what you went through, the things you must have seen …”
The Frost of Springtime Page 6
