But this was exceedingly worse.
The young man slid a palm down Sofia’s back in restless pursuit … stopping a few meager inches from the curve of her bottom. Aleksender bit back an obscenity and scrubbed a hand over his face. The suitor dared to tug Sofia closer. If that wasn’t quite enough, he swiped a swarm of curls from her neck, bent forward, and whispered against the rim of her ear …
Aleksender could only guess what those words had been.
Enough. As if charging straight onto the battlefield, he leapt to his feet and crossed the room with determined steps.
“Pardon me,” Aleksender muttered as he cut in, his form towering above the two of them with ease. “I think I’ll take it from here.” None too happy, the young man stepped aside with a chivalrous bow and vanished into the crowd.
Sofia’s face broke into a triumphant grin. “Why, whatever happened to me being sorely mistaken? I thought in no way shall you be dancing—”
Her words dissolved into silence as Aleksender reined her into his arms.
•
Despite being a seasoned dancer, Sofia felt very clumsy and unsure of herself. She stumbled over Aleksender’s feet as he whisked her to one side—then stumbled again when he swung her body full circle.
“You are dancing like a circus monkey,” he muttered against her neck. Her pulse jumped to life at the words. Coming from Aleksender’s lips, they sounded like an endearment rather than insult. His deep baritone stoked her imagination, igniting a fire deep within her soul.
She chided him with a playful slap to the shoulder. Feigning injury, he released one of her hands and groped the material of his dress shirt. “The pain. The agony!”
“Oh, come now!”
Aleksender’s broad chest vibrated with mirth. He tugged Sofia back into his embrace and held her jarringly close. Chills swept through every inch of her body. Thick cords of muscle flexed and tightened beneath Sofia’s touch. One of his brows curved into an arch that begged to be challenged.
Sofia tapped her bottom lip in contemplation. “Perhaps, it’s you and not me.”
“Hmm? What’s that?”
“Who’s at fault for this dreadful dancing.”
“Ah, I see. Is that so?”
“Precisely. You’re not at all an agreeable partner.”
He perked a brow in amusement. “So … I’m the monkey?”
Sofia splayed a palm across Aleksender’s chest and threw her head back, body rolling with laughter. “No, not the monkey,” she corrected, simultaneously catching her breath. “The circus monkey.”
Intoxicated by the surrounding euphoria, Aleksender and Sofia lost themselves within the crowd and laughter.
Aleksender wrapped Sofia in one of his arms and swept her across the polished floorboards, fighting at every step to keep up with the waltz’s dizzying pace. His hands were firm and strong against her back, sending a chain of shivers down to Sofia’s tiptoes and then up again. An abundance of curls nearly brushed the ground as he lowered her into a deep curve.
Everything fell away. A rare sliver of happiness flooded her entire being. In the same breath, the music slowed like a dying heartbeat and settled into an intimate tempo.
Aleksender came forward until their two hearts beat as one.
Poetic words from a familiar story flooded Sofia’s thoughts …
Press closer, little nightingale, or the day will come before the rose is finished …
Sofia settled against Aleksender’s warmth and successfully molded their bodies together.
The Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn till it pierced her heart …
His breaths fanned across her forehead, branding her forever. She leaned in closer … closer … closer still … letting the moist flesh of her lips ghost across Aleksender’s skin. Jet-black hair fell in thick waves, curling a few inches above the meticulous folds of his collar.
Bitter was the pain … wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the love that is perfected by death … Love that dies not in the tomb.
They were no longer ward and guardian. They were a woman and man, two lovers in the midst of a groundbreaking revelation.
And indeed—the truth had bloomed before daybreak.
•
Aleksender gazed out the window as the coach calmly maneuvered through Paris’s sleeping streets. The various monuments and buildings resembled monsters crouching amongst shadows.
The blunderbuss knocked against his thigh, parroting the coach’s unsteady movements. Aleksender absently skirted his fingertips across the musket’s polished wood. The silver barrel shone beneath the moonlight like a beacon, illuminating the engraved words de Lefèvre. Aleksender traced each letter with a stinging ache in his heart.
Ready to ward off any dangers, he secured a fist around the blunderbuss’s finely carved handle. Alas, he would gladly kill for his ward.
Sofia was presently nestled up against his shoulder, all softness and overwhelming femininity. Her presence was intoxicating … wondrously calming. Lustrous shafts of moonlight bathed her slumbering form and highlighted the delicacy of her features. Aleksender studied Sofia’s profile in admiration, in awe of how much she’d matured in so short a time. He struggled to see the little girl he’d once adored. But too much had changed.
God above, everything had changed.
A few erratic curls twitched in her sleep as they were manipulated by deep and dreamy breaths. Aleksender gazed down at her, filled with a startling awareness. She looked so beautiful in her sedated state. So content and so very precious. A cluster of freckles dusted the bridge of her upturned nose. Aleksender balled his hands into two fists whilst he fought the excruciating need to acquaint himself with each and every one.
He sobered as she stirred the slightest bit. Rosebud lips parted in speech—only to mutter a volume of unconscious nonsense.
With all of his heart, Aleksender wished the carriage ride would never come to an end. Minutes later, his insides darkened as Sacred Heart Convent slipped into view.
Aleksender arched his shoulder and nudged Sofia from her dreams. She stirred once more, buried her face in the crook his arm, and gave a defiant grumble. Persistent snoring filled the coach. Aleksender smiled to himself. He’d never heard a more charming sound.
Brushing fallen locks from her eyes, he leaned forward and whispered against her forehead, “Come, come. Time to wake, chérie.”
A lush hood of lashes fluttered open, exposing the piercing blue of her eyes. She rubbed her nose till it glowed a delightful pink. “Hullo.” Her lips lifted into a lazy smile as their gazes merged together. Aleksender was enraptured. “You know … I was just dreaming about you.”
Aleksender cleared his throat. His fingertips slid from her scalp and landed in the safety of his lap. “Ah, is that right?”
Her smile melted away within the following silence. Tiny fists crawled up the length of Aleksender’s chest and lost themselves within the coat’s thick folds. She gave an urgent tug, drawing him several inches closer … closer … dangerously close.
The heat of their bodies mingled as one. With each breath, Aleksender drank in the sweet essence of roses and wintertime. His mind swam with unorthodox visions and desires. He inclined his head, lost to the power of her nearness, entranced by everything that was his beloved ward.
“Alek, my Alek …”
Each word infused Aleksender with a delicious and undeniable warmth. Intoxicated by roses and wintertime, he found it difficult to speak, difficult to think. Breathless, he swallowed and met the haunting blue of her eyes.
“Please,” she dreamily murmured, “I want you to kiss me again.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Several days had passed since Aleksender and Sofia’s improper encounter, each one blurring seamlessly into the next. And he found that the nights were no different. Alas, it seemed that Aleksender’s existence had transformed into a single, suspended moment.
Lavished in scarlet curtains, rich upholstery an
d rosewood furnishings, the master bedchamber was fit for royalty. Decked with exotic perfumes and dazzling jewels of all shapes and sizes, a vanity was centered before the grand oversized mirror. A solitary candle glowed, encircling the countertop in a ring of light, painting the walls with its wavering shafts. Elizabeth sat in front of her lovely reflection, looking every bit like a porcelain doll.
A solemn and bloodless porcelain doll.
With a distant look beaming from her eyes and a subtle frown at her lips, she stroked her shiny hair and hummed beneath a hushed breath. Long streams of candlelight complimented her beauty to perfection. The illumination outlined her curves while a sheer chemise hugged her body like a lover, leaving very little to her husband’s imagination.
Aleksender sat on the edge of the large canopy bed. A pair of leather suspenders dug into his skin, straining against a firm slate of muscle. Fitted trousers hugged each thigh and a cream-toned dress shirt swallowed up the cummerbund waistline.
Studying the glamorous reflection with a haunting attentiveness, Aleksender watched as Elizabeth embarked on her nightly ritual.
He surprised himself and thought of his mother.
Comtesse Victoria de Lefèvre had tragically passed away during Aleksender’s tenth year. Her death had been painfully sudden, though he could recall nothing of the accident. According to his father, a spooked mare and unhinged carriage wheel had been to blame. Aleksender, too, had been in that carriage—and had survived the incident by some twisted stroke of luck. Even in Victoria’s absence, Philippe had expressed an endless devotion to his late wife. First hand, Aleksender had witnessed the transcending power of love, a fidelity that knew no boundaries, time and again.
Aleksender shook away the memories and returned to the moment.
Within Elizabeth’s emptiness he saw himself. And the cause of her heartache was no great wonder. Yet, here she sat—radiating with the innocence of a girl, daring to steal a glance of him every few brushes. Mimicking all of the correct movements without any inspiration, she was a stunning shell of a human being.
With a heavy heart, Aleksender imagined Elizabeth brushing her hair, just like this, night after night … staring at herself with a vacant and faraway look in her eyes.
Elizabeth surrendered to an uncertain smile as their gazes came together in the mirror. A light blush tinted her cheekbones and steadily crept down her neck.
Lowering her pale hood of lashes, she spoke through little more than a sweet and serene whisper. “Come now, Aleksender. Must you be such a stranger? Why … you’ve hardly said more than a few words these past days.”
Cued by her voice, Aleksender rose to his feet and came to the mirror. She gasped as the heat of his body pierced her chemise. He towered over her seated form, impossibly close, shrouded beneath penetrating silence and wavering shadow.
He stole the comb from her hand and swept it through the long and lovely tresses … admiring the way in which they tumbled down and over her slender shoulders, curling just past the small of her back.
Her eyes whispered shameful secrets and forbidden longings. Things she dared not pursue. Indeed, despite their fifteen-year partnership, she and Aleksender had laid together only a handful of times. Their lovemaking had always been consistently passionless—and the mutual intention to produce an heir had been the sole driving force.
Elizabeth’s eyes twinkled as she smiled at him. And, a moment later, a devious grin crept to her mouth. “I thought you were dead, you know. Thought I would never see you. Never touch you again.”
Aleksender remained in his characteristic silence. He continued the intoxicating ministrations, brushing out the glory of her hair—gently, slowly, tremulously—eyes never parting from her reflection.
And when Aleksender at last spoke, the words were a tender and light caress. “Sleep well, Elizabeth.” With a dejected sigh, he set down the brush, pressed a kiss upon her brow, and went to bed for the night.
•
Chapel Saint Leonard’s bells tolled out, ringing their timeless melody as they announced Sunday mass. The humble dwelling was one of the only places of worship that hadn’t suffered considerable ruin from the siege and revolutionaries. Two shattered windows and a jarring occurrence stood as the sole traces of Paris’s demise.
Over the last months, most churches, chapels and sanctums had been torn apart from the inside out. Roofs were ceremoniously caved in, windows broken, and the interiors thrashed to high hell. And the greatest damage had resulted from the citizens’ hands rather than Prussians’.
Never had a group of people felt so abandoned by God. It was no coincidence that a large number of the Commune’s insurgents held a fierce hatred for religion. Spoken prayer had been outlawed at many of the funerals. In pained silence, mothers had wept as the caskets of their veteran sons were lowered into that eternal dirt.
Chapel Saint Leonard’s priest had been greeted by a rather unforgettable sight one morning. The altar had been crudely vandalized, and the spectacle resembled a caricature straight out of Le Père Duchêne’s pages. There Jesus hung, dressed in the garb of Versailles, a pipe dangling from lifeless stone lips. And ever since that time, a fragile calm had blanketed Paris to the point of suffocation.
Inside Chapel Saint Leonard’s walls, Aleksender, Elizabeth, Sofia, and Richard sat side-by-side along one of the pewter benches. Light poured through the shattered window and illuminated the chapel in a flawless cylinder. The priest’s voice swelled the building to its rafters, each word infused with haunting passion.
“We live in a broken world that is filled with sin.”
Ever since boyhood, and for reasons Aleksender couldn’t fully grasp, religion had always unsettled him. Mind pacing, he turned from the altar and sought distraction. The priest’s words transformed into a steady drone.
“As Catholics, we have been challenged to live as people of faith during these dark and unforgiving times.”
Roosting pigeons cooed in agreement as the flap of their wings resonated. Aleksender cocked his head and observed the pair of frolicking birds. They playfully dove in and of the wooden beams and rafters, perfectly content and oblivious to the cryptic atmosphere. And in his mind’s eye, it was the silhouette of an eagle that loomed above him—the Angel of Death, an ever-present and sinister force …
A strange envy overcame Aleksender as the pigeons escaped through the shattered window. He stifled a deep groan and adjusted his posture. No escape or comfort was to be found. Alas, the pewter bench seemed to be carved from solid rock rather than rosewood … and the surrounding walls resembled bars rather than planks.
“I would like to begin today with a passage from Matthew: 5. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”
Aleksender warily glanced at his brother’s profile. Richard’s head was bowed, both eyes fastened shut. What he was reflecting on was no great mystery. The death of their father was one wound that would never heal. A sharp pang of guilt overcame Aleksender. Their luncheon on the veranda only added insult to injury. Neither of them would ever live up to their father’s legacy. Richard was too full of self-loathing and set in his ways, while Aleksender was far too damaged.
“Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.”
Next to him, Elizabeth blankly stared forward. But her eyes betrayed the show of outward calm. The delicate bond they’d shared for so many years had begun to unravel. There was no denying it. Elizabeth suspected something between him and his ward. Of that he was certain.
Anyone with half a mind could see it.
“Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.”
As for his little Sofia …
Her nearness was intoxicating. The warmth of her body radiated, filling all five of his senses with roses and wintertime.
“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”
After their night out, it was Sofia’s breathless plea that had opened Aleksender’s eyes to the truth. Alek, I
want you to kiss me again.
That kiss had sealed their fate. And his immediate self-defense had been to blame the Voisin’s “finely aged wine.”
At first, silence had been his reply. And then gently, carefully, and ever so tenderly, their lips had come together in a chaste kiss. In itself, it had been quite harmless—proving to be little more than a kiss shared between ward and guardian. But it had whispered of irrevocable repercussions.
Aleksender’s lashes had blinked shut in an attempt to escape from his longings. But the bridge had already been crossed. And every barricade, every emotional defense and logical fortress, had burned to the ground.
A decent man would have pulled away. A decent man would have corrected the poor girl’s delusional thoughts and straightened her thinking.
But Aleksender was far from a decent man.
Instead, a pair of trembling arms had enveloped her waist. He’d tilted his head and reverently bowed his face, inhaling her femininity. Gathering her to his chest, he’d tugged her impossibly close, never intending to let go, allowing their two heartbeats to consummate as one—
“Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Amen.”
A moment of silence descended over the patrons of Chapel Saint Leonard. Aleksender conformed to his surroundings and followed suit, bowing his face in personal grief rather than prayer.
•
Sunday mass concluded two hours later. Needing urgently to speak with Sofia, Aleksender had inquired Richard if he’d mind escorting Elizabeth back to the chateau. “I should say not,” he’d replied, meaning each word. “It would be a pleasure.” Aleksender had winced, stung by the bitterness that tinted his brother’s voice.
Remnants of suffering and despair hung amongst Place de la Concorde like a bad omen. Ensuring they’d not have to look upon the invaders, black coverings had been draped over the statues’ faces during the siege. Months later, the linens still remained, now sun-streaked and faded.
The Frost of Springtime Page 8
