The Frost of Springtime

by Rachel L. Demeter

  Chandeliers soared high above and illuminated the ornate foyer, luminous shafts pouring through their teardrop crystals. Angelic visions of heaven were painted across both the walls and ceiling, each trimmed with gold. Gleaming beneath the intimate lighting, the marble floor reflected everything and everyone.

  Aleksender briefly thought of Chateau de Versailles’s elaborate entrance and grandiose hall of mirrors.

  Outside of the auditorium he came to a halt. Elizabeth stared into his eyes, looking delicate and infinitely lovely in her dark evening gown.

  “Elizabeth, why don’t you get seated?” With expertly masked hesitation, he continued, “I ought to greet Sofia before the performance. She’ll be delighted to know we’re in attendance.”

  Elizabeth gripped onto his forearm with a surprising force. When she spoke, her voice was shaky and unsure, bearing a desperate edge. “But after the performance we can greet her together—all of us! Why, you cannot possibly venture backstage! It simply wouldn’t be proper. Sofia is no child.”

  Aleksender peeled away her fingers and chuckled low. Pressing a kiss to her knuckles, he smoothly murmured, “I’m well aware. No worries. She shall come out to see me.”

  “Oh. Oh, I see. I suppose I should visit her, too?”

  Aleksender shook his head.

  “It’s far too crowded in the hallway, I’m afraid. And besides—I wager Richard has already arrived. Go on, chérie. Go and get settled into our box. I shall join you shortly.”

  Elizabeth nodded, a hint of despair knotting her chest. “Bid Sofia well for me.”

  •

  Aleksender stood paralyzed outside of Sofia’s dressing room. The prima ballerina’s dressing room. A surge of pride and nostalgia flushed through his body. He was truly in awe of her accomplishments.

  What, pray, was he doing outside his ward’s dressing room? Aleksender cursed himself to the deepest circle of hell. It was no use. He was drawn to Sofia with an irrational attachment. Over the past nine years, she’d become an integral part of himself. He had loved her as his wide-eyed ward, a dear friend and student. It was only within the last few years that his affection had mutated—a phenomenon that had corrupted their bond forever. With a desperate longing, Aleksender ached to perceive her as a child once again. If he could somehow sway his wretched desire, they could be together.

  Aleksender knew he should turn away. But first he needed to make things right.

  His gloved fist melodically rapped at the door. It wrenched open almost at once, exposing a servant’s bright and youthful face.

  Helena, Salle Le Peletier’s lead chambermaid for several seasons, stepped into the hallway and flexed at her heels. “Oh! Monsieur le Comte! Bonsoir! You are here for Sofia, I should suspect?”

  “Please. If she’s not too consumed.”

  “Why, ‘course not. She’ll be overjoyed to see you! She’s presently getting into her costume. But, if you care to wait, I’m sure she can visit with you in a few moments.”

  Aleksender’s chin sank into a curt nod. “Of course.”

  His pulse surged forward, reaching a breakneck speed. Vats of sweat welled inside his gloves. And yet, to the outside observer, Aleksender knew he was the pretense of flawless composure and self-assurance.

  •

  With a twirl of her skirts, Helena shut the door, returning to the dressing room and its withdrawn occupant. She’d encountered handfuls of noble figures over her few years of service. And yet nothing could have prepared her for le Comte de Paris. He’d seemed more warrior than a stuffy aristocrat, more beast than man. Overwhelmed by the masculine presence that towered before her, her features had flushed at the very sight of him. He was a powerful and menacing vision, drenched purely in the blackest of black.

  Inside the dressing room, Helena was plagued by a haunting combination of awe and sympathy. She eyed Sofia who was calmly seated before the vanity and combing out her hair.

  Costumed as La Sylphide’s mystical sylph, the opera’s enchanting forest spirit, the prima ballerina was beyond ethereal. Airy, white silks hugged the tender curves of her body, the flowing hem scandalously short. An abundance of delicate lace and pearls decorated the chaste material, enhancing its angelic charm. The neckline hung off the shoulders, flaunting the creamy swell of Sofia’s breasts. Shimmering wings sprouted from her back. And a wreath, woven from pale pink roses, crowned her dark tresses.

  Sofia was unaware of Helena’s presence as she stared at her reflection. In fact, she seemed to be unaware of everything. Her blue eyes vacantly gazed forward, searching the smooth glass, struggling to find some lost part of her soul within the mirror …within herself. Weighed down with a distinct despair and sadness, the fairy wings appeared to wilt. Sofia was tragically in character, resembling the ideal star-crossed lover.

  “Mademoiselle,” Helena said, approaching the mahogany vanity, “you’ve a visitor.”

  “A visitor?”

  “Monsieur le Comte—that is, your foster father—wishes to greet you before the performance! Isn’t that grand?”

  The brush tumbled into Sofia’s lap as her grip faltered. She stammered, breathless and wide-eyed. Her porcelain complexion turned unnaturally pale and borderline sallow. “Alek is not my foster father, Helena. You know that.”

  In spite of herself, Helena blushed, flustered by the sound of the man’s Christian name. Then she flustered once more—feeling wildly uncomfortable with Sofia’s strange reaction.

  “Course he’s not. Do forgive me. I mean to say, your Alek wishes to greet you.”

  Sofia’s chest vibrated with an evident shudder. Her eyes squeezed shut. A mass of curls flowed down and over her shoulders as she dropped her chin.

  “Oh! You poor dear,” Helena cried. “Are you feeling quite all right?” She stood behind Sofia and gently grazed her shoulder. Sofia glanced up at Helena, wearing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. No sound came forth when she attempted to speak.

  “Why, you look positively ill!” Helena softened her tone to a whisper, mistaking Sofia’s muddled appearance for stirring nerves. “Shall I send him away, mademoiselle? I’m sure he’ll understand—tonight being La Sylphide’s debut and such.”

  “Oh, no, Helena. That won’t be necessary,” Sofia breathed. “Of course I shall see him.”

  •

  Aleksender awaited Sofia in suspenseful anticipation. He leaned against the archway and loosened the cravat from his throat. Damn societal Paris and its conventions. The wretched thing had been strangling him like a Punjab lasso.

  Illuminated by rows of glittering sconce lanterns, the hallway was slim and sensually cozy. Such a place was an ideal hideout for an intimate rendezvous between two lovers. And the frolicking couple, which lurked only feet from Aleksender, vividly confirmed his assumption.

  A buxom, raven-haired temptress was pressed up against the wall, her coiffure wildly disheveled and reckless. Her voluptuous body was wedged between wood and flesh, quivering within the arms of her lover. And the plunging neckline of her gown left very little to her suitor’s prowling hands and imagination. As Aleksender turned away a deep, wildly feminine moan echoed the hallway.

  The air thickened. Aleksender’s head spun out of control. Fate had failed him once again. The pale and bejeweled hand of his former mistress was tugging at his shoulder.

  He rotated on his booted heel and stood face to face with the lovely Joanna Rosalina. As always, she appeared remarkably exquisite, lavished in Paris’s finest fashion and glowing with a raw sensuality that equaled his own.

  “Ah, so it is you!” Joanna’s dark gaze provocatively examined him from head to toe. “Yes. Yes, it is, indeed.” She drank in the tanned flesh at his throat and exhaled an appreciative sigh. Stepping closer, her well-endowed bosom brushed up against his chest in a tease. Fully aroused nipples grated his upper body, battling their velvet confines. Unwanted and regretted memories paralyzed Aleksender, flooding his mind in a gloomy haze—torrid memories of heated nights, whispered dem
ands and dripping, tangled limbs.

  “Delicious, as always,” she praised, speaking through a tone which was designed to drive men mad with desire. And, years ago, her voice would have done just that. Such a voice would have worked wonders upon Aleksender’s mind and body. Joanna had brought him to his knees, and far more than once.

  Running fingertips down his torso, she breathed in a husky voice, “I see war agrees with you, my golden Apollo.”

  I see war agrees with you.

  Those words infuriated Aleksender. Blood-lust pumped through his veins and hardened his bones. Both hands clenched into deadly fists—lest he submit to his desire and strangle the vixen. Seething, he glared down at her wanton caresses. He couldn’t recall a time when he’d been more fit to kill. In the same breath, the absolute shallowness of his former lifestyle was brought to light. No, he was no longer in awe of Joanna’s exotic beauty. Instead, Aleksender only saw himself—the heartless, crude shell of a human being.

  “Don’t reckon with me, Joanna.” His green irises flickered. “Don’t reckon with the devil.”

  Vixen that she was, Joanna Rosalina misinterpreted his threat. “Aw, fret not. Do you really think me so very cruel? Why, I don’t intend to tease.” Her hand traveled over the front of his trousers and cupped his groin within a clenched palm. “Oh, Aleksender. I’m terribly, terribly wet for you.” She massaged the hidden bulge of flesh, eyes overflowing with wicked intentions and intense promises. “In fact, I’ve been wet for you for a year now.”

  Aleksender grasped onto Joanna’s hair—handling her as if she were nothing more than a bitch in heat. She yelped in pain and stifled a vile curse. Her bosom madly heaved, busting from the sweeping bodice in absurd proportions. A few more breaths and the seams would surely give way.

  Both eyes narrowed into cunning slits. She was a viper ready to strike. “How dare you, you vile knave!” she hissed. “Why, I ought—”

  “Ah, chérie, to shame.” Aleksender dryly stated, gesturing her neglected suitor with a nonchalant wave. “You seem to have forgotten your good Christian etiquette.”

  The young man in question adjusted his cravat and smoothed down unkempt hair, cheeks flaming. He made a bumbling exit and muttered something vile beneath his breath.

  Joanna sobered and returned to her flirtatious nature. A sly grin stretched her lips from ear to ear, racy and decadent. “Now, now, Aleksender,” she playfully scolded, fingers meddling with the dangling cravat. “You shan’t be jealous. If you’re feeling jilted …” She leaned into his heat, eyes never leaving his. “Well, I am more than willing to compensate for my wandering eye. How ‘bout I share you with one of my girlfriends? Hmm? As I recall, last time there was plenty of you to go around.”

  The husky accent of Joanna’s voice dissolved into silence.

  The semblance of a smile curved her lips as she glared over Aleksender’s shoulder. “My, my, what have we here? A dazzling, little forest nymph?”

  Indeed, his scandalous ways were widely known through Paris. All of France knew precisely who and what he was. And Aleksender had never cared a thing for his reputation—instead, he’d always enjoyed his fiery liaisons and exploitations with a cynical sort of satisfaction. In the carriage house, he’d tried to unveil his inner demons to Sofia. And now the very thought of Sofia witnessing the truth of his character was unbearable. Aleksender could have wept with the shame of a lad who’d been caught with his hand shoved in the cookie jar. Aleksender slowly rotated his body, overcome with a wave of nausea.

  His mouth instantly went dry. Joanna … the opera … Elizabeth and his brother—his ability to draw a coherent sentence—everything—faded away.

  Sofia was breathtaking. His eyes drew to her lush bosom, behaving on their own accord. Mon Dieu. Indeed, between the shimmering fairy wings and plunging neckline, the costume was a paradoxical blend of scandalous innocence. The urge to fondle her creamy skin—to cup those magnificent breasts within his palms, to feel the weight of her derriere pressed in his clenched hands, to wind all ten fingers through her private curls, to join their bodies in the most primitive of ways—was almost too much to bear.

  Sofia’s widened eyes sobered Aleksender, anchoring his senses.

  Why? Why was he doing this?

  Jealously was the very least of Sofia’s feelings. Such a thing was far too petty of an emotion. How could he be so cruel? So heartless? Was this just another way to illustrate his ruined soul? Another method to drive her away? Was his outburst in the carriage house not enough?

  “Alek!” Joanna piped, arms knotted over her breasts, nerves growing visibly restless. “Why, your daughter is even more adorable than you had described her to be!” Joanna gushed in her most condescending tone. Sensually stroking the rise of his shoulder, she melodically chimed, “To shame! Where have your manners gone to? Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Joanna gasped as Aleksender spun round in a harsh and unexpected movement. His eyes were cold, ruthless and unfeeling. In spite of herself, early stirrings of fear bloomed inside Joanna.

  “Leave us.” The deep baritone of his voice filled the slim hallway. Joanna stubbornly knotted her slender arms and gave an adorable pout. “Leave us now, or, on my father’s grave, I shall make you sorry for ever crossing me.”

  Joanna coiled a rather possessive hand around Aleksender’s neck and brought her lips against the rim of his ear. “You may play the ‘good and chaste comte’ to your heart’s content. But, at the end of the day, you and I both know who and what you really are. A hungry wolf in sheep’s clothing. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  Those words troubled Aleksender more than Joanna could ever know.

  Joanna took a delicate step back and bowed her head. “It was a pleasure. I must say you are positively charming. Quite unfortunate that your foster father here insists on cutting our meeting short. Perhaps you can pound some sense into him. Lord only knows, I have …”

  With a last smile, Joanna strutted down the corridor and out of eyesight. Aleksender watched the vile creature vanish with a burning hatred inside his veins.

  “Sofia, I—” The words came too late. Aleksender’s voice was absorbed by Salle Le Peletier’s rosewood door.

  •

  Dangling beneath a swirl of clouds and paisley blue, the grand chandelier shined like the sun. It was twenty minutes into the second act when a colorful swarm of ballerinas skirted across the wide stage. Each dancer appeared more poised than the last, and the collective ensemble was a breathtaking vision to behold. A soothing and mystical melody swelled the rafters to their limit.

  All of Salle Le Peletier was entranced. Eager to get a closer peek, ladies leaned over the railings of their boxes and balanced whispering fans between fingertips. Nodding in appreciation, gentlemen filled their lungs with smoke, juggling cigars and spectacles by turns.

  Richard glanced over his shoulder at the sounds of creaking wood and footfall. Aleksender inclined his head as he entered box two and nodded his greeting. Nothing had changed. The tension from their luncheon still weighed heavily in the air. Neither Aleksender nor Richard dared to utter a word for several moments.

  Elizabeth also remained static and soundless, both eyes fixed on the spectacle below. A delicate, lace fan was sprawled across the cushion of her lap, entirely disregarded.

  “You nearly missed her variation,” Richard muttered beneath a hushed breath, cautious not to disturb Elizabeth. “What in God’s teeth kept you so long?”

  “Nothing,” Aleksender replied as he claimed a seat between his brother and wife.

  “Nothing?”

  “Business affair in the parlor.” As if assessing his alibi, Elizabeth stole a glance of Aleksender from her peripheral vision.

  “Ah.” Richard gave a curt nod and flashed a pristine smile. “Very well, then.” He crossed both legs knee-high and leaned into Aleksender after a brief silence. “Speaking of propositions,” Richard drawled into Aleksender’s ear, his words nearly inaudible, “Mademoiselle Rosalina made me a rath
er indecent offer not one hour ago. I was searching for you in the parlor when she approached me.”

  “Cunning whore.”

  Elizabeth’s head snapped up, alert to the direction of her husband’s curse.

  “Yes. Yes … I must say—I share in your sentiment.”

  Richard gazed at Elizabeth and admired the delicate silhouette of her profile. His heart ached at the vision. He never could understand Aleksender’s rakish ways nor his fascination with creatures such as Joanna, and his brother’s sudden disdain for the wretched woman was less than satisfying.

  Surely, there would be another mistress to fill her shoes.

  As for Elizabeth, her pain was palpable. Painfully so. Could Aleksender not feel it? Was he truly so blinded?

  What emptiness, Richard secretly pondered, was Aleksender attempting to fill?

  Without warning, the stage cleared and darkened for the second act variation. A collective hush swept over Salle Le Peletier as the prima ballerina claimed centerstage. The spotlight illuminated Sofia’s limbs, drenching her beneath an immaculate shawl of gold.

  A distinct sadness radiated from each of her movements. Aleksender’s body visibly tensed. Each hand gripped onto the armrest with the force of a manacle. Unblinking, he leaned slightly forward, eyes never parting from Sofia.

  Richard shook his head, seeing nothing but his own tangle of inner thoughts.

  He would have given everything for Elizabeth’s love.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The streets hollowed out as the ladies and gentlemen steadily retired to their homes. Silence descended and Paris was returned to her sedentary state once more. Cloaked beneath the fall of night, Aleksender paced outside of Salle Le Peletier’s backstage exit.

  He couldn’t part from Sofia on these terms. During the third act climax, just before the sylph’s wings had crumbled and fallen away, Aleksender had muttered a pitiful excuse and prematurely departed. “Elizabeth … forgive me. I must wrap up a business affair in the parlor,” he’d stupidly offered. The devastation, the utter heartache that had radiated from Sofia’s performance, would haunt him forever.