Sincerely,
Alexandra
P.S. Have you spoken to Rose’s fiancé, the archduke?
* * *
Dearest Alexandra,
You write to me of borders and treaties and the boredom of your ladies-in-waiting, but you have said nothing of your heart. Do not forget me while I am gone. I think of you constantly, even when I am arguing with that devious French diplomat Talleyrand over the freedom of the seas. I wish you were here to argue with him as well. I have no doubt you would put him in his place.
And yes, I did speak with the archduke. I told him she’d had second thoughts. I believe he was genuinely disappointed.
Devotedly yours,
R.
* * *
Dear Randolph,
Forgive me, Husband, for not writing of my heart, but I did not wish to burden you with words of woe and longing, and heaven forbid someone might intercept my letters and discover that the Queen of Petersbourg is a wanton woman who ignores politics and demands only that her lover return to her bed. I am of course dreaming of you each night.
But there is another more important matter that I must relay to you. Rose has been melancholy since you left. I suspect she is disappointed as well, but I do not believe she is longing for the archduke. Therefore I am of the opinion you did the right thing in ending their engagement. I believe she is in love with someone else, though she refuses to name the gentleman. I will certainly relay the information if I can discover the secrets she keeps hidden in her heart.
Come home soon. I long for your touch.
* * *
Over the next two weeks, Alexandra received no further letters from Randolph, but she did her best not to worry and reminded herself that he was occupied with very important matters of state.
That did not stop her, however, from longing desperately for his return, and her heart ached when she heard reports that the congress was nowhere near completion. Evidently the kings, princes, emperors, and diplomats were all having too much fun.
She rather wished it were not so.
* * *
Another week went by, and still Alexandra received no letters. She sought out the palace post officer personally and asked if there had been any delay in correspondence from Vienna.
He informed her that a few letters had indeed found their way across the border and Prince Nicholas’s official reports from Vienna to the Privy Council had been received, but no personal correspondence had come from the king.
He apologized, and she did her best to appear cheerful as she thanked him.
* * *
Three days later, a visitor was announced to the queen’s chamber.
Alexandra set down her embroidery and stood to receive the Marquess of Cavanaugh, who bowed deeply upon a gallant entry. “Your Majesty.”
“Lord Cavanaugh, what a pleasure to see you.” She crossed toward him while making a sincere effort to ignore the anxious little gasps from her three ladies-in-waiting, who rose quickly to curtsy. One nearly knocked over a chair in the process.
It did not take a fool to recognize the fact that they were all foolishly besotted, for the future Duke of Kaulbach was a devastatingly handsome man and one of the most sought-after bachelors in Petersbourg. He would one day inherit an ancient and illustrious dukedom and would be one of the highest-ranking peers in the realm.
“What brings you to the palace?” she asked. “I thought you were in Vienna with everyone else.”
“I was, madam,” he replied, “but I have come home with an important dispatch.” He stepped forward to hand over a stack of letters tied in a red ribbon. “For you, from the king.”
Her heart ignited with joy and it took great strength of will for her to resist rushing forward to snatch the letters out of his hands.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said as she accepted them. “I am in your debt. Tell me, did he send you home just to deliver these letters?”
“No,” the marquess replied. “I had already announced my desire to return home, and His Majesty knew I could be trusted to deliver them to you without risk of loss or tardiness.”
She smiled. “Very well, then. You must join me for tea and allow me to thank you—for the second time, it seems. I am still deeply touched by the wedding gift you sent. I have had it mounted in my private chamber, and I cherish it deeply.”
“I am pleased to hear it.”
Her ladies-in-waiting fell into a hush of giggly whispers, then scurried off in all directions to appear busy.
“Tell me about Vienna,” Alex said as she sat down at the fireside table across from the marquess. “How I wish I could attend such an important historic event.”
He lounged back in the chair and crossed one leg over the other. “Have you been to Vienna before?”
“No, never. Please describe it to me. I wish to know every detail. Tell me about the architecture, the artists, the food…”
“Ah, the food…” His eyes sparkled with teasing charm as he told her great tales of the Emperor of Austria’s culinary extravagances, the nightly feasts with elaborate menus of soups and hors d’oeuvres, main courses of tender venison, followed by sweet indulgences—rum cakes soaked in sugar sauce, raspberry pies with clotted cream, strong coffee, and sweet dessert wines from Hungary …
By the marquess’s description, it sounded as if the entire city had been transformed into a veritable festival of romance and pleasure.
But there was also other important news the marquess wished to convey.…
For a full hour he held nothing back and revealed all he could about the latest negotiations among all the great and lesser allied powers, most of which were taking place in informal settings—at balls and operas, on boat cruises along the Danube, or across the marble-topped card tables in the clubs.
By the time he was finished describing all of it, Alexandra felt as if she had traveled to Vienna and back and had taken part in the carving and sculpting of a new Europe.
After he left, she sat for a long while with her hands upon her belly, staring at the wall. Then she quickly stood up, moved to a more comfortable chair, and settled in with fervor to read her husband’s letters.
Most of them were very brief and left her feeling frustrated. She was glad she had not read them in front of the marquess.
* * *
The following day, newspaper in hand, Alexandra entered Rose’s chamber just before luncheon. “I must speak with you in private about something,” she said.
Rose frowned. “What is it? You look troubled.”
Alexandra was not proud of the whirlwind of her emotions—and perhaps it was the pregnancy that caused such irrational thoughts to spin about in her brain—but she could not possibly keep quiet about what she had just read. Rose was the only person she could confide in about this particular subject. It was not something she wished to share with her stepmother.
“Have you seen the Chronicle today?”
“Not yet,” Rose said.
Alexandra handed it to her and pointed. “See there, on page one. The piece about the masquerade ball.” She waited for Rose to find it and begin reading, paced around the room for a moment or two, then spoke up before Rose had a chance to finish. “It says Randolph and Nicholas have been behaving rakishly during the entire congress, and…” She paused. “Well … read on. Have you gotten to the worst part yet?”
Rose continued to read until her eyebrows lifted. “Oh! Goodness me.”
“Indeed,” Alexandra replied as she crossed to the window. “I am not pleased about this, Rose. Not at all.”
Rose read it again. “It says he was dancing with a mysterious beauty of unknown identity and at the end of the evening she lifted her bejeweled mask and revealed herself. To a great round of applause!”
Alexandra scoffed bitterly.
“I am sure it was nothing,” Rose tried to say.
“How could it be nothing?” Alex turned to face her. “That so-called beauty is his ex-fiancée! And it reports quite cle
arly that her husband, the earl, did not accompany her to Vienna. Why do you think she is there? Is it possible she wants Randolph back?”
“Oh, what difference does it make?” Rose said, tossing the paper onto the bed. “She cannot have him. He belongs to you now, and you are carrying his child.”
Alex faced her and tried to convey a measure of confidence. “Yes, I am quite sure you are right, but why must the paper print something so scandalous? You understand what they are implying—that he is ready to take a mistress, and how wonderfully romantic that he can be reunited with his first love, who jilted him. It makes me want to spit.”
Rose joined her at the window. “It doesn’t matter what they say. It’s pure rubbish. May I remind you that she broke his heart and he hates her. With a passion.”
Alexandra stared out the window while she considered her sister-in-law’s assessment of the situation. “Hatred sounds all very well and good, Rose, but I must confess … I would prefer a lackluster indifference.”
* * *
With Christmas fast approaching, Alexandra made an effort to keep busy so as not to obsess over her husband’s social calendar in Vienna.
She took on many charitable duties, including visits to the poorhouses to deliver loaves of bread and soup prepared by the palace kitchen. She also took it upon herself to arrange a full week of gatherings at the palace for sixty aristocratic ladies, where they were each required to knit a pair of woolen mittens every twenty-four hours. At the end of the week, Alexandra delivered the mittens to the Abbey of St. Paul and met with the bishop to organize a gift giving on Christmas Day to those less fortunate.
Her efforts were recognized in the Chronicle, and wherever she went she was greeted by throngs of cheering crowds in the streets.
“Long live the queen!” someone shouted on one particular afternoon when she unexpectedly stopped her coach to step out and shake hands with a group of musicians playing for coin outside the shops on Solenski Row.
She invited them to play a private concert for the king upon his return.
On the following day, this flattering headline graced the front page of the paper, and she could not help but smile at the satisfaction it roused in her: “QUEEN ALEXANDRA WINS HEART OF THE NATION.”
On page 2, however, a detailed account of the latest society gossip at the Vienna Congress outshined that flattering headline—for a banquet and ball had recently been held at the emperor’s palace to celebrate the late arrival of an important diplomat from America.
Among the list of attendees was her husband of course, and the next name listed, directly beside his, was that of the Countess of Ainsley.
The baby kicked especially hard just then, and Alexandra laid a hand on her belly. “I know, dearest, I know. I don’t like it either, but we must remain sensible.”
She set the newspaper aside and wished she could kick someone, too. The Countess of Ainsley perhaps? Or maybe she could stomp hard on her husband’s foot the next time they danced.
If he was not too tired of dancing when he returned, for it sounded as if he was overindulging in that particular pastime.
She threw the paper down and counted slowly to ten.
* * *
She received no letters from Randolph for another unbearable week, and despite her busy schedule and the many pleasing reports of her growing popularity in Petersbourg, she could not seem to keep a secure hold on her emotions.
One minute she was blissfully happy, focused on her sovereign duties, and eagerly anticipating the birth of her first child. She enjoyed the distraction of many visitors, including the Marquess of Cavanaugh, who congratulated her on her success and lent her an instruction pamphlet about knitting, which he thought she might enjoy, for it included playful patterns for children’s hats.
He was a good friend when she needed one.
The next minute she was imagining that infamous night at the masquerade ball in Vienna when the Countess of Ainsley had dramatically lifted her mask to reveal herself.
What exactly had occurred before her unveiling? How many times had she and Randolph danced? Had she flirted with him with her eyes?
And dammit, what had she been wearing? Something shimmery with a scandalously low neckline, no doubt.
When at last a letter arrived from Alexandra’s husband, it was to inform her that he would be home in time for Christmas. It was a brief letter lacking in the usual passionate outpourings of love, but it was signed, as always, Devotedly yours.
She read that particular correspondence with a tight clenching of her jaw and had just stuffed it into the cedar box with the others and slammed the lid shut when a visitor was announced.
In the wake of her husband’s dispassionate letter, she was not in the mood to be sociable. Nevertheless, she reminded herself that she could not wallow in petty jealousies. She had a duty to fulfill. A duty to the people of this country. A duty to her heritage.
The door opened, her ladies-in-waiting scampered quite noticeably from the room and, to her incredible surprise, in walked her husband, the king, looking handsome and virile in a long black greatcoat with cape shoulders and a brand-new pair of polished Hessians.
Obviously the festival of pleasures—and all the dancing he’d done in Vienna—had agreed with him. He had never looked better. She wished she could hate him for it, but all she felt was a mad desire to dash into his arms, rip that coat off his body, and make love to him right there on the floor.
Thankfully, however, more sensible thoughts took over, and she wondered what would happen if she threw a brandy decanter at his head.
Chapter Thirty-one
Struggling to remain composed, Alexandra blinked a few times as Randolph closed the door behind him, set down the large leather portfolio he carried, and began to remove his coat.
“Are you not happy to see me?” he asked, slowly striding closer.
All her senses began to hum. Her heart was beating like an army drum in the tense moments before the forward line was called to fire.
“I am in shock,” she replied. “I just read your letter. It arrived barely five minutes ago. Was that a joke? Were you toying with me?”
He laughed, and she wanted to pummel his chest with her fists. “Yes,” he replied. “I wanted to surprise you.”
“Well, you most certainly did. I am not prepared.”
Her hair was a mess. She was dressed in a dowdy gown, but everything felt dowdy when her belly stuck out far enough to knock over a table.
He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it onto a chair, gathered her into his arms, and said, “I didn’t want you prepared. All I wanted was the real you, without any pomp or ceremony.” He stepped back and held both her hands out to the side while he took in her appearance. His gaze slid down the length—and width—of her ever-expanding body.
“Look at you,” he said. “Our child is growing well, I see.”
“Yes, he’s strong as an ox.” And I feel as fat as one.
Randolph pulled her into his arms again and held her tight. “It’s so good to be home, my love. It’s damn cold out there, and the only thing that kept me from freezing to death in the coach tonight was the thought of your soft, warm body next to mine. Kiss me, Wife, before I throw you on the bed and behave like an ill-bred savage.”
She should have resisted. She should have asked him about the Countess of Ainsley and laid all her insecurities to rest before she responded to his sexual overtures—but heaven help her, passion suppressed reason and all she could do was tear furiously at the buttons on his waistcoat and open her mouth for the pounding onslaught of his kiss.
For she needed to prove that he was still hers. And that she still had the power to bewitch him.
* * *
They did not even make it to the bed. They made love like two young, hotheaded lovers on the sheepskin rug before the fire.
Afterward they lay naked, without modesty, sipping wine and wondering if they should cover themselves in case anyone should walk in.
“Of course.”
He stood and moved to the door and withdrew a large framed cross-stitch from the leather portfolio he had brought into the room when he arrived.
“It’s you,” he said, holding it up for her, “reclining on the terrace balustrade on the night we met at the Carlton House ball.”
Alex sat up to admire the magnificent artistry and workmanship in the details of the piece. There were tiny beads and jewels stitched into the intricate folds and ribbons of her gown, and a crystal chandelier sparkled gorgeously in the background. Even her long white gloves were trimmed in tiny pearls.
“It’s beautiful, Randolph. Thank you. I will treasure it always.”
He set it down nearby and returned to lie beside her. “If only you knew how I missed you, and how I wanted you at my side. That’s why I had this commissioned.”
“Did you really miss me?” she asked, working hard to bury her antagonism and not behave like a shrew but, rather, a seductive wife who merely aimed to stake a claim upon her husband’s affections.
“Of course,” he replied with a curious frown. “Could there be any doubt?”
She shrugged casually as she propped her chin on his chest.
“Let me guess,” he said. “You read the report in the paper about that awkward masquerade ball.”
“Indeed I did,” she tersely replied, “and I wanted to go straight to Vienna and shake you senseless, then take you to my bed to remind you of the wife you left behind. Then I would have pushed you off the bed and onto the cold, hard floor. Was it marble? I imagined it was when I plotted it in my head.”
Be My Prince Page 21
