"You have permitted Sarus to think that I am your mistress, and now everyone assumes it, even the cadre sometimes. What is the difference?"
"The difference is that I know you are not, and you know it.” Perhaps he was a fool. The reasons he knew so well in the bright light of day seemed less than convincing here in the shifting light of a single bedside candle. His guard against treachery had never been penetrated, and was unlikely to be now. If she cared nothing for her honor, why should he? And yet it was that lack of caring, combined with her obvious inexperience, that troubled him most, even more than the likelihood of his housing a traitor.
"But I could be, so easily.” The words were low-spoken, with a hint of pleading. She held out her hand.
His dark gold brows drew together in a frown, and he reached to take her fingers, which trembled visibly. “A freezing mistress, all fearful entreaty and icy affection. How can I resist?"
He released her hand and leaned to thrust his arms under her, lifting her against his chest. Swinging about so that her hair swirled around them in a dark curtain, he strode from the bedchamber into his personal salon and through it to the antechamber. There was a light there as Michael, wearing only his uniform trousers, stood in the doorway that led into the rooms of the cadre. Sarus, his Russian Tartar's copper face lined with age and fatigue, his bent form covered by a rough nightshirt, stood beside Roderic's cousin. It was plain that they had heard something of the quarrel, at least enough to awaken them.
Mara closed her eyes, wishing she could vanish, feeling the hurtful rise of tears of despair behind her nose and eyelids. She had thought for one wild moment that Roderic meant to hold her, to warm her in his bed. That hope was gone. She knew, as they moved out of the antechamber and down the corridor of rooms into the rest of the house, that he was returning her to her own bedchamber.
"I can walk,” she said, the words stifled.
He did not answer.
It was a long passage. Mara grew slowly aware of the strength of his hold, of the steady thud of his heartbeat. Her skin tingled where she was pressed against him with only the thin cloth of her nightgown separating them. Safe. She felt safe. But also unbearably conscious of him as a man, a prince. Roderic of Ruthenia. They were close, so close. She felt an unnerving impulse to turn, to slide her arms around his neck and press against him. She wanted, in a way that had nothing to do with the instructions she had been given, to make him aware of her, to gain some real response from him for herself as a woman.
As the prospect of physical intimacy receded, it was replaced by chagrin, which was swiftly followed by resentment. Arrogant, overbearing man; his pretense of concern was an insult. How dare he refuse her, and with so little effort? She would like to make him regret it; she really would, if only to restore her damaged self-esteem. But how could she? He seemed invulnerable.
He pushed into her bedchamber and, in the light of a candelabrum left burning on the center table, strode to the bed. He placed her on the high surface and stepped back.
Quickly, Mara rose to her knees and reached out to catch his shoulders. They were warm and firm under her hands, the muscles flexed and, in his surprise, without resistance. She met his cobalt-blue gaze for a brief instant, her own eyes serene, daring. And then she set her lips to his, brushing them on the smooth, well-molded surface, testing with the tip of her tongue the ridged edges, the sensitive line where they came together. He swayed toward her, his lips opening with warm willingness. Light-headed with triumph and something more she would not recognize, she smoothed her hands along his shoulders to lock them behind his neck, deepening the kiss.
Was it calculation that made her draw back or doubts about her temerity? Was it some small movement he made that disturbed her or her own growing need to be nearer? She could not have said, but she did release him, easing away.
"Goodnight,” she murmured.
He stared at her, his expression unreadable, for the space of a heartbeat. Then, turning with the smooth and lithe control of limitless strength, he walked from the room.
Mara collapsed on the bed, covering her face with her hands, resting her forehead on her knees. Her hair spilled forward, hiding her face. What was she going to do? She had to face the fact that she might well not be able to win her way into the prince's bed. What was going to happen to her grandmother if she did not? What would de Landes do?
These questions were vital, haunting, but there was one other that circled endlessly in her mind. How was she going to face Roderic in the morning?
She felt scarred and defeated and, yes, exhausted, as if she had been in a desperate battle. Her chest hurt, her lips burned, and her pride was sore. She longed for vengeance and oblivion with equal fervor, for any way to free herself from the humiliation that gripped her. And yet on another level she was relieved. Considering Roderic's manner with his men when they displeased him, she knew that she was lucky to have emerged from the encounter so nearly unscathed. Moreover, she had avoided that final physical surrender. She certainly should be relieved.
The control of the prince was a revelation to her. She had somehow thought, doubtless because of her experience with Dennis, that men lacked that ultimate self-denial, that they were more at the mercy of their desires. Roderic had wanted her. He had not admitted it, but it had been plain enough. Still, he had denied himself. For whatever reason, he had deliberately drawn back from the easy possession of her, had removed her from his bed, his apartment, his vicinity. In spite of her willingness, her touch, even her pleas, regardless of how hard or how easy it might have been, he had summoned the will to evict her.
Mara sat up, flinging her hair back. With a startled look on her face, she considered Roderic's conduct, thinking back to the other time when she had been alone with a man. It became slowly apparent that Dennis Mulholland, on that night in the summerhouse, had lacked self-control. He had shown no more self-discipline than a small boy left alone in a candy shop. He had been presented by accident with an opportunity to gratify his desires, and he had seized it with both hands. He had shown no concern whatever for her, no caring for her predicament, her lack of air; he had simply sought to appease his own appetite at her expense. She had been right to be angry that night, right to refuse to marry him. He had known it. His death had changed nothing.
She felt suddenly as if a great darkness had lifted from her mind. She was not to blame. Dennis Mulholland had not been killed because of her. She was not some seductress who had tempted him beyond his power to resist, thereby causing the degradation that had made him seek death. The weakness had been his, just as the choice to draw back or to violate her chastity with his touch had been his.
Why had she thought otherwise? Was it the urging of marriage by her father and by Dennis, as if in punishment for some sin? Was it her remorse for her thoughtlessness or the attitude of society that seemed to expect her to take some blame upon herself? Or was it the religious teachings of her youth that had, in the tale of Garden of Eden, placed the fault for the failure of will in Adam on the shoulders of Eve?
Whatever the cause, it had taken a Balkan prince to show her the error. For that, at least, she must be grateful to him. It would be much easier to do that if she never had to see Roderic again.
Morning brought Juliana's Prussian. The hour was nearing eleven when Sarus, very correct in his livery, which was not unlike the uniform of the cadre, found Mara in her salon where she was going over the menu for the day with the cook. He gave her a stiff bow and presented a card on a silver tray.
"What is it?” she asked, taking up the card and looking at it in mystification. The name on the card, with a long list of titles, conveyed nothing to her at that moment.
"It is the crown prince, mademoiselle."
"Surely he doesn't wish to see me. You must take this to Prince Roderic."
"The prince has been with Luca this last half hour. His orders were that they were not to be disturbed."
"Then the crown prince will have to wait."
"Prussian—oh!” Mara frowned down at the card, then looked up again."Perhaps you could inform Princess Juliana of his arrival."
"The princess has not yet left her bed."
"Surely he will wait for her to get up and make ready to see him?"
Sarus hesitated, his lined face knotted with worry. “He is not used to waiting. He may go in search of Princess Juliana, and if he does, she—"
"Yes, I can imagine,” Mara said hastily. Juliana would not be pleased and would let everyone know it. A domestic crisis of that kind was to be avoided if at all possible. “Very well. I will be there in a moment."
When she entered the public salon a short time later, the Prussian was standing by the windows staring down at the snow-covered cobbles of the entrance court. He turned as she advanced toward him, bowing with a sharp click of his heels. “Mademoiselle, I apologize for taking you from your tasks."
"Not at all.” Mara dropped a slight curtsy, then indicated that he should be seated across from her on a settee. He was tall and well-built, though his chest was as round as a barrel. Perhaps in his late thirties, he had a flowing blond mustache, a luxuriant growth that contrasted sharply with the slick, shaven pate of his head. “Have you had refreshment? Very good. Then how may I assist you?"
He cleared his throat. “It is a matter of some delicacy."
When he did not go on, Mara, in an attempt to help him, said, “It concerns Princess Juliana, I think?"
"Indeed, yes. A fabulous creature. I have her father's permission to pay her my court."
"Yes?” Behind his abrupt manner, he was a most proper man, but calculating with it.
"She is young and frivolous and doesn't know her own mind."
Mara, who was beginning to feel like a maiden aunt, thought privately that the description did not sound like the Juliana she had met. She said nothing, only nodding encouragement.
"In short, she has flown from me. Is she here?"
"Did Sarus not tell you? She is visiting her brother, yes."
"Ah, that is good news. May I see her?"
"In anticipation of your request, Sarus has gone to see if she is in."
"I must see her!"
His vehemence was a little alarming since it was accompanied by the rush of blood to his face. The vessels in his neck appeared ready to burst. What she would do if he jumped up and began to search the house, she did not know.
"Have you known Juliana long?” she asked, hoping to distract him. Where was the girl, or Roderic? Anyone. She could not believe that one of the cadre had not looked in, hoping to meet the bald Prussian. Perhaps they, too, were with Roderic?
"We met in Ruthenia, at the palace. It has been two months since that day."
In the entrance court below the windows, the door knocker sounded. Somewhere Demon was barking, the sound echoed by the sharp yipping of Juliana's Pekingese. Perhaps she was about to be rescued.
"Is that not Juliana's little dog? Surely she is here as she goes nowhere without the animal."
"This is Paris, Your Highness. It isn't always convenient to carry a dog.” Where was Sarus? Couldn't he at least learn whether Juliana meant to see her visitor or deny herself? Searching rather desperately for a topic to distract him, she said, “I trust you were not troubled in your journey by the snow?"
"A mere nothing. I was not surprised when it stopped before dawn. I drove through the night without stopping."
At that moment a housemaid opened the door. “The Messieurs Alexandre Dumas, père et fils."
Before the new guests could enter, Demon, his tongue lolling out and toenails clicking on the hard floor, galloped into the room with the Pekingese, Sophie, clattering along behind him trailing a gem-studded leash. They circled the settee, then, discovering the crown prince, slid to a halt and gave tongue. Alexandre Dumas the elder advanced into the room, his bonhomie undisturbed by the noise. Behind him came a young man with curling auburn hair and light blue eyes set in features with a faintly melancholy cast.
Dumas shouted, “Mademoiselle Incognito, I give you good morning! Here I have brought my son who wished to meet so fascinating a young lady as yourself. I trust you do not mind?"
Mara presented Dumas père to the crown prince, though she was not certain that either caught the other's name over the din of high-pitched yelping and deeper barking from the excited dogs. She spoke to Demon severely, but it did not help, and when she ordered the maidservant to remove the two animals, both mongrel and Pekingese turned the attempt into a new game, playing hide-and-seek among the chairs. During the melee, Estes and Jared appeared in the doorway. They, too, joined the chase. The older Dumas, hugely enjoying the scene, sat down beside Mara and captured her hand.
Distracted, Mara smiled at him, then looked away at once to call, “Be careful of that vase!” as a fine example of Meissen ware teetered on a rocking table. The Pekingese ran between the legs of the younger Dumas, who bent over, trying to catch the dragging leash. At the same time, the crown prince reached for it. The two men butted heads with a sound that could be heard across the room. Young Dumas staggered back and stepped on Sophie. The Pekingese squealed. Dumas shifted, and his foot came down on the dog's leash, which was immediately jerked from under him as the Prussian pulled on it. Dumas floundered, his arms beating the air, then went down on his knees in front of Mara. Demon, rounding the end of the settee with Estes and Jared closing in behind him, made a flying leap and landed on Dumas's back. The young man's head snapped forward, pressing his face into Mara's lap. At once Demon scrambled into the safety of Mara's arms, trying to lick her face.
Mara, choking on suppressed laughter, tried to fend the dog off while Dumas the elder, the crown prince, and Estes all converged upon her.
It was then that Roderic spoke from the doorway, his tones flinty with contempt. “A charming revel, if somewhat vulgar. May anyone join?"
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8
It was a day of visitors, of much coming and going. Juliana, sweeping into the salon behind her brother, was all smiling graciousness toward Arvin, the crown prince of Prussia. Her apparent pleasure in seeing him so dazed his senses, coming as it did on the heels of Roderic's less than cordial greeting, that before he knew it she had carried him off for a drive to see Paris in the snow. The Dumases departed before luncheon, but, pressed by the prince, promised to return for dinner that evening. No sooner had the door closed upon them than it opened to admit a member of the Académie, a politician with virulent republican sentiments, and a scandalous old Vicomtesse who was legitimist to the heart and fierce with it. The trio stayed to luncheon and very nearly came to blows over the daube glace. During the afternoon, several ladies and gentlemen from Louis Philippe's court dropped by, complaining of boredom. Life was duller than usual at this season due to the illness of Madame Adelaide, the sister of the king; Ruthenia House was the only place they could be certain of finding entertainment and witty conversation without the aroma of the nostrums prescribed by doctors. Along with the comtesse, the politician, and the academician, who seemed entrenched for the duration, they settled down to tables of cards.
They were joined during the afternoon by Théophile Gau-tier of La Presse, the journalist who was also a poet. He read them a portion of his latest poem, a fragment concerning his travels to a country whose name Mara did not quite catch. It sounded good, however, and was applauded by all. He complained that everyone was traveling and writing about it, or else had plans to do so. Before long there would be books and poems only about foreign places and none about France. Exception was taken to this statement by an older man who strolled into the room. He had been traveling for years over France, he said, looking at its ancient buildings and writing about them.
"Learned articles,” Gautier scoffed, “but your most famous short story is about a Spanish lady of the evening named Carmen!"
Roderic, lounging before the fire with a glass of brandy at his elbow, cocked
a brow at the pair. “Those learned articles have meant the preservation of many of the architectural glories of France. Appointing Mérimée Inspector of Monuments was one of the most important decisions of the July Monarchy."
Prosper Mérimée bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment, but one of the court members protested."You make it sound as if you expect to hear nothing more from Louis Philippe. The man isn't dead yet."
"Very true,” Roderic said, picking up his brandy glass and staring into the swirling liquor. “My apologies."
Mara looked up sharply from where she was taking a hand in a game of old-fashioned brisque. Through her mind ran the instructions from de Landes: She was to make certain that Roderic was near the king. Where Roderic was, the cadre would be also. Could it have something to do with the fact that his men were known as the Death Corps? Could there be some plan to assassinate the king? But if there was, and if Roderic was involved, why should it be necessary for her to see that he was in the correct place? And why would a man active in the ministry under Louis Philippe, dependent on the favor of the king, be playing a part? It made no sense. And yet there was some reason. There must be, or else she would not be there in Ruthenia House.
Roderic was the consummate host, seeing to the pleasure of his guests, engaging them in conversation that crackled and sparked like a pyrotechnic display. He had a knack for making people feel welcome, but there was little ease in his presence. There was instead a sense of vivid life, of sharp-edged enjoyment so intense that no one appeared to want to leave for fear they would miss some excitement.
And yet that intensity was fueled, Mara recognized as the day wore on, by his black temper. If she had not noted the signs herself, the soft-stepping attitude of the cadre would have alerted her. The quiet lash of his voice in argument, the brilliance of his logic that annihilated opponents, the gentle tone he used and the solemnity of his features as he encouraged those who had made foolish remarks to enlarge upon them were signals that could not be ignored. So alas was his outrageous gallantry toward the ladies as he smiled upon them with a ferocity that made one hang upon his arm with her breast pressed against him and her eyes bright, while another developed a habit of giggling every time he looked her way.
Royal 02 - Royal Passion Page 15
