Whisper Always

by Rebecca Hagan Lee

 

  DEAR READER,

  I remember the day I discovered the Hapsburgs. After reading all of Mary Stewart's, Victoria Holt's, Phillippa Carr's, and Catherine Gaskin's books I discovered Evelyn Anthony. I was searching the stacks of the public library for more of her wonderful romantic suspense when I came across a book that changed my life. That book, The Archduke by Michael Arnold, was a historical novel written in the form of a diary kept by Crown Prince Rudolf of Austria-Hungary during the last year of his life, documenting the events leading to the tragedy at Mayerling.

  I was ten years old and that wonderful discovery was the start of my lifelong romance with Rudolf and all things Hapsburg. I read everything I could find on the Hapsburgs, especially Rudolf and his parents, Emperor Franz Josef and Empress Elisabeth. But the Austro-Hungarian Empire was a distant memory and reading material was hard to come by. I persisted, learning to painstakingly translate German and French word for word with French-English and German-English dictionaries because the only material on the Hapsburgs I hadn't read hadn't been translated into English.

  Three years after college graduation and marriage, I pulled out a notebook and began to write one. My first romance novel, Whisper Always, was born.

  I've written five other romance novels since I wrote Whisper Always --all set in the American West during the 1870s and I sold all five of them before I sold Whisper Always. I built a reputation as an Americana writer, but I never forgot my love for the Hapsburgs or European royalty and history. My fascination with the Hapsburgs and my writing of Whisper Always made my American books possible. And now it's enabling me to tell the stories I want to tell--stories that take place in other times and settings on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean.

  In Whisper Always, I wanted to tell the story of a man and a woman who fell in love and made mistakes in and unforgiving society. I wanted Rudolf to be part of that story because history has always regarded him as weak instead of a world-weary and disillusioned crown prince forced to wait until his father's death in order to do the job he'd been born to do. I wanted to show the human side of the crown prince. I used Rudolf to bring my hero and heroine together and he provided the opportunity for them to risk everything for love and to learn how to trust. I like to think that had they actually lived, Blake and Cristina would have done the same for him.

  Had he lived, Rudolf would have ascended the throne in 1916 at the age of fifty-eight, and World Wars I and II might have been avoided. Rudolf's misfortune was to be heir to an absolute monarch who lived to be eighty-six and whose reign lasted sixty-eight years. Rudolf tired of the wait on January 30, 1889, at the age of thirty.

  A small portrait of Rudolf sits on my desk and looks down on me as I write this. I hope Whisper Always has treated him fairly. He wasn't much for displays of sentimentality, but I think he would have liked Blake and Cristina and enjoyed the role he played in bringing them together. I hope you do, too.

  REBECCA HAGAN LEE

  June 1999

 

  Titles by Rebecca Hagan Lee

  SOMETHING BORROWED

  GOSSAMER

  WHISPER ALWAYS

  *WHISPER ALWAYS*

  *Rebecca Hagan Lee*

 

  JOVE BOOKS. NEW YORK

 

  ISBN: 0-515-12712-4

  Copyright (c) 1999 by Rebecca Hagan Lee.

 

  For enduring and understanding my lifelong obsession

  with the Hapsburgs, for taking me to see the Lipizzaners every time they're

  touring nearby, and for watching Mayerling over and

  over again

  without complaint.

  For always believing I could do it and for making it possible, I dedicate this book to you, Steve.

  With love.

 

  *Part One*

 

 

  Avarice, ambition, lust, etc., are nothing but species of madness.

  --BENEDICT [BARUCH] DE SPINOZA 1632-1677

 

  *Prologue*

 

  Winter 1854

  Everleigh, Sussex, England

 

  The black-haired waif huddled closer inside the blanket, staring out the window of her bedroom at the shimmering gabled roof and chimneys of the magnificent country house across the way. She often sat there in the early morning hours, dreaming of the day when she would live at Willow Wood. She hadn't yet worked out the way she intended to catch the eye of the heir to Willow Wood, but she would. She must. It wasn't enough to be the daughter of a country squire, she had to be something--someone--more. She moved back from the window so she could see her face reflected in the glass. At ten years of age, she already showed the promise of great beauty. A beauty she didn't intend to see wasted on a farmer or the son of a squire or any of the lower branches of the aristocracy. She was destined for greater things. One day she would be the marchioness of Everleigh. And her beauty would be her most valuable tool.

  She tightened her grip on the blanket. She shivered in the chilly air, but that couldn't be helped. Her bedroom was freezing cold in the winter and suffocatingly hot in the summer. Her father strutted around the village, pretending to be a powerful man, a force with whom to be reckoned in the district, but she knew better. Her father was a mere country squire. A country squire with a pitifully small income. Lord Everleigh was the real power. Everleigh, whose only son was a couple of years her elder. Everleigh, who had given refuge to his younger brother's widow and his nephew. She watched them from her perch in the window, watched as the two boys raced across the fields on finely bred horseflesh. She'd already met the nephew and begun weaving her spell around him. But at ten, she hadn't yet learned enough to control him. That's why she often sneaked out of her bedroom and carefully spied on the occupants of the room across the hall where her governess entertained her father every Thursday night. It thrilled her to watch and listen as plain Miss Franklin wheedled and cajoled her father into submission. He might rule the other rooms of the house with a beefy fist and a leather strap, but her father was just a quivering mass of groans, grunts, and sighs in the bedroom across the hall. And the fact that he surrendered his will to a governess every Thursday night gave her hope. She could see all the opportunities, the possibilities out of such weakness.

  There was sweet satisfaction in knowing her father could be so easily controlled. And if her father could be controlled, so could other men--richer men, more powerful men. She stared at the boys. One day, she promised herself--one day she would have everything they had. One day she would own them both. She simply had to bide her time and watch and learn. Manipulation was the way of the world. The strong manipulated the weak. She was strong and she intended to do more with her life. She had no intention of being meek and mild like her mother, turning the other cheek while her husband fornicated with the governess beneath her very nose, or of bowing and scraping to ladies of the peerage.

  Her aspirations went far beyond that. She intended to rule. And she was willing to hide in the wardrobe in a cold, dark bedroom every Thursday night to learn the necessary talents that would give her power over men. She had already learned a great deal, and she regularly practiced what she'd learned on Everleigh's nephew. Every day Jack surrendered more of his will to her. Eventually his cousin would, too.

  She thrived on the thrill, the exquisite power of conquest.

 

  If the heart of a man is depress'd with cares

  The mist is dispelled when a woman appears.

  --JOHN GAY 1685-1732

 

  *Chapter One*

 
<
br />   Spring 1818

  London

 

  "Is it true?" The tall blonde matron leaned over and whispered to the woman standing next to her.

  "Is what true?"

  "Don't be coy with me, Patricia." The blonde nodded toward the line of young women awaiting presentation to the queen. "The town's been whispering about the wager for weeks. And I couldn't help but notice poor Cristina's dress."

  "Oh?" Patricia laughed.

  The sound grated on the nerves of the man who stood directly behind them.

  "Of course it's true," Patricia replied. "I wagered Cristina could catch the eye of the crown prince dressed in sack cloth and ashes."

  "Do you really believe she can?" The words were annoying, spoken as they were in a malicious, conspiratorial whine.

  "But of course," Patricia smiled. "If I could have presented her in sack cloth, I'd have done so." She shrugged her sleek, white shoulders. "As it was, her dress was the best I could do. Not that it will matter. The crown prince will notice her. That's to be expected. He's a connoisseur of beautiful women and Cristina is made in my image."

  Lord Blake Ashford, ninth earl of Lawrence, shook his head. When you were younger, perhaps, he thought uncharitably, but not now. He glanced from mother to daughter. The girl waiting in line was exquisite--even dressed in that abominable creation.

  The evening gown she wore ranked high among the most unbecoming garments Blake had ever seen on a woman. The dress was lavishly decorated. Over-decorated. The delicate silk was burdened with ruffles; bows; yards of wide, Belgian lace; and a multitude of hideous white satin rosettes. The rosettes clung to the bustle like lichen attaching itself to a rock, then extended in sweeping tendrils to cover the formal train. It was a horticulturist's nightmare in white silk and satin.

  Blake gritted his teeth, remembering Patricia Fairfax's words. The deliberate fussiness of the gown made Cristina Fairfax look like an awkward child--a child caught playing dress-up with her mother's clothes. And judging from the set of her jaw and the belligerent thrust of her pointed chin, the young woman knew it.

  "How much did you wager?" The eager question drew Blake's attention.

  "I didn't wager money," Patricia replied.

  "Then what?"

  "You'll find out," Patricia said. "Once I've won the bet."

  Blake scowled and focused his gaze on the daughter. Cristina. God, he hated women like Patricia! He pitied her absent husband and the young woman awaiting her formal debut. Women like Patricia Fairfax were Machiavellis in satin skirts. Beautiful, ambitious, and immoral. He knew the type all too well. He had spent a lifetime in their midst.

  Disgusted by the women's talk, Blake moved away. He didn't want to hear the details. He didn't need to hear them. He understood society. He had learned the rules of the game years ago and he knew enough about those rules to realize that beautiful Cristina Fairfax was a pawn in her mother's nasty little schemes. Blake glanced at the young woman's profile. He wondered, suddenly, if she realized her mother was using her for amusement. Or if she cared.

  Blake studied the girl, noting her proud carriage and the set expression on her face. She knew. Apparently she was powerless to do anything about her mother's scheming, but she knew and she cared. Cristina Fairfax seemed too proud, too innocent, and too aloof to be part of her mother's little wager. Blake took an involuntary step backward. The direction of his thoughts alarmed him. What did he know of innocence? His judgment was suspect where women were concerned, his instincts flawed. He had played the chivalrous knight once. And once was enough. He had learned from his mistake and vowed never to repeat it.

  His instincts warned him to leave the reception while he had a chance, to forget what he had seen and overheard, but Blake didn't leave. He stood quietly and watched Cristina make her curtsey and felt an unwelcome surge of pride when the queen pronounced her, "a truly sweet and lovely girl."

  He told himself he watched because he had a genuine respect for true courage. But he suspected the truth went far deeper than that. Blake pushed the bothersome thoughts aside. He didn't want to delve too deeply into unexplainable emotions. He didn't want to learn the results of Patricia Fairfax's wager or care what happened to her daughter. Cristina wasn't his concern and neither was her mother. So he waited for Cristina to back away from the queen, waited until she had rejoined her fellow debs, before he made his way to the opposite side of the room--as far away from the receiving line as possible. He had work to do.

  Carefully blending into the crush of people, Blake mingled among his peers. He smiled to acquaintances, stopping here and there to exchange pleasantries, as his mind rapidly catalogued the faces in the crowd, searching for the unfamiliar.

  Half an hour later, he nodded to his Austrian counterpart, then waited as the man answered his signal. Blake exhaled, relieved. The guests were all recognizable. There were no unknowns. He signaled to the Austrian once again, then slipped quietly out of the reception. He could relax in one of the small adjoining chambers until the dancing began. It was going to be a long night. He needed to rest while he could.

 

  "Perdition!" the muffled oath greeted him as Blake opened the door to one of the anterooms. He paused in the doorway and frowned.

  Cristina Fairfax stood inside the door with the train of her gown clutched in her hand. He had spent the past half hour avoiding her only to find she had slipped away from the crowd to find a quiet private place to ... Blake shrugged his shoulders, not really sure what she was doing. Or attempting to do. He watched her as she twisted her body at an unbelievable angle and single-mindedly cut the threads anchoring the mass of rosettes on her bustle.

  Blake thought about keeping quiet and silently retreating from the little room, but impulsively decided to speak his mind. "I think it might be easier if you removed the dress."

  Cristina whirled around to face the man leaning against the doorjamb, nearly tumbling in her haste. A guilty flush stained her cheeks as the gold embroidery scissors and a handful of artificial roses fell to the floor. Her green eyes widened in horror. She opened her mouth to speak, but words failed her. She stood silent, clearly embarrassed.

  He smiled at her predicament. His dark eyes crinkled at the corners with amusement. "I agree. Something needs to be done about that god-awful dress. And I know desperate times require desperate measures, but taking a pair of scissors to a ball gown while wearing it seems--well"--he shrugged his shoulders once again--"'a bit dangerous."

  Cristina remained perfectly still and speechless as he closed and locked the door behind him before walking toward her.

  "Turn around," he commanded. "It will take you all night to do it by yourself."

  "Stop! Don't come any closer. I'll scream." Cristina had obviously recovered her power of speech.

  "Don't be ridiculous." He spoke softly, but his deep voice held a note of warning. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm simply going to help you finish whatever it is you're doing to your dress."

  "I don't need your help."

  "Perhaps not, but you cannot go back into the ballroom without someone's help, and I'm the only one available."

  "But you can't--"

  "Of course I can." He smiled down at her. "Now, be a good girl and turn around. Your roses need pruning. They're straggling down your bustle."

  The corners of Cristina's mouth turned up in a smile, and she obediently turned her back to him.

  Blake bent down to retrieve the scissors and began diligently cutting the remaining rosettes from her bustle and train. Stepping back to review his handiwork, Blake shook his head in dismay.

  "I'm afraid the bows and ruffles will have to go, too."

  Cristina twisted around to see what he'd done. "Are you certain?"

  "Trust me," he said, as he knelt behind her once again.

  Minutes later, the remains of white satin bows, ru
ffles, and rosettes littered the floor around Cristina's feet. The only adornment left on her gown was the wide, Belgian lace stretched across her abdomen and the row of pearl buttons that fastened the back of the dress.

  Blake levered himself up from his knees then circled Cristina, slowly viewing the dress from all angles.

  "Well?" Cristina demanded anxiously.

  "Perfection," he said solemnly. "Simple, elegant perfection."

  Cristina sighed in relief. "I don't know how to thank you for your help," she began.

  "Seeing you this way is thanks enough. I was happy to relieve you of that monstrosity." He bowed slightly. "Now you can run along to your ball and enjoy yourself."

  Cristina nearly blinded him with the brilliance of her smile. She took a step forward and found herself tangled in the mound of white at her feet.

  "What should we do with all this?"

  "I'll take care of it," he assured her. "This will be our secret. No one else need know."

  Cristina smiled once more as she quietly slipped out the door.

  Blake watched her go, then bent to pick up the refuse. He slipped a rosette into his jacket pocket. A memento of the unusual evening, he told himself, a memento of a unique situation--and a very lovely young woman. He smiled at the thought, then carefully stuffed the rest of the white satin decorations between the cushions of the sofas.

 

  Lord, I wonder what fool it was that first invented kissing!

  --JONATHAN SWIFT 1667-1745

 

  *Chapter Two*

 

  A whirling mass of white silks and satins filled the ballroom. Interspersed here and there were the colorful gowns of the older women and chaperons, accentuated by the scarlet, blue, green, and gold slashes of the military uniforms of the various regiments from countries throughout Europe and the ever-expanding empire. Their brilliant apparel served as a striking counterpoint to the elegant, black coat and tails of the other gentlemen.

  In the center of all the gaiety, Cristina Fairfax stood enthralled by the display, and almost overwhelmed by eager young suitors. Breathless from the previous dance, she balked when the music began once again and her young partner forgot himself long enough to tug on her gloved hand.

  "The squares are forming for the quadrille, Miss Fairfax. If we don't hurry, we'll miss the beginning."

  Cristina dug in her heels and pulled against him. "No. please, we must stop. I'm exhausted and parched. I must catch my breath before we go any further."

  "But..."

  "I'm sorry," she stated firmly, "but I simply can't walk another step. A quadrille is out of the question." She flashed a perfect smile at the young man to soften the blow as she refused the dance, but the steely glint in her green eyes made it quite clear she was through dancing for the moment.

  She was hot and tired and gasping for breath in long, unladylike spasms. She hated to disappoint her partner--knew she wasn't being fair to him--but Cristina had never fainted before and had no desire to start a trend by collapsing in the middle of her presentation ball. The eligible young men had crowded around her all evening vying for her attention as they waited for the chance to whirl her around the ballroom and she had met their demands. She'd spent the evening flirting outrageously, fluttering her silk fan and her eyelashes with aplomb, bestowing smiles on admirers, and breaking young hearts right and left. But now she simply had to rest.