Even remodeled, her ball gown was hot and heavy. The rigid stays she wore beneath it bit into her ribs and hampered her breathing and her dancing slippers pinched her toes.
She knew the ballroom was buzzing about her. But this time the whispers were anything but cruel. Cristina smiled as she remembered the look of astonishment on Patricia's face. Her mother hadn't expected her to enter the ballroom in a completely refurbished gown and the tight pinch of her dancing slippers had like seemed a small price to pay for an evening of triumph. But that was hours ago, and now ...
Cristina turned to apologize to her partner. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Brown, but I know if I keep dancing I'll drop."
Timothy Brown looked at her with adoring, spaniel-like eyes. "That's all right, Miss Fairfax, I've been quite thoughtless. I should have realized you were tired. If you'll wait here a moment, I'll bring us some refreshment."
"Thank you, Mr. Brown, I'd like that very much." Cristina thanked him with a genuine smile of gratefulness. "I'll await your return over there." She nodded toward the far wall where the crowd had thinned, then made her way through the crush of people surrounding her while Timothy hurried off in the direction of the refreshment tables.
She reached the wall and leaned against a marble column, shifting her weight from one leg to the other as she wiggled her toes in an effort to restore the circulation in her feet. Cristina glanced around to see who might be watching. She was well aware that she was on display--presented into society for the sole purpose of finding a husband--and she couldn't help feeling like a box of Swiss chocolates in a confectioner's window, wrapped and waiting for someone to purchase and devour. She wondered which of the men she'd danced with tonight would call on her in the morning. Could she accept any of them if they did? She was bored by their talk of horses, hounds, and university life, and completely unimpressed by the not-too-subtle mention of titles and wealth. She yearned for romance and adventure, but all she found was the business of merging family bloodlines and increasing fortunes. None of those young pups were husband material, Cristina decided. Not one of them could keep her mind off the pain in her pinched toes.
She sighed, allowing her gaze to scan the room, searching. ... Could anyone compete with the pair of penetrating, black eyes she remembered laughing at her in the antechamber?
Cristina looked around the room and found those same dark eyes glaring at her. She shivered as a mixture of trepidation and excitement coursed through her veins. He was devastatingly attractive. And when he smiled... His was a face one did not forget easily. It was a bronzed, lean face, molded with enticing planes and angles. She noticed that the whiteness of the starched shirt front and collar contrasted sharply with his face, lending it an exotic, almost foreign look. His eyes were keen, sparkling black like chunks of coal beneath straight brows. His nose was straight and aristocratic and his nostrils flared slightly as he scowled at her. Yes, she thought, he was a fine figure of a man from the top of his dark head to the tips of his polished shoes. His handsome, clean-shaven face set him apart from the multitude of men sporting side-whiskers, beards, and huge hussar mustaches.
Cristina pulled her gaze from the mirror-like shine on his shoes and looked him in the eye. Her emerald green gaze clashed with his simmering black one. She had the urge to pull away, to run and hide from his gaze, but found she couldn't seem to break the contact. She stared at him, fighting a battle of wills that made her forget about her aching feet and made her incredibly curious about the man who shared her secret. What had she done to make him so angry?
"I see you've finally captured every man's attention."
The sound of a voice at her ear startled her. Cristina turned.
A slender young man of medium build stood smiling next to her. He noted Cristina's questioning glance, discerned the reason behind it, and explained with a nod toward the other man. "He is a bit slow. I noticed you hours ago. As soon as you entered the ballroom."
"Pardon?" Cristina was still slightly bemused by his sudden appearance.
He repeated his observation.
"I don't know what you mean," Cristina told him.
"Don't be coy, Miss Fairfax," he said, his eyes becoming a warmer shade of clear blue. "You must know you stand out in the crowd like a ruby surrounded by diamonds."
His compliment embarrassed her and Cristina ducked her head, suddenly immersed in the patterns of streaks in the marble floor.
"You're blushing! It's refreshing to find someone who actually blushes these days."
Cristina looked up, taking the opportunity to study him. He stood ramrod straight in his British cavalry uniform. The rigid set of his spine made him seem taller than he actually was. He appeared to be about the same age as Timothy Brown, perhaps twenty or twenty-one. But his manner and bearing were that of a much older man. His light brownish-blonde hair was cropped close and there was a distinct accent when he spoke. A military man, Cristina decided, a well-traveled one.
"Why do you suppose debutantes wear white? It's so bland, so ghostly, so virginal."
His blunt statement stunned her. She covered her surprise by pretending a sophistication she didn't feel.
"I don't know why we're required to wear white unless it's to proclaim to all the gentlemen that we are virginal. Just as two ostrich feathers mean unmarried, and three, married. It's polite advertising." Cristina tipped her head forward to indicate the two white ostrich feathers held in place by a diamond clip fastened in her red curls. She shrugged her shoulders. "Then again, it may have nothing to do with advertising. Maybe Her Majesty prefers white gowns and ostrich plumes."
"Another royal whim," he suggested, "like her Indian servants, the Scottish ghillie, and her prolonged mourning. What a pity you could not wear green. You are lovely in white, but I should love to see you in green. And perhaps I'll have that opportunity at a future date..." His discerning perusal instantly reminded Cristina of the imaginary box of chocolates in the sweetshop window.
"I'm afraid you take entirely too much for granted. I spoke to you out of politeness because you spoke to me, but that doesn't mean I'll allow you to call on me." She delivered her haughty setdown and turned in the direction of the door when the young man caught her arm.
"Wait! I apologize for offending you. Give me the chance to make amends."
"I don't want you to make amends," Cristina insisted. "I want you to release me immediately."
"I don't want to release you." He leaned closer. "I want to apologize for my behavior and I insist you allow me to do so. Come dance with me," he whispered very smoothly into her ear. "I want very much to hold you in my arms."
"No ..." Cristina began to protest, but her partner ignored her as he half led, half dragged her into the mass of dancers.
He surveyed the room and with a nod of his head, the orchestra broke into a lively Strauss waltz. The dancers parted like the Red Sea before Moses to allow them onto the center of the floor. As he swept her around the room, Cristina found herself wondering for the first time exactly who he was and how he commanded so much attention in a room full of dignitaries. Everyone in the room, including the Prince and Princess of Wales, was staring at them.
"Let go," Cristina ordered. "You're holding me much too closely. I don't imagine the queen would approve of this."
Her partner threw back his head and laughed at her rebuke. "Why shouldn't everyone stare at us?" he asked when he recovered from his outburst. "We make a striking couple. And it doesn't matter how tightly I hold you. The old queen isn't here and even if she were, she has no jurisdiction over me."
His boast astounded Cristina. While she knew Queen Victoria was greatly loved by her relatives and subjects, Cristina also knew many of them quaked in their boots when summoned for an audience. She had lived in the "upper ten thousand" all of her life and she'd never met anyone who was oblivious to the queen's opinion. The very idea was revolutionary.
As if
reading her thoughts, he teased her, "Now, I've captured your imagination, lovely one. Intrigued you, aroused your curiosity."
She opened her mouth to deny his theory, but he cut her short. "Don't bother to protest. I can see the truth in your eyes. You must learn to hide your thoughts. Your eyes betray them."
His last observation was too much for Cristina, who had been trying to rein in her explosive temper since he had swept her onto the dance floor. "My thoughts are my own. You've no right to pry. I've never found dissembling necessary. And I've never met anyone so full of his own importance. I couldn't care less what you think you see in my eyes." Cristina lifted her chin in a gesture designed to show she didn't give tuppence for his opinions.
He laughed again. "You are far too impulsive for your own good. If I was someone of rank and importance, Miss Fairfax, I might be offended by your sharp tongue. But I forgive you your youth and remind you that your words may come back to haunt you someday."
"If they do, it won't be any of your concern," Cristina retorted again. "I know you're not English. Your accent is German or Prussian, but that tells me nothing. There are always German relations at Court. Are you part of the family?"
Her artless question amused him and Cristina's blood began to boil at the sound of his laughter.
"I know it's rude of me to blurt out my thoughts, but it's even more rude to laugh each time I ask a simple question. I don't know you. We shouldn't be dancing together."
"Will your mother scold you?" he asked, successfully diverting her attention from the question of his identity.
"I very much doubt my mother is paying attention to me," she answered. "My mother has a flock of admirers. She can't be bothered by a mere daughter."
He frowned at the obvious bitterness in her tone. "I am acquainted with your lovely mother."
Cristina was surprised. "You've met my mother?"
"On several memorable occasions."
"Aren't you a bit young for her? Is that why you're toying with me? Are you thinking like mother, like daughter?"
His eyes glinted angrily as he stared back at her and his words were a cold rebuke. "You are rude and insulting, Miss Fairfax." He loosened his hold around her waist and came to an abrupt halt.
Knowing she was about to be abandoned on the dance floor, Cristina attempted a halfhearted apology. "I'm sorry ... I shouldn't have--"
"No," he agreed, "you should not have. However, I will tell you what you want to know. I am dancing with you because it is what I wish to do. I find you very lovely, but also younger than I would have liked. Perhaps too young...."
"I am not!"
"I'm not talking about your age, Miss Fairfax, I am talking about experience. Worldliness. You look like a woman, but you're a fledgling schoolgirl. Still, there is a part of me that would like to explore the possibilities of a more intimate friendship." He allowed his words to trail off into the realms of innuendo.
"That will never happen, sir," Cristina haughtily informed him. "Our brief acquaintance is at an end. You'll never have the opportunity to know me--intimately or otherwise."
He remained undaunted by her harsh words. "I'll be in London for several weeks and I hope to persuade you to change your mind. I can be very persuasive when I want something." He sounded almost charming and definitely wicked. "You're not immune to me, Miss Fairfax, and given time, and the right incentives, I think you may come around to my way of thinking."
Cristina summoned all her courage, looked him straight in eyes, and challenged him, practically spitting the words in his face. "That remains to be seen, doesn't it?"
"Then we shall wait and see." He smiled at her, bowed low over her white-gloved hand, and kissed it. "Thank you most kindly for the dance, mein fraulein." He clicked his heels together in military fashion and strode quickly across the ballroom where he disappeared through a set of double doors.
Cristina was left stranded in the midst of a crowd of dancers with her former partner nowhere in sight. She was just about to fight her way through the dancers when a man took pity on her and moved forward to escort her off the dance floor.
"I'll say one thing for you, you're the most impulsive, bravest, or incredibly foolhardy young woman I've ever met, but even you can't think it was a good idea to challenge him. It's the one way to ensure his interest. Or is that your game?"
Cristina was taken back by the absolute fury she heard in the voice of the man escorting her. It reminded her of a pair of glaring black eyes. She tilted her head back to get a look at her accuser.
"You!" The words left her mouth in a rush as she faced those dark, glacial eyes.
He ignored her startled gasp and continued his accusations. "Whatever your intention, it worked. You intrigue him and he usually gets whatever he wants."
"So he said."
He ignored her sarcasm just as he had ignored her earlier gasp of recognition. "I would advise staying away from him if you've no intention of becoming his latest plaything or having your reputation ruined beyond repair. I realize the lure of wealth and power is impossible to resist, especially to a young woman about to make her mark on society, but stay away from him or you'll be hurt. He isn't the man for you." There was the barest hint of bitterness in his voice.
"You don't think highly of him, do you?" It was more of a statement than a question.
"On the contrary, I like him very much, but I'm not looking to be his mistress." His lean, tanned fingers surrounded the upper part of Cristina's arm as he ushered her away from the crowd. He was unaccountably angry at her for the surge of jealousy he felt toward Rudolf. "Now, if you no longer require my services as escort, I think I'll go back to my own amusements." He bowed low, turned, and started to walk away.
"Wait!" The cry sprang from Cristina's lips as she reached out to grasp his sleeve.
The touch of her hand on his arm burned through him. A flicker of some undefinable emotion crossed his face. "What is it? What do you want?"
Cristina froze and he barked again, impatient with her. Something about her disturbed him. She had the knack of shaking his unshakable facade.
"Who is he?" she whispered, cowed by his attitude.
"You mean you don't know?" Blake was genuinely surprised. "You must be the only woman in the room who doesn't know who he is."
"Then why don't you enlighten me?" Cristina snapped, impatient with herself for her own timidity, and equally impatient with him for mocking her ignorance.
"All right, since you demand to know. The man you were dancing with, my dear young lady, was His Imperial Highness, the crown prince Rudolf Francis Charles Joseph of Hapsburg-Lorraine, the ruling family of the Austro-Hungarian Empire."
Cristina's knees nearly buckled from the shock of his revelation. Her stomach began to ache and she swayed on her feet and silently prayed the marble floor would open up and swallow her. She had flirted outrageously, danced with, and been deliberately rude to a prince without even knowing it. Not just any prince, but the heir to a vast empire. She had issued an unmistakable challenge to his manhood which she had no intention of allowing him to answer. And she had insulted him. He would certainly demand satisfaction from her mother, and at the very least, an apology from her. Fortunately, her sex prevented him from calling her out to duel at dawn. But then, if she had been a man, none of this would have happened.
Blake watched the play of emotions on her transparent face. So she really hadn't known the identity of her admirer. Amazing. He wouldn't have believed it possible for Patricia Fairfax's daughter to be so naive where royalty was concerned, but he would bet his last shilling she wasn't playacting. The shock on her face was quite evident and she clutched the fabric of his sleeve as if it were a lifeline. Her face, devoid of all color except the startling green of her enormous eyes, reminded him of a cornered vixen. He could almost see the wheels turning in her brain as she sought an escape route. He could feel her r
ising panic and Blake half expected her to bolt and run for the door.
"Are you all right?" A stupid question, he berated himself as soon as the words left his mouth. He could see his revelation had stunned her.
"I don't feel very well." Cristina's tiny voice caught him completely unawares. There was no resemblance to the confident, almost haughty young woman of moments before. Her voice wavered with uncertainty and she stared at him like a bewildered child suddenly afraid to move. "Could I please sit down?"
He led her away from the ballroom back to the antechamber. Cristina noticed his ease with his surroundings and vowed to guard her tongue around him. Just in case ...
"Feeling better?" he asked when some of the color returned to her face.
"Yes, much. Thank you. For a minute, I was sure I was going to be sick, or faint, or both," she admitted.
He smiled at her candor, and a lopsided dimple transformed his usually serious features. "For a moment there so was I, Miss Fairfax," he replied.
"How do you know my name?"
"I was at the presentation tonight. Didn't you realize the young bachelors have been awaiting your official debut for weeks? You've been the talk of the town. Why do you think Rudolf sought you out?" His smile abruptly vanished and his clipped aristocratic voice masked any traces of emotion.
Cristina didn't care why the crown prince chose to single her out for his unwanted attention. She simply wished he hadn't. The chance encounter with the man in front of her was the only good to come out of the evening. He'd rescued her twice in one evening. Who was he?
"You have me at a disadvantage, sir. You appear to know all about me, while I know nothing about you, not even your name."
"My name is Lawrence," he supplied the missing information. "Blake Ashford, ninth earl of Lawrence."
"I'm in your debt again, Lord Lawrence. You've aided me twice tonight. Thank you."
"Your gratitude isn't necessary. I was only doing my job."
Cristina decided she was tired of all the mystery and forgetting her vow to guard her tongue, attempted to satisfy her burning curiosity about the evasive Blake Ashford with the dark, dangerous eyes. "I wasn't so busy dancing that I didn't notice you glowering at me from across the room, Lord Lawrence. What is your job? Spying on unsuspecting debutantes? Rescuing damsels in distress?"
Whisper Always Page 2
