Melting the Snow Queen

by Mary Lancaster

  Alba raised her brows. “It will make no difference to your life, Rosie.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Rose snapped.

  “I shan’t call you anything at all until you’re in a better temper,” Alba said mildly and continued upstairs to her own rooms.

  She had only sunk down on her old bed, gazing out over familiar views, when her peace was pleasantly shattered by the eruption of her younger half-siblings into the room.

  “Alba!” they cried, running to hug her.

  She hugged them back, one in each arm, laughing. “Have you two escaped your governess already?”

  “I’m too old for a governess,” Kai informed her.

  “Which means I must be, too,” Gerda insisted, “since we’re exactly the same age.”

  “Well, girls are always educated differently from boys,” Alba said.

  “I don’t think that’s fair,” Gerda said. “Do you?”

  “No,” Alba admitted, “but it’s the way of the world. Have you been teasing Rose, by the way? Because she does seem a trifle miffed.”

  “Oh, that’s not our fault,” Kai said carelessly. “It’s yours. Mama is trying to have a party where you don’t outshine Rose. Papa was meant to keep you in London, then drop you in Bath with Grandmama Fordyce before coming on here to play host.”

  “How could anyone think I would stand in her way?” she said before she could stop herself. In spite of herself, that revelation did hurt.

  Gerda took her hand. “You don’t need to try,” she said. “You just need to be there.”

  Alba frowned. “Nonsense.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Kai insisted.

  Alba shook her head impatiently. “Well, the matter is easily remedied.”

  ***

  However, when she broached the subject with her stepmother over dinner, the duchess snapped, “Don’t be ridiculous, Alba, of course you must come. The world will know you are at Winbourne and it will look most odd if you don’t attend the ball.”

  “But I came home to escape the relentless round of parties. I’m sure everyone knows that, too. Besides, you need not care what other people think.”

  “In my position,” the duchess said loftily, “I have to care. So does Rose.”

  Alba laid down her knife and fork. “Rose is very young for a formal ball. She is not yet out.”

  The duchess raised her eyebrows ominously. “What do you mean to imply?”

  “Nothing,” Alba said at once. “Only, I did not go to balls at sixteen and I am concerned—”

  “That people will say you are on the shelf if your little sister is out?” the duchess snapped.

  Alba’s eyes widened. This was a benefit she had not actually thought of. “Will they?” she said slowly. “Then you and Papa will stop trying to marry me off? If that is so, then I will happily wear a spinster’s cap and sit at the back of the room knitting.”

  “Alba, I wish you would take this seriously.”

  “Oh, I am serious. And truthfully, I am concerned that Rose will be thrust too early into the adult world, before she is ready.”

  “I am ready!” Rose declared. “Far more ready than you were at seventeen.”

  Alba glanced significantly at her stepmother, who lowered her eyes.

  “Apart from the odd lapse, she will be fine,” the duchess said stiffly.

  ***

  In the morning, Alba went for a long, solitary walk with the dogs. No one from the house saw her go, and she doubted anyone missed her. After the restrictions of life in London, the sense of freedom in the country was almost heady. She might almost have been happy, at least to have the space to remember Harry and relive the memories of what had happened and what he had said to her at various places she passed on the way. Remembering Harry was her only pleasure.

  And walking and running with the dogs, she reminded herself with a rueful smile. She liked being home, although she could do without the wretched ball the duchess seemed to have dreamed up. Alba was afraid that thrusting Rose into the limelight too early would have the opposite effect to the one the duchess intended and actually damage Rose’s chances. She didn’t know what her father was about to permit it. No doubt, he had simply washed his hands of the matter and left what he considered to be women’s matters to women.

  Returning to the house, she joined the twins in the schoolroom for luncheon. They had a new governess, Miss Ellington, who was gaunt and bony and seemed to have a dreadful summer cold.

  “You should be in bed, ma’am,” Alba said with sympathy.

  “Oh, you are kind, but I couldn’t. Who would look after the twins? Who would teach them?”

  “I will,” Alba said. “Go and sleep for the rest of the day. I’ll have your dinner sent up to you and hopefully you will be well by morning.”

  Miss Ellington seemed to struggle. “Oh, you are so…it would be so good just to…but the duchess…”

  “I shall make all right with Her Grace,” Alba said, crossing her fingers behind her back in a childish way because, in fact, she had no intention of telling her stepmother anything about the arrangement. The duchess was apt to forget her employees were human.

  And so, Alba spent the rest of the day with her young brother and sister. In truth, she preferred their company to most, for it was straightforward, undemanding and brought her as close to enjoyment as she ever got. They spent most of their time in the rose garden, which Alba had largely cultivated and extended over the last few years. This June, most of the roses were in bloom, their scents sweet and heavy in the air.

  She played games with the twins and read her book while they played more. Then they had tea al fresco on the lawn at the center of the garden. They were just finishing when Alba heard a carriage and horses crunching on the gravel at the front of the house.

  “Visitors!” Gerda exclaimed as she and Kai immediately jumped up.

  “It’s probably just Her Grace and Rose returned from some visit,” Alba warned.

  “No, for they haven’t gone out today,” Gerda replied over her shoulder as they ran off.

  Alba smiled and stretched out in the warmth of the sunshine. It was good to be home. As usual, her thought turned to Harry, his carefree laughter and gentle smile. The memory made her even sadder that his features had faded in her mind. When she thought of him now, it was usually of the still face in the miniature portrait of him that his parents had given her on his death, not so much the vital, moving one she had fallen in love with. Their engagement seemed a lifetime ago.

  The twins came bounding back. “It’s Oscar!” they reported.

  “Really? I thought he was fixed in London for the summer.” She was glad he’d come home, though, for he was good company, more congenial than Her Grace and Rose in their current moods. Besides, she was fairly sure his debauched lifestyle in town was not good for him. “Is he well?”

  “He looked well from behind,” Kai reported. “But we only saw the back of his head as he went into the house.”

  Of course, Her Grace didn’t approve of children getting in the way of adults. They would have to track him down in his own rooms or wait until his erratic memory guided him to the nursery.

  “He brought two trunks, so he must he staying for a while,” Kai said eagerly.

  “Or passing through to stay with someone else,” Gerda suspected.

  “There’s only one way to find out,” Alba reminded them.

  Nurse and one of the maids came out then to clear up the remains of tea and the children helped carry it in. After which, no doubt, they would beard Oscar in his chamber and demand tales of the late war. Alba was sure he made most of them up or, at least, altered them for childish consumption—an unexpected sensitivity in her hedonistic brother, but one she appreciated.

  Dinner would certainly be more palatable now that Oscar was here. She had missed him while he was away fighting the French.

  Leaving her book on the blanket, she wandered among the roses, knowing she should really go and prepare for
dinner if she wanted a chance to talk to Oscar before the meal. But the roses were like old friends she hadn’t yet properly acknowledged, and she went round each plant, inhaling their distinctive scents, removing damaged petals. The lengthening shadows reminded her she was running out of time, but she was too absorbed to notice another presence until the large shadow fell directly over her.

  Expecting Oscar, she looked up, smiling, and gazed into a face she had never expected to see again. The Grosvenor Street brawler.

  Her lips parted in amazement. “You! But what are you… Oscar!”

  “Lord Oscar was kind enough to invite me.”

  The deep voice with its unusual accent thrilled through her, perhaps with fear, for it seemed quite wrong that he should be in her rose garden.

  On the other hand, he looked very different than on their previous encounter. He was in military uniform, immaculate white with gold braiding. His black hair, no longer wildly disordered, had been brushed ruthlessly into submission. And although he stood quite close, there was no smell of alcohol.

  “Why?” she demanded.

  “I asked him to.”

  “Why?” she repeated.

  “So that I could apologize and return your blanket.”

  “Neither is necessary. Or desired.”

  “I disagree.”

  Alba blinked. This was such a novel position for a gentleman to take with her that she didn’t quite know what to say. And then he smiled, and her breath caught, much as it had in the carriage two days before.

  “I would like to begin our acquaintance again and hope you think slightly better of me.”

  “Sir, I shan’t think of you at all,” she assured him, although even as she said the words, she knew they were untrue. She had already thought of him several times since their first bizarre meeting, and now that he was here…

  He staggered backward, clutching his chest as though she’d shot him. “You wound me, Madam.”

  Her lips twitched. “Don’t be such a milksop.”

  His eyebrows flew up, as if no one had ever thought of calling him such a thing before, even in fun. And if she was honest, she couldn’t imagine they ever would. However, after the first stunned instant, a breath of laughter hissed between his teeth. “Have at me,” he advised. “Under all circumstances, I am at your feet.”

  “Then if you please to pick yourself up, I shall be able to go inside. And no, I don’t require an escort.”

  He bowed as she sailed past him, but when she entered the house alone, she found she was slightly miffed that he hadn’t tried harder to accompany her.

  ***

  It was the family’s habit to gather in the library before dinner, partly because it was situated just across from the dining room, and partly because it had been the best way to ensure the duke, who was generally found there while in residence, came to dinner on time. As Alba hurried along the gallery in her hastily donned evening gown, her heart beat too quickly for comfort. She knew why, of course. The presence of the Russian officer threw her off balance, mostly because of the bizarre nature of their first encounter. She had told nobody about the incident—though it was possible Siddons had—and now that it might come out via her brother or the Russian himself, she was at a loss to account for her secrecy, either to her family or herself.

  And, of course, she was late, which always irritated her stepmother. She took a deep breath, even smoothed her skirts nervously before entering the room.

  Since it was summer, the fire was not lit, but the company was still clustered about the hearth. Her Grace and Rose sat together on the sofa, with the Russian and Mr. Harper, the duchess’s chaplain, in the armchairs opposite. Oscar, looking bored, lounged against the mantelpiece. The Russian appeared to be making polite conversation with Rose, who gazed at him, her eyes wide with awe, and uttered barely a word. Clearly, she was nowhere near ready to be hurled to the wolves of society.

  Alba meant to creep silently closer without being noticed in order to escape her stepmother’s ire and whatever attentions might be offered by the Russian, but Oscar could not help seeing her come in and a quick, conspiratorial grin lit his face. When he straightened and came toward her, the last hope of a discreet entrance vanished, for everyone turned to look at her.

  “There you are,” Oscar said amiably, giving her a brief, brotherly hug. “We thought you’d run off again.”

  “Again? I’ve never run off anywhere,” she objected, though she hugged him back, searching his face to gauge his health, for he had come home from France with a fever. Although they had lived in the same house in London in recent weeks, she had rarely seen him after his recovery, for he was always out carousing and did not attend the parties she was occasionally forced to.

  “Unless you count bolting from the capital at six in the morning. Come, I want you to meet a friend of mine.” He stood aside and she saw that the Russian had risen and taken a pace closer to her. His rather fine, dark eyes twinkled as though they were sharing a joke no one else understood. “Prince Yuri Volkov, a captain of the Emperor of Russia’s dragoon. My sister, Lady Alba Snowden.”

  “Prince?” Alba blurted.

  “Oh, we are ten-a-penny in Russia,” Volkov said easily, taking her hand and bowing over it, just touching it with his lips in the continental manner.

  Alba wished she’d worn gloves, for the gesture seemed ridiculously intimate.

  “Good gracious, Alba,” the duchess exclaimed. “When did you grow so gauche? One would think you had never met another person of rank.”

  Rose tittered into her hand.

  “I’m sure no one could object to her ladyship’s natural manners,” Mr. Harper observed pompously, which served only to irritate Alba.

  “I suppose I am less and less used to society,” she said, squashing her ill-nature. “I’m sure the prince will forgive me my lapse in manners.”

  “I didn’t notice one,” Prince Volkov said. “In fact, these days, if I’m used to any title, it’s captain.”

  “Volkov helped chase the French out of Russia,” Oscar said. “And now he’s here with the Emperor.”

  Alba glanced around her. “You brought the Emperor of Russia, too?”

  Oscar grinned while their stepmother raised her eyes to heaven.

  “His Majesty is allowed out without me,” Volkov said. “If he doesn’t stray too far from his other guards.”

  “You mean you are unnecessary to him?” Alba challenged.

  “Utterly,” Volkov said at once and, in spite of herself, her lips tried to curve into a smile. His self-deprecation was oddly charming, for although off-set by his utter self-confidence, it seemed perfectly genuine.

  Cranston, the ageing butler, announced that dinner was served.

  Volkov turned at once to the duchess, offering his arm. Oscar took Alba’s in casual fashion, leaving the seething Rose to bring up the rear with Mr. Harper.

  “Did he really ask you to bring him here?” Alba asked her brother under her breath.

  “Yes, he did, though I warned him you’d have nothing to do with him. Probably makes it more of a challenge to a man like him,” he added ruefully.

  “A man like him?” Alba repeated. She curled her lip. “I suppose he is not used to women saying no to him.”

  “No, they don’t usually,” Oscar said, then scowled at her. “You didn’t hear that.”

  “I suppose that house—Lord Rawley’s?—was full of opera dancers,” she said, unsure why the idea should annoy her so much.

  “Not when you passed,” Oscar retorted, presumably meaning they had all gone home.

  She cast her eyes to heaven. “Men. No wonder I refuse to marry. The miracle is that any woman agrees to it.”

  “You did,” Oscar reminded her.

  “Harry was different.”

  Oscar’s gaze was steady. “No, he wasn’t, Alba. He just gave it all up for you.”

  She stared at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing,” Oscar muttere
d as they entered the dining room. “Oh, look, you get to berate me through dinner, too.”

  The duchess had arranged that Volkov sat on her right, with Rose beside him. Oscar, Alba, and Mr. Harper were seated opposite them.

  “Was I berating you?” Alba said apologetically. “I’m sorry. I just wish you hadn’t brought him. He makes me…uncomfortable.”

  “Really? Just accept him as he is. He may not be a serious man but he’s great fun. I’ve only known him a week and he’s already one of my best friends.”

  “Fun?” she couldn’t help saying in disbelief as they took their seats. “When I first saw him, he was trying his best to run Rawley through.”

  Oscar grinned. “No, it was only fought for first blood. I’ll tell you what, though.” He nodded discreetly across the table. “It looks like Rose is meant to cut you out with him.”

  “I suspect he’s merely practice,” Alba said, “but you should probably warn Her Grace he’s a rake.”

  “Oh, he won’t step beyond the line of what is pleasing,” Oscar said carelessly. “What’s this about a ball?”

  Alba sighed. “I think it’s meant to introduce Rose to society, but I don’t feel she is quite ready.”

  “Not remotely,” Oscar said, regarding the one-sided conversation opposite. “I’ve seen some tongue-tied debutantes in my time, but Rose is plain hard work.”

  “It will dent her confidence rather than aid it. But Her Grace will not be told.” She regarded Rose’s rapt, blushing face with increasing anxiety. “Oh dear, what if she falls in love with him?”

  “Then we’re all lucky Volkov’s a gentleman.”

  Chapter Three

  Volkov was slightly surprised to have been placed beside the schoolgirl sister rather than Lady Alba who clearly had precedence. But then, many English customs surprised him. So, he made the best of it, trying to draw her out in between bouts of ponderous conversation with the duchess. He began to see why Oscar was so reluctant to come, although he and Alba seemed to be enjoying much more amusing banter on their side of the table.