Shelves held his favorite books along one wall, a small table kept the decanter and glasses handy, and the soft leather chair before the little fire cradled him comfortably. Nothing in the room interfered with his thoughts; nothing distracted him from his memories. And so nothing prevented hideous images of Jena, that terrible rout where he’d first slid a saber into an enemy soldier, from haunting him long into the night.
* * * *
Friday, October 17, 1806
Dresden Palace, Kingdom of Saxony
The battle to save Saxony had turned into a disaster. No, a rout.
Pain lanced through Ernst’s side and the first hint of red stained the bandage as his orderly assisted him into clean court attire. He’d spent less than a day in bed and the stink of blood still clung to his skin. In the last two days he’d ridden a hundred miles, killed a good horse, finally insisted Godric tie him to the saddle. He’d arrived home and collapsed at the George Gate, staring up at the Baroque column’s detailed relief — strangely cherubic Romanish soldiers threatening mainly unclothed and equally cherubic hobbled slaves, their faces twisted into agonized grimaces. His father’s hand had pressed some scavenged cloth to the freshly weeping wound, voices shouting for the surgeon.
But he’d seen the speed of the Grande Armée, had barely outrun Murat’s cavalry in the race for his life. The Prussian armies he’d been so proud to claim as allies had fled for the northeastern border, abandoning south-central Saxony for safer pastures. Nothing remained between Napoleon, emperor of the French and renowned military genius, and Ernst’s defenseless little homeland. While it seemed logical the Corsican would chase after the fleeing Prussians, his all too able marshals, Ney and Davout and Bernadotte, had also fought at the twin battles of Jena and Auerstädt. They, their armies, their rampaging soldiers, could be anywhere and the danger was too close to ignore.
Only Godric’s strong arm hauled him from the sickbed and set him on his feet. Orderly beside him, Ernst staggered from his rooms, one hand trailing across the white wall’s pilasters and boiserie moldings for balance, the other hovering over his injured side. His father; he had to find his father. The Elector of Saxony, serious, pinched, with his marvelous old-fashioned powdered curls, an excellent administrator and adjudicator, untried and uncertain as a commander — he had to be out of his depth. Arrogant of him, perhaps, to imagine he understood the art of war better than his more experienced sire; but Ernst couldn’t repress the feeling. If nothing else, he had more of the necessary fire in his temperament.
Around the corner toward the stairs, and motion above the Chinese crimson carpet — a gown’s hemline swishing forward then back — stopped him in mid-step. Not a maid, not wearing that sophisticated shade of coppery silk, and even before he glanced up, he knew. Ernst straightened and lowered his hands.
Small, slight, straight, her dark eyes larger than usual and glowing golden-green in the red-washed light. Gossamer flaxen curls spilled from her upswept crown to her satin shoulders, the copper-colored lace sleeves dropped down her smooth arms to a mesmerizing degree, and her perfect Cupid’s bow mouth pursed as if inviting a kiss. Her chest rose and fell with panting breaths — oh, yes — as if she’d run up the stairs in search of him, and the expected flush of heat seared him in place.
She glanced down toward his injured side — she knew precisely where to look, where the bandage lay beneath his clothing — and her eyes widened even more. “Perhaps you shouldn’t be out of bed.”
Most likely the wet warmth had leaked through the bandage and stained his embroidered peacock’s coat, but he didn’t bother trying to confirm the thought. He couldn’t, couldn’t look away from her luster. Had she intended to invade his sickroom? The scorching heat deepened, flaring through his veins and burning him from the inside out. Most young ladies of the court wouldn’t have dared. But he knew her better than to make such a naïve assumption. Temptress and water nymph, svelte and elegant and alluring, and at this rate he’d forget all about the agony gripping his side.
He swallowed and told her the truth. “Perhaps we haven’t that much time.”
She stilled, the nymph rising from her placid lake and standing, waiting for the water to sluice from her body. He shivered inside and the pain retreated further. But then she glanced aside — she, who had never been uncertain in his presence before, and his pulse pounded harder, not entirely in a good way.
“I looked in on the elector. Your father.” Her words tumbled over each other. “He’s in with the council, the full council. The door was open. I didn’t intrude, just glanced in. But it didn’t seem the time—” Another breath, the last drips of lake water falling away, and her chin rose. “I mean, my father—”
Her meaning swept home. She and he had never spoken formally, and he doubted if their parents had, either. “It doesn’t matter.”
Green-gold flames flickered in her stare. But again she glanced aside, toward the English staircase’s romping Cupids, the white marble glistening. Her bottom lip disappeared between her lips and a tooth’s edge nibbled her skin. “They’re talking about you on the line.”
He shook his head. “The what?”
“Well, that’s what they’re calling it. Some of the art university students are erecting barricades along the river and outside the Frauenkirche. The off-duty garrison’s joining them.”
Idiots. As if barricades would stop the Grande Armée. He finally dragged his gaze away from her beauty. The naked white cherubs held bronze lanterns erect, ribbons of metal flying away, the high copper content contributing a golden cast. Maybe he’d better assess that defensive situation first, before speaking with his father, before some talented Graff-in-the-making got his silly skull split. The garrison should be able to take care of themselves… well, after what he’d seen on the Jena battlefield, perhaps not. He’d dressed for his father and court, not for an appearance on a public street, but he’d not take the time to change.
He rubbed his forehead. “Do me a favor?”
“Anything.”
Her voice meant it, too, a deeper, more sultry purr than her usual musical tones. His blood threatened to boil away. Even without looking at her, he felt her presence, her heat, like a sun blazing before him.
“You’d better be careful how you say that.”
“No. The favor?”
He’d warned her and she couldn’t say he hadn’t. “Please tell my father I’ve gone to assess this line before it gets out of hand.”
She pouted, lips pursing in an invitation. “Is he going to be pleased?”
An invitation he had to ignore or cause a scene that would be remembered throughout palace history. “No. But you know, you did promise me anything. And Godric will take care of me.”
The orderly grimaced, shifting his feet, but said nothing. Doubtless by that point he knew not to bother. During the battle Godric had protected his flank, hauled him from beneath a dying French grenadier, thrown him across a handy horse with blood splattering from his wound, and stuck to his side like a burr until Murat’s pursuing cavalry fell behind into silence. Unlikely he’d let anything happen to his charge now.
“They’re calling you a hero, you know.”
Her words surprised a laugh from him that ended on a shuddering gasp. Pity; he’d almost forgotten the pain in the magic of her. “Trust me. I’m not. I’m lucky more than anything else.” Lucky Godric had been there.
Again she stilled, coppery skirts settling to lines of fluid metal around her. Something gathered within her, something powerful and alluring, drawing him back to her beautiful dark eyes, tumbling flaxen curls, perfect cheeks. The edges of her tantalizing lips tilted upward, less a smile and more a challenge. She stepped closer, until he felt the scorch through his clothes, and rested her hand on his chest.
“Ernst Anton Oldenburg, are you mine?”
He’d never thought about it, always merely accepted. But as her green-gold flames took him, he had no need to consider his answer. “Body and blood and heart and
soul.”
“Well, then.”
He expected her to step back, release him from her spell. Instead she rose on tiptoe, brushed her lips against his, set his pitiful remnants on fire. He gripped the balustrade to prevent hauling her to him and molding them together. Her dilated eyes held him, her commanding, him helpless, yearning.
“Then come back to me.”
He couldn’t speak, barely managed a nod. Her finger brushed across his lips, traced down his chin, down his neck, down his chest, and suddenly he realized she’d taken a step backward, another, the heat of her diminishing, then she rounded the corner and was gone.
It took a half-dozen deep breaths to recover from her enchantment. No need to even glance at Godric to judge his reaction. “Don’t look at me like that.”
The orderly cleared his throat. “You know, if you go out in that madness with that hole gaping in your side, your father’s going to be furious.”
“Yes. But he won’t blame you. And you know they’re doing this because we galloped back to save them like some sort of ridiculous heroes.”
Godric shook his head. “We galloped back because if we hadn’t, we’d now be dead on the road.”
“Which is precisely what we must tell them. Now, come on.”
* * * *
Saturday, October 30, 1813 (continued)
And of course, instead of telling them the truth and forcing them to disband, he’d taken command, organized the defenses, strengthened the barricades, roused the garrison. His father had indeed been furious, and as it turned out, with good reason. For the spies already in the city had taken word of his actions to their masters outside the gates, who’d whispered to some French officer waiting by one of the blazing bonfires on the nearby hillsides, who’d reported to those more than able marshals beneath some luxurious command tent. Before the Grande Armée had even begun marching toward Dresden, the order was already circulating for his arrest.
His own actions had put him into exile. Or, more accurately, given him the choice between exile or a sneaking death from a hired blade, a turncoat, a cheap spy — or arrest and a sham trial, humiliation before the world, an unforgettable date with the guillotine. How often educated fools, thinking themselves wise, hoisted themselves on the petards of their own actions, their own unthinking stupidity. And he’d proved himself no wiser than the worst. Not that he’d ever want that particular information to become widely known.
Godric knelt at the hearth and poked the fire, sending sparks flying up the chimney, the flames surging. He’d ridden ahead from Pillnitz Castle that horrible night they’d escaped, crossed the war-torn Germanic states to the northern coast, and ensured the wary ketch hadn’t sailed prematurely, although how he’d accomplished that little feat he never said. Ernst only knew that when he’d arrived at Rostock on the cold Baltic Sea, Godric and the ketch had been waiting.
“Another brandy, your grace?”
For a moment Ernst was tempted. No one would come to call at that hour, and getting soused held more appeal than sinking further into memories. But something cautious in Godric’s measured stare stopped him. Whatever title the man carried — valet, orderly, butler — he made it his business to take care of his charge and always had. While indulging in expensive alcohol would provide a personal release, it would be a trial for his keeper, and Godric deserved more consideration.
Instead Ernst reached for the self-discipline, the bon vivant persona, the invisible mask that had kept him hidden and safe from Napoleon’s spies and Saxony’s enemies for seven long years. Once again in control, His Grace straightened in the soft leather chair and set the balloon glass aside.
“Thank you, Godric, but no. I believe I’ll read for a while. If you’ll turn back the bed and get everything in order, I’ll have no further need for your excellent and most appreciated services tonight.”
He didn’t wait to observe the disbelief he could feel rolling from Godric in waves. A book waited on the little side table, brown leather binding crisp, pages freshly cut, a new red ribbon jutting from the spine’s top. He’d no idea what it was, nor did it matter. His Grace opened the tome on his lap and pretended absorption until finally the quiet footsteps crossed the hardwood floor, the door closed.
The little fire flickered in the grate, flames forming impossible shivering patterns, falling away, reforming. He set the book aside once again and wondered whether her evening felt as empty, whether she stared into an unforgiving fire and thought of him. Whether she’d even survived to do so.
Chapter Nineteen
All Hallow’s Eve, Sunday afternoon, October 31, 1813
Should she be blessed with a daughter at some point in time, that girl was going to study logic instead of netting.
In the sunny corner by the largest window and the sewing basket, Mrs. Lacey stitched Franklin’s new collar, her peaceful smile brighter than the light streaming over her shoulder. The nearby chest’s lid yawned open, rodentish scrabbling sounds coming from within, then suddenly Lissie sat back onto the area rug, clutching — why, that gimlet-eyed hussy — clutching the bundle of emerald green silk she’d stashed away for an opera gown planned but not yet made. Judging by the acquisitive gleam in that girl’s eyes, it might never be made. Or it might be made to someone else’s measurements.
Come to think of it, that green would be stunning against Lissie’s delicate hues and soft brown hair.
Well, so Lissie could sort out emotions and motivations. How often did one require such intense, specialized logic? Surely designing the gown of the off-season was a much more valuable skill and triumph, one that would see far more use. If she kept Lissie close and content against future emergencies…
All right, logic in addition to netting, not instead of.
And besides, Lissie’s final question kept tumbling through her mind. Lazy as a cat, Coralie stretched on the dark yellow sofa, too exhausted by the weekend’s emotions for any useful chore, too peaceful from the morning’s worship for a squabble over silk or accomplishments or much of anything, for that matter. Those words, that final question, were proving a talisman she could hold onto and treasure:
“The question is not what have you done for your love in the past, but what are you willing to do for him in the future and for the rest of your lives.”
Excellent question, that.
While she’d been observing him, Mr. Rainier had shown her several different façades. She’d seen his public face, his excellent side which boasted manners, taste, philosophy, education — indeed, she’d seen that side of him and fallen in love. And if she’d seen no further than that, she’d never have hesitated before joining her life to his.
Then she’d seen his attempt to control Miss Hortense Rainier, or at least from her limited vantage point it had seemed that way. There she’d seen anger, aggression, and intolerance, and the combination, especially when directed toward another woman, had confused and frightened her. Once she’d seen that side of him, her ardor had cooled remarkably.
But then he’d turned yet again. The ton had slandered her and he’d stepped into the breach, putting his life or at least his well-being on the line for her good name — and he’d also spoken gentle words of love in rhythm with the moonlight’s pulse. Courage, honor, passion — could any woman resist such a combination, especially a woman already in love? Had she any reason to resist it?
Topping all that off, she couldn’t forget his voice, and just the memory sent a shiver up her torso.
Last night she’d wrapped herself well and sat on the balcony in the shivery cold until the moon had set, letting its silver gleam stroke her skin and remembering the sensation of his crooning voice joining its weight to that stroke. He’d memorized the balcony scene, just as she had, but he’d had the wonderful, romantic idea of performing it with her in the moonlight. He’d thought of her and he’d gone out of his way, stayed up far too late the night before the duel, to whisper words of love, words that shot her in the heart and flushed her to life.
> With his voice on her skin, the world had slowed around her, crystal seconds slipping out of time’s joint like an axle from a wheel. His heart had blazed from his face, his yearning from his words, his honesty from his actions. He loved her; she could have no doubt. And such strength supported his mesmerizing courtship that even the memory stopped the usual sweep of minutes in its tracks.
While she had many such perfect and perfectly beautiful moments in her recollection, never before had one stepped from her memory into the normal, workaday world, gripping her in its spell again and again, merely for the asking.
If he knocked on my door right now—
A knock. Her heart leapt and she sat up with a jerk. It couldn’t be, such things didn’t happen in real life — but Lissie shot up from the rug, poured the pool of green silk into the chest in three scrabbling handfuls, closed the lid, slid into the window seat behind Mrs. Lacey — then ducked out of the good lady’s light and into the chair beside her, pawing through the sewing basket as if seeking an alibi—
Footsteps in the hall, Severidge in the doorway, his formal voice announcing, “Mr. Kenneth Rainier.”
And there he stood, magical and real.
He waited in the morning room doorway, awkward — there was no other word for it — and, for the first time in their acquaintance, uncertain. The discomfort seemed mental rather than physical, for he didn’t grimace in pain and his beautifully tailored green swallowtail coat, the one she’d admired so many times in Trent’s coffee house, revealed no bulging bandage on his shoulder. The messenger had said the wound was slight; after her first glance at the victim himself, she could finally believe the message, and her next breath came easier.
Awkward, yes, and uncertain. But still his culture and physical grace predominated. The hand clutching his elegant hat was the master of those gestures she’d admired; the hooded eyelids widened away from those stormy blue-grey eyes that captivated her. Those lush lips—
Shenanigans in Berkeley Square Page 15