In fact, Meagan had attended a rather dreary poetry reading at the Duchess of Cranshaw’s, poorly attended because everyone else was at the Duchess of Gower’s ball watching Alexander parade with his supposed mistress. But while Simone could be giddy, she insisted Meagan be an exact stickler for propriety concerning the Grand Duke; hence Meagan went to only respectable gatherings. Nothing—nothing—would jeopardize Simone’s plans for the most perfect wedding of the Season.
“Yes, we are shopping for the wedding,” Meagan answered. “And for after.”
Lady Anastasia sent Meagan a smile that said she knew the lay of the land. “His Grace, he speaks of nothing but the wedding. He wants everything to be perfect, the right flowers, the right candles, the right jewels to give you. His servants, they go mad.”
“Oh, perhaps he ought not to do that,” Meagan ventured.
“Nonsense. They are all excited that they will have a mistress again. They await your arrival with happiness. And little Alex, he says you are beautiful.”
“Such a sweet child,” Simone gushed, and Meagan looked at her in surprise. Simone only liked children if they were spotlessly clean, quiet, and seated on the other side of a room.
“He misses his mama,” Lady Anastasia said. She sent Meagan a pointed look. “You will be good for him.”
“I feel as though I’ve stepped off a cliff,” Meagan said, exhaling. “And am waiting to hit the ground.”
Lady Anastasia laughed, her eyes crinkling. “Ah, I remember how it was when I was a bride…”
She stopped abruptly, and for an instant Meagan saw in Anastasia’s eyes a grief that surpassed all hurts Meagan herself had ever felt. The grief was bottomless, like the deepest well and just as cold. Meagan realized in that moment that Anastasia Dimitri was a shell of a woman, lovely and smiling on the outside, empty on the inside. She remembered how Alexander had described her. She is broken.
Meagan’s heart ached in sympathy. She took Anastasia’s hand and squeezed it, wanting to express what she felt, unable to do so in the street teeming with people and the journalists watching and her stepmother hovering.
Anastasia returned the squeeze, her eyes flashing gratitude. She saw that Meagan understood, and she was touched by it.
“Ah, I nearly forgot,” Anastasia said, releasing Meagan’s hand. “Shall you be attending Lady Talbot’s garden fête? She is opening her famous gardens for display for her charity work, as I believe she does each year. The king goes to this, I understand, as well as the Duchess of Gower.”
Simone nodded proudly. “We have received an invitation, of course. But the damp, the Duchess of Gower…” She wrinkled her nose. “We may simply send a donation and stay home to not catch cold.”
Lady Anastasia held Meagan’s gaze with hers. “The Grand Duke, he also attends this year. The king wishes him to see the famous English gardens.”
Meagan said nothing, suddenly picturing herself coming across Alexander on a deserted garden lane. Perhaps he would stop so close to her that she could feel his body heat, and perhaps he’d yank her behind a tall stand of yews and kiss her.
She had not seen him in a week and then only at a distance in Hyde Park. She and Simone and Michael had been in their landau, and Alexander had been on horseback across the park. Meagan had stared hungrily at his taut, tall body as he easily sat his horse’s swift canter.
I want him, she’d thought. She wanted his easy grace in bed beside her, wanted him to touch her with the same firm hands that held the reins so competently. She watched his hips move back and forth with the horse and wanted his hips moving against her.
She’d had a swift vision of herself on hands and knees in a tumbled bed, him behind her. He’d press his stiff erection against her opening, which was wet for him. “Take me, love,” he’d say, then slide in, stiff and unyielding, daring her to beg him to stop.
The landau had bumped over a rock, and Meagan had gasped, falling back to the seat. Across the green, Alexander’s horse had stumbled. Alexander righted it within a step, then scanned the stream of landaus until his gaze lighted on Meagan. She knew in that quick glance that he’d had the same vision as she. The love spell was determined to drive them insane.
Simone’s voice scattered Meagan’s thoughts, and she returned to her present surroundings, blushing.
“Of course we will go,” Simone said, as though she hadn’t said exactly the opposite a few moments ago. “If His Grace will be there, he will want to speak to us and escort Meagan about. And the king is a friend. He attended my daughter’s wedding, when he was still Prince Regent, you know.”
Since Penelope’s wedding, the Prince Regent, now George IV, hadn’t bothered to acknowledge the Tavistocks with so much as a note, but Simone was the sort of person who could seize on an incident and build it into a mighty event that was forever important.
“I do know,” Anastasia said. “Excellent, then I will see you at the garden fête. I will attend as well.” She held out her hand to Simone again, then Meagan. When she pressed Meagan’s hand, she lowered her eyelid in a tiny wink.
Meagan smiled back, understanding the signal. Whatever the ton thought, whatever Simone thought, Anastasia was on her side.
Lady Anastasia Dimitri returned that night to the hotel where she’d taken several luxurious rooms, and closed the doors on London with a relieved sigh. While the rest of the ton enjoyed themselves tonight at balls and soirees, discussing the upcoming wedding of Grand Duke Alexander and Miss Meagan Tavistock, Anastasia had been trying to pry secrets from Otto von Hohenzahl.
Tiring. She instructed the English girl she’d hired when she arrived in London to undress her, settle her into a dressing gown, and brush out her hair. The abigail worked efficiently and quietly, which was why Anastasia liked her.
With all Anastasia’s experience and proficiency, she still could not decide whether von Hohenzahl had any useful knowledge or was a complete waste of time. Von Hohenzahl was a typical Austrian ex-military colonel who liked to talk of his former glories and keep several beautiful women on his string. His keen brown eyes and not-so-subtle innuendo made Anastasia know he wanted her to join that string.
Anastasia had gone to bed with men before to obtain knowledge, but something about von Hohenzahl kept her on edge. He had said nothing, done nothing, to indicate he could be dangerous, and he did hint that his interest was merely to have a woman—Anastasia—that Metternich, the Austrian emperor, wanted. Anastasia was usually good at reading men, and her indecisiveness bothered her.
Outwardly, she showed nothing of her thoughts. She was a master at keeping her countenance smooth, expression blank, mouth lifted in a vacant smile, while concentrating on several trains of thought at once.
The maid finished brushing Anastasia’s hair and plaited it for the night. Then the maid shook out the bedcovers for Anastasia to crawl under.
“Good night,” Anastasia said, letting her accent be heavy. “Thank you, and may you have, how do you say, dreams most pleasant.”
The maid curtseyed, even better than Anastasia at being blank-faced. “Good night, my lady.”
Anastasia closed her eyes as the maid continued her duty of brushing gowns and tidying the rooms. She had learned to delve into sleep quickly when she was safe, closing off her thoughts and even her dreams. She had learned this skill from a master Austrian spy after Dimitri’s death and had used it to keep grief from consuming her.
Tonight she briefly amused herself by remembering her encounter with Meagan Tavistock and her stepmother on Oxford Street. Though Miss Tavistock tried to hide it, she was quite taken with Alexander. She also had enough mettle to withstand him and the scrutiny of the entire ton; Anastasia sensed that. Alexander did not quite know what he was in for, and this made Anastasia chuckle with glee.
She fell asleep to the rather soothing sounds of the maid busy in the outer room, but hours later she jumped awake. The bedchamber was pitch black, the moon obscured by clouds, the candles spent, but she knew that she was
not alone.
Silently, Anastasia put her hand under the pillow next to her and drew out the knife she kept hidden there. She heard no sound, not even a shift of breath, but she knew someone lurked in the shadows beyond the bed curtains. Not her maid—the abigail always smelled a bit like fresh linens—but someone who carried a scent of musk and the outdoors.
Not Alexander, who would have politely informed her beforehand if he wanted her killed. Von Hohenzahl? Bile rose in her throat at the thought of being raped by him. But von Hohenzahl was usually wreathed in cigar smoke, and she smelled none of that.
It would be stupid to call out, “Who is there?” but screaming would not do. The owners of the hotel would not like guests being murdered in their beds, especially wealthy foreign countesses whose patronage gave the hotel a certain cachet.
She drew a deep, quick breath, but before she could make a sound, a man moved faster than thought to the head of her bed and clamped his hand over her mouth.
Anastasia struggled, bringing up the knife, but he grabbed her wrist, twisting it painfully until the knife fell from her nerveless fingers. Dimitri had taught her to fight, and her years of covert activities had honed her skills. But this man was strong and fast, and he knew how to counter every move she tried.
At last she stopped, dropping limp to the featherbed, his hand still clamped to her mouth. He shoved his face to hers, a strange, rather pointed face with large blue eyes that seemed to glow. He had long hair almost to his waist, the blackness of it fading into the darkness. He said in heavy Nvengarian, “Dimitri said you would help.”
Anastasia went utterly still.
He studied her with odd blue eyes whose irises seemed to be too large. She remembered seeing this man once at Alexander’s house in Berkeley Square. She’d emerged from the sitting room on the second floor and had glimpsed him on the ground floor, but by the time she had descended the stairs he was nowhere in sight. Alexander had never mentioned him, and Anastasia had learned long ago that if Alexander did not volunteer information, you could not pry it from him with an axe. She’d forgotten the incident until now.
She nodded slowly to indicate that if he removed his hand she would not scream. He lifted his hand away, but remained wary.
“What do you know of Dimitri?” she asked him.
“Dimitri said you would help.”
“Yes, we have established that.” Anastasia pushed herself to a sitting position against the pillows, her heart beating swiftly. “How do you know Dimitri?”
“He was friend to me once,” the man answered. “I taught him much.”
Tears sprang to her eyes as they always did when she thought of her husband, Dimitri, so senselessly dead on a battlefield in Spain long ago. The Austrian commanders had left him to be slaughtered, and for that she hated every person connected with Metternich and the Austrian army. Hated them and had determined to make them pay.
Her fiery, handsome Nvengarian Dimitri, who had seduced a young and prim Austrian debutante called Anastasia and taught her to live life to its fullest, was dead. Dimitri had been struck down far too young, and Anastasia had honed her grief into a weapon, determined to take revenge against those who had taken Dimitri’s life.
“He was your friend,” Anastasia repeated, stunned. “When?”
“Long ago. He came to the mountains to hunt.”
Anastasia thought about her life in Nvengaria, where she’d been deliriously happy for too short a time. “Yes, he liked the mountains. But he never told me about you.”
The man said nothing, only tilted his head, studying her.
“Why did he tell you I could help you?” she asked.
He reached out and touched her face, his fingers strong. “He said you had great beauty.”
Anastasia’s lips trembled. The man feathered his fingertips along her cheekbone, then across her throat.
“Please do not touch me,” she said quickly.
“You let others touch you. Ones you hate. I see the hatred seeping from you, but they do not know.”
He stroked the hollow of her throat with his thumb, and darkness stirred between her thighs. “How do you know this? How do you know me?”
“I watch you.”
She backed away from his touch. “You cannot have. I am most careful and am never followed.”
A small smile quirked his mouth. “I watch you. I watch where you go, the ones who speak to you. I watch you sleep. You never see me.”
“You lie,” Anastasia countered, panic rising. “I sensed you here tonight. I always know when someone is spying on me.”
“Tonight, I wanted you to wake.” He touched her face again, fingers featherlight.
“Who are you?” she whispered. “Are you one of Alexander’s men?”
“I am Myn.” He withdrew his touch, and Anastasia shivered. “I belong to no one and not Alexander. I belong—to Nvengaria.”
What a strange way to put it. His words sent a wave of homesickness over her. “Yes. I, too, belong there.”
Myn shook his head, long hair moving. “You are of the outer lands.”
“No, I am Nvengarian. I might have been born in Austria, but I am of Nvengaria in my heart.”
He placed one hand between her breasts. “There is nothing in your heart. It is empty.”
His large hand warmed her skin through the nightrail. Anastasia had let men touch her, Myn was correct about that, but she always had to fight nausea when she did it. She did what was necessary in her quest to keep the Austrians away from Nvengaria, and hated the men who pawed at her, thinking her a brainless courtesan.
Myn’s touch was different, neither possessive nor triumphant. His hand remained still, the callused palm between her breasts, warmth moving from her heart to the rest of her body.
She leaned slowly back on the pillows, trying to let him know that she no longer wanted him to pull away. “Why do you say Nvengaria is not in my heart? I love it. I loved it the moment Dimitri took me to it.”
“Because you are not there.”
Tears filled her eyes. “I am protecting it.”
“I protect Nvengaria. I and my people. You are of the outer lands.”
She sat up straight. “How dare you tell me what I love and what I do not? Get out of my rooms.”
Myn made a faint gesture. Instantly, the candles in the room sprang to life, flickering light illuminating his tall body and hard honed muscles under a thin linen shirt. He climbed to sit on the end of her bed, leaning on the bedpost and crossing his feet in scarred boots.
He said, “Dimitri, he loved Nvengaria. And you.”
Anastasia hugged her arms to her chest, shaking in rage. “I do not want to talk to you any longer.”
“I need you to talk to me. I do not understand your language, and you must tell me what something means.”
She looked up again, unnerved by his sudden change of subject. She understood he would not obey her wishes and that he was far too strong for her to fight. She’d finally confronted a man she could not control. “Something in German?”
He gave a nod. “Two men, they were speaking. I did not understand.” His gaze took on a faraway look, and he began to repeat, slowly and carefully, his pronunciation precise, a conversation in a Viennese dialect, to which Anastasia listened in amazement.
CHAPTER NINE
Simone was pleased that Alexander sent his carriage for them the day of the garden fête, but disappointed that he did not escort them himself.
“A fiancé ought to escort his bride-to-be and future inlaws about town,” Simone said as they rolled away to Surrey in the quiet and comfortable chaise. “It is what fiancés do. Sir Hilton Trask took me and my mother absolutely everywhere when we were engaged. Of course, after the wedding, I rarely saw the wretched man.”
Michael slid his arm around her shoulders. He always made a comforting gesture when Simone spoke of the hurts her first husband had given her. “The Grand Duke is busy, my love. He is a diplomat and must attend many meetings.”
“Yes, but I wish we could be seen more with him. I want the Duchess of Gower to be pea green with envy. It will ruin her complexion. Would that not be delightful?”
Michael only reiterated that a man in the Grand Duke’s position had little time for pleasure, but Meagan knew good and well why Alexander avoided her. The love spell wanted them in each other’s arms and cared nothing for how it got them there. If the incident in Hyde Park were any indication, the spell would flog them with erotic visions until Alexander carried her off to act them out.
Her dreams had her constantly on edge, rendering her nights sleepless and her body aching. She wondered, once the bishop pronounced them man and wife at the altar, whether Alexander would simply throw her over his shoulder, run with her to his carriage, and consummate the marriage right there.
When her imagination began to show her explicitly how this could be done, she pinched her leg, hard. She’d found pinching herself somewhat effective in stopping the visions. Her leg was already blue with bruises.
She was relieved when the carriage rolled to a stop in the Talbots’ drive, diverting her from her imaginings.
Lord Talbot, an earl of large means, had purchased a ruin of a house from an impoverished lord, the gardens of which had been designed by Capability Brown. Lord Talbot had spent a huge sum to restore the gardens and make them the best in England, outdoing even those at Chatsworth and Blenheim. Every spring the Talbots hosted a fête and allowed the ton to tramp through the garden for an exorbitant price. The proceeds went to Lady Talbot’s charities, of which she ran many. The Talbots were wealthy but also generous.
The Talbots were always lucky in their weather, and a soft arch of April sky extended to the horizon. Everyone who was anyone was there, Simone pointed out ad nauseam as they waited in the long line of carriages to descend.
“Is that not the Duke of York? Is that not Princess Esterhazy?” She bounced from one side of the carriage to the other, peering out of the windows, while Meagan sat motionless, both longing and fearing to see Alexander. She wondered also what the gossips would make of their meeting—or their non-meeting—if Alexander decided to save his sanity and avoid her.
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