To Wed a Wicked Prince
Page 22
“Oh, and Boris…?”
“Sir?”
“What did the messenger bring?” Alex had been watching the stranger’s arrival from the window before he’d been so pleasantly interrupted by Livia.
“A verbal message, sir, from London. To be delivered only to Your Highness. He’s refreshing himself in the kitchen until you should be ready to receive him.”
Alex nodded and returned to the bedchamber. Livia was still asleep in the tangle of bedclothes, the rich glow of the gems a strange contrast to the tumbled bed and the abandoned sprawl of her limbs. He watched her sleep for a moment or two, smiling to himself. What an extraordinarily passionate woman she was. He’d suspected some unusual depths but nothing like what she’d revealed in the last three days. He was a very lucky man, he decided, reluctantly turning away from the sleeper and heading into the adjoining dressing room.
It had a bed for those nights when the master of the house came home the worse for wear and out of consideration for his lady’s sensibilities did not sleep in the marital bed. Or for those nights when the lady chose to sleep alone. Such occasions, he was resolved, would be few and far between in his own marriage.
A knock on the corridor door heralded the arrival of a manservant with a steaming ewer of hot water that he set on the dresser beside the bowl. He hung an armful of fresh towels on the rack. “Bath’s on its way, m’lord. Will I sharpen the razor?” He gestured to the strop that hung on the wall.
“Yes, please.” Alex went to the window that looked out on a small garden white with hoarfrost. His mind returned to the messenger. Only two people knew where he was at present. Michael Michaelovitch and the rough-and-ready Tatarinov. Michael knew in case there were messages from the czar. Alexander Prokov was his emperor’s servant and must be accessible at all times. Tatarinov knew in case an emergency arose with the small group of plotters and Alex needed to be informed. Two strings to the same bow. But which string had loosed which arrow now?
Well, he would find out soon enough, but not until he’d washed away the residue of sex and sleep and tangled sheets.
Boris came in, a troop of servants bearing a porcelain hip bath and jugs of hot water, and Alex concentrated on the pleasures of hot water.
Livia, next door, awoke dreamily at the sound of pouring water. She sat up, blinking in the bright light of sun and frost. A maid whom she’d never seen before was filling a hip bath before the fire, another hanging towels on a rack in front of the fire to warm. Lavender and verbena scented the air and Livia realized suddenly how sleep-sodden and rank with pleasure she must be. She thrust aside the coverlet and swung her legs to the ground.
“Lord, how I need that bath.” She stretched, pushing her tangled hair away from her face, wondering what kind of madness had kept her enthralled in this chamber for three whole days, oblivious of the ordinary needs of ordinary life. She shook her head in mystification and stood up.
“The water’s just right, m’lady, if you’d like to step in,” one of the maids said.
“Thank you.” She reached up to untwine the ruby-studded fillet from her hair and laid it reverently on the dresser before unclasping the necklace. Both maids were staring at her in wide-eyed astonishment as she divested herself of the rubies, and she could hardly blame them. She knew well enough what an extraordinary sight it made. “What’s your name?” she asked, sliding the bracelets onto the table and turning back to the bath.
“Doris, ma’am…and this be Ethel.”
“Doris…Ethel…” Livia nodded in greeting and stepped into the tub. She was accustomed to seeing to her own ablutions, but today she made no objections as the two maids washed her hair, rinsed it in vinegar to give luster to the dark curls, handed her the verbena-scented soap, and sprinkled lavender oil into the water. When she was ready to get out Doris held up a warmed towel and Ethel took another to dry her hair. It was all rather pleasant, Livia thought. This life of a princess.
“What gown will you wear, m’lady?” Doris had opened the armoire and was examining its contents.
“Gown?” Livia realized with a shock that she had no idea what the armoire contained apart from the red driving habit she’d worn here. She didn’t remember packing a portmanteau before leaving the vicarage. Perhaps that could be excused, but surely Ellie or Nell would have reminded her. But maybe they’d done it for her. Wrapping the towel securely around her, she stepped over to the armoire. No familiar garments met her eye.
“This one’s pretty, m’lady.” Doris drew out a checked muslin.
“It certainly is,” Livia agreed, appreciating the elegant cut. “But unfortunately it’s not mine.”
“Yes, it is.” Alex appeared in the doorway to the dressing room, dressed himself now in riding britches and top boots. “Your friends and some seamstress, a Miss Claire, they tell me, put the wardrobe together for you.” He came into the room. “Another wedding present. I think…at least, I hope, you will find everything to your liking. I thought Aurelia and Cornelia would know your tastes.”
How many wedding presents did this extraordinary husband of hers consider enough? At some point she would feel at a disadvantage if this outpouring of largesse went on for much longer. “It’s true, they would,” she said, turning to him with a rueful smile. “But…forgive me, Alex, I think you’ve given me enough.”
“Why?” He took her hands, swinging them gently. “I am your husband, am I not allowed now to give you presents?”
“Oh, yes…yes, of course you are,” she said with a flood of warmth. He obviously couldn’t be reformed. She stood on tiptoe to kiss him. “You are the most generous man. Let’s see what we have here.” She turned and dived into the armoire to examine its contents for herself. “Oh, I love velvet.” She drew out a dressing gown of rich tawny velvet. “I could wear this.”
“No,” he said firmly. “This evening, yes. But it’s the middle of the morning, sweeting, and I would have you dressed. Wear the checked muslin.” He leaned in and kissed her. “Come downstairs for breakfast when you’re ready.”
He strode from the room before she could waylay him and went rapidly downstairs, making his way directly to the kitchen. The man he’d seen ride in earlier was sitting at the table, eating his way through a platter of sirloin.
He jumped to his feet at the prince’s appearance, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Your pardon, Highness.” He spoke in Russian.
“I’m sorry to disturb your breakfast,” Alex said pleasantly. “Walk with me outside.” He strode to the kitchen door, opening it onto the beautiful but frigid morning. The man followed him into the kitchen yard. Alex walked away from the house and through a small gate into a deserted pasture. Frost crackled beneath his boots.
“Give me your message.”
The man looked around, tightening his muffler around his neck against the cold, and blew on his hands before speaking in Russian. “I’m to tell you that our little father is preparing to leave his nest. He is sending his army against Finland and then on to occupy Sweden. It is said he will accompany the army on its initial foray.” He had to walk quickly to keep up with the prince, who was striding around the perimeter of the meadow.
Only Tatarinov would have sent such a message, and it was typical of the man that he would not risk committing his words to paper, even though on the surface they seemed innocuous enough. But only on the surface. If the czar was going out with the army, even though he would not lead his troops on the battlefield, then he would be accessible, vulnerable to an accident. Much more so than in the palaces of St. Petersburg. Tatarinov was telling him that if they were going to act, then this was the opportunity.
Alex turned back to the house, the man at his heels.
“Is there an answer, Highness?” The man was half running to keep up with him.
“No,” Alex said. There would be nothing to connect him to this messenger or to the message. “Return to your master as soon as you’re fed and rested. You have no further business here.”
“Everything in order, Highness?” Boris turned from the Welsh dresser where he was arranging silver chargers.
“Yes, but I have new instructions for you,” Alex said.
Livia was coming down the stairs as he emerged from the kitchen into the hall. She was wearing the muslin checked in pink and gray squares, a darker pink ribbon confining the material beneath her breasts. Her hair was loose, still a little damp, and as a result curlier than usual. Lavender and verbena scented the air around her.
“How wonderful it is to feel so fresh,” she said, jumping down the last two steps. “After such a rank and tumbling orgy.” She flung her arms around him and kissed his neck. “Oh, and you smell of frost and lemon. Lovely. Which way to the dining room? I’m famished.”
“This way.” How he loved this innocent exuberance, the natural warmth of her nature. And sometimes it sent a cold shiver through his heart at how easily such openness could be hurt. He put an arm over her shoulders and ushered her into the dining parlor.
“Oh, what a pretty room,” Livia declared, going to the big bay window that overlooked the gravel sweep at the front of the house. “Just where are we in the Forest?”
“I believe it’s called Sway,” he said. “Come and sit down, Livia, before I faint away from lack of sustenance.”
She laughed. “More of your dramatic exaggeration.” She took the chair he held out for her. “What do we have?”
Alex went to the sideboard and lifted the lids of the chafing dishes. “Eggs, bacon, mushrooms, kidneys. But also caviar, pickled herring, smoked trout, and meat dumplings. What may I bring you?”
“Would you mind dreadfully if I just ate what I’m used to, just for this morning?” she asked. “It’s just that I’m so hungry I don’t think I’m ready to branch out yet.”
He laughed and began to spoon food onto a plate. “You may eat whatever you please, dear girl. Boris will always provide for me. But one day, I recommend you try the caviar.”
“I’ve only had it once or twice, and I think I liked it,” Livia said a little doubtfully. “But I’m not sure about breakfast.”
“Try that.” He set a laden plate in front of her and returned to the sideboard to help himself.
Livia poured coffee for them both and then attacked her breakfast. She glanced once in astonishment at the plate Alex brought to the table, wondering how on earth anyone could eat pickled herring at the best of times, let alone first thing in the morning. But she would get used to it, she supposed, watching as he sliced a loaf of black bread and piled it with herring.
“You would prefer this, I’m sure,” Alex said, catching her glance. He passed her a rack of wheat toast. “Don’t worry, my dear, I don’t expect you to turn Russian overnight. I’d like you to try some of our delicacies once in a while, but only in the interests of experiment.”
“Oh, I’m well aware of the advantages of trying Russian delicacies once in a while,” she said with a mischievous up-from-under look. “One of them I find particularly delicious…a little salty…a little—”
“Enough,” he stated, his dancing eyes belying the ferocity of his tone. “If you continue in this incorrigible fashion, I’ll not be able to take you into polite society. You’re supposed to be a vicar’s daughter.”
“I am a vicar’s daughter,” Livia said, spreading jam on her toast. “But I don’t have to be a prude as part of the bargain.”
“That you are most definitely not,” he said. “But, my love, I think it’s time to bring this interlude to a close. Are you ready to return to London?”
Livia looked at him curiously. “It’s rather sudden, isn’t it?”
He gave an easy shrug. “I’m anxious to see how the work on the house has progressed. The architect promised it would all be finished two days ago, but you can’t be sure unless you’re there to crack the whip…so…?” He raised an eyebrow in query.
Livia chewed her toast. Returning to London need not bring the idyll to an end. And in all truth, she knew they couldn’t continue to live as they had been for the last three days. And in truth she was eager to see her house, to see it in its finished state. And in truth she was more than eager to start her married life in good earnest.
“When do you wish to leave?”
“Would noon be too soon?”
Livia nearly dropped her fork. “But it’s already eleven o’clock. How could we possibly be ready to leave in an hour? There’s packing to do and—”
“Boris is already taking care of those details,” Alex said calmly, spearing a fillet of smoked trout. He squeezed lemon on it, seemingly quite unperturbed by the host of details that loomed in front of Livia. “If we change horses every hour we’ll be in Cavendish Square before midnight.”
He looked up from his plate. “In Russia, my dear, we’re accustomed to moving entire households on a whim and at the drop of a bonnet. Boris knows exactly what to do and he’ll be waiting for us when we arrive.”
“Oh.” She couldn’t come up with a more expansive comment.
“So, can you be ready by noon?”
Livia opened her hands in a gesture of acceptance. “I don’t see why not,” she said. If a Russian could do it, she could.
Chapter Sixteen
THEY ARRIVED IN CAVENDISH SQUARE late that night, changing horses every hour. The post chaise carrying Boris, the cook, and the maid, Ethel, with the luggage piled on its roof, had started ahead of them and when, at close to midnight, Livia climbed stiffly out of the chaise, Boris, as Alex had promised, opened the front door to them. In order to make such good time they too must have changed horses at least every hour, Livia reflected, and unlike herself and Alex could not have stopped to stretch their legs and take refreshment at the various changing posts. She couldn’t help reflecting on the expense of such a hasty journey, taken on what seemed like a mere whim. But then she was her father’s daughter when all was said and done.
“Your bedchamber is prepared, Princess, and Ethel is waiting for you.” Despite his long journey and the lateness of the hour, Boris was as immaculate and dignified as ever.
“Thank you,” she responded with automatic courtesy, but her eyes swept the hall, noting the changes, all changes she had authorized, but somehow the house felt alien. It was too perfect.
Castigating herself for being nonsensical, Livia walked into the salon. It was gorgeous, absolute perfection. The portrait of Sophia Lacey had been cleaned and stood out above the mantelpiece, her blue eyes dominating the room.
Livia walked back into the hall and across to the dining room. It was the same there. Perfect, beautiful, too much so. Until she looked up at the fresco and her sense of humor returned. Nothing had really changed. The neglected old lady in Cavendish Square had been beautified, that was all. The essential spirit of the house was still there.
“Is something wrong?” Alex spoke quietly behind her. He had been watching her, a puzzled frown in his eye.
“No, no, nothing at all,” she said. “I’m just not used to seeing the house so radiantly flawless. It doesn’t feel lived in at all, more like a museum.” She shrugged out of her pelisse. “Let’s go into my parlor.”
Alex followed her into the parlor and watched as she looked around almost warily and then visibly relaxed. This room, at least, was exactly as she had left it, and it welcomed her with a fire in the hearth and lit lamps.
“Where are Morecombe and the twins?” She asked the question casually, but she realized that what was missing in the welcome of this house were its ancient retainers.
“In their apartments I expect; it’s very late.” He went over to the console table, where a trio of decanters stood. “Boris knows I enjoy a glass of port at the end of the evening.” He lifted one of the decanters. “Will you join me?”
“Yes,
please,” Livia said. “But why would Boris put port for you in my parlor?”
He turned in surprise. “Do you object?”
“I don’t know,” she said candidly. “This is my house, my parlor…it feels strange having someone else order things in it. You have the library as your particular room. I supposed I assumed that Boris would arrange things there to your liking…I didn’t think he’d come in here…somehow,” she finished with a rather feeble shrug. It sounded so grudging and ungrateful, and she was neither of those things, but she couldn’t lose this strange sense of violation.
She wanted Morecombe and the twins to make everything seem normal, but of course it was far too late for them to be up. They’d be in their usual places in the morning, and once she’d had a good night’s sleep she’d stop feeling so strange. Or so Livia told herself.
Alex poured port and handed her a glass before responding. “I’m sorry if Boris trod on your toes, Livia. He was only following my orders. I had not thought any part of this house would be barred to me.”
“But it’s not,” she said, taking the glass. “Indeed, it’s not, Alex. Of course you’re welcome in this room any time you wish, it’s just that it’s always been mine…mine and Ellie’s and Nell’s,” she added miserably. “I need time to get used to the idea that things have changed.”
“Used to the idea of being married?” He raised his eyebrows.
“No, not that. Used to the idea of sharing my house with you,” she stated flatly. “You and your servants. It feels strange, but I will grow accustomed to it, Alex.” She put a hand on his arm. “Forgive me, it sounds irrational, and indeed I can’t explain…just give me a few days, please, love.”
“Of course,” he said, placing a hand over hers as it tightened anxiously on his arm. “I hadn’t realized the house meant so much to you.” He had, of course, but he hadn’t expected this resistance, hadn’t expected her to see him as an invader. “Go up to bed now. You’re tired. We’ll sort all this out in the morning.”