Crystal Heart

by Kruger, Mary

“John—”

  “Alana. Tell me.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Tell me!”

  “Oh, very well! The last time you kissed me.”

  “Ah.” He sat back, smiling; she looked everywhere but at him. “So if I were to kiss you again, he wouldn’t know.”

  “Well, you’re not, so that hardly matters, does it?”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not what?”

  “Why aren’t I going to kiss you again?”

  She rose, tray in hand. “This has gone far enough.”

  He rose as well, struck by an urgency he didn’t understand. Sir Gabriel was right. One had to go after love, or forever regret it. How Alana earned her living didn’t matter so much as who she was, bright, intelligent, honest, and so damned desirable he wanted to take her into his arms right now. “Sir Gabriel did tell me one more thing.”

  Alana stopped, her back to him, her head turned to the side. “Oh?”

  “Yes.” He crossed the room and took the tray from her, setting it down on a nearby shelf. “He told me not to let love get away.”

  “John—”

  “If I let you walk out that door without kissing you again, Alana, I don’t think I can bear it.”

  “John, we can’t.”

  His arm slipped about her waist. “Why not?”

  “Because it wouldn’t be—because we just can’t! Oh, do let me go.”

  “You don’t really want me to, do you?” He tilted her chin up with his fingertips, and saw the answer in her eyes. “You don’t.”

  “No. Oh, John—”

  “I’ve waited a long time for this,” he said, and at last kissed her.

  It was different from the other times. The first kiss had been a kiss of possession; the second, though sweet, of desire. This was a kiss of promise, and, as his lips moved over hers, the world opened for him in a way it never had before. In her arms he had found his future. “God, I love you,” he said into her hair when he at last released her, and felt her jerk against him in surprise. “Marry me.”

  Chapter Ten

  For a moment Alana could only stand very still, rooted to the spot. Marry him! It was all she wanted. And yet, how could she? All the objections she had to the match remained. “John, I’m not sure—”

  “Do you love me, Alana?” His hold on her tightened. “Do you think you could learn to love me, even a little?”

  “Oh, John, I do!” She threw her arms around his neck, casting her misgivings to the wind. “I do. But, marriage—”

  “It will work, sweetheart. We’re good together, don’t you see? Look how we’ve worked on finding the crystal heart.”

  “It’s not the same as marriage.”

  “And we can laugh together, too. Remember in the attic, putting on the wigs? I’ve never met anyone who views the world as you do.”

  “Nor I, you. But, John.” She pulled back, searching his face. “Can you support a wife?”

  He smiled in a way she didn’t quite understand. “I’d manage. You’d never want for anything, sweetheart, I’d see to that.”

  “John, I—” I am an heiress, she wanted to say, but the words caught in her throat. “You love me, even though I have no fortune?”

  “Alana, I’d love you even if you had a fortune.”

  But, would he? The chill of reality touched her. “I don’t know,” she said, and pulled away.

  “Alana—”

  “I need time to think! I had no idea you felt this way.”

  His hands were at her shoulders, his lips at the nape of her neck, sending delicious shivers down her spine. “Not even a little?”

  “Ohh. I can’t think when you do that.”

  “Good. Don’t think. Alana.” His hands, firm now, turned her towards him. “I meant everything I said.” His eyes were serious. “I want to marry you.”

  “I need time,” she repeated, softly, though it was hard. Everything in her urged her to cast herself into his arms, to cry out that yes, she would marry him, and never mind the consequences. But she couldn’t. She had spent too many years being sensible, considering everything before she made a decision. “I’m sorry, John, but I do.”

  “How much time do you need?” he demanded. “Do you want to spend your life always in the employ of others?”

  “That is not the question, John.” She laid her fingers on his lips. “Money is not the question.”

  “Then what is? Dash it, Alana, I love you.”

  She almost gave in, then. She almost threw herself at him, giving him the answer he so desired. What held her back, she never afterwards knew. “I know. I love you, too. But this is a big decision, John. You’ve had time to think about it. Grant me the same privilege.”

  “Damn it.” He glanced away, and then back. “Oh, very well. How much time do you need?”

  She calculated rapidly in her mind, figuring how many days it would take for a letter to reach her grandfather, if she decided to tell him, and how much longer after that she would need to convince him. “Until Valentine’s Day.”

  “Valentine’s Day! That long?”

  “Yes. But appropriate, don’t you think?”

  “Dash it, not if the answer is ‘no’!”

  “Shh.” She laid her fingers on his lips again. “Think of all the time you’ll have to convince me.”

  His eyes brightened; his arms reached for her. “I say, Alana, that’s a capital idea!”

  “No.” Laughing, she eluded his grasp. “Not tonight, sir. I still have things to see to. And we cannot be seen together too much, else we’ll lose our positions.”

  “Hang our positions!”

  “John. Not a very sensible attitude for a man planning to marry.”

  “I don’t want to be sensible. Oh, very well, I won’t force you. But I insist upon seeing you at least once a day.”

  “We still have costumes to find, sir.”

  “So we do.” He smiled down at her. “I do love you.”

  “And I, you.” She returned the smile. “But I’d best go.”

  “One more kiss,” he said, and pulled her into his arms.

  It was many kisses later before Alana was allowed to leave. She returned her tray to the kitchen, checked on a sleeping Lady Honoria, and then, feeling as if her feet barely touched the floor, returned to her room. From the drawer in her writing table, she withdrew the crystal heart, placing it around her neck. John loved her. It hardly seemed possible, but it was. Someone loved her for herself.

  “So,” a voice said behind her. “He finally found the courage to propose.”

  Alana spun around. “You promised not to spy on me!”

  “I was not spying on you, madam,” Sir Gabriel said in injured tones. “I was spying on him.”

  “Oh, honestly!”

  “I suppose he’s a decent enough sort. You could do worse.”

  Alana picked up a brush and began pulling it through her hair with short, angry strokes. “Not that it’s any of your affair. I do wish you’d stop watching us.”

  “Have you forgotten, madam, that I have other things at stake than your romance?”

  “No.” Alana lowered the brush, looking for him in the mirror in vain. When she turned, it was to see him standing, hat held before him and shoulders squared. A proud man, was Sir Gabriel, but she could see the sadness in his eyes. “No, and I assure you I’m doing what I can. Oh!” She dropped the brush and came forward. “Do you know, John may have found where the Folletts went to.”

  Sir Gabriel inclined his head. “Yes.

  “I believe he said something about writing to friends and relations to find out if they know the family.”

  “Then he didn’t tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “That he has already begun doing so.”

  “No.” Alana eyed him, though he wouldn’t return her look. She had the oddest feeling he’d been about to say something else. “We were, ah, distracted.”

  “I remember,”
he said, dryly. “You are going to marry him, then?”

  She turned away. “I don’t know.”

  “What? Are you a fool, woman? Would you choose a life of work over a life of your own?”

  “I’m not so certain being someone’s wife means having a life of one’s own,” she retorted. “Oh, never mind, you’ll never understand that. I told him I needed to think about it, and I do.”

  “What is there to think about?”

  Her hands slashed the air in frustration. “We’ve been over this! You know there are things I must consider.”

  “You are making much of this. Are you so certain your grandfather will disapprove?”

  “Yes. You don’t know him.”

  “And you do not know—”

  “What?” she said, when he didn’t go on.

  “How he will react.”

  “What is it you know you are not telling me?”

  “Nothing, dear lady. But I think you do both yourself and Mr. Winston a disservice by not revealing who you are.”

  “And if I do? What if he wants me only for my money?”

  “Dear lady.” He smiled. “Haven’t you faith enough in what is between you?”

  “No,” she whispered. “It was never enough in the past.”

  “Trust me on this, ma’am. You need to tell him. You’ll not know, else.”

  “Don’t press me. I will tell him when I can.”

  “When will that be, madam? Time is growing short.”

  “I have time. Until Valentine’s Day.”

  “Precisely. Valentine’s Day. Do not delay too long in your decision, madam, or you may regret it.”

  “Why does it matter so to you? I won’t forget your situation, simply because of mine.”

  He inclined his head. “Thank you for that. But remember what I said, madam. Do not let love slip away.” With that, he faded.

  “I hate it when you do that!” she cried. “Must you always have the last word?” Her only answer was silence. “I suppose you must. Oh, bother.” She turned back to the mirror, and slowly her frowning visage cleared. John loved her. Whatever her other problems, she had that to hold to. She was loved. There was just one problem. Would she still be loved when she told him the truth?

  Sir Gabriel swept into the gallery like an avenging angel, setting up a breeze that stirred the dust in little eddies and that made the maid, who was dusting the picture frames, look up in sudden wide-eyed fright. Ignoring her, he stopped before a portrait, slowly removing his hat and holding it to his chest. His Madeleine. He remembered well when the portrait had been painted, how he had stood behind the artist and teased his wife, until her eyes sparkled and her cheeks were pink. She had been so alive, so vital. Some of the life had been lost in the reproduction he saw before him, but that bothered him not. It was the only way he had seen her in more than a century.

  “I do not understand people today,” he began, without preamble. “Were you and I so foolish as these two? No, you needn’t look at me that way. I know that I was. But at least we loved, Madeleine. At least we knew that.” He stared at the portrait, as if by doing so he could bring it to life. “John Winston is our descendant, can you credit that? And when he at last summons the courage to propose, she refuses him. Bah.” He began to pace. The maid, feeling the air stir again, glanced around, and then fled, her feather duster falling unheeded. “She’s a stubborn wench, Maddy. Much like you. She will not listen to me, no matter what I say. Ah, Maddy.” He stopped again in front of the portrait. “I miss you so. If you were here, you could talk to her. If you were here...”

  His voice trailed off, and he turned sharply away. She wasn’t here, and that was his burden. For a moment this evening he had thought he was on the way to being free, until Alana had refused the proposal. For he knew she would, no matter how much she might profess to be thinking the matter over. Someone had hurt her in the past because of her inheritance, and rather badly. She would never tell Winston her true identity, unless—

  He turned slowly back to the portrait. “Unless someone does it for her, Maddy? Is that what you would suggest?” His smile grew. “Yes, I thought it might be. Very well. I shall do so.” He bowed low. “We shall be together again, madam. I promise you that.”

  She loved him. John sat in the library, his work neglected, a foolish grin on his face. Alana loved him. Funny, what that meant to him. Where once he would have avoided parson’s mousetrap with all his energy, now he positively anticipated it. He could conceive of nothing more satisfying than the life he lived now, a scholarly life, with Alana by his side. Oh, they’d go to London, of course; he hadn’t changed that much. And he’d probably capitulate and learn to manage the estates, against the day when he became the marquess. He had, however, found meaning in life again, from his work, and from Alana. No longer was he bored. The future was far too exciting.

  The embers of the dying fire flamed suddenly, as at a draft, and then Sir Gabriel stood before him. Even that wasn’t enough to jar him from his mood. “Congratulate me, sir. I took your excellent advice, and I am to be married.”

  “You will not be if you do not take action, sirrah. You are in danger of losing what you most desire.”

  John frowned at the figure standing before him, looking surprisingly solid. “Miss Sterling loves me.”

  “So she does, but she does not trust you.”

  That brought him out of his chair. “I say—”

  “I shall give you the chance to prove your trustworthiness by telling you who she really is.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Use this information well, boy, and remember. Love can easily be suffocated.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about—”

  “Miss Sterling is the granddaughter of the Duke of Grafton,” he said, and disappeared.

  “What? Wait! Come back. You can’t say such a thing and then disappear, damn you. What the devil do you mean, she’s a duke’s granddaughter? Why would she be working here—”

  “Excuse me, sir.” The butler put his head around the door, which John had not heard open. “Is all well?”

  “Yes.” John glared towards the fireplace, and then looked back at the butler. “Yes, everything is fine. I was speaking aloud the lines for Lady Pamela’s play.”

  The butler glanced about the room, and frowned. “I see. I shall leave you then, sir. Good night.”

  “Good night,” John answered absently, staring dazedly ahead of him. Good God, this couldn’t be right. How could Alana possibly be the granddaughter of a duke? One of the most powerful and wealthy in the land, as well. Such a person would certainly not be earning her living as a companion to elderly ladies. She would instead be in London, easily making an advantageous marriage...

  Something nagged at the back of his mind. Frowning, John rubbed his aching head, trying to remember. He didn’t pay much heed to the marriage mart, didn’t care much who was engaged to whom, so long as it wasn’t him. There was something he remembered hearing about, though, a rather spectacular end to an engagement, when at a ball a young woman had dashed a cup of punch in her erstwhile fiancé’s face. That had caused a scandal that society had not soon forgotten. It had, if he remembered, correctly, been at Grafton House. More to the point, it sounded like something Alana would do.

  The thought made him grin, taking him out of his abstraction for a moment. She had a temper, his Alana. He wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end when she really got angry. By the same token, however, she didn’t lose her temper over trifles. If she were the one he was thinking of, she must have had provocation. Dash it, he wished he’d listened more to the on-dits at the time.

  What had happened to Grafton’s granddaughter after that incident? Racking his brain, John dredged up old memories. She hadn’t been seen in society after that, had she? It had been put about that Grafton, enraged, had banished her to his estate in Yorkshire, but other rumors had flown, too. Rumors that Grafton had lost track of the wayward girl, and was
searching for her. Dimly he remembered that even he had discussed that very topic one evening over several bottles of wine at the Cocoa Tree. His conclusion then was that he was glad not to be linked with such a hotheaded young miss. Yet here he was now, several years later, in exactly that position, if Alana were indeed who Sir Gabriel said she was.

  If she were...If so, then their marriage would be eminently suitable, God help him, and any objections his father may have had would be stilled. Not that that worried him anymore, but it was one obstacle removed. For if she weren’t Grafton’s granddaughter, still she was very much a lady, in manner and breeding. She would make a splendid marchioness. How she would react when she discovered his real identity was something he didn’t want to contemplate just now, though he could easily reproach her as well. The irony of their both disguising themselves wasn’t lost on him.

  The question remained. Was Alana a duke’s granddaughter, and, if so, what should he do about it? He could confront her with it, of course. What then, though? She’d be angry, perhaps even a little hurt. Though he expected she would admit it, one thing he doubted she would do was reconcile with Grafton. She was stubborn; so, he knew from Grafton’s friendship with his own father, was the duke. Whatever had caused the estrangement between them, he doubted either would end it, unless prodded to it. The only person who could do so now was him.

  John crossed back to the table. This situation couldn’t be allowed to go on. If he were finally going to marry, he would do so properly. That meant obtaining Grafton’s permission. If in the process he reunited Alana with her grandfather, that was all to the good. She shouldn’t be without family. Pulling a sheet of paper towards him, he began to write.

  Chapter Eleven

  Two letters went out from Heart’s Ease the following day, one addressed to the Duke of Grafton, the other to the Marchioness of Ware. Both occasioned a good deal of excitement and speculation in the servants’ quarters. What could Mr. Winston want with them? Even more intriguing, how did he know them? The servants were well aware of the romance between John and Alana, if their employers were not. This latest development added an element of mystery that intrigued everyone.