by Wendy Burge
“You must do what is in your heart, Christina. If that means staying with Robert because you have given yourself no other choice, then it is the right decision. Your honor is of the highest. It is what makes you special. It is one of the reasons Varek loves you with a ferocity that is so inspiring. You will do what you must and, ultimately, you have the strength to live content with the course you set for yourself.”
Christina stared at Laure and as always she marveled at her friend’s serenity. How foolish were men. Metternich was panting after a slut who would spread her legs for a daring wager and in his very home was this woman, so rare and beautiful.
Lord Castlereagh flashed into her mind, his tall, slender form gently guiding his ungainly wife about the dance floor. There was a handsome, charming man so obviously in love with his homely wife—a man who never thought twice about looking at the beauties who floated around him. And Varek, who could have any woman he wanted without even trying, yet after all their years together and the trials they had suffered through, he still only wanted her.
Her faithful Laure, patiently waiting at home for her roving husband to tire of his latest amour, knowing it was only a matter of time, and then welcoming him back with open arms. There were few women who would be so forgiving.
And then there was Robert, or the stranger her husband had become, a man obsessed only with his own insecurities. How sincere was a love that had no trust in it?
Ultimately they were all guided by one thing—gratification. The fulfillment of their own interpretation of love; whether it was lust, the comfort of security or the drive for power. Weren’t they all simply searching for the same thing?
“What you say speaks to my mind, but what of my heart, Laure? What if my heart beats to another dream?”
“The heart is not always right, Christina. The heart can be selfish and fickle and even unworthy. Is it your heart alone that speaks to Varek?”
Lowering her gaze, Christina shook her head. She only wished it were.
“Then, my friend, you have a problem.” With a rustle of cloth, Laure bent down and kissed Christina’s cheek. “I must be away; so much to do before this evening. I shall call for you by around six, I think. Getting through these crowds will take some time and we will need every extra minute if we are to get you into your exulted place of honor.”
Her friend’s gentle teasing brought no reciprocating light into Christina’s somber eyes. Giving her friend a smile, the Princess Metternich moved toward the door.
Suddenly, Christina swiveled about. “Laure,” she watched her friend pause and look back at her. “Are you content in your love?”
“Whoever said love meant contentment, Christina?” Laure’s gaze was a wealth of weariness as she returned Christina’s. Christina looked away and after a brief pause, she heard the door open and then close quietly.
Nor is contentment love.
Christina felt a shiver run along her arms, and unconsciously she hugged herself. With a shake of her head, she cleared her mind of these confusing thoughts. Today, she had other worries, for tonight, in front of all of Vienna, she was to be paired off with Varek. It would be as if the last six years had never happened—as if she still had the right to be at Varek’s side. Tonight would be like a dream come true.
But the last six years had happened—and she must never let herself forget that.
∞∞∞
With an exasperated huff, Christina tried in vain to blow the gauzy silk off her lips. She couldn’t see too clearly through the veil that covered her splendid person from the top of her golden headpiece to her shimmering hem, as did the veils of the other twenty-three Queens of Love. She would like to know who was responsible for this silly bit of artifice. If she didn’t get some fresh air any time soon they would have to pick her up off the floor.
The noise of over a thousand voices swelled and shifted about the hall with a deafening cacophony that hurt her ears. And the air—what air there was—was thick with the redolent, heated miasma of unwashed bodies, heavy perfume and the tang smell of excited horseflesh. In addition, the thousands of candles that lit the hall to the brilliance of daylight, cast off another source of heat, the smoke casting a pall over the glittering scene spread before them. All of this, and even before the games had commenced, contributed to Christina’s feeling of ill will. A headache pounded behind her eyes, exasperated by the heavy golden diadem pinching her temples. She didn’t want to be here and yet at the same time she couldn’t wait to see Varek, resplendent in his costume.
She had seen him only briefly earlier, as she had entered the rear of the hall to be met by the other giggling, excited ladies. One moment she was standing alone, looking around for the other five women who would make up her quadrille and then she turned and bumped into his broad chest. He had merely smiled down on her, his eyes speaking of forbidden thoughts, shared by the both of them.
Aware of the audience around them, silent and avidly watching their every move, Varek had sketched her a slight bow as he murmured low, his brow quirked in amusement, “Good evening, Lady Basingstoke. I have come to take possession of my token.” His voice was low and husky and she shivered as if the languid words stroked her suddenly feverish skin. Varek’s heated gaze caressed the vulnerable tops of her breasts, lifted painfully high in the tortuous bodice. Seeing her bounteous beauty on such display, he frowned slightly then forced his attention back to her flushed face.
Christina felt her shoulder rudely nudged. Looking around, she found Dorothea, Countess de Perigord, Tallyrand’s niece standing beside her, also dressed in the black and gold of her quadrille. Leaning over, Dorothea hissed in her ear, “The sash, Christina.”
Blinking, she looked down at her hands and was almost surprised to find the black and gold waterfall of shimmering silk, clutched in her shaking hands. Embroidered on one end was the image of a delicate silver lark, its emerald eye winking at her. Embarrassed at the attention directed at them, Christina thrust out the token and waited impatiently for Varek to take it.
With a slow, wicked smile, Varek raised his hand, his fingers closing about the silk while at the same time, trapping her fingers in his firm clasp. “Thank you, my lady,” he murmured as he bent over and laid warm lips on her inner wrist.
She gasped as his tongue slowly stroked along the rapid pulse beneath her hot skin. Feeling as if she was about to melt into a puddle of singed butter, she snatched her hand away, leaving the silk fluttering in his hand. Holding her gaze with shameless audacity, he raised the scarf to his lips. She watched as those warm lips then caressed the silver lark. She shivered. Raising her eyes, she was again snagged by his seductive smile, lost to all sense of time and place. After he wrapped her token about his neck, he turned to leave and a cold fear gripped her heart as he walked away from her.
Before she could stop herself she called out softly, “Varek.”
He paused to look back at her, but so did every person within earshot. Ignoring their curious attention, she stared into his incredibly blue eyes. There was so much she wanted to say to him. But she couldn’t—and the vulgar display of curiosity around them had nothing to do with her hesitation. Finally, she gave him a weak smile. “Please, be careful. For me.”
A molten flame flared to life in the warm regard of his gaze and for a moment suspended in time, they were alone, the buzz of voices and the heated bodies, far away. For one wonderful second a tender smile softened his hard lips, then he had the impudence to give her a slow, wicked wink before strolling casually away.
The ladies around her immediately broke into titters and whispered exclamations, all the while their envious eyes traveled from her flushed face to the broad back of the archduke. Trying to tune out the fluttering hens, Christina turned to Dorothea, who was also watching Varek. “You are so lucky, Christina. Now that is a man!”
Christina’s lips tightened in frustration as she ignored this naive comment. With as much courtesy as she was capable of at that moment, she commented, “I see we are of the same
quadrille. Who else joins us?”
Forcing her covetous gaze from Varek, Dorothea turned around and together they studied the milling ladies. Christina saw the duchess of Sagan, Metternich’s newest lost love, looking stunning in emerald green, her gown blazing with every jewel her numerous lovers must have given her over the years. She didn’t know how the woman could walk without falling over and being crushed from the weight of the stones adorning every inch of flesh and material.
Christina started as Dorothea grabbed her hand to pull her through the milling women. She was surprised when they stopped in front of the dashing, if somewhat vain, Count Karl Clam-Martinitz. With a shy smile, Dorothea extended her tribute, which was accepted with a dazzling smile and a click of the count’s highly polished boots. Curious, Christina looked from the blushing young girl to the handsome young officer of the Austrian Calvary. Nothing of any meaning, other than the usual flirtatious amenities, was exchanged between them before he was on his way to don his costume.
Christina cocked an amused brow at the Countess Perigord. “Do I smell a romance in the air?”
Dorothea sighed with extravagant style. “Isn’t he lovely?”
Christina’s lips quirked drolly, “What happened to Trauttmansdorff?” Not to mention Count Perigord, her husband.
Dorothea blinked at her. “Why nothing. He is a delicious flirt, but there really was nothing between us. Now Karl, he is another matter.”
“Obviously.”
With a pretty pout, Dorothea turned on Christina. “Oh, look who is talking—you with that marvelous stud still panting after you. You always did have all the luck Christina. Everyone says so.”
Luck! Christina didn’t know whether to laugh, curse at the poor girl or just slap her silly.
Wanting to end this conversation, Christina hailed over the Princess Esterhazy who was also sporting the black and gold of their quadrille. As the lovely woman moved toward them, again Christina was almost blinded by the flash of jewels. She was beginning to feel like a veritable pauper, her dearth of jewels becoming more and more noticeable. Was she an embarrassment to the St. Pole family, she wondered in amusement, not displaying their wealth on her body?
With a wry smile, Christina watched the nervous fluttering of Hager’s staff, as they hovered anxiously behind the opulently bedecked ‘Queens’. Between these vain ladies, sporting the wealth of several nations on their backs and the noble spectators flashing their own private collections of treasures, Hager had his work cut out for him. The vast hall literally blazed with the mutinous refraction of diamonds, rubies and emeralds—a thief’s paradise, to be sure. And that toad Hager was responsible for every last one of them. Christina smiled broadly at the thought as she was herded, with the other twenty-three ladies, onto their lavish dais amid the excited cheers of the spectators.
And now here she sat—hot, itchy and irritable. Used to the lighter, almost sheer fabrics and fashions of the time, Christina felt stifled and confined in the heavy folds of the I7th century costume. How did one appear a dazzling ‘Queen of Love and Beauty’ when one was sweating like a peasant of the fields? Feeling the stiff embroidery of her low décolletage dig into the top of her breast, Christina cast a furtive glance about her before, under the cover of her veil (at least the dratted thing was good for something), she shifted her bosom about. Then she cursed under her breath as a trickle of sweat slithered down between her breasts. Lord, how she hated that! Irritated, she squirmed about in her seat wishing she’d had the sense to bring something as common and useful as a handkerchief.
Leaning over, she grumbled softly in Dorothea’s ear, “I’ll not be able to make it through this night…”
Excited, Dorothea cut her off. “Isn’t it stunning, Christina? Just as we planned. Oh, it looks simply marvelous.”
For the first time, Christina looked past her disgruntled mood and really surveyed the hall. Even as irritable as she was, she had to agree with Dorothea. It was spectacular.
Amid the glittering crowds in the gallery, twenty-four Corinthian columns had been erected on both sides of the arena. Each column, in a princely display, depicted the coat-of-arms, weapons and mottoes of the twenty-four competing knights. Christina smiled as she read a few of the mottoes closest to her, translated into French. For weeks she had sat through endless hours of debate as the ladies had argued over the French translations of the Latin inscriptions.
On both ends of the oblong arena had been erected two grandstands, extravagant with the gold-embroidered cloth that draped the predominant daises. The larger stage had been set with dozens of ornate chairs, provided for the comfort of the Emperor and Empress, their royal family and the honored sovereigns of Europe. The twenty-four ‘Queens of Love and Beauty’ sat on the opposite dais. The mysteriously shrouded figures awaited, as did the spectators, the arrival of the monarchs. In the arena beneath the royal grandstand a game of rings was being played out for the entertainment of the restless gallery.
Christina grimaced as she studied the turbaned heads of Turks and Moors, staked out in wax effigy on pikes around the arena. This little bit of morbid history had been the idea of several of the Germanic princesses. They had assured all the other doubting ladies that the crowd would be more than pleased to see their ancient enemy used as targets in the games by the heroic knights.
While the hall reverberated with the applause and jeers of the spectators as they watched the horsemen tilting at the rings, Christina carefully inspected the layer of sand being kicked up beneath the horses flying hooves. It eased the dread gripping her heart to see the thick cushion of sand spread over the hard ground for Varek had just recently recovered from the fierce beating he had suffered only a few short weeks ago. A fall from his horse could only aggravate the internal bruises he had sustained. She was still angered over the fact he was entered into the lists at all. He could be so childish at times, playing at such games. It hadn’t seemed to worry him at all that he would be riding against some men who were many years his junior. But the archduke was known as one of the best horsemen in Europe. That was the difference between them—Varek saw it all as frivolous fun, she saw it as masochistic stupidity. She hoped he landed on his stubborn arse, to coin one of Sergei’s more colorful phrases.
Again, she quickly scanned the floor, re-evaluating the thickness of the sand. Maybe it wasn’t as deep as she had first thought, she fretted silently, biting her lip.
The blare of trumpets, announcing the arrival of the royal highnesses, startled her, and looking about her she saw the assemblage rise to their feet. With a sigh of relief, knowing this fiasco would soon begin—and just as quickly end, she prayed—Christina swayed to her feet in the heavy costume. As if on cue, all the ladies swept the floor length veils over their heads, displaying to the applauding crowds their splendid, glittering costumes. Christina, thankfully breathed deep of the somewhat cooler air, as the crowd went wild, torn between the spectacle of glittering beauty at one end of the arena and their beloved majesties at the other. The cheers continued uninterrupted as the ornate chairs were filled with the royal sovereigns and other high-ranking personages of the Congress. These personages would be shaping the destinies of their world and the people’s expectations were high, their trust absolute. And they made their loyalty more than apparent in the warm reception they gave to their prospective rulers.
When the royal dais was finally settled, there came another blare of the trumpets. Once more the crowd went wild, as the resplendent figures of the twenty-four knights, astride the equally resplendent Hungarian steeds, their ebony coats barely seen beneath the rich caparisons, thundered into the arena. Their entrance was accompanied by a rousing martial march from the orchestra high in the balcony above the royal dais. Behind this impressive display of the flower of Europe’s elite, trotted in twenty-four grooms carrying their masters’ banners, closely followed by dozens of equerries loaded down with their knights’ shields and weapons. Soon the arena was a hive of activity as the squires quickly found t
heir places.
The knights, also formed into four quadrilles, their colors matched to that of the ‘Queen’ which they honored that night. Despite the azure, emerald, crimson or black of their quadrille, seen through the slashed sleeves of their velvet doublets, the knights were dressed alike in the medieval trappings of the Francis I period. Dark, tight-fitted breeches hugged their muscled thighs, their lower legs encased in yellow boots with golden spurs. Also of the same brilliant saffron, their gauntlets were lavishly embroidered with golden, shimmering threads and their broad-brimmed hats sparkled with diamond brooches sporting large plumes of their respective colors. The knights’ broad chests were protected with a silver and gold armor encasement that looked more like ornamentation than protection. Christina frowned when she looked at the flimsy piece of beauty covering Varek’s torso. It appeared to have all the strength of paper maché to her critical eye. She swallowed as she remembered the sight of Varek’s battered body lying helplessly before her. The dratted fool!
All the ladies caught their breaths in awe as their gallant knights made their salutations before the royal dais, tipping their lances to the ground in honor and obedience to the lovely figures of the queens and empresses, receiving graceful nods in acknowledgment. Then, in pairs of two, the knights wheeled their horses about to thunder to the opposite end of the arena to give equal homage to their ladies. The crowds shouted their approval as each knight blew a kiss to his ladylove. Tied at each lean hip in a lavish bow, opposite the glittering hilts of their swords, were their ladies’ silken tokens.
Christina’s breath caught in her throat as Varek reached down and his thumb sensually stroked the lark depicted on his token. Their eye contact was brief, but a clash of scorching emotions, before he wheeled his horse around to fall into the formation of the other knights as they cantered proudly about the arena twice amid the thunderous cheers of the gallery. Finally, each knight fell out of the formation and retreated to where his groom awaited him.