by Lara Temple
He dragged himself back into the conversation. Whether true or not it wasn’t his concern. Fennel.
‘Not my favourite either. I hate liquorice.’
Her nose wrinkled in distaste and he actively resisted the urge to run his finger down that pert line and settle on the still-smiling lips. Damn, he wanted to do something about this. He wouldn’t, but it was a sad shame he couldn’t.
He lowered one knee to the ground, shifting against the unwelcome rise of pressure in his buckskins.
‘What do you like, then?’ he asked, unwilling to end the conversation quite yet. Even now that he knew who she was, the puzzle remained. Alby and Oswald were right, there was something unclear about her, too much tucked away, but still resonating. ‘Perhaps you could offer Alby...Lady Albinia some guidance in her conundrum.’
She tilted her head and gazed at the far wall where Alby’s border garden was weaving and bobbing in the breeze like a rainbow tossed about on the waves. A thick wave of mahogany hair was beginning to slip its pins and was resting in a loop against her nape. He wanted to see it shake free and slip down her back. How long would it be? Long...
‘I don’t think I would like to be narrowed down to just one plant. I wish I could be something different every day. Being named would be like having only one book. I can’t imagine that. I need a whole world of books. It’s different for someone like you.’
‘I think I can understand that sentiment very well. Why do you think it is different for me?’
‘Because that is already how you live, isn’t it? Perhaps that is why Lady Albinia won’t categorise you.’
‘You think that is how I live my life? Doing as I will, when I will? It is true I have more freedom than you, than most people, in fact, but a great deal of that is in appearance only. In the end we are all tied down by our duties. There are well over two hundred people dependent on these estates and quite a few more dependent on the Foreign Office’s attempts to keep people from succumbing to the often comprehensible urge to kill each other. I might not be a big cog in that particular clockwork, but I take my role there seriously. In the end I do not have a great deal more freedom than most.’
Her eyes moved over his face as he spoke, as if searching for something, and instead of his resentment sparking hers, her expression softened in degrees so that by the time he finished she was smiling again. The breeze picked up, just sifting through his hair and cooling the flush of heat on his temples, but it felt as if she had touched him. Once again it took an effort to focus on her answer.
‘They say envy is petty and it is. I had no right to drag you down simply because I wish to climb. I didn’t mean to imply you are volatile. It is clear that you are a consummate diplomat and that you take your duty very seriously. But from what we have heard you have certainly had many adventures in your life and you at least have the privilege of choice, even if you don’t always exercise it. I do hope you and King Darius can find a solution that will keep Illiakos safe for many, many years.’
The wistful note in her voice weakened his resentment, but he couldn’t prevent it colouring his response.
‘Are you so worried for him?’
She bent to arrange her clippings in the basket.
‘Of course. Especially for Ari...for Princess Ariadne. I want her to live a long, happy and safe life. I know that may depend on what is agreed here. And Illiakos is my home, too.’
‘You weren’t born there, surely?’
‘No, I was born in England, but Illiakos is my home nonetheless. Home is where one is wanted and needed.’
‘If that is your criterion, then a great many people are homeless.’
‘Yes, I think they are. I was for many years so I know the difference. For the first ten years of my life I was neither wanted nor necessary to anyone, unless one considers taking the blame for my cousins when they broke something being necessary.’
‘I can understand that. I doubt I would have been missed during my first ten years either, except by Alby. What happened then? Is that when you went to Illiakos?’
‘Yes, with my father. Ari and the King might be my employers, but quite soon after we arrived at the castle they made me feel wanted, even necessary. That is why I care what happens. Lady Albinia says you have two younger sisters. What would you do if someone threatened their well-being?’
‘Remove the threat.’
Her eyes widened slightly at his tones and the fierceness was replaced with a rueful smile as she returned her attention to the herbs.
‘I dare say you would. Well, there you have it. Ari may not be my blood, but she is my family. I know the King is doing this to safeguard her future. He doesn’t want her caught in a battle between the Greeks and the Turks any more than you do.’
Alex watched her hands move among the clippings as she spoke, separating them into little bundles. Her fingers were long and elegant, but they were not ladylike—they were too strong to merely clasp a fan or teacup. Hands with a purpose. He remembered those hands touching him... He reached towards them, only diverting at the last minute from the impulse to test the absurd need to feel them against his skin and see... Instead he extracted a twig from her clippings, a long branch with sharp lanced leaves and tiny white flowers furring the tip.
‘What is this?’
‘Spearmint from down by the lake. Here.’
She took a leaf and crushed it between her fingers and handed it to him and even before he reached out the scent of mint engulfed them, making his mouth water. He grasped her hand, raising it, the leaf still caught between her fingers, breathing her in.
‘What is spearmint for?’ he asked, not because he was interested but because he wanted to draw out the moment before he put an end to the charade.
‘For...for many things. Stomach ailments, irritability, nervous disorders.’
‘Is it sweet?’
‘Sweet?’
‘Spearmint.’
He was so tempted to answer the question himself, taste the green tint of moisture on her fingertips.
‘No. Not like the smell until you infuse it and add sugar. I use it to prepare tisanes.’
Her words were sensible, but her voice shook. Her hand as well. He was making her nervous which wasn’t surprising. This was not how one acted with virtuous young women. Any properly bred young woman of his acquaintance would have either swooned by now or be planning their bridals. He should let her go, stand up and leave, but he didn’t. He didn’t even let go of her hand. Instead he pressed his fingers over hers, further crushing the fragile leaf into a dark pulp, raising her hand to capture the scent. Her scent. He had been right—under the effusion of lemon and mint he caught the contrasting currents of wildflowers and something cool, distant.
‘Why do you need a tisane? Are you unwell?’
She shook her head, her gaze still on the fingers pressed between his, but he didn’t respond yet to the unspoken demand to release her.
‘For the King. He often has trouble sleeping.’
‘Such dedication. What else do you provide for the King’s well-being?’
She tried to pull her hand away, but he tightened his hold. What would she do if he asked her outright if she was the King’s mistress? Probably stab him with those scissors. Whatever her external façade, he had heard anger and frustration flash too often in her voice six years ago to believe her truly meek and obedient. She was cool surface and fiery core. He could feel it now, in the tension in the hand he held, the taut-bowstring quiver along her arm, waiting to strike. This was no meek servant. This was a woman with the power to play an ambitious role—insinuating herself into the royal family’s good graces, making herself indispensable. The perfect handmaiden draped over a will of steel. She had laid her ambition bare in her own words—she wanted to climb.
He dropped her hand and pushed to his feet. She looked up, the sun striking sapphir
e contrasts in her eyes. On her knees, with her face raised, she looked both innocent and utterly knowing, Eve caught in the moment of transition after eating from the fruit of the tree of knowledge. He had an impulse to reach out, capture her head in his hands, unravel her hair and lay her down on the grass amidst the tangle of herbs. But he would do nothing of the sort.
‘I dare say I should thank you for your nursing skills six years ago, shouldn’t I, Athena?’
Caught in the act of rising, she almost dropped her basket, her face suffusing with a very English blush, her eyes widening in shock. Her surprise was so vivid it was clear she had never expected him to recognise her.
‘How did you know? Did Ari tell you?’
‘No. I don’t know which of us should be more insulted by your assumption I wouldn’t recognise your voice and mannerisms. Whatever the case, I seem to remember I didn’t thank you properly at the time. So at least this is an opportunity to right that wrong.’
She wobbled, as if considering a curtsy and thinking better of it.
‘You are welcome, my lord. Now I had better take these inside, they must be prepared while still fresh.’
‘Of course they must. Heaven forbid you would fall short in your handmaiden’s duties and the King’s slumber be disturbed.’
It wasn’t in his character to snipe, but her dismissive coolness was aggravating. At least his comment shook her calm, her eyes narrowing.
‘I had forgotten how...outspoken you can be. Not what one usually expects from a diplomat.’
He clenched his jaw at the truth of her words and forced himself to smile.
‘You are right. I am being churlish. Politicians like to believe they are awake on every suit and I am feeling rather foolish I did not recognise you immediately. I shouldn’t punish you for the blow to my vanity.’
‘That is foolish. How could you recognise me? I was completely invisible and it was many years ago.’
‘So it was. So is your real name Miss Tina James? Or is it really Athena?’
‘No, it is Christina James, but Ari...Princess Ariadne was just a baby when I came to Illiakos and she called me Tina and I think that is why the King began calling me Athena.’
‘Which do you prefer?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Which name do you prefer? Or do you just accept whatever name happens to suit your interlocutor?’
‘What I prefer isn’t a currency in the lives of women like myself,’ she replied, sudden anger making her voice shake. ‘There is what I must, what I cannot bear and, in the privacy of my mind, what I would like. The first two are my boundaries in what is utterly your world. The third is the only space where I can exercise any freedom. People like you...men like you have no idea... The very fact that you can speak to me this way, ask me such questions and think you know the answers says nothing about me, but is just another sign of how...how ignorant and arrogant and...and spoilt you are!’
He hadn’t needed her stumbling fury to tell him he was being an ass. Whether she was the King’s mistress or merely what she appeared made no difference whatsoever. He bent and picked up her bonnet from the grass as he searched for some way to re-establish polite equilibrium, but somehow the words escaped him anyway.
‘Your bonnet, Miss James. Perhaps you are not aware, but in England it is improper for a young lady to go outside uncovered.’
She snatched the bonnet and stalked off without a word, the basket swinging precariously, and he watched her until she disappeared.
‘I believe I suggested you charm the young woman, not send her scurrying. What was that in aid of?’
Alex cursed under his breath and turned to face his uncle.
‘Are you following me, Uncle? Do common notions of respecting other people’s privacy not apply to you?’
‘I would not be where I am today if they did, though I usually no longer have to listen at keyholes, thank goodness. But I admit to being curious when I heard that particular tone in your voice, Alexander.’
‘What tone?’
‘An unfamiliar one and one that is out of place in our delicate negotiations. If that young woman is the King’s mistress, you have just alienated a potential ally. I am wondering why.’
‘I am not accountable to you, Uncle.’
Sir Oswald fingered the ribbon of his quizzing glass, but did not raise it. Instead he smiled.
‘Assuredly you are not. You are accountable to Canning and Canning is accountable to the King and the English people. I do not come in to the equation. Come along, I need a glass of wine to fortify me before we return to our discussions.’
* * *
‘Blast!’
Christina shook her fingers as boiling water spattered out of the kettle she removed from the hob along the edge of the fireplace. It was all her fault. She had been misled by Alex’s veneer of politeness and charm before he had shown his true colours. She should not let him upset her—again. He wasn’t worth it.
She breathed in the scents of spearmint and chamomile, but their usual calming effects weren’t forthcoming. She could still feel the angry flush tingling in her cheeks and up her neck. It had been a long time since she had lost her temper. Years. Six long years. It felt strange, like someone else had entered her and shaken her cage.
She only wished she hadn’t stormed off like an outraged debutante. Now that it was too late, she could think of half a dozen worthy retorts to his taunting comments. Not that he showed to greater advantage in that encounter—after his initial charm he had behaved like a cad. It was very clear what he thought of her. Even years ago she remembered he had made some very cutting comments, but she had been so foolishly infatuated she had forgiven and forgotten anything that didn’t fit her starry-eyed image of that beautiful young man. And just now, instead of snatching her hand from his, or better yet, administering the slap that any well-born young woman would administer at the liberties he had taken, she had allowed him to hold it and she had even felt an absurd dizziness at the expectation he was about to raise it to his lips. No wonder he thought he had a right to make assumptions about her relationship with King Darius. She had not behaved at all like a proper young Englishwoman.
No, she corrected herself as she brutally crushed dried chamomile flowers and tossed them into the kettle, he had no right. Merely because she was to all intents and purposes a servant did not mean he could address her with such disrespect and so she should have told him.
At least the charade was over.
She truly hadn’t expected him to recognise her. And if she had hoped he might, her fantasy had usually proceeded along very different lines. He would be amazed, grateful, appreciative, would want to know all about her and how she had found herself in such a position.
Instead he was not just a cad, but an ungrateful one at that.
Well, she was glad. If she hadn’t been a fool back then she probably would have seen him for what he was—a spoilt little...well, not so little...pretty boy accustomed to everyone fawning over him. He had probably had countless women falling over themselves to secure the favours of the wealthy, titled, handsome Lord Stanton, heir to a Marquessate. She was glad to discover that he was so very shallow and ill tempered. It would make it easier to bear the next week and then return to her life knowing she had nothing to regret, nothing to pine for. Her girlish infatuation would finally have the ground pulled out from under it and she could pack it away like all first infatuations should be.
She set the kettle to cool and sat back on her heels, scrubbing at the steam that scalded her eyes. Soon she would have to go downstairs again and face him. Not that he was likely to pay her any more attention than he had during yesterday’s meal. He had made his point.
He would likely flirt with Ari again and she would sit there and do as she was told, precisely as he had said, because she had no choice. Well, she would do so with her head h
eld high. She had nothing to be ashamed of and she would not allow him to belittle her. Handmaiden, indeed!
She was done with Lord Stanton.
Chapter Six
‘Lady Albinia? Lord Stanton requested that the ladies join the gentlemen in the music room.’
Lady Albinia glanced up from her stitching as the butler entered the ladies’ parlour where she and Ari sat listening to Christina read Mrs Carmichael’s latest novel.
‘Dear me, did he?’ Lady Albinia sighed. ‘I thought they would enjoy a working dinner today. The Russian envoy smokes those dreadful cheroots that quite ruin one’s appetite.’
Watkins’s narrow face shifted into the faintest hint of a smile.
‘I believe I overheard his Majesty mention he wished for some distraction before resuming their discussions, Lady Albinia. Shall I inform them you will be down in half an hour?’
‘No, we shall all do fine as we are. Unless you wish to send word you are resting, my dear?’ Lady Albinia asked Ariadne, a touch hopefully.
‘This is so typical of Papa to send for us when we are about to discover the hero’s true identity!’ Ari objected. ‘What do you say, Tina?’
Christina laid down the book, schooling her nerves. Lord Stanton had to be faced eventually.
‘I think we should go if your father needs help, don’t you, Ari? We can return to our hero later.’
Ari sighed, but bounced to her feet. ‘Very well. Am I presentable?’
‘You are lovely, as always. Just let me straighten your fichu. There. Now we are ready.’
At least outwardly, she added, as they approached the door to the music room, wishing she had taken the excuse Ari had offered after all. Luckily she was given no chance to be cowed. The moment they entered the room the King strode forward.
‘Ah, good. Ari, Miss James!’
‘Yes, your Majesty?’
‘Sir Oswald is curious about Illiakan culture. Ariadne will sing some of our ballads and you will accompany her.’
‘Oh, Papa, no!’ Ariadne murmured, blushing to the roots of her hair and looking charmingly flustered.