by Lara Temple
‘Well, then Chrissie it is. Chrissie James. That sounds like a little girl picking berries by the stream and eating them on a carpet of bluebells.’
‘That is a lovely image, but I never did any such thing so I doubt Chrissie suits me.’
‘I think it does. It doesn’t matter if you did, merely if you would like to. Would you?’
‘Everyone has things they would like to do, but probably never will, don’t they? It doesn’t change who they are. Those are only dreams. They don’t matter, not on any level that counts.’
‘Don’t they? What does count, then?’
‘What you do. The people who need you. Those count.’
‘I see. So for you the Princess and the King.’
Her chin rose, but her gaze remained fixed on her desk, like a pupil before the headmaster, overtly obedient but with defiance evident in every line of her stubborn mouth and chin.
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, I remember you were very clear about that. So—no berries, no bluebells and no Chrissie.’
‘Not beyond the borders of my mind at least. I am very grateful for what I have. I have no reason to be discontented.’
It shouldn’t annoy him, but it did. Someone like her shouldn’t be talking like this. She might believe it, but he didn’t. He slid his fingers under the curve of her chin, turning her face towards him. She didn’t resist but it wasn’t a capitulation.
‘Look at me, Chrissie.’
‘Miss James.’
‘Picking berries won’t bring the known world to a crashing end, you know.’
‘Is that the current euphemism, Lord Stanton?’
He breathed in, the desire simmering inside him lit by a flash of answering anger.
‘Believe it or not, I was referring to berries. Don’t lash out at me because you are scared of yourself.’
She surprised him again, her shoulders and lashes dropping like a sail suddenly turned out of the wind.
‘You are right, I was being petty again. But it isn’t fair of you, either—to make game of my fear of risking what I have. You have no idea...’
Her voice thickened and broke and he stopped himself from pulling her to her feet and proving she was right about him. Oswald had taught him early in life not to mix spirits if he wanted to keep a clear head. Adding compassion and regret to lust was just as detrimental to clear thinking. Yet it wasn’t willpower that made him pull his hand away from the warmth of her cheek, but the sound of approaching footsteps. He turned as the King entered.
‘Athena, what is this? Still working?’
Christina tidied the stack of papers on her desk.
‘I am merely reviewing my notes while the proceedings are fresh in my mind, your Majesty.’ Her voice was husky but she spoke with all her usual calm and contrarily Alex wished she would show some sign of the emotions so evident seconds ago.
‘I am certain they are accurate enough, Athena. Off you go and rest yourself or your mind will be anything but fresh for the proceedings. Must I think of everything?’
Alex’s hackles rose.
‘I think Miss James’s diligence is to be commended, your Majesty. She has done an exceptional job.’
‘I told you she would, did I not?’
Christina stood with a slight laugh.
‘Thank you for your defence, Lord Stanton, but as you can see his Majesty has complete appreciation of my secretarial skills and sees no need to waste time on empty niceties like praise and gratitude. I shall return on the hour, your Majesty.’
‘See that you do.’ The King grinned at her retreating form and turned to Stanton. ‘She has quite a tongue, does she not? She looks so prim one hardly notices the sting of the whip. Her father always said he wished she had been a boy, for as a man she could have achieved much.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Edward? He was a good friend to me and he made my wife’s last years bearable, but he was not a warm man and had little use for Athena beyond her help with his patients and herbs. You should have seen her when she arrived with Edward in the castle—all eyes and wariness. I took one look at her and sent her to stay with my Ari. It did them both a world of good. I could not give my little star a sibling of her blood, but Athena was even better—she became mother and sister and friend combined. Her loyalty is even greater because it is bound by choice, not blood. As long as Ari needs her she will never turn her back on her. She may not look it, but she is a little lioness when it comes to her cub.’
‘What of her own life?’
‘Athena’s? She will never lack for anything on Illiakos. When Ari weds and has children, she will be their family and they will be hers.’
‘Most women would prefer a family of their own.’
The King leaned back against the desk.
‘So I would have thought, but Athena is different. There are men at court who would be happy to wed her even though she is not Illiakan and not merely because they know it would strengthen their position in court. But she never gives them an iota of encouragement. Some women are like that. Perhaps she has a point; she has greater freedom than many women, whether Illiakan or English. Had she been married she could not have come with us to England, for example. I am happy for it. We both know Ari would be pained to lose her, even to a husband in court. They have no one else but me and I am just a man. Sometimes I think women need each other more than they need us.’
He chuckled a little at his words and moved towards the table. Alex followed, biting down on the instinctive resistance to the King’s words. Who was he to decide he knew better? Most of the women he would eventually consider for the position of Lady Stanton were motivated by worldly considerations. At least Chri...Miss James’s considerations were those of remaining in the safety of the little world she had created on Illiakos and with the only people she truly cared for. She could live perfectly contentedly, reading all about the great wide world from the safety of a window seat and never risk unleashing those demanding forces inside her she probably hardly even understood. Once he would have had nothing but contempt for such craven choices and would have done everything he could to goad those leashed passions to the surface. He knew better now, though at great cost to others. Freedom and passion were highly overvalued at the expense of stability and safety. She was right. It was unfair to expect anything else of her.
Chapter Ten
Christina entered the portrait gallery a few steps behind the others. The King and the foreign envoys were in a buoyant mood after putting the final flourishes on the negotiations, like children being let loose from the schoolroom. For them the formal signing of the treaty the previous day marked the end of two weeks of tense discussions. For Christina, it marked the end of one of the most bittersweet periods of her life.
Well, not quite the end. The King had announced they would depart on the morrow to visit his old school in Oxford for a few days, accompanied by Lady Albinia, and then return briefly to Stanton on their way to the royal frigate awaiting in Southampton to return them to Illiakos. Still, it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. She didn’t know whether to be grateful that Alex had behaved with perfect propriety towards her ever since their discussion in the state room. He treated her as he did Ari—like a favoured cousin to be indulged and amused but put aside when matters of greater import caught his attention. All her years of keeping her thoughts wrapped and sealed helped her respond in kind but with each passing day the effort it took to maintain her façade grew, as did the internal howl of protest. What would happen if she stamped her feet and said she didn’t want to leave? Not yet. Not ever.
She forced her attention to the gallery. It was very long, one wall punctuated by a series of tall, arched and mullioned windows leading out to the lawn, the other covered with dozens of paintings in elaborate frames which glowed in the light streaming in from the long windows. There was a co
nceit to it, but there was still something rather comfortable about the room; perhaps it was the warmth of the wood and the lack of embellishments other than a few delicate chairs placed between the paintings or by the windows.
She followed at the tail of the group as Lady Albinia introduced some of the players on the walls, passing by others without a word. With her vague but humorous touch they took on lives and wove together into a very English tale that held her audience rapt. Amongst the multitude of portraits she did not always choose those with the greatest artistic merit, but when she passed by an exquisitely rendered portrait of a haughty young woman without stopping Christina was so surprised she paused beneath it as the others continued in Lady Albinia’s wake.
The painting itself was wonderful. The attention to detail was so superb it was unnoticeable, but the real brilliance was that unlike most of the other paintings Christina could truly feel the person. Not that it was a comfortable feeling. The woman...the girl...was probably younger than Ari and exquisitely beautiful with eyes remarkably like Lord Stanton’s. She also seemed to be blazing with feeling though her face was a mask. The painter had captured not only impatience and resentment in the tilt of her chin, but even a sense of fear and despair which Christina felt spill out over her. Her hand rose, but she held it back. There would be no soothing that jumble of emotion. It was clearly too late.
The distinctive scent of Razumov’s cheroots signalled he had come to inspect the painting as well, but she didn’t turn.
‘An interesting resemblance...’ he murmured, leaning in.
‘To Lord Stanton?’ she asked, turning a little so she could put some distance between them.
‘That, too. But I meant to Countess Vera Vidanich. It explains a few things.’
There was nothing more annoying than innuendo left hanging. Under the weight of the woman’s frozen stare Christina turned to face the Russian statesman.
‘Such as?’
His smile told her was enjoying casting his bait and watching her rise to it, just like those ice-bound fish in the Baltic.
‘No, no, my dear, it is ancient history. A sad tale and not mine to tell.’
‘Well, then never mind,’ she said and turned back to the portrait, trying not to grind her teeth.
‘The Countess was not quite so beautiful and her eyes were brown, not blue,’ the Count continued conversationally behind her. ‘But she was very charming and widely adored. The toast of St Petersburg. She could have had anyone, but she was a dutiful daughter so she married her parents’ choice, Count Vidanich, a very worthy man, but not the most exciting. It is hardly surprising she was ripe for... This is Reynolds, yes?’ He paused again, leaning in to inspect the signature. ‘Truly a master. See how he brings life into her hands. Hands are very difficult to paint. Ah, Princess Ariadne. Come, tell me what you think of such a masterly portrait.’
‘I think she is quite the loveliest woman I have seen,’ Ari replied as she came to stand near Christina. ‘Look at that dress...and the tapestry behind her is exquisite. Who is she, Lady Albinia?’
Lady Albinia followed, a little reluctantly, but it was Sir Oswald who answered.
‘That was the previous Lady Wentworth, your Royal Highness, my sister and Lord Stanton’s mother.’
Even Ari’s natural exuberance was dampened by the revelation and Lady Albinia progressed down the row of portraits.
‘This next portrait I would like to show you is that of my mother, the Dowager Marchioness. Oh, good. Alexander. How lovely you could join us. Has Count Von Haas departed?’
‘Yes. I have just seen him to his carriage. Yours will be ready within the hour, Razumov.’
Christina hadn’t even noticed Alex’s approach and she took a step back from the painting of his mother as if caught in the act of spying. She cast him a quick glance, not surprised his expression was completely blank, quite as if this had nothing at all to do with him.
‘My father, the third Earl of Stanton,’ Lady Albinia continued, ‘was granted the title Marquess of Wentworth for services to Old King George. Something rather hushed up, but apparently important and it brought him much to court which was where he met my mother. She was a Davenport and the most courted girl that Season. My father no more saw her than he asked to marry her.’
‘Were they happy?’ Ari asked.
‘Why, certainly, your Majesty!’ Lady Albinia said.
‘Apparently she made his life a living hell,’ Alex said at the same time.
Ari’s stifled giggle deteriorated into a cough and Lady Albinia frowned at him.
‘Mama was a trifle high handed, but I believe he remained deeply in love with her until his death.’ Lady Albinia amended.
‘He died quite young,’ Alex observed without emphasis.
‘Oh, dear, how very sad,’ Ari said, her hands clasped before her and Lady Albinia patted her arm consolingly.
‘Indeed. He went sailing with a friend and his boat overturned. He was only twenty-five and my brother Arthur was just two years old at the time. Here is a painting of my mother with my brother just before his marriage.’
Christina considered the haughty face of the Dowager Marchioness and the pleasantly boyish face of the current Marquess. She could imagine that in this case the coldness captured by the artist was an accurate portrayal of the woman’s soul. There was an echo of that coldness in the beautiful face of the scandalous first Lady Wentworth, but there was much more as well. A vividness that her son kept under firm control and under the cold hauteur so evident in his grandmother’s expression. But in Alex’s case she sensed it wasn’t coldness, just rigidly controlled distance. Not that he had been distant or controlled that evening in the conservatory. Or apparently in his dealings with a certain married countess.
Ari glanced at the painting of Lord Wentworth as a young man and sighed. ‘Oh, it must have been hard for your poor papa to lose his own father so young, Lord Stanton. It cannot have been easy for the Marchioness to be widowed so young either.’
Lady Albinia smiled indulgently, but Lord Stanton’s expression was anything but sympathetic.
‘Hardly. She made the most of her widowhood and ruled Stanton Hall with an iron hand including deciding on my parents’ marriage when they were hardly more than children. I’m only glad she lived long enough to see how ill her machinations fared.’
‘Alexander.’ The note of warning came from Sir Oswald who had returned with the King from inspecting a fine painting of a medieval map.
Alex merely shrugged and turned to examine a painting of a man in court dress with an elaborate wig and a monstrous emerald in prominent display on his white hand. Lady Albinia hurried on, but Christina was no longer listening. There was nothing more revealing than real pain. Lord Stanton’s words had been cynical, but once again the lid cracked open, showing another flaw in the perfect clockworks. She didn’t want to feel any empathy, but it was there, undercutting her defences like the treacherous currents under the cliffs of Illiakos.
They continued, gathering before a portrait of some unnamed ancestor with his hand splayed on a map of the world, and Christina wandered aside to inspect another portrait, eventually finding herself back in front of the painting of the young Countess. Everything she had heard of this woman was infused into the paint, in the hands gripped together, the lips held tight and the eyes... Christina’s hand rose again as if to test the paint, to see if there was any depth to this hallucination.
A hand clasped her elbow and she didn’t have to turn to know who it was.
‘Has no one taught you it isn’t polite to stare at freaks?’
‘She isn’t a freak!’ she protested.
‘At lepers, then.’ He must have bent down because she felt his breath against her hair and its heat trickled down her side all the way to her toes, pinching her skin as it went. ‘Come along, Miss James. This habit of going where you shouldn’t is
not at all what one expects of a dutiful handmaiden. You are neglecting your fair charge.’
She turned and held his gaze, which wasn’t easy with him towering over her, his eyes not merely the colour of clouds on the horizon but in full storm. His anger was peculiarly disorienting after his recent kindness towards her and she wished there was something she could do to reach that core of pain and soothe it.
‘The Princess neither wishes nor expects me to trot at her heels like a puppy, Lord Stanton. This might strike you as peculiar, but it isn’t duty that binds us.’
‘Clearly not, if anything it is rather she who trots at yours. But I am not one to scoff at duty, believe me. It is a Stanton area of expertise.’
‘I imagine it is your motto by the exaggerated importance you accord it.’
‘Is it exaggerated? And our motto is Stand Firm, by the way.’
‘How apt. Like a mule.’
Some of the tension faded from his eyes, replaced by a reluctant smile.
‘Perhaps you prefer the Sinclair motto from my mother’s family—Aspera Virtus—virtue is hard.’
‘Duty and virtue. Did your mother fail on both fronts?’
‘Spectacularly.’ He leaned past her to straighten a Chippendale chair by the wall and the single word singed her cheek, drifting down her neck, feather light over her bosom. She curled her fingers into her palms, wondering why she wanted to protect the unknown beauty. Certainly someone so lovely wouldn’t have even regarded Christina, let alone liked her.
‘Perhaps she had good reason.’
‘Don’t people always have good reasons to do damage? History is nothing but a list of good reasons and counter-reasons and everyone crushed between them. People always have good reasons to betray each other and fail in their duties.’
‘So we are back to duty. Is that really your highest value?’
‘You are a fine one to scoff, you are duty personified. The ideal handmaiden. At least that is the image you present, both here and back on Illiakos. I always wondered what you looked like under your veils. Until your confession about your fictional marriage I wove a whole tale about a Greek girl on the brink of a life that she had no control over and no real understanding of who and what she was.’