Obviously she had been deceived by that dirty little man in the market, Sophia decided grimly. She would have to seek out another apothecary, one better-versed in his craft. And this time, she would not fail.
Shrieks of feminine laughter broke rudely into her thoughts, and her eyes narrowed at the group of five women seated across the drawing room at a finely wrought gaming table. They were merrily engrossed in a game of ombre, a three-handed card game, while attentive gentlemen leaned over their shoulders or stood behind their chairs, offering advice.
Another common diversion of these insufferable galas. Sophia sighed with displeasure. Perhaps it was time she left.
"A kreuzer for your thoughts, milady."
Sophia started in surprise, looking up into a pair of ice-blue eyes that she could swear were laughing at her. She immediately recognized the strikingly handsome man, and just as easily she dismissed him, her brow arching as her gaze wandered over him. For if ever there was an aristocratic fop in the Viennese court, a true dandy who seemed to be in attendance at every social gathering, however inconsequential, it was Count Frederick Althann.
"Save your kreuzer, Count," she said breezily. "My thoughts belong to me alone." She smiled up at him, though her eyes were cold. "You're looking stylish today."
He was dressed in a full-skirted coat of dark blue brocade, a laced waistcoat, matching breeches, gartered silk stockings, and red-heeled shoes, with a lavish muslin cravat tied jauntily about his neck and a silver-hilted sword hanging at his left side. In one hand he held a pair of fringed gloves and a cane, his thumb caressing the polished gold crown. On his head he wore a powdered tiewig with a long, plaited queue down his back, tied at each end with a black bow, just a hint of his light blond hair peeking out at his forehead.
A pity he is only half a man, she mused wickedly, recalling the rampant rumors about the count's unnatural affinity for smooth-faced boys. Though it was hard to believe . . . he was really quite attractive: tall, fair, with an undeniable air of virility. And the excellent fit of his clothes revealed a lean, athletic body . . . yes, truly a pity.
"And you, Archduchess, take my breath away, as always," Frederick returned her compliment, bowing gallantly. He reached into his deep side pocket and pulled out an enameled snuffbox, flipped it open to reveal a tiny mirror on the inside of the lid, then deftly applied a pinch of the powdered tobacco to each nostril. Snorting delicately, he offered her the snuffbox with a flourish.
"No, thank you," Sophia murmured, wrinkling her nose with distaste. She turned away from him, her eyes widening as Isabel von Furstenberg swept into the drawing room.
Her cousin Maria hadn't told her Isabel would be attending her gala! Sophia thought, her mind racing. She watched motionless as the countess made her way through the crowd, exchanging lighthearted banter and greetings. Perhaps she might be able to tell her what had become of Stefan . . .
Sophia rose gracefully from the chaise. "If you will excuse me, Count Frederick," she murmured, brushing past him. She walked regally across the room, stopping just short of where Isabel stood talking with several young women. .
"How wonderful to see you again, Countess," she broke in, keeping her voice light. She lay her hand on Isabel's arm.
Isabel froze at the sound of the familiar voice and the unexpected pressure on her arm, a shiver running through her. She turned, a fixed smile upon her lips. "Archduchess von Starenberg," she acknowledged coolly.
"I was wondering if perhaps we might talk, you and I," Sophia began somewhat lamely, noting a strange flash of triumph in Isabel's blue eyes. It momentarily unsettled her, though she could not imagine why. "About Stefan."
Isabel's heart seemed to stop within her breast as she turned back to the women at her side, who were listening with rapt attention, and quietly excused herself. They glided away, whispering behind their fluttering fans.
"I am not one to speak for my brother," Isabel said firmly, her eyes meeting Sophia's once again.
Sophia's temper flared at this remark, but she held herself tightly in check. She had always found Isabel particularly insufferable, and this moment was no exception. "I simply want to know why . . . that is, if Stefan . . ." She paused, then drew her red lips into a determined line. "What has become of Stefan?" she asked, her voice strained. "I've written him many times within the past weeks, yet I haven't received a single reply."
"Whatever do you mean?" Isabel asked sweetly. Heaven help her, it wasn't her place to reveal Stefan and Kassandra's engagement, but if this woman pushed her too far . . .
So that was it! Sophia fumed, her topaz eyes narrowing at the petite woman. "You have been intercepting my letters to Stefan, haven't you?" she queried, her voice a grating whisper. "You've never accepted my relationship with your brother, and now you wish to destroy it." She gripped Isabel's arm. "Well, it won't work, my dear Countess. There is nothing you can do that will tear us apart."
Isabel stepped back as if she had been struck, Sophia's unwarranted accusation ringing in her ears. "I know nothing of your letters," she retorted heatedly, visibly shaking, "but as to the other charge, yes, it is true. I have never liked you, or your liaison" —she spat out the word— "with my brother."
She wrenched her arm free of Sophia's grasp, fury overwhelming her, all thought of restraint banished from her mind. "As for tearing you and Stefan apart, it appears that unremarkable feat has already been accomplished. He has found another—" She bit off the words, her hand flying to her mouth.
Sophia blanched, her gaze widening in disbelief. "What do you mean . . . he has found another? Another what?"
Isabel decided quickly, throwing back her shoulders. She would face Stefan's wrath—for he would no doubt hear of this exchange from Sophia—regardless of what else she said.
"As I told you before, my dear Archduchess," she mimicked with unaccustomed sarcasm, "I do not speak for my brother. But you may ask him yourself about the woman he will wed. He is planning to visit your estate this very day." With that Isabel whirled around, her slender back straight and proud, and walked across the room, where she joined a group of guests applauding a musician seated at a harpsichord.
The woman he will wed . . . the woman he will wed. Isabel's words echoed in Sophia's mind as she stood there, scarcely able to breathe. When she did at last inhale, low, husky laughter erupted from her throat.
"She lies, of course," Sophia whispered under her breath, her ears deaf to the strains of melodic music drifting through the drawing room. Isabel had never liked her, not that she cared in the least, and now she was spreading malicious lies in an obvious ploy to drive her and Stefan apart.
She would go back to her estate and wait for him, Sophia told herself, moving with statuesque grace to the door of the drawing room, a smile frozen on her lips as she nodded her good-byes. He would hold her in his arms and caress her, and tell her it was nothing but a lie . . .
Chapter 17
"Adolph, you must let me know the moment you see him," Sophia admonished from her dressing table, glancing at the misshapen little man, a dwarf since birth, standing on his tiptoes and peering out the window. He nodded in reply, intent on his appointed task. She turned back to the mirror, her attention riveted once again on the ministrations of the two serving maids hovering over her.
"Ouch! Take care with that, you stupid fool!" she snapped at the youngest maid, who was quickly unrolling the still warm clay curling tubes from Sophia's long, mahogany tresses. The girl jumped at the sudden reprimand, her shaking fingers inadvertently snagging another loose strand of her mistress's hair.
"That's enough!" Sophia exploded, wheeling in her chair, her beautiful face contorted in anger. "Will you pull every hair from my head, girl? Leave me at once! Marietta will finish your tasks. Go!"
"For-forgive me, milady," the hapless girl stammered, bobbing an awkward curtsy. With tears swimming in her eyes she cast a sideways glance at the other maid, then fled from the room.
"I thought you said she was well trai
ned in dressing hair, Marietta," Sophia muttered tersely, settling back in front of the silver-framed mirror, her almond-shaped eyes scrutinizing her own reflection. Her slender fingers drummed impatiently on the dressing table as the matronly maid expertly lifted her hair and patted a light dusting of fine powder along her alabaster shoulders and long throat.
"Aye, well trained she is, mistress," Marietta replied calmly, accustomed by now to Sophia's outbursts. She had been in her employ since the archduchess had come to this house nine years ago as a bride, and could well remember the many times she had cried into her pillow at night, swearing she could never last another day with such a woman. But she had stayed, and by her stoic fortitude and patience had won Sophia's grudging respect. "But she is unused to working in such haste."
Sophia sighed with exasperation, but said no more, her lips drawn into a tight line. She watched in silence as Marietta deftly brushed out her thick hair and wound it atop her head in an elaborate coiffure, securing it with three gold combs set with seed pearls and square-cut emeralds. Then the maid applied her favorite perfume, a heady mixture of bergamot, musk, and amber imported from Spain, to her throat, behind her ears, pierced by glittering emerald earrings, and along the lush curve of her breasts.
"He comes, milady," Adolph said matter-of-factly in his high-pitched, nasal voice. He watched, unblinking, as Stefan rode up the drive on his black stallion and dismounted before the front entrance of the von Starenberg villa, then he dropped the hem of the brocade curtain he had been holding in his stubby fingers and waddled over to the dressing table. "Shall I meet him in the hall?"
Sophia rose so suddenly that he had to step back for fear the stiff whalebone hoopskirt beneath her voluminous gown would bowl him over. She looked distractedly at him. "Yes, yes, Adolph, greet him. I will be down in a few moments."
Adolph nodded, his piercing black eyes, overshadowed by his protruding forehead, studying her intently. He hadn't seen her so agitated before, though she was struggling to maintain a facade of nonchalance, nor so pathetically haunted. An almost imperceptible hint of fear hung about her like a cloying fragrance.
"What are you waiting for, Adolph?" she demanded irritably, shoving him forward with a rough push on his narrow shoulder. "Be off with you. Run!"
Adolph lost his balance and fell to the floor, grunting as the breath was knocked from his compact body. He struggled to sit up but could not; then, using a trick he had learned in the traveling menagerie where he had performed on a stage with puppets and monkeys, he brought his stunted arms against his chest and began to roll across the floor until he had gained enough momentum to right himself, bounding from his knees to his feet.
"And enough of your tricks," Sophia called out after him as he scampered through the door and ran down the hall as fast as his short legs could carry him.
Wheezing and puffing, Adolph took perverse pleasure in kicking Sophia's white Persian cat away from the top step of the staircase, where it was lolling sleepily. Its startled yowl echoed in the hall below. A lopsided grin split his reddened face as he hurried down the stairs, holding on to the railing so he would not fall, and once at the bottom, he took a moment to straighten his cropped coat. Then he strutted self-importantly up to Stefan, who turned from a portrait of Sophia he was studying.
"Milady bids you welcome, Count von Furstenberg," he stated formally, with a curt nod of his large head. He flourished his arm toward the salon. "I am Adolph. If you will follow me."
Stefan's gaze flickered over the little man, though he quickly masked his initial surprise. So it appeared Sophia had acquired a new servant while he was in Hungary, he thought, noting Adolph's flushed face and the sweat streaming from his brow. He was struck most by the coldness in his eyes, an impenetrable veil which, no doubt, hid the life of suffering he had endured due to his deformity.
"Lead on," Stefan murmured, following him into the white-paneled and gilt salon.
Stefan took a seat in a soft armchair, watching as Adolph poured him a brandy. The dwarf's short fingers fumbled with the crystal stopper in the decanter, and he almost dropped it.
Stefan frowned, turning to look out the window at the crisp, sunny day. He doubted he would ever grow accustomed to this latest passion of the aristocracy to possess these unfortunate beings, using them as servants and confidants, treating some as nothing more than pampered pets. Even the emperor and his wife kept a pair of dwarfs, cosseted and bejeweled favorites of the court, who often stood at Their Majesties' elbows during court functions.
"Thank you, Adolph, I will see to that." Sophia's husky voice interrupted Stefan's disapproving thoughts. He rose abruptly from his chair as she glided into the room with seductive grace and took the snifter of brandy from her servant's outstretched hands.
"Leave us now, Adolph," she said sweetly, though her eyes flashed as she looked down at him.
Adolph nodded and hurried from the room, reaching up on tiptoe to close first one, then the other of the double doors. Sophia waited, her heart hammering within her breast, until the staccato tapping of his boots died away before she spoke, breaking at last the thick silence that had descended over the room.
"I've missed you," she said simply, her ivory satin gown swishing against the carpeted floor as she moved toward Stefan, smiling provocatively. She held out the snifter to him, but he merely set it down on the table next to the chair.
Stefan's eyes swept appreciatively over her. Sophia was as stunning as ever, an incredibly desirable woman many a man would sell his soul to possess. It was no wonder he had been so drawn to her just over a year ago when they had first met, at a dinner gala at the Belvedere, Prince Eugene's summer palace. She had everything a man could want in a mistress, beauty, poise, and a sensual appetite that had amazed and delighted him time and again. But he no longer had need of a mistress . . .
Sophia thrilled at the open admiration in his gaze, her overwhelming relief making her limbs tremble. Isabel had lied! she exulted, so close to him now, she could feel the warmth emanating from his powerful body. With a sudden movement she wound her slim arms about his neck, nuzzling against him, at any moment expecting to feel the exciting pressure of his arms tightening as he returned her embrace.
"Oh, Stefan," she breathed, her pulse racing wildly. She tilted her head back, her half-closed eyes laden with desire, her parted lips aching for his kiss.
Stefan stared at her upturned face for the briefest moment, then brought his hands to the curve of her waist. With determined resolve he lifted her arms from his neck and drew them down to her sides.
It was the simplest of gestures. Yet in that fleeting moment, Sophia knew Isabel had spoken the truth.
"Sophia, I haven't much time," Stefan began, stepping away from her. "There is something we must discuss—"
"Who is she?" Sophia broke in, her back to him now, her voice strangely hollow.
Stefan started. How could she possibly have known? he wondered. Then he shrugged. He would never fathom the uncanny intuitions of women.
"You met her at the Hofburg . . . Lady Kassandra Wyndham," Stefan said evenly. "If you recall, she's the daughter of Isabel's betrothed, Lord Harrington."
Lady Kassandra Wyndham. The name struck like a dagger into Sophia's heart, and she fiercely bit her lower lip to keep from crying out. The bitter pain of this confirmation was almost more than she could bear. "She is your . . . new mistress, then?" she queried almost hopefully. She glanced at him, refusing to believe Isabel's words.
Stefan shook his head. "Sophia, there has never been any deception between us, and I will not have it now. I have decided to marry Lady Kassandra as soon as her father returns from Hanover and gives his consent. I think it is best, meanwhile, for our relationship to cease."
Sophia looked away, tremendous fury flaring within her, quelling all other emotions. No! She was to become Countess von Furstenberg, she raged, not some English bitch who was little more than a schoolgirl! Somehow she found her voice, forcing it to remain calm. "Her father
is in Germany? Ah yes, I had almost forgotten. When do you expect his return, Stefan?"
"By spring," Stefan replied tersely. "Though it is my hope it will be earlier."
Sophia's eyes glittered ferally, a slow smile curving her lips. Then all was not lost, she mused. Spring was yet a long time away. She whirled to face him.
"I am so happy for you, Stefan!" she exclaimed, bustling forward and kissing him lightly on the cheek. "Truly I am. And of course, it stands to reason our relationship must cease . . . for now. It would hardly be suitable for us to continue our present arrangement, considering you lack the good ambassador's consent. As an Englishman, he is hardly versed in our Viennese customs." She chuckled knowingly. "You would not have him thinking you were a rogue."
Stefan studied her beautiful face with wry amusement. He was pleased she was taking his news so well, though for a moment he had begun to have his doubts.
He relaxed. It seemed he had not underestimated her good sense after all. As to her insinuation they might continue their affair at some later point, perhaps after his marriage—well, for now he would let it go. It was enough that she had accepted his news with such obvious grace. Eventually he would have to make it very clear that his burning desire for Kassandra left no room in his life for any other woman.
"Let us share a drink to your marriage, Stefan," Sophia suggested suddenly, interrupting his thoughts. She poured herself a good measure of sherry while Stefan picked up the brandy snifter, then held the crystal goblet in front of her. "To your future bride . . . Countess von Furstenberg."
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