had planned for his last night at home. Sera would attend, along
with enough of a crowd to ensure that he did not throw her on
the table, fling her skirts up, and force himself upon her—at
least until dessert. He had fought the battle against his damnable
lust for weeks, and all he had for his success was a wicked
temper and a sense of intense emptiness. Well, at least he would
see her, if he could crane his neck far enough to catch a glimpse
of her down the length of the table.
He hurried to the Egyptian salon, a fantasia that his mother
had decorated with pillars, small, bright figures, and ancient
vases, long before the craze hit England. Katherine stood before
the fire, resplendent in a tiara and a blue satin gown trimmed
with silver lace. The color of the lace somehow brought out the
cool silver in her eyes.
He fingered the lace at the elbow of Katherine’s sleeve.
“Very pretty.”
She looked up at him with pleased surprise. “You think so?
Sera gave it to me, just for this gown.”
He wondered what it would be like, to have the freedom to
give and receive—presents, thoughts, emotions—with Sera. And
he was jealous of his own sister.
“I’m glad we’re alone for a moment, Nikki. I wanted to
thank you for telling me about our mother yesterday. But I also
wanted to ask you something.” Katherine stared down at her
folded hands. “What was our father like before she died?”
Unbidden, a memory sprang to mind. He was very young—
five, perhaps. He was in the garden with his mother, and he
heard a voice call out to them. His father’s voice, deep and
eager, from the balcony off the first floor drawing room.
What a hero he’d looked, tall and young, laughing as he
leaped over the rail onto the grass below, sweeping his mother
up into his arms, covering her face with kisses. He’d grinned
down at Nicholas, lifted him to his shoulders, and Nicholas had
felt like a conqueror, riding so high above the ground, safe and
loved.
“He was a good king. A good father. He had a lot of friends
then,” he told Katherine.
“But not after,” she said in a quiet, wistful voice.
“No. I think love was very bad for him. It destroyed him
inside and, worse, endangered Laurentia. Oh, he knew how to
act the king. But he neglected his friends. He neglected…his
children. He didn’t pay attention to details. When he died, our
defenses were inadequate, and our allies no longer reliable.”
Nicholas shook his head and frowned. “Love isn’t for kings.
He should have known that.”
The room slowly began to fill and he took his place, grave
and cool as his father had been, murmuring the correct phrases
to the noblemen and their wives who bowed and passed on to
accept a glass of wine from a footman.
“Lady Tranevale, how good to see you,” he said to a stout
old dragon festooned in diamonds. The old biddy kept her purse
strings notoriously tight.
“Delighted, your majesty,” she said with a curtsey.
“And now that you are here for the Season, perhaps you
would be so kind as to join my sister’s committee for the orphans
of Selonia.” Nicholas perused Lady Tranevale’s plump face for
signs of rebellion and employed the Rostov frown when he
found them.
Lady Tranevale froze in the midst of her refusal and gulped.
“I shall certainly speak to the princess concerning these
unfortunates.”
“This evening, if you will,” said Nicholas, smoothing his
voice free of inflection.
“This evening.” Lady Tranevale huffed away.
Good, thought Nicholas. She had no choice but to give,
and generously, to St. Andrews orphanage. It was not much,
but at least he could do this for Sera.
As though his thoughts had summoned her, she appeared
in the doorway. He tried to stifle the shock of need and pleasure
running through him at the sight of her. She shone from head to
toe. Her hair was gathered up in soft loops, emphasizing her
graceful neck. Her white gown, a simple, flowing silk etched
with blue ribbon, dipped seductively above her breasts and clung
to her hips, swaying when she walked. She wore no jewelry. A
ribbon of blue enclosed her throat. He could still feel the texture
of her skin there, its vulnerability, its warmth.
“Your Majesty.” Another courtier bowed. He went through
the motions, accepting the undeserved compliments for his
“rescue” of Selonia. It was all so ridiculous. If he had been
wise or diligent enough, Selonia would not have burned to the
ground.
The dinner party swirled about him. They dispensed with
the stewed trout and began in earnest upon the saddle of lamb
when Nicholas felt he had divulged his expectations for agrarian
reform quite enough with the finance minister seated to his left.
He stole a glance at Sera seated several seats down the table
from him. Immediately, he wished he had not.
The son of the English Ambassador, that young fop,
Darlington, whose blond good looks and carefully assumed
romantic air set Nicholas’s teeth on edge, sat on Sera’s left. He
hung on her every word, and she wasn’t even speaking to him.
She was deep in conversation with venerable Lord Elder, to her
right.
Nicholas watched Darlington with narrowed eyes. The
bastard’s avid gaze traveled to the spot just at the back of Sera’s
neck where it curved into her gleaming shoulders. Wandering
further south, Darlington’s gaze clung to the swell of Sera’s
breasts above her bodice. Damnit, he’d told Katherine to get
rid of those gowns.
Darlington took advantage of what must have been a break
in Sera’s conversation with Elder. Whatever he said caused a
blush of softest pink to suffuse Sera’s neck and cheeks, and
lower, lower, turning her skin from the purity of cool marble to
radiant incandescence. Galatea, come to life. Darlington raised
his glass to her in a slow, meaningful manner.
Nicholas clenched the napkin in his fist. Profligate swine!
“Your Majesty, won’t you tell us about your plans for the
Season? Rumor has it that the opening ball will be even more
magnificent than last year’s.”
“I do not know, Lady Chandler. You must ask the princess
about the arrangements, as she is responsible for the
preparations.”
“Such a heavy obligation for one so young. Perhaps I can
help. I should be happy to do anything for your family, Sire. Or
you.” Lady Chandler slanted him a look and smiled seductively.
My God, thought Nicholas. Propositioned like a customer
at a bawdy house—at my own table. What next?
Next came the lobster curry and more dreary conversation.
Further down the table, Darlington smiled and pointed to Sera’s
plate. Sera raised her fork to her mouth. Surprise and undisguised
pleasure lit her face. Nicholas clamped his jaw together. She’d
just tasted something new to her, and Darlington would take
the credit, explain it all, when it should be him.
Sera, for her part, took another bite of lobster and turned
again to Lord Elder, escaping the pressure of Lord Darlington’s
attentions. She liked the old fellow on her right—liked his
straight-backed, upright posture, the clean silver hair brushed
to a shine, his stark black evening suit and snowy white linen.
He seemed a forerunner of what Nicholas might become if only
he developed some humanity.
Lord Elder was the only person present who, without a hint
of snobbery, recognized her as a newcomer and had been telling
her about Laurentian customs. He had just gotten round to
betrothal practices.
“Laurentian swains do not gift their ladies with a betrothal
ring. I suspect the custom began when the first possessive
bridegroom-to-be wished to make it known beyond a shadow
of a doubt that he claimed the lady he—forgive me, my
dear…desired. Consequently, he bought not a ring, but a
necklace, and as fine a one as he could afford. The custom
prevails to this day.”
“Does not the poor gentleman receive some token of his
future wife’s esteem?” she asked as Lord Elder motioned to the
footman to refill Sera’s glass.
“Oh, indeed, m’dear,” he said. “The lady gives the
gentleman a ring. If possible, the ring is old, treasured over the
years by her family. If this is not possible, she makes a great
show of visiting the jeweler’s shop and selecting a fine ring on
the morning after she has received the necklace. Her buying
spree is more likely to spread news than would posting the banns,
although we also do that, on the first Sunday after the exchange
of gifts.”
“Lady Sera.” Lord Darlington leaned too close to her—
again. She could feel his breath against her back, and inwardly
wished him to the nether regions.
“And if the lady wishes to refuse the gentleman’s kind
offer?” she asked pointedly, staring as coolly as she could at
Darlington until he reddened, sat back in his chair, and turned
to the woman on his left.
“Ah, well, then. The gentleman need not be publicly
embarrassed by her refusal. If the answer is yes, then the lady
has worn the necklace and given her token for all to see. If it is
no, then no one knows except the couple involved. Unless the
lady is no lady, but a preening, self-centered wench. And then,
the entire town has two interesting bits of gossip. Firstly, they
discuss the poor gentleman’s broken heart, and then they discuss
his lack of taste in choosing a mate.”
At last, sweet wine appeared at the table. From what the
etiquette master had droned to Sera, she would be free in a short
while to leave this table and, after another interminable hour, to
return to her chambers.
With a swift nod of his head, Nicholas signaled to Katherine,
who rose, followed by all the ladies at table. Sera followed the
others, loathe to enter the sitting room, but knowing she must.
Katherine took up a Chippendale chair close to the fire. Women
surrounded her, and from where Sera stood against a window,
partially hidden by shadows, she could hear their compliments
upon the dinner.
“I think he’s absolutely magnificent.” A cloying voice cut
into her thoughts. The woman Sera had noticed at Nicholas’s
side during dinner—the one who had all but sat in his lap—
stopped beside an elderly lady hefting a great load of jewelry.
They stood in front of her hiding place, speaking in low tones.
“Oh, no, my dear.” The old lady wagged a finger at the
younger one. “This is not a man to romanticize.”
“But he is so—masculine. So powerful.”
“Bah! He has no heart, only a stiff-necked conscience that
he imposes upon the rest of us until we must shriek with
boredom. He is cold as ice. My dear, rumor has it that his mistress
must make an appointment with his secretary in order to see
him at all. No, the king is not the man with whom to form a
liason.
Sera reacted in the most illogical manner. She wanted to
rail at the tart who wished to become Nicholas Rostov’s mistress,
and she wanted to defend him at the same time from the older
virago’s insults. If she chose to scold the former, she would
cause a terrible scene. She froze, remembering her anger after
the family dinner and its consequences.
Much better to cause only a little disturbance. She stepped
out of the shadows.
“Your king has very few flaws,” she said, enjoying the play
of shock and affronted embarrassment on the older woman’s
face. “I would not count lack of feeling among them. Certainly,
in his care and support of his subjects, Nicholas Rostov has
demonstrated his noble heart.”
Before the women could form a reply, Sera inclined her
head a fraction of an inch just as fussy Monsieur Pettit had taught
her to do with those courtiers who were below her. The barely
concealed insult made the old lady’s face turn a nasty shade of
red. So, she had made an enemy. At least she’d not sent her
whirling toward the ceiling.
Sera moved beyond them, willing her hands not to shake.
But their voices rose, and she heard every word, just as,
doubtless, she was meant to.
“Who was that?” the younger woman said in a stage
whisper.
“Nobody,” said the older. “A waif from the hills, an ex-
slave. There were rumors that he wanted her, but no one has
seen them together for weeks. She is only one of his good works,
a charity case masquerading as a lady.”
Sera continued across the sitting room. Schoolgirl lessons
in an alien culture, a court of rakish fops and wasp-tongued
women, and a monarch who turned from warm and caring to
cold and disapproving for no reason at all. Why should she care
what they thought of her?
She would ask one of the guards to take her riding tomorrow
afternoon in the country east of Montanyard. Perhaps she’d just
ask Darlington to accompany her. He’d be easier to fool. Perhaps
she would bring water and food with her in her saddlebags, just
in case she found the merchant. And then, she would race away
on Wind Rider with the Heart of Fire. Yes, she would leave
these Outlanders to the world they deserved.
***
Nicholas searched out Sera the next morning. She was not
in her room, but a maidservant informed him that she was
walking in the gardens. One of the gardeners pointed out the
route she had taken down one of the brick paths. He followed
the path until he came to an old walled garden. She was kneeling
among the neglected roses, digging in the dirt with bare hands.
“Sera.” His voice sounded too stern, he knew.
Sera put aside her spade and rose to her feet slowly facing
him, worrying her lower lip with her teeth.
“We hav
e servants to do that,” he said. He wanted her happy
and cosseted, not on her knees and breaking her nails over some
silly weeds.
“I needed—they are alive. It soothes me to do something
productive.”
“Come here,” he said, and it was no longer a command, but
a plea.
Her lower lip jutted out in a stubborn moue, but she came
forward until she stood before him, hiding her dirty hands behind
her back.
“I have to go away for a few days. I want your promise that
you will remain safely within the walls of Montanyard until I
return. Will you, Sera?”
“I cannot give you that promise,” she whispered and backed
up a pace.
His hands clamped about her arms, pulling her forward until
she was a hair’s breadth from him. “If you can’t, I shall take
you with me. Which will it be—here or at Anatole Galerien’s
palace in Beaureve?
She seemed to turn to stone beneath his hold. “You go to
Galerien?”
“He offers a closer alliance. I must go to hear what
concessions he thinks to wring out of me for it.”
She shook her head, her eyes full of fear. “He is an evil
man. Don’t trust him, Nicholas.”
“Don’t worry.” He loved it when she said his name in that
soft voice. She was worried. About him. Her clear gaze held
nothing of the coldness that had existed between them for weeks.
He bent his head closer and smelled fresh earth and warm
sunlight, and the natural perfume of her body. “I trust nobody.
But Galerien needs Laurentia as much as I need Beaureve.”
“I wish you wouldn’t go.” Her voice shook.
“Why are you afraid of Galerien, Sera?” A fine tremor
wracked her body. She was silent for a long moment.
Then she lifted her hands, grabbing his arms. “He hates my
people and has sent men to seek us out and destroy us all. If
you must have this meeting, take a large army with you,
Nicholas. I beg you. Don’t discount my words. Galerien is a
dangerous man.” An unruly gilded lock fell over her forehead.
Nicholas gently drew it back, placing it behind her ear. Her
muscles were still rigid. He could feel the tension all through
her. He felt a perfect bastard, asking her to make a choice
between a man who must give her nightmares and remaining in
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