He led them toward the parlor. Princess Olga was seated there, and Glass drank in the sight of her, hands folded as she sat next to the silent gramophone. When she caught sight of her sister, she gave a wordless cry and stood. He recognized the blue day jacket he’d bought for her as the women flew into each other’s arms, simultaneously bursting into tears.
Several minutes went by as they said a few words in Russian, then cried, and repeated the exchange. Mr. Dadey excused himself bashfully after a couple of minutes to make tea. Glass remained, holding up the wall next to the gramophone until he could see some sense returning to the princesses
He’d been learning more Russian, thanks to his immersion in it, and made out a few words here and there, but he was used to men’s voices, and the women’s higher pitch threw him. A little while longer, the house owner returned, his arms shaking slightly from the effort of holding a tray piled high with seedcake and tea things. He set it down with a rattle, and the women sat.
“Will you pour, Miss Olga?” he asked politely.
Her sister’s eyebrows went up at the familiarity, but Olga gave her sister a defiant look. “My sister may have the honor, sir. I will say good-bye to Lord Walling.”
He took that as his sign to depart the room. She followed him into the hallway. “Not fit for tea, me?” he asked.
She took his hands in hers, squeezing them slightly. “Thank you for returning my sister to me.”
He inclined his head. “You are very welcome, Princess, but what I wish most is that you return to me. You don’t have to live like this. Every property my father or I possess is open to you.”
“Meaning you consider our engagement still on, despite everything?”
He nodded. “I can’t let you go. Perhaps these are not the words of a gentleman, but, Olga, darling, I can’t help thinking of you. I dream of you. I want to marry you.”
“Oh?”
His voice dropped into a harsh whisper. “Did I ever tell you I loved you? I do, so much. It’s broken me to lose you. Almost two weeks of exile. You know how that feels, exile.”
“I feel it most keenly, and not just from you,” she said in a tone rather more dispassionate than his.
He cleared his throat. “You need more time. I understand that. But anything you need, ring the hotel and ask for me. I’m still there.”
She seemed to stare through him. While her gaze met his, he had the sense it was a trick of the light, that she really was fixated on his nose or forehead. Had she never loved him?
“Your sister comes first right now. I understand that.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope with banknotes, and came up with a convenient lie. “This money came from Buckingham Palace, to refurbish Princess Fyodora’s wardrobe.”
Olga took the envelope, the smallest hint of a smile curving her lips. “How kind of them. I will have to write Queen Mary a note.”
“You do that,” he said. “I hope to see you very soon.”
She didn’t say anything. The faraway look had returned to her eyes. He took his hat from the entryway table, clapped it back on his head, and returned to the street and the rainy March day.
* * *
“You felt you had to write Peter a note to be allowed into the Grand Russe?” Fyodora asked in Russian on Sunday evening as they returned from Windsor after spending the day with Grand Duchess Xenia.
Olga held tightly to the bouquet of blue delphinium and white lilies on her lap as the taxicab turned onto Park Lane. She’d had them placed in a cheap glass vase and didn’t want it to break. “He did forbid me to enter, but he was drunk at the time.”
“I’ve never thought of the Redcakes as over-imbibers,” Fyodora said.
“The war was so difficult on his generation. Eloise’s fiancé died, and Noel is too damaged to live outside of a hospital. Peter, the youngest, seemed to have escaped their curse, but he’s had his own issues of late.”
“It was a war to end all wars,” Fyodora said in a faraway voice and stared out the window as the taxicab pulled up under the awning.
“Are you going to come in with me?”
“No.” Her sister forced a smile. “I am not ready for society. A cup of tea and my bed are all I require after this long day.”
Olga kissed her cheek as the door was opened for her. She hadn’t seen her sister since she was nineteen years old. In some ways the years had been kind; Fyodora was undeniably a beauty, but to Olga’s eyes, she looked older than twenty-six. In her eyes at least. She’d seen too much. At the grand duchess’s urging, Fyodora had shared the bare bones of her story, but Olga knew she’d left a great deal out.
“I’ll bring us something nice to eat,” Olga promised as Johnnie Miles helped her from the taxicab.
He grinned at her as it drove away. “Those for me, Princess?”
“No, for one of the guests. A thank-you.”
“Well, they are beautiful, Princess.”
She smiled at the doorman, instinctively plucked off the smallest delphinium bloom, and tucked it into his buttonhole. “There you are, Mr. Miles.”
His white teeth showed as he grinned. “Most kind, ma’am.”
Feeling lifted, Olga winked at him as she went inside. But once in the Grand Hall, her floral offering seemed tiny as she saw the beautiful blooms in the enormous bouquet in the center of the room. She remembered how they had been toppled during Konstantin’s run through the area weeks ago, minutes before he’d died.
Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself of everything that had come to mind these past few days and walked to the lift. Her feet seemed extraordinarily heavy as they crossed the tricolor marble, but they moved.
A few minutes later, she’d plucked another bloom for Rohan, the lift operator. She fluffed one side of the bouquet as she left the lift, hiding the damage. Hesitating, she checked the corridor for Russians, but they didn’t have a guard posted. She knew they were usually all out at this time of evening.
In front of Douglas’s door, she stood for a moment and polished the tips of her shoes on the backs of her stockings. Silly. She knew her shoes were just fine. Feeling light-headed, she took a deep breath, filling her lungs, and rapped on the door.
When Douglas opened it, she took full measure of him and found nothing wanting. The time away had refreshed his power of personality. So tall, so dark and handsome. He seemed to have lost confidence, though. His expression was uncertain, instead of the usual mocking grin around the corners of his mouth or the sternness.
“Princess?”
She thrust out her blooms. “Thank you.”
He tilted his head and stepped to the side. She debated for a moment but walked in. Her head drooped as the door closed behind him. It seemed to intensify his masculine scent, reminding her of those few times she’d been with him, naked in his arms, surrounded by and accepting his masculine power over her body.
“What brings you by?” he asked.
She turned back to him. He stood strong, his feet firmly planted, his arms crossed. She offered him the bouquet again.
Slowly, he unfolded one arm and took the flowers.
“I needed to thank you again for rescuing Fyodora.”
“You risked coming here?”
“I wrote Peter. He sent me a curt note back allowing me to visit you.”
“He needs a wife,” Douglas muttered. He went into the sitting room and placed the vase on the table between the seating.
“He seems desperately unsettled.”
“Why don’t you set your cap for him?”
“First of all, he never wanted me. Second, I haven’t forgiven him yet, not for sacking me and banning me from the hotel.”
Douglas’s lips curled into the familiar yet faintly feral grin she remembered. “Maybe he’ll take your sister on. Will I ever be forgiven?”
She unbuttoned her coat but left it on, pulled off her gloves, and sat on the edge of a chair. “I’ve thought about it. A life for a life, that’s what you’ve done. Having m
y sister back is payment for Konstantin’s death.”
“Very Old Testament of you.”
“I realize Konstantin had chosen his evil side, if he’d ever had a good one. He was always wrong, somehow. I don’t know how else to think of the situation.”
He sat across from her on the white sofa. “I might have used Fyodora in an operation in the future. I can’t claim my intentions were good.”
“You didn’t love me then. But you claim to love me now.”
Her breath caught in her throat as he rose from the sofa and went to his knees in front of her. With a swiftness that belied his large body, he wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face in her lap.
She stroked the back of his head as tears pricked under her eyelids. “You never let me call off our engagement.”
His words came out muffled. “No, I didn’t.”
“I’ve missed you terribly, Douglas,” she whispered.
He nodded against her thigh. “I’m usually sure of myself, but you’ve had me at a loss.”
She sniffed. “How can I love someone when they are likely to drive me mad?”
He chuckled, the sound reverberating up her legs until her body all but melted with longing.
“So you do love me, Princess?”
“Yes, but I want to only love my Douglas. No more secrets.”
He let out a breath. “It’s time for me to leave the service. I need to help my father, and dangerous work might leave my own children without a parent. I can’t abide that.”
“The times are so very complicated,” she said. “But I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you to the man who killed Maxim.”
“Other men can fight that battle.” He looked up. “We’ll retire to the country estate for a time. Your sister can regain her strength there, and we can make the St. Martin’s title an heir.”
“Promise?”
He nodded. “We’ll marry in Yorkshire by the end of the month.”
“Just as we’d planned?”
“Exactly.”
She stroked her fingers through his hair, then inclined her head, meeting his lips with hers. There had been moments where she thought they’d never kiss again, but now, he was hers forever. Her heartbeat quickened as he accepted her kiss, her love.
* * *
Two days later, Glass, the two princesses, and Peter Eyre stood on the pavement in front of Kings Cross Station. Eyre took one last drag of his cigarette, dropped it in front of his left foot, and ground it out.
“Must I?” he said, with just the taste of a whine in his cultured voice.
“John Neville can keep the hotel running for a few days,” Olga said. “You need a vacation. I did not like the look of you when I called on you Sunday night.”
“I’m a disgrace,” he said easily.
“Take a few days,” Fyodora said. “Embrace your cousins; appreciate your family.”
“Why don’t you come with me, Fee?” Eyre asked. “I’m sure you could do with some bracing country air.”
The princess shook her head. “Too much to do for the wedding. Yorkshire,” she sighed. “We have much shopping to do.”
“You have to think of yourself, too,” Eyre suggested. He pulled out his wallet and thrust a handful of bills at her.
Fyodora shook her head quickly and patted his cheek. “No more cigarettes. They make you pale. You were a red-cheeked boy.”
“I grew up.”
Her eyes narrowed. She poked him in the chest. “Fresh air and exercise.”
His nostrils flared. “I remember you as plump and sweet, not a termagant.”
Fyodora threw her head back. “I am professional dancer for years now. No place for fat.”
Eyre winced and moved his gaze to Olga. “Will you come back to the hotel? Help Neville for a few days?”
“No.”
Olga’s one syllable answer made Glass smile. He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her to the side of the door to allow others to enter. “You need to get to your train, Peter. Must we walk you to the platform?”
“I can manage.”
“And no flask, correct?” Olga asked.
“No.” Peter’s lips thinned. “I shall leave you three before I become extremely cross with you.”
“You’ll be at our wedding?” she asked.
He nodded. “Probably.”
Fyodora’s eyes narrowed. “You will be, Peter Eyre, or I will find you and drag you there by the ear.”
Eyre smiled, the first time Glass had seen anything resembling pleasure in his face for quite some time. Could there be romance in the air? After all, springtime was for lovers.
Glass squeezed Olga’s shoulders and held out his other arm to Fyodora, his soon-to-be sister-in-law. They watched Peter Eyre doff his hat to an elderly matron and follow behind, a single suitcase in his hand.
Glass was very happy to know that the next time he’d be boarding a train, it would be with his Olga by his side. He no longer liked the look of a single man about to travel. It smacked of desolation, a feeling he was most happy to leave behind.
“Better days ahead,” Olga said and smiled up at him.
“Better days ahead,” Glass said. “Time to leave the past behind and shout, ‘Tallyho,’ to a new tomorrow.”
Keep reading for a special excerpt of the first book in The Grand Russe Hotel series.
IF I HAD YOU
The Grand Russe Hotel by Heather Hiestand
Inside the glittering walls of a famous hotel, an ingénue experiences first passion . . .
As she stands before the gilded doors of The Grand Russe Hotel, Alecia Loudon is poised on the threshold of a profound awakening. It is the Roaring Twenties, and London is buzzing with opportunities for adventure . . . and indiscretion. The young personal secretary knows nothing of the ways of men, but a chance meeting with the hotel’s handsome night watchman sets her imagination afire.
Ivan Salter has noticed the quiet Englishwoman and wonders what delicate beauty might be lurking behind Alecia’s plain clothes. As the handsome Russian draws Alecia further into the hotel’s luxurious world, he introduces her to fine food, cool jazz, and forbidden assignations. Their dalliance is tested, however, by a surprising link between Ivan’s family history and Alecia’s bosses. Tangled up in international intrigue, the lovers must decide if their sparkling new romance is worth the cost . . .
Praise for Heather Hiestand’s novels
“One Taste of Scandal is a delicious, multi-layered Victorian treat.”
—Gina Robinson, author of The Last Honest Seamstress and the Agent Ex series
“A fast read with a different view point than many novels in the genre.”
—Library Journal on His Wicked Smile
“This is definitely one for the keeper shelf.”
—Historical Romance Lover on His Wicked Smile
“A delightful, sexy glimpse into Victorian life and loving with two wonderfully nontraditional lovers.”
—Jessa Slade, author of Dark Prince’s Desire, on His Wicked Smile
Available now!
Chapter 1
London, midnight, December 28, 1924
Jazz.
The saxophone wailed and screeched over the piano. A trombone blared in, deepening the rollicking sound. Alecia Loudon’s foot tapped as a female singer sang the words to the newest tune from America. Underneath the music beat the sounds of the nightclub: cups rattling on plates, champagne glasses clinking, and matches being struck for innumerable cigarettes.
Alecia longed to see the action, but it was hidden from her on the other side of the nightclub’s rear door. Cocooned in the luxury hotel that shared the club’s wall, she couldn’t see the dancing. Styles changed so fast, and she wished she knew the current fads. Of course, the song had about as much relevance to her sex-free life as the dancing. “‘My baby don’t love nobody but me . . . ’”
No, the life behind that door bore no resemblance to hers. She was a questionably modern secreta
ry of twenty-two who’d never been kissed. Oh, but she’d thought about kissing, fantasized about kissing, daydreamed about kissing one certain handsome man here at the Grand Russe Hotel . . .
She pushed the thought away and tried the handle of the door. One inch to the right, two inches . . . it caught. Frustrated, she turned the knob again but it only rattled, metal against metal. Securely locked. She considered leaving the safety of the hotel, darting onto busy Park Lane at Hyde Park Corner, going into the alley where the main nightclub door was. But she wasn’t dressed for the nightclub.
Giggles emanating from a dark corner on the far side of the door stole her away from her thoughts. She peeled away from the wall where she’d been leaning, in what was little more than a service corridor between the nightclub and the newly reopened hotel. Even back here, the opulence of the Grand Russe Hotel continued undiminished. The tops of the walls were stenciled in a forest green and red-brown geometric pattern that reminded her of teeth. Colorful paintings of ballet scenes done by itinerant Russian artists dotted the walls every six feet, uniform in size and frame.
The hotel’s decorations had been inspired by The Sleeping Princess ballet performed at the Alhambra in Leicester Square a few years ago, but for sure, the couple on the dark velvet sofa in the corner were no Sleeping Beauty and her Prince Charming. The man in the clinch did not meet any masculine ideal. She’d seen a man who did, though, late at night here at the hotel. Alecia ghosted her way through the somnolent hotel in the wee hours, escaping her ever-present nightmares, while he protected it. A night watchman. She’d never spoken to him.
Dark waves of hair gave him a rakish edge. He possessed eyes of a brown that were closer to amber. Thick chocolate brows overshadowed his eye sockets, making for a fiercely probing gaze. Sculpted, full lips, the rosy bottom just slightly larger than the top. A nose almost too expansive for the face, but imposingly masculine. Angular cheekbones and triangular jaw with a mildly cleft chin. Golden sand-colored skin. A real sheik, though she was no sheba to find herself bent back over his arm and ravished. How she wished.
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