Prince of Hearts (Elders and Welders Chronicles)

by Margaret Foxe

  Her heart soared at his words.

  "I think I always have," he continued, causing her heart to quake. "And that is why I must go. I can't bear to hurt you any more than I have already. Look at what I just did to you. Against a door," he said with self-loathing.

  "But it was glorious," she retorted.

  He was momentarily speechless. He recovered enough to say, "Don't say such things, Finch. Say you'll be happy when I'm gone."

  "I can't," she said through her tears. She drew a ragged breath and continued. She had to say it too. Just once. Just so he'd know. "I can't be happy when you're gone, because I love you too, Sasha. I love you, and I don't want to lose you."

  He looked at her as if she were mad. Then he turned away from her and ran an unsteady hand through his black curls. If anything, her confession seemed to upset him even more.

  "I'm not marrying Charlie," she said. "I was never going to. How could I, when I love you? I was prepared to let you leave, Sasha, because of what you are. How could I bear to be cast aside when you're through with me? Or grow old by your side while you remain unchanged? How could I bear it at all, when I didn't think you even loved me? I can still hardly believe it."

  "Why is it so unbelievable?" he demanded. "Do you think that I cannot love? That I am entirely a machine?"

  "I don't think that you're a machine at all," she protested. "I just never thought you'd love me."

  "Well, I tried my damnedest not to," he muttered.

  She took a deep breath, her heart filled with trepidation. There was a way to solve all of their problems, if Christiana was to be believed. She wasn't sure she was quite convinced in the wisdom of it, but it was the only thing left to try.

  "There is one way, Sasha. Christiana explained everything to me. What you are. What she is."

  He grew rigid at her words, and his expression shuttered. "No," he said simply. "I will not Bond you. I will not do that to you."

  "You'd rather leave me?" she demanded.

  "Yes, by God. Don't you see? Have you not realized it yet? I hate what I am. How could I consign you, or anyone for that matter, to such a fate?"

  "But we would be together," she said quietly.

  Her words seemed to give him pause. But finally he shook his head. "Would you give up everything? The chance of a normal life? Children? A Bonded woman can never have them. You'd be stuck as you are, forever. Stuck with me. Forever. Tell me, is that enough?"

  She couldn't answer him, because she didn't know if it would be. She could accept never having children. She could accept being stuck with him. Or at least with the man she knew he could be, the teasing, mercurial Professor she'd known and grown to love over the last five years.

  But how could she bear a life with a man who hated his very existence? How could she bear an eternity enduring moments like this, when the blight in his soul made him lash out at the world – at her?

  When she made no response, he sighed, and something crumbled in his eyes, as if he'd held onto some small hope she'd contradict him. "You know it is not. It is precisely because I love you that I could never do that to you. You'd hate me for it, in the end."

  Her shoulders slumped. "No, you don't love me enough," she said sadly. "And you hate yourself too much to believe you could ever be happy. That we could be happy." She sighed. "Perhaps you're right. There is a darkness inside of you that I can never fix, not in a dozen lifetimes. Only you can do that."

  "It's not so easy," he said.

  "All you have to do is to forgive yourself, Sasha." She went to him and began to smooth out the wrinkles in his jacket, then reached up to retie his neck cloth, knowing with a bittersweet certainly that it would be the last time. Such an ordinary act after so much tumult. Yet she wished she could tie his neck cloths forever.

  He watched her movements, his body tense and wary, as she worked to untangle the knots. "I read my uncle's letters that you kept in your drawer," she began. "I never knew he was in the War. But it explains a lot. Sometimes he would be in the middle of a sentence, and he would just drift away. I always attributed it to his eccentricities, but he'd get this terrible look in his eyes that used to chill me to the bone. I'd never seen that look in anyone else, until I met you. Sometimes at night, I would hear him scream. He had terrible nightmares. Just like you."

  She worked the knots free and began to retie it. "And I never understood why he was so driven, so hell-bent on his mission in the stews. But I guess it was his penance, much like your work is to you."

  He made a sound of protest, which she ignored. The truth was so glaringly obvious, he'd never convince her otherwise. For a man trained in psychiatry, he was singularly obtuse about his own motivations.

  "Whatever happened during the War, whatever role he played, it must have been devastating. Reading his letters to you, he blamed himself. But you forgave him, didn't you?" She finished with his necktie and glanced up at his grim countenance.

  "Yes," he said at last.

  "Why can you not forgive yourself? Stop using your past as an excuse to push people away. You're not your father. The man I've known for five years, the man I gave my body to, is no monster. Until you realize that, you'll have no peace."

  He looked floored by her words, but he shook his head in stubborn denial. "I may have forgiven him, but your uncle could never forgive himself," he pointed out.

  She stepped away from him and started for the door, giving him a sad smile, and one final, lingering glance, her heart breaking. "And look how he ended up. Half-mad in St. Giles. And alone. I do love you, Sasha, but you're right. It's better we go our separate ways. I couldn't watch you torment yourself forever. I'd go half-mad.”

  She’d accused him of not loving her enough, but perhaps the horrible truth was she just didn’t love him enough, which was why she was able to walk out the door without a backward glance. Callous as it was, she’d rather believe this than the alternative – that she’d left her heart behind with him in that study, and that she’d never be whole again.

  Chapter 11

  Days after the smashing success of her annual Charity Ball, Lady C— was seen by several witnesses on a certain Mayfair street, engaged in a Shocking Behavior. This author can hardly credit the reports this office has received, as The Most Beautiful Lady In England has always seemed quite incapable of such a Faux Pas. Brace yourselves, readers, when you learn the Scandalous Truth. Lady C— was seen Sprinting down Berkeley Avenue Without a Chaperon…

  -from the Society Page of The London Post-Dispatch, 1896

  A week later, Aline struggled to finish her belated installment of the Chronicles for the Post-Dispatch on her new typewriter. Christiana had given it to her, since hers had been destroyed by the wardrobe door the Professor's vampiric brother had thrown that fateful morning in her flat. After all that had happened over the last few weeks, she'd not been able to focus on her writing, or indeed anything useful. Fortunately for her career as a serial novelist, she had a peer of the realm to plead her case with the editors. She was not about to turn down such a favor, especially when it was because of the Earl and his fellow immortal brethren she was in such straits to begin with.

  After a week of wallowing that doubtless rivaled any dramatic fit The Luclair – another victim of the Professor's exotic charm – had ever thrown, Aline had finally had enough of herself. No amount of tears was going to change the basic facts of her existence.

  Sasha was leaving any day now. She was not. Plenty of people fell in love without things working out. Romeo and Juliet. Helen and Paris. Marc Antony and Cleopatra. Tristan and Isolde.

  Well.

  Just because they died didn't mean she had to. She may have no experience with such a sophisticated matter as a broken affaire, which she felt more than excused her tendency to turn into a watering pot. But she was no wilting violet, whose life was over just because she'd been disappointed in love. She was a modern, independent woman of the Steam Age. And she was British. She'd soldier on.

  Though the fa
ct that she was in love with a brooding three hundred forty-two year old Russian Crown Prince masquerading as a criminologist who killed vampires with his bare hands did make her situation uniquely piquant.

  She was quite ready to get on with her life. Truly. Even though she was still at Llewellyn House, a virtual prisoner. Since the discovery of the existence of vampires, and their proclivity for her blood, the Earl had been loath to let her return to her flat.

  Not that she would ever be able to live there again, after what had happened there.

  She was not exactly thrilled at the thought of vampires lurking about London, thirsting for her blood, either. But she knew she couldn't stay at Llewellyn House forever. She had to start working again, however, if she wanted to find her way to the other side of the ruins of her life.

  And that began with the Chronicles. If she happened to take the plot line in an unexpected direction, owing to recent events in her own life, she was prepared to forgive herself. The characters in the Chronicles were, after all, better versions of their living counterparts. And they at least would have their happy ending, damn it. Eventually.

  The Misses Eddings and Ridenour would have the vapors when they picked up the next edition of the Post-Dispatch.

  Christiana entered the drawing room where Aline had set up her desk and peered over her shoulder as she worked. "So what happens next in the Chronicles?"

  "You shall find out soon enough," she said wryly.

  Christiana tsked. "Tell me. Rowan's out on some dreadful Council business, and I'm bored. It's Miss Wren's wedding day next. Tell me she doesn't marry Standish."

  Aline sighed and turned away from her work. "She doesn't marry Standish."

  Christiana looked pleased. She settled on the settee opposite for a coze, probably relieved to find Aline without tears coursing down her face for a change. "So, what happens?"

  "Augustus appears in his dirigible and whisks Miss Wren away to his lair."

  "Really? He kidnaps her? To his lair?" Christiana looked devilishly pleased.

  "Not so much a kidnapping," Aline admitted. "I believe Miss Wren was quite willing. She has always had a secret tendre for her employer."

  Christiana gave her a mock-surprised grin. "Has she? So you've finally seen what half of England has known for years."

  "Something like that," she admitted.

  "And so, shall they live happily ever after?" Christiana continued, a bit tentatively now.

  She snorted. "How trite. I believe I shall make Augustus do something dreadful and send him into exile first. I won't make it easy for him."

  Christiana nodded. "Good for you, Aline." She paused and twisted her fingers together in her lap nervously, clearing her throat. "I hear the Professor leaves tomorrow into his exile."

  Aline went rigid and sucked in a breath, determined not to let the news bring her low. Which was futile. She felt punched in the stomach, though she knew this day was approaching. Lady Christiana studied her with such sympathy it made her feel even worse. She'd not told her friend all that had transpired between her and the Professor the night she'd spent at his townhouse, but she was sure Christiana had some idea, considering the state she'd been in.

  "You're not going to even say goodbye, my dear?" Christiana asked her gently.

  She managed to shake her head. "We've already said all there is to say."

  "I wonder," Christiana murmured. "I do wish there was some way for him to stay. You were so good for him, Aline."

  She gave a bitter laugh. "Hardly. We were at each other's throats."

  Christiana quirked a brow. "But you loved it, just like he did. I met Sasha in Vienna years ago. He was a different man then. As if all the light had been extinguished in his eyes. Who could blame him? But he changed when he came to London. You put a spark back into his eyes."

  "Well, it wasn't enough. He's leaving, and it's for the best. Please, can we talk of something else?"

  Christiana hesitated. "My dear, have you considered..." She faltered, blushing. She grimaced and tried again. "I know this is indelicate of me, but I must ask, is there a chance of a child?"

  Aline felt all of the blood drain from her face. She involuntarily raised a hand to her stomach. The possibility had not once crossed her mind, which was stupid of her. She swallowed unsteadily. "Surely not...”

  Christiana pursed her beautiful mouth, looking troubled. "I thought as much."

  She shook her head. "But is it even possible? With what he is? He said something about your kind not being able to have children."

  Christiana looked even grimmer. "That is true. I cannot have a child, according to the Council. But an Elder is capable of fathering a child, even though, from what I understand, it is not done."

  The thought of having Sasha's child terrified her. But deep down, in her innermost heart, the idea was not so dreadful. How could she not love a child of his? Sasha, on the other hand, would be anything but pleased. "Even if it comes to that, it wouldn't change anything, Christiana," she said with quiet certainty.

  "Oh, darling, you can't believe that!"

  "I wouldn't want him to ever know. I think it would destroy him, after what happened to his wife."

  "I don't think you can keep something like that from him," Christiana said, her brow furrowed.

  "I can try," she said quietly, feeling suddenly exhausted. Christiana had given her yet one more thing to fret about, perhaps the biggest thing of all. How could she have been so thoughtless of the consequences? How could Sasha?

  "Well, hopefully there will be nothing to worry about," Christiana said, moving closer to her side so she could pat her hand. "It was only the once, was it not?"

  She looked at Christiana in dismay. Oh, it hadn't been once. She'd lost track of how many times Sasha had turned to her that night. She was still sore. And she didn't think it mattered if it had been. Once was enough. For all her years, Christiana seemed even less informed on such matters than she was.

  Christiana blushed at Aline's unspoken response. "Oh, dear."

  "Can we change the subject?"

  Christiana looked grateful. "Of course. There is no sense in dwelling on things that may never happen. Though now I quite understand why you refused to reconcile with your Dr. Netherfield."

  "That was one reason," she gritted out, her heart sinking even further. She'd forgotten Charlie completely.

  "Well, if you must know, I'm glad. There has always been something about that man I cannot like, my dear. And when we visited him in his offices last week, he made me quite uneasy." Christiana shivered, as if remembering something unpleasant. "He is not the man he appears to be, Aline. I am certain of it."

  Aline was about to reply when the butler came into the room to announce a visitor. "Dr. Netherfield to see Miss Finch, my lady," the butler intoned.

  Christiana gave her an arch look. "Speak of the devil. Shall I stay, Aline? You don't look like you're up for this."

  She shook her head. "I shall be fine."

  Christiana looked doubtful, but she left the room. When Charlie entered, Aline wished she'd not sent her friend away. He was looking as desperate as she felt. She'd never seen him in such a state, unshaven, jittery, in clothes she was certain he'd slept in. He stared around the room as if making certain they were alone before he approached her, and his furtive manner did nothing to tamp down her own rising anxiety.

  Surely he was not in such a state over her. Perhaps he was still worked up over the Professor's role in his dismissal, though Aline was beginning to have some doubts about Charlie's story altogether. His behavior of late was bizarre.

  She struggled to her feet as he took her by the hand. For some reason, she didn't want to be sitting down for what was to come. He gave her an odd, hard smile that didn't reach his eyes, crowding close, squeezing her palm as if he didn't mean to let her go. "My dear, are you feeling better? I was told you've been ill."

  She removed her hand from his overly zealous grasp, feeling suddenly suffocated. He was standing far
too close to her. She crossed the room and positioned herself behind a chair. "I am well, Charlie. What do you want?" she asked bluntly. She regretted being impolite, but she'd had about all she could take for the day.

  Charlie arched an eyebrow, his smile turning to stone at her tone. "I came to have your answer, my dear. Do you not remember? You gave me hope at our last meeting. As I am departing quite soon, I thought I'd have my answer."

  Her stomach lurched with guilt and dread. She'd forgotten all about her parting promise to Charlie to reconsider their engagement, given in a moment of weakness. Perhaps he was pining over her, after all. Though his persistence hardly made sense. He'd always made it clear that their's was not a love match, and after his behavior at his office, she wondered if he'd ever cared for her full stop.

  Uneasy, though she couldn't explain quite why, she considered her response carefully, unwilling to stir the pot. "I wish you well, Charlie, I really do. But you deserve a better match than me. I think it's for the best we part ways." And in this case, with this man, it was the truth. She only wished it were true with the last man she'd parted ways with. She was afraid she was going to regret letting Sasha go for the rest of her life.

  Charlie's smile evaporated. "Are you quite certain, my dear? You do not wish to come with me?"

  "I'm afraid we just don't suit, in the end, Charlie," she replied, giving him a weak smile.

  Charlie gave a beleaguered sigh, and pinned her with an impatient look that erased her smile completely. And then he changed, in the blink of an eye. Something in his eyes, in the rigid cast of his jaw, made her start back in alarm. She hadn't thought it possible for him to look so hard, so ... mean. He seemed like a different man all of a sudden.

  "How tiresome you're being, my dear." Even his voice was different. It had a cadence to it that was not British at all. The hairs on the back of her neck and arms stood on end. Something was very wrong. "Why can't anything ever be easy?" he mused to himself.

  "What are you talking about, Charlie?"