by Alice Gaines
“So am I.”
“You don’t look it.”
She stared into her brandy and ran her finger around the rim of the glass. “Women of my generation weren’t supposed to do this sort of thing. We were to wait for the man to act. That doesn’t work very well if the man doesn’t act.”
“I acted.” Perhaps he shouldn’t have. His life was fine as it was. His duty to his country. His sons. Grandchildren soon, with any luck.
“You acted and then apologized and disappeared,” she said.
“I shouldn’t have kissed you. You were a grieving widow. I took advantage.”
She leaned toward him, placing her hand on his knee. No one had touched him like that in…how long? He couldn’t do arithmetic with her so close. So intimate. He could only stare at her pale fingers against the silk of his robe.
“You didn’t do anything I didn’t want,” she said. “You have to understand. Alexander was my husband. I loved him.”
He could prompt her for the “but” that would follow that statement. Or he could let her work through it on her own. He’d married out of duty, fully in love with another woman when he’d done it. Adoring his wife had come later. Maybe Marta had never managed with her husband.
“You always seemed happy,” he said.
“I was.” She straightened in her chair. “Alexander was a dear. We travelled. Anywhere I wanted to go. He gave me everything.”
Except children, but Friedrich would cut his own tongue out before he’d say that. Suddenly, Alexander Damrov seemed like the most selfish man on Earth, to take her youth and give her neither passion nor a child.
“You mustn’t look at me that way,” she said.
“How is that?”
“As though you ought to feel unhappy for me,” she said. “I have no intention of making you sad.”
“Believe me, my dear. Sad is the last thing you make me feel.” A slight ache around his heart for what she should have had in her marriage. More than a little anger at whomever talked her into marrying such an older man. But most of all…that pleasant trepidation at new possibilities. The sort of does-she-doesn’t-she, will-she-won’t-she that makes youth so exciting and dangerous. And to be perfectly honest, a sexual thrill he’d never thought to experience again. No, she didn’t make him sad.
“Well, then. Now that you’re over your shyness and I’m almost over mine…” She finished her drink in one swallow, rose, and crossed the tiny distance between them. After easing his legs apart, she sat on his knee and placed her arms around his neck. “Shall we talk about where we go from here?”
With her perched as she was, their faces met on the same level, and he could easily gaze into her eyes. Even bluer than he’d remembered. “Go?”
“Figuratively.” She gestured around her. “We needn’t leave the room.”
“You’d want to…right now? …no preamble, just…” Curse it, he was sputtering. Sounding like someone mired in the past. No, not that. Tradition. He’d never made a secret of the fact he followed the old ways. Jumping into the sack or hooking up or whatever the young did these days was fine for his sons. Friedrich VonRamsberg had never had a roll in the hay with anyone, and he wasn’t about to start now. Even if a certain part of his anatomy seemed to think sex on the spur of the moment was a splendid idea.
Oh, yes. His body hadn’t had that reaction to a woman for…he wasn’t going to bother to figure out how long. And it was splendid. More than splendid. Heavenly.
“My dearest Friedrich.” She stroked the side of his face. “You are so old-fashioned.”
“As you ought to be. You’re not that much younger than I am.”
“I would never rush you.” She bent toward him and pressed her lips to his. Just for a moment. Just to let him sample the nectar of her caress. Then she was covering his face with kisses. His forehead, his eyelids, his jaw, each time repeating “Never” until she’d whispered a string of them. “Never, never, never, never.”
So hot and full of promise. It hadn’t been so long that he’d forgotten the sweet sound of a woman cooing to him—the greatest aphrodisiac in the world. Some knowledge burned itself into one’s brain.
Twisting, he stretched her across his lap, his hand at her hip. Now he could gaze down into her face, at her expression of excitement and expectation. The same impulse that had overcome him in the vineyard caught him in its grip again. In a heartbeat, he was kissing her with everything in him. Pent up desire, not just for a woman but for this woman. He could finally admit to himself that he’d wanted her for years. He wanted her right now, and he could have her.
He took her lips over and over and couldn’t get enough. When she sighed and parted them, he took full advantage, molding her mouth to his and probing with his tongue. When hers touched his, it tripped a circuit in his brain, throwing him into full-blown need. He shouldn’t feel this way. Things should happen slowly, cautiously. Instead, he found himself kissing a path to her jaw and then behind to the tender spot beneath her ear. Her pulse beat just below the skin, as rapid as his own heartbeat. He continued nibbling along her throat down to her shoulder. Nudging aside the fabric of her negligee, he tasted the powdered skin there, and the scent of flowers and woman filled his nostrils.
He scarcely noticed as her fingers eased inside his robe and into his pajamas and her palm came to rest over his heart. The sound of ragged breathing…hers and his…filled his ears. She wanted this. Wanted him. The knowledge humbled him. It also stopped him.
He straightened, still holding her where she was with her head against his shoulder. The smile she gave him tightened something around his heart. Her lips were parted and, he had to admit, swollen, and she breathed rapidly between them. And her expression told him that he could do anything with her and she’d welcome it.
“Your heart’s racing,” she said. “So’s mine.”
“A natural reaction.”
“Then, why did you stop?”
“Ah, my lady, you’re worth so much more,” he said. “I don’t make love casually.”
Her eyebrows went up. “A dashing fellow like you?”
“I’ve lived my whole life in the public eye.” Or most of it, anyway. There had been those months in Italy, although they seemed like a dream now. Or a fairy tale. When he’d truly been himself, not a son or a student or a monarch. Just a man in love.
He took her hand in his and kissed the fingertips. “Any woman associated with me comes under the same scrutiny.”
“Do you think that would happen with us?” she said.
“If our relationship were to become common knowledge, it could cause a scandal. Things are different for the younger generation, but we old guard are expected to maintain a traditional decorum.”
“And taking a lover isn’t decorous?” she said.
“Intimacy isn’t allowed outside of marriage,” he said. “It’s not just my reputation we’re talking about but yours. Perhaps more yours. People might think you’re taking advantage of an old fool.”
She sat straight up. “They wouldn’t.”
“Don’t be so certain of that.”
“The people love you,” she said. “Besides, I’m not much younger than you.”
“So, not old. Just a fool.”
“If you’re a fool, then so am I.” She tucked her head under his chin and nestled against him. Automatically, his arms closed around her, and he held her, breathing in the scent of her hair. He could pretend that they’d been discussing whether or not they’d have an affair when, in truth, he’d crossed that boundary when he’d left his room to come to her this night. They wouldn’t make love now, as guests in a monastery. He wasn’t his young and randy son, after all. But now that he had a beautiful woman in his arms, he wouldn’t refuse the pleasure of her body. The Almighty only gave you so many blessings in one lifetime, and surely turning something this precious down amounted to sin.
Not now, but soon. He eased her up and stood beside her. “I’d best let you get your sleep.”<
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She gazed up at him from under her lashes. “I doubt I’ll get much sleep.”
“Your rest, then.” He kissed her hand and held it between both of his for a moment. “We travel again tomorrow.”
“Well, what do you know? The first time I’ve thrown myself at a man, and he’s refused.” She smiled as she said it. She knew he hadn’t refused her. He couldn’t, as her women’s wisdom of such things should surely tell her.
“Only delayed, my dear,” he said. “So I can woo you.”
“I do like the sound of that.”
“Good night, then.” He bent to kiss her. He’d only meant a brief peck to her lips, but her magic caught him and held, and in a moment, he’d gathered her against him, and she’d opened her mouth beneath his again. As intoxicating as the brandy.
He managed to pull back and walked to the doorway. She went with him and opened the door. For a bit, they stood on opposite sides, staring at each other as if they couldn’t bear to part. Finally, she gave him one more smile and eased the door closed behind him.
Friedrich stood in the cold hallway with a silly grin on his face and an erection that would do a man half his age proud.
Chapter Two
Not touching Friedrich proved almost more than Marta could manage. They naturally fit together, rounding out the party composed of Friedrich’s second son, Kurt, and his new wife and her parents. With Dev and Felice in their mountain hideaway and Ulrich and Dixie returned to the palace to greet her family, only the six of them were left to tour the ancient part of Danislova’s oldest city. With the narrow streets and alleyways, their shoulders bumped from time to time, and she had to make herself pull away. The fact that Kurt and Casey were newlyweds and her parents were acting as if they were didn’t help matters.
“These buildings date to the fourteenth century,” Friedrich said as they walked beneath the wooden-beamed overhangs of houses that had served as homes for guild members and merchants. The original middle class of Danislova. Flowers hung everywhere, and residents waved from windows. Friedrich acknowledged his subjects with a tip of his hat here and there. Kurt waved back, and Casey occasionally joined him. She was a princess now, after all.
Friedrich gave Marta sidelong glances as they went, and she could only remember the heat in his dark eyes the night before just as he’d turned her in his lap and kissed her senseless. Her skin heated again, and she’d surely be blushing. The people might see and realize what had happened between them and what still would happen. Would she cause a scandal if their affair became public knowledge? If she did, would he put her aside? Would she lose him before she’d really had him?
A child emerged from a doorway holding a lily in each of her hands. As everyone watched, she approached, her flowers held up toward Friedrich.
“Are you a prince?” she said.
He bent toward her. “I am, and so is my son.”
The girl glanced toward Kurt and then back to Friedrich. “My mother says I can give you this flower.”
“Thank you, and thank your mother.” He reached for the lilies.
The girl held one of the flowers back. “This one’s for the lady.”
Marta placed her hand on her chest. “For me?”
“Because you’re beautiful,” the girl said.
“She is, isn’t she?” Friedrich said.
“You’re beautiful, too.” Marta took the flower. “Thank you very much.”
The girl blushed and returned to her mother’s side, burrowing into her skirts. After Friedrich tipped his hat, they continued.
They arrived at an inn adorned in front with a carved wooden sign in the shape of a raven. Zum schwarzen Vogel, it read. A slight, silver-haired man, easily seventy years old, appeared wearing the long white apron of a waiter.
“Your Majesty,” he gushed as he bowed and bowed. “We are so very honored.”
“Herr…” Friedrich said.
“Grossmann, Majesty. We met. Many years ago. You wouldn’t remember,” the man said.
“To the contrary, I do. Your name slipped my mind,” Friedrich said. “Do you suppose you could feed the six of us?”
“Of course,” Herr Grossmann gushed. “Please, do step inside.”
The interior of the inn was dark but clean. The patrons stood as their party entered, and the men removed their caps in deference to their sovereign. Friedrich also took off his own hat and handed it to Herr Grossmann.
“Please, resume your seats,” he said.
“This way.” Herr Grossman led them to a narrow stairway that led to a private dining room overlooking the town square. An ancient church across the way dominated the space.
Kurt went to the window and stared outside. “I remember this place.”
“It was many years ago,” Herr Grossmann declared.
“You were young,” Friedrich added.
“But I remember,” Kurt said. “Dev and I got bored and went outside. It started to snow, and mother came to collect us. In a moment, the people had surrounded us to say hello.”
“The princess,” Herr Grossmann declared. “She was so lovely, so gracious.”
Marta hardly needed a reminder of Friedrich’s wife and princess. Cecile had been perfect in every way, for the people, her children, and her husband. Marta should have gotten over her envy of the woman, who’d died so many years ago. But she could help but wish she’d had Cecile’s life and had given Friedrich children.
Curse the jealousy. It made her so petty. She simply would not think in those directions.
“Do sit down, everyone.” Friedrich pulled out a chair for Marta, changing the subject from his late wife, thank heaven. They set their lilies next to each other on the tablecloth.
Kurt continued staring outside while the rest of the party sat.
“I’ve made the same meal you had that day,” Herr Grossmann said. “The leek soup, the Schnitzel and potato pancakes. Cook even found the recipe for the fruit meringue the princess enjoyed so much.”
“She did,” Friedrich said, staring straight ahead at nothing in particular. They were, after all, discussing his late wife in front of the woman who would soon become his lover.
“The meringues!” Kurt said. “The chefs at the palace used to make those.”
“My wife gave the princess the recipe,” Herr Grossmann said.
Joy filled Kurt’s face. “I haven’t thought of them for so long.”
“Sit down, Son,” Friedrich said softly.
Kurt took his seat beside Casey and grasped her hand. “Just the way I remember. Everything.”
“I’ll bring the soup,” Herr Grossmann said and disappeared toward the kitchen.
Marta sat quietly with her hands in her lap. Kurt still seemed flushed and happy at the memories of his mother in this place. Who could blame him? Even at a young age, he’d shouldered much of his nation’s grief at the loss of the princess.
“Your wife must have died young,” Casey’s father said.
“Very young,” Friedrich answered. “She wasn’t yet fifty.”
Mrs. Vaughn clucked her tongue. “Such a shame.”
Marta studied the man beside her. He’d been young, too. His hair had still been dark, like his sons’, and had turned white later. Perhaps from the stress of ruling a nation and from the loss of his wife.
“And your husband, Lady Marta?” Mrs. Vaughn said.
“Older than Fried…His Majesty’s wife. That is, the princess.” People insisted on speaking of these things, no doubt believing they were offering comfort. It had never soothed her, and especially not now. Friedrich’s stiff posture next to her said he felt the same. Still, one had to go through the motions.
“Lady Marta has been a friend of our family for years,” Friedrich said. The night before, they’d made a tacit agreement to become more than friends, but she couldn’t mention that now. She couldn’t even remember the details of that visit to her room without fear of blushing and letting everything show on her face.
Herr Gro
ssmann returned with steaming bowls of soup, which he served to each of them.
“I almost forgot, Your Majesty.” Herr Grossmann reached into his apron and pulled out a photograph in a small, gilt frame. “The princess allowed me to pose for a picture with her.”
“Really?” Friedrich set his spoon down and sat very quietly.
Herr Grossmann held the picture out to Friedrich. “See? This is the prize of my inn.”
Friedrich took the picture and studied it for a moment. “It was a long time ago.”
Marta watched him as best she could without displaying any feeling to the others. An unschooled eye would detect nothing amiss from his expression except, perhaps, that he didn’t show any emotion. Marta caught the tension in his jaw. After a moment, he handed the picture back. “It’s a good likeness.”
“May I see?” Casey reached for the picture. “Kurt, it’s your mother.”
Kurt leaned over his wife’s shoulder. “It’s from the visit here. I remember that scarf she wore in the winter.”
“She’s beautiful,” Casey said.
Casey must have seen pictures of Cecile before but perhaps not in a casual pose. Cecile’s portrait hung in a prominent place in the palace, after all. Marta shouldn’t resent a dead woman, no matter how much everyone around her had loved Cecile or continued to rave about her beauty. Marta was still here, alive and sitting next to the man she’d secretly loved and with whom she’d soon have an affair. She’d be his second love, not his first all-consuming one, but she would have him, and that was more than enough.
Still, when Mrs. Vaughn took the photograph and ooohed and aaahed over it and when Mr. Vaughn added his approval, her soup lost some of its taste. When Mr. Vaughn passed the photo to her, she glanced at it, smiled, and passed it to Friedrich. He, in turn, returned it to Herr Grossmann without looking at it.
Herr Grossman tucked the photo back into his pocket, his smile beaming. “I’ll bring the Schnitzel. Enjoy your meal.”
Marta set her spoon down and pasted a smile on her face.
*
Friedrich seemed particularly solicitous, touching Marta’s elbow, as they toured the church. With all the twists and turns in the ancient structure, she had him to herself after the priest offered give Casey, Kurt, and the Vaughns a tour of the small graveyard off to one side.