Helen’s chest ached.
“Imagine?” she said, her voice shaking. “I already love you, you sweet idiot. But I will not be your revenge plan—”
“There is no revenge plan,” Alex put in, his mouth curling slightly in a smile.
“No?” Helen said.
“No. I was at fault, Helen,” Alex said. “I know I have caused him terrible pain—and you, too. But I cannot go on like that. I came to St. Petersburg to change, and today is the day I start. Roman is passionate, but he is not capable of revenge towards someone he loves. You will not find a better man.”
“Alex,” Roman said. “Is this my proposal or yours?”
“Forgive me. Go on.”
“Are you proposing to me again?” Helen said feeling a huge smile spreading her lips.
Roman sighed, then put his hand into his coat and removed a small silver ring box. Her breath caught. He opened the box and dropped to one knee before the sledge, taking out the ring and holding it towards her. It was the most beautiful ring she had ever seen.
“I love you, Helen. If you let me, I will spend the rest of my life making you happy. Please, be my wife.”
Helen’s throat clenched, painful from emotion.
“Will you?” Roman pressed, his expression turning more worried the longer she did not reply.
“And Prince Pavel and Princess Anna?” Helen said. “They must hate me after I canceled the wedding just a few days before—”
“They very much approve,” Alex interjected. “They love you, and they could not wish for a better daughter-in-law. They do not mind which son you marry. One of their sons might never settle.”
“Alex!” Roman barked. “They do love you, Helen. The wedding was not canceled. We can be wed tomorrow.” He swallowed. “Do you?”
Helen dropped to her knees in the sledge and took both his hands in hers.
“I do, my Russian Prince. With all my soul.”
And with a heart that whirled in happiness as though waltzing with a handsome prince in the snow, she kissed the love of her life and forgot everyone and everything else as his hot lips covered hers.
Chapter 17
24th December, 1813
The bells rang, their music—strange and spontaneous and without any melody. Roman stood by her side, tall and dark, but his profile was full of light. She’d never seen him like this in her life. And even though he didn't hold her hand or touch her, she felt his presence like a warm embrace.
When he had seen her in her wedding dress, a look of love and admiration had lit his face. The dress was made of pale golden lame with silver flowers embroidered along the bottom. Brussels lace covered the bodice and the sleeves, so thin and airy it looked like frost on a window. Her manteau was of arctic fox fur with a black-pearl fastening in front. And she wore a veil of the same Brussels lace with a crown of pale golden lamé flowers.
Helen had never felt so beautiful and admired in her entire life. But it was only because she knew that she deserved this happiness and because she had finally found a family to which she truly belonged.
They stood in Kazan Cathedral, which had just been finished two years ago, the architecture inspired by the St. Peter’s Basilica in Vatican. The grandiosity of the building, with it’s heavy use of gold, beautiful ornaments, and art, took her breath away. And the scent of incense lifted Helen’s senses until she floated, dizzy from happiness, ready to embrace the whole world.
The priest stood before them with a large cross and a beautiful golden bible in his hands. Helen held the icon of Mary and Roman held the icon of Jesus, both relics having been in the Lipov family for generations. They also each held a candle as the symbol of their love that would not be extinguished.
The cathedral was full of people. When Helen and Roman went before the priest for his blessing, their guests stood to the left and right—unlike in Anglican churches, there was nowhere to sit down. Then Helen and Roman followed the priest towards the altar, and their guests followed. There was Alex, and Prince Pavel and Princess Anna, and all the nobility of St. Petersburg. Even the emperor was there—this was, after all, the wedding of one of the wealthiest and most influential families.
And yet for Helen, the most important guests of all were Irina and the girls from the orphanage. Helen felt as if her heart would burst when she saw them. She wanted them to feel included and valued and to see that a happy ending was possible for anyone. They looked at her, at Roman, and at the noble guests around them with wide eyes and open mouths. Helen knew that as long as she had a say in her wedding, no one would feel invisible, no one would feel like an outsider. The man she was marrying was the brightest figure of all.
The ceremony was a happy blur. There were prayers and blessings and an exchange of rings. Then heavy gold wedding crowns bearing the family’s icons were put on their heads and they walked around the altar three times. The moment Roman’s hand took Helen’s and their clasped hands were covered with a rushnyk, a ritual cloth embroidered with traditional Slavic patterns, a familiar jolt of warmth, of love, of head-spinning connection overcame her. They did not kiss, but in that moment, the simple touch of hands felt more intimate than a kiss, a hug, or even that wanton experience Roman had given her a few days ago.
Back at the Lipov Palace, the feast was being prepared, and all of the guests, apart from the emperor and his closest advisors, would join them.
Roman and Helen arrived first, and while the servants set the tables and brought the food, Roman swept her into the sitting room and behind the giant pale-golden curtain. Helen giggled, but her smile trailed off as her eyes met his. He took her face in his hands, and maybe it was the light coming from the brilliant snow beyond the window or maybe it was the happiness that radiated through his skin, but his eyes sparkled in wonder, as though he was looking at a Christmas miracle.
“My wife,” he said, the word “wife” like a delicacy he could not get enough of.
He kissed her, finally, his firm lips surprisingly soft. His tongue swept hers, hungrily but gently, sending heat flowing through her veins. He wrapped his arms around her waist, crushing her to him. Then he deepened the kiss, and Helen’s limbs melted. Her nipples hardened, her head spun as though she were a snowflake on the wind, whirled and twirled and swept up into the raging blizzard that was Roman.
Helen heard voices, the tap of many light feet and the firm footsteps of someone heavier and taller.
“This is the sitting room, girls,” Alex said.
Helen pulled away and smiled at Roman, who gave her a look of mock annoyance and rolled his eyes. She knew the last thing he wanted was to stop their kiss, and she felt the same.
“I have never seen anything this beautiful,” said a girl.
“I told you, this is the palace from fairy tales,” said another, and Helen recognized Irina’s voice.
“I am not sure about fairy tales,” Alex said.
“Did you really live here, Ira?” said a third girl, her voice full of wonder.
“Yes,” Irina said. “For three days, until I got better.”
“I suppose our guests have arrived,” Helen whispered.
“I suppose so,” Roman said. “I am happy to celebrate that you are mine with the whole world, but I cannot wait for the feast to finish so that I can take you to our bedroom and show you how much I love you.”
The muscles in her lower belly ached sweetly. She hid her face in the curve of his neck and inhaled his clean, male scent. “Prince Roman, I would love nothing more.”
The little feet tapped away. “You both can come out now,” Alex said, and Helen looked at Roman with wide eyes. “Like adolescents, by God…”
He walked away, as well, and Roman and Helen left their refuge behind the curtain and went to join the guests in the dining room.
Princess Anna and Prince Pavel stood just inside the dining room doors. A beautiful loaf of bread and a small cup full of salt were in Princess Anna’s hands.
“There you are!” she said. “
Bread and salt, a Russian tradition to bless your marriage and bring you luck and happiness in your union.”
Helen and Roman broke off pieces of bread, dipped them in the salt and ate them. On one of the tables was an English wedding cake—a tribute to Helen—and boxes containing pieces already prepared for the guests to take home with them, just like in England.
But before they could start with refreshments, the doors to the palace opened and something that Helen thought she’d never see rushed into the foyer: a bear and an old woman followed by a small crowd of people, including men, women, and children. They sang Russian folk music and laughed. The old woman was wearing traditional Russian clothes—a colorful kerchief around her head, a traditional apron dress, and felt boots called valenki.
The bear, Helen soon realized, was actually a man dressed in a bear skin with a head and paws. He was on all fours and roared and wobbled from side to side imitating a real bear.
“Kolyada, Kolyada,” sang the people. “Open the gates! Hand me a pie, a pancake, and a piece of flatbread, and a pot of sour cream…”
“They are singing Christmas carols,” Roman said to Helen with a smile. “And the bear is a symbol of protection, strength, and fertility. It’s an old Russian tradition, to have a bear appear at a wedding. It’s quite fortunate that we are getting married at Christmas. They are bringing their blessings for Christmas and for the wedding.”
Helen squeezed his hand, which was wrapped around hers. Irina came closer to Helen and pressed herself against her side, and Helen hugged the girl to herself.
She turned to Roman and whispered, “I know we will have our own children to love, but there is already one child who has a place in both of our hearts, and I would give her a place in our home, as well. Would you consider adopting Irina?”
Roman met her gaze, eyes serious, then looked down at Irina, his expression softening. “This little girl deserves to live in a palace and be called a princess and a daughter,” he said. “And we shall make sure the other girls do not want for anything and help them find loving homes, as well.”
“Thank you,” Helen said, her heart full of joy. “I could not possibly love you more.”
“And I love you,” Roman said and kissed her.
And as his lips melted together with hers, and she dissolved in the pure happiness that spread through her, she thought that she was finally surrounded by the family she had wanted so dearly. In one day she had gotten new parents, a brother, a daughter, and the most important person in the world—a husband who loved her as much as she loved him.
There could be no better Christmas gift than being her Russian prince’s bride.
<<<<>>>>
About Mariah Stone
Mariah Stone is a romance author who lives in the Netherlands with her husband and her baby son. She has traveled the world and lived in six countries. Her talents include forgetting everything when she writes and creating a bigger mess than her baby can ever make.
She believes love wins even if people come from different backgrounds—even if they were born hundreds of years apart.
That’s what her books are about.
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Beautifully Reckless
by Virginia Taylor
Chapter 1
Watching Papa’s study door from the window at the side of the house, Rose Darnell saw Lord Marsh step out. He walked through the garden toward the arbor, placing his hat precisely on his head.
After receiving the expected summons, she made her way quickly to her father’s retreat, rapped on the door, and entered. “He’s gone to the arbor. I’m assuming you told him to speak to me,” she said, moving toward her father’s desk. The wintry weather put a haze of frost on the French doors behind him.
Mr. Andrew Darnell, her mild-mannered father, raised his patient gaze from the stack of correspondence in front of him. “He’s not unsuitable.”
“I tried so hard to put him off.” She huddled her shawl tighter around her bodice, placing her cold hands under her arms.
He heaved a sigh. “Love makes men foolish.”
“Lord Marsh doesn’t love me.” She knew Papa wanted to get on with his paperwork, but she meant to deal with the subject of men asking for her hand-in-marriage once and for all. “Aside from the fact that I have refused him twice, he must have noticed that I evade him whenever possible.”
“What’s a hapless father meant to do when he is the parent of a daughter who receives more than ten proposals a year?” Papa’s expression was one of dour humor.
“Refuse them all.”
“Am I never to be rid of you?”
“I should have known better than to expect any sympathy. Even my friends know how I feel about being sought because of my looks. If I had pox scars, do you think a single one of the those so-called gentlemen would glance at me twice?”
“You do have assets other than your beauty, my dear.”
“Not according to the men who propose to me.” Men who proposed to Rose enumerated her physical assets like her nose, or her mouth, or her hair, or her eyes, without once mentioning that she was sociable, nicely behaved, could sing in tune, and that she could force tears on demand, though the last asset wasn’t well known, for obvious reasons. “I don’t plan to marry any of them.” The lump in her throat stopped any further speech. Her mind qualified her words. She didn’t plan to marry anyone but Sir Ian Temple, KC, who hadn’t asked her, and possibly never would. He’d had many a chance to speak to her alone, but he appeared to be silently judging her rather than worshipping at her feet.
Papa looked mildly sympathetic. “Lord Marsh is waiting in the arbor for your third and final answer.”
Her shoulders sagged. Clutching her shawl tightly, she trudged outside and scrunched over the fallen leaves to the arbor. Late autumn clouds hung heavy in the sky. She made her speech in the same words she had said to him before—so flattered—cannot accept your offer—don’t plan to marry yet. Then she went straight to her bedroom, and sat in front of the mirror, wishing away her misery. Her face was her curse, with a padded mouth that tended to curl up at the corners. Even when she was at her lowest ebb, people thought she was cheerful, but she really wasn’t. She was in a hopeless decline.
She could love no man other than Sir Ian, who, after being knighted a year ago for his participation in the battle of Waterloo, had resigned his commission in the British army and taken his place in parliament. He was a familiar presence since his parliamentary association with her father meant that he often made the fifteen-minute ride to her ancestral home in the country. Her mother esteemed him and treated him like part of the family. Her friends enjoyed his company, too, though he was a little senior to them.
She tried her hardest not to glow with happiness when he was present, or to show him any preference, certain that he joined her group of suitors simply because he had become used to his young subalterns, and likely missed the company of all the young soldiers he had lost. The war had shattered him, and doubtless the company of her light-hearted friends eased his soul.
Although she had sighed over him for a full year, he had never shown, by word or deed, a preference for her. Her musicality also hadn’t impressed him either, not that he left the room when she began to sing, her very worst addiction, but he didn’t hover fondly like her suitors. She had no idea how to attract him, when the least of her assets had other men falling at her feet begging to be noticed.
At first, she had tried ignoring him, but he hadn’t noticed being ignored. Although she had remained on the shelf for the past year waiting for him to see her, he still didn’t. This year’s season promised to be as degrading for her as the last.
Disconsolate, she wandered downstairs, just in time to see one of her dearest friends being escorted to the drawing room. She hast
ened after Winsome Carsten, who had more to occupy her mind than trying to devise a trap for her chosen husband. Win was an artist who spent her days with paint on her elbows, her face, her hair, and sometimes even her calico painting apron.
“What brings you out of seclusion?” she asked Win on entering the room on her heels.
“The need for your mother’s macaroons,” Win said promptly.
Rose’s mother stood and kissed Win on the cheek. “I hope you will accept dry bread and water instead.”
“No, Mrs. Darnell. A macaroon and tea or nothing.” Win grinned, safe in the knowledge that Rose’s mother adored her and would have Cook prepare macaroons instantly, if need be.
“Cheeky squirrel,” Mama said, ringing the bell.
“You look frazzled.” Win’s gray eyes twinkled at Rose.
“Another proposal. Honestly, why can’t men take clear hints?”
“Deliberate blindness. I feel for you, dear Rose. It must be quite horrid being adored by so many men.”
“They can adore me forever, as long as they don’t put me through the test of having to give another rejection. I swear I will hit the next man who asks me to marry him.”
Mama’s gaze lifted heavenward. “Please don’t, Rose. You must maintain the family dignity.”
“What a shame you can’t give referrals for other single women.”
“Win! You surely don’t want Lord Marsh.”
Win sighed. “If you could get Lord Langsdene to propose to you and then refer him to me ...”
Rose actually blushed although she knew Win wasn’t interested in John, who had proposed to Rose two years ago. “If he does ...”
“Tell him I’m going back to Kent. I am tired of this weather and I can paint better in my studio at home. I came to say goodbye.”
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