Part 26 (1/2)

”That and she is too old to have children.”

”You had a child at her age.”

Natasha paused. She'd hoped he wouldn't remember that. ”I have the strength of the Romany. She would be useless as a princess.”

”You are exaggerating. And I've said nothing about making her, or anyone else, a princess.”

Not yet, she thought. ”I doubt any man has ever paid her the slightest attention before. She will be desperate to win you, and will trick you if she must.”

”Enough.” His voice was pure ice, and he turned for the door.

”For your family's sake, and if you wish to ever hold the kaltso, you will not pursue her. You will shame us all.”

”I shame no one by sharing my time with a woman of intelligence.”

”Intelligence?” Natasha favored him with a narrow look. ”You love her, then?”

Surprise crossed his face. ”I don't know what I feel, but today I wish to be with her. That is enough.”

She scowled. ”If you must have a Murdoch, then marry her sister. I've spoken to Sorcha, and her manners are beautiful and charming. She speaks three languages fluently and her mother a.s.sures me she can play the pianoforte with talent. She converses with knowledge and grace. Court Sorcha instead, and keep the older sister for a mistress.”

Alexsey's mouth was white with anger. ”I've no interest in Sorcha, or anyone else but Bronwyn.”

She hid a faint flash of hope behind a shrug. ”For now. It will pa.s.s. It always does. You told me so yourself.”

”Perhaps. Tata, if you knew Bronwyn, you would not feel as you do. She is honest and cares for her family and her sisters. She is thoughtful and imaginative and . . .” He paused and drew in his breath. ”She is more royal in nature than I will ever be.”

”So you say. But we both know what you want of this girl. Don't deny you've set out to seduce her. I know you, Alexsey. But it is dangerous to play with a virtuous woman of genteel birth. Things are not the same here as they are in Oxenburg. If there is a scandal, there is no paying your way out of it. You will pay with your freedom.”

He turned and stalked to the door.

”Wait! I'm not finished speaking. Where are you going?”

He offered her a black smile as he opened the door. ”According to you, I'm going to ruin my life and destroy my future.”

”Nyet!” She threw back the covers. ”Alexsey, if you'd wished to prove that you're no longer the irresponsible rakeh.e.l.l you once were, this is not the way to do it.” She reached for the kaltso, pulling it from under her robes, and held it aloft. ”This is not for a man who would throw away his inheritance for a mere dalliance with a n.o.body.”

His eyes narrowed, his back so straight, he looked more like his soldier-brother than she'd ever seen him. ”I wish to be the voivode, yes. But not at the cost of my pride. I will choose my own way, Tata. With you, without you. With the kaltso, without it.”

”So you would give up your hopes for this woman.”

”I give up nothing. Not to you, not to fate, not to her.”

She scooted to the edge of the bed. ”Alexsey, you must think! You cannot-”

But she spoke to an empty room, the door slamming ominously. This will not do. She tugged the bellpull, and then hurried to the gilt desk and scribbled a note. A footman arrived seconds later, just as she was folding the note. She handed it to him. ”Take this to Lady Malvinea at Ackinnoull and wait for a reply.”

”Yes, Yer Grace.”

”Take it now and ride like the wind.” She pulled a gold coin from a silk bag on the desk. ”Do you see this?”

His eyes were as wide as saucers. ”Aye, Yer Grace.”

”You shall have it if you return with the reply in less than a half hour. But if you are a second longer than that, you'll get nothing. Now go!”

He practically ran from the room.

Lady Bartram sighed deeply. ”Lucinda is to be pitied as much as she is to be admired. There is something about a girl who's lost her mother-a tragic set of her lips, a tender expression in her eyes, a softness of spirit . . .”

-The Black Duke by Miss Mary Edgeworth Later that afternoon, Bronwyn held up the fas.h.i.+on plate from La Belle a.s.semblee ladies' magazine beside the mirror, looking from it to her hair. The print featured a lady in a lovely pale-blue pelisse, her gloved hands warmed by a large white fur m.u.f.f. The lady's hair was dressed in a style known as la Sappho, which Bronwyn had tried to re-create.

She turned to Walter and Scott, who were stretched before the fire. ”What do you two think?” She held up the magazine. ”Is it close enough?”

Both dogs wagged their tails, although neither with enthusiasm.

She sighed and tossed the magazine to her dressing table. ”I was afraid of that. I thought to do something different, but this wasn't a wise choice.”

She looked back at the mirror and tugged on some of the curls, trying to rearrange them. The trouble was that her hair was too thick to hold a proper curl. Instead of the delicate circlets from the picture, her curls looked more like thick sausages.

She sighed and adjusted a pin, hoping for a miracle. She'd been trying to stay busy since her last meeting with Alexsey. Their time had been so sweetly pa.s.sionate, so . . . exciting. Better than any novel.

But she hadn't seen him since that day, a fact that was causing her greater and greater unease. She'd expected a visit, or at least a note. But there was that horrible storm. That would have kept him away; only a fool would risk his horse in such. Still, there was no reason why he couldn't have written a note. A few words would have calmed her fears to no end.

But so far, no note had arrived. She swallowed a lump in her throat. Did it mean so little to you, Alexsey?

She didn't know, and wouldn't until she spoke with him again.

Scott lifted his head and glared at the door. Walter followed suit.

A firm knock sounded upon the wooden panel.

Bronwyn opened it, blinking in astonishment when Mama smiled back at her, though her gaze widened when she saw Bronwyn's hair.

”Mama-what a surprise.” Suddenly remembering the dogs, she threw herself into the doorway.

Mama brushed her aside. ”Bronwyn, please. I've known since the day you moved into these rooms that the dogs would be coming with you.”

”Oh.” Bronwyn closed the door behind her mother.

Mama sent her a flat look. ”A good mother knows everything about her children.”

Good G.o.d, I hope not. Bronwyn gestured to the chairs before the small fireplace. ”Won't you have a seat? This is the first time you've visited me here.”

Mama sat in the nearest chair, eyeing Bronwyn's hair and gown. ”You are dressed. I wasn't aware we'd anywhere to go until tomorrow's dinner and talent performance at Tulloch.”

Bronwyn sat opposite Mama. ”I was thinking of wearing this tomorrow.” It was a gown from her long-ago season. She'd found it in the back of her wardrobe, forgotten and sadly wrinkled. At the time, the pale-blue silk with white netting had been all the rage, but no more. Still, it was better than her usual gowns.

Once Mrs. Pitcairn had done some magic with her iron and had removed several rows of faded silk flowers, Bronwyn thought the gown suited her well. Though not fas.h.i.+onable, it was at least pretty. And if, perchance, a certain handsome prince happened to see one wearing it . . . well, it couldn't hurt to be properly gowned for once.

Ever since her meeting with Alexsey, she'd felt bolder somehow. The world seemed brighter, the sun s.h.i.+nier, noises softer-and she was ready for more adventures. More caresses. More Alexsey.