A Prince Among Men (12 page)

Her character was worse than she'd thought. She was a woman who accepted the embraces of a servant, a man dependent on her for his livelihood. She could not ride again.

W
hen Alexander let himself into the tailor shop sometime after one, he found Lucca in the sitting room with a lamp lit, lying on a couch by the fire, a glass of wine in hand.

He was dressed in evening finery, with only his cravat loosened.

"Majesty!" He jumped to his feet, offering Alexander the couch.

Alexander waved him back down and went to a side table to pour himself some wine. "You look very fine."

"I went to the opera," Lucca said, "and had a long ride home." A sly grin hovered in his expression. His limbs seemed loose and heavy.

Alexander had no trouble reading the signs of an amorous encounter. "In a hackney?"

Lucca had the grace to look abashed. "I could not bring her here," he pointed out. He yawned and stretched, rising and moving to the hearth, poking at the fire with the lazy repleteness of sexual satisfaction.

Alexander had a brief vision of embracing Ophelia in a hackney and rejected the unworthy image with disgust.

Lucca put the poker aside and looked at him more sharply. "What brings you here tonight, Majesty? Your quarters at the stable no longer suit you?"

Alexander sank into a chair.

"The hardheaded lady refused you!" Lucca slapped his thighs with his palms and went off in the coast dialect of Trevigna about the vagaries of women.

"Lucca, you can't blame the girl for refusing the attentions of a groom in her father's stable."

"Majesty, you must drop this base disguise." The look in Lucca's eyes was anguished. "Come back. Let Lucca take care of you. Soon we will go home. Forget these English who do not know how to treat a prince of the blood."

Alexander stared at his wine. He was too tired to fight Lucca tonight. He certainly should not return to Lord Searle's stable. "I'll stay the night. I have work to do."

"Good." Lucca assumed his best servant manner. "First, I will prepare your bath."

Alexander knew better than to refuse. Better a bath than questions. But once he lay soaking in the copper tub, he realized a bath was a bad idea. His mind, empty of other thoughts, was open to
visions of his encounter with Ophelia in the garden.

She had been jealous of Mrs. Hart's attentions toward him, of that he was sure, but she had been fearful of his attentions to her. As much as her hands clung to his sides, she'd held her face averted, frightened and longing at once, and he didn't think his low rank bothered her. If anything, she might kiss him to defy convention. No, he thought something in her experience of men had made her break away.

He allowed himself to relive those moments in the garden even though his thoughts roused his aching flesh once more. What had she said?
You make me weak.
He knew the precise moment she'd broken away. He had stroked with his thumb across her breast, one stroke only, too fleeting to gauge her response. Then she'd crossed her arms over her chest. If her body had responded to his touch, she did not want him to know. And she had been horrified to discover the state of his arousal.

He had recognized his own need the moment he'd backed her against the wall. But in spite of his pressing his attentions on her, she had not insisted on his dismissal and she had not run from him. Only she had wanted to keep something of herself back.

He suspected Ophelia was like his aunt Francesca, unwilling to show a weakness to anyone. She had not wanted him to know she attached any importance to seeing Hetty Gray, and now she did not want him to know she had any vulnerability.

Meanwhile, his experience with Blanca could
not guide him with Ophelia. Blanca's sexuality was open and frank; her weakness was also her power over men, a strength she used in the service of her country.

He had met
her in a mountain inn in Segon
zano, where she was seducing a French officer. She moved from table to table, apparently serving wine, but all the time concentrating her energy on the officer, her hands touching, lingering, making him believe her eager for his flesh. Their awareness of each other had filled the room. Alexander, seated at a table in the shadows, had been unable to look away. By the time the officer abruptly snagged Blanca's arm and told her he would have her, Alexander's loins were aching, his knees pressed up against the table to keep from shaking.

The officer, suddenly called to his regiment, went without hesitation and Blanca turning away, caught a glimpse of Alexander's face, in which he knew there was an open confession of his lust. Their eyes met and he discovered that Blanca needed to complete what she'd begun. There had been no falseness in her sexual interest in the officer. She had wanted him. She might take back to her father and others in the independence movement whatever she gained in the unguarded moments of the Frenchman's passion, but she needed release. Slowly, she had crossed the room to Alexander, her hands on her hips, her breasts straining against the cotton blouse.

He had gripped his wineglass tightly, certain the table would quake with his effort to control his trembling limbs. The scent of her made his
head swim. He wanted her touch and feared it.

"You want me," she said.

"But you don't want me. I have not the experience of your officer."

She cocked her head to one side, apparently intrigued by his frankness. "A virgin?"

He had nodded, his throat too dry for further speech.

He had refused her that night, but the next time they met, they began an affair that lasted until he left the hill country. Blanca made it clear from the start that love could not be part of their liaison. Whatever sex did to her body, it left her head clear and cold.

Their connectio
n had ended at the siege of Go
dolfo, where Blanca had been sent into the town to seduce valuable information from the defending French. Alexander had had to watch strangers receive gestures as familiar to him as his name, touches that he had wished to believe were for him alone. Blanca used her sexuality as a man used a sword or a rifle. Her desire for her victim was real; that was the secret of her success. She wanted the man, whoever he was, that she set out to win. Alexander left the hills.

Since then he'd been more or less content with abstinence. But abstinence was one thing when there was no woman who caught one's fancy and quite another when one could see and hear and touch daily the object of one's desire and not have her.

The bath water was cold when he stepped out of the tub and toweled off. There was another, more sobering cause for regret in his advances. Ophelia had been happy at the Grays', and he
had made it impossible for him to take her back there again, which meant he had cost himself the chance to see her happy, to see her glowing with excitement.

He would mortify his sexual appetite as he should have done earlier. He would do penance. He would read all of Francesca's letters and work on the dullest section of his principles. And if he went back to Lord Searle's stables, he would keep his mind on horses.

Chapter 8

O
phelia sat in the windowseat of her mother's green sitting room, reading a book, pretending nothing was out of the ordinary. Lady Searle, who spent very little time out of doors, had conceived the green room as a controlled encounter with nature. In fact, she used it for the meetings with her secretary and housekeeper that preceded a ball. To Ophelia the walls, covered in a print of vivid vegetation, seemed to close in on her, rather as if she were picnicking in a grove of giant celery stalks.

She had sent a note to the stables to say that she would not ride. She had no choice in the matter. What had happened between her and Alexander could not be repeated.

Ophelia was not entirely ignorant of sex. She had been around stables enough to pick up some very obvious lessons. The breeding instrument of a stallion and when in season the eagerness of a mare for her mate were rather more instructive than her mother's veiled allusions to such matters. At eleven she'd received a further lesson when she'd come across Cyril Weston, one of Sebastian's classmates, pressing a housemaid up against a wall.

Cyril had later apologized to Ophelia for offending her sensibilities.

"Shouldn't you apologize to Jenny?" Ophelia had asked.

Cyril had laughed. "Oh, she's the sort that likes a good tumble," he'd replied.

Then Mrs. Pendares had tried to enlighten Ophelia and Hetty on the nature of sexual congress between men and women. She had explained that a man's breeding instrument swelled and stiffened and that a woman's place grew moist and warm before their joining could be accomplished.

Now the facts were plain to Ophelia. Alexander had pressed her against a wall. Her protests had been feeble. Her heart had beat wildly. Her breath had come in quick, shallow pants. That most male part of him had been warm and stiff, and she had wanted to touch him. Apparently, like Jenny, Ophelia was the sort of girl who liked it. Wyatt had said as much.

It must be true. Even now, thinking about Alexander, she grew edgy and restless, and to allow herself to recall those moments against the garden wall brought a betraying consciousness of her breasts.

"Ophelia!" The note of irritation and urgency in her mother's tone was a clear warning that Ophelia's inattention had violated the sacrosanct ritual of preparing Lady Searle's guest list.

Her mother frowned at her, a piece of paper clutched in one hand, as she stroked Pet's white belly with the other. At a small work table, Lady
Searle's secretary, Mr. Graves, made notes on several loose sheets of paper.

"What are you reading?" her mother demanded.

"Nothing, a little story from Jasper's shelf." Ophelia slipped a bookmark in Sismond's
History of the Italian Republics.

"Well, put it aside. You could develop a squint."

"Yes, Mother." Ophelia had tried to keep her mind occupied every waking moment since the episode in Hetty's garden, no small feat in her family's company. The convoluted politics of Italian history in Sismond's book required just the intensity of concentration that kept her from unwelcome thoughts. The background she gained might be of some use to Jasper.

Under her mother's severe gaze, Ophelia surrendered the windowseat. She squeezed into the space at the end of the sofa on the other side of Pet and slipped the book between her hip and the arm.

Her mother turned to Graves. "Next page, please." A piece of paper changed hands, and her mother studied it silently.

Graves smirked. No doubt he'd pointed out the omissions to Ophelia's portion of the list.

Lady Searle stroked Pet in long, mildly agitated strokes. "Your list of suitors is too brief, Ophelia. We must
add Atherton, Clermont, Dent…
" She glanced at Graves.

"Haddington, Wyatt?" he asked.

"Mother, last season I declined the addresses of three of those gentlemen." Ophelia had no regrets. Her former suitors had been prompt and
dutiful in a way that had hardly been flattering. She had been a duke's daughter, a prize, nothing more.

"All the more reason to include them now. Everyone will see that you are inclined to think seriously about this marriage business. You will be forgiven for being particular in your first season."

Ophelia shrugged. It was surprising how firm her parents were about her marrying. Her mother exerted so little energy as a rule that Ophelia had expected to escape another season at least without being pressed to accept anyone. "Invite them, then."

Her mother stared at her, uncertain, as always, what to make of her compliance. "It's unnatural for a lady to take so little interest in her future. You will embarrass the family if you end like Augustine. And you will, if you do not concern yourself with gaining an establishment suitable to your taste and rank."

Graves handed Lady Searle another sheet of paper, and they began a consideration of more names. Ophelia stopped listening. She had appeased her mother for the moment. Marriage, while it lay on the distant horizon of her life, had seemed neither reasonable nor unreasonable. But as she'd approached it more closely, she'd found it had a definite shape and dimensions. One ended up being married to this man or that and only to him. It was very like nearing a cottage nestled in some distant hills. One could imagine all sorts of romantic possibilities, until one crossed the threshold and found the ceilings too
low, the windows too small, and a pervasive odor of dampness throughout.

Her mother's voice intruded once more. "Must we have Colonel Cooke?"

Ophelia sensed this remark was directed at her. "Lady Cardigan's brother?"

"The Duke of York's
secretary.
"
Her mother crumbled a biscuit into a saucer on the tea table at her side. Pet lay still, watching her hands intently.

Graves cleared his throat. At Lady Searle's nod, he suggested, "If you invite him, you'll have to invite Colonel Armstrong as well."

"Colonel Cooke goes everywhere, Mother, in the best company," Ophelia pointed out. She liked him. He was amusing, one of the few people she felt easy with in society.

The duchess put a weary hand to her brow. "Yes, but once one abandons rank as a principle, persons of obscure birth receive undue notice." She let the papers slip from her lap.

Graves retrieved them instantly. "Perhaps the solution is to exclude everyone beneath the rank of baron."

Lady Searle nodded, and Graves shot Ophelia a triumphant glance.

So much for an enjoyable evening. Hetty's parties were different. With Hetty there was never any question of a guest list, and it was never trouble to include one more. Even a groom from the stable.

Ophelia offered Graves a thin smile. He was possibly the worst snob on her mother's staff, gaunt and pursed and severely elegant. "May I see the list, Mother?"

Pet growled as Ophelia reached across him for the handful of sheets. Ophelia scanned the list. Her mother had questioned most of the names Ophelia added. "Mother, how large do you want the party to be?"

Her mother was scratching Pet's ears. "Grand, but intimate. Only the best society."

"I think,"
said Ophelia with a glance at Graves, "that you can keep all these names."

"All? You don't think some of these persons too obscure for the Prince's company?"

Ophelia shook her head. "Mother, a crowd will be more flattering to their royal highnesses."

Her mother appeared to consider the idea, handing Pet a large piece of the broken biscuit. Her fingers scattered crumbs over Pet's fur.

"Have you invited the foreign ambassadors?"

Lady Searle shot her secretary a glance. "Graves? Did you think of that?"

He fumbled with the papers on the table. "I did, Your Grace. I've a list of them for your consideration right here."

Graves rose to offer the duchess another sheet of paper just as a footman entered. Pet tensed, and Ophelia had a moment's hope that it was time for the beast's walk. But the footman carried a silver tray with a single missive on it

"For Lady Ophelia, Your Grace," he said with a bow.

"Set it down here, James," said the duchess. Her tone said the letter would have to wait.

The footman placed the small folded bit of pressed paper on the tea table at the duchess's elbow, next to the crumbled biscuit. Lady Searle's head was bowed over her lists. Ophelia
shifted and slipped the book from its hiding place to her lap, disturbing Pet, who dug his sharp little nails into her thigh.

"You malevolent walking cream puff," she whispered.

"Where were we?" said the duchess, her hand automatically soothing the dog.

"The foreign ambassadors, Your Grace," said Graves.

Ophelia opened her book, tried to read, and failed. She twisted and stretched, straining to see the letter. It was not the regular post, but it could not be from Alexander. Ophelia could not believe she'd even had the thought. Her treacherous mind was determined to think of him when she willed otherwise. Perhaps if she saw the handwriting, she could rid herself of the ridiculous expectation that her groom had something to say to her. The sofa cushion dipped under her as she leaned toward the tea table, and Pet growled.

"Ophelia, do sit still. You're disturbing Pet," her mother said.

Ophelia clutched her book and turned resolutely from the letter. Her curiosity about it was all out of proportion to any possibility of its being something unusual. It was most likely an obligatory invitation to a dull party from someone who felt she could not snub a duke's daughter. She tried to recall the last chapter she'd read. The treaties by which Napoleon had taken over more and more of Venice. Monte Bello, Bergamo, Campo Formio, Presburg. The states of Venice that had fallen. Pechiera, Verona, Bassano, Vicenza, Padua, Friceli, Palma Nova.

Her mother, reaching another bite of biscuit for Pet, scattered crumbs on the little letter. In old Venice, Pet would have been the doge's dog, Ophelia decided, and poison would have been his inevitable end. Or maybe exile to one of Venice's island holdings. She wondered if she could smuggle him into a carriage and drop him off somewhere in the East End of London, where he might have to make his way in the world without a velvet cus
hion to sit on and crumbs hand-
fed to him.

She recognized this fantasy as a bit of malice, and the obvious explanation for her ill humor was that she missed her morning rides. She had sent her note to the stables before she could change her mind, saying she would not be riding Shadow any longer and asking Alexander to exercise the mare daily. It had been the only sensible course. She could not go near Alexander if she was so weak.

She refused to think she missed seeing him, as often as the thought nagged at her. She missed Shadow and Hetty and her freedom, but her days were no duller than they had been before Alexander had become her groom. The trouble was that she couldn't quite convince herself of that.

If she could be attracted to a man with such a low position in society, Wyatt was right about her. She could not count on her morals ever. "Get thee to a nunnery," Hamlet had said to his Ophelia. Sound a
dvice. What sort of life did nun
s lead in the nineteenth century? No doubt they devoted themselves to prayer and charitable
works. When had Ophelia ever had a charitable impulse?

She forced her mind back to the present. Her mother handed the lists to Graves. "That will do for now, I think, Graves."

The secretary stood and bowed. "Yes, Your Grace, Do you wish me to begin addressing the invitations?"

Lady Searle nodded. "Come, Pet." She stood, and the dog rolled to his feet on the sofa, looking at the few broken bits of biscuit still on the tea table. With a sharp bark, he tried to call Lady Searle back, but she didn't turn. He took two waddling steps across the cushions and bounded up on the sofa arm, his feet on the tea table. With a quick swipe of his tongue he cleared the saucer of crumbs, nudging the dish across the table. Ophelia gasped as Pet's enthusiastic slurping overturned her mother's cup of cold chocolate.

Lady Searle glanced over her shoulder. "Pet, naughty dog. Ophelia, ring for a maid, and remember you've a fitting with Madame Rondeau at one."

Ophelia mumbled an acknowledgment, her gaze on the spreading pool of chocolate.

"Pet." Lady Searle snapped her fingers and the dog leapt down from the sofa. Ophelia snatched her soggy letter from the chocolate. The fine paper had absorbed most of the dark brew, blurring the writing on the cover. Ophelia blotted it with her mother's discarded napkin. Carefully, she opened the cover. Several lines were lost in the dark, sweet dregs of the cocoa. Only the salutation and the closing had survived the spill, but that was enough.