Caprice: The Masqueraders Series - Book One (23 page)

Reluctantly Hadrian let Clarissa continue across the floor away from him. There would be another moment, and this time they would finish a conversation to
his
satisfaction.

Tsar Alexander I, Autocrat of All the Russias, preferred to dress in uniform. Tonight as he entered Ramsbury House he wore a green coat with a great many seals and jeweled medals upon the breast and big fringed epaulets, a vast green hat with cock feathers (worn sideways as Wellington did), a broad gold sash, dress breeches, and huge boots bedecked with solid gold spurs.

The first thing Clarissa thought upon seeing him was how European the Eastern leader appeared. The thirty-seven-year-old self-proclaimed “liberator of Paris” was tall, fair of face, and haughty in every movement. She noted with a smile that though he might be a great military leader, he had, as many a man before him, lost the battle with his fine light hair, which had made a retreat from the bulwark of his brow almost to the crest of his crown. As if in an attempt make up for this absence of the front line, flanks of pencil-thin side whiskers made deep inroads on his cheeks. Yet if the man himself was not exotic, there was his entourage to take one’s breath away.

He was accompanied into the ballroom by his personal guard of gigantic Cossacks. Standing well over six and a half feet each, they wore baggy breeches with tunics belted in heavy leather and tall leather hats, had huge droopy mustaches, and carried long, menacing spears. Cloaked in the legend of their prowess and barbarism, they appeared ferocious and—to Clarissa’s fastidious senses—smelled as rank as Russian bears. She found she was not alone in her impression of them. The body of eager guests who had surged forward at the Tsar’s introduction fell back before this daunting presence and remained at a respectful distance.

Behind the Tsar came his sister, the Grand Duchess of Oldenburg, and her ladies, along with the Ambassador and his wife, and the usual assortment of courtiers and ladies-in-waiting. In all, the size of the Ramsbury Assembly swelled by some forty folk with the Tsar’s arrival.

Lady Ramsbury was the first to approach her honored guest, and she dropped into a deep and quite elegant curtsy. When the Tsar held out a hand to help her rise, she smiled up into his face in unabashed esteem. “Welcome, Your Imperial Majesty, to Ramsbury House,” she said, speaking in French as Hadrian had directed.

The Tsar nodded fractionally. “Madame. My sister, the Grand Duchess of Oldenburg.” Again Lady Ramsbury bowed, this time to the lady dressed in magnificent gold lace over Russian-green satin, and wearing the most elaborate jewels the company had ever seen. Besides her tiara and
parure
of emeralds and diamonds, she wore bracelets of precious stones from wrist to elbow on both arms. She had an Eastern-influenced flat face with high cheekbones and broad nose, and a hauteur that more than matched her brother’s. She merely blinked in response to her hostess’s welcome. Hadrian, at his mother’s side, introduced his sister and brother to the Russian leader. When the introductions ended, a line formed quite naturally before the Tsar as the Ramsburys’ guests pushed forward to meet the great man.

Only Clarissa hung back from the throng, content to watch from a distance. She was very much aware of the earl, and did not miss the proprietary way one beautiful lady in the Tsar’s entourage took his arm. The smile she bestowed upon him connoted a long and close association. After a moment Clarissa recognized the lady. This was Countess Lieven, whom she had met briefly while she was pretending to be Soltana. At the time she had not given the lady any particular attention. Only later had rumors begun connecting the countess’s and the earl’s names. Now she greedily devoured every detail of the lady in question.

The countess was tiny, almost frail, an impression accented by the green-and-gold gown she wore. But there was nothing frail or reticent about her exotic beauty, nor the glance in those slanted eyes as she gazed at the earl.

The idea that she might have a rival other than Soltana for the earl’s interest had never before occurred to Clarissa. Lord Ramsbury had pursued Soltana with a single-mindedness that would seem to have precluded an interest in other women. Yet there was no denying the flirtatious play going on before her eyes.

Was he the sort of man who expected to be adored by women? It was said that the scandalous Lord Byron was not content unless at least three beautiful women were vying for him at the same time. The notion of Hadrian Blackburne as a debauched and fickle lover brought a thoughtful frown to her brow, and she turned deliberately away from him when he chanced to glance in her direction.

When the Tsar grew tired of the adulation, he made a simple gesture, and suddenly the crowd was eclipsed by an insurmountable wall of Cossacks standing shoulder to shoulder.

He turned then with a small smile for his hostess. “There is to be dancing, madame?”

“The orchestra waits only upon your pleasure, Your Majesty,” Lady Ramsbury replied, in complete awe of her guest.

He nodded in satisfaction. “We will begin with the waltz.”

Lady Ramsbury’s eyes widened in alarm, and she glanced at her elder son for guidance, but Hadrian merely lifted a brow. “Your Majesty, it is not our custom,” she replied, clasping her hands in agitation.

The Tsar had glanced away from his hostess to speak to his sister in his native tongue. Now he turned back, his expression pleasant and his voice low but steely with prerogative. “It is
my
custom, madame.”

There was nothing else for her to do in the face of that authoritarian tone, so Lady Ramsbury curtsied, saying, “Very well, Your Majesty. I will instruct the orchestra to play a waltz.”

“Three waltzes,” the Tsar directed. “I am fond of the exercise.”

As Lady Ramsbury went to do his bidding, the Autocrat of All the Russias looked slowly about the room until his gaze came to rest on a dark-haired young woman in daffodil yellow standing a little apart from the rest. His brows lifted in interest as he admired her slender back and beautiful shoulders. “Who is that lady?”

“Mrs. Willoughby,” Hadrian answered with reserve.

“What are her credentials?”

“She is the niece of the Viscount of Arbuthnott,” Hadrian supplied, his voice perfectly neutral.

“Nobility. Perfect. Does she waltz?”

Hadrian recalled their earlier conversation with a tug of jealousy. “So I understand, Your Majesty.”

The Tsar’s eyes lit up. “Perfect. Bring her to me.”

The privilege of authority could not be refused.

So much the worse for me,
Hadrian mused as he walked toward Clarissa. He had meant to be her first and last dance partner of the evening. Now the pleasure of holding her in his arms would be delayed, if not permanently eclipsed. He had been in Tsar Alexander’s company frequently these last weeks and knew that he was not a man easily dissuaded from something that interested him. He could only hope that Mrs. Willoughby would not prove too much of a distraction.

Sensing his approach, Clarissa turned and smiled at him, causing Hadrian to wish she did not possess that devilishly fascinating dimple which was more flirtatious than he remembered. Only now did he regret that her gown was cut quite so low that the upper halves of her perfect breasts were exposed. And the dozens of curls bobbing at her brow and over her ears, were they not a fraction too coquettish for a woman of her maturity?

Because he was experiencing firsthand the effect this display would likely have on the Tsar, Hadrian’s voice was curt to the point of coolness as he said, “His Imperial Highness wishes you to present yourself to him.”

The clipped tone sobered her smile. “As you wish, my lord.”

Hadrian regretted the disapproval in his voice and said as she fell into step beside him, “You look especially lovely this evening, madam.”

She slanted a gaze up at him. “Is that why you are glowering at me?”

The reappearance of her dimple persuaded him instantly from his black mood. “ ’Pon truth, I resent the Tsar’s having set eyes on you. I was hoping to keep you a well-guarded secret.”

“Do you always speak your mind to a woman?” she asked in amusement.

“Hardly ever,” he admitted before he realized it.

This drew musical laughter from her at the very moment they arrived within the Tsar’s hearing, and His Highness turned to her as the sparkle of amusement was brightest in her dark eyes and her dimple at its deepest. So much for his hope that she would not fix the Tsar’s interest for the evening, Hadrian thought sourly as the Russian’s eyes widened in approval. He’d have done himself a better turn by treading on her ankle so that her features would have been pinched with pain.

“Your Majesty, may I present Mrs. Willoughby.”

“Your Majesty,” Clarissa greeted him and dropped to the floor in a curtsy worthy of a daughter of the Crown.

“Rise, my child.” The Tsar offered his hand in aid. When she had regained her feet, he took her chin in his hand, turning her face first this way and then that, as though he were examining a fine piece of porcelain. “Very nice,” he pronounced when his perusal was complete.

“I’m possessed of all my teeth, as well,” Clarissa answered pertly in flawless French.

Hadrian held his breath, but he need not have worried for Clarissa added the charm of her smile and the Tsar’s own eyes sparkled. “I may ask to count them.”

“You may well, Your Majesty, but I reserve the right to refuse.”

“The right? What right do you have to refuse your superior?”

“The right of a lady to remain silent on a subject that is not to her liking.”

The Tsar smiled. “Are your feet as clever as your tongue? In short, do you dance, child?”

“Tolerably, Your Majesty.”

“The waltz?”

“Admittedly.”

This answer seemed to please him best of all. He offered her his arm as the orchestra, having waited upon the sovereign’s gesture, struck up a tune in three-quarter time.

“What shall we do?” Lady Ramsbury whispered to her eldest child as the Russian ruler took the floor with his partner.

“Pass it off as an everyday occurrence, of course,” Hadrian answered and went to offer Lady Lieven his arm.

“Oh, dear,” Lady Ramsbury murmured. If no one else took the floor, her reputation would be ruined. To her astonishment, a number of the Russian entourage moved to fill the floor, followed more reluctantly by a few daring British subjects. “Hadrian is so wise,” she said to Jane, who had moved to her side.

“I’ve been asked to dance,” Jane admitted with a shy smile.

“Absolutely not!” her mother answered. “What is proper for married ladies cannot apply to you. There shall be years ahead of you for folly. Tonight you shall confine yourself to country reels.”

Jane gave a reluctant shake of her head to her would-be partner and turned her attention to the dance floor where Mrs. Willoughby was making a remarkably pretty display with the Tsar. “Is she not regal, Mama? I’m certain Hadrian is smitten.”

“With Lady Lieven?” Lady Ramsbury all but squawked.

“Oh, no, with Mrs. Willoughby,” Jane corrected her, admiration shining in her young eyes. “She would make a perfect sister-in-law. She dresses in the first kick of fashion, yet there is nothing the least bit forward about her manner. She’s perfect for Hadrian, Mama, simply perfect!”

At least the lady had known how to win over Jane, Lady Ramsbury mused. It remained to be seen how the young widow affected her son. She set a very determined gaze on the young woman in question.

After a turn about the floor to orient themselves to each other, the Tsar opened conversation with the lady in his arms. “You dance delightfully, madame. Your husband is fortunate that your talents extend beyond your beauty.”

“You Majesty is too kind.”

“But I am most sincere. I will commend the man myself.” He lifted his head to look about as though he expected to be able to identify Mr. Willoughby in the crowd. “Your husband is present, I assume?”

“No, Your Majesty. I am a widow.”

His eyes widened. “Impossible!”

“But true,” Clarissa returned smoothly. “Lieutenant Willoughby died honorably on the field at Vitoria.”

“Vitoria, yes.” He repeated the word as he gazed down at the lovely woman within his embrace. “The Good God Almighty exacts many lives in the pursuit of His higher purpose. You must not weep for any loss which serves Him.”

“I have dried my tears, Your Majesty.”

He smiled at her. “In my country we have a saying, ‘The sovereign is the father, the earth the mother.’ The motherland is like a woman—not a pure maiden who is therefore barren—but mature and fertile. Like rich fecund earth, such a woman is highly prized in my country.” His gaze lowered to her breathtaking decolletage and he smiled. “You, madame, will wed again. And soon.”

“You seem very certain, Your Majesty.”

He nodded. “Only God and the Tsar know.”

As if of one mind, they ceased conversing for the remainder of the waltz. Which was just as well as far as Clarissa was concerned, for it gave her the opportunity to glance, covertly, in the direction of Lord Ramsbury and Lady Lieven, who were deeply engrossed in a conversation that frequently brought laughter to Hadrian’s lips.

The lady was beautiful, there was no doubt of it. Therefore she could not help being the center of men’s attention, Clarissa told herself. Yet a niggling suspicion made her recall Lady Chetham’s pointed comments to her aunt about the nature of the earl’s attentiveness to Lady Lieven. Stung by the memory, Clarissa found herself committed to a sharper observation of the couple as the first waltz tune melted into a second, at the Tsar’s express command.

Though she was forced for civility’s sake to exchange inconsequential chatter with her partner, Clarissa’s attention was snagged by the earl and Lady Lieven each time their steps brought them close together.

How well they moved together, Clarissa thought. It was as if they had often shared the dance floor. She knew what it was like to dance with the earl, to move within his muscled embrace, to feel the rhythm of the music communicated to her body through his. The fact that Lady Lieven’s head barely reached his shoulder, so that the earl was forced to bend close to exchange words with her, suddenly took on a new and devious connotation. If she could not see otherwise, Clarissa would have suspected that the lady was deliberately bending her knees to encourage this intimacy. And the earl’s hand, was it not fastened with more than strictly necessary possessiveness to her waist?