Authors: Julianne MacLean
“I am pleased to hear it.”
Her ladies-in-waiting fell into a hush of giggly whispers, then scurried off in all directions to appear busy.
“Tell me about Vienna,” Alex said as she sat down at the fireside table across from the marquess. “How I wish I could attend such an important historic event.”
He lounged back in the chair and crossed one leg over the other. “Have you been to Vienna before?”
“No, never. Please describe it to me. I wish to know every detail. Tell me about the architecture, the artists, the food…”
“Ah, the food…” His eyes sparkled with teasing charm as he told her great tales of the Emperor of Austria’s culinary extravagances, the nightly feasts with elaborate menus of soups and hors d’oeuvres, main courses of tender venison, followed by sweet indulgences—rum cakes soaked in sugar sauce, raspberry pies with clotted cream, strong coffee, and sweet dessert wines from Hungary …
By the marquess’s description, it sounded as if the entire city had been transformed into a veritable festival of romance and pleasure.
But there was also other important news the marquess wished to convey.…
For a full hour he held nothing back and revealed all he could about the latest negotiations among all the great and lesser allied powers, most of which were taking place in informal settings—at balls and operas, on boat cruises along the Danube, or across the marble-topped card tables in the clubs.
By the time he was finished describing all of it, Alexandra felt as if she had traveled to Vienna and back and had taken part in the carving and sculpting of a new Europe.
After he left, she sat for a long while with her hands upon her belly, staring at the wall. Then she quickly stood up, moved to a more comfortable chair, and settled in with fervor to read her husband’s letters.
Most of them were very brief and left her feeling frustrated. She was glad she had not read them in front of the marquess.
* * *
The following day, newspaper in hand, Alexandra entered Rose’s chamber just before luncheon. “I must speak with you in private about something,” she said.
Rose frowned. “What is it? You look troubled.”
Alexandra was not proud of the whirlwind of her emotions—and perhaps it was the pregnancy that caused such irrational thoughts to spin about in her brain—but she could not possibly keep quiet about what she had just read. Rose was the only person she could confide in about this particular subject. It was not something she wished to share with her stepmother.
“Have you seen the
Chronicle
today?”
“Not yet,” Rose said.
Alexandra handed it to her and pointed. “See there, on page one. The piece about the masquerade ball.” She waited for Rose to find it and begin reading, paced around the room for a moment or two, then spoke up before Rose had a chance to finish. “It says Randolph and Nicholas have been behaving rakishly during the entire congress, and…” She paused. “Well … read on. Have you gotten to the worst part yet?”
Rose continued to read until her eyebrows lifted. “Oh! Goodness me.”
“Indeed,” Alexandra replied as she crossed to the window. “I am not pleased about this, Rose. Not at all.”
Rose read it again. “It says he was dancing with a mysterious beauty of unknown identity and at the end of the evening she lifted her bejeweled mask and revealed herself. To a great round of applause!”
Alexandra scoffed bitterly.
“I am sure it was nothing,” Rose tried to say.
“How could it be nothing?” Alex turned to face her. “That so-called beauty is his ex-fiancée! And it reports quite clearly that her husband, the earl, did not accompany her to Vienna. Why do you think she is there? Is it possible she wants Randolph back?”
“Oh, what difference does it make?” Rose said, tossing the paper onto the bed. “She cannot have him. He belongs to you now, and you are carrying his child.”
Alex faced her and tried to convey a measure of confidence. “Yes, I am quite sure you are right, but why must the paper print something so scandalous? You understand what they are implying—that he is ready to take a mistress, and how wonderfully romantic that he can be reunited with his first love, who jilted him. It makes me want to spit.”
Rose joined her at the window. “It doesn’t matter what they say. It’s pure rubbish. May I remind you that she broke his heart and he
hates
her. With a passion.”
Alexandra stared out the window while she considered her sister-in-law’s assessment of the situation. “Hatred sounds all very well and good, Rose, but I must confess … I would prefer a lackluster indifference.”
* * *
With Christmas fast approaching, Alexandra made an effort to keep busy so as not to obsess over her husband’s social calendar in Vienna.
She took on many charitable duties, including visits to the poorhouses to deliver loaves of bread and soup prepared by the palace kitchen. She also took it upon herself to arrange a full week of gatherings at the palace for sixty aristocratic ladies, where they were each required to knit a pair of woolen mittens every twenty-four hours. At the end of the week, Alexandra delivered the mittens to the Abbey of St. Paul and met with the bishop to organize a gift giving on Christmas Day to those less fortunate.
Her efforts were recognized in the
Chronicle,
and wherever she went she was greeted by throngs of cheering crowds in the streets.
“
Long live the queen!
” someone shouted on one particular afternoon when she unexpectedly stopped her coach to step out and shake hands with a group of musicians playing for coin outside the shops on Solenski Row.
She invited them to play a private concert for the king upon his return.
On the following day, this flattering headline graced the front page of the paper, and she could not help but smile at the satisfaction it roused in her: “QUEEN ALEXANDRA WINS HEART OF THE NATION.”
On page 2, however, a detailed account of the latest society gossip at the Vienna Congress outshined that flattering headline—for a banquet and ball had recently been held at the emperor’s palace to celebrate the late arrival of an important diplomat from America.
Among the list of attendees was her husband of course, and the next name listed, directly beside his, was that of the Countess of Ainsley.
The baby kicked especially hard just then, and Alexandra laid a hand on her belly. “I know, dearest, I know. I don’t like it either, but we must remain sensible.”
She set the newspaper aside and wished she could kick someone, too. The Countess of Ainsley perhaps? Or maybe she could stomp hard on her husband’s foot the next time they danced.
If he was not too tired of dancing when he returned, for it sounded as if he was overindulging in that particular pastime.
She threw the paper down and counted slowly to ten.
* * *
She received no letters from Randolph for another unbearable week, and despite her busy schedule and the many pleasing reports of her growing popularity in Petersbourg, she could not seem to keep a secure hold on her emotions.
One minute she was blissfully happy, focused on her sovereign duties, and eagerly anticipating the birth of her first child. She enjoyed the distraction of many visitors, including the Marquess of Cavanaugh, who congratulated her on her success and lent her an instruction pamphlet about knitting, which he thought she might enjoy, for it included playful patterns for children’s hats.
He was a good friend when she needed one.
The next minute she was imagining that infamous night at the masquerade ball in Vienna when the Countess of Ainsley had dramatically lifted her mask to reveal herself.
What exactly had occurred before her unveiling? How many times had she and Randolph danced? Had she flirted with him with her eyes?
And dammit, what had she been wearing? Something shimmery with a scandalously low neckline, no doubt.
When at last a letter arrived from Alexandra’s husband, it was to inform her that he would be home in time for Christmas. It was a brief letter lacking in the usual passionate outpourings of love, but it was signed, as always,
Devotedly yours.
She read that particular correspondence with a tight clenching of her jaw and had just stuffed it into the cedar box with the others and slammed the lid shut when a visitor was announced.
In the wake of her husband’s dispassionate letter, she was not in the mood to be sociable. Nevertheless, she reminded herself that she could not wallow in petty jealousies. She had a duty to fulfill. A duty to the people of this country. A duty to her heritage.
The door opened, her ladies-in-waiting scampered quite noticeably from the room and, to her incredible surprise, in walked her husband, the king, looking handsome and virile in a long black greatcoat with cape shoulders and a brand-new pair of polished Hessians.
Obviously the festival of pleasures—and all the dancing he’d done in Vienna—had agreed with him. He had never looked better. She wished she could hate him for it, but all she felt was a mad desire to dash into his arms, rip that coat off his body, and make love to him right there on the floor.
Thankfully, however, more sensible thoughts took over, and she wondered what would happen if she threw a brandy decanter at his head.
Chapter Thirty-one
Struggling to remain composed, Alexandra blinked a few times as Randolph closed the door behind him, set down the large leather portfolio he carried, and began to remove his coat.
“Are you not happy to see me?” he asked, slowly striding closer.
All her senses began to hum. Her heart was beating like an army drum in the tense moments before the forward line was called to fire.
“I am in shock,” she replied. “I just read your letter. It arrived barely five minutes ago. Was that a joke? Were you toying with me?”
He laughed, and she wanted to pummel his chest with her fists. “Yes,” he replied. “I wanted to surprise you.”
“Well, you most certainly did. I am not prepared.”
Her hair was a mess. She was dressed in a dowdy gown, but everything felt dowdy when her belly stuck out far enough to knock over a table.
He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it onto a chair, gathered her into his arms, and said, “I didn’t want you
prepared.
All I wanted was the real you, without any pomp or ceremony.” He stepped back and held both her hands out to the side while he took in her appearance. His gaze slid down the length—and width—of her ever-expanding body.
“Look at you,” he said. “Our child is growing well, I see.”
“Yes, he’s strong as an ox.”
And I feel as fat as one.
Randolph pulled her into his arms again and held her tight. “It’s so good to be home, my love. It’s damn cold out there, and the only thing that kept me from freezing to death in the coach tonight was the thought of your soft, warm body next to mine. Kiss me, Wife, before I throw you on the bed and behave like an ill-bred savage.”
She should have resisted. She should have asked him about the Countess of Ainsley and laid all her insecurities to rest before she responded to his sexual overtures—but heaven help her, passion suppressed reason and all she could do was tear furiously at the buttons on his waistcoat and open her mouth for the pounding onslaught of his kiss.
For she needed to prove that he was still hers. And that she still had the power to bewitch him.
* * *
They did not even make it to the bed. They made love like two young, hotheaded lovers on the sheepskin rug before the fire.
Afterward they lay naked, without modesty, sipping wine and wondering if they should cover themselves in case anyone should walk in.
“I have a Christmas gift for you,” Rand said, kissing her lightly on the forehead. “Would you like to see it?”
“Of course.”
He stood and moved to the door and withdrew a large framed cross-stitch from the leather portfolio he had brought into the room when he arrived.
“It’s
you,
” he said, holding it up for her, “reclining on the terrace balustrade on the night we met at the Carlton House ball.”
Alex sat up to admire the magnificent artistry and workmanship in the details of the piece. There were tiny beads and jewels stitched into the intricate folds and ribbons of her gown, and a crystal chandelier sparkled gorgeously in the background. Even her long white gloves were trimmed in tiny pearls.
“It’s beautiful, Randolph. Thank you. I will treasure it always.”
He set it down nearby and returned to lie beside her. “If only you knew how I missed you, and how I wanted you at my side. That’s why I had this commissioned.”
“Did you really miss me?” she asked, working hard to bury her antagonism and not behave like a shrew but, rather, a seductive wife who merely aimed to stake a claim upon her husband’s affections.
“Of course,” he replied with a curious frown. “Could there be any doubt?”
She shrugged casually as she propped her chin on his chest.
“Let me guess,” he said. “You read the report in the paper about that awkward masquerade ball.”
“Indeed I did,” she tersely replied, “and I wanted to go straight to Vienna and shake you senseless, then take you to my bed to remind you of the wife you left behind. Then I would have pushed you off the bed and onto the cold, hard floor. Was it marble? I imagined it was when I plotted it in my head.”
He stroked her hair and chuckled softly with amusement. “I am touched by such a tender sentiment,” he said, “but no reminder was necessary. I want no woman but you.”
Alex’s eyes turned cold. “What a charmer you are.” She rose to her feet, pulled on her silk robe, and tied it above the monstrous bulge at her belly.
He sat up on the rug. “It was not my intention to charm you. I meant only to tell you the truth.”
“And I believe you,” she dutifully replied. “But you must know that it has not been easy.”
“Were you jealous?”
The question gnawed at her, made her want to lash out at him.
It was her pride. Damn her stubborn pride. It was like a mangy terrier.