Authors: Julianne MacLean
“Not in the least,” she answered nevertheless. “Certainly not of
her.
”
His eyes narrowed. “Liar.” He raised a knee on the sheepskin rug and spoke warmly in the firelight. “You are the perfect queen, Alexandra. I know it, and the country knows it. Do they not?”
“You have been reading the papers, too,” she replied with no small measure of gratification.
“Indeed I have, and I have never felt more proud. Or intimidated. I fear they might adore you more than me. Did you know they egged me this afternoon?”
She faced him. “What do you mean?”
“The coach was pelted with eggs not long after we crossed the border. Perhaps it was a group of rebellious youths who didn’t know it was a royal coach. Or perhaps not.”
“Does this concern you?” she asked.
He reached for his glass of wine on the stone hearth. “My father was pelted with eggs once, among other things, during his reign. I have come to accept that it is the price of leadership. Even Napoléon had sour fruit thrown in his face on more than one occasion.”
“And look at him now,” she mentioned with some unease. “He is defeated and exiled.”
He shook his head. “I am not Napoléon. Now come back to the fire and lay with me.”
She went to him but sat back on her heels. “Forgive me, Randolph, but I must know everything. You have said very little about the countess. Did you see her often after that first night at the masquerade?”
He paused. “Yes.”
A knot tightened in Alex’s gut. “When? Where?”
“On a number of separate occasions,” he replied, leaning back on an arm. “It could not be helped. She has connections, and was invited to most of the conference events.”
“Did you talk to her about anything of a private or personal nature?”
“Yes. She apologized for her actions during our engagement, hoped I could forgive her, and asked if she and the earl could be invited back to court.”
Alexandra’s blood began to boil. “And what did you say?”
“I said no. To both requests.”
Her blood cooled again, and she was thankful for it. “Was she disappointed?
“Naturally.”
“Did she flirt with you?”
He looked Alex straight in the eye. “Yes.”
Alexandra swallowed over her annoyance. She wanted him to be honest, but she did not like these answers. “Did you flirt with her in return?”
“Of course I did not. I avoided her when I could, and when it was not possible to do so I was as polite as the circumstances required. Are we done with the questions yet, woman? I’d prefer to talk of something else.”
He stood up in all his naked glory and picked up his empty wineglass to refill it at the table. Alexandra could not take her eyes off him, for he was a magnificent vision of smooth, sinewy muscle and golden flesh in the firelight.
The countess must have been out of her mind to betray this man.
“Why did she leave you for the earl?” Alex asked. “It makes no sense to me.”
“I am pleased to hear that at least,” he replied. “From what I understand, they were lovers before she was presented to me as a possible bride. It was her family that pushed for our marriage. They were ambitious, and they did not approve of Ainsley. I can hardly blame them. He is a reckless and irresponsible rake, and he has already gambled away most of his inheritance.”
“She was very foolish to let you go.”
Randolph offered a hand to assist Alex to her feet and led her to the bed.
“I feel fat,” she told him. “Like a big whale.” Yet she was only six months into her confinement. There was still a great deal of growing to do.
He chuckled as they slid under the covers. “I love the way you look. Would you like me to prove it to you?”
“If His Majesty wishes it.”
She quivered with delight as he slowly, teasingly tugged at the tie on her robe and opened it to admire her gigantic belly, and every other trembling inch of her body.
“I am pleased you are home,” she said.
“As am I.”
Then he silenced any further talk with a soft, warm kiss of glorious, intimate allure.
* * *
The headline in the newspaper the following day informed the nation that the king had returned from the Vienna Congress to celebrate Christmas with the queen, but there was still much work to be done in Vienna—including the important establishment of future diplomatic policies during wartime—and Randolph was therefore expected to return to Austria in the New Year.
On page 5, it was also reported that the Countess of Ainsley had returned from Vienna to celebrate the holiday season at home in Petersbourg, and that she had commissioned a new wardrobe—for her return to Vienna in the New Year.
“It is subtle, but it connects the two of you,” Nicholas mentioned to Randolph over breakfast as he came upon the piece about the countess.
“You don’t think it is a coincidence?” Rand replied.
Nick lifted his gaze and reached for his coffee. “I do not believe in coincidences, and I’ve been looking into her affairs. The earl is stone broke and drowning in debt. I cannot imagine he approved the new wardrobe, unless there is some alternative purpose in which he is involved.”
“I have a sense of what that is,” Randolph replied, “but it’s only a hunch.”
“Tell me.”
Rand sat back in his chair and tapped a finger on the white tablecloth. “She followed me around like a lovesick puppy since that first night at the ball, and practically begged to be invited back to court. For that reason, I believe it is one of two things. Either she wants me to take her as my mistress and provide her with an income, or she is being paid to seduce me and lure me into a scandalous affair to make mud of my name in the eyes of the nation. For what purpose I cannot be sure. Another Royalist revenge plot perhaps?”
Nicholas set down his coffee. “You don’t think your wife could be involved somehow? She entered into this marriage with revenge on her mind, and she has enjoyed a suspiciously good deal of public support since you’ve been gone. Someone at the newspaper loves her.”
“You cannot fault her for doing charity work,” Rand said.
“Some people use charity for selfish reasons—to further their own interests.”
Randolph shook his head. “Not Alexandra. She has nothing to do with this. She could not possibly collude with the countess. If put in the same room with her, Alex might shove her whole head into a soup terrine.”
“I would like to see that,” Nicholas said.
Randolph returned his attention to the paper. “As would I.”
A quiet moment passed while they finished their breakfasts.
Nick said, “Did you know the Marquess of Cavanaugh paid three visits to your wife while you were gone?”
Rand looked up. “Three visits? I sent him to deliver my letters. That explains one.”
“What of the other two times?” Nick asked. “Did she mention anything to you?”
Rand sat back in his chair and fought not to read too deeply into his brother’s insinuations.
Though he was oddly inclined to go fetch that Scottish claymore from the Privy Council Chamber and challenge his old friend Leopold to a friendly game of cards.
“No,” he easily replied. “But will you look into that for me? Find out the purpose of the visits. I will ask Alex about it personally, of course, and see what she says.”
Nicholas immediately stood up and left to investigate.
* * *
“He brought me a pamphlet about knitting,” Alexandra told Randolph while she sipped her tea in the drawing room after dinner that night. “It was not long after the newspaper reported upon my efforts to supply the Abbey of St. Paul with mittens for the unfortunate. Why do you ask?”
“Was there another visit?” he offhandedly inquired.
She thought about it a moment and experienced a stirring of unease. “No, Randolph. He came only twice.”
“Twice,” he repeated.
“That is correct. Did you hear otherwise?”
Her husband leaned back on the sofa and rested an arm along the back of it, toyed with a loose lock of hair over her ear while he regarded her with those charming blue eyes. “No, darling. I was just curious.”
Lucille approached just then to suggest a game of whist. Randolph immediately stood up to join her at the table.
* * *
Christmas at Petersbourg Palace was a quiet affair, for King Frederick’s passing was still fresh in the hearts of the people, and the family wished to honor his memory in private.
That is not to say there were no public appearances. On Christmas Day, the Royal Family attended mass at the Abbey of St. Peter, and the following evening they hosted a dinner at the orphanage, where they joined the children’s choir to sing Yuletide hymns.
Alexandra felt almost completely at ease in her new role as queen. The people had welcomed her in a way she had never imagined possible, and she constantly found herself basking in the sweet glow of impending motherhood. Whenever she felt the baby kick, it was as if a whole new world was opening up inside her and all the angels in heaven were singing
Hallelujah.
Rose seemed happier as well. She had decided recently that she could not marry for duty alone. She wanted the kind of love that Rand and Alex had, so before Rand left for Vienna, she had asked him to put an end to her engagement to the Austrian archduke. Randolph had honored her wishes, and Alex suspected they would soon learn of a budding romance closer to home, for Rose had a rather blissful look about her.
It was a happy Christmas full of joy and laughter, and there were days when she felt certain that all her hardships and emotional struggles were behind her. Her husband had come home. She believed him about what had happened with the countess in Vienna, and everything seemed perfectly magical.
* * *
Two days before the New Year began, Rand was seated at the head of the large round table in the Privy Council Chamber, reading over the latest reports from Vienna, when the door opened at the far corner of the room. Expecting to see Nicholas, he lifted his gaze from the papers and found himself staring in shock at the Countess of Ainsley.
She shut the door behind her and came dashing toward him in a flurry of silks and ribbons and tearstained cheeks.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty!” she sobbed, dropping to her knees before him. He rose quickly, scraping the chair legs back across the plank floor.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded to know. “
Guard!
” he shouted, but no one entered the chamber.
“Get up, Elsbeth!” he commanded, realizing too late that he had used her given name while he hooked an arm under hers and pulled her roughly to her feet.
She dropped back down to her knees, however, like a limp rag doll, and kissed his boots. “Please, sir, take pity on me! I am desperate, and I have nowhere to turn!”
Looking down at the top of her navy winter bonnet, he was momentarily stunned. “I doubt that is the case,” he said, then glanced at the door.
“Nicholas!”
The countess’s shoulders heaved with another outrageous sob. “I was so wrong to have betrayed you!” she cried. “If only I could turn back time and return to our engagement ball! I would do it all again so differently, if only I could, for I am now doomed to an eternity of suffering and torment. Oh, how I wish to end it all! I have no choice but to throw myself into the sea! Or perhaps down the palace well. I passed one on my way to see you and had to hold myself back from that tempting dark oblivion!”
“Good God, get a hold of yourself, woman.” Rand pulled her to her feet again, this time more gently, with a small show of compassion, even while he suspected this was a well-rehearsed performance. “What is so terrible that you forget your dignity in such a way?”
Still weeping buckets of tears, she let him guide her to a chair at the table. “My husband has abandoned me. He has locked me out of our home and refuses to give me my pin money. My father paid a handsome dowry to him, but it is all gone now, squandered on card games and mistresses.”
Randolph moved to the sideboard to pour her a glass of brandy from the crystal decanter. “Perhaps your father is the one you should speak to about these matters.”
“I have tried,” she sobbed, “but he is a man without compassion. He still has not forgiven me for what happened between you and me. He says I deserve all my suffering, and he is right. I deserve every bit of this agony for what I did to you.”
Randolph handed her the drink. “Think no more of it. It is water under the bridge.”
She wiped her eyes and sucked back the brandy in a few greedy gulps. “Your Majesty is very generous.”
The glass was then set on the table.
Randolph watched her for a moment while she appeared to recover her nerves.
“What is it that you wish me to do?” he asked.
Her puffy red eyes lifted. “Make me your mistress.”
He strove to remain calm over the shock and anger that was rising up within him. “I’m afraid that is not possible.”
“But why? I’ll be very accommodating, I promise, and very discreet. All I require is a place to live. Nothing extravagant. I will live quietly and be available to you at all hours of the day.”
He frowned. “Does your husband know of this? Did he send you here?”
“No, but he is a loyal subject. If it is what the king desires, he will not object.”
“Are you forgetting that I have taken a wife, Elsbeth, and that she is your queen, carrying my child? Do you honestly believe I have need of a mistress?”
“But you loved me once, did you not?”
He was quite certain she had taken leave of her senses.
“Have you forgotten all that?” she continued. “There was passion between us. Can you not find it in your heart to take pity on me?”
“Pity is one thing,” he replied. “Passion is another. You must leave now.”
“Please, Randolph, I beg of you. I need your help.”
Her eyes glistened with tears, and he suddenly found that he could not simply turn her out onto the street. For yes, indeed, he had loved her once, and despite everything that occurred in the past, he found he could not be cruel.
“I will send a message to your father and suggest that he forgive you and take you in. But I can do no more than that. I will not pay your husband’s debts, nor will I use you in the manner you suggest. Do not sell yourself to any man, Elsbeth. You must have more pride than that.”