Seven
Alexander glanced down at the maiden by his side. At his insistence she had muffled herself in a heavy cloak and bonnet, but only a few moments in the brisk breeze had reddened her tiny nose and teased a handful of fiery curls about her pale features.
A familiar warmth flooded his chilled body. It was odd, he acknowledged. He had met the most beautiful, the most exotic, the most sophisticated, and the most charming women that London and St. Petersburg had to offer. But while he had indulged himself with an occasional mistress, none of them had made him go to such efforts to be at her side or caused him to lay awake nights, pondering a means of bringing a smile to her face.
Indeed, he had to remind himself more than once that their engagement was a mere farce to protect both their reputations.
His sense of contentment was briefly disturbed as he recalled his encounter with Boswan.
The bloody fool. Had he truly expected Alexander to stand meekly aside and allow Grace to be bullied by a common thief? Boswan was fortunate that he had not wrung his scrawny neck. That had certainly been his first thought when he had entered the study. Only the knowledge that the local magistrate was bound to take a dim view of him shedding blood within his first month of arriving in Kent made him hesitate. In the end he could only hope that his threats would be enough to convince Boswan that remaining near Chalfried was a very unhealthy proposition.
“Where are we going?” Grace said suddenly intruding upon his brooding.
Alexander gave a shake of his head. He would not allow Boswan to ruin this all too fleeting moment alone with his fiancée.
“It is not far,” he promised. He led her toward the woods and then he halted at a small pine. “Here we are.”
She glanced upward with a startled expression. “It is a tree.”
“No,” he corrected. “It is a Yelka.”
“What does that mean?”
Alexander allowed a reminiscent smile to touch his lips. Although he lived most of the year in England, he never forgot his mother’s heritage nor the warm memories of his life in Russia. Somehow it seemed important that he share that part of his life with this woman.
“Yelka. It is a tree to celebrate the New Year. We will have it brought inside on the eve of Christmas and decorate it with fruit and tiny baubles.”
Her eyes brightened with pleasure. “I have heard of that, although we have never had one at Chalfried.”
“I hope to combine the best of English and Russian traditions for Christmas.”
“Are they so different?” she demanded.
“Well, to begin with, we celebrate Christmas in January not December, although we will choose the English date. And it is believed that it is Babouschka who delivers the gifts to the children.”
She tilted her head to one side. “Babouschka?”
He nodded his head, barely aware of the snow that had once again begun to fall. Indeed, he was aware of precious little beyond the sparkle in her eyes.
“It is told that she failed to give shelter to the Magi on their travels to find the baby Jesus, so now she is bound to wander the countryside in search of the Christ child. She always manages to visit the home of children.”
A hint of anticipation could be detected on her tiny features. “Do you think she will visit here?”
“Most certainly,” he assured her.
“What else?”
Her obvious interest made Alexander chuckle. He had learned over the past weeks that Grace possessed a questioning mind along with her astonishing musical talent. He had often thought it was a sin that she had been buried in the country with no one to appreciate her rare qualities.
Of course, he acknowledged, she would no doubt have been swiftly engaged had she been in a position to travel to London. He might never have met her. It was a thought he found strangely distressful.
With an effort, he thrust aside the unwelcome thought. “It is also a tradition to fast on the day before Christmas, until the first star appears,” he said in answer to her question. “Only then is the table laid and the Kutya served.”
She mouthed the unfamiliar word with a faint smile. “I do not suppose that is Christmas pudding?”
“Actually, it is a porridge.”
She couldn’t prevent her grimace. “For dinner?”
“It is quite important,” he informed her, recalling his grandmother’s solemn explanation of the evening dinner. “It possesses grain to represent hope and honey with poppy seeds for success and happiness. It also must be eaten from the same dish for unity.”
“How lovely,” she breathed, her fiery curls dusted by the falling snow. “Is that all?”
“Oh, no. There is one other very important tradition, but I shall allow that to remain a secret until the festivities,” he impulsively retorted. Let her be surprised when he revealed his grandmother’s favorite part of the evening.
She narrowed her gaze, but a hint of amusement remained in her emerald eyes.
“You are being very mysterious.”
“Yes, I am,” he agreed, waggling his brows in a ridiculous fashion. “Do you like it?”
She gave a sudden laugh at his absurdity. “Should I?”
“Of course. Ladies always prefer those brooding, elusive gentlemen that spout tragic poetry. Shall I offer you a verse?”
She held up her hands in mock horror. “No, thank you.”
Thoroughly enjoying their banter, Alexander reached out to tug her into his arms. Feeling her next to him, he was quite certain that he could spend the rest of his days holding her close.
“Come,” he teased. “Allow me to whisper sweet secrets in your ear.” For a moment she stiffened at his brazen grasp; then, much to his delight, she melted against him. It was not until he felt the icy sting of snow upon his neck that he realized she had deviously used his distraction to reach out and grasp a handful of snow from the nearby tree. With a gasp he pulled back to regard her with amusement. “Minx.”
She appeared smugly pleased with her trick until Alexander reached out to grasp his own handful of snow.
“No . . .” Her eyes widened. “You wouldn’t.”
Her concern appeared so genuine that Alexander instantly dropped his frozen weapon.
“Of course not.”
With lightning speed she bent downward to gather another handful of snow and lobbed it at his disbelieving expression. Just as swiftly she turned on her heel and began scurrying toward the house. Briefly startled by the assault Alexander gave a loud laugh.
Why the cunning chit. It was not often he was caught off guard.
A flare of excitement raced through his body and with a swift grace he was in pursuit. It was, of course, an unfair race. Hampered by her heavy skirts and the icy ground, she had gone only a short distance when he caught her in his arms. Turning her about, he gazed down at her laughing face.
Just for a moment he felt bewitched. It was unexplainable. With women he had always felt lust or friendship. Not this peculiar combination that made him uncertain whether to kiss her or simply hear the magic of her voice.
“How beautiful you are when you smile,” he murmured.
Her breath was released on a sigh as they gazed at each other, indifferent to the cold and even the knowledge that they were visible from the house. It was the sound of footsteps hurrying in their direction that finally forced them apart.
Alexander lifted his head to view Rosalind quickly moving toward them. He hid a rueful grimace at the obvious signs of distress. Although the last thing in the world he wished was to have this moment with Grace interrupted, he realized that Rosalind was clearly upset.
“Oh . . . Alexander,” Rosalind breathed, her lovely face stained with tears.
“Good afternoon, Lady Falwell.”
She hesitantly glanced toward the blushing Grace. “I am sorry to intrude.”
“Is there something that you need?” he prodded.
She twisted her hands together until Alexander feared that they might become entangled.
“I did hope that I could have a few moments with you.”
Alexander hesitated. Damnation. Grace was already regarding him with a faint frown. He wanted to command Rosalind to leave and return that smile to Grace’s face. But even as the pleasant notion entered his mind he was thrusting it aside.
Rosalind was not a strong woman. And she depended upon him. It would be unfair to turn his back simply because he discovered he preferred the companionship of Miss Honeywell.
“Of course,” he forced himself to say. Then he raised Grace’s hand and pressed his lips to her gloved fingers. “We will speak later.”
For a moment a question seemed to flicker deep in her emerald eyes. A question Alexander was forbidden to answer. Then with a reluctant nod she turned and slowly made her way back toward the house. Alexander’s hand instinctively lifted, only to drop when he realized what he was doing.
What could he say to her?
“I am sorry, Alexander,” Rosalind said softly.
Reluctantly Alexander turned to face the distraught woman. “What has occurred?”
She lifted a hand to her lips to muffle the soft sob. “Thomas discovered the letter you gave me.”
Alexander bit back a resigned sigh. On how many occasions had he warned Rosalind to burn the letters he gave to her? It was far too dangerous to leave them lying about.
“How do you know?”
“I came into my chambers and he held it in his hands.”
“What did you tell him?”
Her white face flushed with painful color. “That it must have been left in the chamber by some forgetful maid.”
Alexander curbed his flare of impatience. Rosalind was not made to live a life full of lies, he reminded himself She was too transparent, too easily rattled for deception. It was remarkable that they had managed to conceal the truth for so long.
“Did he believe you?”
Rosalind fumbled for a handkerchief to dab at her nose. “He made a show of believing, but he could not hide the suspicion in his eyes.”
Alexander gave a slow shake of his head. “Ah, Rosalind, I have warned you to be careful. Those letters should be destroyed as soon as you receive them.”
“How can I?” she cried, her eyes glittering with tears. She appeared as lovely as an angel. “They are so precious to me. Oh, what am I to do?”
Most men would no doubt have swept her into their arms and assured her that everything would be well. Rosalind had an air of fragile indecision that appealed to the opposite sex. But Alexander resisted his instinctive reaction to comfort her. Rosalind could not run to him forever.
With great care he reached out to take her hands in his own, gazing down at her frightened eyes.
“Tell Thomas the truth,” he said firmly. “It is the only way.”
“No . . .” Rosalind wrenched her hands free, her face a deathly white. “No, I cannot.”
With a cry, she turned and hurried toward the nearby trees. Alexander heaved an exasperated sigh.
Women.
A gentleman would have more luck pondering the nature of the universe than the workings of the female mind.