A Foreign Affair (21 page)

“Oh, talk.” Helena dismissed it with an angry shake of her head. “You have been in the Peninsula risking your life to improve the lives of thousands of others. All I can hope for at best is to change the minds of a few pompous windbags.”

He chuckled. “I assure you, that it is the pompous windbags who control everything in this world. A few minutes’ conversation with them can have more far-reaching effects on the fates of nations than whole battalions of men.” The blue eyes darkened and the humorous twinkle disappeared. “I have not only risked my life, you know, but I have also taken them.”

Her heart turned over at the sadness in his voice, the bleakness in the taut pale face. The horrors he must have witnessed and the privations he must have endured were unimaginable. “But you at least have lived.”

It was a simple statement, quietly made, but he suddenly understood the frustration she must have been battling her entire life, heard the desperation of an active, intelligent, resourceful person forced to sit quietly on the sidelines while the world passed her by, while events of momentous historic importance took place all around her. And she could do nothing, or at least, she was expected to do nothing beyond learning all the feminine accomplishments that would win her a suitable husband.

What would he have done in her position? Gone mad very likely. After all it had been similar feelings of frustration and uselessness that had driven him to join the cavalry. But for Helena Devereux, there had been no cavalry.

He rose and, still holding her hand, pulled her up to face him. “You are living now.”

The way the look in his eyes made her heart pound, the way his touch made her skin tingle all over and her face catch fire told her that this was absolutely true.

Brett’s other hand slowly traced the curve of her cheek and then gently cupped her chin. “And you
are
making a difference, believe me.” His lips touched hers gently, caressingly, then firmly as his arms slid around her waist and pulled her to him.

Her entire body seemed to burst into flame in his hands. She felt as hopelessly out of control as the blaze they had just witnessed and as totally consumed by it. Yet, as unnerving as it was, it was also more exhilarating than anything she had ever experienced. He was right, she was alive—at last.

As Brett tasted the lips parted under his and felt her body molding itself to his, he opened his eyes to look down at the flushed face and the long dark lashes that fluttered against her cheeks. Yes, she was her mother’s daughter after all. The sensuality had merely lain dormant all these years, kept ruthlessly in check by the fear that it would overwhelm her and cause her to lose that dearly won independence and self-control.

Her mother’s daughter!
A cold sliver of guilt stabbed through him. What was he doing? Major Lord Brett Stanford might have always succeeded in evading entanglements of every kind, but he was not callous, and he certainly did not wish to hurt either one of these women—not the mother and especially not the daughter. He was not free to love her as she deserved to be loved. At the moment he had a duty to his government that demanded all his attention. He could not become involved with anyone, which was why he had sought out the Princess von Hohenbachern’s company in the first place, as protection against the possibility of any entanglements, romantic or otherwise, occurring—unlikely as the possibility had appeared to be at the time.

What a hopeless tangle it was! And now he found himself wanting to forget everything except this new-found feeling of tenderness fueled by desire. It was a dangerous combination indeed, and one that was almost irresistible.

Mustering every ounce of willpower he possessed, Brett gently grasped Helena’s arms and carefully set her away from him. “Forgive me. The strain of the evening . . . you must be exhausted.” Though in all honesty he had to admit that she looked as alive and vibrant as he had ever seen her. He longed to plant kisses down the slim white column of her throat, undo the fastenings of the simple muslin gown, and ... He caught his breath. This was taking him nowhere except to dangerous ground, very dangerous ground indeed. “I, er, mean that I still have work left to do on a draft of the treaty Castlereagh means to submit to the French and the Austrians that must be finished by morning. Well, it is morning now, but it must be completed by today.”

She nodded slowly, but he could see that his words were making no impression on her at all. There was a soft, dreamy glow in her eyes, her lips were full and red, exactly as he had described to her that long ago day in the Prater. And he longed to keep them that way so that she never had to wake from that dream of passion and desire. Certainly, he had no wish to wake from it either, but he had to for both their sakes.

Brett reached over and lifted his jacket from the back of the chair. It was still slightly damp, but at least it was warm. He pulled it on and then took her again by the shoulders. “Thank you for drying my jacket. Sleep well, Helena.” He pressed his lips gently to her forehead and was gone, hurrying down the stone staircase to the courtyard below and out through the massive wooden doors to the street before he could lose his resolve.

The pink sky was fading into blue, and the air was cold and crisp. He inhaled deeply, hoping to steady himself, hoping to quell the longing that made him wish to throw caution to the winds and return to the arms of the woman who was rapidly becoming an obsession with him.

It was not until Brett was halfway down the street that he realized he had left Rex behind. Shaking his head at his own preoccupation, he retraced his steps, roused the stable boy, and, too worn out by the events of the evening to ride, slowly led his horse back to his quarters.

Chapter Twenty-one

Fortunately for Brett, the ensuing days at the British delegation were so frantically busy that there was simply no time to think of anything else but work, and he was spared the unnerving reflections that had begun to plague him the moment he had left Helena. Castlereagh had indeed been recalled to resume his parliamentary duties, which meant there was a scramble to get all his affairs in order before his departure. But before the foreign secretary left Vienna, Wellington arrived to replace him, so therefore, in addition to the work, Brett had to attend numerous receptions in honor of Europe’s hero. Between Castlereagh’s secretarial requirements and Wellington’s observational ones, Brett barely had time to sleep, a situation for which he was supremely grateful.

The few hours that he was able to lie down, he was too exhausted to be kept awake, plagued by disturbing visions of Helena, her eyes half closed, her lips parted for his kisses, or troubled by dreams of any sort.

For her part, Helena was also blessedly drawn into the political fray. Her mother, galvanized by the revelation that the Prussians intended to take Saxony away from its hereditary ruler saw all too clearly that what had happened to Saxony’s king could very well happen to other German sovereigns, and she did her best to use her increasing intimacy with Metternich to make sure that such a thing did not occur. And these same German sovereigns who had once gathered at the Princess von Furstenberg’s, sensing the Princess von Hohenbachern’s influence with Metternich, now began to call on her.

“It is not that I am unsympathetic to their cause,” the princess complained to her daughter one day as she yawned and shook her head groggily after a particularly lengthy visit. “After all, your stepfather distrusts the Prussians as much as the rest of them do, dreadful and pushy as they are, and they simply have no idea of good
ton.
It is just that he prefers to settle things in a more direct manner at the head of the Hohenbachern troops. And I am not at all sure what good will come of
my
speaking to Clemens. What can I say to him that has not already been said? Besides, I find these petty rulers to be so very stiff and so very dull. At least Friedrich is a soldier—so much more dashing an occupation than sitting around a palace trying to rule people.”

“They are simply hoping that you can convince the Austrians to take a firm stand against Prussian encroachment by using your influence with Metternich, Mama.”

“I?” The princess laughed, but Helena could see that she was flattered by it all, nevertheless. “If only they were not so pompous, so boring, and so very unprepossessing. At least Friedrich is doing something out there with the army. And he does make a fine figure of a man. I have always thought so, from the moment the Prince Regent introduced us. But these men . . .” The princess dismissed them all with an airy wave of her hand. “They do nothing but talk endlessly. Even Clemens would rather hear himself speak than actually
do
anything.”

At any other time, Helena would have been highly amused by her mother’s disparaging description of the Austrian chancellor, but the references to the Prince von Hohenbachern had brought to mind another military man of their acquaintance, another man who preferred to act rather than talk. And just the thought of that particular man made her feel weak all over.

Helena had had no idea that a kiss could be overwhelming. It had not been the kiss precisely, but the look in his eyes and the warmth of his bands as he held her. It had felt as though he had wanted her and only her. When Brett talked to her, when he listened so intently, his eyes fixed steadily on her, he made her feel as though she were the only woman, the only other person in the world, that no one else existed except the two of them. Her mind told her that it was all an illusion, that he made all women—the Princess Bagration, even her own mother—feel that way, but her heart told something different. Her heart told her that they were soul mates, that they shared something beyond mutual physical attraction, something unique and precious, and that he was as alive to the treasure they shared as she was.

“Er, what did you say. Mama?”

“I was saying that of course I shall do whatever I can, but tonight is Princess Bagration’s reception for Wellington, and it will be such a crush that there will be no chance for conversation at all, much less private conversation with Metternich.” The princess quickly stifled a sly smile at Helena’s momentary loss of attention. Her daughter had not been herself lately. She had been subject to unusual moments of abstraction and often sat lost in some world of her own, a dreamy expression on her face that was completely at variance with her usual alert and clear-eyed view of the world. There was no doubt in her mother’s mind that Helena was in love, and the princess derived a considerable amount of gleeful satisfaction at witnessing this paragon of intelligence and rationality exhibiting the same erratic behavior as anyone else who was in the grip of this supreme emotion.

“Yes, of course, you are right,” Helena responded vaguely, but her mind was elsewhere.
Wellington.
Again, the name evoked thoughts of one of Wellington’s officers, an officer on whom she had not laid eyes in far too long.

At first, Helena had been relieved that Brett seemed to have vanished from sight, for she hardly knew how she was to face him after she had practically thrown herself into his arms the night of the fire. Or at least it had felt as though she had thrown herself at him. While it was true that
he
had begun by kissing
her,
her treacherous body’s response had been so immediate and so strong that she feared she was no better than a brazen hussy.

However, no sooner had she told herself that Brett’s absence was conducive to her peace of mind than she found herself looking for him at every possible gathering place.

Heavy snow had fallen and the cold forced all those who might have sought fresh air and exercise in the Prater to gather in the streets instead. But no matter how often she and Hannechen joined the throngs strolling here and there, or became part of the constant promenade along the Herrengasse, or stopped to admire the Englishmen demonstrating their skating prowess on the frozen branches of the Danube, she never caught sight of a tall, dark-haired figure.

After a number of listless days spent in this fruitless exercise, Helena was forced into accepting the unnerving conclusion that no matter how much Brett’s presence might threaten her peace of mind and her self-control, his absence was a far greater threat to her happiness itself. But, fortunately, before she could fall into a demoralizing decline, he sought her out one morning as she was perusing the latest issue of the
Weiner Zeitung.

“Major Lord Brett Stanford,” Potten announced in a stentorian voice as he ushered Brett into the library; however, his wooden expression was belied by the twinkle in his eye as he watched his young mistress scramble up from her chair, scattering papers right and left. No one else had ever caused her to lose that calm air of self-possession, but this particular caller appeared to do so on a regular basis.

“Er, I am sorry to interrupt you, but...” Brett was no more composed than she was. In fact, he was supremely disconcerted to feel sweat prickling at the back of his neck like any callow youth casting sheep’s eyes at his ladylove. “But I have come to ask your advice on a diplomatic matter.”

Helena’s heart plummeted. “I am flattered,” she lied with a promptness that would have done justice to someone who told bold-faced untruths on a regular basis. Why had she hoped he had simply come to see her instead of to consult her political expertise?

“You see, it is a rather delicate matter involving the Prussians.” He held up an admonitory hand. “Naturally I realize that you distrust them, but you will admit that it behooves the rest of us to keep an eye on them and even do what we can to remain on good terms with them. Now, here is my question. This evening, naturally everyone, or almost everyone, will be at the Princess Bagration’s reception for Wellington. However, we have heard that the Prussians refuse to attend out of protest over the recent alliance among Britain, Austria, and France. Instead, it appears that many of them will be gathering at the Countess Benistorff’s, where, naturally, members of the British delegation, though not specifically invited, would certainly not be turned away if they were to appear. It seems to me that it would go a long way to mollifying the Prussians if one Englishman at least is present at this reception; therefore, I have volunteered to attend. What do you think?”