Royal 02 - Royal Passion (26 page)

Worth had not failed her. He had brought out a sea-blue satin, heavy and stiff, for Juliana that had made her skin look as translucent as the finest china and given her eyes an incredible depth and sparkle. He had also made a hurried sketch of a gown with an elongated bodice that would make the most of her regal height and superb form without weighing her down with pounds of bows and rosettes or ruchings of lace and clumps of silk flowers.

For Mara he had recommended a delicate white silk chiné with a hint of pink in the folds and suggested a cunningly draped bodice that made her waist appear tiny, even less than its normal eighteen inches. He had also suggested a modiste, a former
grisette
, who could be trusted to cut the fine materials correctly and was not so busy that she would not be able to have the gowns ready on time. Since Juliana insisted, he had sold her several egret plumes to be dyed for a headdress to match her gown, but had convinced Mara that all she had need of was one or two pale pink rosebuds to set in her dark hair. When the Englishman with his intriguing accent had bowed them from the store, Juliana had pronounced him utterly charming and vowed to visit him again.

They had returned to the carriage and Juliana had given the order that would take them to a cobbler's shop that was known for its dancing slippers when Roderic's sister said, “You know, we should have brought Trude with us."

"You mean—"

"I mean it's time she stopped playing at being a man. There is a woman's body and heart beneath that uniform she wears. Surely she would like to go to a ball in something other than trousers?"

"She might. It's hard to say with Trude,” Mara said.

"She isn't very open, I will admit, and is even less so with you, for obvious reasons."

"You mean because I am now sharing your brother's rooms,” Mara said, determined not to spare herself.

"Of course,” Juliana said with impatience. “She has followed Roderic about all her life, and he has permitted it because he is too fond of her to hurt her and also—let it be admitted—because she is useful to him. If she would only allow herself to be a woman, however, she might find that there are other men in the world."

"She might, indeed, but would she care?"

"We will never know if we don't do something to help her."

"It will take some persuasion,” Mara said.

"I am good at that,” Juliana answered in all simplicity.

"Yes. I haven't thanked you for asking Roderic to take you—us—to this ball."

"You think he did it for me?” Juliana shook her head, a bemused smile playing about her mouth. “What a very modest woman you are, Chère."

Mara sent her a quick glance, then looked away again. “Do you mind that I am your brother's woman?"

"Mind? What good would that do? But, no, you have been good for him. I can't remember ever seeing him quite so involved. Everything has always been so easy for him; he has looks, intelligence, strength, limitless ability, good birth, immense resources, a doting mother, a father who cares despite high expectations and the clash of their personalities. He has had a surfeit of women, of the kind who offer a token resistance or none at all; the kind who are so shallow a child can see through them. But you elude him. You have no past, no future, only the present. He cannot know you, cannot explore your mind, and so he is frustrated. It may be a pity for you to ever regain your memory."

Was Juliana suggesting that once he knew who and what she was, Roderic's attraction for her might disappear? It did not matter; she would be leaving him soon anyway, immediately after the ball. Still, the thought gave her a strange ache in the region of her heart.

Trude refused the ball gown. Standing at her full height, which topped Juliana by two full inches, she said, “I am a member of the cadre. What need have I for skirts to hide behind?"

"To hide behind!” Juliana exclaimed, incensed. “They are not for hiding, but to show that you are a woman."

"I am a woman, with or without them."

"Yes, but—"

"Let her be, if you please, Princess Juliana."

It was Estes who spoke. He had come to stand near them where Juliana and Mara had drawn Trude aside at one end of the long gallery.

Juliana turned on the Italian. “Then you speak to her! She has no idea what she is missing by never having danced or flirted or had an assignation at a ball."

"These things have no appeal to me whatever!” Trude said with a stiff gesture.

"Then you have become masculine beyond recognition. My brother has much to answer for."

"It isn't his fault. Not all women want these things. Not all women want admiration and flirtation."

"How can you know what you want if you have never had them!"

"I know. I am happy as I am."

"You don't know—"

"Your pardon, Princess Juliana,” Estes tried again, his narrow face serious behind his beard. “It is you who don't know. Some women have other needs than yours, other satisfactions."

"Besides,” Trude said, “what good could I do the prince hampered by skirts?"

"If you are doing this for his sake—"

"It is no sacrifice. It's a matter of duty, to Prince Roderic and to the cadre. They depend on me."

This was the source of Trude's pride, Mara thought; she was needed. It seemed to be enough, at least for now. In addition, Trude had gained a champion. For the Valkyrie and the Italian count were standing together, talking in low voices, when she and Juliana left the room.

The days passed with dizzying speed. The weather continued gray and dreary and cold. Rain mixed with sleet sometimes fell. Regardless, the parade of visitors continued: the famous, the infamous, those of importance, and the nonentities. They were always twenty to thirty at the dinner table, and they often stayed late. But when they were gone and the door had been shut upon them, Roderic retired to his apartment and took Mara with him. Slowly, her belongings accumulated in his rooms, and, just as surely, she became used to dressing and undressing before him, to accepting his caresses, to joining him in the great royal bed. She came to believe that it was not mere physical pleasure he sought in her company, but a respite from the duties and obligations that dogged his every waking moment.

By degrees, he told her about himself, and it seemed to Mara as if she could see in her mind the flaxen-haired toddler that he had been; the wild young boy always at odds with his dynamic father, always protected by his mother, the lovely and gracious Angeline. She could picture the mountains and forested valleys of Ruthenia: the swift-running and ice-cold rivers; the small villages and walled towns with their ancient bridges lined with images of what might have been saints, but could as easily have been the effigies of beloved past kings and queens.

Sometimes he would attempt to catch her unaware with questions concerning her past, her own childhood. She had become adept, however, at prevarication, at the use of smiling silence, though in truth it sometimes seemed as if she had no past to remember. It felt as if she had always lived here in Ruthenia House with the prince and his retinue. That she had always slept naked in Roderic's arms and always would. It was dangerous to allow herself to feel that way, she knew, but it was not something she could prevent.

The evening of the ball arrived. The gowns Mara and Juliana had ordered had been delivered the day before, and Mara's hung in the armoire in Roderic's dressing room. Her underclothing had been laid out, along with her silken stockings and her white satin dancing slippers with pearl beading on the toes. She had bathed early so as to give her hair time to dry. Lila had tended her nails, buffing them to a pink glow. She was supposed to be resting, lying down on a chaise longue in Roderic's bedchamber. Instead, she sat staring into the fire with her hands clasped in front of her, trying not to think.

This was the night. It was the evening toward which all her energies had been directed for weeks, the evening of the ball, the evening she would deliver the prince into the hands of de Landes. She had played her part. Her task would be complete when she entered the door of the residence of the vicomtesse on Roderic's arm. What happened after that was not her responsibility. Still, she wished with passionate fervor that she knew what was going to take place. The possibility of public disgrace for Roderic occurred to her, though she had no idea what form it might take. She thought of his assassination or else his arrest and exposure as the leader of the Death Corps, even of his imprisonment and torture.

She tried to make herself think of a more optimistic outcome, of a surprise honor, an award, or perhaps a surreptitious inspection for the purpose of an alliance between France and Ruthenia. The last was unlikely. The daughters of Louis Philippe were married, and his granddaughters were still in their cradles. And as for an award of honor, a simple invitation from the king to the Tuileries would have done as well.

Nothing good seemed to make sense. Her horror of what might happen left her cold inside. She held out her hands to the flames that leaped in the hearth and was not surprised to see that they trembled.

The door opened behind her, and Roderic's soft, even tread advanced into the room. “Moping in the dark? A useless occupation, but enjoyable to some, or so I'm told."

She looked up, glancing at the window. Night had indeed fallen. She got to her feet and turned to face him. “I was waiting for the time to dress for the ball."

"Not happily, it appears. You need not go if you have changed your mind."

The impulse to accept the excuse he offered was strong. If she simply stayed here in the house with him, then nothing could harm him. He would be safe. But her grandmother would not be.

"Juliana would be disappointed,” she said, forcing a smile.

"She would survive it."

Would he survive the night? That was the basis of her terrible fears. She must go to the ball, and he with her, but perhaps if he were warned, all would be well. She stepped forward, reaching out her hand to place it on his arm. “Roderic—” she began, then faltered.

"Say what you will,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of urging.

She stared up at him, her eyes wide in the pale oval of her face. He was so vital and quick with energy, even as he stood still with his head bent toward her. She could not bear the thought of him going unprepared into that ballroom, and yet how could she warn him? She could not. Once she began to explain why he must take care, there would be nothing left to do except to tell the entire story. It was too great a risk to take. Impossible.

"Nothing,” she said, letting her hand fall away from his sleeve, turning away from him.

He watched her, watched the fans of dark silk that were her lowered lashes, watched the firelight gleam in the black and shining waves of her hair that spilled around her waist as she moved away from him. He drew a deep breath, his chest tight with disappointment. For one brief moment he had thought that she meant to trust him, to confide in him. The need had been there; he was sure of it.

It was a signal, however, if he had needed one. Tonight was the night. He had suspected it from the moment the subject of the ball was broached. He could not have said what had alerted him. It might have been some second sense, or it could have been no more than the stiffness that he had noticed in Mara at the time, as if the occasion was of great importance.

So be it. His plans were laid, had been for some time. He had tried to provide for every eventuality and must trust that he had succeeded. He could do no more.

Still, the urge to force her confidence, to attempt in some way to prove his suspicions, was impossible to resist. He moved closer to her, placing his hand on her shoulder. “Are you well, indeed?"

That quiet inquiry, with its threading of genuine concern, was nearly Mara's undoing. She swallowed hard, turning a bright face to him. “Oh, yes. Well, perhaps I'm a little nervous of such grand company as we must meet with at the ball, but I would not miss it."

The gallant courage he saw in her filled him with rage against whatever it was that pushed her. He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her safe. The instant he identified that need, he recognized with a sense of shock that, though he cared for her well-being, his greatest fear was of losing her. He would like to keep her, for himself alone, until that distant and unforeseeable day when the magic between them came to an end. He could do that if he took her away now, tonight. Would she go with him? Would she become his woman, and tramp by his side as the queen of the gypsies? Would she travel with him back to Ruthenia, there to adorn his princely holdings? If she would not, he could always take her by force. By force he could keep her. It would not matter if she never told him of her own accord who she was, if he never knew precisely what she wanted from him. He would forfeit that knowledge if to know meant losing her.

No. He could not take her away, could not go himself. Not yet. There was too much to be done, too much at stake. But he could have her now, once more, before the hour for dressing overtook them. It would be a poor substitute for the closeness he craved, but one that had its own satisfaction.

"You have no need for concern,” he said. “You will shine like a pure star among dull planets, will move like a swan passing through a gaggle of geese, with pride and natural grace."

"You flatter me."

"Impossible,” he murmured, reaching to take her hand and turning her toward him. He placed her hand on his shoulder and encircled her waist with his arms.

"Not at all, and it has a purpose, I think.” She tilted her head back to stare up at him, a challenge in her eyes.

"Will it serve?” he inquired, his gaze upon the enticing curves of her mouth.

One last time. The need to lie beside him, to feel him inside her once more, was a penetrating ache, as if she had only just discovered the source of some deep pain. She swayed against him. With her mouth hovering inches from his, she whispered, “Oh, indeed. Indeed, it will."

By the time Lila and Sarus arrived to dress them for the ball, they were sitting once more before the fire, Mara in her dressing gown, Roderic in his uniform shirt and trousers. There was hilarity in the glance they exchanged as they stood, making ready to allow the servants to remove from them the clothing they had redonned in such scrambling haste moments before.