Sleeping Beauty and the Demon (21 page)

He nodded. “Numerous people have seen it. The chambermaids, the groundskeeper. Even Madame P. had a run-in with this ghost.”

“Have
you
seen it?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Is it an angry spirit?” He’d piqued her curiosity.

Drago led her into the main drawing room. After he illuminated a gas lamp, he guided her to a wall of portraits.

“Girard’s apparition didn’t seem angry to me,” he said. “It seemed more morose than anything.”

Goosebumps prickled Rose’s arm as they stopped in front of an enormous painting. “The story goes that the viscount was a notorious bachelor,” Drago continued, “a man who stole women’s hearts without a glance back. That is, until he met
her
.”

Rose was about to ask who “her” was, when Drago raised his lamp. Its beam shone upward and shed light on the massive gilded portrait before them. The figure in the painting had been created to nearly human scale, and he was dashing. In fact, the nobleman appeared so life-like that Rose half expected him to step out of the painting and converse with her. Tall and muscular, Jean-David Girard wore a white, curled wig and early eighteenth-century clothing. But beneath all the frivolous period attire, she could see his vivid aquamarine eyes and angular face.

Despite his good looks, Rose sensed that agony lived behind his physical features. “Who is the woman you mentioned? Girard’s true love?” she asked.

Drago replied grimly, “She was a servant and amid a scandal of the aristocracy, she left him.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“I just know that this woman was a scullery maid in his castle.
This
castle. And that their love affair was an outrage.”

Rose laced her fingers around Drago’s arm. “That’s such a sad tale. People should be able to be together—regardless of their social standing.”

He nodded solemnly.

Still looking at the portrait, she said, “Those who die under tragic circumstances manifest themselves as ghosts. In their ghostly form, they can haunt a place forever . . . without crossing over to the other side.”

Drago slid her a sideways glance. “How do you know so much about specters?”

Rose snapped out of her glazed state. “I’ve always been interested in the supernatural.”

“Well,” he said lightly, “that’s sufficient warning about our resident spirit. In case you spot the handsome Monsieur Jean-Daniel, you’ll be prepared.”

She smiled. “Thank you for the history lesson.”

As they made their way upstairs, Rose caught sight of a door hanging open on the second level. “Where do those steps lead?”

“To more bedrooms,” Drago replied. “Oh, and to a sewing room. It contains one of those old-fashioned spinning wheels.”

“Really?” she said excitedly. “Can you show me?”

“All right.” Drago led the way. The light of his gas lamp stretched around the stone walls and aided their journey up the winding steps.

“In here,” he said.

Rose stepped into a tiny room. In the corner sat the spinning wheel. Moonlight shone on the tip of its spindle. In contrast to its centuries-old surroundings, the object seemed strangely alive.

“How long has this been here?” Rose queried.

“It was here when I bought the house.”

“Can you believe people had to
make
yarn back then?”

“Thank God they had servants.”

Rose chuckled as she ran her hand over the waist-high object.

“Be careful of the spindle,” Drago warned. “It’s sharp.”

She stepped back.

“I just had a thought,” he said. “Maybe this spinning wheel could be part of an amazing magic trick.”

“What kind of trick?”

“If I hypnotized someone and commanded them to touch the spindle, they’d do it in a dreamlike state—even though
consciously
they would never put their finger on something sharp. The action would convince people that I’m a viable magician with the ability to spellbind.”

“I suppose it would,” she said.

“I’m always thinking of ways to redeem myself.”

“Don’t worry. You will.”

“Never mind that.” He cocked one eyebrow. “Let’s go back to bed so I can ravage you once again.”

The next morning, a pair of songbirds chirped outside Drago and Rose’s suite. After the birds’ insistent tweeting urged Rose out of bed, she dressed in an off-white skirt, Beatrix blouse, and half boots. Scurrying downstairs, she located the bright-eyed housekeeper in the foyer.

“Good morning, Madame Starkov.”

“Good morning,” Rose greeted.

Madame P. smiled. “It’s an unseasonable warm day.”

“How nice.”

The housekeeper paused. “It seems we had mice in the kitchen last night. Mice large enough to pull the remnants of dinner from the icebox.”

“I’m sorry if we left a mess.”

“I’m only teasing.” The kindly woman’s smile broadened. “Are you hungry for breakfast?”

“I am. Has my husband already eaten?”

Madame P. shook her head. “He’s waiting for you in the gardens.”

Claiming that she could find her own way, Rose thanked the woman and meandered outside. She descended a small slope to the geometrically-designed grounds. Bordered by a fruit orchard and a vineyard that Rose was sure would be lovely in spring, the boxwood gardens were breathtaking. Filled with expertly clipped cypress trees from Italy, and beautifully carved fountains, they beckoned to Rose.

Beyond the gardens, she spotted Drago seated under a shaded pavilion. She passed a deep pond littered with water lilies in order to reach him. He stood and planted a kiss on her cheek.

As Rose sat, she gazed at the display of food covering the glass table. Mounds of muffins, plates of scrambled eggs, and platters of potatoes were waiting patiently for her to dig into.

“Is this enough food?” Drago draped a napkin across her lap.

“More than enough! I’ll gain a hundred pounds and become horribly spoiled if I stay here too long.” She laughed.

“I’ll still love you,” he joked back.

A splashing fountain broke the silence as Rose ate. Meanwhile, Drago sat back and took in the stunning view. She watched him between bites. He looked extremely tired, as if he hadn’t slept at all in these tranquil surroundings.

Maybe he was still more torn up about his career plummeting than he was letting on.

Stuffed, Rose leaned back in her chair. “I want to ask you something.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve never seen you consume one morsel of food.”

Drago pulled on his starched collar, his face flushed. “It’s a personal quirk of mine.”

“What is?”

“Eating in solitude. I don’t like anyone watching me.”

“I’m not anyone. I’m your wife,” she reminded him gently.

“I’ll get over the idiosyncrasy, but it will take time.” He reached for her hand and pressed a kiss to it. “I’ve been alone for a long while.”

Despite the picturesque landscape, the delicious food, and the impressive house, a sense of sadness washed over Rose again. “I’ve lived with that feeling too. That’s why I was looking forward to meeting my birth parents.”

“I know.” He lowered his voice. “Did you bring the photo album with you? Perhaps that will make you feel close to them.”

“How can I feel close to people I never met?”

“Your parents saw you when you were a baby, Rose. They held you and loved you for whatever brief amount of time.”

“But
I
don’t remember.”

“I was hoping you’d forget your sorrow here,” Drago said forlornly.

“I haven’t. Being away from New York is making me feel more disconnected from the shreds of familiarity I had.”

His face flushed deeper. “You’re missing your old life more than I thought.”

She flung him an emotional look.

“You’ve been here one day, Rose. Please give this place a chance.”

Because she was left with no other option, unhappiness churned inside her. She agreed to give their time in France a chance, but afterward, she fell tensely silent.

CHAPTER 23

D
rago never ate anything—and it was beginning to drive Rose crazy.

How can he possibly sustain his health?
It was a subject she’d broached with him the day in the garden, but now she’d come to realize that he never even excused himself to eat in private.

Doesn’t he have to eat to stay alive?

When she asked Madame P. about it, the housekeeper simply shrugged her shoulders. “Monsieur Starkov will eat when he’s good and ready,” was her response the third time Rose brought it up.

Feeling shunned, Rose avoided raising the subject again.

Drago’s sleeping habits were equally strange. He slept the majority of the day, then seemed to come to life at night. It wouldn’t have been
that
odd—if Rose hadn’t tried to awaken him during the day so that he could sit in the garden with her or take a turn about the estate. She likened the attempts to waking the dead. He refused to move or stir. And the few hours he spent teaching her to drive his motorcar or having an afternoon picnic, he seemed drained of energy—as if he’d been taken ill.

She knew why Drago had an aversion to mirrors, but there were his bizarre interactions with the lei coin, too. Rose had seen him talk to it when he thought she wasn’t looking. From the angle and distance at which she stood, she couldn’t make out the images the coin projected. She had asked him to show her, but he refused.

That made her more desperate to handle the object herself.

Weeks turned into months at Château de Maincy and Rose and Drago began to argue more and more. Eventually, leisurely days filled with sunshine and tepid breezes built an icy wall that separated them. As the wall thickened, it stopped Drago from pretending to be happy without his magic—while it fueled Rose’s angst over being separated from the Marconis.

They started doing fewer and fewer things together. Gradually, Rose’s curiosity over her husband’s strange habits escalated into annoyance, then alarm.

One morning in May, she sat down at the vanity to brush her hair. Because of Drago’s aversion to mirrors, she was forced to use a small compact from her handbag to see her reflection. Flooded with irritation, she tensed when he called out to her from the washroom.

“Darling? Would you like to have lunch in the garden?”

Rose’s spine tingled. Was he actually suggesting they do something together in the daytime? “That sounds lovely,” she answered blandly.
He’ll probably call it off as he usually does.

As she set her brush down, he emerged from the washroom.

“Do I sense sarcasm in your tone?”

“It’s just that I’m so tired,” she said.

“We slept until ten o’clock today.”

She looked up at him.

He knelt before her and traced the dark shadows encircling her eyes. “You
do
look tired.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she replied dejectedly. “I can only view small portions of my face with this compact.”

He winced and she looked away.

“What’s really wrong, Rose?”

“We’ve had this conversation before. I wish I had known a lot of things about you before I married you.”

Drago’s thick brows drew together. “Am I all that bad?”

Her face heated.

“I’m sorry for not telling you everything,” he said. “I guess I got swept up in romancing you.”

Letting out a dismal sigh, she reached for his hand.

“You’re everything to me,” Drago reminded her. “I didn’t want to lose you when we first met.”

She made no reply.

“Doesn’t this place make you happy?”

“I’m sure plenty of women would find it dazzling,” she replied.

“But I feel out of my element.”

“Out of your element?”

“We’re fooling ourselves, Drago. You sensed Morvina was disguising herself in New York, but she’ll find me anywhere. I want to go back home.”

“
Home
? Your home is with me.” He gritted his teeth. “And it’s easier to protect you here.”

“I don’t care.” She began to cry.

He hesitated. “What do you mean you don’t care?”

“I don’t know myself anymore.” She sobbed.

“I don’t understand.”

“I gave up everything to be with you. I don’t regret it, but I think I lost myself along the way.”

Brows knitted, he studied her. Then he sat back on his haunches and let out a deep sigh. “I wanted to keep you hidden from Morvina, but if going back to New York is what you want, then we’ll return.”

“Really?” She stopped crying.

“I’ll do my best to guard you there.” He paused and shot her a dire expression. “Besides, I have a feeling you’d go back there on your own. Am I right?”

She nodded as she wiped away her tears.

“You’re a handful, but I love you, Rose.” He tried to lighten the mood.

“I’m sure if people knew about my curse, they’d think I’m crazy to return to where Morvina might be.”

“Damn other people.” He caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “I want
you
to be happy—and I intend to keep you safe from Morvina.”

“I’m sorry I’ve been so melancholy lately.”

“And I apologize for being so distant.” His eyes twinkled. “I want to see you smile more often than every two or three weeks.”

Rose heaved forward and hugged him. “When can we leave?”

“In a few days . . . after I make the necessary arrangements.”

“Thank you!” she cried.

They embraced for a long time. Meanwhile, relief vibrated through Rose. As she breathed in Drago’s fresh scent, she decided that returning to New York would be good for both of them. He could resurrect his career and she wouldn’t be stuck here alone while he slept the days away.

He gave her a tender kiss before he stood up. “Now lie down and take a nap, darling. I’m headed to the village to get some toiletries.”

“Why don’t you send François instead?”

“Because the last time I sent that kitchen boy, he came back with six varieties of shave cream.”

“He
is
incredibly eager.”

“Do you need anything?”

“A mirror, perhaps?”

Drago laughed. “I’ll see you when I get back.” He blew her a kiss from across the room then left.