A Foreign Affair (17 page)

She was no proof against the lopsided grin that accompanied this apology. There was something quite disarming about the self-deprecatory shrug of the shoulders and his grudging admission of her superiority. No other man she knew would have even acknowledged such a thing to himself, much less have admitted it to her.

“I suppose it might seem that way.”

Brett had had no idea that he had been holding his breath until he saw her answering smile, heard the warmth creep back into her voice, and watched the twinkle creep back into her eyes. He let out a deep sigh. Why did he care so much about this young woman’s opinion of him? Perhaps it was because he had such a high opinion of her. Not many men he knew, and certainly no young woman he had ever encountered, would have been as observant as she had been, and far fewer, if any, would have acted so quickly or courageously.

But there was something else too, something that ran deeper than mere respect, something that had struck him deep inside when he had discovered that the young woman struggling to free herself from her assailant’s unwanted attentions was Helena.

Brett had been fortunate enough to arrive at the Palm Palace only a few minutes after the tsar and had been able to deliver his message before Alexander had been admitted to the princess’ chambers. The entire mission had gone so smoothly that he had hardly been able to believe his luck, and he had been congratulating himself on the speedy conclusion of the distasteful errand as he hastened to leave the palace as quickly as possible, before anything could happen or anyone appear to complicate matters.

The moment the palace doors had closed behind him, he had become aware of an altercation across the street and hurried over to investigate. He would have been quick to rescue any woman from any man’s unwelcome advances, but when he had recognized the face that twisted way from her attacker’s as Helena’s, a blind fury had washed over him. He had been filled with a rage he had not thought he possessed, a rage more primal than anything he had ever before experienced, even in the heat of battle, and it had taken all his self-control not to strangle the man then and there with his bare hands.

It was not only Helena’s anguished expression and her helplessness against a superior force that tore at him, but it was the sudden realization that for some time now he had longed to hold her in his arms and crush his lips to hers just as this man was doing—but not as he was doing. Not that way, not against her will, but drawn together by mutual passion.

And this revelation had been so shattering and so unwelcome, especially given the circumstances, that it had left him shaken. Even now, the mental image of Helena in another man’s arms was profoundly disturbing and left him feeling drained and confused.

In all his affairs with women, no matter how passionate they had been, Brett had always remained in control of his emotions and in control of the situation. Not so with Helena Devereux. From the moment he had met her, she had seemed to have the advantage over him and it never seemed to stop, no matter what the circumstances. Whether it was knowing his identity when he had no clue as to hers, understanding complex political situations in which he felt totally at sea, following spies he had no notion were trailing him, or inspiring feelings in him that he had not even known he possessed, she always seemed to catch him off balance, and he always seemed to be powerless to stop her.

Brett awoke from this unwelcome reverie to find her regarding him curiously. What was it she had just said?
I
suppose it might seem that way.
“Yes, it might. The one opportunity I have had to do anything actively since I left the Peninsula, and I am too blind to recognize it. Then to have it pointed out to me by a young woman, a most intelligent and capable young woman, but a young woman nevertheless, is daunting, you know.”

It was Helena’s turn to look somewhat self-conscious. “A
most intelligent and capable young woman
who was so blind herself that she did not stop to think what sort of person she would be taken for, loitering alone in a city street.” Still, she could not help feeling absurdly pleased at being called
intelligent
and
capable
even though she had had to be rescued.

He gave a crack of laughter. “Most people would be appalled if you
had
realized what sort of person you might be taken for, yet you blame yourself, well-brought-up young woman that you are, for not stopping to consider it. You are a rare creature, indeed, Helena Devereux, and I consider it a pleasure and a privilege to have made your acquaintance.” He clasped the gloved hand that was resting on his arm and raised it to his lips.

It took all of Helena’s fast-ebbing strength to withstand the giddiness that overwhelmed her as she felt the seductive pressure of his fingers and the warmth of his lips through her glove. She struggled against the longing to feel his arms around her again, not comfortingly this time, but passionately. She wanted to feel the strength of him, the warmth of his lips on hers. She wanted . . . but then reason reasserted itself. She had only become acquainted with this man because he was an admirer of her mother’s. And, if the events of the day were any indication, he was also an admirer of the Duchess of Sagan or the Princess Bagration, neither of whose reputations bore any looking into. Even Helena, dismissive as she was of gossip of any kind, was familiar with enough of it to know that both these ladies made a regular habit of collecting handsome, dashing young men— men like Major Lord Brett Stanford.

They had been walking as they were talking and to Helena’s great relief, she realized that they were now back in the Braunerstrasse and only a few steps from her door. Retrieving her hand from Brett’s arm, she turned to face him. “Thank you for coming to my rescue, Major. I do not know . . .” she paused uncomfortably. She truly did not know what she would have done if he had not been there, but she did not wish to be beholden to any man, especially this one who already had a most disturbing effect on her even before he had saved her from the most unnerving, upsetting situation she had ever found herself in in her life.

“I consider it a privilege to have been of assistance to you. Miss Devereux.” Again, he took her hand in his and looked deep into her eyes, eyes filled with confusion and a glimmer of what he hoped was recognition of something special that lay between them.

Helena’s hand trembled in his as, mesmerized by the look in his eyes, she felt herself slowly dissolving, losing herself in the expression she saw there.

With a supreme effort she called herself back to the present, to reality. “And now I must go. Mama will be wondering what on earth has become of me. Good day, Major.” It was a bald-faced lie. Undoubtedly the Princess von Hohenbachern was still closeted with Madame Albert and utterly oblivious to her daughter’s existence, but Helena had to get inside, away from him and the spell he seemed to cast over her.

Mama!
The Princess von Hohenbachem. Brett felt as though Helena had dashed a bucket of cold water over him. What was he thinking? He had begun his relationship with the princess because, beautiful and charming as she was, she posed no threat to his peace of mind. He knew he was in no danger of losing a moment’s sleep over her. He was, however, dangerously close to losing not only sleep, but his heart and soul as well to the princess’ daughter.

Brett straightened up and released Helena’s hand. “Good day. Miss Devereux.” And without a backward glance, he strode off down the street toward the British delegation, congratulating himself all the way on his narrow escape. He had recognized his danger before he had fallen deeper into it. Now, having recognized his danger, he would be able to avoid it.

Chapter Seventeen

Brett struggled to heed his own warning, but he was powerless to help himself, and in the ensuing days he found himself riding religiously in the Prater every morning. Hoping that the increasing cold and the dusting of snow would not keep certain other riders from exercising their mounts, he never caught even so much as a glimpse of the powerful bay and its rider.

His own corroding sense of disappointment would have been softened somewhat if he had known what it cost Helena not to indulge in her early morning gallops. She tried to tell herself as she battled the crowds of carriages, horses and riders, and the more fashionable company to be found in the Prater in the afternoon that the warmer temperatures were far better for Nimrod. And she tried to blame her dissatisfaction with these rides on the press of people that made it impossible for them to get any real fresh air or exercise. But she knew that it was cowardice on her part, pure and simple, that kept her out of the Prater as morning was breaking over the city. She knew that he would be there then, and she knew what happened when she was alone in the Prater with Major Lord Brett Stanford. She knew, and she was afraid of it, afraid of the magnetism that drew her to him, of the bond of shared ideals and similar passions that made her feel closer to him than to any other human being.

But it cost her dearly, oh, how it cost her, not to jump out of bed when she woke every morning feeling alive and excited, as though something wonderful were going to happen. It cost her not to pull on her riding habit, run to the stables, throw herself on Nimrod and gallop to the Prater, where she could give in to the pure joy of sharing her excitement with someone she knew felt the way she did.

Instead, coward that she was, she burrowed deeper into the books in the library, burying herself in treatises, pamphlets, and newspapers, trying to focus her energies on her studies, which had once seemed so all-encompassing and now seemed merely enervating and dull.

Day after day Brett rode in a virtually empty park until finally there was nothing to do but call on the Princess von Hohenbachern. He hated himself for it because he knew he was flying in the face of his own good advice. But he hated even more not seeing Helena. He missed their frank and easy conversations. He missed her insights and explanations. He missed the twinkle in her eyes, and he missed the way he felt with her, at ease, yet excited, comfortable with her, but at the same time longing for more.

And what of the princess? Brett tried to tell himself that, from what he had observed, she now seemed to be involving herself with more important men, men like Metternich and Talleyrand, men who were equally skilled at lovemaking and politics, men who could offer her far more than a lowly translator in the British delegation could. Yet he could not help feeling guilty about her. He genuinely enjoyed the princess’ company, appreciated her beauty and her charm, and despite her worldliness and her sophistication, he worried that his growing interest in her daughter was a betrayal of her trust.

He did not like it, but he could not help himself.

So he found himself knocking on a particular door in the Braunerstrasse at an hour that Helena, and possibly her mother, were most likely to be at home.

As always, the princess welcomed him graciously, but it seemed to him that she was preoccupied. Once she would have concentrated all her efforts on keeping him amused and enthralled; now she was simply conversational. Or was this all wishful thinking on his part?

The first two times Brett had called in the Braunerstrasse, hoping against hope to see Helena, her mother had been alone, and somehow, the half an hour he had spent with her seemed endless. But the third time he called, while the princess was regaling him with descriptions of the way in which the various delegations were celebrating Christmas, Helena entered the room in search of ink.

“Ink? Here? But you are the one who uses it most, so I have instructed that it be kept in the library.” Nonplussed, the princess opened her eyes wide in astonishment.

Helena flushed ever so slightly, but said nothing as she took a seat in a chair near the stove.

Comprehension dawned and the princess’ delicately raised eyebrows settled back into their customary position. “I was just about to explain to the major here the German custom of the
Christbaum.”

“It is more a Prussian custom, than a German one actually.” Helena wrinkled her nose in a way Brett found particularly endearing, though he had not the least idea why. “And the Prussians claim that it originated with them. They call it a
Weihbaum,
a— At any rate, Papa saw it when he was visiting relatives in Berlin, and now every year at the schloss we also have a Christmas tree. Sophie and Gussie adore it, though I do not suppose we will have one here.” Her voice trailed off as she thought of the two girls back in Hohenbachern and how much she missed their company. “Every year we would go out and choose just the right fir tree from the woods near the schloss, chop it down and bring it home to decorate with garlands and candles. Then we hung presents on it. It was ever so pretty.”

Something in her face, and the wistful note in her voice, filled Brett with an overwhelming urge to ride off into the forests covering the hills outside of the city and seek out just the perfect tree for her. But during his months in Vienna, he had learned that the Austrians had rules for everything, and undoubtedly they had rules about cutting trees. Besides which, the Austrian police were everywhere. If he were even allowed to get near the forest without polite but firm interference, it was highly unlikely that he would be able to bring back a tree.

He stifled the thought and began instead to describe the Christmas customs at Stanford Hall, the visitors from neighboring estates, the Yule log, the servants’ party. “But we do not celebrate much ourselves. It is chiefly an opportunity for Mama and my sisters to demonstrate their charity to those less fortunate and to insure the continuing good service from the staff in the coming year by entertaining them and presenting them with gifts on Boxing Day.”

He had not meant to sound bitter, in fact, he did not even realize that he did sound bitter until he became aware of Helena’s eyes fixed on him sympathetically.

“I am afraid that Sophie and Gussie, and even Mama”—Helena smiled indulgently at the princess— “are far too excited over their own presents to think of the misfortunes of others, but we too have a feast to which everyone is invited.”