Rebecca Hagan Lee (44 page)

"You're jealous," Leah pronounced. "And that's what's botherin' you."

"I'm not bothered," Cristina insisted stubbornly. "In fact, I'm rather amused by it all."

"I can see for myself just how amused you are, so stop pretendin'."

"I'm not pretending, Leah. I'm over Blake for good."

"Then why're you so twisted up in knots over him?"

"I simply want him to leave so that I can get on with my life," Cristina answered.

"You don't have a life without Lord Blake."

"Oh, yes, I do. Blake broke my heart fifteen months ago and it's taken me a while to put it back together, but now that it's back together I intend to keep it intact."

"What about Mister Roderick Baker? You seem to have forgotten all about him. Remember him--the man you're thinkin' about marryin'?" Leah pointed out.

"I'm not forgetting anything. It's just that nothing's been decided yet."

"I wonder...," Leah mused aloud.

"Meaning?"

"Meanin' I think things were decided a long time ago--about two years ago--to be exact."

"You're wrong, Leah."

"I don't think so. You weren't interested in Roderick Baker before Lord Blake came to New York. I don't think you want young Mr. Baker at all except as a way to make Lord Blake jealous."

"That's not true."

Leah raised an eyebrow at Cristina's bald-faced lie.

Cristina sank down into the chair in front of the dresser and began idly pulling a brush through her curls. She glared at the mirror and her gaze locked with Leah's. "Believe me, Leah, I don't love Blake anymore."

"You can't make me believe somethin' you don't really believe yourself,"

Leah replied fiercely before she stepped through the doorway and closed the door behind her.

I don't love him anymore. Cristina repeated the statement over and over again in her mind after Leah left the room, trying to convince herself. I don't love him anymore. But it was an exercise in futility. She did love him.

She always would. And she knew it.

Watching him casually flirting with the young debutantes at Mrs. Morgan's garden party during the afternoon had brought the fact home to Cristina like an arrow piercing her heart. She still loved him and more than that, she was jealous. She might deny it to Leah, but she didn't intend to deny it to herself any longer. She was jealous of the carefree debs who made Blake smile and laugh. She wanted to be the one to do that. And she wanted Blake to look at her with laughing, indulgent eyes, just as he had during those brief magical months in Vienna.

Cristina had been afraid really to look at him since her birthday, but at this afternoon's garden party she had given in to the unbearable urge and gorged herself on the sight of him. And what she saw surprised her. He looked different in the light of day--handsome still, but older, leaner, and harder than she remembered.

She hadn't noticed the difference in him that night on the terrace. She had been too stunned by his sudden appearance to notice the silver strands in his hair or the haunted, almost driven look that appeared in his eyes at times.

But at the afternoon garden party she had seen the subtle changes she'd failed to see before. And Cristina bled a little inside at the visible signs of his suffering. She suddenly realized how long she'd been fooling herself into believing she no longer cared what happened to him. And she realized how selfish she had been in assuming she had been the only one to suffer.

The death of their child had left as many scars on Blake's heart as it had left on hers. He had left her alone in Vienna in her hour of need, but he had been just as needy. And he had broken her heart by failing to come for her, but she had broken his, too, by failing to believe in him that night at the Christmas ball--that horrible night Meredith had come back from the dead to wreak havoc on their lives.

She didn't hate Blake. She never had, because she loved him too much. And Cristina knew that as long as she lived, she would continue to love him and forgive him anything.

He had suffered, too. For fifteen months Cristina had told herself that Blake hadn't really cared for her. He had taken Nicholas's tiny body and disappeared, leaving her alive and wounded in Vienna when she needed him most.

She had sworn she would never forgive him for leaving her behind. She had wanted to go with him. She had needed to be with him, to grieve with him over the loss of the baby they had created, to comfort him and be comforted in return--but Blake had left her bereft of all comfort.

Cristina's broken arm and bruised ribs had healed in weeks, but her heart had never really mended. She had lain in the bedroom in the Ringstrasse apartment for weeks after Blake had left, dry-eyed and staring at the walls.

Nothing had touched her. Even Leah's sorrow failed to make an impression on her as she pulled deeper and deeper inside herself. Cristina had lost more than her baby and her lover that New Year's Day in Vienna; she had lost her fire, her sparkle--the thing inside her that made her fight to survive. She lay in bed for weeks wishing for death, hoping the Almighty would be merciful and take her, too. Hadn't He vengefully taken everything else?

She might have stayed in that bed forever if Cason hadn't bullied her into journeying to New York. He and Leah had made her leave her safe haven. Even Rudolf had aided them--Rudolf, who had wanted her for a mistress, who had impulsively offered to marry her then had refused to give her use of the little house near St. Stephen's. He had gently but firmly told Cristina he had a new mistress and was content. He didn't need a second mistress, even her.

Their "bargain" had come to an end and the best thing Cristina could do for herself was to leave Austria and join her father in America. Rudolf had told her there was no place for her in his father's empire. But Cristina would have defied even the emperor and remained in Vienna close to her baby--waiting for Blake to return.

She would have stayed, but Blake's note had forced her to leave. She had read it so often she'd memorized it. Cristina, he had written, forgive me for the pain I've unwittingly brought to you. You should have had more to show for your suffering than this. I never meant to hurt you and I don't want to hurt you now, but by the time you wake up I'll be on my way to London. My presence will only bring you more pain. So I ask that when you feel sufficiently able, you travel to New York. Your father is waiting there for you with open arms.

Go to him, Cristina. Leave Vienna and all its memories behind. Always, Blake.

Three months after the bombing, Cristina and Leah had boarded the train for Paris and from there to LeHavre, where they caught a ship bound for New York.

And after fifteen interminable months, Blake had followed her to New York and turned her life upside down. He was here as a guest of her father's and residing under the same roof only one room away. She thought about that as she got up from the dressing table and began to pace. Blake was here and she still loved him. He was the only man who made her feel whole and alive.

She wanted Blake and she was willing to risk everything to have him back again. She was willing to swallow her stupid pride and try to win him back.

She knew she might fail, but if she succeeded... if she succeeded, everything she did, every morsel of humble pie she ate would be worthwhile. And she would succeed. She had to. She would pull out all the stops and use every weapon in her arsenal to make her dream come true.

Once she had promised him always and she intended to keep her promise. From now on she planned to stick to Blake like glue and pretty soon the poor man wouldn't know what hit him. She was experienced. She knew Blake and she knew his weakness for her, that certain gleam in his dark eyes, and she would be damned if she forgot her promise again or allowed him to toss her aside for some garden-party virgin.

In the room next to Cristina's, Blake lay on the bed, arms stacked beneath his head, listening to the sounds of her restless pacing. He smiled at the darkness as he imagined Cristina scantily clad in a thin, silk nightgown angrily measuring the length of her room while the rest of the house slept undisturbed. There was, he supposed, some consolation in knowing that she was unable to sleep, but he couldn't help wondering and worrying about the reason for her restlessness. What was she planning? She had refused to leave her room for dinner and he and William had spent the dinner hour exchanging theories concerning her odd behavior.

After enjoying brandy and cigars with her father, Blake had returned to his room and listened to Cristina's pacing for what seemed like hours. Although Blake enjoyed the images his mind conjured up of Cristina in various moods and states of undress, he wasn't sure how much more he could stand. He was only human, after all, and it was almost impossible to keep from breaking down her door, throwing her on the bed, and making passionate love to her. The waiting was agony.

The house grew silent and Blake gradually realized that Cristina had stopped her pacing. He wondered uneasily if she had decided to give him another chance. He had never known what to expect where she was concerned, but oh, how he loved her and oh, how he wanted her! It was hard to pretend he didn't. And getting more difficult by the moment. Pretending that Roderick Baker's squiring her about town didn't bother the bloody hell out of him was damned near impossible, but that's what he was doing. And Blake fervently prayed his whole scheme wouldn't blow up in his face.

He hadn't planned to ignore her, had in fact planned to court her as he should have courted her in London. But her resistance on the terrace on the night of her birthday party had come as a shock and her scathing remarks on the dance floor had cut him deep enough to make him bleed. But Blake had come too far to be daunted. He loved her too much to give up now when there was a chance for them to be together. And so he had suddenly found himself promising to treat her as she wished to be treated--even if that meant taking her at her word and leaving her alone.

It was a simple plan to make her jealous and Blake had reluctantly followed through. And during the past few weeks he'd been tempted more than once to give up and admit defeat, but the afternoon garden party had changed everything.

While he pretended to ignore her, he had been aware of Cristina's every move. He had felt her gaze following him all afternoon and once or twice he had looked around to find her emerald-green eyes shooting sparks at him and his female companions. Her attention was so completely focused on him that she was barely aware of Baker hovering at her side. Twice during the afternoon, Blake had noticed the two of them arguing and heard Cristina's curt, irritable replies. They had given him hope. And when Blake hurried to the Fifth Avenue mansion and found himself met at the door by an angry Cristina who was demanding explanations, the confrontation had increased his optimism.

And tonight, lying in bed listening to the quiet after the storm, he had begun to believe once more in the power of love.

The ruling passion, be it what it will

The ruling passion conquers reason still.

--ALEXANDER POPE 1688-1744

*Chapter Twenty-eight*

"Good morning."

"You're up early this morning." William Fairfax greeted his daughter as she sat down to breakfast.

"I wanted to catch you before you left for work," Cristina responded, then looked around and noticed they were alone. "Where is Lord Lawrence? Still sleeping? I expected him to be breakfasting with you."

Cristina was ending her second week in the assault on Blake's senses and was effectively increasing her arsenal.

William scrutinized his daughter closely, noting the unusual care that had gone into her early-morning toilette. Things were definitely looking up.

"New dress?" he asked casually.

"Yes. Do you like it?" Cristina smiled, glad there was someone at the breakfast table to notice her, even if it was the wrong someone.

"It's charming, Cristy, brief but charming, and I'm afraid it's wasted on me. Lord Lawrence left earlier this morning."

"Left?" Cristina echoed in dismay.

William nodded an affirmative. "He packed up his things and moved into a hotel at dawn this morning. He said he didn't dare risk seeing you and still be able to keep his word. The man has nearly drained this house of cold water these past two weeks," William commented with some amusement. "This is the first time that a guest of mine has had to leave because he didn't trust himself not to molest my daughter."

"I didn't want him to leave," Cristina admitted honestly. "I just wanted him to notice me."

"Oh, he noticed you all right. You haven't been exactly subtle. I've never seen so many daringly low-cut gowns. They must have cost me a fortune. And I think the dress you wore at dinner last night just about did him in."

Cristina smiled. She had worn the same dress she had worn to her presentation two years earlier, but she had had the bodice cut much lower. The effect was as devastating as she had hoped it would be. Blake had remembered.

She could see it in his eyes.

"By the way," William was saying, "Blake left you a gift." He handed her a small wrapped box. "He said it was something to go with the gown you wore last night. Something to remember him by."

Cristina tore the paper off the box and quickly opened it. Pulling aside the silver tissue paper, she found that the box contained a white silk shawl embroidered with roses and bows. The word "cover" was scrawled across a white card in Blake's bold hand.

Cristina closed the box and hugged it to her chest. He had remembered. More than he liked, she bet.

"Cristy?"

"Yes, Papa."

"I was saying that it's just as well Blake left the house. People are beginning to think you're an outrageous flirt or that you happen to fancy Lord Lawrence instead of your current suitor. And that's shocking in a young woman who's supposed to be considering a young man's proposal." William fought to keep the sparkle of suppressed laughter from showing in his blue eyes.

"I wanted to talk to you about that." Cristina cleared her dry throat.