Stolen Splendor (18 page)

So that was it! Sophia fumed, her topaz eyes narrowing
at the petite woman. "You have been intercepting my letters to Stefan,
haven't you?" she queried, her voice a grating whisper. "You've never
accepted my relationship with your brother, and now you wish to destroy
it." She gripped Isabel's arm. "Well, it won't work, my dear
Countess. There is nothing you can do that will tear us apart."

Isabel stepped back as if she had been struck, Sophia's
unwarranted accusation ringing in her ears. "I know nothing of your
letters," she retorted heatedly, visibly shaking, "but as to the
other charge, yes, it is true. I have never liked you, or your liaison"
—she spat out the word— "with my brother."

She wrenched her arm free of Sophia's grasp, fury
overwhelming her, all thought of restraint banished from her mind. "As for
tearing you and Stefan apart, it appears that unremarkable feat has already
been accomplished. He has found another—" She bit off the words, her hand
flying to her mouth.

Sophia blanched, her gaze widening in disbelief.
"What do you mean . . . he has found another? Another what?"

Isabel decided quickly, throwing back her shoulders.
She would face Stefan's wrath—for he would no doubt hear of this exchange from
Sophia—regardless of what else she said.

"As I told you before, my dear Archduchess,"
she mimicked with unaccustomed sarcasm, "I do not speak for my brother.
But you may ask him yourself about the woman he will wed. He is planning to
visit your estate this very day." With that Isabel whirled around, her
slender back straight and proud, and walked across the room, where she joined a
group of guests applauding a musician seated at a harpsichord.

The woman he will wed . . . the woman he will wed.
Isabel's words echoed in Sophia's mind as she stood there, scarcely able to
breathe. When she did at last inhale, low, husky laughter erupted from her
throat.

"She lies, of course," Sophia whispered under
her breath, her ears deaf to the strains of melodic music drifting through the
drawing room. Isabel had never liked her, not that she cared in the least, and
now she was spreading malicious lies in an obvious ploy to drive her and Stefan
apart.

She would go back to her estate and wait for him,
Sophia told
herself
, moving with statuesque grace to
the door of the drawing room, a smile frozen on her lips as she nodded her
good-byes. He would hold her in his arms and caress her, and tell her it was nothing
but a lie . . .

Chapter 17

"Adolph, you must let me know the moment you see
him," Sophia admonished from her dressing table, glancing at the misshapen
little man, a dwarf since birth, standing on his tiptoes and peering out the
window. He nodded in reply, intent on his appointed task. She turned back to
the mirror, her attention riveted once again on the ministrations of the two
serving maids hovering over her.

"Ouch! Take care with that, you stupid fool!"
she snapped at the youngest maid, who was quickly unrolling the still warm clay
curling tubes from Sophia's long, mahogany tresses. The girl jumped at the
sudden reprimand, her shaking fingers inadvertently snagging another loose
strand of her mistress's hair.

"That's enough!" Sophia exploded, wheeling in
her chair, her beautiful face contorted in anger. "Will you pull every
hair from my head, girl? Leave me at once! Marietta will finish your tasks.
Go!"

"For-forgive me, milady," the hapless girl
stammered, bobbing an awkward curtsy. With tears swimming in her eyes she cast
a sideways glance at the other maid, then fled from the room.

"I thought you said she was well trained in
dressing hair, Marietta," Sophia muttered tersely, settling back in front
of the silver-framed mirror, her almond-shaped eyes scrutinizing her own
reflection. Her slender fingers drummed impatiently on the dressing table as
the matronly maid expertly lifted her hair and patted a light dusting of fine
powder along her alabaster shoulders and long throat.

"Aye, well trained she is, mistress,"
Marietta replied calmly, accustomed by now to Sophia's outbursts. She had been
in her employ since the archduchess had come to this house nine years ago as a
bride, and could well remember the many times she had cried into her pillow at
night, swearing she could never last another day with such a woman. But she had
stayed, and by her stoic fortitude and patience had won Sophia's grudging
respect. "But she is unused to working in such haste."

Sophia sighed with exasperation, but said no more, her
lips drawn into a tight line. She watched in silence as Marietta deftly brushed
out her thick hair and wound it atop her head in an elaborate coiffure,
securing it with three gold combs set with seed pearls and square-cut emeralds.
Then the maid applied her favorite perfume, a heady mixture of bergamot, musk,
and amber imported from Spain, to her throat, behind her ears, pierced by
glittering emerald earrings, and along the lush curve of her breasts.

"He comes, milady," Adolph said
matter-of-factly in his high-pitched, nasal voice. He watched, unblinking, as
Stefan rode up the drive on his black stallion and dismounted before the front
entrance of the von Starenberg villa, then he dropped the hem of the brocade
curtain he had been holding in his stubby fingers and waddled over to the
dressing table. "Shall I meet him in the hall?"

Sophia rose so suddenly that he had to step back for
fear the stiff whalebone hoopskirt beneath her voluminous gown would bowl him
over. She looked distractedly at him. "Yes, yes, Adolph, greet him. I will
be down in a few moments."

Adolph nodded, his piercing black eyes, overshadowed by
his protruding forehead, studying her intently. He hadn't seen her so agitated
before, though she
was struggling
to maintain a facade
of nonchalance, nor so pathetically haunted. An almost imperceptible hint of
fear hung about her like a cloying fragrance.

"What are you waiting for, Adolph?" she
demanded irritably, shoving him forward with a rough push on his narrow
shoulder. "Be off with you. Run!"

Adolph lost his balance and fell to the floor, grunting
as the breath was knocked from his compact body. He struggled to sit up but
could not; then, using a trick he had learned in the traveling menagerie where
he had performed on a stage with puppets and monkeys, he brought his stunted
arms against his chest and began to roll across the floor until he had gained
enough momentum to right himself, bounding from his knees to his feet.

"And enough of your tricks," Sophia called
out after him as he scampered through the door and ran down the hall as fast as
his short legs could carry him.

Wheezing and puffing, Adolph took perverse pleasure in
kicking Sophia's white Persian cat away from the top step of the staircase,
where it was lolling sleepily. Its startled yowl echoed in the hall below. A
lopsided grin split his reddened face as he hurried down the stairs, holding on
to the railing so he would not fall, and once at the bottom, he took a moment
to straighten his cropped coat. Then he strutted self-importantly up to Stefan,
who turned from a portrait of Sophia he was studying.

"Milady bids you welcome, Count von
Furstenberg," he stated formally, with a curt nod of his large head. He
flourished his arm toward the salon. "I am Adolph. If you will follow
me."

Stefan's gaze flickered over the little man, though he
quickly masked his initial surprise. So it appeared Sophia had acquired a new
servant while he was in Hungary, he thought, noting Adolph's flushed face and
the sweat streaming from his brow. He was struck most by the coldness in his
eyes, an impenetrable veil which, no doubt, hid the life of suffering he had
endured due to his deformity.

"Lead on," Stefan murmured, following him
into the white-paneled and gilt salon.

Stefan took a seat in a soft armchair, watching as
Adolph poured him a brandy. The dwarf's short fingers fumbled with the crystal
stopper in the decanter, and he almost dropped it.

Stefan frowned, turning to look out the window at the
crisp, sunny day. He doubted he would ever grow accustomed to this latest
passion of the aristocracy to possess these unfortunate beings, using them as
servants and confidants, treating some as nothing more than pampered pets. Even
the emperor and his wife kept a pair of dwarfs, cosseted and bejeweled favorites
of the court, who often stood at Their Majesties' elbows during court
functions.

"Thank you, Adolph, I will see to that."
Sophia's husky voice interrupted Stefan's disapproving thoughts. He rose
abruptly from his chair as she glided into the room with seductive grace and
took the snifter of brandy from her servant's outstretched hands.

"Leave us now, Adolph," she said sweetly,
though her eyes flashed as she looked down at him.

Adolph nodded and hurried from the room, reaching up on
tiptoe to close first one, then the other of the double doors. Sophia waited,
her heart hammering within her breast, until the staccato tapping of his boots
died away before she spoke, breaking at last the thick silence that had
descended over the room.

"I've missed you," she said simply, her ivory
satin gown swishing against the carpeted floor as she moved toward Stefan,
smiling provocatively. She held out the snifter to him, but he merely set it
down on the table next to the chair.

Stefan's eyes swept appreciatively over her. Sophia was
as stunning as ever, an incredibly desirable woman many a man would sell his
soul to possess. It was no wonder he had been so drawn to her just over a year
ago when they had first met, at a dinner gala at the Belvedere, Prince Eugene's
summer palace. She had everything a man could want in a mistress, beauty,
poise, and a sensual appetite that had amazed and delighted him time and again.
But he no longer had need of a mistress . . .

Sophia thrilled at the open admiration in his gaze, her
overwhelming relief making her limbs tremble. Isabel had lied!
she
exulted, so close to him now, she could feel the warmth
emanating from his powerful body. With a sudden movement she wound her slim
arms about his neck, nuzzling against him, at any moment expecting to feel the
exciting pressure of his arms tightening as he returned her embrace.

"Oh, Stefan," she breathed, her pulse racing
wildly. She tilted her head back, her half-closed eyes laden with desire, her
parted lips aching for his kiss.

Stefan stared at her upturned face for the briefest
moment,
then
brought his hands to the curve of her
waist. With determined resolve he lifted her arms from his neck and drew them
down to her sides.

It was the simplest of gestures. Yet in that fleeting
moment, Sophia knew Isabel had spoken the truth.

"Sophia, I haven't much time," Stefan began,
stepping away from her. "There is something we must discuss—"

"Who is she?" Sophia broke in, her back to
him now, her voice strangely hollow.

Stefan started. How could she possibly have known?
he
wondered. Then he shrugged. He would never fathom the
uncanny intuitions of women.

"You met her at the Hofburg . . . Lady Kassandra
Wyndham," Stefan said evenly. "If you recall, she's the daughter of
Isabel's betrothed, Lord Harrington."

Lady Kassandra Wyndham. The name struck like a dagger
into Sophia's heart, and she fiercely bit her lower lip to keep from crying
out. The bitter pain of this confirmation was almost more than she could bear.
"She is your . . . new mistress, then?" she queried almost hopefully.
She glanced at him, refusing to believe Isabel's words.

Stefan shook his head. "Sophia, there has never
been any deception between us, and I will not have it now. I have decided to
marry Lady Kassandra as soon as her father returns from Hanover and gives his
consent. I think it is best, meanwhile, for our relationship to cease."

Sophia looked away, tremendous fury flaring within her,
quelling all other emotions. No! She was to become Countess von Furstenberg,
she raged, not some English bitch who was little more than a schoolgirl!
Somehow she found her voice, forcing it to remain calm. "Her father is in
Germany? Ah yes, I had almost forgotten. When do you expect his return,
Stefan?"

"By spring," Stefan replied tersely.
"Though it is my hope it will be earlier."

Sophia's eyes glittered ferally, a slow smile curving
her lips. Then all was not lost, she mused. Spring was yet a long time away.
She whirled to face him.

"I am so happy for you, Stefan!" she
exclaimed, bustling forward and kissing him lightly on the cheek. "Truly I
am. And of course, it stands to reason our relationship must cease . . . for
now. It would hardly be suitable for us to continue our present arrangement,
considering you lack the good ambassador's consent. As an Englishman, he is
hardly versed in our Viennese customs." She chuckled knowingly. "You
would not have him thinking you were a rogue."

Stefan studied her beautiful face with wry amusement.
He was pleased she was taking his news so well, though for a moment he had
begun to have his doubts.

He relaxed. It seemed he had not underestimated her
good sense after all. As to her insinuation they might continue their affair at
some later point, perhaps after his marriage—well, for now he would let it go.
It was enough that she had accepted his news with such obvious grace.
Eventually he would have to make it very clear that his burning desire for
Kassandra left no room in his life for any other woman.

"Let us share a drink to your marriage,
Stefan," Sophia suggested suddenly, interrupting his thoughts. She poured
herself a good measure of sherry while Stefan picked up the brandy snifter,
then
held the crystal goblet in front of her. "To your
future bride . . . Countess von Furstenberg."