Melting the Snow Queen Read online

  His glimpses of Alba were his only real pleasure during dinner. She smiled at her brother, revealing a much more natural and attractive side to her. She was meant to laugh, and yet she rarely did. Could she really still suffer from a broken heart, five years after the death of her young love?

  He liked to see that she did not exclude the chaplain from her conversation. Less pleasant was the way the fellow tried to seize her interest and keep it for himself. If Volkov had to guess, he would have said that the chaplain was in love with her—or, at least, trying to fix the interest of his employer’s spinster daughter, the heiress. Volkov knew instinctively that bird would not fly, but he was still inclined to resent Harper for his impertinence until he caught his own thoughts and laughed at himself.

  When the duchess rose from the table and departed with her daughters, he didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry. Gone was the delight of glancing at Alba, but so too was the torture of strained conversation.

  “Well, I’ve got to hand it to you,” Oscar said, shoving the port toward him. “You’ve got round my stepmother beautifully.”

  “I have?”

  “Definitely. She smiled at you. I expect she likes you taking the trouble with poor Rosie. My little sister is just out the school room—not quite used to company, yet.”

  “Your family is charming,” Volkov said civilly. For one thing, he was very conscious of the chaplain’s presence. For another, he knew better than to contaminate a friendship with brutal honesty about a man’s family.

  Oscar grinned, clearly aware of his politeness and his true thoughts. “Oh, yes. I warned you how it would be.” He raised his glass to his companions. “Your health, gentlemen.”

  Conversation around the chaplain was somewhat limiting, so they didn’t linger terribly long over their port.

  “Let me do you a favor,” Oscar murmured as they followed some way behind the chaplain. “Just take your congé like a man.” So saying, he sauntered into the drawing room and threw himself into the vacant seat on the sofa beside Rose. “How are you doing, squib? I see they’ve let you out of the schoolroom.”

  Rose seethed with indignation and the duchess glared at Oscar.

  Alba sat some distance away, on the window seat, working on some embroidery in a round frame. Volkov wandered over to her and glanced out of the window in the fading light. “What is it that glitters in the distance?” he asked.

  “Marshes. We live on the edge of fenlands. In fact, at least half of our land was reclaimed from the marshes a hundred or so years ago.”

  “Can we walk there? Or ride?”

  “Of course. Oscar will be glad to show you around.”

  “You will not join us?”

  “I’ve been there before.”

  “You’ll find something new showing the area to a stranger.”

  Her eyes lifted from the embroidery. “You are very persistent, Prince Volkov.”

  Encouraged, he sat down beside her. “Then you’ll come?”

  “No, I shall be busy tomorrow.”

  “On embroidery?” he asked, leaning slightly closer to look at her work. To his surprise, it was not a thing of great beauty. Undainty flowers had been joined together by a kind of random chain. Beside them, a watering can had been given two knotted eyes and a large, unevenly curved mouth.

  His lips twitched and he glanced up to meet her ruefully smiling gaze.

  “I’ve been working on the same piece since I was fifteen years old,” she confided. “I haven’t got any better at it. Or less bored with it.”

  “Then why do you do it?”

  “Her Grace believes a lady should always be busy with something. Rose, for example, does very fine stitching.”

  It entered Volkov’s head that he was meant to see both and compare Alba’s unfavorably with Rose’s. In fact, a quick glance in the younger girl’s direction surprised a smile of triumph on her lips. It was the same sort of smile she’d cast at Alba at the dining table. There was some sort of ridiculous jealousy at play here, inspired, he suspected, by the duchess.

  “I wonder,” he said thoughtfully, “how many men are induced to propose marriage by the beauty of a lady’s embroidery?”

  “None, I should think. I never understood why we are supposed to acquire all these accomplishments which, in my experience, most ladies never return to once they’re married.”

  “But I expect you have a theory,” he observed, sitting forward and half turning toward her.

  “I do, but you won’t like it.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “I think it’s so that men can feel superior and condescending when they are able to complement us on something they have no interest in and are therefore not in competition over.”

  Volkov laughed. “You may have a point. Though I’m not sure whether it’s the men or the young ladies who’re being manipulated. Or by whom. But look on the bright side. No gentleman will be allowed that condescension over your embroidery.”

  “That is very true.”

  “I, however, like it. May I give it to my niece? She will love the watering can.”

  Alba eyed him with suspicion. “I haven’t finished it yet.”

  “Will you ever?”

  “Before I die. Probably.”

  “Then I would take it unfinished.”

  “Well, you can’t. How would I please Her Grace, then?”

  “You could start another.”

  She shuddered. “Goodness, no. It would take me decades to get this far again.”

  The humor in her eyes enchanted him. Then her gaze flickered across the room. Following the direction, he caught the glare aimed at her by both the duchess and Rose. He wondered what she had done wrong.

  Her breath caught. “Do you know what?” she said with sudden brittleness. “You shall have it now.” With quick, careless fingers, she unpinned the linen from its frame and presented it to him, needle and all.

  “Thank you. But it was never my intention to make you angry.”

  She began impetuously. “It was not you who—” She broke off, flushing. “I’m sorry. It seems I am not fit for company.”

  “You should let the company decide that.”

  She met his gaze. “I did not expect you to be kind.”

  “Oh, I’m not,” he assured her. “Ask anyone.”

  “Do you like music, Prince?” the duchess asked, crossing to the pianoforte and opening the lid. “Oscar has just been asking Rose to show him how she has improved on this instrument.”

  From Alba’s sudden intake of breath, Volkov was sure Oscar had never asked any such thing in his life.

  “Yes, I love music,” Volkov replied. “And would very much like to hear Lady Rose.”

  The poor girl looked a nervous mix of terror and eagerness. Alba stood, dropping the embroidery frame on the seat and went to her sister. “Come, I’ll help you choose the music,” she said kindly.

  Rose looked stunned and then suspicious, but when she eventually sat down to play, she seemed calmer. Alba turned the music for her.

  Inevitably, it was not a great performance, but Volkov had heard worse, not least from his own sisters, and was happy to applaud and praise at the end. He even requested another, and after the required show of reluctance, Rose sat back down and played with pride. Volkov was more curious to hear Alba play, but somehow, he knew suggesting it would be the wrong thing to do.

  There was something wrong with this family. And he couldn’t understand why Alba had been in such a hurry to get back here.

  The ladies retired early, but any hope he might have harbored of Alba staying to keep her brother company quickly vanished. She wished Volkov a cool goodnight and withdrew her hand immediately when he kissed it. She wore a faint, civil smile that did not touch her eyes and she clearly had no regrets whatsoever about leaving the room.

  Snow Queen indeed.

  ***

  He awoke to the pleasant sound of birds’ songs mingling with children’s laughter. He’d had n
o idea there were children in the house. Rising from the bed, he stretched prodigiously and reached for his breeches. A moment later, he drew back the curtains and looked down on the rose garden where he had found Alba yesterday.

  This morning, there were two children playing tag, a boy and a girl of perhaps ten years old. They were so alike in height and facial features that he suspected they were twins. They were about the same age his eldest sister’s children would be now, and for a moment he ached for home. He had not been to his own estates for two years. He should be petitioning the Tsar for permission to go home, not to pursue an unattainable obsession in England.

  On the thought, his unattainable obsession wandered into view. She wore a morning dress of sky blue and her hair was carelessly pinned. She looked ravishing. The children ran to her and here, at last, he saw signs of normal family affection. The snow queen didn’t melt, precisely, but she smiled and hugged them quite naturally and, on instruction, turned her back and began to count while the children vanished in different directions.

  Volkov snatched up his coat and left the room.

  ***

  Alba had found last night’s dinner unsettling, though she didn’t know how much of that to blame on Prince Volkov and how much on her stepmother. She could not understand Her Grace’s single-minded determination to push Rose out into society before she was anywhere near ready for the experience. At least, she thought she had induced Rose to stop regarding her as the enemy, though she didn’t know how long that would last. All things considered, this was not the homecoming she had longed for.

  But at least she could still play hide-and-seek with the children.

  When it was her turn to hide, she chose a large bush at the edge of the rose garden. When she heard Kai approach along the path, she simply scurried around the bush and crouched at its other side. However, as the footsteps came nearer, she realized they were too heavy to be Kai’s. They were a grown man’s boots strolling up the path…not the shuffle of the gardener, and she knew Oscar’s habit too well to imagine he would be up much before midday. Her heart beat faster, but cravenly, she stayed hidden. The Russian disturbed her, and the feeling was not comfortable.

  His footsteps paused by the bush. Something rustled and swished and the next moment, Volkov crouched down beside her. He was so close she could smell the soap he used, spicy and exotic. He hadn’t shaved and dark stubble shadowed his strong jaw. His coat gaped, unfastened over his open-necked shirt. Alba, unused to such informality, felt swamped by this sudden intimacy, but he didn’t appear to notice.

  “Who are we hiding from?”

  “Kai, and you’re giving me away. Hush!”

  But it was too late. Kai rushed upon them with glee, Gerda running behind. “Found you!”

  “Drat,” Alba exclaimed, springing up before Volkov could offer assistance.

  He straightened more slowly. “Good morning,” he said amiably to the children.

  “Are you playing, too?” Kai asked.

  “Are you Oscar’s Russian friend?” Gerda inquired. “What’s your name?”

  “Don’t bombard the poor man,” Alba protested. “Sir, these are my youngest brother and sister, Lord Kaiden and Lady Gertrude, better known as Kai and Gerda. Children, a polite bow, if you please, to Prince Volkov.”

  “Are you really a prince?” Gerda asked, awed as she made a small bob of a curtsey. “Do we have to call you Your Highness?”

  “Lord, no, I’m not royalty. You can call be Yuri Ivanovich, if you like—it would be considered perfectly polite in my country.”

  “Well, newest to the game has to seek first,” Kai warned. “So, cover your eyes and count to twenty.”

  “I think we’ve run out of time,” Alba said, espying their governess hastening across the garden. “Time for your lessons, and time for my breakfast.” Pausing only to inquire after Miss Ellington’s health—“So much better, so kind of you…”—Alba hastened back toward the house.

  Volkov fell into step beside her. “They are delightful children.”

  “I think so.”

  “Are they the real reason you came home?”

  She cast him a quick glance. “One reason. Most of my reasons are selfish.”

  “You enjoy your life here at Winbourne?” he asked so neutrally that she knew she’d been right. He had felt all the awkwardness of the previous evening.

  “I like the pace and quiet. Forgive me, but I did not expect there to be visitors, let alone a ball to contend with.”

  “You would rather I was not here?” he asked bluntly.

  Yes. You disturb my peace… Aloud, she said, “Winbourne is as much Oscar’s home as mine. He is quite at liberty to bring friends here as he chooses. You must not mind my hermit tendencies.”

  “You like being alone? What do you do when you are?”

  She blinked. “That is none of your business,” she said coldly.

  “I know.” Either he was unaware of her icy fury, or he chose to ignore it. “I’m just testing a theory.” He smiled, inclining his head. “I hope you’ll ride with us later.” And he strolled on his way toward the woods.

  Baffled and still angry at his intrusion, she stalked back into the house and went directly to the breakfast parlor.

  To her surprise, Oscar was already there, yawning, while the duchess bombarded him with questions about Prince Volkov. But Oscar, however he behaved in the army, didn’t greet mornings at home with his usual sunniness.

  “Dash it, ma’am, I don’t know anything about his wretched estates in Russia,” he exclaimed while Alba loaded her plate with food from the sideboard. “Let alone what they’re worth. I don’t know how old his title is, or whether he’s the eldest son. All I know is he fought at Borodino and all through the war of 1812. He lost a lot of friends and family and hasn’t been home in two years. He’s wild, drinks like a fish and most women love him. He’s also a dashed good man, excellent company, and a perfect gentleman. May I go now?”

  “Not until you explain your contradictions and tell me if he presents any danger to my daughter,” Her Grace snapped.

  “Not to any of my sisters,” Oscar retorted. “I told you he was a gentleman. Good God, would I have brought him here if he wasn’t? If you want my opinion—which I know you don’t—you won’t go throwing poor Rosie at him or anyone else for a good two years. She’s a child.”

  Her Grace flushed a dark, mottled red. “How dare you?” she uttered.

  “Because he’s Rose’s brother,” Alba said peaceably. “And he cares for her. As you know, I share his concerns about bringing her out so early. But as you say, she is your daughter and her care is up to you and His Grace.”

  The duchess threw up her hands. “I wash my hands of you!” She rose to her feet. “And I have too much to do before the ball to sit here arguing with you.”

  “If I can help with anything, tell me,” Alba called after her.

  Her stepmother snorted. “This is not your concern either!” she snapped as she left the room.

  Oscar blinked after her. “What the devil? You know what, Alba? I don’t think she wants us living here anymore.”

  “She’s being very odd,” Alba agreed. “Even for her. I can understand her wanting rid of me, but you’d think she’d try harder to marry me off. Instead, she seems to be trying to marry Rose off.”

  “His grace will put a stop to it,” Oscar said. Now that he was no longer harassed, his good nature was clearly returning.

  “I’m not so sure. She wouldn’t be going this far without his tacit approval.”

  “Well, if she thinks Volkov’s going to marry Rose, she’s got bats in her belfry.”

  Alba set her plate down on the table and sat beside Oscar. “I expect he’s not hanging out for a wife just yet, let alone a foreign one.”

  Oscar regarded her. “And then there’s the small matter that he’s obsessed with you.”

  Alba’s heart gave a peculiar twist. For some reason, it wasn’t unpleasant. “Why?” she manag
ed.

  “Why are any of ‘em?” Oscar said dryly. “I’m only your brother, so I don’t understand it.”

  “Well, I don’t suppose it’s an obsession that will last long when subjected to my morose and freezing company.”

  “Well, help him along, then. Go and put your riding habit on and come for a ride with us.”

  While Alba hesitated, the door opened and Cranston informed them that Mr. Bethurst had called.

  “Bethurst?” Oscar repeated before Alba could deny them. “Show him in here, Cranston.”

  A near-neighbor and family friend, Ralph Bethurst had used to be a frequent visitor at Winbourne, especially after Harry died. A year after the tragedy, he had proposed to Alba and been rejected. He had proposed pretty much every year since, and hadn’t seemed to grasp the fact that Alba would never marry him. He almost seemed to believe that each proposal gave him more right to Alba and to run tame at Winbourne. Both were attitudes that Alba disliked excessively.

  However, in face of Oscar’s instruction, there was little she could do but smile civilly at their guest.

  Ralph Bethurst was a fine-looking man, urbane, elegant, and manly. If she had never met Harry, perhaps she would have found him attractive. As it was, since Harry’s death, she had found him annoyingly…entitled.

  “Good morning!” he greeted them as he entered the room. “Welcome home, Alba, Oscar.”

  “How do you do, sir,” Alba said civilly, pouring him a cup of coffee.

  “Help yourself to breakfast,” Oscar invited. “And tell us what’s been happening in the neighborhood.”

  “Nothing, as usual,” Ralph said, loading up his plate. “In fact, the most exciting event has been the duchess’s invitation to the Winbourne ball, closely followed by the return of both of you—with some Russian princeling, we hear.”

  “Don’t be an ass, Bethurst,” Oscar drawled in a way that covered his annoyance. “He’s one of the Emperor’s entourage and an army officer. There isn’t really much ‘ling’ about him, is there, Alba?”