Stolen Splendor (26 page)

Kassandra's eyes drifted open and she gazed at the
bolted door with a glimmer of hope. Perhaps it might be possible for them to
find some happiness together after all, she considered, despite what had gone
before. She could no longer deny to
herself,
or him,
that she yearned for him with a passion beyond her understanding.

Perhaps what they had shared the night before signified
a new beginning. She could not help wondering if there might be something more
between them than desire, something not yet touched upon . . .

A soft rap at the door dispelled her thoughts. Could it
be Stefan? She smoothed the coverlet and ran trembling fingers through her
tangled hair, feeling as foolish as a blushing girl half her age.

"Come in," she called breathlessly.

Berdine opened the door. "I've summoned your bath,
milady."

Kassandra could barely mask her disappointment.
"Thank you, Berdine," she murmured, sinking back against the pillows.
Ah, well, she would go and find him when she was finished with her bath and
dressed. She waited until the maidservants had filled the porcelain tub, set
near the decorative heating stove in one corner of the room, before she threw
back the coverlet and swung her feet to the floor.

Berdine arranged the painted screen around the tub to
afford Kassandra some privacy as she stripped off her nightgown, pinned up her
hair, and stepped into the steaming water. She bathed hurriedly, much to the
surprise of the young maid, who was used to her lingering over her bath. Then
she was out of the tub and buffing herself dry with a thick towel as she walked
to the closet, leaving a trail of wet footprints upon the carpet.

Kassandra dressed with unusual care in an emerald silk
morning gown. Sitting impatiently at her dressing table, she bade Berdine not
to bother overmuch with her long hair. A few simple brushstrokes soon had it
gleaming with brilliant highlights, and two gold combs, her only decoration,
swept the heavy mass away from her forehead. She donned a pair of soft slippers
and skipped lightly toward the door.

"But milady, what about your meal?" Berdine
asked, glancing at the untouched tray.

"I'm not really hungry," she called over her
shoulder as she left the room. "But if you would like, Berdine, you're
welcome to it."

Kassandra paused in the corridor, looking both ways
before reaching a decision. Instead of walking toward the staircase, she turned
in the other direction, stopping when she came to Stefan's door.

She tested the doorknob, unable to resist the urge to
see if he was in his chamber. The door opened easily and she peeked inside, but
the room was empty. She began to close the door, but her curiosity got the better
of her and she ventured inside. She had never seen his chamber before last
night, and she was not surprised she could remember little about it.

The brightly lit room was extremely large, with a
massive fireplace at one end. It was sparsely furnished, almost
spartan,
the great bed near the tall windows the dominant
feature in the room. Her skin heated like wildfire as she drew closer, running
her hand along the brocade bedspread. She could almost sense Stefan's presence
there, vivid images of the night before flashing through her mind. She closed
her eyes, remembering. A long time passed before she left the room, her breath
caught in her throat, fearful that one of the servants might find her there.

Kassandra hurried past her door and continued down the
hallway, her steps light and buoyant. She felt happier than she had in months.
She almost ran down the stairs, checking first his library, which was dark and
empty, then the dining room. But there was no sign of Stefan, or anyone else
for that matter. Next she tried the kitchen, but its only occupants were the
cook and several maidservants, busily preparing the evening meal. Last she
tried the drawing room, nearly colliding with Isabel as she pushed open the
door.

"Kassandra!" Isabel gasped, stepping back in
surprise, the letters she had been holding now scattered on the floor. But she
merely laughed, a pretty smile lighting her features. "I was beginning to
wonder if you were going to spend the entire day abed." She bent down and
began to pick up her letters, and Kassandra knelt by her side to help.

"Forgive me, Isabel," she began, rising and
handing over several crisp packets. "The gala went much later than I had
imagined—"

"So Stefan told me," Isabel interjected.
"But come and sit down, and tell me everything." She settled in a
soft armchair near the harpsichord while Kassandra pulled out the high-backed
chair in front of the writing cabinet. "I had hoped to hear more from him,
but he was in such a hurry to be on his way this morning."

Kassandra glanced up sharply as she took her seat.
"On his way?"

"Yes. He left for the winter camp of the Imperial
army, a day's ride from here. But of course, you know all about it, Kassandra.
So tell me, was the gala absolutely splendid? If only I hadn't been plagued by
that awful headache. I would have loved to have been there."

"What winter camp?" Kassandra asked softly,
suddenly finding it difficult to breathe.

Isabel leaned forward in her chair. "Stefan did
not tell you?"

Kassandra shook her head, twisting the silken fabric of
her skirt.

"Why, just yesterday morning he said he'd be
leaving in about a week. He knows how much I dislike
to see
him go, so he always waits until the last moment to tell me anything. Then last
night, Prince Eugene told him he had to leave much earlier than expected. But I
cannot believe he didn't mention all this to you."

Isabel shrugged her delicate shoulders, sighing deeply.
"Men and their unfathomable passion for war," she murmured.
"They seem to think of little else." She quickly explained the camp's
purpose,
then
rushed on. "All Stefan really told
me was they are beginning preparations for the summer campaign against the
Turks. But where the Imperial army will strike, and when, is a most closely
guarded secret."

"How long will he be gone?" Kassandra
queried, her gaze focused blindly on some point in front of her, a hard lump in
her throat.

"Until early spring, I believe," Isabel
replied. She patted Kassandra's hand, noting with dismay that it was ice-cold.
"I'm truly sorry, Kassandra, that Stefan didn't tell you. As I said, he
had originally planned to leave at the end of the week, but then the most
unexpected thing happened last night at the gala. He was named commander in
chief of the camp—well, at least temporarily, until Prince Eugene takes full
command in the spring. I'm so proud of him. It's quite an honor. Perhaps his
mind was so full of his duties and responsibilities—"

"Of course, that must be it." Kassandra fixed
a smile upon her face as she squeezed Isabel's hand. "I'm sure he will
write a letter, and explain everything."

"Oh, I know he will," Isabel agreed, relieved
that she was taking the news so well. Though for the life of her, she could not
imagine why Stefan had neglected to apprise Kassandra of his plans. It was so
thoughtless of him.

Isabel paced the floor excitedly. "But we shall
have a marvelous time
together,
you and I, and the
days will pass so quickly, he will be back before we know it. And there is so
much to do before your wedding . . . I mean, there's certainly no harm in
beginning some preparations, Kassandra, your gown, your trousseau." She
paused, sighing. "I haven't received a single reply yet from Miles to any
of my letters, and heaven only knows if he has even received them due to this
nasty winter and all the snow. But I believe the last of our worries should be
receiving his consent to your marriage."

Isabel glanced down at the letters clutched in her
hand. "Speaking of which, I must have Zoltan take these into Vienna and
post them for me at once." She hurried to the door. "I'll be back in
a moment, Kassandra," she called over her shoulder. "Say a prayer
that one of these letters reaches your father." Then she was gone.

Kassandra sat motionless in her chair, silence
descending over the room like a suffocating vapor. So Stefan had known he was
leaving . . . and hadn't bothered to tell her. Cold fury welled up inside her.
Not even last night, when they lay in each other's arms after . . . after . . .

"Damn you to hell, Stefan von Furstenberg!" Kassandra
raged under her breath, rising to her feet so suddenly that the chair fell to
the carpeted floor with a resounding thud. She stormed to the window, her arms
clasped tightly to her chest as she stared out across the snow-covered lawn.

It was all so painfully clear, she thought bitterly,
swallowing hard against the tears stinging her eyes. Obviously she was good
enough to bear the brunt of his endearing lies . . . and his lust, but hardly
worth including in other facets of his life!

Kassandra felt almost a physical pain as the promising
notions she had entertained so briefly vanished from her mind like whispering
phantoms. It was just as Stefan had said. He had need of a wife, an heir. It
was only her body he was interested in, not her. She meant nothing to him.
Nothing.

Another wrenching thought struck her. The bastard!
Maybe last night was merely a cruel ploy to hasten along his desire for an
heir!

Kassandra wiped the tears rolling down her face with
the back of her hand. What a fool she was! For a few fleeting hours she had
actually believed Stefan cared for her. She could have sworn she saw some
affection in his eyes, felt it in his caress, heard it in his whispered words
of passion. But it was all an illusion, a heartless play on her emotions, a calculated
ploy to get what he wanted from her.

Well, damn him, she would not be so easily deceived
again, no matter what he might say or do! When he returned from this camp of
his, she would give him a welcome he would not soon forget.

Chapter 25

"Alert me at once when Prince Eugene arrives at
the camp," Stefan ordered of his aide, who was standing at rigid attention
in front of the plain wooden table strewn with papers and maps.

"Yes, Commander," the young officer replied
with an eager bow of his head. He wheeled smartly and strode from the room, his
spit-polished boots black and gleaming.

Stefan sat back in his chair, barely suppressing a
grin. For the life of him he could not imagine how his new aide, the middle son
of an archduke, kept his boots so clean. The camp was a sea of mud, brought on
by the spring thaw and torrential rains that had plagued them for several weeks
now.

Stefan toyed absently with his ink pen, wondering if he
had ever been as green as that newly recruited soldier. Probably, he mused with
a short laugh. No doubt he, too, had been overly enthusiastic, anxious to
please, reveling in the pomp and grandeur of military life, the parades,
the
pageantry.

His expression darkened. That had ended soon enough
with his first battle, his true initiation into the startling realities of his
profession. He could recall all too well his brash exhilaration and hotheaded
bravado, soon tempered by scenes of brutal war. Each successive battle had
transformed him gradually into the seasoned soldier he had become—what his
young aide would have to become if he was to survive.

A knock on the door broke into his grim thoughts.
"Enter," Stefan called out, leaning forward in his chair.

A mud-splattered courier stepped into the room, wiping
his damp, dirtied face with his cap. "I have brought the mail from Vienna,
Commander von Furstenberg," he said.

"Good. Set it here," Stefan replied, clearing
a place amidst the stack of papers. The courier quickly obliged him, dropping
the leather bag atop the
table
and unfastening the
metal buckles. He threw open the flap and dumped a pile of letters and several
rolled documents in front of Stefan, then brought the emptied bag up under his
arm. "That's all I have, sir," he murmured.

"You'll find a warm meal in the cooking tent, a
short walk from here. Have one of the men show you the way," Stefan said,
dismissing him with a nod.

"My thanks, Commander." The courier quickly
left the room, his stomach growling hungrily, visions of salt pork, boiled
potatoes, and good, strong beer urging him on.

Stefan set aside the rolled documents, deciding he
would look at them later. He sorted through the letters, searching for any
familiar handwriting. He was nearly to the bottom of the pile when he spied a letter
from Isabel, and though he was pleased to receive it, he could not help feeling
keen disappointment that there was nothing from Kassandra.

He grimaced. He was hardly surprised. She hadn't
answered any of his letters these past two months, his only word of her having
come through Isabel's frequent missives. Isabel had regaled him with myriad
details of how they spent their days, their shopping trips into the city,
visiting this milliner or that dressmaker, searching out the perfect point
lace, or the most exquisite fabric. There had been occasional galas, usually
only Isabel in attendance, and quiet evenings spent in his library, she at her
needlework, Kassandra curled up in a chair, reading. In last week's letter had
come unexpected word that Miles Wyndham would be returning to Vienna in early
April.

All of this hardly whetted Stefan's appetite for the
news he was craving, news only Kassandra could afford him. How was she spending
her time when Isabel was away from the estate? Was she riding the Arabian mare
he had given her, walking in the woods? Was she thinking of him with loving
thoughts, as he hoped, or angry thoughts, as her lack of correspondence seemed
to suggest?