The Frost of Springtime (14 page)

Aleksender turned Sofia’s slim form within his arms, aligning her to
his chest. He collected her wrists and held them tight. They were red, inflamed
and severely irritated. His throat sank into his gut.

Dieu.
What had he done?

Sofia flinched as he massaged the sore flesh, caressing her skin with
gentle circular motions. A powerful combination of sorrow and self-loathing burdened
his stare. Muttering a curse, Aleksender pressed his lips against the underside
of her wrist. The hiss of damp, cool air was morbidly invigorating. Her nerves
stirred at the subtle contact and pulse jumped to life.

“Forgive me. This was never my intention for you … for us.”

“And what was?”

“I don’t know.” He gathered Sofia in his arms and pulled her against
the beat of his chest. “I am lost.” His hands caressed her delicate waist,
savoring all that was Sofia, inhaling her delicious scent.
Roses
… wintertime.
“I know I do not love you.”

Aleksender leaned forward, crushing Sofia with his body weight, burying
her against the wall.

“I do not love you.”

His lips crashed against Sofia’s in a movement he was utterly unable to
control. Both hands broke through the material of her cloak in a jarring whoosh
of air, grazing her shoulders with his icy fingertips.

Riding up and over the curve of her hips, speaking into the dewy heat
of her mouth, “I do not love you.” Rough, weathered hands skimmed over the tender
swell of her breasts and worshiped every inch of her beauty. His tongue dueled
with her own, drinking Sofia deep, sucking in her spirit. Her kisses were sweet
as nectar, dripping with pure seduction and a virginal sensuality. “I do not
love you.” Aleksender’s quivering fingertips tangled within the mass of damp,
russet locks. He gave a gentle tug and reeled her closer. “I do not love you.”

Both hands swept down the elegant column of her throat and enveloped
the thin shaft. Aleksender tenderly cupped her face within his palms. His
thumbs stroked her cheeks and drew invisible circles along the slates of
porcelain flesh.

Sofia knew he was a broken soul … more so now than ever before. No, she
was not scared. His cruelty was entirely wasted. One look in his eyes had
confirmed her every thought. He’d never harm her. Although, for reasons she
couldn’t fully comprehend, he wanted her to believe otherwise.

But Sofia saw past his rugged façade. And her heart only constricted
for his pain. She felt so helpless, so very trapped. How she ached to heal him!
She ached to kiss away all of his scars—internal and external, old and new. She
ached to rescue him from the blackened depths of despair—just as he’d done, all
those nine years ago.

No. She could not stop herself. Sofia sighed and slanted her lovely
face, deepening their kiss to new limits.

Yes, Sofia’s heart screamed, she could heal him. He needed only to open
his arms, mind,
body
—

Aleksender forced himself away. Sofia’s eardrums thundered, slamming
against her consciousness in a deafening roar. She could hear her own pulse.
Her heart swelled to painful proportions, threatening to burst free.

Aleksender and Sofia harmoniously panted as they struggled to catch
their breaths. Eyes blinking shut in despair, Aleksender pressed his temple
against Sofia’s. Nestled within the safety of her arms and speaking for the
both of them, he recited the tragic confession. “I cannot love you.”

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

Hooves clinked
against the cobblestone streets as coaches arrived by the dozens. Greeted by
the countless footmen, ladies and gentlemen stormed up the grand staircase and
entered Salle Le Peletier in an elaborate and eager herd. Excited chatter and
warm smiles swelled the air. It was as though the city had never been under siege,
as though the alleyways were not stained with blood and littered with bodies of
the martyrs. Tonight, the horrors of the last few months existed as nothing
more than a distant nightmare. All of Paris had been flung into a state of
euphoria. Everyone was simply high on life.

Alas, tonight was no ordinary night. Tonight was the debut of La
Sylphide, Marie Taglioni’s very own masterpiece.

A team of four strapping horses halted in front of Salle Le Peletier,
their magnificent bodies regal against the black of night. Hushed whispers
stirred in the air as everyone anchored their attention upon the newest
arrival. The de Lefèvre crest was emblazoned across the coach’s black lacquered
door. The coat of arms was an intricately detailed design, featuring a roaring
lion, fleur-de-lis, and white dove. After a breathless moment, the
comte
and comtesse stepped down from the vehicle, arm in
arm, joining the hustle and bustle of high society. The crowd parted like the
Red Sea, entranced and charmed, every pair of eyes fixed upon the striking
couple.

Indeed—Paris’s new
comte
was devilishly
handsome, though his entire demeanor scarred from war. Those emerald eyes were
cold, acute and unwelcoming. They brimmed with cynical mirth as he scanned the
surrounding faces. In contrast, Elizabeth presented the perfect picture of
aristocracy. Silks and satins draped her body as the elegant knot of her
coiffure sensually fell across her neck. Two footmen bent into shallow bows as
the
comte
and comtesse passed through the great doors.

Chandeliers soared high above and illuminated the ornate foyer,
luminous shafts pouring through their teardrop crystals. Angelic visions of
heaven were painted across both the walls and ceiling, each trimmed with gold.
Gleaming beneath the intimate lighting, the marble floor reflected everything
and everyone.

Aleksender briefly thought of Chateau de Versailles’s elaborate
entrance and grandiose hall of mirrors.

Outside of the auditorium he came to a halt. Elizabeth stared into his
eyes, looking delicate and infinitely lovely in her dark evening gown.

“Elizabeth, why don’t you get seated?”
With expertly
masked hesitation, he continued, “I ought to greet Sofia before the
performance. She’ll be delighted to know we’re in attendance.”

Elizabeth gripped onto his forearm with a surprising force. When she
spoke, her voice was shaky and unsure, bearing a desperate edge. “But after the
performance we can greet her together—all of us! Why, you cannot possibly
venture backstage! It simply wouldn’t be proper. Sofia is no child.”

Aleksender peeled away her fingers and chuckled low. Pressing a kiss to
her knuckles, he smoothly murmured, “I’m well aware. No worries. She shall come
out to see me.”

“Oh. Oh, I see. I suppose I should visit her, too?”

Aleksender shook his head.

“It’s far too crowded in the hallway, I’m afraid. And besides—I wager
Richard has already arrived. Go on, chérie. Go and get settled into our box. I
shall join you shortly.”

Elizabeth nodded, a hint of despair knotting her chest. “Bid Sofia well
for me.”

•

Aleksender stood paralyzed outside of Sofia’s dressing room. The prima
ballerina’s dressing room. A surge of pride and nostalgia flushed through his
body. He was truly in awe of her accomplishments.

What, pray, was he doing outside his ward’s dressing room? Aleksender
cursed himself to the deepest circle of hell. It was no use. He was drawn to
Sofia with an irrational attachment. Over the past nine years, she’d become an
integral part of himself. He had loved her as his wide-eyed ward, a dear friend
and student. It was only within the last few years that his affection had
mutated—a phenomenon that had corrupted their bond forever. With a desperate
longing, Aleksender ached to perceive her as a child once again. If he could
somehow sway his wretched desire, they could be together.

Aleksender knew he should turn away. But first he needed to make things
right.

His gloved fist melodically rapped at the door. It wrenched open almost
at once, exposing a servant’s bright and youthful face.

Helena, Salle Le Peletier’s lead chambermaid for several seasons,
stepped into the hallway and flexed at her heels. “Oh! Monsieur le Comte!
Bonsoir!
You are here for Sofia, I should suspect?”

“Please.
If she’s not too consumed.”

“Why, ‘course not. She’ll be overjoyed to see you! She’s presently
getting into her costume. But, if you care to wait, I’m sure she can visit with
you in a few moments.”

Aleksender’s chin sank into a curt nod.
“Of course.”

His pulse surged forward, reaching a breakneck speed. Vats of sweat
welled inside his gloves. And yet, to the outside observer, Aleksender knew he
was the pretense of flawless composure and self-assurance.

•

With a twirl of her skirts, Helena shut the door, returning to the
dressing room and its withdrawn occupant. She’d encountered handfuls of noble
figures over her few years of service. And yet nothing could have prepared her
for le Comte de Paris. He’d seemed more warrior than a stuffy aristocrat, more
beast than man.
Overwhelmed by the masculine presence that
towered before her, her features had flushed at the very sight of him.
He was a powerful and menacing vision, drenched purely in the blackest of
black.

Inside the dressing room, Helena was plagued by a haunting combination
of awe and sympathy. She eyed Sofia who was calmly seated before the vanity and
combing out her hair.

Costumed as La Sylphide’s mystical sylph, the opera’s enchanting forest
spirit, the prima ballerina was beyond ethereal. Airy, white silks hugged the
tender curves of her body, the flowing hem scandalously short. An abundance of
delicate lace and pearls decorated the chaste material, enhancing its angelic
charm. The neckline hung off the shoulders, flaunting the creamy swell of
Sofia’s breasts. Shimmering wings sprouted from her back. And a wreath, woven
from pale pink roses, crowned her dark tresses.

Sofia was unaware of Helena’s presence as she stared at her reflection.
In fact, she seemed to be unaware of everything. Her blue eyes vacantly gazed
forward, searching the smooth glass, struggling to find some lost part of her
soul within the mirror …within herself. Weighed down with a distinct despair
and sadness, the fairy wings appeared to wilt. Sofia was tragically in
character, resembling the ideal star-crossed lover.

“Mademoiselle,” Helena said, approaching the mahogany vanity, “you’ve a
visitor.”

“A visitor?”

“Monsieur le Comte—that is, your foster father—wishes to greet you
before the performance! Isn’t that grand?”

The brush tumbled into Sofia’s lap as her grip faltered. She stammered,
breathless and wide-eyed. Her porcelain complexion turned unnaturally pale and
borderline sallow. “Alek is not my foster father, Helena. You know that.”

In spite of herself, Helena blushed, flustered by the sound of the
man’s Christian name. Then she flustered once more—feeling wildly uncomfortable
with Sofia’s strange reaction.

“Course he’s not. Do forgive me. I mean to say, your Alek wishes to
greet you.”

Sofia’s chest vibrated with an evident shudder. Her eyes squeezed shut.
A mass of curls flowed down and over her shoulders as she dropped her chin.

“Oh! You poor dear,” Helena cried. “Are you feeling quite all right?”
She stood behind Sofia and gently grazed her shoulder. Sofia glanced up at
Helena, wearing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. No sound came forth when
she attempted to speak.

“Why, you look positively ill!” Helena softened her tone to a whisper,
mistaking Sofia’s muddled appearance for stirring nerves. “Shall I send him
away, mademoiselle? I’m sure he’ll understand—tonight being La Sylphide’s debut
and such.”

“Oh, no, Helena.
That won’t be
necessary,” Sofia breathed. “Of course I shall see him.”

•

Aleksender awaited Sofia in suspenseful anticipation. He leaned against
the archway and loosened the cravat from his throat. Damn societal Paris and
its conventions. The wretched thing had been strangling him like a Punjab
lasso.

Illuminated by rows of glittering sconce lanterns, the hallway was slim
and sensually cozy. Such a place was an ideal hideout for an intimate
rendezvous between two lovers. And the frolicking couple, which lurked only
feet from Aleksender, vividly confirmed his assumption.

A buxom, raven-haired temptress was pressed up against the wall, her
coiffure wildly disheveled and reckless. Her voluptuous body was wedged between
wood and flesh, quivering within the arms of her lover. And the plunging
neckline of her gown left very little to her suitor’s prowling hands and
imagination. As Aleksender turned away a deep, wildly feminine moan echoed the
hallway.

The air thickened. Aleksender’s head spun out of control. Fate had
failed him once again. The pale and bejeweled hand of his former mistress was
tugging at his shoulder.

He rotated on his booted heel and stood face to face with the lovely
Joanna Rosalina. As always, she appeared remarkably exquisite, lavished in
Paris’s finest fashion and glowing with a raw sensuality that equaled his own.

“Ah, so it is you!” Joanna’s dark gaze provocatively examined him from head
to toe. “Yes. Yes, it is, indeed.” She drank in the tanned flesh at his throat
and exhaled an appreciative sigh. Stepping closer, her well-endowed bosom
brushed up against his chest in a tease. Fully aroused nipples grated his upper
body, battling their velvet confines. Unwanted and regretted memories paralyzed
Aleksender, flooding his mind in a gloomy haze—torrid memories of heated
nights, whispered demands and dripping, tangled limbs.

“Delicious, as always,” she praised, speaking through a tone which was
designed to drive men mad with desire. And, years ago, her voice would have
done just that. Such a voice would have worked wonders upon Aleksender’s mind
and body. Joanna had brought him to his knees, and far more than once.

Running fingertips down his torso, she breathed in a husky voice, “I
see war agrees with you, my golden Apollo.”

I see war agrees with you.

Those words infuriated Aleksender. Blood-lust pumped through his veins
and hardened his bones. Both hands clenched into deadly fists—lest he submit to
his desire and strangle the vixen. Seething, he glared down at her wanton
caresses. He couldn’t recall a time when he’d been
more fit
to kill. In the same breath, the absolute shallowness of his former lifestyle
was brought to light. No, he was no longer in awe of Joanna’s exotic beauty.
Instead, Aleksender only saw himself—the heartless, crude shell of a human
being.

“Don’t reckon with me, Joanna.” His green irises flickered. “Don’t
reckon with the devil.”

Vixen that she was, Joanna Rosalina misinterpreted his threat. “Aw,
fret not. Do you really think me so very cruel? Why, I don’t intend to tease.”
Her hand traveled over the front of his trousers and cupped his groin within a
clenched palm.
“Oh, Aleksender.
I’m terribly, terribly
wet for you.” She massaged the hidden bulge of flesh, eyes overflowing with
wicked intentions and intense promises. “In fact, I’ve been wet for you for a
year now.”

Aleksender grasped onto Joanna’s hair—handling her as if she were
nothing more than a bitch in heat. She yelped in pain and stifled a vile curse.
Her bosom madly heaved, busting from the sweeping bodice in absurd proportions.
A few more breaths and the seams would surely give way.

Both eyes narrowed into cunning slits. She was a viper ready to strike.
“How dare you, you vile knave!” she hissed. “Why, I ought—”

“Ah, chérie, to shame.”
Aleksender dryly
stated, gesturing her neglected suitor with a nonchalant wave. “You seem to
have forgotten your good Christian etiquette.”

The young man in question adjusted his cravat and smoothed down unkempt
hair, cheeks flaming. He made a bumbling exit and muttered something vile
beneath his breath.