Awaiting the Moon (23 page)

He sobered. “I’m not laughing
at
you. But you bring a levity to the situation by pointing out to me the error of my ways in such a precise and knowledgeable fashion that I cannot help but laugh.”

“Most men would dismiss me,” she acknowledged with a returning smile.

“Most men would be afraid that you would see right through them and their bluster and puncture their inflated sense of their own worthiness. I am not most men.”

“So you don’t fear that?”

“No. I know my own worth very well, and I fear no one’s ability to puncture it. It is not over inflated, you see.”

“From any other gentleman I have ever met, that speech would have been hopelessly pompous, but from you, I believe it is simply the way things are.”

It was said with a smile, and he could not tell if she was serious, or if she was placating him, or if she was laughing at him in return.

“I admit,” she continued, “I have always been too ready to tell gentlemen my opinion.”

He chuckled. “I see now why there are no adequate positions remaining for you to fill on the island you call your homeland,” he said, a dry edge to his voice. “You have frightened all the men.”

An expression of pain darkened her lovely face—she had been hurt by some memory, he thought—and he rushed back into speech. “That was unkind, Miss Stanwycke, and I apologize. I am always apologizing to you, for some reason, even when you are the one who should be apologizing.”

“That is because you are a gentleman, sir, and beneath your bluster, and… and your temper, I believe you to be kind. Which is why I was so puzzled by how you treated the villagers who were only asking to be allowed to protect their women and children. No matter how you view their superstitions, you should have been more patient.”

He quelled his impatience with her interference. Nothing but an explanation would do for Miss Elizabeth Stanwycke. “Sit!” he commanded, pointing at the chair in front of his desk. “I do not in the normal course of my day feel compelled to explain my actions to anybody. Nor do many in this castle question me.” He watched her face, but she was not inclined to hasten into speech and reassure him that he need not give her any explanation, and as irritated as he was he respected that unfeminine stolidity in the face of his admittedly imperious manner. She remained silent, merely watching him. He had to look away, for there was a tendency when he was in her company to get lost in the azure of her eyes.

He sighed. Nothing but the truth then, in this one instance.

“First, they came into my home and upset my staff. If they had a concern, they could have asked me to visit and I would have met with them. I accede to every reasonable request. No, Miss Stanwycke,” he said, holding up one hand as she was about to speak. “They know this. I will address any concern they have.” That last part evidently silenced what she was about to say.

“Second, what they are asking is unthinkable. Posting armed villagers in
my
forest? Never!”

He shook his head. “You don’t understand, Elizabeth,” he said, then realized he had used her Christian name as her cheeks pinkened. Enchanted by her embarrassment, he stopped for a moment and watched her. “Uh, what was I saying?”

“That I didn’t understand,” she said, looking down at her hands.

“Yes.” He looked away, up at the dry and dusty tomes of Greek philosophy and Latin theory.

“Think, Elizabeth,” he said, relishing the sound of her name on his tongue, “how dangerous it would be to have men—superstitious, frightened men—roaming my forest armed with guns.

Suppose something happened? Suppose I needed to send one of my staff to the village for the doctor? Suppose one of the servants was coming home late from visiting a family member?

The full of the moon is when I allow my serving staff to visit their relatives in the village, for they can come home by moonlight.”

She nodded and met his gaze. “Yes, I can see your point, but still… surely there was a better way to put it? You are too reasonable a man to rule by fear.”

“I have tried reason. They respond better to fear, and in this I require absolute, unequivocal obedience. And there is something else going on…” He stopped himself from divulging all of his thoughts and worries, though the temptation to talk to her was overwhelming.

She waited a moment for him to finish, then said, “I understand. Truly, I do.” She paused, her mouth pursed in thought. “Sir, why do they think there are werewolves? Have they always believed this?”

“It goes back many centuries, and is ingrained in them. Religion has not conquered it, nor can reason.” He watched her for a long moment, then said, on impulse, “Are you happy, Elizabeth? And may I call you Elizabeth in private? I like your name, and I like talking to you.”

She flushed a pretty pink again and smiled. “I’m happy most of the time,” she said, not agreeing to his use of her name, but not denying it, either. “I wish I could get through to Charlotte, but I’ve not given up hope yet. I think it would help if I could tell her I don’t believe you will marry her off to just anyone. Nor send her away arbitrarily. She’s afraid of that.”

“Do not think I am not aware of her feelings. But I will and must do what I think… no, what I
know
is best for her. These are trying times, Elizabeth, with the French knocking at our door and my country in danger. Who knows what will happen in the future?”

“Then I will do my job as best I can.” She rose and put her hand out across the desk.

He took it and rubbed his thumb over the soft skin, feeling again that unwilling lurch of his heart. “That is all I ever ask of anyone.”

THOUGH HE was forced to absent himself once again from the dinner table—there were things that had to be done and could not wait—Nikolas moved toward the drawing room where his family and friends were gathered with a mixture of trepidation and excitement. He could not conceal from himself that the excitement was almost wholly because he would see Elizabeth again. The trepidation was for other reasons.

He entered quietly, staying in the shadows of the overhanging entry way and observing. As master of the house, he knew that the moment he was known to have entered, everything in the room—every person’s behavior—changed, sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse.

Bartol was by the fire playing ombre with his sister-in-law. Nikolas smiled; his Aunt Katrina had little use for her brother-in-law, and so this must be penance on her part for some imagined wrong. But he was happy to see her feeling well enough to join the company. In the ten years since he had last seen her she had aged and slowed considerably. Adele was doing her needlepoint, a vast canvas on a wood frame, the subject of which was a bloody battle from three centuries before. In years gone by she would have been a warrior princess, he thought, watching her, the silvery blond hair neat in a coronet braid around her head like a crown. She was intelligent and well-disciplined and would always, always, do her duty, as she saw it.

Maximillian was in a quiet corner playing piquet with Gerta. Nikolas frowned as he watched his sister reach out and caress her opponent’s hand. The Frenchman smiled at her, his expression unguarded and gentle. Adele, he saw, had noticed as well, and she placed a wrong stitch, jabbing her finger and stifling an exclamation of pain.

Nikolas grimaced, knowing that no matter how much he wished things to be a certain way, he could not command people’s hearts. Adele had always loved Maximillian, and the Frenchman… who knew his heart? Certainly not Nikolas, even though they were old friends and he valued the man for the excellence of his mind and the gentility he displayed always.

But now… now he could turn his gaze where he wished. Charlotte and Melisande were at the piano playing a quick piece, and Elizabeth? She was dancing the quadrille with Christoph.

Quelling a quick stab of jealousy and concern, Nikolas refrained from striding forward as was his instinct, staying in the shadows to observe.

There was no coquetry in Elizabeth’s manner toward Christoph. It was clearly a sort of lesson, for she was commanding Charlotte to watch her as she curtseyed and took the younger man’s hand. What Christoph might be feeling he did not know, but for his niece’s tutor, this was an extension of the day’s work.

After a moment Elizabeth released Christoph and went to the piano, pulling Charlotte up and leading her to her brother, setting them in place for the dance. She corrected Charlotte’s position, putting one hand to her back and making her straighten and pull back her shoulders.

In her fashionably high-waisted gown—the exaggerated silhouette still looked odd to him, but his sisters had assured him as he paid the seamstress’s weighty accounts that it was necessary to make over their entire stock of gowns in the new fashion—his niece looked more attractive immediately for her improved posture. Charlotte took Christoph’s hand and they went through the paces of the dance not perfectly, but with some measure of grace and elegance, considering the quickness of the steps. It was astounding. There was a vast improvement and even Christoph was smiling, an increasingly rare occurrence.

Nikolas turned his gaze to Elizabeth’s lovely face and saw in her smile a joy that was from her student’s performance. She was a born teacher, one who taught from a love of people rather than a love of any particular subject. With intelligence, discretion, and perspicacity as her weapons, she enjoyed the game of teaching an unwilling mind, he thought, and of interesting the student in the subject and tricking them into learning. Even Christoph was benefiting from her ability to intuitively find a common point of interest for young people. He was about to turn and leave the room, loath to disturb such a pretty scene, but Elizabeth saw him and gestured for him to join them. Christoph’s expression froze, but he made no murmur against it.

“Come, sir,” Elizabeth said eagerly, taking his hand and leading him to the pair dancing.

“Dance with me for a moment, while Charlotte dances with Count Christoph, for I wish to display the form of the line, and we need more than one couple for that.”

His mouth dried, but as Melisande launched into another sprightly piece on the piano he had no choice but to bow, take Elizabeth’s hand, and dance. His vision narrowed to one single face among the others; he watched Elizabeth, even as she did her turn with Christoph and he with Charlotte. She was grace personified, and he thought he had never seen a form so lovely as the lithe lines of her body, as she did the leaps and turns necessary.

Out of breath as the music stopped, her cheeks pink from exercise, she smiled up at him and then turned to Charlotte. “Now, Charlotte—”

“I know all of these dances,” Charlotte said, a pout on her face, still sniffling from her cold.

She was restive now that Nikolas was there.

“Ah, you know the steps, but you don’t know the true art and purpose of dance. Watch.”

Elizabeth looked up at him and said quietly, “Will you perform with me a few steps of any slow dance, sir?”

He acquiesced, and they began.

She curtseyed daintily and then took his hand as they began the intricate, stately figures.

“How pleasant to see you again, Count von Wolfram. Are you enjoying your time in… uh, in London?”

He gazed down into her eyes as they came together and was caught by the smile in their depths, a gentle good humor that attracted him, soothing his agitation. “I am enjoying it more than I ever could have thought possible.”

“How wonderful! And have you seen the sights yet?”

“I’ve seen everything beautiful that I could want to see,” he murmured. “Whatever else is here, I don’t care about.”

Her cheeks deepened in color, and he smiled to himself.

“I am so happy to hear that you are enjoying your time here,” she replied, keeping her tone serene. “It is unseasonably cold, though, I think. Do you agree?”

“On the contrary, I am finding it rather warm.”

She broke away then and said, turning to Charlotte, who watched, wide eyed, “You see? One should keep up a conversation. It is incumbent upon you, even if the gentleman is silent or gauche. One should never speak too rapidly, though, nor should one speak of certain topics.”

“Certain topics?”

Elizabeth had returned to the piano and feverishly leafed through some sheet music. Nikolas followed her and leaned on the piano close by, watching her quick, nervous movements.

“Yes. One should not,” she said, turning to Charlotte, “relate gossip that is ill-humored.

Gossip about general topics is acceptable. Nor should one speak of other ladies, their clothing, their companions. Nor should one speak of ailments, deformities, personal subjects—”

“Anything at all, it seems!” Charlotte said with a peevish flounce. She sniffled and wiped her nose with a handkerchief.

“Oh, no… there is much to speak of. One can, as I was, speak of the weather, or literature, or the opera, or music. One can ask after common acquaintances.”

“Or one can speak of nothing,” Nikolas said, sliding his hand along the top of the piano, toward Elizabeth’s arm.

“What?” Charlotte asked.

“Never say ‘What’ in English, Charlotte,” Elizabeth said, turning away from the piano toward her pupil. “One should say, ‘I beg your pardon,’ if you did not hear or didn’t understand.”

Elizabeth turned back to him. “But what did you mean, sir?”

He gazed at her. “Let us dance again and I will illustrate.”

Her hand was naked and soft, no gloves impeding the sweet warmth of her touching him. He led her into the figures as Melisande played and said, “Miss Stanwycke, if English ladies are to be compared to roses, I must say you are the fairest bloom in a lovely bouquet.”

“You are impertinent, sir,” she replied.

“I dare only because the dance offers so little time, and a gentleman must always tell the truth.

Should I say any lady here was lovelier than you, I would lie.”

She pulled away. “I don’t think that is suitable conversation. Commenting on a lady’s looks is not acceptable.”

She had backed a few paces away and he smiled at her. “But ladies do flirt, Miss Stanwycke.