The Frost of Springtime (4 page)

Scowling, Aleksender shrugged Christophe from his shoulder. “The day
France falls will be no fault of mine. I have found my peace. Damn it to hell
France shall deny me my liberty.” He stared off, mysterious emotions crossing
his features by turns. “I have served her well.”

“Eh, you serve only yourself. Always have, always will.”

Aleksender drew silent as a dull ache tugged at his chest.
That look—
the disdain in his comrade’s eyes—would follow him
well beyond the grave. In endless ways, he and Christophe were as opposite as
day and night.

Within that moment, a strange question rose inside Aleksender’s mind:
out of the two of them—he and Christophe—who was day and who was night?

Interrupting his thoughts, Christophe rotated in the stool and moaned
an incoherent grumble. A lovely barmaid shimmied by, trotting to the opposite
side of the room, moving with the gait of a prized pony. Christophe called out
to the chit. He whistled and snapped his fingers, battling for her attention in
the rudest ways imaginable. It was certainly no way to win a lady.

But the proud creature was no lady.

“Suppose I should announce we’re in the light of the great vicomte, himself?”
Christophe complained, pouting like a young tot and mumbling his unhappiness.
“Surely I’d have another brandy by now.”

The cynicism in his comrade’s voice did not go unheard. Aleksender
shoved his glass into Christophe’s hand, wishing he could impart his noble
title with just as much grace.

CHAPTER
TWO

It was five minutes
till striking eight
AM.
Salle Le Peletier, the temporary quarters of the
renowned Paris Opera, appeared regal beneath the glowing sun.

Once completed, it was rumored that Opera Garnier
would dwarf Salle Le Peletier with its massive scale, sophisticated lighting,
and sixteen hundred seats.
Such mutterings
seemed to be remnants of wishful thinking and nothing more. The opera house’s
construction had been called to a halt ever since Paris had been under siege,
and the city’s condition was far from improving. Even well before the invasion,
Opera Garnier’s progress had been painfully slow. One setback had been
encountered after another.

As it happened, the opera house had required a much deeper basement
than most buildings. As architects and laborers had cut into the earth and
gutted the land, the groundwater level was reported suspiciously high.

This first obstacle had led to the discovery of the vast underground
lake. Paris’s catacombs and underground waterway were found to be intimately
connected through twisting tunnels, sweeping archways and haunted sepulchers.
Grounded upon death and decay, it seemed that the fate of Opera Garnier had
been doomed from the start.

But nearly a decade had passed since the discovery, and the new opera
house was on the brink of completion. As it stood, Opera Garnier was already
enchanting. Perched amongst the three domes and solitary pediment, the lyre of
Apollo was held high and proud as it kissed the heavens, sunlight seeping
through the instrument’s precious strings of gold. And, on the clearest of
days, the towering stone walls resembled Mount Olympus—the home of the twelve
Olympian gods. Within this edifice, the God of Music and Light
reigned
all.

Aleksender stood off to the side and surveyed the glorious monument
erected before him. Granted, Salle Le Peletier didn’t have Apollo’s protection
or his godly wisdom. But the place was far from lacking.

The building held a power of its own. Angels carved from stone graced
the columns, their features cold and unfeeling, bodies stronger than a
warrior’s. Epically handsome and still as death, those divine sculptures seemed
to echo Aleksender’s gaze. Such a thing was beyond unsettling—one might even
say demonic. Salle Le Peletier was no Mount Olympus or kingdom of light.
Aleksender neurotically threaded fingertips through his hairline and forced his
eyes upon brighter pastures.

And then it happened.

A young lady with striking beauty rounded one of Salle Le Peletier’s
corners in a frantic rush. She clutched at the hem of her skirts and raced up
the winding steps, nearly tripping over herself in the process. Aleksender
emerged from his shadowy concealment in a swift movement. He grasped the girl’s
slender forearm and spun her round in a remarkably graceful dance.

Really! She’d half-expected to be tossed into the waltz! Instead, she
shrieked and collided with a wall of masculine flesh.
Very
masculine flesh that roused her senses and smelled vaguely familiar.

An exotic blend of Persian spices.

Sofia fell into stunned silence as the revelation crashed down like a
crystal chandelier.

In the same breath, Aleksender shamelessly returned her stare as he
examined his ward from head to toe.
Mon Dieu.
She was
slender and fragile—beyond gentle and angelic. Her petite height reached the
middle of his chest and came not an inch more.

Curls descended just past the small of her waist in lush ringlets. Her
lips quivered as the blue of her eyes flooded with a storm of unshed tears. And
those eyes were truly breathtaking to behold. Her sapphire gaze sparkled,
shining like twin diamonds, running over his features in pure disbelief.

Aleksender felt something contract inside his chest.

After gathering the slightest sense of composure, Sofia managed to
utter all but a single word. “You …”

She splayed a hand over her bosom, entirely breathless. Aleksender’s
eyes followed the unconscious motion and lowered to the tender swell.
Transferring his attention to one of Salle Le Peletier’s forsaken stone
angels,
he cursed himself and averted his piercing stare.

Just who was this woman? She was incredible.

“Sofia …”

Aleksender whispered the name with unearthly reverence. He dared to
step intimately close, drawn to Sofia much like a moth is drawn to the
promising heat of the flame. Unsteady hands rose from his sides in a tentative
and suave movement. They cupped her cheeks and deftly lifted her downcast face
with the pads of twiddling thumbs.

He drew invisible circles along her flesh, worshiping everything that
was his beloved ward, tracing down the smooth bend of each cheek and back up
again. A solitary tear streamed over the curve of her chin and vanished between
her lips. Aleksender’s eyes traced the liquid path and settled upon the lush
flesh of her mouth.
Sparks of awareness coiled through every
inch of his body.
Clasping Sofia’s chin, he gently swiped away her tears
and offered a weak smile.

“Sofia,” he repeated, stunned by her appearance, adoration lacing all
three syllables.

“I thought you for dead.
A year and not so much as a
word?”
She sniffled, surrendering to a smile that melted Aleksender’s
heart into ashes. “I was sure I’d never see you again.” Luscious curls fell
across her shoulders as she inclined her chin.
“Oh, Alek.
How I missed you.” She lunged forward and threw her arms around the
circumference of his waist, tugging Aleksender impossibly closer.
“You—here in my arms.”
Her lashes fluttered shut. “Tomorrow
I shall think this was all a dream.”

“A dream we have both shared.” Aleksender sighed and inhaled her sweet
essence.

Roses and the frost of wintertime.

“You’ve truly grown up,” he whispered, speaking more to
himself
.

With Sofia resting in his arms, Aleksender felt strangely content.
Strangely happy.
And the epiphany frightened him half to
death.

At nineteen years, she was terribly young and naive. Was she even aware
of how she affected him? Did she know of the burning desires that ignited from
her soft embrace? Could she sense—Dieu, could she feel—the extent of his
passion?

The truth was mind-boggling. The realization was terrifying. And the
onslaught of unorthodox urges paralyzed his mind and body in a thick haze. It
had taken, damn it, just over a year for the inevitable to happen: his ward had
matured during his absence.

And little Sofia was not so little anymore.

Granted, she’d always possessed promising beauty. It could not be
ignored then and it certainly could not be denied now. Ever since Sofia’s
seventeenth birthday, innocent nudges were no longer so innocent. Sarcastic
insults had become tentative flirtations. In a way, Aleksender freely admitted
to himself, enlisting in the military had been an escape from the inevitable.

Luckily, for him, the pains of jealousy had never fully surfaced. Over
the years, Sofia had never expressed the desire to court a gentleman nor seek
out a proper suitor for marriage. He’d reluctantly questioned her disinterest
in acquiring a husband—and her response had pleased him far more than it should
have.

“Oh, my silly, silly, Alek!” she’d exclaimed, ever the actress,
clutching her heart with a rather comedic and melodramatic passion. “Why, don’t
you know? You,
mon
amour, are the man of my life!”

The man of Sofia’s life.

Those playful words had behaved as a rude awakening. Aleksender had
known he was in terrible trouble. Whether she’d been aware of it or not, they
were trudging dangerous grounds. After all—some lines simply could not be
crossed.

The recollection violently tore through his thoughts. On the afternoon
of his departure, they had embraced, and he had kissed her. Within the potency
of that moment, it had seemed an incredibly natural thing to do—kissing Sofia
on her lips. He could have died out on the battlefield, alone and empty, without
ever knowing her taste. Only now did he realize the gravity of such a thing.

But then again Aleksender could have never anticipated this.

Where was the little one who he’d taught the alphabet? Where was the
weeping child who’d sneak to the de Lefèvre chateau in the middle of the night
and toss herself in the shelter of his arms, seeking comfort from her
reoccurring nightmares? Where was the bright-eyed child who shuddered at the
thought of a snowstorm? And what had ever become of the girl who’d lie in his
drawing room—sprawled across the warmed floorboards like a feline—lost within
the throes of his elaborate stories?

Gone was the child who he’d once adored. And it was a breathtaking
woman who now stood in her place.

CHAPTER
THREE

Sofia Rose had first
decided she’d marry Aleksender de Lefèvre nine years ago. Such longings were
all in good fantasy. Her attachment was to be expected.

The man had rescued her from the endless floggings of her mother. He’d
saved her dignity from the life of a whore. He had educated her, cared for her,
dressed and fed her, built an entire convent house in the saving grace of her
name. He’d fueled her talents and secured her a position in the opera’s chorus
line. He’d hired none other than Marie Taglioni, the widely adored Swedish
prima ballerina, as her private dancing instructor. He had dried her tears and
chased away the monsters of her nightmares.

He had been her everything—her hope, her inspiration, and even her
despair. Days before Aleksender had left for the
war,
he’d sworn to write weekly. Months had passed without a single utterance. The
grave realization had been soul-shattering for Sofia.

A life without Aleksender?
What life? Without
his gentle touches, without his guidance and devotion, she could have let Death
claim her. And he almost had. Sofia had fallen deathly ill.

By strict order of her doctor, she was pardoned from Salle Le Peletier
for bed rest. Aleksender had been her other half. She’d never felt such pain,
such indescribable sorrow and heartache. The beatings of her mother had paled
in comparison. Endless nights were dedicated to mourning a love she never had.
Each waking moment was spent weeping over an internal loss, a painful void,
which could never again be made complete.

At the tragic acceptance of his death, Sofia had divulged herself
within a fantasy world that began and ended with Alek.

Her Alek.

The characteristic shine had returned to her skin in a matter of weeks.
She resumed her role at the opera house and was back on her toes once more. In that
time, she’d playfully decided that if Aleksender were to ever return, he’d
belong to her and her alone.

Behind her shut eyes and most private thoughts, touches that had always
been paternal and protective turned intimate.
Wildly
possessive.
Her white knight mutated into a black knight. Within the
impossible realm of sleep, they would merge together as one—mind, body and
soul. These surreal thoughts, Sofia had imagined
,
were
a happiness that harmed no one. But now, as Aleksender embraced her to the rhythmic
beat of his heart, the line separating reality from fantasy became obscured.

He was her Alek.

“Sofia …” She snapped from her whirlwind of thoughts. The husky accent
in his voice sounded foreign to her ears and positively thrilling. It was
sultry and rich, smoother than any lullaby. Sofia felt the baritone resonate
deep inside her.

Grinning from ear to ear like a pretty fool, she freed Aleksender from
her clutches and took a demure step back, moving with the grace of a true
ballerina. She kissed each cheek, just below the arch of his chin and the very
tip of his nose, concluding her darling ministrations by running fingertips
though his coal-black hair.

In spite of all notions of right and wrong, Aleksender found himself
mimicking her affection tenfold. His hands were possessed with desire, and they
moved on their own accord.

“Sofia, chérie, have I ever told you how lovely you are?”

Her eyes lowered at his praise. Swatting away tears, she blushed. “Now
you’re just flattering me.”

Aleksender slid his fingers through her curls a last time. He balled
his hand into a tight fist and brushed his knuckles against her cheek. She
smiled, covering them with the creamy flesh of her palm. Returning her warmth,
he grasped her hand, entwined their fingers, and laid the united grip over his lips.
“My sweet Sofia.”

There was no war. There was no duty to his father or homeland. There
was no vicomtesse who was sadly awaiting his return. There was only Aleksender
and his little Sofia. He sighed, momentarily lost to a world that began and
ended with the two of them, a cocoon of happy thoughts, surreal thoughts that
harmed no one, an unblemished realm of oblivion.

And for the first time in so many years, Aleksender felt like he
belonged.

Alas, all is fair in love and war.

•

Elizabeth de Lefèvre stood on the balcony and absently stared into the
gleaming skyline. The lawn glowed, sprinkled with remnants of the early
afternoon sun.

Elizabeth was thirty-one years old and perfectly lovely, boasting
everything that high society could ever hope to offer. A tea dress of mint
green complimented her fair complexion, the abundance of silks and satins
draping behind her like a queen’s regal trail. Matching gloves wrapped her
hands and arms, fastened in place with rows of delicate white pearls. Succulent
honey blonde locks were meticulously pinned beneath her hat, the occasional
tendril falling across her cheek in a fetching swirl.

Elizabeth sighed and gazed down at her wedding ring. Caressed by the
surrounding light, the diamond glittered and gold shined. And yet, her world
had never seemed darker than at that moment.

Then everything changed.

Elizabeth squinted and shaded her gaze from the sunrays. A handsome
figure was approaching the chateau, the frame of his body appearing tall and
sinfully elegant. Could it be? Could it possibly be him? Her heart did a little
somersault at the thought.

Aleksender, her dear husband, had written to her on occasion—and she’d
treasured both of his letters. True, they had been far from fluffy or romantic.
For Elizabeth, the letters had served as much more than some mushy sentiment.
Those letters had proved her husband was alive and well. Aleksender’s rather
impersonal and vague prose had never bothered her much. After all, she was a
far cry from a melodramatic and love-struck adolescent.

Or so she’d convinced herself to believe.

A gasp fled from Elizabeth’s lips as she gripped onto the banister with
growing anticipation. The man’s complexion was an unusual and tempting
shade—tan and wonderfully sun-kissed. He hardly resembled the Aleksender whom
she had known and adored. Both in spirit and form, he seemed quite darker. But
there was no question as to his identity.

Aleksender Raphael de Lefèvre had returned to Paris.

•

Aleksender’s chest constricted at the approaching image. Elizabeth
sprinted over to him, alive and beaming, wearing a smile that was visible
across the expanse of the lawn. One hand clutched at her skirts as the other
secured a fluttering hat. Aleksender inhaled a deep breath and quickened his
stride. Regardless, his was the walk of a dead man.

“Aleksender!
Aleksender, mon
amour!” she passionately called from afar.

Elizabeth outstretched both arms as they finally came together, their
two bodies colliding as one. Her hat blew away, whisked off by the wind like
some hostage tumbleweed.

Elizabeth grasped onto Aleksender’s shoulders with an impressive force.
“Oh, Aleksender!
I simply cannot believe my eyes!”

He dropped his satchel with a low groan and embraced his wife. A moment
later, he discarded the rifle as if it were no more than an outgrown plaything.
He sighed into her hair as a rush of guilt secretly consumed him. Aleksender’s
body shook while he caressed her waist in tremulous motions.

Pulling back to kiss each of his cheeks, she cried
out,
“Look at you! You have never appeared better! A proper meal and you shall be
good as new.”

She embraced him once more, nuzzling, cooing incoherent words into the
warmth of his chest. Curls of gold came unfastened by his fingers. They tumbled
down and over her shoulders in an enchanting flurry.

“Promise to never leave me again.”

“Forgive me.” Fatigue strained his voice, making it impossibly tight.
Speaking far more than the obvious, he continued in a hushed murmur, “Forgive
me for everything.”

Elizabeth sighed and brought her lips to his neck. She whispered
against Aleksender’s skin, the soft brush of air teasing his pulse. “Believe
me, dear. I already have.”

Aleksender knew he didn’t deserve her forgiveness. He’d never been a
decent husband. Alas, he’d never been a decent man. Much like
himself
, Elizabeth was an heiress born to a noble family.
Despite the longing to enjoy being young—to relish the simple joys of living,
frolicking and causing unnecessary mischief—she was betrothed to Vicomte de
Lefèvre on her fifteenth birthday.

Elizabeth had cursed both her family and blood. She wanted nothing to
do with such a thing as marriage. She was a mere fifteen years! She wanted to
live. Not love! But everything had changed the moment she set eyes upon her
future husband. A curse had quickly transformed into a blessing.

In spite of herself, she’d swooned before the man whom she had
passionately sworn to hate. From the bottom of his polished shoes, up to the top
of his blackened hair, he’d been the picture of masculine perfection. Elizabeth
had stuck up her nose, convinced that she was immune to such a breed of
gentlemen. Surely, Elizabeth had vowed with a proud inward smirk, Vicomte de
Lefèvre would be no different.

She could not have been more wrong.

It had taken only one dance. The first stirring of lust and love had
swelled her tummy from the inside out. Elizabeth had accepted her fate with
wide eyes and a maiden blush.

Aleksender had been as stubborn as they come and quite the rake, always
throwing caution to the wind and never conforming to society’s mold. But his
father had seen much more than his stiff exterior. Comte de Lefèvre had
purposefully steered his son’s wandering eye, declaring Elizabeth Rousseau a
proper match. And Aleksender would have done nothing to displease his father.

It wasn’t until he and Elizabeth had taken their vows that his
resentment surfaced. Did he not deserve the same happiness—the same chance for
love and true affection—as his parents had shared?

Any enjoyment between Aleksender and Elizabeth had rapidly faded. On
their wedding night, he could not bring himself to consummate their
partnership. He’d already stolen her youth. He didn’t love her.

As tempting as Elizabeth had been—a vision cloaked in chaste white, a
quivering bud aching to bloom beneath his touch—he’d refused to take her
remaining innocence.

That fateful evening, however, Elizabeth had recalled a story—a rather
saucy story that her eldest sister had shared with her. Covered in a maiden
blush, she’d run her wedded fingertip up her husband’s trousers seeking that
impressive, hidden bulge with daring caresses.

Both hands had settled upon clasps that concealed a mystery—a mystery
she was suddenly eager to unveil. Romantic ideas had flooded her thoughts in a
thrilling rush. She was about to experience an epic moment, a moment shared between
man and wife, a moment that would connect their souls forever.

That moment was shattered.
Aleksender had peeled away
her trembling fingers, kissed her knuckles, and wished his bride sweet dreams.
The vicomtesse turned away from her husband and privately cried
herself
to sleep.

Mercifully, after a year or so of marriage, Aleksender and Elizabeth
had developed a delicate bond. They understood each other. They understood each
other’s families and the expectations that came with their bloodlines. They
understood that they were, in fact, very much alike. And they were almost
content.

But time is the most accurate measurement of truth, and, within time,
Aleksender’s unorthodox ways only progressed. That strange emptiness that had
lurked inside of him seemed to expand, engulfing him whole. Something crucial
was missing inside his heart.
Something foundational.
Something existed as nothing more than a faraway dream.

And so, as blackened souls are wont to do, he’d searched for comfort in
the wrong places. All of Paris’s finest whores couldn’t have filled his
internal void. His detachment grew over the years, enslaving his spirit—until
fate had given him the bright-eyed, lovely child whom he’d eternally sworn
himself to. Aleksender had resurrected Sofia from her own ashes. Only then were
his visits to Bête Noire less frequent—only then did the emptiness no longer
shape his understanding of the world.

Elizabeth breathed deeply as if summoning the courage to speak. With a
shallow exhale, she stepped back and stared into his eyes. “Aleksender, there
is something I must tell you.”