The Frost of Springtime (7 page)

“Oh, are you now?” Richard shifted his body weight to one side and
studied Aleksender with an unwavering stare. “And what, pray, do you plan to
make of yourself? Please—humor me.”

“Sail away, I suppose,” Aleksender said with a small and rather
harmless shrug. “I understand America is quite pleasant this time of year.”

Richard remained quiet.

“The title is yours, Richard. I am through.”

The world stood still. Richard’s eyes darkened as he met Aleksender’s
unblinking stare. Aleksender didn’t recognize his brother’s voice when he
spoke. The tone was deadly and ominous, its timbre equipped with a venomous
edge.

“Not another word of that. You hear?”

Aleksender looked away—a harmless gesture that only seemed to infuriate
his brother further. “Come now, Richard. It is not so uncommon … a younger heir
claiming the family name. And besides—nobility is dead. The title is an item of
vanity.
Nothing else.”

“Need I remind you—our situation is far from common.”

“What of our situation? No one needs to know anything. Let it be put to
rest with Father.”

Tension filled the air in the following silence.

Aleksender could see it. Richard was on the verge of losing himself.
Even worse, he was on the verge of losing his pride. And, if nothing else,
Richard de Lefèvre was a man of dignified pride and nobility.

“You are a fool. A damn fool to even think I’d put the sanctity of our
name at risk—and for your self-righteousness, nonetheless! A fool to think I
would risk so much at a time like this! In Father’s name, I shall not spit on
France’s dignity!”

In an even and sinfully smooth tone, Aleksender retorted, “I assure
you, her dignity is in far greater peril with me as
comte
.”

“Can you truly think of no one but yourself? Father would turn in his
very grave.”

“I daresay he is turning as we speak,” Aleksender snapped in quick
reply, “and, need I remind you, he is your father as much as my own.”

“Not a day passes by that I don’t wish that were true.” Richard
massaged his forehead, nursing a migraine. A pang of guilt swelled Aleksender
as he witnessed his brother’s personal demons materialize.

“Why the need to condemn me to your misery?”
Richard’s
fingertips joined together in the form of a steeple. Shudders raking low in his
chest, he convulsed, skittering on the edge of something terrible.
“Up for opening all wounds, eh?”

“Richard, I never—”

And then for the first time in over twenty-six years, Paris’s Vicomte
abandoned his composure.

Richard balled his hands into fists and punched the charming breakfast
table with a violent degree of energy. The luxurious tray of food flew to the
ground and spilled in a royal mess. Unmovable as stone, Aleksender neither
blinked nor stirred a limb.

“Insolent, selfish
fool
! You are a damn fool—a
damn fool and nothing more!”

Cued by the grand crash, Elise rushed over and bent at Richard’s heels.
She dabbed at the red wine, which looked remarkably like blood, and proceeded
to collect the shattered stemware.

“Fool! A year of war does not save Father any more than it makes me a
legitimate heir.” Richard looked down and took notice of Elise’s presence. Not the
least bit pleased, he jumped to his feet and towered over the poor child.
“Stupid chit.
How dare you eavesdrop? You ought to be
thrashed from the inside out!”

Elise should have stumbled to her feet with a darling curtsy and
attempted to win Vicomte de Lefèvre over with pretty excuses—but she simply
could not bring herself to move. She stared up in horrified silence, her tiny
form cast beneath the eclipse of Richard’s shadow.

Not sparing an inch, he planted a hand on either side of his hip, his
strong back straight as an arrow. “I suppose you are a deaf, dumb mute?”

Elise jerked at his vicious tone. She stifled a cry as a monstrous
glass shard sliced her palm. A stream of blood ran down her arm and mingled
with the red wine.

“Just leave it!” he scoffed. “Leave it and be gone, you daft girl!”

“My a-a-pologies, Monsieur le Vicomte—”

“And you best keep silent! If one word escapes—should you utter so much
as a single word—on my father’s grave, I swear you shall pay in blood!”

“I-I-I heard nothing! I swear it, Monsieur le V-Vicomte!”

“Idle threats are not becoming of you.” Aleksender threw Elise a
gentle, almost comforting glance. Still seated and staring into her glazed eyes,
he murmured, “Save your breath, child.” Twisting back to Richard, “My brother
forgets himself.”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Come over to me.”

Elise obeyed, shuffling forward with baby steps.

“Your hand—let me see the damage you’ve managed to inflict on
yourself.” Elise outstretched her trembling palm. It shook midair as Aleksender
observed, studying the laceration with an acquired medical eye.

He squinted as a fingertip danced across the surface of her pale flesh.
Elise immediately coiled her hand into a little ball. Aleksender straightened
out her fingers in a deft touch, lifting her palm to the level of his eyes.
“Fairly deep.
Quite prone to infection.
Go to the kitchens. One of the other servants will surely assist you.”

Elise gave a bumbling curtsy and smoothed down her apron before making
leave.

Richard sighed and brushed out his double-breasted morning coat. He
shook his downcast face, propping both hands on back of his chair. He stared
straight into the jaded depths of Aleksender’s eyes and spoke to his brother’s
soul. “You listen to me and listen well. It is a dangerous game you dare play.
Though, I do suppose it is easy enough for you, basking beneath your false
solace. But you tread dangerous waters, Monsieur le Comte.”

Richard spat the formal name with a faint shred of mockery. But his
eyes were only sincere; they begged for Aleksender’s understanding with
desperation and awakened sadness.

“The anniversary of Father’s death falls within next month. A memorial
has been arranged at Père Lachaise.
An informal affair.
I knew you would have appreciated a proper goodbye.”

Richard fetched the newspapers from the table and fanned through the
morbid collection of articles. The fate of Paris passed by in a black and white
blur.

“Alek, my dear brother, you disappoint me. One day, I fear your apathy
will catch up to you. And, on that day, you shall feel the burn of true loss.
The fate of Paris lies at your feet. Have faith in your home, if not yourself
…”

The newspapers fluttered to the ground as Richard freed them from his
clutch. They settled around Aleksender’s heels, recklessly strewn about, lying
in a state of pure disorder.

CHAPTER
FIVE

A forest of ancient
oaks, locusts and redwoods spread farther than the eye could see. Maneuvering
in a graceful dance, two lakes wove in and out of the towering trees and merged
together through the waterfall that lay beyond the horizon.

Aleksender wandered Bois de Boulogne’s impressive length, hands snugly
tucked inside his coat pockets. Located in the sixteenth arrondissement, the
park’s endless amusements and picturesque setting were adored by everyone. The
last streaks of daylight twinkled across the dirt pathways and tugged at
Aleksender’s imagination.

During his adolescence, wasting away the hours at Bois de Boulogne had
quickly become one of his and Comte Philippe de Lefèvre’s favorite pastimes.
Indeed—fishing, bird-watching, ogling the menagerie’s exotic creatures, and
wagering on horses were some of his most prized memories.

Home life had been a far cry from flawless. During those rockier days
and nights, Bois de Boulogne had transformed into a secretive land—a private
sanctuary shared by father and son—a safe and silent corner of the world
reserved solely for the two of them. And for Aleksender, Bois de Boulogne would
forever remain a place of rest and tranquility.

He absently scaled the surrounding beauty and sought escape. A father
and son stood along a glittering water-bank, fishing poles close in hand,
sharing stories and laugher. Aleksender pressed his back against a large oak
tree. An overwhelming pang of nostalgia bloomed within his chest as he watched
the father and son’s tender interaction. The mirage of memories took hold
without warning—

Learning how to fish for the first time.
Father showing him how to balance the pole just right.
Father
threading the hook as Mother often threaded a bobbin. Father’s smile as the
line twitched about, moving this way and that, gliding below the lake’s glassy
surface.
Watching Bois de Boulogne’s renowned horse races.
Asking Father if he might wager on Champion—a rather sorry-looking gelding without
so
much as a ribbon to his name. Father’s smile and
gentle laugh, followed by, “A worthy choice, my son! Hopefully he shall live up
to his name.
You there—twenty francs on ol’ Champion,
monsieur!”

Aleksender shook away the ghosts of his past and returned to the
present. As if on cue, the boy’s fishing line began to erratically whiz about.
It sliced through the water like some crazed serpent and glided three feet in
every direction. Both father and son cried out in triumph and reeled in their
catch—an embarrassingly small salmon. And for all the pride on the man’s face,
the thing might have been a prizewinning marlin. The father rewarded his boy
with words of praise and a sturdy slap to the shoulder.

Aleksender turned away. He couldn’t bring himself to stomach the sight.
And the rest of the world offered only mockery and no comfort. Off in the
distance, a couple embraced beneath the bough of an old elm. The gnarled trunk
hovered above them, its twisted mass grotesquely deformed and wrought with age.
The thing reminded Aleksender of a wounded soldier who’d been blown halfway to
hell and was in urgent need of an amputation.

In contrast, the young man was dashing and clearly in the prime of his
life. Leaning in close, he clung to his darling’s waist, never intending to let
go. Beneath a reverent sigh, he whispered sweet nothings and pressed tender
kisses upon her brow. A chain of heartfelt laughter was carried by the wind as
she reciprocated the affection tenfold. Ever so gently, he cupped her cheeks
and lured her into a timeless kiss. It was a kiss she’d remember for years to
come—one that whispered a thousand unspoken secrets. In the midst of such dark
times, the two adolescents perceived only beauty. Standing below that monstrous
elm, they were positively shameless—shamelessly head over heels in love.

Aleksender’s lashes fluttered shut as he imagined his mother and father
in place of the young couple.

The need for companionship, the sincere warmth of another, violently
took hold of him. And remarkably, when he glanced upon the lovers once more, it
was not his parents he envisioned.

It was him and his little Sofia.

•

The evening’s ballet had concluded thirty minutes earlier. With keen
interest, Aleksender had observed as the various performers, stagehands and
managers claimed carriages for the night. Each time the ancient door swung
open, the expanse of black had been stabbed by a shaft of light. Each time an
absurd blend of emotions had welled inside his gut.

And each time Aleksender had been left feeling emptier and more alone
than ever before.

Where was she? Where was his Sofia?

Needing some form of distraction, Aleksender paced the length of the
alleyway and studied his barren surroundings. Almost all the street lanterns
had prematurely burned out, and those that remained shed dismal amounts of
light. A deep and not altogether cynical sigh swelled his lungs.

Gas, along with everything else, had become a rare luxury since the
siege. “Many weeks were spent in pure darkness,” Elizabeth had told him with a
shudder. And although the streets shined once more, it was a mere flicker
compared to the brilliant lighting of Paris as it used to be.

Indeed. The City of Lights had never been darker.

Aleksender’s pensive thoughts were cropped short as the door moaned
open. He held his breath in suspenseful anticipation. Two of Salle Le
Peletier’s corps de ballet dancers appeared—one of whom he immediately
recognized as Sofia.

She’d always held a strange calming effect over him. It was a
phenomenon that he’d never been able to put into words.
Something
which betrayed logic.
Something he couldn’t fully understand nor
intended to. In the midst of his personal agony, the mere sight of his ward was
balm upon his soul. Dark feelings and even darker thoughts were replaced by a
faint ray of hope. And the bitterness that had grown to be an integral part of
himself
miraculously faded away.

Standing at the stairwell’s landing, Aleksender propped a hand on
either side of the rail, cocked his head, and intently observed his ward.
Sofia’s girlfriend tugged at her cloak and whispered some nonsense into her
ear. Blue eyes pierced the black as melodious laughter flooded the alleyway.

Aleksender exhaled, releasing a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.
His heart raced at breakneck speed. His palms grew clammy, weighed down with
buckets of sweat. Perspiration formed along the lining of his gloves,
plastering silk to flesh. And the metal railing was unbearably cool … a
startling contrast to the current state of certain nether regions. Disgusted
with himself, Aleksender groaned and adjusted his posture.

Dieu—what was happening to him?

•

Sofia fell into silence as she gazed at Aleksender’s dark form beneath
the rim of her hood.

Butterflies fluttered inside her tummy and tickled her with their silky
wings. He was a vision to be reckoned with and handsomer than sin. A
double-breasted coat wrapped his impressive body like a glove, the top hat
camouflaging with a multitude of thick waves to perfection.

And he was her Alek.
Her dark knight and eternal
protector.

Sofia’s eyes came to life as a smile stretched her lips from ear to
ear. Grasping the elegant folds of her cloak, she rushed down the five
cobblestone steps and threw herself into Aleksender’s arms. He weakly returned
her embrace. Every inch of his body was coarser than stone. She felt his chest
tighten as he glanced down at their joined bodies. Long, inky lashes shadowed
his cheekbones with delicate crescent moons. They were a sensual contrast to the
golden hue of his skin.

“You’re here.” Sofia sighed and nuzzled against his cravat, increasing
the pressure of her hold. She swung both arms around his neck, perched onto her
ballerina tiptoes, and pressed a kiss just below the arch of his chin. Day-old
stubble pierced her lips at the contact.

A deep sigh resonated within Aleksender’s chest.

“Say, why the big reunion?” Aleksender muttered beneath an airy
chuckle. His hands were painfully gentle as he grazed the material of her
cloak.

Coming to his senses, he outstretched both limbs and held Sofia at a
proper arm’s length. An oversized hand crashed down on either side of her
shoulders, firmly rooting her in place. She giggled and swayed, struggling
against the iron clasp.

“Oh, just couldn’t contain myself, I suppose.” Sofia closed the space
between them and took Aleksender within her clutches once more. “I’ve just
never felt anything more wonderful than having you back in my arms.” Delicate
fingertips grazed his cloak in a tentative and experimental touch. She sighed
and laid her cheek across his chest, inhaling the exotic blend of Persian
spices that was uniquely Aleksender. “I’ve missed you more than I can say.”
Sofia’s head teeter-tottered as his body rose and sank with deep, soulful breaths.

“Alek?”
Her voice was
swallowed up by the material of his coat and barely coherent.

“Hmm?”

“Your heart is beating so fast.”

Those words sobered Aleksender.

He inhaled a shaky breath and took several generous steps backward. The
softness of Sofia’s body slipped away and made the streets of Paris feel
remarkably colder.

He pried the top hat from his hair and passed a hand over the glossy
strands. They were heavy with perspiration, soaked through and through. His
fingertips skirted across the top hat’s velvet rim as he replaced it.

The girl cleared her throat, sufficiently yanking Aleksender from his
haze.

“Oh! Heather! Forgive me. This … this is le Comte de Lefèvre.”

Heather looked Aleksender up and down, folding both arms across her
breasts. A sly and almost knowing smile tugged at her lips. She eased forward,
the flaming mass of red curls rivaling her attitude. “So, you are Sofia’s
Alek?”

Aleksender angled his chin and glanced at Sofia who was singed by Heather’s
words,
her cheeks flushed a severe red. She groped at
her skirts without conscious effort and twisted the material between two
slender fingertips. “Yes. This is him. This is my Alek. He is my guardian.”

Something in her voice made Aleksender’s heart skip a beat. Then she stared
into his eyes and it skipped several more.

“You have a carriage?” Aleksender asked Heather.

After a speculative glance, the girl nodded, lifted her hood, and
vanished into the shadows.

A heavy silence descended.

Sofia eyed Aleksender’s elegant dress from head to toe, a subtle grin
plastered to her lips. She tugged at the folded cravat with a playful smile,
blue eyes shining like beacons. “Look at you, monsieur, so very formal. Off to
the races, I suppose?”

Aleksender slipped the cravat from her fingertips. Smoothing the
material into place, he sprawled a hand across the small of Sofia’s back.

“I’ve a coach waiting.”

Sofia grinned. “Oh, I see. Goin’ to wine and dine me in Paris’s finest,
are you?” she teased, arms propped onto either side of her hips. Then her form
shook with happy and heartfelt laughter. She laughed for no apparent reason.
She laughed just for the sake of laughing.

The sound was beautiful and brimming with life. The bleak alleyway
seemed to lighten the slightest bit.

A wink was Aleksender’s sole response as he further expanded the
mystery at hand. Together, they wandered down the slim alleyway in silence
until reaching Salle Le Peletier’s carriage house.

De Lefèvre
and a coat of arms were printed across the vehicle’s
black lacquered door. Aleksender tentatively outstretched his hand and helped
Sofia into the coach. A magnetic spark flared between Aleksender and Sofia’s
fingers, sending currents of awareness shooting through their bodies. Blushing
deeply, Sofia cleared her throat and lifted her skirts.
Heart
beating like
a bunny rabbit’s, she settled against the fine upholstery
and awaited her dashing escort. He propped a hand on the archway and studied
her with an intense, unwavering gaze. She felt his eyes bear deeply into her
own, drinking her in.

“So wherever are you taking me? I must say—the suspense is nearly too
great.”

Aleksender shot her a crooked grin. He turned away, directing his
response at the driver who was perched in the box seat. As usual, the portly
gentleman wore a powdered wig, elaborate garb, and a pensive scowl.
“Voisin of Rue Saint-Honoré.”