Petals in the Storm (48 page)

Helene Sorel sat in her drawing room sipping a late morning cup of coffee and going through her correspondence. With the shafts of early autumn sunlight illuminating the graceful room, the high drama of the day before seemed no more than a fever dream. Roussaye and von Fehrenbach had dispersed Varenne's little army with only a handful of minor casualties on the part of their men. The estate that might have been the center of a new empire was now deserted except for the Prussian guards. The threat to peace was gone, and she had done her part.

She told herself that her feeling of depression was merely the sense of letdown that came at the end of a great enterprise. It was time to think about the future. In a few weeks it should be safe to bring her daughters back to Paris. The thought lightened her heart a little. Yet still Helene stared at the coffee grounds, wondering why she didn't feel happier.

Then the parlormaid entered to say that Madame had a caller. A Prussian gentleman, very tall.

After a frantic thought for her hair and the fact that this was only her second best morning gown, Helene touched tongue to dry lips and told the maid bring in her visitor. The colonel had brought her home yesterday with a respectful bow, but had said nothing about calling. No doubt he was here only to ask if she had suffered any ill effects from that frantic ride.

Karl von Fehrenbach looked very tall and very handsome, his fair hair gleaming in the morning light. He was also very grave as he bowed over the hand Helene offered.

After an awkward moment of silence, the colonel said slowly, "I have thought about what you said, that day you called on me."

Helene's pulse quickened. "Yes?"

His light blue eyes clouded by his attempt to express his emotions, he continued, "You said that someone must stop the hating, and that you wanted me to look at you without remembering that you are French and I am Prussian."

Helene remained silent, waiting, her expression as warm and encouraging as she knew how to make it.

After another long pause, the colonel said with difficulty, "I have tried to cut myself off from all feeling but I was unsuccessful. The pain was still there. Yet surely if a heart can feel pain, it can feel happier emotions."

There was a question in his tone, and Helene suggested softly, "Emotions such as love?"

"Exactly." His earnest gaze met hers. "If you are willing to forgive my coldness, perhaps ... perhaps we can try."

Helene gave him a brilliant smile. "I should like that above all things."

The tension went out of his face. Looking years younger, he said, "Would you be free to take a drive out to Longchamps now? My carriage is outside."

Helene blinked in surprise; the colonel certainly didn't waste any time! But then, why should he? Enough time had been wasted already. Getting to her feet, she said, "It will be my great pleasure to go with you."

"There is one thing ... with your permission?" He stepped forward, then drew Helene to him, giving her ample time to pull away.

She stood firm, almost quivering with hope and fear.

His lips were warmly masculine, not at all what she had expected of an ice prince. With a soft sigh, she settled against him, tilting her head back to make it easier for him to taste the depths of her mouth. What started as gentle exploration rapidly escalated to full-scale passion. Life surged through her, and she tingled right down to her toes.

Their arms tightened around each other as each sought to fill years of emptiness. She was dizzied by taste and touch—by the pressure of his hard body against hers—by the hungry way he caressed her, shaping the curves of her small body. After an eternity that was only a beginning, she became vaguely aware that her back was against the wall, and that without the colonel's strong arms she would melt into a happy puddle on the floor.

He lifted his head, as breathless as she. "I have wanted to do that since the moment I met you." Tenderly he touched her cheek. "Now I shall take you for a drive, then for a luncheon at the finest cafe in Paris, and at various times along the way, there will be more kisses. Yes?"

"Yes!" Bubbling with laughter, Helene took his arm and they went out to his carriage. The colonel would always be a reserved man, grave rather than effervescent, but that was all right. She was emotional enough for both of them.

Lucien was an excellent drinking partner. Not only did he not ask questions, but he packed his host off to bed at a fairly early hour, so that Rafe awoke the next morning with only a mild headache. He found Lucien sleeping peacefully on the drawing room sofa.

Over a breakfast of croissants and coffee, Rafe gave a full report of what had happened. Or almost full; there were several omissions, all of them relating to Margot. He suspected that Lucien noticed, but once more his friend knew what not to ask.

After the meal, Lucien left for the embassy. Rafe was finishing the last of the coffee when a messenger arrived with a small package for the Duke of Candover. He regarded it unenthusiastically, certain that he knew what it contained.

Sure enough, inside was the velvet box containing the ill-fated emeralds. A brief note said, "The masquerade is over. Thank you for the loan. Always, Margot."

He wondered if there was any significance to the fact that she had signed it Margot. Doubtless it was only an acknowledgment that he no longer called her Maggie.

He lifted the emerald necklace from the box and let the cool stones slide through his fingers as he remembered how lovely she had looked wearing it. And the earrings, the perfect adornment for her delectable ears ...

He had spent some time choosing the gems, and could not imagine them on anyone else. On impulse he decided to go to her house and return them. Perhaps she would accept the set as a wedding gift. He wanted Margot to have something that had come from him. He also wanted to say a civilized good-bye, since the day before he had been more than a little crazed.

But it seemed that even that simple ambition was to be frustrated. When he arrived at Margot's house a short time later and was shown into the drawing room, the only occupant was Lord Robert Andreville, who greeted Rafe with apparent pleasure.

Bathed and shaved and impeccably dressed, Robin looked almost normal except for the sling supporting his left arm. Apparently his recuperative abilities were as remarkable as his stamina. He and Margot were well matched.

After returning the greeting and accepting a seat, Rafe asked, "Is Margot in?"

"No, she's gone out to Chanteuil." Robin grinned. "Something about a cat."

"Good Lord, is she going to bring that mangy beast back here?" Rafe said, unable to resist an answering smile.

"No doubt. The Prussians will not neglect the horses, but she was afraid that since the servants had all fled, the cat had been left to starve."

Rafe shook his head admiringly. In spite of all that had happened, trust Margot not to forget the cat, which, to be fair, was not at all mangy.

His amusement faded, leaving emptiness in its wake. He wouldn't even have the chance to say good-bye.

He got to his feet. "I'm sorry to have missed Margot. Since I'm returning to London tomorrow, will you give her these? I'd like her to have them. That is, if you don't object," he added after Robin accepted the velvet box.

Robin looked at him appraisingly. "Why should I object?"

Rafe felt a flash of irritation at the other man's willful obtuseness. "As her future husband, you might not like her accepting jewelry from another man."

"As her future husband ...?" Robin tossed the box lightly in his right hand, then set it on a piecrust table. "What makes you assume that we are getting married?"

"If you recall," Rafe said shortly, "you said that you were going to ask her to marry you."

Robin gave him a long, level look, his face for once serious. "I said that I was going to ask her. I didn't say that she would accept. Frankly, I doubt that she will."

Rafe felt as if he had been clubbed in the midriff: numb, confused, and unsure what the blow meant. "Why would she refuse? You've been lovers for the last dozen years or so, and from what I can see, you're on the best of terms."

Robin stood and walked to a window, then gazed out, deep in thought. Coming to some decision, he turned to Rafe, leaning against the windowsill so that his face and body were dark against the outside light. "That is not precisely accurate. We have not been lovers for over three years. Three years, two months, and"—he thought a moment—"five days, to be exact."

"But I saw you calling at her house late myself." And kissing her, as Rafe recalled with painful clarity.

Robin shrugged. "Professionally we have continued to be partners, and friends as well."

"Then why ...?" Rafe stopped, aware of how shockingly intimate was the question he had almost asked.

Unfazed, Robin said, "Why are we no longer lovers? Because Maggie no longer felt right about it. She wouldn't marry me in the beginning because she wasn't in love with me. Many things changed over the years, but not that."

"Didn't you mind when Margot no longer ...?"

Robin's face shuttered. "Oh, I minded, but if you understand anything at all about Maggie, you will know that one does not compel her. Except for sharing a bed, our friendship stayed the same, which was what mattered most—though one can always find women for physical relationships, there is only one Maggie. Until this last year, when she took on the role of Countess Janos, we continued living together when I wasn't out risking my neck. It wasn't until I joined the British delegation that we pretended to be mere acquaintances."

Needing desperately to make sense of what he was hearing, Rafe said, "Surely you think there is some chance that she will marry you, or you wouldn't be planning on offering again."

After a slight hesitation, Robin said coolly, "Once I was rather optimistic. Maggie intended to go back to England for a quiet life in some genteel place like Bath. I thought I would wait about three months, then show up and offer again. By then, she would have been ready to accept from sheer boredom." He looked down and made a minute adjustment to the bandage on his wrist. "It could have worked very well. I'm rich, she's beautiful, and we are the best of friends. Most marriages have much less. But the situation has changed, and I no longer think that she would accept an offer from me."

It was time for the ultimate question in this extraordinary conversation. Rafe asked, "Are you in love with her?"

Silhouetted against the bright window, Robin's lean body was very still. "In love? I don't really know what that means. Perhaps I lack the temperament for grand passions. Certainly I am not in love as Maggie would define it." He stopped, then said in a voice meant more for himself than Rafe, "I would go through fire for her, but that's not quite the same thing."

Feeling as if he were being torn in half, Rafe crossed the room and stood close enough to see the other man's face. Quietly he asked, "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I think Maggie is in love with you. I knew she had loved someone before we met, and I have seen how she has been since you came to Paris." Robin's tone became sardonic. "While there's no guarantee that she would be willing to overlook the past and marry you, from the way you've been acting, I assume that you would at least like to make the offer."

Rafe's aching confusion began to disappear, washed away by an almost unbearable hope. "I was on the verge of going back to England without seeing her again."

"I know. That is why I spoke."

After a shaken pause, Rafe said, "You're a generous man."

"I want Maggie to be happy." Robin's expression changed as he allowed the underlying steel to show through. "But if you marry her and make her miserable, you'll answer to me."

"I'll have to answer to myself first, and I guarantee that I will be harsher even than you would be." Rafe drew an unsteady breath. "It's shockingly inadequate, but—thank you."After scooping up the jewelry box, he left at a near run.

Robin held aside the sheer drapery and watched the duke emerge from the house, leap into his curricle and set off for Chanteuil at a reckless pace.

He dropped the drapery and turned away, his mouth tight. He was indeed a very generous man.

He was also a damned fool.