like foxgloves, for example. I believe we should judge each plant on its own merits.’ She cringed a little at her pedantic response, but Lady Albinia’s smile warmed.
‘I cannot decide which you are.’
‘Which what?’
‘A flower or an herb. Usually I can tell right away. You have elements of both. I shall reserve judgement.’
She sounded so serious, Christina restrained her urge to laugh and looked around the room, forcing her gaze to skim past Lord Stanton as swiftly as possible. Even a brief glance told her he was magnificent in evening wear, the contrast of black and white accentuating the austere perfection of his features. But it also confirmed that although she had been too shocked by his sudden appearance that afternoon to assess their encounter calmly, she had been right about one thing—he had changed. Or perhaps she had. If she didn’t know better she might have assumed this was that man’s older brother. Incredibly like him in looks, more virile, but less swashbuckling. Just...different. The alternating sardonic charm, flirtatiousness and irritability were gone, replaced by watchful politeness. For a moment in the library he had even appeared a little confused. He had probably been thinking about something else and her presence had been unwelcome, but his manners had prevailed.
He was still the most attractive man she had met, but at least she hadn’t made as much of a fool of herself as she might, especially after being discovered huddled in that corner in her stockings. She flushed again at the memory and pushed it away. She had survived that meeting quite well, certainly better than anticipated. It was a relief that he made no connection between Miss James and his newspaper-reading nurse. And really, why should he? She had been negligible then and was negligible now.
She glanced again in his direction. He stood with the King and Princess, his head bowed slightly towards Ari’s who was laughing at something he said, her silver-and-white fan clutched in her hands in a gesture Christina knew betokened excitement. They looked beautiful together, a perfect melding of north and south and at least outwardly it appeared the King might realise his ambition, but Christina couldn’t help being worried, and not merely because of the lingering damage to her own heart. Lord Stanton might be leagues beyond any of the men who came to pay court to Ari at Illiakos, but she didn’t know if he could make Ari happy. He might have changed, but she remembered bitterness and anger under the flirtatious charm five years ago that she doubted would have just disappeared. None of that was in evidence now, but there was something distant about him despite the charm of his smile and the appealing curiosity he had exhibited while talking with her in the library and which he was clearly exerting on Ari even now. Beyond that something else lay, but she had no idea what it was and it scared her a little.
She drew herself up at that wholly ridiculous thought. He was merely an English diplomat whose only agenda was to secure a treaty with Illiakos. Fear had no place here.
Lady Albinia gave a slight sigh and patted Christina’s arm as the butler entered to announce dinner.
‘Come along, child, we have a long evening ahead of us.’
Christina followed her into the adjoining room. She was accustomed to splendour after years of the King insisting she accompany Ari to all state dinners, so when she entered the Stanton dining hall she was impressed, but not cowed. It could clearly accommodate several dozen people, but the central table had been shortened to fit their modest number and the elaborate silver epergne shaped like an eastern temple had been moved to a side table and replaced by a China bowl bursting with flowers. It was a peculiar touch amidst the sparkle of crystal and silver and gold-embossed dinnerware, both modest and lively. Christina thought the arrangement was not only tasteful but clever. It tied the group together in a warm intimacy and masked their antagonistic agendas.
Lord Stanton was seated at one end of the table and the King at the other, flanked by the Austrian and Russian envoys. Christina noted this concession to the weaker parties as she took her seat between Ari, seated to Lord Stanton’s right, and the Russian Tsar’s envoy, Count Razumov.
Again Christina felt her kinship with Lady Albinia. The older woman sat on Lord Stanton’s left, and as he listened to Ari’s happy chatter, she occupied herself with her food and a calm oversight of the servants who moved about, placing and removing covers with silent efficiency. Had Lady Albinia ever dreamt of being anything else but what she was? Of a family and home of her own? She had a pleasant face and she was not unintelligent. Had life just slipped past her while she tended her herbs and her brother’s family? She didn’t appear unhappy, but was that just resignation or true contentment?
‘...Miss James? Miss James!’
Christina turned at the King’s peremptory use of her name. He was frowning and the envoys were staring at her in surprise and for one mad moment Christina wondered if she had committed some horrid social solecism, but could not for the life of her think of anything she had been doing other than meandering through her own less-than-optimistic thoughts.
‘The trade treaty with Naples, you remember, what year did we sign it?’
Christina’s shoulders eased. The only social solecism was the King’s. Not that he cared it wasn’t acceptable to address anyone at the dinner table other than those directly seated by his sides.
‘Two years ago in May, your Majesty.’
‘Yes, that is right. Was that before or after I went to Rome?’
‘A month after your return, your Majesty.’
‘That’s right. That fellow came, the one with the big ears, what was his name, di Vicenti or something, yes?’
‘Signor di Vicenza, your Majesty.’ She angled her voice lower, but he merely grinned at her unspoken rebuke.
‘What have I said? He was very proud of his big ears, said they got that way from all those years keeping them to the ground.’
Razumov and Von Haas laughed, and without thinking she turned towards Lord Stanton. He was smiling, but there was the same watchful look she noticed in the library and it struck her suddenly that by placing these three men side by side he was not making a gesture of goodwill but setting the stage to gauge their reactions to each other. He appeared relaxed, but she could see the echoes of the tension and intensity that had been so clear in the wounded man of six years ago.
She looked down, her eyes snagging on his long fingers which were idly caressed the stem of his wine glass. With a spurt of alarm she realised she remembered his hands, even the feel of them on hers. They stopped suddenly and she raised her eyes, meeting his gaze. His eyes narrowed, the candlelight throwing gold shards in with the silver, but raising no warmth in them. Convention demanded she look away modestly and if she had been able to think she would have done so, but under his gaze she remembered just how seen she had felt, even under those veils. Seen by someone like her, vulnerable and in need, but holding his own need at bay with a ferocity she could never match. She remembered it perfectly—the knife-sharp intensity of his eyes, stripping away everything that kept her safe, forcing her to acknowledge that she had only one regret in her life and that it was that she had not grasped with both hands his impetuous offer that she join him six years ago. He would have regretted it—she was certain of that, and therefore so would she, but at least she would have had more to regret. It was too late, far too late, but it was still there, a slash in the very material of her life—deep and still bleeding.
‘You have spent many years on Illiakos, Miss James?’ The heavily accented question from the Russian envoy on her right startled her and she struggled to regain her composure.
‘I... Yes, your Excellency.’
