Prince for Yuletide: A Victorian Christmas Novella Read online

  He’d be able to manage the accent; one of his companions at boarding school had been the son of a Russian grand duke.

  “Well then, Lord Nikolai, I believe you’re ready to attend the Midwinter Masque. Don’t forget to enjoy yourself.”

  Reece held out his coat, and Sebastian shrugged into it, then swiped his wolf mask from the dressing table and held it in front of his face.

  It was wearying, always and ever being Prince Sebastian, which was, he supposed, why he’d agreed to Reece’s ridiculous scheme that he attend the Midwinter Masque as someone completely different. That, plus the fact that he wanted to prove to himself he was man enough to return to the scene of the crime, as it were. Even if he were in disguise.

  The man looking back at him from the mirror bore little resemblance to the aloof and pale-haired Ice Prince. Instead, a mysterious stranger stood there, ready for a night where, for once, he could take off the mask of nobility and simply be himself.

  3

  “Did you hear?” Eliana leaned close to Lady Peony, trying to avoid inhaling the fluffy white feathers edging her friend’s mask. “He won’t be here tonight. Apparently the prince has been taken ill.”

  With an attack of conscience, perhaps, though she doubted it. Preferably it was something painful and debilitating, like gout.

  “Oh, that’s a relief.” Peony’s fan, which she had been waving back and forth in an agitated manner, slowed. “I almost couldn’t come tonight, after what happened last year.”

  Her voice hitched, and Eliana patted her friend’s gloved hand. Peony was sweet and a bit meek, and the debacle last year had wounded her deeply.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Eliana said. “Prince Sebastian was an utter cad to you, breaking things off without a word, when everyone knew he was supposed to propose at the ball.”

  Peony nodded mournfully and said nothing.

  “But the Ice Prince isn’t here, so cheer up! Is your dance card full?”

  “Not entirely.”

  “Mine either.” Eliana glanced about the crowded ballroom, her gaze obscured by the eyeholes of her mask.

  It was not quite as impractical as Peony’s, being made of paper and silk and sitting closely against her face, but it was still hot and a little scratchy.

  At last she glimpsed the familiar dark hair and blue gossamer dress she’d been searching for.

  “There’s my sister. I’ll make her relinquish her husband for the quadrille. Once you take a turn with the Duke of Ashford, the men will be lining up.”

  Peony did not deserve to be a wallflower, and her reputation, though bruised, was recovering. If only she would stand up for herself a bit more…

  But Peony’s kindness had shored Eliana up during her low points, and she would not abandon her friend simply because Peony lacked a backbone of steel.

  “Wait here, and I’ll send Ashford over,” Eliana said. “It’s quite a crush.”

  Indeed, it took her several minutes to maneuver past the clumps of people in conversation. She amused herself as she sidled past by trying to identify the lords and ladies. Some she knew by their laughs, others by their tone and mannerisms. Having often been at the center of such groups, she was well aware of the individual quirks of the members of the ton.

  It was rather amazing, though, how the masks made it difficult to recognize a person. Hair color and stature were excellent clues, of course, but Eliana found herself wondering how many of the people she passed were known to her. The sensation of moving alone through an unknown crowd was a bit odd, accustomed as she was to counting so many people as friends and acquaintances.

  “Lady Ashford,” she said, fetching up with relief beside her sister. “How inspiring you look tonight.”

  Selene turned, her gossamer blue skirt catching the light. Eliana could tell her dark eyebrows were raised behind her mask.

  “You shouldn’t say my name,” Selene said. “This is a masked ball, after all.”

  “Don’t be silly—you know as well as I that the gossips revealed the Duke and Duchess of Ashford were going as ‘a Poet and his Muse.’ Terribly romantic of you.”

  Selene smiled. “Jared is regretting having to carry around a book and a pen all evening, though I did warn him it would be cumbersome.”

  “Then he ought to set them down and dance. In fact, if you might prevail upon him to take a turn with Lady Peony, it would be much appreciated.”

  “Of course. The poor girl. I suppose you’ve heard that Prince Sebastian will not be in attendance tonight?”

  “Thank heavens. The Ice Prince would certainly bring a certain chilling effect to the occasion.”

  Selene tapped her blue lace fan against her hand. “I hope he isn’t terribly ill. Perhaps he chose to stay away for Lady Peony’s sake. That would be gallant of him.”

  “Marriage has made you see the good in everyone, however improbable,” Eliana said. “At any rate, do ask the duke.”

  “Of course. And I’ll have him dance with you as well. Make your suitors take notice. I’m surprised you’re not surrounded by your usual coterie of admirers.”

  “Perhaps they don’t recognize me.”

  Or perhaps she had already dissuaded several of her would-be paramours, telling them she felt unwell and preferred to sit quietly with Lady Peony for a time. It was easier than pretending to a cheer she did not feel.

  “Now you’re being silly.” Selene poked her in the arm with her fan. “Go off and chat with your admirers, and don’t fret too much about Lady Peony. She needs to stop feeling sorry for herself, and you hovering over her doesn’t help.”

  “As you say, oh Muse.” Eliana ducked away from another poke.

  Her sister’s quiet laughter followed Eliana as she wove back through the crowd. And although she was smiling, Eliana felt a twinge of discontent.

  She didn’t actually want to return to Peony, nor did she want to circulate and be witty and bright and charming. The thought, which used to fill her with energy, now only made her tired. Whatever was the matter with her?

  Drawing up her red hood to cover her hair, Eliana let the flow of the crowd push her to the edges of the room. She fetched up beside a decorative column and caught her breath. She just needed a moment to herself, and then she would be the usual merry, animated girl everyone expected her to be.

  Surely she would.

  Before she achieved that state, however, her quiet was intruded upon by a black-haired gentleman wearing a wolf mask. His eyes were very blue behind the white fur covering his mask, and the nose protruded out so far that she could barely see his mouth or the line of his jaw.

  “Good evening,” he said in an accented voice. “I beg your pardon, but when I saw a beautiful maiden in a red cloak, I knew we must meet. I am Count Nikolai of Kiev.”

  Her pulse accelerated as she looked at him standing before her, tall and a bit forbidding. Despite the confidence in his voice, there was a wary set to his shoulders, as though he were inclined to flee back into the dark forest from which he’d emerged.

  “Perhaps it is better if we do not become acquainted,” she said. “After all, the tale does not end well for the maiden.”

  He brought his hand to his heart. “You wound me. In some versions of the story, it is the wolf who is the unfortunate one, after all.”

  “Then either way, we oughtn’t to meet.”

  Despite her words, a strange shiver went through her. Perhaps a Russian count with melancholy eyes was just the antidote she was looking for.

  His teeth flashed white in the shadows beneath his mask. “On the contrary. One might say it is fated. Would you tell me your name?”

  Eliana hesitated. It was not the done thing, of course, for a man and woman to meet without an introduction. Yet the rules of a masked ball were different, and besides, it was clear that Count Nikolai was a foreigner, unaccustomed to the customs of England.

  “You may call me Mademoiselle Red,” she finally said.

  If he turned out to be a pleasant
fellow then she might gift him with her name, but she was not entirely certain. The wolf mask gave him a dangerous air.

  “It is my pleasure, Mademoiselle Red.” He made her an elegant bow. “But why do you lurk here behind the colonnade? A beautiful young lady such as yourself should be out dancing and laughing and breaking all the young men’s hearts.”

  “Even the most sociable of ladies needs a moment to herself,” she said.

  “And I have intruded.” He dipped his head. “You must forgive me. But will you also promise me a dance later if I go away now and leave you alone?”

  He made her smile with his boldness, and for some reason her entire mood lightened. This was a masked ball, after all, and what could be more amusing than Red Riding Hood dancing with the wolf?

  “In truth,” she said, “I suspect you’re a better companion than my own lonely thoughts. I will dance with you now.”

  He held out his arm, his blue eyes serious, and led her to the dance floor. The small orchestra on the balcony struck up a waltz, and Eliana let out a half sigh, half laugh. Of course, it would be nothing so simple as a quadrille or country dance. No, she must step right into the wolf’s embrace.

  “You see?” he said in his Russian accent. “Fate conspires with us.”

  “Or against us.”

  She placed her left hand on his shoulder and let him clasp her right hand. His other arm slipped about her waist with a strong, sure touch that made her suspect Count Nikolai was an accomplished dancer.

  Two bars into the music, her suspicions proved correct. He guided her deftly about the floor, neatly avoiding the other couples, and then whirled her into a series of spins that made her red cloak billow out behind her.

  She laughed, she could not help it, and he sent her a reluctant half-smile in return. Eliana had the impression he was not one to smile easily, and decided she that would be her goal for the evening. After all, they were at the Midwinter Masque, and despite the debacle last year, it was supposed to be a cheery event.

  “You are very light on your feet, Mademoiselle Red,” he said.

  “And you are quite skilled yourself, my lord.”

  “Pruss—that is, we Russians are taught the same social graces as other European nobility.” He stiffened slightly.

  “Take no offense, please. I meant no slight upon your nationality.”

  He deftly pushed her out into a spin. When she was back in his arms, he lowered his voice.

  “That might be, but I hear you English have been rude to a certain visiting prince, calling him unkind names.”

  Eliana studied him, trying to read the features behind the mask. Was he truly offended?

  “That has nothing to do with the fact he’s a foreigner,” she said, “and everything to do with his behavior. We call him the Ice Prince because he has a heart impervious to kindness or love.”

  “He sounds a most unpleasant fellow.” The wolf mask rose as Count Nikolai scanned the crowd. “Is the prince here? Point him out to me, so I might avoid him.”

  “Luckily, he has been taken ill and is not in attendance this evening.” She could not help the edge in her voice.

  The count looked down at her once more. “What did he do, to make you dislike him so?”

  “Last year, at this very ball, he made a fool of my dear friend Lady Peony. He was supposed to propose to her, and instead they exchanged words and he departed, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the dance floor. The next day she received a note that their courtship was at an end.”

  “How unfortunate.” The count’s lips pressed into a rigid line. “Perhaps this prince of yours did not know he was supposed to propose that evening.”

  “Not know?” She blinked up at him. “He’d been courting Lady Peony for weeks. Everyone knew the prince was going to ask her to marry him very soon.”

  “Did they?” There was something dangerous in the count’s voice.

  “Don’t side with him, just because you are both foreigners,” she said. “And there’s no need to turn rabid, either. If a gentleman courts a lady and makes certain promises, he ought to stand by his words, and not leave her to be the laughingstock of the ton.”

  His jaw clenched, but he bent his head in assent. “You are correct, of course. You seem a very good friend to the young lady in question.”

  “Friendship is important. Our connections with other people help make us better, in turn.” It was one of the simple truths of her world, though she realized she’d never spoken it aloud.

  “I know little of that.” There was something stricken in his eyes.

  “My lord—”

  He stopped her by whirling them into a series of turns, but her heart ached at the loneliness she’d glimpsed in his expression.

  When they returned to a more sedate pace, she caught her breath and vowed to steer their conversation onto safer ground.

  “How long will you be in London? Will you be able to enjoy some of our English holiday traditions?” She was half tempted to invite him to come caroling.

  “I fear I must depart tomorrow.” There was something forbidding in his tone that kept her from asking further questions. They had already clashed once—and that was one too many times for what was supposed to be a happy evening.

  “A pity you can’t stay longer.” She meant the words, a bit to her own surprise.

  There was something about Count Nikolai that made her wish they could become better acquainted. He intrigued her, and it was refreshing to speak with a gentleman who was not afraid to disagree with her.

  As the waltz came to a close, she cast about for a reason to remain in his company. It certainly was more interesting than making jokes with her companions about the various masks and costumes on display. Not to mention her private crusade to make him smile more.

  “Have you tried English mulled wine?” she asked him. “They’re serving some in the refreshment room. Perhaps you have something similar in your homeland.”

  “I believe we do,” he said, “though I will not know until I taste it.”

  “Will you join me in a glass?”

  “With pleasure.” His solemn voice held none of the light flirtation she was used to from gentlemen. Which, of course, made him all the more appealing.

  She took his arm and steered him through the crowd. Their passage elicited laughter and comments concerning Red Riding Hood and her tame wolf, and Eliana could not help smiling in return. No doubt they made quite a sight together—as if they’d planned their costumes from the start.

  They reached the parlor off the ballroom, where the refreshments were laid out. Like the ballroom, this room, too, was packed with people, elbow to elbow.

  “Allow me to fetch our wine,” Count Nikolai said. “There’s no need for both of us to fight through the crowd.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” She glanced about for a place to wait, and spied an alcove on one side of the room with a low bench, miraculously unoccupied. “I’ll sit over there.”

  She expected him to leave her and go jostle for a place at the tables, but instead he gently took her elbow and escorted her to the bench.

  “What nice manners they have in Russia,” she said, taking a seat. Her red cloak pooled about her, a little too disconcertingly like blood.

  He tipped his head. “Some foreigners know how to treat an English lady. I shall return shortly, my lady.”

  To her surprise, he bent and took her hand, pressing a kiss upon the back of her glove. It sent a jolt of heat through her, though surely she could not possibly have felt the warmth of his lips through the fabric.

  She blinked, and then he was gone, smoothly slipping through the crowd.

  What a curious man Count Nikolai was. A foreigner with a touch of melancholy, though perhaps that was because he was far from home. Indeed, it was a sad time of year to be alone. She would be quite downcast if she were spending the holidays away from her family and friends.

  Her own discontents seemed rather small in comparison. Eliana to
ok a deep breath and resolved not to mope any longer about her romantic prospects. The right man would come along, and she must simply trust the fact.

  After all, look at her sister. A year ago Selene had been headed for certain spinsterhood, when a carriage accident and a chance meeting had transformed her life. Certainly the same thing could happen to Eliana.

  “My lady.”

  The sound of Count Nikolai’s low Russian accent made her blink. He stood before her, a glass of mulled wine in either hand.

  She took the glass he held out, admiring the gold filigree about the rim.

  “Please, sit.” She patted the bench beside her. “There’s room for two.”

  Barely, but it would be rude to make him stand there and drink his wine.

  “As you wish.” He sat beside her, and once again she was struck by the edge of elegance in his movements.

  His leg pressed lightly against hers, and a strange heat washed over her, as though she sat too near a blazing fire.

  “Tell me about Kiev,” she said, in an effort to distract herself from the sensation. “I know very little about Russia. What do you do for fun at the holidays?”

  “We enjoy the snow. We go ice skating. Do you like to skate?”

  She could not help the little shiver that went through her. “Not at all. I fell into a pond when I was a young girl and nearly drowned, so I stay far away from water whenever possible.”

  “I did not mean to distress you.” His blue eyes were sympathetic, as though he, too, bore childhood scars. “Shall we sample this mulled wine of yours?”

  “Certainly.”

  It was a welcome distraction from the old fear, and she raised her glass to her nose. The scent of cloves and oranges wafted up, along with the briny smell of warmed inferior wine.

  “Alas,” she said, “I’m afraid our host has not used the finest of vintages.”

  One side of his mouth quirked up, and he glanced about the crowded room. “If you had to serve several hundred people, would you bring forth the best wine from your cellars?”

  “I like to think that I would. But then, my family is not one to host large balls. They generally prefer quieter gatherings to a monstrous crush.”