An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(53)
The baroness shook her head firmly. “I insist. You have done a tremendous service for us this night. It is the least of what my princess would want you to have. You must take it or you will offer a grave insult.”
Her expression was mulish, and I knew we had already caused them unease by refusing to accept their hospitality for the night. Besides, it was easier to take the whole box than to steal the threat.
“That is very kind of you.”
She helped me into my own things, which Yelena had sponged and pressed in spite of their being perfectly clean, then put out her hand.
I regarded it with some astonishment. “You do not shake hands in the Alpenwald,” I said.
“But you are an Englishwoman, and I must thank you the English way,” she said. I shook her hand gravely and she inclined her head, a gesture of profound respect from this proud aristocrat. I felt a quickening of some emotion—regret, perhaps?—that my time with her had been so short. She was interesting in spite of her hedgehog prickles, and I should have enjoyed getting to know her better, not least because she might have been able to shed some light on Alice Baker-Greene’s death or Gisela’s disappearance. It had been my experience that people often knew far more than they realized, and sometimes extensive conversation was required to winkle the information out of them.
She walked me to the door of the suite, where Stoker stood ready, divested of his moustaches, gold earrings glinting from his ears. More handshakes all around, and the chancellor favored me with a formal kiss to the hand. They were subdued, as a group, no doubt because of the attack on their princess and the fact that her whereabouts were still unknown.
Duke Maximilian was still dreadfully pale as he bowed and kissed my hand, all trace of the flirtatious seducer quite absent as he pressed my hand. “Gute Nacht, Fraulein. I hope our paths will cross again.” He gave me a tiny smile at the sight of the gold box in my hands. “I see you have a souvenir of your time with us.”
“I do. Would you care for a rose cream before I go? A violet cream perhaps?”
Stoker lifted the box out of my hands. “I am certain the duke’s tastes do not run to English sweets,” he said blandly.
The duke’s smile turned wintry. “As you say. I have the Continental inclinations. I will wish you both farewell.”
He stepped sharply back and we took our leave of the Alpenwalders. It had been an evening none of us would soon forget.
CHAPTER
15
The doorman of the Sudbury was still on duty despite the lateness of the hour and, at the sight of a copper from Stoker, summoned the hotel’s comfortable brougham for us. I settled in against the velvet squabs, and when the door was closed upon us with the curtains drawn, we were cocooned in a dark and comfortable little nest against the frigid, frosty midnight. I ought to have been exhausted, but I found myself instead exhilarated, in an exaltation of spirits I had seldom enjoyed whilst in England. Upon my travels, I was often in the grip of strong emotion, hot upon the trail of an elusive butterfly or brought up to my highest mettle by the demands of arduous travel. Those experiences sharpened the senses and tested the resolve, resulting in a sense of vitality and purpose difficult to explain to those who choose a more sedate existence.
But on my home soil, there were precious few occasions for such keen endeavors. The odd abduction or attempt on my life and the bouts of physical congress I enjoyed with Stoker were the only times I had felt that knife-edge of authentic experience and I reveled in the sudden thrum in my blood.
I turned to Stoker, whose eyes gleamed catlike in the dark. He said nothing, but the growl he emitted was eloquent as any love poem. What followed has no bearing on this narrative, but I will note that the rhythmic movement of a carriage at a brisk trot is most conducive to certain pleasures, so much so that at a particularly sharp moment, Stoker was forced to cover my mouth with his hand to muffle my most forceful exclamations. The fact that in my enthusiasm I unwittingly bit his finger was something I did not discover until I had removed myself from the most suitable position—sitting astride him and using the velvet hanging straps to great effect to secure my balance—and smoothed my skirts back into place.
Stoker had tidied his own clothing and sat with his hand wrapped in one of his enormous scarlet handkerchiefs, glowering a little.
“Did you not enjoy yourself?” I asked in some surprise. Whilst Stoker’s preference was for a lengthy and languorous coupling accompanied by comfortable beds and extensive recitations of poetry, he could always be relied upon for applying himself with diligence and dexterity to a more vigorous interlude.
“I did,” he ground out between gritted teeth. “Until you bit me.”
He brandished the injured limb and I apologized prettily. “I thought you heard my groans of pain,” he went on, still sulking.
“I did,” I explained. “But I fear I mistook them for the culmination of your pleasure. Your groans all rather sound the same.”
“Yes, it did seem to spur you on,” he added a trifle nastily.
“It is hardly my fault if you are inarticulate,” I pointed out. “Do attempt to clot faster, Stoker. We have arrived.”
The carriage drew up at Bishop’s Folly, Lord Rosemorran’s estate, and we alighted. Stoker clutched the box of chocolates to his chest with his good hand and it was left to me to pay the coachman. He caught the coin I flipped with a nod. “Much obliged, madame. I do hope you enjoyed the ride,” he added with a wink as he sprang the horses from the curb.