The comte would observe that she had come alone to the ball. Her mission was to keep him occupied until midnight. Feint and parry, that was all. But if given an opening, she was determined to seize the offensive and see if she could maneuver him into making yet another mistake.
One that would leave more than a mere scratch on his diabolically perfect face.
Snapping her fan open and shut in rhythm with the melody of the pianoforte, Arianna sidled up to one of the colonnaded archways of the Redoutensaal—the main ballroom of the Hofburg Palace.
“Why, Lord Rochemont, where have you been? Is it true that you have been unwell?” The sonata, a prelude to the upcoming set of dances, played softly over the smooth marble, its notes muffled by the swirl of silks and satins. “Or have you been deliberately avoiding me?”
The comte turned as she tapped the sticks lightly against his sleeve. He was wearing his customary smug smile—along with a pair of dove gray gloves that did not fit quite as smoothly as usual. “I was kept abed . . .” he answered, allowing a fraction of a pause before adding, “by a slight indisposition and not some more interesting companion.”
She arched a brow at the provocative comment. “La, how boring.”
“Boring, indeed.” High overhead, the massive crystal chandelier blazed with a hard-edged brilliance, the creamy white candles catching the pearly glow of his smile.
The smile of an angel, the soul of a serpent. The palace was filled with glittering illusions, Arianna reminded herself. Medals hiding cowardice, gems masking poverty, crowns covering betrayals.
Ah, but I too am wearing false colors.
Light gilded the curl of his lashes, Rochemont leaned closer and offered her arm. “I find myself in need of physical stimulation after such a prolonged period of inactivity. Come, partner me in a dance.”
The pianoforte had given way to the flourishing sounds of the violins. A waltz had begun, and already the vast expanse of polished parquet was crowded with couples spinning through the steps. Skirts flaring, baubles flashing, they lit up the ballroom with jewel-tone flashes of color.
The comte shifted his hand on the small of her back, pulling her a touch closer than was proper. After glancing around the room, he asked, “Is your husband here tonight ?”
“No,” replied Arianna. “He has decided that such entertainments are too frivolous for his liking.”
Through his glove, she felt a pulse of heat. “And you do not share his sentiments?”
Pursing a pout, Arianna released a sulky sigh. “I find that his scholarly obsession has become”—dropping her voice, she whispered—“exceedingly boring.”
The caress of her breath against his cheek provoked a flash of teeth. “So the bloom is off the rose of marriage?”
“Let’s not talk of marriage,” said Arianna, casting a casual glance at the sumptuous surroundings. Slowly, slowly—to lead him in circles was a carefully choreographed strategy, but she knew she must not rush her steps. “Oh, look. Is that the Duchess of Sagan standing by the punch bowl? What a magnificent gown.”
Rochemont waggled a lecherous grin. “I daresay her bevy of admirers are not admiring the stitching or the silk.” His glove dipped down to the swell of Arianna’s hip. “The man holding her glass is Prince von Windischgratz. It’s said he’s replaced Metternich as her latest lover.”
The duchess tittered over something the handsome officer whispered in her ear.
“Look how Metternich stands in the corner, making calf’s eyes at her.” The comte gave a grunt of contempt. “What a besotted old fool.”
“Affairs of the heart seem to be far more important than affairs of state here in Vienna,” quipped Arianna.
“Oh, it’s not the heart that is motivating most of the pairings.” Another lascivious leer as his thigh brushed up against hers. “It’s a different bodily organ.”
She looked up at him through her lashes. “Isn’t it against the rules of Polite Society to make any mention of anatomy in the presence of a lady?”
“Oh, yes, it’s strictly forbidden.” They twirled in a tight circle. “Does it offend you, Lady Saybrook?”
“Perhaps my sensibilities are not quite so refined as they should be.”
He led her through a few more figures of the dance before speaking again. “A pity about Mr. Kydd. The two of you appeared to be close friends.”
“As you were saying about anatomy . . .” She let the suggestive remark trail off. “Poor David—he was amusing up to a point, but I confess, his prosing on about politics was beginning to grow tiresome.” A tiny pause. “Dear me, that sounds rather coldhearted, doesn’t it?”
Rochemont looked amused, which was what she intended.
“I am, of course, sorry that he fell victim to such an unfortunate accident,” she added. “How very unlucky for him to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Fortune is a fickle lady,” said the comte carelessly. “She did not choose to smile on him.”
“And what about you, Lord Rochemont?” murmured Arianna. “How does Fortune favor you?”
His boudoir laugh was low and lush as fire-warmed brandy. “I have always been lucky with ladies.”
“Oh?” She curled her mouth in a teasing, taunting challenge. “Have you never suffered a defeat?”
“No, never,” replied the comte. “I—”
But before he could go on, the music ended and a booming voice intruded on their tête-à-tête. “Ah, Lady Saybrook, you have yet to come visit me!” The Russian Tsar snatched her hand from Rochemont and lifted it to his lips. “Our delegations may be at odds over politics, but that is no reason for us to avoid being friends on a personal level, eh?”
“Your Majesty is most magnanimous,” responded Arianna. “But then, you are known as a Champion of Peace.”
His rosy cheeks flushed with pleasure at the flattery. “Da, I love peace!” A wink. “Though perhaps not quite so much as pretty women.”
And judging by his growing girth and the recent drawing room gossip, his appetite for pleasure was growing more rapacious by the day, thought Arianna sardonically.
“I am giving a private party next week,” Alexander continued. “In the interest of bringing our two countries closer together, I command that you come.”
“Well then, I dare not disobey.”
The comte shifted his stance, seemingly impatient to escape the Imperial shadow. “Alors, France is also anxious to promote international harmony. So I am sure you won’t object if I escort Lady Saybrook away from the crush of the crowd and fetch her a glass of champagne.”
The Tsar did not look pleased at having his flirtations cut short, but Rochemont was already nudging her toward the grand central staircase that led to the upper galleries.
“Pompous buffoon,” he growled, taking two glasses of wine from a passing waiter. “He struts around as if God has anointed him the world’s Savior.”
“I’ve heard that Alexander has a mystical side, and thinks that the Almighty speak directly to him,” mused Arianna as she looked up at the folds of red and gold velvet draped over the balconies. A profusion of exotic flowers were woven around the gilded balustrades, their petals perfuming the air with a heady sweetness. Surrounded by such sumptuous displays of pomp, privilege and power, she could begin to see how a mere mortal monarch could delude himself into thinking he was a deity.
“Yes, he has some charlatan fortune-teller babbling nonsense in his ear about Divine Destiny,” replied Rochemont.
“You don’t believe in such notions?”
His sinuous mouth snaked up at the corners. “I’ve a far more pragmatic view of life, Lady Saybrook. I believe man makes his own destiny.”
As do I.
“An interesting philosophy,” said Arianna, deliberately catching his gaze and holding it for an instant before starting up the carpeted steps.