“I do not mind your excitement. It stems from a desire to help. I see that now.” She straightened her posture and clasped her hands in her lap. “I should not have said those things to you that night, and I sincerely apologize. My desire was only in protecting my family, but that does not excuse my blatant rudeness when you have been nothing but kind.”
He could see the hit the apology took to her pride. She wasn’t a woman to consider herself in the wrong often. It humbled him to witness her humility.
“Do you accept my apology?” she demanded.
And then she hit him with that.
“It is customary to allow the other person to offer acceptance on their own. Since you’re new at this, I’ll forgo the dictates of formal apologies and acquiesce to your demand. Yes, I accept your apology in hopes that you’ll accept mine. My words were harsh and ungentlemanly. I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted.” She settled back in her chair looking smug. “What have you there?”
He looked down to where the book rested forgotten on his knee. “Ah, this. A book on botany I found among the research journals and periodicals. It’s mostly filled with medicinal plants, but there’s a chapter on creating the ideal garden from the correct type of soil—do you realize how many types of dirt there are?—to allow proper root drainage. I thought you could use it as a guide for when you plant your own garden.”
She took the book, running her fingers through the pages until stopping on one with the painted picture of a small daisy.
“Chamomile. We have them all around the city and Russian countryside. They smell sweet, like apples. Whenever I was sick our cook would make tea from the crushed petals.” She reverently closed the book and looked at him. “Thank you.”
“Friends again?” He stuck out his hand as the final peace offering.
She stretched her hand out, palm down, in answer. Grasping her fingers, he brushed a kiss over her knuckles. Or as best he could with a mask on.
Perhaps it was the midnight hour darkening her eyes or the lantern light that melted the striking angles of her face into a pale blur. Perhaps it was exhaustion that softened the mask she held in place, for in that moment time inhaled deeply on a breath that existed only for them. In that precious space something new was forged. The shape wound ubiquitously around them, giving no hint of what it would become, only that it could become.
The corners of her eyes creased, indicating a smile beneath her mask. He had the sudden desire to see what that curving mouth felt like against his own lips.
A door banged open. Feet scurried across the floor.
“Madam, you cannot be in here!” One of the Sisters hissed. “This is a contagious ward.”
“Svetlana!” Ana.
Svetlana jumped to her feet and raced out of the tiny cubicle with Wynn fast on her heels. The older princess was dressed in silk and pearls with panic seared across her face. As Svetlana reached her, Ana grabbed her shoulders and spoke in rapid French. With each word, more color leeched from Svetlana’s face.
Sister Elton bore down on them like a U-boat with sights fixed. Wynn took Svetlana and Ana by their elbows and steered them out of the room.
“A sick ward cannot be treated as a hotel with guests coming and going as they please.”
Ana didn’t spare him a glance as she continued her screeching. Wynn’s French was faulty at best, but he picked out
“Has someone stolen from you?” he interrupted.
Chapter 13
One more dance for the night and she could finally rip off this wretched costume of feathers and pearls. Costumes were meant to invoke the possibility of being someone else to live out a dream. This was a straitjacket, created to restrain the wearer into submission. Svetlana had become nothing more than a dancing bear set to the tune of whatever music Sheremetev played. And play he did as her act brought in more patrons to drink his vodka and gamble at his tables than before the war broke out. All of Paris wanted to see the Swan Princess and she had no choice but to comply.
Choice required money, and money she did not have.