Page 26 of From London, With Love
“I think I would like some fresh air,” she murmured, trying to disentangle herself the seconds the dying strains of the dance sounded.
“Of course.” Ivan gallantly offered her his arm.
Alone, she’d meant.
But she pasted a smile on her face and allowed him to escort her onto the foredeck. The second they arrived, she let his arm go.
“Wine?” he asked, thrusting the glass toward her.
It was not a suggestion, and to deny him would be to cause a scene. Alexandra accepted the glass, lifting it to her lips with a placating smile, but not drinking. “Thank you.”
She often found she needed to say very little when he was around, as he filled the silence himself.
“These are interesting ships,” he said, patting the edge of the rail. “In Russia, it is too cold to ‘take the air’ as you English do. And the helium in the dirigible envelopes freezes, which makes them dangerous during the winter months.” He looked down at the lights glittering across London. “But this is an excellent pastime. My people would enjoy this.”
He continued praising the airship’s abilities and decorations.
And then he praised her city, though he wished he’d been able to see the Ivory Tower before it fell—a marvel of the modern age.
And then he began to praise her beauty. And her kindness. And her benevolence.
Alexandra’s eyes began to glaze over.
Help arrived in the form of Sir Gideon.
“Ah, there you are,” he said, offering her a glass of watered cordial and making it seem as though she’d requested the drink long ago. “I meant to bring it to you earlier, before being waylaid by Malloryn.”
“You care not for wine?” Prince Ivan murmured, his hawkish eyes watching every move she made.
Alexandra sipped her cordial. “It disagrees with me.”
She’d spent enough years drifting in a fogged stupor—the only means she had of dealing with her husband’s cruelty. Too much wine. Too much milk of poppy. It had been an escape for her, but the effects were frightening. Once she’d killed him, she’d spent six months trying to ease its hold on her.
She never wanted to return to those days.
The sweats, the hallucinations, and worse, the sheer drivingneedto let it wash over her again. The desire for obliteration.
She did not even dare take a sip of milk of poppy these days, for fear she would crave it again.
“You did not say,” he said.
Gideon coughed into his hand. “The queen is the epitome of politeness. I daresay she did not wish to be rude.”
Prince Ivan looked between them. “But what do you drink if you do not drink wine?”
“Many things, Your Highness. Have you heard of the restorative effects of cordials?” Gideon began, and he somehow genuinely managed to sound as though this was the most scintillating conversation he’d ever had.
A woman exited the ballroom, glittering like a star beneath the gaslight in her drapings of gold. Jewelry glittered at every finger, and earrings dripped from her ears. There was even a slim coronet on her head.
“Cousin Imogen,” Alexandra called, catching a glimpse of her old rival.
Princess Imogen stiffened before gracing her with a smile. “Your Majesty.”
“Have you met Prince Ivan? Your Highness, this is my cousin, Her Royal Highness, Princess Imogen of York.”
It was unkind of her, truly it was, but she knew her cursed cousin wouldn’t be able to resist a chance to ingratiate herself.
The woman was a good ten years older than she and resented the fact her mother, Princess Amelia, had not been born a man, as she was the eldest of her siblings and hence could have been granted the crown instead. It had taken Alexandra many years to realize why her cousin resented her, though the woman was harmless enough.
