Constantly.
Christina no longer paid any attention to her guardian's contrary disposition. She'd adopted a protective attitude toward the woman, too. The Countess was family, and while that probably should have been reason enough, there was another motive as well. Her aunt reminded Christina of Laughing Brook, the crazed old squaw who used to chase after all the children with her whipping stick. Laughing Brook couldn't help the way she was, and neither could the Countess.
'Didn't you hear me, Christina?' The Countess snapped, drawing Christina from her thoughts. 'I asked you what made you want to leave Carlson's party so suddenly.'
'I met a man,' Christina said. 'He wasn't at all like the others. They call him the Lion.'
'You speak of the Marquess of Lyonwood,' Patricia said, nodding her head. 'And he frightened you, is that it? Well, do not let it bother you. He frightens everyone, even me. He's a rude, impossible man, but then his position does allow for insolence, I suppose. The ugly scar on his forehead gives him a sinister look.'
'Oh, no, he didn't frighten me,' Christina confessed. 'Quite the contrary, Aunt. I was, of course, attracted to his mark, but when I heard Sir Reynolds call him Lion, I was immediately so homesick I could barely think what to say.'
'How many times must I tell you those savages should mean nothing to you?' Patricia screeched. 'After all I've sacrificed so that you can take your rightful place in society and claim my inheritance…'
The Countess caught her blunder. She gave her niece a piercing look to measure her reaction, then said, 'You simply must not think about those people. The past must be forgotten.'
'Why do they call him Lion?' Christina asked, smoothly changing the topic. She slowly moved her arm away from her aunt's painful grip. 'I'm only curious,' she explained, 'for you did say the English didn't name themselves after animals or-'
'No, of course not, you stupid chit,' Aunt Patricia muttered. 'The Marquess isn't named after an animal. The spelling isn't the same.' The Countess slowly spelled Lyon 's name. Her voice lost some of its brittle edge when she continued, 'It is in deference to his title that he's called Lyonwood. Closer friends are permitted to shorten the name, of course.'
'He won't suit?' Christina asked, frowning.
'He most certainly will not,' the Countess answered. 'He's too shrewd, too rich. You'll have to stay away from him. Is that understood?'
'Of course.'
The Countess nodded. 'Why you would be attracted to him is beyond my comprehension. He wouldn't be the least manageable.'
'I wasn't truly attracted to him,' Christina answered. She lied, of course, but only because she didn't wish to goad her aunt into another burst of anger. And she really couldn't make her aunt understand anyway. How could she reason with a woman who believed a warrior's mark was a detraction? With that feeble mind-set, Christina's aunt would be appalled if she gave her the truth.
Oh, yes, the lion did appeal to her. The golden chips in his dark brown eyes pleased her. His powerful build was that of a warrior, and she was naturally drawn to his strength. There was an aura of authority surrounding him. He was aptly named, for he did remind her of a lion. Christina had noticed his lazy, almost bored attitude, yet she instinctively knew he could move with bold speed if given enough provocation.
Yes, he was attractive. Christina liked looking at him well enough.
But she loved his scent. And what would her aunt think of that admission, Christina wondered with a bit of a smile. Why, she'd probably install another chain on her bedroom door.
No, the Countess wouldn't understand her attraction. The old shaman from her village would understand, though. He'd be very pleased, too.
'We needn't worry that Lyon will show you the least interest,' Aunt Patricia announced. 'The man only escorts paramours. His latest attraction, according to the whispers I overheard, is a woman called Lady Cecille.' The Countess let out an inelegant snort before continuing, 'Lady indeed. Whore is the real name for the bitch. She married a man twice and half her age and no doubt began her affairs before the wedding was over.'
'Doesn't this woman's husband mind that she-'
'The old goat died,' her aunt said. 'Not that long ago, I heard. Rumor has it Lady Cecille has her cap set for Lyon as her next husband.'
'I don't think he'd marry a woman of ill repute,' Christina said, shaking her head for emphasis. 'But if she is called Lady, then she must not be a paramour. Isn't that right?' she asked, frowning over the confusion in her mind.
'She's accepted by the ton because of her title. Many of the married women do have affairs. All the husbands certainly keep mistresses,' Aunt Patricia said. 'The morals disgust me, but men will always follow their baser instincts, won't they?'
Her tone of voice didn't suggest she wanted Christina's opinion. 'Yes, Aunt,' she answered with a sigh.
' Lyon is rarely seen in public these days,' the Countess continued. 'Ever since his wife died he has set himself apart.'
'Perhaps he still mourns his wife. He seemed vulnerable to me.'
'Ha,' the aunt sneered. ' Lyon has been called many things, but never was the word vulnerable put to his name. I can't imagine any man mourning over the loss of a wife. Why, they're all too busy chasing after their own pleasures to care about anyone else.'
The carriage came to a halt in front of the Bakers' residence, forcing an end to the conversation. Christina was acutely relieved when the door to the carriage was finally opened by the footman. She took several deep breaths as she followed her aunt up the steps to the brick-faced townhouse.
A soft, sultry breeze cooled her face. Christina wished she could pull all the pins out of her hair and let the heavy curls down. Her aunt wouldn't allow her to leave it unbound, however. Fashion ordered either short, cropped curls or intricately designed coronets. Since Christina refused to cut her unruly hair, she was forced to put up with the torture of the pins.
'I trust this won't be too much for you,' the Countess sarcastically remarked before striking the door.
'I won't fail you,' Christina replied, knowing those were the only words her aunt wanted to hear. 'You really mustn't worry. I'm strong enough to face anyone, even a lion.'
Her jest didn't take. The Countess puckered her lips while she gave her niece a thorough once-over. 'Yes, you are strong. It's obvious you haven't inherited any of your mother's odious traits. Thank God for that blessing. Jessica was such a spineless woman.'
It was difficult, but Christina held her anger. She couldn't let her aunt know how the foul words about Jessica upset her. Though she'd lived with her aunt for over a year now, she still found it difficult to believe that one sister could be so disloyal to another. The Countess wasn't aware her sister had kept a journal. Christina wasn't going to tell her about the diary-not just yet, anyway-but she wondered what her aunt's reaction would be if she was confronted with the truth. It wouldn't make any difference, Christina decided then. Her aunt's mind was too twisted to accept any changes in her opinions.
The pretense was becoming unbearable. Christina wasn't gifted with a patient nature. Both Merry and Black Wolf had cautioned her to keep a firm hold on her temper. They'd warned her about the whites, too. Her parents knew she'd have to walk the path alone. Black Wolf feared for her safety. Merry feared for her heart. Yet both ignored her pleas to stay with them. There was a promise to be kept, no matter how many lives were lost, no matter how many hearts were broken.
And if she survived, she could go home.
Christina realized she was frowning. She immediately regained her smile just as the door was opened by Lord Baker's butler. The smile stayed firmly in place throughout the lengthy introductions. There were only twenty guests in attendance, most of them elderly, and Christina was given hardly a moment's respite from the seemingly contagious topic of current illnesses until the call for refreshments was given.
The Countess reluctantly left Christina's side when Lord Baker offered her his arm. Christina was able to discourage three well-meaning gentlemen from ushering her into the dining room by pretending an errand in the washroom above the stairs. When she returned to the first floor, she saw that the drawing room was empty of guests. The solitude proved irresistible. Christina glanced over her shoulder to make certain she wasn't being observed, then hurried to the opposite end of the long, narrow room. She'd noticed a balcony beyond a pair of
