Golden Paradise Part 13

He smiled briefly and momentarily his eyes shone with his familiar laughter. "Tell Sasha he owes me for the redoubt at Jangelar," he said with a familiarity few men in the Empire could equal.

"If I see him, I will," she replied, thinking it highly unlikely she would be talking to the Tsar so intimately.

"You will," Stefan said, his grin the natural boyish one she loved.

"You seem sure."

"I'm sure" was all he said. "Bon voyage." Quickly shutting the door, he signaled the driver on.

The last sight she had of Prince Stefan Bariatinsky was of him gracefully swinging up on Cleo, the mare's prancing impatience stirring up a flurry of dust on the road. He waved his hand as if he knew she was watching, and wheeling his sleek black racer, he set off for Tiflis and the war.

Her tears came then, sliding over the barriers she'd controlled until Stefan was out of sight, wetting her cheeks and her bodice, soaking her handkerchief. All her anguish and heartache finally poured out. She would never see him again, repeated the doleful litany in her mind, never... never. She'd never listen to him laugh at some silliness or feel the warm solidness of him beside her as she slept or be able to touch him when she woke in the morning. But it was more than missing his vivid physical presence. She had fallen in love with him, despite all her attempts to the contrary, a head-over-heels, ungovernable love that inundated her mind and body and spirit. He had become as essential as air to her.

Had, she bitterly thought, was the operative word with Stefan Bariatinsky. And you're breathing still, she cynically reminded herself in the next beat of her pulse. People do not die of love.

But for all her practicality she still indulged her wretchedness on the journey to the railhead; she cried until she couldn't cry anymore, until only great gulping sobs were left. Then, tearless and exhausted, she merely thought of him. She found herself memorizing him against an unknown future, as one would a treasured poem one wishes to keep always, committing to her mind small and cherished details of his perfection: his stark handsomeness, both elegantly Persian and incongruously savage like the warrior tribes he commanded; his power, not only of musculature and height but of disposition; the gentleness she'd so often experienced; and most of all his smile. The most charming smile devised by man. A smile she'd basked in, a smile she'd often brought to his lips, a smile she'd kissed in amused reply. A smile she'd first seen in Aleksandropol.

She shut her eyes and saw him as he'd looked that first night in Aleksandropol, dressed in silk robes and limned by moonlight; she remembered how he'd looked when she'd wakened beside him, drowsy as he often was early in the morning because he woke more slowly than she; and she saw him as she had each day of their holiday, seated nude on the bank of his mountain stream with the sun on his wet hair, content, at peace and at home. He belonged in the mountains, he said.

A shame she didn't, as well.

Stefan made a conscious effort at conversation with Haci on their ride back to Tiflis. He needed distraction from his thoughts; he needed to distance himself mentally as well as physically from a woman who'd become too much a part of his life. It unnerved him, this need he felt, this intense craving to have her riding beside him, talking to him, making him happy. What a strange word, he abruptly thought, one he'd never considered as particularly significant. He'd thought in terms of excitement or action, stimulation or pleasure, never happiness.

Was this what had happened to his father? Had this sudden need for one particular person struck him as suddenly? The thought terrified him for a brief mindless moment, as though he'd lost control.

"Tell me, was Choura in form at Chezevek's Restaurant," he said, turning to Haci, intent on repudiating these indications of misplaced emotion.

"She's bragging about her new price." Haci's smile flashed against his bronzed skin. "She's increased in value, thanks to you."

"She wouldn't have left otherwise, and I wasn't in the mood to haggle. My offer was one I knew she'd take."

"Was the Countess worth it?" Haci asked familiarly. He was the same age as Stefan, and they'd shared more than years of soldiering; they'd grown up together, for Haci's father had been aide to the Field Marshal.

"More, unfortunately." They spoke in the Kurdish dialect, although Haci was as proficient as Stefan in French, and the softly guttural diction lent impact to the plain answer.

"That's a problem," Haci said with a sidelong glance at Stefan.

"I don't want it to be a problem, so it won't be a problem." Stefan had turned to him, his eyes narrowed against the sun or his own resentment. "And I don't want to talk about it."

"Fair enough," his childhood friend said. "Do you think the Grand Duke Michael will get the Turks to the bargaining table?"

"Do you think the Grand Duke can find his behind with a road map?" Stefan sardonically replied.

"In that case I'd better bring my winter gear."

"I'd recommend it." And Stefan nudged Cleo into a trot.

Stefan stayed with Haci in the seclusion of his town house, sending Militza an invitation for dinner that evening. More restless than usual, he refused Haci's invitation to Chezevek's later, had his valet repack his kit twice, annoyed his chef with his presence in the kitchen for menu changes and was, in short, noticeably high-strung and moody.

Taking notice of his temperament immediately upon arriving, Militza took one glance about the drawing room and said, "She's gone, I take it."

"Yes," Stefan said tersely. "And Nadejda?"

"Safely on her way to the excitement of Saint Petersburg. I have a note for you, by the way."

His head came up immediately and he swung around from the liquor table, where he'd been pouring some wine for his aunt.

"From Nadejda," she explained, alert to his swift response.

"Oh." The single word was blatant disappointment. He resumed pouring.

"Would you like to see it? I brought it along."

"Later. Have you heard the news of the Grand Duke? Haci tells me he's out to end the war speedily." He'd recovered from his miscalculation and the grin he turned on her was sportive.

"She's telling you to listen to Melikoff and not return to the war, and yes, I talked to Michael before he left Tiflis. He's utterly naive about the Turks."

"If she mentions Melikoff, maybe you'd better toss it. Michael is utterly naive about everything, believe me. He's going to blow it, guaranteed, and we're all going to have to get our a.s.ses down there in double time to save his." His smile was still cordial, a social smile without sentiment.

"Read it," Militza said. "You'll find it enlightening."

He didn't try to evade her this time, but after handing her a gla.s.s of wine and sitting down on the opposite couch, he softly said, "Perhaps I don't want to be enlightened. Perhaps I want to be blissfully ignorant, and perhaps I want to marry Vladimir Taneiev's ministerial influence but I can't, so I'm marrying his daughter."

"She'll make you unhappy."

"I won't be seeing much of her."

"She'll still be the mother of your children."

"I'm counting on it." The words came out stone cold and grim.

"Does that mean so much?"

"To me it does."

"What about love?"

He quirked a brow. "It hasn't been a problem."

"What if you fall in love someday?"

"Masha, darling," he said with light sarcasm, "remember to whom you speak. Being married doesn't preclude being in love. As you recall, I'm a product of such a union."

"What if you want to marry her?"

His eyes took on a flinty cast. "It won't happen to me, Masha. Rest a.s.sured. Now, could we change this subject, since we've already exhausted it on numerous occasions in the past? I'm marrying Nadejda whether-" he grinned then, and his tone lightened, as if to mitigate the curtness of his previous declarations "-she knows Melikoff or not."

Militza snorted both at the mention of Melikoff and at Stefan's stubbornness. "He's a pig."

"Yes, but an influential one, you will agree, dear aunt of mine."

"So you persist in your path to-"

"Destruction," Stefan offered cheerfully. She gazed at him without speaking for a short time. Since he was alone at home with her, he wore black silk, a shirt and loose trousers belted in costly gem-encrusted gold; the slippers on his bare feet were fine kid, black too, and embroidered with ruby beads. He could have been one of his princely Persian ancestors. But unlike them, he wasn't allowed the luxury of a harem. "Boredom," Militza threatened. "You'll be bored in a day."

"Well, then I'll leave." He was lounging and unthreatened by his aunt's bullying.

"Not for long I'd guess, or Papa Vladimir will grow resentful."

"A soldier's life is not his own," Stefan sweetly replied.

"I thought you and the Countess enjoyed each other," Militza interjected, as persistent in her maneuvering as Stefan was in his evasion.

He hesitated the barest fraction of a second before replying, a fact duly noted by his aunt, as was his altered expression. "As a matter of fact, we did. She's a delightful woman."

"I thought so, too. She reminded me of her mother in her youth. The Kuzans were always... unconventional."

Militza's delayed emphasis on the last word sent a rush of sensation through Stefan's body as though he could see Lisaveta again in all her glorious unconventionality. He needed her already, had recalled a dozen times that afternoon how she felt in his arms and how she felt as he slid into her heated interior, how she matched his pa.s.sion or exceeded it at times so he had to calm her and slow her and bring her whimpering and impetuous to climax.

"Do you think so?" His aunt's words, obviously repeated, roused him finally and he looked at her, perplexed. "Do you think she bears any resemblance to Nikki?" Militza asked, a satisfied look in her eyes. Another nail in the coffin, she jubilantly decided.

"Her eyes, of course. The Kuzan eyes are notorious." And he thought of her golden eyes, flagrantly exotic, unvirtuous, torrid, like her lovemaking.

"She's tall, too," Militza said. "The Kuzans are known for their height."

A moment pa.s.sed before he responded, preoccupied as he was with memories of the beautiful, heated Countess Lazaroff. "Yes," he said finally in a voice more subdued than he intended, "she is."

"Will you be seeing her again?"

Stefan's "No!" was so swift and harsh that Militza raised her brows in mild astonishment.

"Did you have a spat?" she asked.

"No, we didn't, and if you don't mind," Stefan said in a tone that made it clear he didn't care whether she minded or not, "I'd like to discontinue the discussion of the Countess Lazaroff."

"Of course, darling," Militza replied pleasantly, pleased with his agitation. "I was curious only. Now what do you see as the first campaign move against the Turks? Haci tells me some larger calibre artillery is scheduled to be brought to Kars."

The remainder of their evening visit was devoted to topics pertaining to the war.

He didn't inquire once about his fiancee or the letter she'd left for him, but Militza was careful to bring it to his attention before she left. "You should read it, Stefan," she admonished, indicating the pastel envelope lying on the lamp table, "in the event it requires an answer."

"My secretary can answer it," he replied, but relenting at his aunt's judgmental glance, added, "oh, very well, I'll read the b.l.o.o.d.y thing. Satisfied?"

Her contented smile was answer enough.

"Do be careful now, Stefan," she went on to say as she stood to leave, adjusting her shawl against the cool evening air.

"One can't be careful, Masha, and win a war." But his smile was warm; he understood her plat.i.tude.

"Well, send me a message occasionally, so I know you're safe." Her words were a ritual of goodbye because both knew he conscientiously sent her letters every other day. Reaching up to touch his cheek tenderly, she softly whispered, "Go with G.o.d."

The letter forgotten on the table, he left the next morning before dawn, Haci beside him and his troop following in faultless formation. They were equipped for a fall campaign, fully aware progress had to be made before the winter set in. They pressed their mounts because news had it the Grand Duke was meddling. If he had his way, a full-scale attack might occur in the next fortnight, whether they were prepared or not.

Chapter Ten.

When Lisaveta had arrived at Vladikavkaz, she'd been met by the Tsar's envoy and one of the Tsar's railway coaches. With politeness and protocol she'd been escorted into her private car, told by an obsequious aide that her wish was their command and invited to enjoy her journey north.

Astonished at first by her preferential treatment, she inquired whether they had the right person. She was a.s.sured they did. The young officer smiled winningly and said, "Please, mademoiselle, relax and make yourself comfortable. The Tsar looks forward to meeting you." Pampered by a full staff of servants, she sped northward to the capital.

The next morning over breakfast she asked the Tsar's equerry whether all the guests to the ceremony commemorating her father's work were treated so royally. He hesitated only the minutest moment before replying, "My orders were to escort you, Countess, and beyond that I don't know. I never," he added politely, evading her question nicely, "question the Tsar." He knew of course that a telegram from Prince Bariatinsky had set the Tsar's orders in train; he also knew scholars, even scholars honored by the Tsar, were rarely treated with such pomp. And while not privy to the details of the Prince's telegram, he'd already come to his own conclusions apropos of the Countess Lazaroff's relationship to the Prince. As a man of the world, he understood Bariatinsky's request and, perhaps upon seeing the lady, understood also his possible reasons for ensuring she had private accommodations.

Perhaps the Prince was protecting his paramour from prying eyes or other men's advances; maybe he merely wished her journey to be as luxurious as possible. Certainly, whatever his reasons, the lady was worth the effort. She was breathtakingly beautiful, her fresh blooming youth not only dazzling the eye but stirring the imagination. In her peach-colored summer frock adorned with cream lace flounces at neckline and cuffs, she seemed both lushly opulent and heatedly alive.

At the Countess's request, a message was sent from Moscow to her cousin Prince Nikki Kuzan, informing him of her arrival time. When they detrained at the Station Sud, Nikki and his wife, Alisa, were at the platform to meet them. Amid hugs and kisses, introductions were made, since Nikki had married rather precipitously since her father's funeral and neither woman had met. While Nikki dwarfed the pretty redhead at his side, he deferred to her, his smiles those of a besotted man, and as the two women chatted with the familiarity of old friends, he listened with amus.e.m.e.nt and courtesy.

"Do you think," he said at last, breaking in during a short pause for breath on his wife's part, "we could rediscover the merits of royal rail travel and the Russian landscape in the comfort of our home?" His grin was appealing. "And let all these vastly bored officers and railway officials leave?"

"Oh, dear," Alisa said, glancing at the ranks of officialdom standing at attention.

Lisaveta flushed in embarra.s.sment at her discourtesy. Unused to royal entourage, she'd simply forgotten they were present, having in the past always traveled in the utmost simplicity. "By all means," she said, and with a directness that Nikki watched with interest and the entourage found delightful, Lisaveta shook hands with and thanked each man.

When they arrived at Nikki's palace on the Neva Quay, Katelina, Alisa's daughter from a previous marriage, two-year-old Alex and the new baby were all waiting with their nannies and descended on their parents with squeals of excitement. Katelina was eight now and poised in an engaging way that would shatter abruptly when Nikki teased her. Alex was a chubby toddler, testing his curiosity and independence with tugs on Lisaveta's skirt and questions of his own. He p.r.o.nounced his baby brother's name in a charming two-year-old lisp, and Lisaveta thought how warm and loving the small family appeared. The children were allowed at the table for dinner, served unfashionably early to accommodate their bedtimes, and when the last child was tucked into bed, the three adults settled in the drawing room for tea and sherry.

The intervening years since they'd last met were discussed, Nikki and Lisaveta exchanging pertinent details of their lives. Nikki's new family, of course, was a more staggering alteration than Lisaveta's continuing research, and Lisaveta listened with interest to the story of Nikki and Alisa's courtship and marriage. She could see they were happy, and she found herself wishing her relationship with Stefan might have had the same fantasy ending. Stefan was apparently more immune to Cupid's arrows... an unfortunate circ.u.mstance when she had found herself so vulnerable.

Eventually, the reason for Lisaveta's visit to Saint Petersburg was spoken of.

"Uncle Felix is much revered by the Tsar," Nikki said, warming the gla.s.s of brandy he preferred drinking in his cupped hands. "This ceremony is more than the usual diplomatic dispersal of medals in a palace stateroom. A dinner is planned and a ball with a very select guest list."

Unaware of the reason for Alexander's unusual favors, Lisaveta said, "Papa did have a very special relationship with the Tsar. They corresponded for years, although their letters were mostly a.n.a.lyses of obscure translations or interpretations of particular stanzas. It was a bit," she added with a smile, "like playing chess through the mails."

"And you came to follow in your father's footsteps," Alisa said. "I suppose you've been asked countless times whether you find the field unusual."

Lisaveta nodded. "Hafiz seems very normal to me, raised as I was in the midst of his research. The exotic qualities of the topic elude me. It's rather like a comfortable old sweater."

Nikki smiled. "An uncommon metaphor for Hafiz, I'd warrant, but I understand. Mother's Romany blood may seem exotic to others, but their culture is prosaic and second nature to me. I may see it as interesting but certainly not exotic."

"Exactly," Lisaveta agreed warmly.

"Be warned, though," Nikki cautioned out of concern for his cousin's feelings, "some in society may see your interest in other terms."