Golden Paradise Part 17

He hadn't been at the Yacht Club long because the brandy bottle was only half-empty when Nikki walked into the lamp-lit room. He stood for a moment just inside the doorway, surveying the large area punctuated with leather chairs and sofas, writing tables, newspaper and magazine racks and silk-shaded chandeliers. His tawny eyes narrowed momentarily when he caught sight of Stefan lounging in his chair near the window, and with purposeful stride he walked over to him.

"I've been looking for you," he said, not bothering with social amenities. He'd been to Stefan's palace on the Fontanka first, and then to several cafes Stefan favored, before thinking of the Yacht Club, and he was irritated and badly out of temper.

"So you found me," Stefan idly replied, not inclined to be chastised by anyone. He knew why Nikki was here, and glowering like some wrathful deity, but the woman was available to the entire city. Surely he needn't bear the brunt of Nikki's censure.

"What did you do to Lisaveta?" Each word was a ground-out challenge.

While cognizant of Nikki's temper, Stefan matched him in his own terse resentment. "Only what, from the sound of it, every other man in Saint Petersburg's doing," he drawled casually, his sardonic expression masking his indignation at her popularity.

"If we hadn't been friends so long, I'd kill you for that remark." Nikki's golden eyes were hostile. "I'll say instead, you're dead wrong."

"Not from what I hear." Stefan hadn't moved from his comfortable pose, the gla.s.s of brandy in his hand resting on the chair arm, his eyes only half-open, as if their conversation were of negligible interest to him.

"Your informants are mistaken," Nikki retorted, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper, his stance vengeful, his Saint George medal and ribbon the only splash of color in the severity of the evening dress. "You could have hurt her."

One dark brow lifted in the studied calm of Stefan's expression. "She didn't appear to be in pain. To the contrary-"

"She's pregnant."

It looked for a moment as though Stefan had stopped breathing, but he quickly recovered and carelessly said, "So?"

Nikki's golden eyes flared like brilliant flame, his features took on the menace many men had seen across the dueling field. "So," Nikki murmured softly, "I understand you're the father, she's my cousin, and I'd like to know what you're going to do about it."

"Can you prove it?"

"I can kill you," Nikki breathed, his voice between a growl and a whisper, "and then it won't matter."

"Perhaps not a satisfactory solution for the lady, though," Stefan replied in an equally soft tone. "Do I understand she wishes to marry me?" His inquiry was insolent.

"She claims not to. She also claims she's not pregnant."

Stefan's brows rose. "And yet you're hounding me."

"She's apparently an innocent, although-" and it was Nikki's turn to raise one dark brow "-I'm sure you're more aware of that than we."

Stefan had the grace to acknowledge his responsibility there but took issue with the timing. "If she's not sure," he went on, no longer lounging, his gla.s.s put aside, his dark eyes intent on Nikki, "why couldn't it be someone else's. She's been here nearly a month."

"The girl is chaste as country air."

"Remember to whom you speak." Stefan's drawl was remonstrance.

"Present company excepted," Nikki said, his well-considered gaze taking in the altered posture and att.i.tude of his friend.

"Then why is it," Stefan said, his voice intense with jealousy, "I've heard such contrary rumor?"

Nikki smiled for the first time. "Rumor only. She's flirtatious. Everyone wants her. It doesn't necessarily follow they were successful. And they weren't. Don't tell me," he went on, his mouth quirked in irony, "you deserted your cavalry corps for Lise and her gallants."

"The munitions and artillery are bogged down," Stefan muttered. "We're weeks off schedule. How do I know," he demanded, his tone different now, his dark glance keen, "it's untrue about the other men?" He wanted verification. He wanted a.s.surances. He wanted absolutes, this man who'd lived his own life so differently.

"Because she came home with us every night in our coach and Alisa tucked her in and said good-night. Is my word sufficient against your jealousy?"

"Every night?" Stefan wouldn't so easily relinquish the maddening gossip concerning the Golden Countess.

Nikki gazed at Stefan from under his dark brows, the golden Kuzan eyes almost translucent in the lamp glow, his voice when he spoke significant in its utter lack of emphasis. "Every night," he said.

"She's exactly the same," Stefan said very quietly, trying to sort out the confusion and disarray of his thoughts. "I don't know if I believe you." How could she respond as she had with him and not fuel the rumors and gossip for the exact same reason?

Nikki shrugged. "That's your problem, Stefan. I can't obliterate your jealousy." Stefan's gaze widened.

"You might as well face it," Nikki said with a grin. "That's a h.e.l.l of a long trip you just made."

"Don't remind me," Stefan grumbled.

Pulling over a chair facing Stefan, Nikki sank into it and smiled benignly. "She'll be flattered to know you relinquished duty for her."

"You misunderstand," Stefan protested.

"How long have we known each other, Stefan? Since we were fifteen? Tell me honestly that you're here for other reasons." He waited, feeling vastly better than he had when he'd first confronted Stefan.

"I could be here to visit my fiancee."

"Appalling thought," Nikki replied, his smile sunny. "Were you sober when you proposed to Nadejda?" he asked with masculine bias.

"No."

"I didn't think so."

"It wouldn't have changed things, had I been."

"Because the House of Bariatinsky-Orbeliani needed an heir."

Stefan sighed. "Yes, because of that."

"But, good G.o.d, Nadejda." Nikki's own sigh was weighty with rebuke.

"It didn't matter who it was." Stefan swirled the liquor in his gla.s.s and then gazed across at Nikki from under his heavy brows. "I was tired of looking," he slowly said. "Masha had been nagging me for nearly two years," he added with a negligent shrug. "And I only had a week in town."

"Also, Vladimir has court influence sewed up."

"Which overshadowed points one through three," Stefan sarcastically murmured.

Nikki wasn't unrealistic. Vladimir was powerful. "So Vladimir was the deciding factor."

"With my family background," Stefan concluded, images of their years of wandering in Europe and his father's painful decline vividly recalled. "Or was," he added, all his carefully considered plans for a conventional engagement, marriage and family in jeopardy. Nikki would be adamant about marriage, he knew, if Lise was pregnant, and even he was beginning to question the merits of an arrangement he'd deemed extraordinarily suitable only months ago. All because of a beautiful Countess he'd just been brutish to because he was jealous of every man who looked her way. "Merde and b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l," he swore, realizing he was indeed jealous, "now what?"

"Exactly why I'm here," Nikki cheerfully replied to the gloomy man sunk into the brown leather chair. "First ask her to marry you."

He was offered a slow and searching look. "And what of Nadejda?"

"Engagements are made to be broken." A bland smile accompanied the plat.i.tude.

"At the risk of upsetting your plans," Stefan neutrally said, "I should point out the contracts are rather lengthy and signed."

"You can afford to buy her off. You own half of Georgia. And remember to be persuasive when you propose. Lise is curiously independent."

"I'm supposed to beg her to marry me?" For someone who'd only considered marriage a final necessity, the prospect was dumbfounding. "Maybe we should rethink this. She's probably not pregnant. She probably doesn't want to marry me if she is."

This reasoning received a scowl from Nikki, who viewed family honor as quite apart from other of his casually held beliefs regarding male-female relationships.

"She will?" Stefan said, responding to Nikki's scowl. "You don't know if she will," he went on, answering his own question.

"If she's pregnant," Nikki very quietly said, "you're marrying her."

"And if I don't?" Stefan as softly inquired, thin-skinned and touchy when given ultimatums.

Nikki lifted his hands in a gesture of goodwill. "Let's not ruin a pleasant friendship. You care about her or you wouldn't be here causing a scandal at the Gagarins'."

"I cm," Stefan wryly admitted, "a h.e.l.l of a long way from Kars."

"Exactly," Nikki said.

"All right. I'll talk to her."

"Do you want to come back with me?"

"Now?" It was evasion pure and simple. Stefan had been a bachelor too long.

"Tomorrow morning," Nikki pointedly said, and rose to leave.

"Tomorrow morning," Stefan agreed, and reached for the brandy bottle.

Why was it, he reflected, the subdued heat of the brandy sliding down his throat, more daunting to contemplate marriage to Lise than to Nadejda? He answered his question without a flicker of delay. Because he cared about Lise, cared enormously if he faced the hard facts of his motivating influences in coming north. Unlike Nadejda, if they were to marry, he couldn't ignore her. He couldn't continue in his current style of independent living as he'd planned to do with Nadejda. Until this moment, he thought with a startled sense of discovery, he'd never realized need for a woman could be so confining.

On that morbid note, he refilled his gla.s.s, only to reflect on further restrictions should he marry Countess Lazaroff. She could be a demanding woman and insistent; she also had an imperious streak, due no doubt to her Kuzan blood, and she argued with him often and vehemently if she disagreed. He wasn't in the mood that evening to contemplate the more positive side of their relationship. He saw only in this marriage, so different from the kind he'd contemplated with Nadejda, the absolute end to his freedom. The thought prompted him to swallow the contents of his gla.s.s, necessitating another refill, a sequence that continued into the wee hours.

Stefan wasn't in the best humor the next morning, touched as he was with a slight headache, nor was the recipient of his call in any better spirits. Lisaveta had spent a sleepless night debating the appalling negatives in her attraction to Stefan. Both were uneasy, also, considering the circ.u.mstances of their last meeting.

Why had he come? she wondered when the footman came to fetch her from the library. Surely there was nothing to say after last night. Had she not thought she would appear cowardly to refuse his card, she would have.

He automatically rose to his feet when she entered the drawing room, but slowly, to favor his throbbing temples, and immediately apologized. "Forgive my actions last night at Gagarin's," he quietly said. "I was entirely at fault."

Since Lisaveta's sleepless night had to do with the humiliation of her unrestrained surrender to the irresistible Prince, she wasn't in an absolving mood. "Yes," she said with censure and disapprobation, "you certainly were...but then, you and shameless excess are synonymous."

Stefan opened his mouth to speak, about to remind her of the nail marks she'd left on the back of his neck, but decided against it and said instead, "I'm extremely sorry."

Lisaveta scrutinized him sharply, since his tone was much too contrite for the Prince Bariatinsky she knew. But perhaps he had manners after all, or perhaps a conscience. Regardless, this visit was over. "If you came to apologize, consider it done. Good day, Prince Bariatinsky."

"Wait."

Her hand was on the door latch. "Yes?" she said in stern inquiry, as a teacher might.

She was dressed in a morning gown of cuc.u.mber green, plainly cut, and she looked quite different from the seductive beauty of last evening. She looked...scholarly, he decided was the proper word. Even her chestnut hair was braided into a coronet, enhancing her puritanical image, and she wore only Militza's pearls in her ears for jewelry. Why did he find her chaste and virtuous appearance so sensual? Was it because her unornamented frock was suppressing what he knew lay beneath? Or was it her cool and distant att.i.tude he found challenging? He wished, he decided, to take down her braids and unb.u.t.ton her high-necked gown; he wished to touch her soft warm flesh and bring her to life.

"You had something more to say?" she prompted as the silence lengthened, but there was demand in her tone rather than geniality.

Restored to his purpose, he said, "Yes... actually I do." He found himself at a loss momentarily on how exactly to begin. How precisely, he wondered, do you politely ask, Are you pregnant, and if so, is it mine, and if so, should we marry, and if I propose, will you accept, and do you really want this or find it as embarra.s.sing and awkward as I? Not to mention the overriding fact he still had a fiancee, who might or might not be easily disposed of, Nikki's nonchalance notwithstanding.

He didn't contemplate asking questions about love, because in the current circ.u.mstances it was irrelevant. But the thought of love did enter his mind in a strange and elusive way, because he had faced last night the solid truth of his journey north and he hadn't been able to place the impetus on l.u.s.t alone. As the brandy in the bottle declined he had had to admit that a.s.suaging his l.u.s.t could have been accomplished with infinitely less effort in Aleksandropol. And he could have saved himself eight days of travel.

"Am I supposed to guess?" Lisaveta coolly asked into the new small silence, not in the right frame of mind to parry verbally with the man who'd entered her life with the abruptness of a meteor, made himself essential to her without even trying with the same casual charm he extended to all women, and then as abruptly took his leave-only to disastrously repeat his performance in an abbreviated version last night. She was bitterly resentful of his charm and her attraction to his careless seduction.

"I talked to Nikki last night," he said in way of gentle introduction. "And?"

Apparently she wasn't going to make this easy. He took two steps forward so they wouldn't be conversing across so great a distance and, editing the bluntness of Nikki's statements of last evening, said, "He mentioned, or suggested... that is-he's aware we spent some time together before you arrived in Saint Petersburg."

He had gone home from the Yacht Club soon after sunrise and bathed and breakfasted. An early-morning ride had helped marginally to clear his head and he'd come directly to the Kuzan palace afterward, as some men ascend the scaffold briskly in order to speed the inevitable. His hair was still damp from the sea mist that lay over Saint Petersburg in the mornings.

Lisaveta knew he'd been out riding, dressed as he was. And she took issue with the even tenor of his life. Presumably a morning ride was routine in Saint Petersburg. Last night's events might have disrupted her life wretchedly, but his customary practices obviously remained unchanged. Her voice was mildly peevish when she said, "I didn't make a particular secret of my knowing you, although rest a.s.sured, Prince Bariatinsky, I didn't make an issue of it, either."

"Stefan," he prompted, and sighed. "Good G.o.d, Lise, stop standing there like some avenging angel. Look," he said, moving close enough to take her hand, "come sit down so we can talk."

She resisted for the briefest moment because the simple act of holding his hand was doing disastrous things to her heart rate. And what could they possibly have to discuss? she thought, after last night. She said exactly that the next moment, and his voice was solemn when he replied, "I'm abysmally sorry, dushka. I was jealous and that's the honest truth."

She looked up at him, surprised, and he was startled himself at his admission.

"So we should talk," he said, tugging at her hand, and this time, touched by his candor, she followed him. They sat on an Empire sofa, rose-colored like the carpet, with a careful distance between them, both cautious and circ.u.mspect, both plagued by a sleepless night... and touchy.

"Since there's no way to lead urbanely into this," Stefan said, feeling more like a young lad than the Commander of the Tsar's Cavalry, "I'll simply say-" he took a short extra breath for courage against the coolness of her eyes "-Nikki told me you're pregnant."

"It doesn't concern you."

He should have been ecstatic with her temperate reply; it had in fact been his own first reaction to Nikki's disclosure. Inexplicably, he wasn't. He was annoyed. "Of course it concerns me," he said, sounding pompously stuffy even to himself.

"Look, Stefan..." It was the first time she'd used his Christian name since she'd walked into that room, and it gave him pleasure, as if somehow he were succeeding against her cool reserve. "Nikki may not have told you...the-" Her hesitation over the word pregnancy charmed him. She was in many ways too sweetly naive for the brutality of the world, and a novel sense of protection overcame him. "The...situation," she went on, "may not develop into anything you need concern yourself with."

"Are you pregnant?" Suddenly he wanted to know rather than be left out with her equivocation.

"I don't know," she said, a blush pinking her pale cheeks.

"What do you mean," he inquired, his voice hushed, "you don't know? Have you or have you not missed your menses?" he asked bluntly.

The flush on her face deepened, but her voice when she spoke was firm. "I don't answer questions like that." She thought he looked tired, his dark eyes underscored with faint shadows and half-lidded, as if it were an effort to hold them open, and he was here this morning because he'd talked to Nikki last night. Because Nikki had talked to him. About her. And she resented the notion that Prince Bariatinsky was trying, under duress, to distinguish what his minimum responsibilities were.

"Actually," she said decisively, "I don't answer to you at all. As a matter of fact," she added, "I'm quite independent of you. As you no doubt prefer, since I don't recall any discussion of a future when we parted after our holiday at your lodge."

"h.e.l.l, Lise, you're making this difficult."

"On the contrary, I'll make it very easy. Shall we drop the subject?"