Golden Paradise

Chapter Four

Nadejda wore lavender crepe de chine with diamonds in her hair at dinner, and were it not for her disagreeable tongue she would have been the picture of radiant beauty. She had, however, since being seated, complained of the heat, taken issue with the servants' casual behavior and condemned the country style of food numerous times. Her patience curtailed by yet another remark about its quaintness, Aunt Militza coolly said to her, "Stefan has a Georgian palate and refuses to have a French chef."

"We have always had a French chef," Nadejda replied, as though her wishes were primary, as though she were already running the household. Her mama had assured her she would have total control since men preferred detachment from household functions.

"Perhaps you should think of adding a Georgian chef, as well," Militza retorted, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice. Her family had been royalty for a thousand years before the Taneievs had been elevated to princely status.

"Surely Stefan enjoys French cuisine, don't you, my dear." Nadejda turned to Stefan with her winning smile, the smile she felt had successfully gained Stefan's attention in Saint Petersburg six months ago.

Stefan, dressed comfortably in the embroidered silk shirt and loose trousers native to his mother's land, was sprawled back in his chair, his wineglass in hand. His expression had remained unreadable while Nadejda had complained, Militza had seethed and the two women had discussed him as if he weren't present. While he appreciated Militza's advocacy for his taste in food, he could only see the disagreement escalating, and Nadejda's opinion on food or anything else was really rather incidental to him. He'd chosen her for a bride because her family was well connected at court, not for personal reasons. After the irregularity of his own childhood and his father's disgrace and loss of the Viceroyalty of the Caucasus, Stefan didn't care if Nadejda Taneiev liked African chefs, as long as the stability of the Taneiev family was intact. He was marrying that dependable stability, the court attachments, the conservative background. But he disliked the cattiness of Nadejda's tone and her grasping possessiveness as much as the thought of continuing disagreements over dinner when all he wanted to do was relax and drink his favorite wine from his own vineyard.

"I eat anything," he said blandly. "Militza, you know that. Nadejda can keep her French chef by all means. When you've campaigned as long as I, you learn to eat anything." He was the perfect host, pleasant, affable, ready to step in and smooth over controversy. "Georgi, more wine for the ladies." His major-domo, who stood beside Stefan's chair, signaled for a footman.

"Oh, no," Nadejda refused, waving away the servant. "Mama says a lady never has more than two glasses." Her lavender eyes, cool as her disdain, cast a scornful glance at Aunt Militza, who'd been keeping up with Stefan's consumption over dinner.

"Your mother was from the north," Militza curtly said, her brows drawn together in nettled pique, "where all they drink is tea to keep warm. Leave the bottle," she added to the young footman filling her glass.

Stefan couldn't help but smile at Militza's snappish answer to Nadejda's prudery. It could be a battlefield of a dinner, he thought, managing to hide his grin behind his uplifted wineglass. When he raised his eyes a moment later as the glass touched his lips, his gaze met Lisaveta's, and immediately memories returned of the bottle of wine they'd shared one morning in an enormous wooden tub set out on a flower-bedecked terrace. The sun had been warm, and they warmer still, hot with need and tumultuous passion, and the wine, chilled in a nearby mountain stream, was ambrosia to senses already attuned to pleasure. They had made love endlessly and then much later laughed with silliness and frivolous intimacy, as if they were the only two people in the world. Tonight, he thought, he'd touch her again and kiss her and make her laugh and give to her the enormous pleasure she'd given him.

Lisaveta dropped her eyes first before his dark gaze, more concerned with appearances than he. Stefan never cared about comportment; in that he was his father's son. Only his betrothal to Princess Taneiev was an aberration in personality. No one on either branch of his family had ever been practical. There had been no need with their wealth and status, but then, none before him had seen their father die in slow degrees, consumed by drugs, none had seen their father die a broken man living in exile at the spas of Europe. So Stefan was going to be practical in the one facet that had been his father's downfall. He would have a wife beyond reproach; he would have children with a legal patrimony from birth.

"Do you like my wines?" he asked Lisaveta. "They say some of the Georgian sun is captured in each bottle." He spoke to her as though no one else existed at the table.

"It does warm one's senses," she replied, her smile enchanting. After several glasses of wine Lisaveta found herself relaxed and without rancor. In fact, after listening to Nadejda over dinner, she'd actually begun feeling sorry for Stefan. The young woman was devoid of amusement or charm, fastidious only of her position and the refined affectations of society. How dreary for Stefan, who loved to laugh.

"It reminds me," Lisaveta went on, holding her glass up to the light, its golden contents rich and sunshiny, "of a special wine from Tzinondali Papa and I once had. Papa called it Angelglow because one's blood turned warm."

"Those," Stefan said, smiling back, "are my vineyards."

"My papa prefers French wines," Nadejda interjected. "He says only French wines are of superior quality and fit for the palate of a gentleman." She spoke to the table at large as though she were delivering news of importance. "The Emperor, you know, only drinks French champagne."

Stefan knew better-Tsar Alexander had a fondness for his vintages and they'd shared many bottles together over the years-but Nadejda's insipidity wasn't his concern. "I'm sure you're right," he said in a detached way, more interested at the moment in the beautiful flush on Countess Lazaroff's cheeks. Had her smile been as suggestive as her remark or was he imagining her response? His eyes took in her azure gown and the way Militza's pearls at her neck and ears set off her sun-kissed skin to perfection. Considering the haste required of the dressmaker in Aleksandropol, she'd done exceptionally well, and his glance drifted down to the provocative splendor of Lisaveta's breasts displayed so enticingly by the low-cut décolletage. Even her skin exuded warmth; it glowed like his wine with fragrant allure, and he could almost smell its heated perfume.

Shifting slightly in his chair to accommodate his arousal, he glanced at the clock. Nine-thirty-four more courses to go. A brief half hour, he hoped, in conversation in the drawing room, and then everyone could retire. He was impatient and restless. Lisaveta was near enough to reach over and touch, but he couldn't. Because this stranger who was his fiancée had decided to spend several days in residence while her family visited the Viceroy in Tiflis.

Militza had to ask him twice whether Archduke Michael had returned to Saint Petersburg, and when she did finally gain his attention, his answer was brief. He didn't participate further in the conversation, and after all the discussion of his taste in food, he hardly ate, as though he were host by requirement but detached from the actual proceedings. Georgi, on an informal footing with his employer, coaxed him to try the sturgeon, which Stefan did to please him, but he wouldn't be cajoled to taste anything more until the sorbet-a lemon ice, Georgi reminded him, he'd favored since childhood.

He seemed very different here tonight, Lisaveta thought, a prince in his palace, familiar with deference, accustomed to being waited on, intent on his own interests, polite to his aunt with a genuine warmth but no more than civil to his fiancée, although he had every intention of spending the rest of his life with her. None of the casual intimacy she'd seen last week remained in his character; none of the animated banter or amused laughter she'd come to know was apparent. Not even a critical comment materialized to make him seem more human. And when Stefan rose directly after the lemon ice, she wasn't surprised.

"Forgive me, ladies," he said, excusing himself, "but I promised Had some time after dinner. Thank you all for a pleasant evening," he added, then bowed politely and left the table.

As the door closed behind him, Militza said, "He was bored."

"Stefan isn't one for conversation," Nadejda retorted, as if she were the expert on Prince Stefan Bariatinsky after a week's acquaintance.

Poor child, Lisaveta thought, remembering their heated conversations on subjects as esoteric as Kurdish shaman mythology or as trivial as the state of dressmaking in Aleksandropol. She'd found Stefan a charming conversationalist, but if today was any indication of his attachment to Nadejda, he'd treat his wife abominably. She felt a sudden sympathy for the Princess Taneiev.

"If you don't mind," Nadejda declared, addressing Militza in a tone that suggested she didn't care if she minded or not, "I'd like to take charge of the dinner for my parents tomorrow night. Papa will not eat this-" her pouty lips curled upward in reproof "-native fare. I'll have a chef brought over from the Viceroy's palace."

Lisaveta's sympathy instantly evaporated at Nadejda's insufferable tone and priggish demand. Stefan might not deal with his future wife affectionately, she reflected, but his wishes in turn weren't of the slightest interest to her. Their bargain for a marriage of convenience apparently was equally made. Princess Taneiev didn't love Stefan, it was obvious. She didn't look at him with affection or longing. She seemed immune to his sensuality-a startling revelation to Lisaveta, who found his attraction so powerful it outweighed all perceptible logic. But Nadejda was very young and perhaps simply unawakened. Or more likely, as her prudish comments on a variety of subjects denoted, she was very much attached to her mother's primly artificial views on life. She would probably find the concept of love too emotional. Mama no doubt would have a homily to that effect.

A shame when Stefan was so very easy to love.

A shame, she thought with a flashing spontaneity of feeling, when she could love him so very much.

"Bring over the entire staff if you wish, my dear," Aunt Militza replied, her voice suspiciously warm. "Stefan won't mind at all," she added with an innocence that was entirely out of character.

"Very good," Nadejda replied in a tone one would use to a servant. "And if you have other plans, I'm sure we won't need you in attendance tomorrow night." It was a blatantly rude dismissal. Nadejda was extremely self-centered, a personality trait humored by her parents, who had allowed her whims in every instance save those that might interfere with theirs. She had been pampered, spoiled in a small-girl way and schooled in the normal studies considered proper for refined young ladies, which meant that she was, in effect, uneducated. Her world was luxurious but narrow, and she considered her wishes preeminent because no one had to date disabused her of that notion. Stefan had a tendency, it seemed, to be abrupt and caustic, if today was any indication, she decided, but Mama had warned her of men's moodiness and told her it was best to ignore or simply smile it away and then later…do as you wished. She thought Mama's advice quite sensible, and certainly everyone agreed her smile was radiant. She used it on Militza.

"I did have plans for bridge," Militza said, her meekness so unusual anyone with half a brain would have been instantly alert.

"Well, that's settled then," Nadejda said, pleased Stefan's aunt was eliminated from her family party. She had tried to like her but found Militza had very little conversation; she couldn't talk about fashion or the latest gossip from Saint Petersburg. She read, it seemed, and helped train Stefan's polo ponies and actually oversaw the farms and vineyards on Stefan's estates. Nadejda found her odd, and thought Mama and Papa would prefer an intimate evening alone with Stefan.

"If there's anything you need…" Militza offered.

"No, thank you, I'm sure the Viceroy's staff is adequate, and since tomorrow will be an enormously busy day," Nadejda said, rising, "I'll retire early. Have the carriage brought round at nine and I'll drive to the Viceroy's to gather the necessary servants." She could have been addressing her housekeeper. But then Nadejda viewed herself as a superior young woman from a superior family, and while the Orbelianis might be wealthy, they were, after all, not Russians but Georgians. She found it very satisfying that Stefan on his father's side was related to the Tsar.

"Pleasant dreams, my dear," Militza responded, her expression wreathed in smiles. "I'll see to the carriage." When Nadejda swept from the room in a froth of lavender crepe, Militza leaned back in her chair, motioned to have her wineglass refilled, took it from Georgi with a complacent sigh and said, "Thank you, Georgi, we won't be needing you any longer. Tell the staff to retire. All this will wait until morning." She indicated the table with a small gesture.

Leaving the bottle within reach, Georgi stood for a moment at her side. He was a middle-aged man with the dark coloring of the region and a pleasant manner. "The Prince seemed-" He searched for the word, obviously used to discussing Stefan with Militza.

"Bored, Georgi, there's no polite way to say it. Princess Taneiev is dismally boring and deplorably stupid. He's going to hate himself a week after the wedding."

Too courteous to denigrate a female, Georgi mentioned instead, "The Prince won't want to see the Viceroy's staff, Princess. Why did you allow her license?"

"Because he'll be furious, Georgi, that's why." Militza's dark eyes, very much like Stefan's, gleamed with glee.

Georgi beamed, an instant co-conspirator. "Ah…of course, and our staff is dismissed then for the day."

"We wouldn't want you 'natives' to get in the way of those frogs from the Viceroy's, Georgi. Everyone has the day off." Sheer unmitigated cheer resounded in Militza's voice.

His bow was sweepingly dramatic, indicative of his own agreement to Militza's plan. "Thank you, Your Excellency." Turning to Lisaveta he inquired politely, "Would you care for more wine, Countess, before I leave, or perhaps a sweet?"

"No, thank you," Lisaveta replied, intrigued by the extent servant and mistress felt they could interfere in Stefan's life, "although Stefan's wines are exceptional."

"We think so," Georgi returned. His family had been personal servants to the Orbelianis centuries before Georgia was annexed to the Russian Empire. The vineyards, he felt, were as much a part of his family as Stefan's. In fact, his brother was head vintner for Stefan.

"A shame Nadejda's family drink only French wines," Militza said very softly.

Directing his attention back to his mistress, Georgi said in an equally soft voice, "She won't do."

"Exactly."

"If you need anything, Excellency, the staff is at your disposal." His tone was moderate, but aware of the warrior code so prevalent in this area of the country, Lisaveta wondered precisely what "anything" implied.

"We'll begin by clearing the palace," Militza briskly said. "Please have everyone out by morning. Stefan should appreciate that interference from his fiancée."

"Excellent idea, Princess." Georgi reminded her, grinning from ear to ear.

"I know," Militza winked. "Have a pleasant holiday."

"Won't he be angry with you?" Lisaveta asked as soon as Georgi left. She was unfamiliar with palace intrigue, her own tranquil life with her father insufficient education for the subtleties of manipulating people. As an only child with her father alone for company, Lisaveta was unaccustomed to the machinations of society. "'What if Stefan discovers what you've done?"

"I expect he will first thing in the morning. Actually I'm counting on it, but then I'm only accommodating his fiancée," Militza replied, her sweet tone one of unalloyed delight. "The one," she reminded Lisaveta, "he picked out in three days because she best met his requirements for stability."

"I see," Lisaveta said when she didn't see at all, when she envisioned instead a tangle of complications and disorder. "You can't mean stability," she added, as the word registered. "Not for Stefan. He lives his life on the brink."

"As did his father before him." Militza expelled a small sigh: "Which is the basic problem." She looked into the golden liquid in her wineglass for a brief moment before her gaze came up and she went on, "You must know of Stefan's father's lengthy liaison with Princess Davidow and the scandal."

"Only vaguely," Lisaveta answered. "Father was reclusive after Maman died. His studies absorbed him increasingly-to fill the void of Maman's loss, I suppose. As I grew older, they occupied me, as well." It was natural she'd adopted her father's field of study since she'd always traveled with him. "The only scandal I'm fully aware of," Lisaveta added, smiling a small rueful smile, "is Stefan's reputation for amorous intrigue."

Militza shrugged. "A young man's normal interest," she said. "His father's scandal, though, is going to ruin Stefan's life." She looked at Lisaveta across the remnants of dinner. "He hasn't said anything to you of his family?"

"Nothing except you wouldn't mind me as a guest. As you saw earlier today," she went on, her fingers tracing the pattern of the tablecloth in a nervous gesture, "he hadn't even mentioned he had a fiancée."

"He didn't expect her to be here, although that's no excuse, only an explanation… and in a way, perhaps that omission is typical of Stefan. Because of his background, he rarely confronts emotion directly."

"Do you think so?" Lisaveta's question was contemplative more than inquiring, for in many ways Stefan was an intensely emotional man.

"In terms of his family, at least," Militza said, and Lisaveta had to agree. In those terms he'd been extremely reticent.

"There was a love affair, wasn't there," Lisaveta said, trying to recall the exact circumstances, "between Field Marshal Bariatinsky and-"

"My sister." Militza's words seemed suspended for a moment in the quiet of the room.

"Stefan's mother?"

"Yes. They shocked society by living together openly all the years of the Field Marshal's Viceroyalty of the Caucasus, although my sister, Damia, was married to another man. When Stefan was born, our parents adopted him to ensure the continuity of the Orbeliani line and fortune. I had no children, there was only Damia and myself, and if Damia's husband wished to, he might have laid claim to the child. Indeed, he would not allow a divorce, vowing to fight a divorce action to his last rouble. The potential for complications, as you can see, was enormous." Her explanation was rapid and direct, as though the words had been said a thousand times before.

"I knew of the Field Marshal, as every schoolchild does, but not-" Lisaveta hesitated, searching for a polite phrase "-of… the entire background." How extreme were the contrasts in their childhoods, she thought. Stefan's life had been led in the glare of publicity from birth while hers had been almost a country hermitage.

"You knew, then, that Stefan's father was forced to resign the Viceroyalty. Damia's husband, after opposing divorce for years, suddenly instituted proceedings, naming the Field Marshal as correspondent. After twenty-five years of valorous service to the Tsar, his career was over.'

Militza must have been a young and elegant lady then, Lisaveta thought, as diminutive and darkly beautiful as a Persian miniature. "How devastating for him… for everyone," Lisaveta said, and how wretched, she thought, for a young boy trying to understand.

Militza sighed again, recalling the heartache and sorrow. "The Field Marshal and Damia were married in Brussels after the divorce, but I'm afraid the example of what overpowering love can do to a proud man had a profound effect on Stefan. At the time his father was relieved of his viceregal post, Alex was at the zenith of his career, and while the Tsar still sought his advice, for they had been companions since childhood, his hands were tied. As Viceroy, Alex embodied the Emperor and as such couldn't be correspondent in a divorce proceeding. He had no choice but to step down. He was forty-five."

"How old was Stefan?"

"Ten."

She had been six when her mother died in a riding accident, and that loss had tempered her entire life. "How much did Stefan know…of…the events?" she inquired, trying to imagine him as a young child, coping.

"He seemed to grow up overnight."

And in those hushed words her question was answered. "How sudden was the change?" Lisaveta inquired, her own voice oddly muffled, and at Militza's expression she answered herself. "It was sudden. They lived abroad, didn't they…"

"At first they retired to Alex's estate in Kursk, but he was restless, still raging with life. He couldn't stand the confining tranquillity of country living. He was a conqueror with nothing to conquer and he needed distractions." Militza had always felt the wreckage of such an illustrious career could not have been the happiest foundation for a marriage, and the procession of half-lived days-then years-at Plombières, Ems, Baden-Baden, the capital cities of Europe, had to have been touched with regret along with the ennui. "They left Russia," she explained, "after just two months at Kursk, taking only two servants and Damia's jewels. From that point on the family's aimless wanderings from spa to spa in Europe began destroying Alex. Stefan watched his father turn to morphine, saw his health worsen until he died at Ems when Stefan was fifteen. Damia committed suicide two weeks later. I sometimes think," Militza said, recalling the vivacious dark beauty of her sister, "Stefan blamed his mother for the loss of his father…or blamed love. He made up his mind then never to lose his soul to a woman, a principle he's adhered to for over a decade now."

"And yet he's marrying."

"For an heir. Both the Bariatinsky and Orbeliani fortunes require one, and I must confess my insistence may have had something to do with his decision. His style of soldiering does leave one holding one's breath."

"He never spoke of…this," Lisaveta softly said. "How sad it must have been to lose both your parents so young." How terrible it must have been for Stefan, she thought, to see his father die so uselessly.

"And yet in many ways he was very lucky to have parents who loved him so," Militza declared. "He was doted on from the cradle. Alex had led a life much like Stefan's has been the last many years, known for its searching the limits of sensation in love and war. When he fell in love with my sister, Damia, many thought it inexplicable. But-" Militza half closed her eyes for a moment, against that memory and her own "-love is… mystifying, is it not?" She sat more upright abruptly, as if relinquishing hold on all the memories from her past. "Stefan was Alex and Damia's only child. He was the center of their world-which may both explain and condemn him to his present path."

"I don't understand how he can be so ruthless about his own marriage after seeing and experiencing such love. Surely the circumstances…"

"Stefan was deeply scarred by the manner of his father's death. Alex had been Russia's greatest hero for a quarter of a century, yet he died in exile." She leaned her head against the chair back and briefly shut her eyes. How often had she wondered what might have been if Alex's enemies hadn't persuaded Davidow… "You can see," she said, opening her eyes, "Stefan's childhood was… unusual."

"It certainly explains, in some ways, his choice of a wife. Nadejda and her parents appear on good terms with the current Viceroy. How does Stefan feel about the man occupying the position once held by his father?"

"There is deep-seated animosity. Melikoff is the son of the man who replaced his father. He holds a post Stefan might have inherited."

"Does Stefan know Nadejda's parents are visiting the Viceroy?"

"I didn't tell him, but he found out," his aunt said, blunt as a hammer blow, "from the servants."

"You wouldn't have told him?" Lisaveta's words were blurted in astonishment. She had been reared to honor simple truth.

"I wanted him to find out from his fiancée. She has such an irritating way about her."

"He may not find her irritating."

Militza treated Lisaveta to a candid stare. Her eyes were dark with kohl in the fashion of the Caucasus, and brilliant with derision. "He hardly notices her."

It was unkind, but Militza's words consoled her; had Stefan adored Nadejda she would have been… what? Unhappy? Dejected? Jealous? Taking a serious grip on the reality of the situation, Lisaveta reminded herself that her feelings were incidental to the facts. Stefan was engaged; Nadejda was his fiancée. Whether she or Militza envisioned problems in the marriage was irrelevant. But a niggling voice wasn't so easily acceptant of rational argument, and she found herself saying, "Have you tried to talk to him about…well…his feelings for Nadejda?"

And she knew that one thoroughly unrealistic part of her longed for Militza's answer to match her own ideal.

Was it the wine? She'd always considered herself immune to fairy tales. But then Stefan had opened a new world to her in the days past, a world in which poetry took corporeal form and creative fancy was dream and fantasy and extravagant, breath-held actuality all in the same moment. Maybe she'd begun to believe in fairy tales after all.

"I've talked to him a hundred times," Militza said, arranging the used silver on her dessert plate as if their balanced placement might somehow carry over into Stefan's life. "I've tried every imaginable argument," she went on, exasperation and remorse equally audible in her voice, "in the months since his engagement took place. I've tried reasoning with him- about the merits of at least a mild affection as basis for marriage. I've suggested he consider spending some time with his fiancée before he makes a final decision. I've pointed out to him the negative aspects of his future in-laws in terms of their humanity-or lack of it. He listens without argument, but he's obstinately determined in his course.

"He says love is dangerous.

"He says most of his friends have married for dynastic reasons…most of society, for that matter.

"He says the kind of love he wants is readily available… and he doesn't have to marry it.

"He says his marriage is a pragmatic step-a career decision." Militza sighed again, wishing she could transfer wholesale to her nephew all she knew of the beauty and fullness of love, and then promptly apologized for her pessimism. "You must think me addled to first tell Stefan to marry and then complain of the style of his choice, but I want more for him than what he chose," she said in a quiet voice. "I want more for him than a career decision. And, frankly, I'm at my wit's end. Do you know how close he is to marrying that… that-"

"Beautiful prig?"

"You're too kind." Militza's snort of disgust at the vacuous young Nadejda flared her fine nostrils. "I'd use harsher words, beginning with empty-headed and stupid."

"She's very young." Lisaveta felt obliged to try to maintain a certain impartiality.

"That's no excuse. You're not much older but your brain functions."

"My education was-" Lisaveta paused, considering the numerous inadequacies of her nonfeminine instruction "-a man's education, I'm afraid. While I've always appreciated the variety of my schooling, much of a female nature was neglected. Nadejda, no doubt, has superior skills in those areas." Beginning when she was seven, her father had drawn up a liberal educational schedule for his only child. It had been balanced: languages, eight ultimately; poetry, of course; mathematics, engineering, literature, experimental agriculture and carpentry-to give her a practical bent. But he'd overlooked the feminine refinements.

"You needn't be so gracious." That kind of intrinsic compassion reminded Militza of Lisaveta's father. He'd been an outrageously benevolent man. "Nadejda does not possess superior skills, save those of arrogance."

"You must admit she experiences no discomfort in arranging an entire viceroyal staff. I couldn't say the same for myself. There are times, particularly now that I've seen Stefan in situ as 'Prince,' that I feel Papa and I led a very unsophisticated life."

"That was Felix's fault," Militza asserted. "He should have had you brought out in Saint Petersburg." Although, she mused, perhaps Lisaveta's attraction to Stefan was that precise lack of feminine accomplishments, the kind he'd seen used to inveigle and entrap, the kind he'd learned to evade with such practiced finesse.

"Papa was always too busy on a new project to take the time. I've never been to a ball, not a real one," Lisaveta said. "The parties in the country were informal gatherings."

"You do dance?" Militza mildly interrogated, considering a new tack in her offense against Nadejda. The Countess was the only woman Stefan had ever brought home; even his note referring to her possible visit had held within its spare language a sense of happiness. Perhaps the beautiful Countess could open Stefan's eyes to the deficiencies in his fiancée. Perhaps the lovely Countess could prevail where reason and logic had failed.

"Yes, Papa hired a dance master from Paris to teach me." Lisaveta smiled at the memory of her father taking time each afternoon to watch her at her lessons. "Now that I've learned Papa was such a fine dancer, his interest in that single modish skill doesn't seem so odd."

"Marvelous!"

Militza's response was so forcefully expressed that Lisaveta's brows rose in surprise.

"Stefan likes women who dance well," Militza said in answer to Lisaveta's startled reaction.

"From his reputation," Lisaveta levelly said, "he apparently likes women for a variety of reasons."

"You'd understand that better than I." Militza's smile was warm.

Lisaveta blushed…from her décolletage, past her pearls and up her throat to her cheeks.

"You needn't be bashful." Militza's gaze was direct but cordial. "There's nothing nicer in the world than love and lovers."

"Now I am embarrassed." The rose flush on her face turned more vivid, and Lisaveta's expression was one of artless misbehavior.

"Nonsense," Stefan's aunt retorted, her voice genial. "You're perfect for Stefan and he's obviously enamored, since he brought you home. He's never done that before." How sweet her innocence, Militza thought, and how rare; Stefan must be enchanted by such chaste virtue.

"I shan't be staying." Lisaveta spoke as David might have to Goliath, with resolution starching an inherent uncertainty.

"Why not?" Militza was genuinely shocked. After Stefan's extraordinary invitation into his home, she didn't think a woman alive would refuse his hospitality.

"I have responsibilities at home." In exactly that manner an angel might refuse the devil's temptation.

"I suppose it's Nadejda," Militza said bluntly, realizing she wasn't dealing with the usual style of aristocratic paramour Stefan favored, who would have found Nadejda no more than a minor inconvenience.

"As a matter of fact, yes," Lisaveta answered as bluntly, omitting mention of a variety of other reasons impelling her departure, reasons less clearly enunciated, less intelligible.

Reasons having to do with desire and temptation and a man who could raise the temperature of the Arctic with a smile.

"I do wish you'd reconsider staying," Militza said, dismissing Nadejda's presence in much the same way her nephew had. "Dinner tomorrow should be interesting."

Interesting, Lisaveta thought, was a mild word for the collision of forces about to take place. "You're attending?" she asked, wondering if she'd misunderstood.

"I have a feeling," Militza said with soft sarcasm, "my bridge party will be canceled at the last minute. Nadejda," she went on, her voice dangerously smooth, "doesn't realize who she's up against with Stefan."

"If my own feelings weren't enough to spur my departure, certainly the prospect of dinner tomorrow night with Nadejda's parents, would be sufficient incentive," Lisaveta said, amusement prominent in her pale eyes. "I wish you luck, with Mama and Papa in attendance."

"It's going to be dreadful, isn't it," Militza said, her voice sunny with expectation. "And none of Stefan's staff available."

"And only French cuisine," Lisaveta added, pronouncing the word with Nadejda's precision.

"And gentlemen's wines… from France." Militza was patently jovial. "I can't induce you to stay?"

Lisaveta laughed. "Never. The thought of Nadejda's mama and papa terrifies me completely."

"A shame. Of course, you must do what you think best, but between the two of us," Militza said archly, "I'm sure we could open Stefan's eyes to the multiple inadequacies dear Nadejda possesses. It would surely be an act of the greatest charity."

"Charity?" Lisaveta murmured, smiling slightly.

"Our Christian duty, my dear." Stefan's aunt was happily smug.

"Seen from that perspective, I wish I could help. I've never actually been involved in an act of Christian charity. Papa, you see, wasn't of a religious bent." She was teasing, but then so was Militza.

"Pshaw, my darling Countess, your sweet kindness to Stefan was definitely charitable."

The teasing light in Lisaveta's eyes was instantly replaced by something more grave. The splendor of Stefan's affection required no charitable impulses to enjoy. He offered paradise as a gift… and laughter and pleasure. "You mistake my reasons for staying with Stefan the past week," Lisaveta quietly said.

"No, my dear, I don't," Aunt Militza replied, her own tone serious, as well. She'd seen much of the world, had been married twice and enjoyed her share of lovers in her youth. She understood Stefan's attraction to women.

"Then you know why I must leave. It's a matter of pride."

"I understand," Militza said, herself a product of a regal line dominated by Queens. "But Stefan will be disappointed."

"Not for long, I'm sure."

Stefan's aunt stared for a moment at the golden liquid in her wineglass, debating how honest to be with the young woman so new to Stefan's life. And then she decided Lisaveta was not only intelligent but perceptive in terms of human nature. "I suppose you're right," she ambiguously answered, choosing at the last second something less than blunt honesty. To date, no woman had interested Stefan for more than a month, and that was the unflattering truth.

Militza's reply was no more than Lisaveta had expected, and while she knew she was right about leaving, her decision didn't allay the sense of loss she was feeling, as though some golden idyll had come to an end-an absolute, unequivocal end. But leave she must, or eventually bear the humiliation of Stefan making that decision for her. "I think I'll try to depart early tomorrow before the bustle of Nadejda's replacement staff overwhelms the household."

"Before Nadejda rises, you mean."

Lisaveta nodded. She had no wish for further conversation with Stefan's future bride.

Sympathetic to Lisaveta's feelings, Militza said, "I'll order a carriage for you then at, say, seven?" She looked to Lisaveta for confirmation.

"Thank you. The sooner I leave, the more comfortable I'll feel."

"Stefan doesn't want you to go, does he?"

"No."

Aunt Militza's active brain saw fascinating possibilities all converging tomorrow-an angry frustrated Stefan would be a perfect ingredient at Nadejda's family party. "You're sensible to leave, I suppose." She spoke softly, as if thinking aloud, as if gauging the next step in her campaign against Nadejda.

"That's what I told him."

"And?"

"He said he wasn't interested in being sensible."

"He isn't…never has been. You'll be the first, you know." Stefan's aunt spoke abruptly, the cryptic words offering endless possibilities of meaning to Lisaveta.

"The first?" Lisaveta asked, curious how any woman could be first in anything with Stefan's libertine reputation.

"The first woman to walk away from him.''

Lisaveta was initially flabbergasted and then angered. Apparently Russia's favorite Prince had been extremely overindulged. "In that case, I'm sure the experience will do his character good."

"Perhaps." One thing was certain, Militza thought, he was going to be furious, and she'd seen him furious on more than one occasion. Prince Stefan Alexandrovitch Orbeliani-Bariatinsky had a vile temper. "Do you ever get to Saint Petersburg, my dear?" Militza asked in lieu of her more lurid reflections. "I would enjoy your company if you ever should."

"As a matter of fact, I'm invited next month to a special award ceremony commemorating my father's literary work for the Tsar. It'll be my first trip to the capital. And thanks to Stefan," Lisaveta graciously added, "I'm alive to attend it."

"Well, then, we may meet again. If all goes well tomorrow night," Militza briskly said, "I may be free to travel north. By all means call on me."

With genuine feeling, the two ladies promised to see each other should circumstances allow. On that warm note Lisaveta bid good-night, since she would have to rise early in order to be ready to depart in the morning.

When Lisaveta entered her, room a few moments later, she closed the door and stood with her back against it, her eyes shut, her head resting on Stefan's carved coat of arms embellishing the elaborate portal. She relaxed, visibly, a great sigh lifting her breasts in lush mounded splendor above the low neckline of her gown. Militza's pearls resting on the rise of her breasts caught the light with the movement and glistened in iridescent luster.

An appreciative audience of one lounging on a chair near the dressing alcove reminded himself to buy her pearls like Militza's. "Nadejda can be wearing, can't she," Stefan drawled, and delighted in Lisaveta's sharply drawn breath. Surely she had the most beautiful breasts he'd ever seen.

Her eyes were suddenly open. And glaring. "How did you get in?" she snapped, irritated by his casual drawl, offended by his satirical remark about his fiancée, particularly annoyed at his assumption he could enter her bedroom at will.

He looked at her from under half-lowered lashes, as if gauging the sincerity of her question. It must be rhetorical certainly, but he answered because she seemed to be waiting for a reply. "I own this palace, darling," he softly said.

"You do not, however, own me."

She said the words so heatedly it excited him, the thought that perhaps he could… Were she not a Russian noblewoman, were she perhaps one of the native women in the various outlands of the Empire, he could very well own her.

"You jump to conclusions, sweetheart," he said with a wicked smile, "although the possibility interests me."

"A pity, then, you don't have enough money."

He was enjoying her anger. He was simply and unconditionally enjoying the sight and sound of her after waiting to touch her for all the tedious afternoon and evening. "Tell me your price, dushka," he said in a low, husky voice, baiting her for the pleasure of the game. "I think my credit is good with the Tsar."

She stood very straight, her palms pressed against the carved wood panels, her golden eyes brilliant and wrathful. "I'm sorry to disappoint your acquisitive nature, Prince Bariatinsky," she said, slowly, so each word fell into the silence between them like a tiny drop of rage, "but I'm priceless."

Amen to that, he thought, taking in the full impact of her beauty. Beyond the conventional attributes of her classic features and opulent form, she was radiantly alive, as though a fire glowed inside her, a flame of passion and wit and, more important yet, a warm capacity for giving. She was unique in his experience with women who invariably asked for things, however subtle the asking. And he wanted to feel that heated display very soon and mitigate his hunger for her; he wanted beyond reason to possess the indomitable Countess Lazaroff. not just for tonight but for as long as he desired.

"You must leave," Lisaveta said, interrupting his introspection. Prince Bariatinsky was not used to introspection. He preferred action, a principle any of his troopers would acknowledge. In fact his intrinsic impulse to action was probably his greatest asset and the reason the Tsar's army had been so successful the past decade.

Rising from his chair, he decided it was time to close the distance between him and the fascinating Countess.