Golden Paradise Part 20

"I can do anything I please, mademoiselle." Stefan was absolutely still, his hands rigid at his sides in an effort to curtail his rash impulse to strike out. "And it pleases me," he softly added, "to terminate this very large mistake."

"Papa will not allow it!" Each of Nadejda's words rang with authority.

Stefan had heard that already in a variety of nuances, but she seemed so very sure he asked, "Why?" in a quiet, menacing voice. She had spoken as though she knew Taneiev's reasons; perhaps she might offer a better reason than the one her father had given.

Nadejda knew immediately she'd misstepped when Stefan's brows came together and his voice softened in query, when his dark eyes seemed to be scrutinizing her with a new attention. "He...Papa wouldn't want me to be embarra.s.sed. Once the war is over, I'll break the engagement."

"Yours and your Papa's timetable is intriguing." Stefan's drawl was low and silken, his mind racing, contemplating the circ.u.mstances contributing to this obstinate delay.

"There are no men now," she said, the way a child would say, "The candy store is closed."

That remark at least had the ring of sincerity. Stefan wished he had the time to get to the bottom of this matter, but he didn't.

At least he'd had the courage to end this d.a.m.nable engagement. He felt a great sense of relief, a tidal wave of deliverance.

"You might like to congratulate me," he said with a grin, thinking how simple it had been after all to cut away the impediment of his engagement. "I'm to be married tonight." He was suddenly well-disposed to the world at large, including Nadejda, who was no more than a silly young woman now- detached from his life with a few simple words.

"Papa will kill you," she said in a neutral voice contrasting starkly with her statement, "if you shame our family so."

"He can try," Stefan quietly replied, "but he may not succeed. And you might want to give him that warning." Stefan's eyes narrowed slightly although his smile was still in place. "My bodyguard," he added, his tone soft as velvet, "reverts at time to some of their barbaric Kurdish customs. Tell your father it takes a man eight hours to die-forgive me, mademoiselle, for my bluntness-with his entrails on the ground."

Nadejda's face was white as her dress when he left the room. Immune to the perils of his future, as though a decision of the spirit had been made distinct from rational deliberation, he thought only of his freedom, of his escape from Nadejda, and he wondered with a curious speculation whether his father's life would have been different if he'd fought against his disgrace. He had thought at first he could deal with Vladimir's demands, submit enough to buy the time he needed, say yes, when he didn't mean it, apologize to Nadejda for something he didn't feel. But his nature wouldn't allow it, and he was wildly exhilarated now, striding down the hallway, his sensations reminiscent of the excitement he felt in battle.

It was the same-when there was no longer time for apprehension or indecision or any of the debilitating hesitation that marked the cognitive man. The irrepressible energy carried you, drove you, brought victory as if by magic, and Stefan felt at that moment the same triumph. He had succeeded at last in putting the past to rest. What had happened to his father would no longer be his burden. In a way totally unplanned and tumultuous, he'd severed that impediment to his life. As he sailed down the bank of steps to the street in two leaping bounds, the driver glanced at his partner beside him on the carriage seat and said, "Things must have gone well."

"Even better than that from the looks of it.''

"Home, Excellency?" the groom holding the door open for Stefan inquired as Stefan reached the blue-lacquered carriage.

"No, to the Winter Palace."

The liveried servant came to attention. "Very good, Excellency." His voice was crisp when he repeated the order to the driver.

The Prince was going to see the Tsar.

Chapter Fifteen.

The Tsar's equerry had only said, "I'll do what I can."

Stefan paced the small room, knowing he'd faced the entire Turkish army with less trepidation than he was currently feeling. He'd stop to gaze out the windows on the vista of the Neva for a moment, or try sitting on the numerous chairs lining the walls of the chamber, only to find himself pacing again a few moments later. Alexander could be unpredictable and with good reason.

He was beset from all sides of the political spectrum and had survived a dozen a.s.sa.s.sination attempts in the past three years. Since he had freed the serfs by manifesto in February of 1861, Alexander II's reforms had been slowly changing the character of the Russian Empire. But to many, the wheels of reform moved too slowly; to others, reform was anathema, and malcontents of every political persuasion had sought to kill him. Only last month a bomb had destroyed his dining room. Had he not arrived late because of his son's illness, he would have been killed. Alexander had become wary of who was friend and who was not.

Stefan was relying on his years of devoted service to the Empire and his friends.h.i.+p with the Tsar as support for his presentation, but he realized his position as cavalry commander and his popularity were themselves suspect. Most of the palace coups over the centuries had been initiated in the officer corps by ambitious men trading on their celebrity and fame and on their control of the elite regiments of the army.

By the time the equerry returned and said, "The Emperor will see you now," Stefan was tense and agitated as well as increasingly gloomy about his prospects of success. Vladimir cultivated his political alliances on a daily basis while Stefan had not.

The Tsar's welcome was cordial, though. Seated at his desk, he gestured Stefan to an adjacent chair and smiled in greeting.

It was at least a friendly beginning. Stefan took a steadying breath as he seated himself. They exchanged social pleasantries first-Alexander asking about Militza and Stefan admiring the new photos of his young family on his desk. The Tsar's desktop was half-covered with framed photos, the ones closest to his work s.p.a.ce those of his new children. Framed portraits of his father and mother were prominent on the wall above his desk; even his wife's portrait was in evidence, although it was set back in the second row behind those of his young mistress.

Over tea, brought in on a solid gold tea service, the state of the war was discussed in some detail. Alexander had recently returned from the environs of Pleva, where the Turks still held out, and he was visibly tormented by the thousands of soldiers who'd lost their lives to date. The question of the reinforcements of men and artillery in the Asian campaign was dealt with. Stefan described which divisions were up to strength and which were still waiting for the new troops; he related the progress of the telegraph lines being constructed and described his hopes for victory.

When eventually the reason for his sudden appearance in Saint Petersburg was broached, Stefan answered honestly. "Since the campaign is on hold and I'm totally obsessed with the Countess Lazaroff, I came north to see her."

"When did you arrive? "

"Yesterday."

"And you'll be returning?"

"Tomorrow."

The Tsar smiled. "I see."

Stefan felt the heat rising to his face and he smiled ruefully. "She's most remarkable."

"I agree," Alexander warmly said, "as does the entire male population of the soirees she's attended here in the capital. Did you find the compet.i.tion formidable?"

"I didn't notice."

"She's amenable then to your interest."

"After," Stefan softly said, "some persuasion."

"She is certainly worth persuading," the Tsar cordially replied. "She's not only beautiful and charming but brilliant, as well. Do you find her education intimidating?" He leaned back in his chair and surveyed Stefan.

"I find everything about her intimidating," Stefan retorted, adding with a smile, "in a most refres.h.i.+ng way. And I'd like to thank you for her sponsors.h.i.+p into society."

"I was more than happy to comply with your request. She's very entertaining.''

Stefan's glance went steely for a suspicious moment and they were no longer Tsar and Commander but only two men.

"I meant that in the most benign sense," Alexander II said mildly. He stroked his heavy sideburns for a second or two and then quietly declared, "I'm no longer young, and Catherine and my small family are my comfort."

"Forgive me," Stefan apologized. "As you can see," he said with a sigh, "I'm beyond sanity when it comes to the Countess." Taking a deep breath he plunged on. "Which point, in fact, brings me here today." He went on to describe his current problems with Vladimir and his rather sudden termination of his engagement.

Alexander was quiet throughout Stefan's recital, asking questions only twice, both having to do with the Sesta incident.

"Vladimir threatened to see you tonight," Stefan finished, "and suggest my involvement."

"We'll see that he's detained for a time at the chancellery," Alexander said.

Greatly encouraged by the Tsar's reaction to his story, Stefan dared to add, "But there's something about him that doesn't seem quite right. He and his daughter both made remarks along the lines of 'just until the end of the war.' I don't have the time to find out what he's involved in-if it's anything. You know I have to get back to Kars. But perhaps, sir...?" He hesitated.

Alexander stroked his chin meditatively. "I've never liked Taneiev. Perhaps he should be looked into." He stared at the photo of his two young sons. "Trust is so difficult these days," he said, his voice sad and introspective. He'd become more isolated and suspicious over the past few years, distrustful of friends, appalled by the dissensions and intrigues among his chiefs of staff in the course of the war, aware of the venality of his bureaucracy. He was a man under siege.

"The war's unpopular in some quarters," Stefan said. "Perhaps when it's over things will get better." Stefan might be the Tsar's best field commander, but he had spent years fighting the timid protectionist policies of the general staff, the incompetence of the Grand Dukes who had power in the war councils. He knew indignant voices were often raised in Saint Petersburg against him, against the Tsar and the war.

"I won't give in to the reactionary forces," Alexander declared in his deep, weary voice. "This war must be won or all the lives lost in the Turkish atrocities will be in vain." Russia had been the only country willing to come to the aid of the Christian minority in Turkey.

"We're in a much better position now with reinforcements and supplies almost in place, and the Turks are having problems in Istanbul, too. Various factions are demanding a ceasefire. The war is costly to them, as well. Perhaps if Kars can be breached, it will accelerate their surrender. Bezna-Pasha took his Turkoman troops home last month and vowed not to return. All of the border tribes are restive because they haven't been paid by the Turks. No gold, no Circa.s.sians, is a proverb the truth of which can't be denied," Stefan said with a quick grin. His face sobered in the next instant. "The fall campaign could be decisive." Then he smiled again, because he felt on familiar, secure ground. "With the border tribes melting away, the Turks have no cavalry, no scouts, no way of knowing our plans. We can take them this time, Excellency."

"Thank you, Stefan," Alexander gently said, "for your encouraging news, and for all your victories in this war. Your father would have been proud of you." The Emperor still missed his old friend, the Field Marshal; they'd remained in touch until Alex Bariatinsky had died, vacationing together occasionally at Plombieres, Ems or Baden-Baden.

"He was Russia's greatest Field Marshal," his son said. Stefan's father's conquests had never been matched before or since, and his sense of honor and duty had been pa.s.sed on to his son.

"Some say you'll surpa.s.s him." The Tsar's smile was benevolent.

"Never, Excellency." Stefan's voice was softly emphatic and he looked away briefly to suppress the wetness welling in his eyes. Whatever soldiering he knew, he'd learned from his father; whatever capabilities he had as a commander, he'd inherited from him. All his skills and talent and apt.i.tude he owed to the man who'd loved him most in the world and had taught him that the measure of one's worth was in one's deeds. And despite the pa.s.sing years and the sorrow of his disgrace, his father had always been Stefan's only hero.

Alexander II had also had his share of sorrows and he'd always felt a sympathy for Stefan, for the way he'd overcome his father's humiliation and forged a life for himself conspicuous for its success. "I believe I shan't have time to speak with Vladimir tonight," the Tsar said. "My equerries will inform him of my wishes." He smiled then, his thin careworn features brightening. "He should have known better. If I trust anyone, it's you, Stefan. And my congratulations on your marriage plans."

Stefan's dark eyes lighted up first and then his mouth creased into an answering smile. "Thank you. It gives one incentive-" he grinned "-to end the war speedily."

"Excellent idea," the Tsar declared, his weariness less a burden now, his thoughts more buoyant. Stefan was always able to give him hope for victory. "I'll count on you to expedite the Turkish surrender." Reaching over he rang for his aide. "Now, then, we need a special license."

When Stefan left the Winter Palace a half hour later, he held the special license, signed and sealed, in his hand. Vladimir was checkmated, and he had a wedding to organize.

Lisaveta was sleeping when he returned, exhausted from the previous night as well as from their sensual play that afternoon, and Stefan tiptoed into his room in order not to disturb her.

Drawing up a chair, he sat beside the bed, content, happy, pleased and very much in love. He was going to marry her, he thought, with a bubbling jubilation unique to his jaded soul. He was going to marry the silk of her dark curls and the sweetness of her rosy cheeks; he was going to marry her small hand lying on the Venetian lace of the pillow cover and her lush pink mouth and all the multiple and varied wonders of her to the tips of her perfect toes.

He was besotted, he realized, when he reached out to stroke her hair spread out on the pillow, feeling a need to touch her. She delighted him and bewitched him, and very gently in order not to wake her, he stroked the texture of one curl.

Although lightly done, Lisaveta seemed to sense his movement, and her eyes opened. "I missed you," she murmured, her smile drowsy with sleep.

"You had better," he answered, his smile so benevolent the angels could have taken lessons.

Remembering suddenly where he'd gone and why, she sat upright in agitation, the bed linen falling away, her eyelet nightdress pulled askew, the curve of her shoulder bared. The apprehension she'd put aside in sleep came rus.h.i.+ng back. "How are you?" she fearfully asked.

Gazing at her, flushed and beautiful, he thought with a stab of terror how close he'd come through pride and arrogance to losing her. Perhaps he could have abducted her again, but he would not have been able to make her stay, for she was too complex or independent or simply not willing to adapt to his wishes. Even if she had stayed he would never have felt completely secure. And he needed her, he realized, the way he needed air to live.

"How am I?" he repeated gently. With exultation and joy he answered his own question in the utter silence of her apprehension. "I'm free," he said.

She didn't move. He'd expected her to laugh or smile at least, jump with excitement or throw herself into his arms, but she was fearful still, as was her tone of voice. "You can't be. They wouldn't make it that easy. Don't tease me, Stefan, or equivocate if it's not true. It can't be true."

"Have you no faith?" he teased, lounging back in his chair.

"Not in Vladimir Taneiev and his ice-cold daughter." In the course of her stay in Saint Petersburg, the Taneiev family had taken every opportunity to show their malevolence. She was well aware of the full extent of their viciousness.

"Does your faithlessness extend to the Tsar?"

She smiled then, tentatively. "He supports you?"

Stefan drew the special license from his pocket, lifted it so the bold printing was visible and grinned.

She launched herself into his arms like a gamboling puppy and covered his face with wet warm kisses. "I was terrified... I'd never see you... after tomorrow," she whispered between the rhythm of her kisses. "I thought Nadejda would spirit you away-or make you stay away-or somehow barricade you from me." Her murmured voice was an agitated rush of words. "But you're here, you're really here!" Leaning away from him, she gazed at Stefan as if to certify her words. As a blind person might, she ran her hands over his face and down his throat, over the breadth of his shoulders and down his chest, resting them finally, her palms on the embroidered black China silk directly over his heart.

He hadn't touched her except to steady her when she landed in his lap, basking in the glory of her jubilant kisses and joyful hysteria, letting his own sense of unutterable joy inundate his mind.

"I love you," Lisaveta whispered, "so much I thought I'd die if I lost you."

"I love you, dushka," he softly said, his dark eyes beneath his heavy brows intense with emotion, "enough to give up my command."

"You didn't!" Her exclamation was an explosive whisper, vibrating with shock. "I would have."

"No!" Her single word was as firmly declarative as his admission. She'd listened to the sadness in his voice those weeks in the mountains when he'd spoken of his father. She couldn't face him if he'd made that same sacrifice for her.

"If it came to a choice, I would." His statement was without subterfuge or arrogance. No longer the commander of the Tsar's cavalry or his father's son, Stefan was only a man in love, a man who'd discovered happiness after years of dismissing the concept as poetic license. "So..." He covered her small hands with his. "Will you mind a very precipitous wedding tonight?"

"Tonight?" Her squeal was spontaneous feminine surprise, the kind reflecting wholly practical considerations like dresses, flowers, family and guests, all the ritual every young girl dreams of as fairy-tale magic.

"We leave in the morning." Stefan's voice was tolerant male but wholly practical, too. He had a war to fight, and dresses and flowers and family hadn't even remotely crossed his mind.

"In the morning?"

"Am I speaking in some unintelligible language?" he amusedly asked.

"Maybe we shouldn't," Lisaveta abruptly replied.

"Don't even start," Stefan said. "I sold my soul."

"That's what I mean," she protested. "I don't want you to sell your soul." She pulled her hands free. "Maybe you'll be sorry in a week or a year... maybe Vladimir will change the Tsar's mind and then you'll hate me for ruining your life. Maybe-"

"G.o.d, Lise, stop being n.o.ble."

"I'm not being n.o.ble, I just don't want to hurt you. I don't want you to decide later our marriage was too hasty." The petulant moue she made signified her uncertainty and disquietude.

"I could always divorce you-" Stefan's grin was playful "-if that happened. Boris divorced his wife one weekend when he was out shooting with the Tsar. Alexander signed the special decree and Helene discovered her new status on Monday."

"Well, I could divorce you, too," Lisaveta immediately retorted, her sense of outrage aggravated by his teasing male arrogance and the ease with which he could expedite a divorce if he wished.

"So there. We're perfectly matched. Why not take a chance?" His casual words were disconcerting and reminiscent of the transience of his affairs and, after his last remark about divorce, not precisely the tone conducive to a romantic concept of marriage. She could feel her heart pounding at the nonchalance of his remarks, alarmed he might in truth view this marriage as an indulgent whim. She wanted her deep love returned in kind, and resentment prompted her reply. "I don't wish to marry someone as a speculative venture."

She looked very young in white eyelet and tumbled curls and a petulant scowl, and Stefan thought that although in many ways she was learned beyond her years, she was also ingenuous and unsophisticated in feminine wiles. There wasn't a woman of his acquaintance who would have risked refusing his proposal.

"Look, darling," he said with a winning smile, conscious of her pursed lips and high color as well as the temper in her remark, treading lightly because he was never absolutely sure of her response, "I'm leaving in the morning. I don't want to but I must, and while I prefer not pulling rank on you and I love and adore you in all your moods, you needn't be fearful or n.o.ble or testy about our marriage. I'll never divorce you, I swear. I was teasing. So just humor me and say, 'Tonight would be perfect for our wedding,' and I'll have the palace staff do their d.a.m.nedest to follow every little order you wish to give and we'll live happily ever after till the end of time, my word on it, dushka." And his smile not only touched her heart with its boyish winsomeness but made her feel guilty for her temper.

"I don't have a wedding dress," she said in a very small voice.