Golden Paradise (11 page)

"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.

I
'll scream," she said as he began to move toward her.

"Perhaps you didn't know," he replied, continuing his forward progress, his mouth curved in a warm smile, "my wing is separate from—" he paused, deliberating briefly on his choice of words "—the others." He was very close now so she had to look up to see his face. "I arranged to have you in…my wing." His dark eyes held hers. "Scream if you like," he softly said, "but I've no intention of hurting you." His hand came up to touch her and she moved away from the door. Stefan took a moment before following her to turn the key in the lock and slide it into his pocket.

"If I were you, I should think it humiliating to find restraint necessary." From the relative safety of the center of the room, Lisaveta sharply upbraided him.

"I'm a lazy man," Stefan murmured, immune to her provocation, testing the door latch to see it was locked, "and not inclined to chase you… anywhere." Teasing mockery underlay the moderation of his tone.

"What do you call this?" Lisaveta heatedly retorted as he advanced on her again and she retreated.

He grinned.
"Foreplay?"

"I thought you were more subtle," she hissed.

"And I thought you more attuned to your feelings."

"I told you how I felt this afternoon."

"You told me only that you won't continue our friendship because of my fiancée."

"That's precisely how I feel."

"No,
you feel
the way I do… you feel the Angelglow," he murmured. "You feel deprived after a week of indulging your senses. You feel your skin against the silk of your chemise and petticoats. And," he finished in a husky whisper, "I can help you."