Kuzan 02 - Lovestorm

by Susan Johnson

  Zena attempted to accommodate herself to his temperamental mood swings. He was rarely uncivil, but unnerving disinterest would appear transiently, and a chill would run through her. It seemed at those times as though he was unconscious of her presence. Generally, though, he treated her with a courteous affection, and on the rare occasions when Sasha exerted his unutterable charm, her life approached perfection.

  2

  One evening the prince and princess traveled into Moscow to attend an evening's entertainment. Immediately Alex walked in, he knew the Barinskys' party was the usual affair: the same people, the same card games, the same dances. Christ, Alex thought irritably, enough was enough! The pose of dutiful husband squiring his wife about was quickly wearing thin. Damn it, he was going to refuse to leave the dacha for at least a month. Idiotic people. With the exception of Yuri and one or two other of his friends, the rest of society could very gladly go to the devil. In that genial frame of mind he poured down another drink and strolled into the cardroom. Gambling at least offered some respite to these dull soirees.

  Several hours later, considerably drunker and considerably richer for the interval, Alex leaned back in his chair and loosened his cravat. Signaling for a fresh bottle of brandy, he began shuffling the deck of cards.

  A large, florid-faced man who had been losing rather steadily at a nearby table said, "Whose bit of fluff is the new enceinte female? She's a beauty but a little heavy for my taste."

  Alex, seated at the outer table, raised his eyebrows mildly at the crude jest. Without pausing he said placidly, "The lady you speak of, Krasskov, is my wife." Despite the disinterested voice there was a faint challenge in the cool eyes.

  The heavyset man swung around at the statement, astonishment writ large on his face. "You married, Archer?" he exclaimed in surprise. "And not a minute too soon, it appears," he finished with a bold, crude laugh.

  Krasskov had been at odds with Alex ever since a pretty little playmate of Krasskov's had shown a decided partiality for Alex a year or so before. Alex never turned down a pleasing danseuse, but by making love to her in Krasskov's bed in Krasskov's bedroom, Alex had shown, perhaps, a careless disregard for her protector's prerogatives.

  Alex hadn't looked up as the man spoke. Continuing to flick over his cards, he said carelessly to the players around his table, "Vingt-et-un. Forgive me, gentlemen, the devil's own luck is holding for me tonight," and his hand swept out lightly and gathered the thin gold markers into the heap of gold and paper before him. Only then did he raise his head to cast a bland glance toward the fleshy, broad-shouldered man at the opposite table. Amiably he said, "I don't permit public discussion concerning my wife, Krasskov. You've had too much to drink." Felix Krasskov, despite imbibing, did not miss the deliberate use of his surname. Alex had drunk a great deal, and his amiable tone was the result of supreme self-control.

  "Don't permit . . . don't permit," the red-faced man sputtered, his brows creased in a scowl. "Why, you arrogant ..."

  Krasskov's companion noted the chill glitter in the prince's eyes and nudged Krasskov uneasily. "Back off, Felix. Shouldn't bait Archer tonight from the looks of him. When he's that deep in his cups, he's dangerous."

  Three parts drunk the prince might be, but his senses were unimpaired. He lounged back in his chair, now coolly lighting a cigarette, but his hard stare challenged his antagonist. "Understand, Krasskov?" The inquiry was an insult.

  "I don't answer to you, Kuzan," Krasskov growled.

  "Don't you, now?" the prince said gently and sat calmly waiting.

  There was a shocked, expectant pause.

  "Felix!" Kiril interjected hastily as he rose from his seat beside Alex. "Apologize, for Christ's sake. It's his wife, after all."

  "Damned if I will," Krasskov said angrily, the humiliation of Alex's behavior with his paramour goading him still.

  "Sasha?" Kiril urged plaintively.

  The prince shot him a bemused look. "Oh, Lord, Kiril, hush. Krasskov doesn't care to apologize to me. It's perfectly all right." Alex was still watching Krasskov. He drew leisurely on his blue silk cigarette, exhaled slowly, then leaned forward to grind it out. "No apology, my fine buck?" he inquired gently, eyes raised.

  "No, blast you!" Krasskov shouted.

  "In that case, Krasskov," the prince was smiling now with a tight-lipped smile, and his eyes glowed with a steady blaze, "name your weapons."

  Baron Achieff lurched somewhat unsteadily to his feet, an incipient sense of duty impelling him to intervene. "Archer, leave off, you can see Felix's drunk."

  "I as well, Vassily," Alex laughed shortly, "but I still can tell when a man casts a slur on my wife."

  Vassily's faint hope of averting scandal died, and he was jerked back into an unwanted sobriety. One of the crowd around the table was heard to remark to his companion, "Archer's devilishly proprietary about his wife. Didn't think he gave a damn about females, let alone a wife."

  "Have you seen his wife?" came the envious response. "I'd be possessive, too, if she were mine."

  Then the prince sighed dramatically and murmured softly, "There's no accounting for some men's taste. I myself fancy a well-rounded female like my wife, in preference to the less generously endowed form of, shall we say," Alex paused delicately, "someone like Martine Ivanovna."

  The insult seemed gratuitous and, of course, hit its mark, for Martine Ivanovna was, in fact, the contested paramour of a year before.

  Krasskov jumped to his feet, crossed the short distance, and struck the table with a beefy fist, tumbling piles of gold markers in disarray. Leaning pugnaciously across the green baize surface, his corpulent face flushed with wrath, he roared, "Pistols, damn you!"

  The lounging figure betrayed no agitation save the hard glitter in his tawny eyes. "Pistols it is. We'll settle it now." This was Alex at his most dangerous, cold and indifferent with a cutting edge to his voice that would have sheared through plate steel.

  "Are you fit?" Kiril asked Alex anxiously.

  Alex laughed. "Fit? Of course, Kiril, you know me better than that. Brandy doesn't affect my aim."

  A servant was sent for the pistols, while the combatants advanced through the French doors and down the stairs to the second terrace out into a misty night.

  They stripped off their coats, and the pistols were presented. They would stand twenty paces apart, and at the signal they had three shots. If neither was shot in three times, the matter would still be considered settled.

  Alex raised a quizzical eyebrow when the rules were related. Three times indeed, he thought mirthlessly. Alex stood gently swinging his pistol as the seconds counted down. He looked alarmingly drowsy.

  The word was given. The prince's hand crisply snapped up. A shot rang out almost simultaneously with an answering shot.

  Alex dropped his pistol and flicked out his handkerchief to stanch the blood beginning to appear through the shirt sleeve of his right arm. Baron Krasskov plunged forward lifelessly. Alex turned away to pick up his coat and began strolling back to the palace.

  "Damn rain, I'm getting soaked," he muttered as Kiril rushed to catch up with him. Alex was the only person unmoved.

  "It looks like you might have killed him, Sasha," Kiril reported anxiously. There was no sign of agitation on Alex's face.

  "Well, I should hope so," Alex replied blandly. "It was my intention." He sauntered back into the cardroom binding his arm clumsily with the silk handkerchief.

  "You're hurt, Archer," an onlooker exclaimed.

  "Only a scratch, nothing serious." He finished his rough bandage and shrugged into his coat.

  Vassily came running in breathlessly. "He's alive, Sasha."

  "Your gun throws left, Kiril. Damned if it don't. Would have had him dead on otherwise. Pity." Alex shrugged fatalistically as he reached into his pocket for his cigarette case.

  Strolling into the ballroom he advanced slowly, moving with his own peculiar arrogance of bearing, a cigarette between his lips, a deep gleam in his eyes. The pre
ss opened to let him through, and he dropped into a sprawl next to Zena on the settee.

  "You've rain in your hair, darling," Zena remarked. "Outside in a storm like this?" she inquired, puzzled.

  "Only briefly, my dear. The air in the cardroom was oppressive." He sat and visited with his wife and friends for twenty minutes, refreshing himself with several glasses of champagne.

  As the minutes passed, he participated less in the conversation and at last sat in silence while Zena chatted with her crowd of admirers. She was surprised he didn't ask her to dance.

  Yuri pushed through the crowd and whispered agitatedly in Alex's ear, "Kiril said you were wounded."

  Overhearing the exchange, Zena turned pale and cast a frantic glance at her lounging husband.

  "A mere trifle, I assure you, dear," Alex replied in answer to her horrified look. But when he turned and fully looked at her, she saw how pale his face was.

  Bending across her husband, Zena lifted his arm. His silk shirt sleeve was soaked with blood, and a thin, crimson stream trickled from under his cuff to his glove. Numerous drops of blood had collected on the floor.

  "Sasha," her voice trembled. "You're bleeding."

  "Don't look so distressed, Princess. It doesn't hurt much," he said lightly. He saw the expanding pool of blood on the parquet floor and said carelessly, "Perhaps we should bid our adieus to our hostess. If you would be so kind as to lend me your handkerchief, I think I can stanch this embarrassing flow until we get to our carriage."

  Zena called a doctor immediately they reached the Kuzan apartment. Alex was deathly pale and lay down willingly.

  The doctor assured Zena after he had dressed the wound that no bullet had lodged in Alex's arm, and the flesh wound, though dreadful and noisome, was not serious now that the bleeding had been stanched.

  "Could have told you that myself," Alex grumbled from his sickbed. "Nothing serious, just as I said."

  They returned to the dacha in the morning. Zena hadn't thought it wise to disturb the arm so soon, but Alex was cross and surly, intent on having his way.

  When Zena questioned Alex about the duel, he replied shortly, "Krassiov, the canaille, had the impudence to discuss my wife in public. I won't allow it, and I told him so. I trust the lesson may mend his manners."

  Alex's smoldering gaze lightened reflectively. "There's a certain vulgarity about Krasskov I could never abide." His voice dropped to a thoughtful, inaudible murmur. "What Martine saw in him I'll never know.

  "I refuse to go to any more tedious parties for at least a month," Alex declared emphatically. "If you enjoy that sort of boredom, madame, please feel free to attend, but acquit me, my dear. I find the company intolerable."

  "It makes no difference to me if I go or not. I'm perfectly content to stay in the country."

  "Good, send our regrets, then, for the near future. Isn't there some social nicety, in any event, that demands enceinte women refrain from going out in society after a certain number of months?"

  "I've never felt particularly inclined to adhere to polite social convention," Zena retorted coolly. "Are you telling me I should stay home?"

  Alex caught the hint of chill in her tone and readily mollified his wife, relatively unconcerned with society's rules. "Don't take offense, dear. I could not care less about social custom, as you well know. I'm infinitely disinterested in what the world thinks of me. It was merely a passing thought. You have my permission to partake in society until the moment you deliver. Lord, I don't care."

  "Your permission?" Zena. enunciated icily.

  "Acquiescence, assent, agreement, whatever term you prefer. I just never remember seeing patently pregnant ladies parading around at parties," he finished lamely.

  "That's because you were always too busy inspecting all the voluptuous females who were casting out lures to you," Zena snapped. She wouldn't have been normal if she hadn't felt ungainly and unattractive as her pregnancy progressed. She was just being temperamental, she knew, and unjust, since Alex had been discreet since their marriage. It was difficult, however, to remain placid and tranquil and accommodating. Her independent spirit would make itself heard despite her best intention. At times it was as hard for her to assume the posture of perfect wife and mother-to-be as it was for her husband to adapt to the model of docile husband.

  They were both trying, but it was as if a conscious shackle had been applied to their behavior—two temperaments so independent, high-spirited, candid. It was just a matter of time until the explosion came.

  Zena could pretend she was content with the rare scraps of affection Alex offered her, but she wanted more. Alex could simulate the behavior of a contented husband, but a bold, reckless nature chafed at the sham.

  3

  Alex was busy the next few weeks. He immersed himself in the business of the estate. The hay harvest was being taken in, and the rye was too dry. They needed rain; then it rained for eight days. The rye began showing signs of rot, and he was busy setting up drainage in the fields. He also initiated several new building projects, overseeing the construction of a new barn and an addition to the stables and granaries. Once a week he presided as counselor for village disputes. He was trying to live a circumspect life, attempting to settle down into the routine of married life. He was tense and abrupt, mentally pacing like a caged animal but never actually admitting it to himself. Even in sleep there was a sense of contained, resolute energy, taut and unrelaxed.

  Occasionally Alex would ride into the club for a bachelor party. He didn't go to many, but some couldn't be avoided if a special friend was being feted.

  One evening he came home very early. Zena was still awake. "Where were you?"

  "At the club. I told you I was going."

  "You never take me anywhere." Even as she said it she knew better.

  "I told you to go out all you wish. I just can't stand any parties. These evenings at the club are different—just a few of my friends I can tolerate." What did she expect, he asked himself irritably. She knew him. She knew his reputation. Did she imagine he was supposed to turn over-

  night into some tame curate? "If it bothers you so much, I won't go so often. Satisfied?"

  Alex was becoming weary of Zena's constant need for reassurance, and much as Zena tried, she couldn't overcome this compelling need.

  "I'm sorry, Sasha, it's just feminine vapors." They were as distracting to Zena as they were to Alex. "I need you to say you care about me." Her voice was rising.

  "Look, I'm with you. I care or I wouldn't be here," Alex said very slowly. "I've never stayed with any woman longer than two weeks before." He was patient but exasperated with her little tantrums. He'd married her, for Christ's sake, didn't that mean something, he thought with asperity. Good Lord, all women think about is love. He gave an impatient shrug, contemptuous of the emotions that constantly plagued women. Merck, will these troublesome scenes never cease?

  "What more can I say," he patiently explained to her. "I want to be with you. I married you. Isn't that enough?" he finished harshly.

  "I don't know," Zena answered sadly as tears spilled from her eyes. Zena knew that she shouldn't persist in these questing probes for love and affection. Alex never dispensed ready, glib phrases. She had subjugated her personality and will to suit him. What price was she paying to stay in her husband's good graces and in his bed?

  "Come, dushka, don't cry. We're muddling along, aren't we now?" Alex inquired cajolingly. Reaching over, he tipped her chin up and forced her tear-filled blue eyes to meet his. Zena mutely nodded her head in response, stifling the impulse to complain that muddling along wasn't enough. "Don't expect too much from me, child," he said softly. "I can't rise to it."

  An uneasy truce prevailed the next few days, each taking special care to avoid antagonizing the other. It was unnatural, and the resultant strain put pressure on both Alex and Zena.

  4

  Yuri's brother was leaving for a governorship in an eastern province. The festivities to wish him bon voyage
were at the end of the week, and naturally Alex was invited.

  "It's Yuri's brother; otherwise I wouldn't consider going, but we've been friends for years. I won't stay long," he explained. "I'm sorry I've accumulated so many friends. I never realized what a problem it would be," he jibed brusquely as he saw the doleful expression on Zena's face.

  All he received for his effort at humor was a rather cool, disdainful glance. He waved carelessly and left.

  The party followed the customary format—cases of champagne, high-stake gambling, and droves of gypsy wenches and dancers.

  All evening long Alex politely but firmly refused the caresses bestowed on him by countless accommodating women. He drank and gambled instead in an effort to ignore them. Very late in the evening Alex was sprawled on a couch talking to Yuri. A beautiful gypsy dancer swayed over, deposited herself on his lap, and kissed him long and seductively.

  Alex gently unwrapped her arms from around his neck. The pretty, dark-haired charmer looked at him askance because in the position in which she was seated it was very obvious the handsome gentleman was interested.

  Yuri quirked one brow in amazement. "No one expects you to live like a monk just because you're wed. You'd be

  the only married man in town doing so. Setting a new style?" he teased.

  "Well . . ." Alex threw him a heated look, "damn it Yuri!" He thought about trying to explain to Yuri, whose amused eyes rested on him sympathetically, but couldn't.

  Drawing the lovely wench into an ardent embrace, he kissed her thoroughly, then freed himself from her arms saying, "Some other time, my sweet." He roared then for another bottle of champagne.