Golden Paradise

by Susan Johnson

  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 Chri
stian 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.

  Chapter Five

  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."

  Stefan's words triggered the floodgates of sensation. He was advancing closer and she found her will to retreat diminishing. "How can it matter," he softly asked, "if we make love again?"

  "It matters to me," Lisaveta said, low and breathless, but he was very near now, and all she could think of beyond her dec­laration of principle was how excruciatingly fine he had felt deep inside her, how perfectly he knew the chronology of her arousal, how hard and strong his powerful body felt beneath her hands, how his mouth felt touching hers… the way it would… now—

  "No!" She found the will somewhere to resist.

  For a flashing moment she saw his anger before she slid away under his arm.

  He silently watched her run to the door and try the latch, watched her bang her fists loudly against the solid mahogany door and swiftly turn to face him a moment later, her cheeks flushed with her effort. "You can't force me," she said, her voice intense with emotion.