Lying back against the bed pillows, her gaze on the sunlit window the maid had opened to the afternoon air, she determinedly shook away the melancholy of Stefan's departure from her life and briskly thought, Now then, was it a poetry reading this afternoon or a piano recital? And dinner tonight was at one of the numerous grand dukes. Should she wear her emerald satin or her fuchsia tulle? Stefan's pearls would compliment either. She wished he could see her wear them.
That afternoon, though, she decided to forego the piano recital and found comfort instead in the Tsar's gift of a manuscript—The History of the House of Musaffar—a rare and special monograph she'd seen only once before. For a few hours as she immersed herself in the confusion of the minor dynasties who ruled over Fars and Kirman in the fourteenth century, she was able to forget her own confusion over wanting a man beyond her reach. She was even able for a brief time to diminish the powerful presence of Stefan in her mind.
In the following days, she escaped whenever she could to the quiet of Nikki's library and began working again, taking careful, minute notes from the manuscript, translating the sometimes cavalier chronology of Viziers into a plausible sequence, making duplicate notes for the Tsar's collection. Hafiz had lived in a turbulent time and his delicate love songs must have been created to the clash of arms, the inrush of conquerors and the flight of the defeated. Anarchy had prevailed, and invader after invader forced the city of Shiraz to submit to his rule. If Hafiz had survived such chaos and destruction with his inimitable gift of philosophy and song intact, surely she could overcome the melancholy of an unrequited love.
And she found a measure of solace in her familiar tasks.
Stefan heard the first glowing comments a week after Lisaveta was introduced by the Tsar at her first formal ball; one of his officers returned from leave in Saint Petersburg with the news. The Countess Lazaroff had been christened the Golden Countess for her sublime radiance and glorious eyes, he'd been told. She was, Loris said, the absolute center of every male's attention. She was more than beautiful, he'd gone on ecstatically, as though each word weren't doing disastrous things to Stefan's detachment; she was witty and gay with the charming cachet of her Hafiz scholarship. The intriguing possibilities in her exquisite looks and exotic background were a tantalizing lure. Men were lined up for a turn on her dance card, favors were offered for a seat beside her at dinner, and the drawing room of the Kuzan palace, where she was staying, was awash with floral tributes and besieging men. Loris went on at some length, driven by his own enthusiasm but also indulgent to Stefan's known partiality for gorgeous women. Rumor had it, he finished at last, two grand dukes had proposed.
The shock of those initial stories had taken several days for Stefan to rationalize satisfactorily. He'd never remotely imagined Lisaveta as society's reigning queen, although certainly her beauty was breathtaking. Rather, he'd thought her uninterested in the superficiality of society. Loris must have been exaggerating, he decided after several more days of contemplation. And for a man who'd forgotten women as easily as he'd seduced them, Stefan found himself uneasy with his feelings regarding Lisaveta. Eventually with the same kind of determination Lisaveta had summoned in regard to her memories, Stefan decided Loris's statements were probably primarily rumor and so dismissable. Even if they weren't, he had no further interest in the Countess. She'd afforded him a delightful holiday but he disliked prolonged relationships and it was all over now.
He was able to maintain his objective and habitual savoir faire until Dmitri and Kadar returned three days later from their leaves with stories of the Golden Countess as their foremost topic of conversation. They discoursed endlessly on her abundant attractions: she danced like an angel, and Stefan found himself inexplicably annoyed he'd never danced with her; she could make you laugh effortlessly without the silliness of other women, and Dmitri and Kadar both detailed numerous instances of her humor—to which the officers in the staff tent guffawed aloud; her gowns were lush like her beauty, but then Nikki Kuzan understood feminine fashions and had taken her to his wife's dressmaker. When Dmitri began describing Lisaveta's voluptuous form, Stefan glowered. He almost said, "You can't touch her," and only caught himself in time. But when hey both remarked on the canary diamonds she wore in her ears, so perfectly matching the gold of her eyes, Stefan abruptly said, "I gave her those," as if the four short words acknowledged his territorial prerogatives.
All the officers in the large tent looked at him. They were curious he knew the Countess, of course, also they heard the temper in his voice. Most of them took cogent note of his tone. If Bariatinsky was laying claim to the woman, it wouldn't be wise to step in his way. Although in the past Stefan had never shown enough concern for a woman to exert himself, perhaps the Countess was different. She must indeed be special.
It was Captain Tamada, just returned from the western front, who added the final straw a day later. To a brooding and unusually moody Stefan, who was playing a silent game of solitaire in the officer's mess, he said, "What you need, Stefan, to lighten your mood, is a night with the newest belle in Saint Petersburg. I saw her myself only a week ago, and she puts the delectable Helene to shame. Have you heard of the Golden Countess?"
A moment later, after Stefan had swept his cards on the ground and stalked out, the Captain turned to a fellow officer who was writing a letter home. "What did I say?"
"He knows her," the man answered, and shrugged.
"And doesn't like her?" Tamada inquired.
The letter writer shrugged again. "Damned if I know, but I'll tell you this. I wouldn't mention her name again if he's around."
That night Stefan suddenly decided that since the campaign wasn't scheduled to begin for two more weeks, due to delays in transport of munitions primarily, he'd travel to Saint Petersburg.
It was an unusual decision, one likely to cause comment, but the Turks, too, had still not conveyed more than light replacements to the front. And since the weather had continued to be unseasonably warm, any large movements of troops from reserves in Erzurum or the Black Sea ports or Istanbul were considered unlikely. It would be suicidal without adequate supplies of water.
Additionally, the Russian engineers were still constructing the new telegraph lines encircling Kars, and their completion was delaying the attack, as well. Unlike Alaja Dagh, where lack of organization had cost the Russians their victory, the assault on Kars was going to be fully coordinated. Until that time, however, Stefan's presence as the general in command of cavalry was really unnecessary. And since he was as prudent a soldier as he was prodigal a man, he had conscientiously delegated those few duties that would have concerned him during the hiatus.
But his unusual decision to leave the front did cause considerable comment, as did his given reason: he wished to visit his fiancée. Everyone knew Stefan never mentioned his fiancée, and when her name came up occasionally, he immediately made it plain he wasn't marrying for love.
So bets were taken on the real reason he was traveling so great a distance, and the Countess Lazaroff figured prominently in those wagers. More complicated odds were negotiated on the outcome of his visit; both his temper and odd moodiness were factored in the point spread.
He went alone because he didn't want company in his sullenness; he also went alone for speed.
Haci had protested at first. "The road to Aleksandropol isn't safe," he'd said, his voice cool with reason.
"I'm in a hurry," was Stefan's blunt reply.
"Have I ever slowed you down?" his friend inquired, watching Stefan toss a few basic items in his saddlebag.
Stefan looked up, the dim lantern light in the tent they shared casting dark shadows across his aquiline features. His smile was brief but apologetic. "No offense, Haci. I should have said I want to be alone."
"It's still dangerous."
Stefan had resumed buckling the red leather straps securing the side pouches. "I'll be careful."
"You don't know how to be careful."<
br />
"I'm traveling at night… that'll help."
"You're crazy!" Haci went so far as to grab Stefan's arm for attention. "The road's almost impassable since the transports chewed it up. Cleo could break a leg in the dark."
"I wasn't planning on taking the road." With anyone else he would have shaken the restraining arm free. Out of courtesy for their friendship he ignored it, testing all the closures one more time before sliding an extra knife into his belt.
"Is she worth it?" Haci quietly asked, his hand falling away. "Worth your horse and maybe your life?"
Standing upright, Stefan exhaled gently before answering. "I don't know," he said quietly. "I don't know why I'm going, I don't know what I'm going to do when I get there, but—" he slid his saddlebag over his shoulder, took a quick glance around the small tent to see if he'd forgotten anything, still practical despite his tumultuous feelings, "—I'm going. I'll be back in two weeks."
"Even traveling fast," Haci persisted, heedful of the tremendous risks even if Stefan chose to overlook them, "you won't have more than two or three days in Saint Petersburg."
"I don't need much time." A flat statement.
"You may want more," Haci reminded him, aware of Stefan's craving for this woman.
"Then I'll bring her back." He was not to be deterred or dissuaded.
"Not here, certainly," Haci swiftly said, alarmed at the extent of Stefan's imprudence.
"No… but closer."
He was determined to have his way.
"And if the lady protests?" Haci softly inquired. Stefan's expression was one Haci had seen hundreds of times before as Stefan sat astride Cleo waiting for an attack: part exhilaration, part cold calculation, with an intrinsic vital energy glowing from his dark eyes. "I'll see that she doesn't," he said very, very quietly. And then he grinned. "Wish me luck now on my night ride."
Their friendship was unconditional; Haci smiled. "Bonne chance, you fool. You'll need it."
Chapter Eleven
He rode across the high plateau under a brilliant orange-colored moon, but he noticed neither its brilliance nor its color, so intent was he on his thoughts. He was reckoning distances and assessing times, gratified he was doing something at last to expedite a resolution to his sharp-set hunger. The string of ponies he led carried him in relays steadily north until he stopped briefly in Tiflis to eat and to pick up a small escort. He left a note for Militza because he didn't wish to wake her at four in the morning. Also, she would have argued with him or questioned him, neither of which he cared to deal with. He had no answers to her arguments; he hardly knew himself what was driving him.
A telegram had been sent ahead to hold the train at Vladikavkaz, and when he reached the railhead fifteen hours later, he handed his pony over to a groom, said goodbye to his escort and collapsed in his bed on his private railway car. He'd been without sleep for almost three days.
The train to Moscow had been waiting eight hours for him, so gratuities were handed around by his steward to the officials, who'd been treated only to a swift smile and thank-you from the Prince before he'd boarded. Stefan fell asleep before the train was under way and slept through until the next afternoon, fully dressed except for his wet overcoat, discarded in a heap on the parlor floor, and his boots, mud-caked and stained, which were discoloring the bedroom carpet. Three days' growth of beard darkened his face, his fingers and toes had been numb since noon, when the sleeting rain had begun in the mountains, but the worst was over and he fell asleep with a smile on his face. He'd survived this far.
He woke south of Saratov to eat and wash, and when he opened his eyes the second time, Moscow was only an hour away. From there to Saint Petersburg he paced or sat brooding, his mind preoccupied with disturbing elements of jealousy and need. He resented his obsession with Lisaveta; he resented this flying trip north; he resented the thought of other men courting her. But he resented most his own lack of control. He must see her and have her and keep her for himself alone. The sensation was entirely without reason, without precedent… and unsettling. More than that, it was inimical u a man who prided himself on his detachment.
Dressing for the ball that night, Lisaveta adjusted the bodice of her gown for the third time, for the décolletage was more revealing than she remembered. Turning to Alisa, who had brought in a diamond brooch to gather the green brocade neckline a shade higher, she said, "I don't recall having this problem when I first wore this."
Standing at a slight distance, Alisa surveyed her guest attired in a glamorous ballgown cut simply with Juliet neckline, a small cap sleeve and a gathered bustled train. "Have you felt well lately?" she asked, the faintest reflection evident in her voice.
"Perfectly," Lisaveta replied, tugging at the offending neckline, immune to the subtle rumination infusing Alisa's question. "Perhaps I've put on a little extra weight with all the elaborate dinners lately. I'm really not used to a lavish menu, Papa and I always ate less extravagantly. I suppose some extra weight would account for this bodice no longer fitting." Her full breasts rose provocatively above the plunging décolletage.
"Are you putting on weight?" Alisa's question was quiet and speculative. No further word had been mentioned concerning Stefan Bariatinsky, but Nikki was sure a relationship had existed before his cousin reached Saint Petersburg. When Alisa had mildly suggested he was being too cynical, that surely every woman in Stefan's proximity wasn't automatically involved with him, her husband had only said, "Dushka, he was at the siege of Kars for months… months without a woman. Need I say more?"
That circumstance wasn't to be ignored, and knowing Stefan's reputation under even benign conditions, she'd had to admit Nikki was probably right. So quickly calculating the number of weeks Lisaveta had been in Saint Petersburg and the approximate date of her rescue by Stefan, Alisa considered that Lisaveta's added weight might have a more consequential base than simply overeating.
"Do you think you might be pregnant?" she asked, her own experience with the early signs of pregnancy contributing to her abrupt question. "I'm sorry," she added as Lisaveta turned pale and swung around from the mirror to face her. "Was I too blunt?"
"No…well, yes, I suppose…in a way," Lisaveta stammered, her golden eyes wide with astonishment. "I mean—I— how could I be…that's to say," she quickly amended, not naive enough to discount her many weeks with Stefan. "I can't be…can I?" Her gaze was blank or internally focused, as though she were contemplating an interior dialogue without proper answers.
"I don't know," Alisa softly replied, moving to her side and guiding her over to a chair. "Could you be?"
Sitting down like one stunned, Lisaveta leaned back against the cabbage rose chintz and inhaled deeply before answering, her mind swiftly counting days and weeks. "I can't be" she repeated, but she was finding that the arithmetic didn't fall conveniently into place.
She wasn't naive about the possibility of a pregnancy; she was, however, totally without experience with pregnancy. Having been raised in an unconventional milieu without childhood playmates, girlhood chums and young women's intimacies of conversation, she had no knowledge of the actual bodily changes provoked by pregnancy. She felt fine, and while her menses were slightly more than two weeks late at this point, that kind of variation had happened to her before. She couldn't be, she repeated silently.
It was denial pure and simple.
It was an absolute essential in her present state of mind. "Is it Stefan?" Alisa asked.
Lisaveta straightened her shoulders, and her voice was normal again when she spoke. "I'm sure there's another explanation," she said, bolstering her belief in some other more reasonable interpretation for her gown not fitting. "And in any event, Stefan's engaged to Princess Taneiev." She said it as though that fact excluded the possibility she might be pregnant.
"I'm sorry…you're right."
"Don't be… really. Everything was very civil. He's not to blame in any way."
"He has responsibili
ties at least," Alisa said, her pansy-colored eyes grave.
"As do I. Ours was a mutual attraction, Alisa, I wasn't seduced. He's not the villain." She smiled then at the odd word for Stefan's extravagant loving. "No, definitely," Lisaveta went on, her tone softly reminiscent, "I've no regrets about what we did."
"Do you love him?"
"Every woman he meets loves him, as do thousands more who adore him through his engravings and heroic deeds." It was an equivocation, but an answer nonetheless.
"An engagement isn't necessarily binding," Alisa quietly offered.
"His is for his own reasons. Thank you for the concern, Alisa, but—" Lisaveta lifted one bare shoulder in a small shrug of practicality "—I'm not some young innocent."
Regardless of Stefan's engagement, his reasons for it and Lisaveta's extravagant courtesy, under the circumstances Alisa felt impelled to suggest, "Stefan should at least know."
"There may not be anything to know. I'm sure there isn't. And think how embarrassing that would be to unnecessarily accuse him." Lisaveta gave a reassuring smile to her hostess. The color had returned to her face and her expression was without anxiety. "Look…I'll wear something else tonight, and after Katelina's birthday next week, I'm planning on returning to my country estate anyway." Lisaveta's voice was moderate; she was dealing with the situation as she normally dealt with issues: logically assessing a problem and then resolving it. At least that was what she believed. "Before I came to Saint Petersburg," she went on, "no one knew me, and I'm sure my leaving will cause little stir. I like my country estate, I'm very much looking forward to my studies again, and I'm not," she finished, her smile appearing again, "likely to miss the frantic schedule of a society belle."
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