Golden Paradise

by Susan Johnson

  "Don't cry," he murmured, "everything will be perfection. I'll be more understanding, promise," he said in blanket pledge to stay her tears, "and I'll never look at another woman and you can have more than four hours if you wish."

  He almost said, "I'll hold back the Turks," but the tele­gram waiting for him when he'd returned from his audience with the Tsar was worrisome. Hussein Pasha was on a forced march from Erzerum. That startling news sharply curtailed Stefan's timetable. Although Hussein's chances of reaching Kars before Stefan were almost impossible, Stefan had learned not to disregard the impossible. At the thought of his return to battle, his arms tightened around Lisaveta.

  "Be happy, Lise," he whispered, her warmth vivid antidote to the sudden bleakness of his thoughts, the fragrance of her hair delicate reminder she offered him the ultimate perfumed sweetness of life. "Don't cry… please… I love you so…"

  "I'm really happy," Lisaveta incongruously said in a small hiccupy voice. He'd just promised her carte blanche in his masculine attempt at consolation and his extravagant willing­ness to please her caused even more tears to fall.

  "You're making me feel terrible." He cradled her in his arms, distracted by her tears. "Tell me what you want," he said un­conditionally. "Anything… just tell me."

  "I don't want anything," she whispered, gulping to restrain her weeping. "I always cry when I'm truly happy."

  "You do?" He lifted her chin with a crooked finger. "Hon­estly?" He'd never had a woman cry in his arms before. He'd experienced the full gamut of other emotions, but never tears— an indication, perhaps, of his skillful expertise and the casual nature of his relationships.

  Lisaveta nodded. "Honestly."

  And then, out of desperation and uncertainty, he kissed her, because if he was unsure of tears of happiness, he was secure in the efficacy of kisses.

  He was right.

  Lisaveta was the one to demur softly some moments later. "Do we have time?" she whispered, holding Stefan close, the intensity of her embrace in contrast to her words.

  He lifted his head a scant distance and glanced at the clock on the mantel. "No," he said, lowering his head again to kiss her.

  "We should stop," she murmured, "before it's too late." She could feel his smile on her lips.

  "Good idea," he breathed in the minutest exhalation, "if it wasn't too late already."

  "We could just have a small wedding." She reached up a ca­ressing hand, her small palm and delicate fingers sliding up the side of his dark-skinned face to glide into the heaviness of his black hair, her words vibrating on his lips. "I don't need a gown or flowers or music." Her mouth curved into a smile. "We'd save a lot of time."

  He raised his face a small distance from hers and his tongue traced a wet warm path up the bridge of her nose. "We'll postpone it an hour." His mouth touched her eyebrow in a brushing caress, then her lashes and the high sweep of her cheekbone.

  Lisaveta's wedding gown was selected an hour and a half later from an array of fashionable dresses summoned by fiat from every important modiste in Saint Petersburg. It was hand­made lace of enormous value and heavy enough to support the thousands of pearls embellishing its rose-patterned texture. Cut very simply, it was a maiden's gown with a modest décolletage, small bow-trimmed sleeves and a froth of gathers draped into a bustle and lengthy train.

  Stefan said, "I like it," when Lisaveta asked; she looked rosy-cheeked and young and so beautiful he felt a small catch in his chest, but then he began breathing again and smiled at his own bewitchment.

  He saw that Lisaveta bought all else she needed for her trousseau, as well, and he wasn't without opinions, but they agreed on most styles, as they did later with the tradesmen in­terviewed for jewelry and flowers and specialty foodstuffs nec­essary for a wedding on short notice. They argued briefly over the flowers. Lisaveta wanted lilies. Stefan said lilies reminded him of death. Why not orange blossoms or violets or orchids? Orange blossoms were out of season, as were violets, but they took what the florists in Saint Petersburg had in their forcing houses, and they compromised on orchids.

  "Small orchids," Lisaveta said, "not the enormous ones."

  "Some large orchids," Stefan insisted. "They remind me of Grandmama. Her palace was filled with them." And she agreed because she loved him and he had loved his grandmama enough to have her flowers at his wedding.

  When she inquired how their guests would know when to arrive, since the time had been changed twice, once to accom­modate themselves and once to accommodate Stefan's tem­peramental chef, Stefan only said, "No problem." His regiment on staff in Saint Petersburg was transporting the messages, and she hadn't realized until then how familiar Stefan was with boundless power, how unhumble his background, how royal his prerogatives, until he'd added, "It's my cavalry corps."

  She suddenly understood he answered to few men in the world. Considering his unique friendship with the Tsar, per­haps it was safer to say he answered to only one man. His po­sition as cavalry commander didn't fully encompass the additional native tribes pledging allegiance to his family, and on the eastern frontier, the fealty of the nomadic tribes consti­tuted an army in itself. The Chiefs of Staff knew that, the Grand Dukes knew that, and he was treated with careful def­erence.

  The power and authority he wielded was almost unreserved and explained a wedding accomplished with such speed and fi­nesse.

  No one refused him.

  He had but to indicate his desire and it was accomplished.

  He was very different from the man she'd come to know on their journey from Aleksandropol to Tiflis or in the informal surroundings of his mountain lodge. Even his palaces in Tiflis and Saint Petersburg were run without undue pomp. He was human, warm, a natural man without formality. This new im­age of Stefan as master and commander of all he surveyed made her question for a moment whether she really knew the man she was about to marry.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Five hours later, the chapel was filled with expectant guests, delighted to have been called away from previous engagements to witness the sudden and startling wedding of Stefan Baria­tinsky to a beautiful young lady who'd been hidden away from society until short weeks ago. A lady who'd been introduced into society by no less a figure than the Tsar, a lady of the prominent Kuzan family, known over the centuries not only for their wealth but for their unconventionality…a polite word for what the less courteous called excesses. The scandal of his bro­ken engagement to Nadejda, of course, only added piquant expectancy to the festivities.

  Those more perceptive of the guests in the chapel noted the absence of all of Stefan's previous paramours.

  "It must be love," they whispered to one another.

  "But for how long?" the more cynical replied.

  "She's a Kuzan," some others murmured, insinuation deli­cious as sin in their voices. "I'll give it a year."

  But Stefan had never been noted for the longevity of his in­fatuations, and Kuzan or not, no one risked their money on a day more.

  Countess Lazaroff's suitors weren't invited, either, they noted. He was jealous. Stefan jealous? The thought was novel. Stefan had always been known for the number and variety of his women. The unspoken comment was in everyone's mind. Would one woman satisfy him?

  The site of the wedding was an exuberant baroque chapel dedicated architecturally to an earthly approximation of heaven. Built of white marble, it was accented with tall pol­ished pilasters of lavender amethyst rising to support a cornice leafed in gold under a frescoed ceiling and decorated with a profusion of statuary and gilded motifs. The luxury of mate­rial and style combined to give the sanctuary an intensely emo­tional appeal, like a flamboyant architectural melody. Incorporated into this variation of baroque grandeur was the very Russian addition of thousands of candles, votive and otherwise, in chandeliers and candelabra, in display cabinets of great beauty.

  And as if the splendor of marble, amethyst and gold, of frescoes depicting the dazzling light of heaven gleaming on angels and cavo
rting putti, all illuminated by flickering can­dlelight, wasn't enough to suggest heaven on earth, orchids, large and small, stark white and delicately hued, were massed in great arrangements throughout the chapel. They tumbled in faultless disorder over the altar, twined up candelabrum stands and torchères, were tied into garlands with angel fern and hung in luxurious swags between pilasters. In contrast to the sump­tuous display of flora, each row of gilded chairs in the nave was fronted by a tall basket of stately lilies. "For my wife," Stefan had said to the florist, "but I want colored lilies. The white ones are too funereal."

  It was done.

  As everything he requested was done. As was the customary procedure with Stefan Bariatinsky's wishes.

  And now in white dress uniform, tall, dark and spectacular, he stood before the gratified eyes of Saint Petersburg's aris­tocracy, the Savior of Russia, the most decorated soldier in the Empire's history, the man who'd loved hundreds of ladies but never for long, waited to be married.

  He seemed remarkably composed, the cynosure for three hundred pairs of eyes, chatting quietly with his priests, smiling occasionally, putting his hand out in casual greeting to a ju­nior prelate who came in late, immune apparently to his guests' curiosity.

  A small fanfare of muted horns announced his bride, and when he turned to her, it was plain for all the world to see that he adored her, and she him. The bride and groom smiled at each other, an intimate smile that ignored their guests, the avid curiosity and indeed the world. For that evanescent moment they existed alone, separated by only a white satin carpet strewn with rose petals.

  And then in a curious gesture of tender welcome and intrin­sic command, he held out his hand to her.

  His priests, elaborate in embroidered silver on midnight-blue velvet vestments, flanked him like bearded robed shamans from an ancient time. Scented incense from thousands of flickering candles lent a perfumed ambience to the dazzling white-and-gold interior, muting the soft undertone of fragrant lily.

  Lisaveta stood alone in the entrance to the nave, her pearl-encrusted gown and gold-embroidered veil shimmered in the candlelight, the diamonds at her ears and throat—a gift from her bridegroom—catching the light in brilliant display. She raised the small bouquet of white violets she held in one hand toward her bridegroom in silent, minute answer to Stefan—and smiled again, beautiful and assured.

  Without a word spoken, every guest understood the nature of their relationship. Prince Bariatinsky and the splendid Countess Lazaroff were not only in love, they were equally matched. In mesmerizing silence the inconceivable concept was absorbed, followed closely by the piquant speculation: how exotic, how accomplished, how brilliant was the Countess to have attained parity with the most lionized man in the Empire.

  The organ chords of the processional broke out trium­phantly and Lisaveta, arresting the endless possibilities rife in everyone's mind, moved in stately grace toward her bride­groom.

  The ceremony was lengthy, protocol carefully observed; Stefan wanted no doubt to the legitimacy of his marriage or his intentions. Before the entire world of Saint Petersburg elite he was marrying Lisaveta, and if there was a child, he was ack­nowledging it as his. He believed her—and in her—implicitly.

  His faith was all the more stunning because he had been a man so successful with other men's wives and lovers over the years.

  He was being offered the glass of wine to drink by the priest, and taking it, he turned to Lise with a smile. Saluting her, he drank and waited while she in turn sipped from her wineglass. They were symbolically toasting to fertility and good for­tune—a bit late, he thought, and she seemed to read his mind because she winked at him.

  Scandalizing the priests, he responded to her mischievous gesture by pulling her close with his free arm and, bending low, said in a murmur near her ear, the poufed silk tulle of her veil brushing against his cheek, "I love you dushka, for a thou­sand years."

  She smiled back her own pledge of love and kissed him gently on the cheek. "Only a thousand years?" she whispered, sweet teasing in her voice.

  The buzz of comment rose in the perfumed air at the ex­traordinary show of affection; Stefan wasn't a demonstrative man.

  "Till the mountains crumble into the sea," he whispered, and kissed her very gently. Then straightening, Stefan signaled with a nod of his head and the ceremony continued.

  The seated guests looked at one another in silent comment. Now that was like Stefan, they thought, intimidated by neither man nor God nor scowling priests. His brief nod was under­stated authority from a man intent on his own prerogatives and spontaneity. And his bride hadn't even blushed. Of course, she was a Kuzan. They'd been recognized as beyond blushing sev­eral centuries ago.

  Lisaveta and Stefan were able to kiss with the priests' bless­ing after the benediction some time later, and then, beaming with pride, Stefan escorted his bride to the Tsar, seated in the first row. Not only a gesture of courtesy, it was meant as a warning to Vladimir Taneiev; Stefan intended any report going back to Vladimir was perfectly clear on his position with Al­exander II.

  The reception was glittering and resplendent. Even the Tsar stayed longer than he intended, intrigued by Stefan's Georgian wines, the charm of his bride, the Gypsy dancers who enter­tained the guests through dinner and the Cossacks who per­formed acrobatic feats of great wonder after dessert. Alexander lingered until the orchestra began playing and he danced twice with the bride. In leaving he embraced Stefan, a public dem­onstration of his friendship.

  The newlyweds were gracious for an hour more, mingling with their guests, accepting congratulations and facetious comment with equal good cheer. Stefan had never seemed so relaxed and approachable. The new Princess Bariatinsky, everyone agreed, was a good influence on him.

  But Stefan's accommodating nature had its limits, although his guests were invited to stay and enjoy his wedding ball and hospitality as long as they wished. His cellars were at their dis­posal, he informed them, his chef committed to their gusta­tory pleasure, the musicians willing to play for a week. He smiled from the bandstand and waved au revoir. He and his bride, he finished, her hand firmly in his, were off on their honeymoon. And so saying, he scooped Lisaveta up into his arms to cheering applause and carried her down the short car­peted range of stairs to the ballroom floor, across its length, down the corridor to the main staircase and thence down again and out the opened doors to his waiting carriage.

  Acknowledged the good wishes of those of his staff in atten­dance at the main doors and at his carriage with a ready smile and cordial thank-yous, he deposited Lisaveta onto the car­riage seat in a tumble of white lace and, climbing in behind her, signaled for departure.

  "How is the time?" Lisaveta asked, since a suppressed agi­tation was evident beneath Stefan's composed exterior.

  "The wedding set me back five hours, but we're still fine." He hadn't told her of the telegrams—three now since late af­ternoon—confirming Hussein Pasha's march toward Kars…or of his decision after the second one to leave as soon as possible after the wedding and not wait until the next day.

  "I'm sorry," Lise teased, "for ruining your schedule." But under the playfulness of her teasing she was aglow with the wonder of her love. How impossible she would have thought the circumstances of her wedding short months ago, how in­conceivable to be married to Russia's greatest hero, how strange she'd never dreamed of this eventuality when she'd fallen un­der Stefan's spell that first night in Aleksandropol. She'd thought herself a civilized female then, capable of participat­ing in an amorous interlude, capable of saying adieu when it was over, never knowing intellect was insufficient against overwhelming feelings—against love. Hafiz had known it. Poets and past dwellers on this earth for a millenium had dis­covered that truth. And now she knew it, too.

  His smile flashed white in the lamplit interior of the coach. "I wanted you to ruin my schedule, dushka. It was a perfect wedding." She was worth every minute of delay, he thought, taking his wife in his arms, fee
ling her close, the scent of her hair reminding him of their warm summer nights before Tiflis, when the fragrance of rose was on the air like perfumed seduc­tion. His decision to come north and bring her back was worth every long frustrating hour of his journey. His grip tightening in a spontaneous gesture of assurance, he smiled down at her upturned face. "You belong to me," he said softly, the full­ness of his need and love echoing in his voice.

  "And you to me," she answered, her voice as quiet. "Do you mind?" she asked then, because Stefan was a man apart, a leader and overlord of vast tribal subjects and troops, and she'd felt his minute reaction to her words.

  "I'd never thought of it that way," he honestly replied, pos­session always having been endowed by strength. This was new, this shared right, and he asked, "Is it in the order of things?"

  "It's only fair."

  His answer was in the simple kiss he gave her, his lips touch­ing hers lightly, a butterfly kiss of affirmation and love. "Whatever makes you happy," he said, this man who'd stood alone since adolescence, this man who'd felt he never needed anything or anyone. "I'm pleased," he murmured, his mind and heart so filled with love he felt invincible, "to belong to you."

  She kissed him then because no matter what his answer she loved him, but his reply had been tempered by her wishes, by his love for her, and she felt overwhelming happiness. "Do we deserve all this good fortune?" she teasingly whispered, her golden eyes like sunshine in the dark.

  "I don't know about you, but I certainly do," he emphati­cally replied, his temperament familiar with life's largess. "I'd been looking for you for years."

  "In other women's arms?" Her sarcasm was lighthearted.

  "How else do you look?" he casually replied, his tone matching hers.

  "Some people might consider 'looking' in another con­text."

  "Really?" His grin was infectious.

  "Your looking days are over, you understand."

  "Really?" he said again in that same unconvinced tone.

  "Really," she said in an inflection bespeaking her own em­phatic views on territorial rights.