* * *
The morning did not go as planned. What had started out as a few more minutes lying beside Dasha had turned into a night. Ruslan had awakened with alarm in her bed, the sun already up, Dasha tucked against him as assuredly as a lover. Anyone could have walked in and seen them. But no one had. Still, no need to tempt fate any further and he began the effort of artful extraction. Once he’d extricated himself carefully without waking her, it turned out sleeping in Dasha’s bed was the least of his concerns. Further concern lay waiting for him at breakfast in the form of his customary morning newspapers and a positively euphoric Captain Varvakis. ‘She’s done it. She’s claimed London’s attention, soon she will be able to advocate for the right to the throne.’
Varvakis held up the first of the newspapers, crowing with pleasure. Ruslan smiled politely, finding Varvakis’s excitement annoying, although he was hard pressed to say why. Varvakis was on his side, their side. Varvakis wanted what he wanted. Perhaps that’s what gave Ruslan pause over coffee. Varvakis had done his duty in rescuing Dasha but he would expect to be rewarded. What would that reward be? Power and position in the new government? Or something more personal?
Ruslan scanned the headlines that had accumulated at his plate. ‘Lost Princess arrives in Mayfair’, ‘Royal Princess escapes family massacre’, ‘Princess survives revolution’. He grimaced. The papers certainly hadn’t hesitated, as he’d known they wouldn’t. There was little eye-catching news this time of year. He just hadn’t expected to feel so exposed. He’d been mentioned in society columns before. All four of the Kubanian Princes had been a subject of interest throughout the Season, with Illarion capturing most of the headlines, and he’d certainly been part of gossip’s intrigues in the Kubanian court, but this was different. Anyone reading the stories would know where to find Dasha.
‘But so will her supporters,’ Varvakis offered helpfully when Ruslan voiced his concerns. Ruslan merely raised an eyebrow at that and set aside the papers. He’d comb through them in private later today.
‘The Princess dreamed again last night.’ Ruslan chose his words carefully, seeking detachment. ‘She reported that the dream was longer and that she knew the brothers’ names. The last can be credited to your lessons, I think.’ He wanted Varvakis to know he understood the power of those lessons. As necessary as they were if they were to help her remember, they also risked destroying any organic memory she had left. How long would the dream remain unpolluted from what she was learning? Ruslan did not think it would be much longer. Already from her lessons, she’d acquired family names, descriptions of the palace and the grand staircase where she’d fallen. She’d adeptly used that information last night at dinner. She’d not just acquired those facts, she’d integrated them into her psyche. It was no wonder the dream seemed richer and fuller this time.
‘I am glad. We need her to remember as much as possible.’ Varvakis reached for a piece of toast off the rack. Ruslan had to remind himself Varvakis was not the enemy here.
Ruslan watched Varvakis carefully. ‘I am hoping we can help her remember more, but it’s up to you. You were the one who found her first. Those moments are critical, I think. There is a woman in her dream, perhaps a woman she was protecting? Was there anyone there on the landing with her?’
Varvakis’s grey eyes were soldier-steady, his voice grim. ‘None other than the man she ran through with her blade. She couldn’t get her sword out of him and the man might have finished her off in his death throes. For a moment, I thought he had, but he’d merely fallen on her.’
Dasha had killed a man.
The cold import of that rippled through him. Ruslan played with the handle of his coffee mug, not betraying the layers of emotion this news evoked. ‘Why have you not said anything before?’ Varvakis hadn’t lied, Ruslan would not accuse him of that. Lying was a serious offence to a man’s honour. But Varvakis had told him quite a sanitised version of the story, which had boiled down to Varvakis fighting his way up the stairs, the Princess falling at the last. The end. There’d been no mention of Dasha killing her attacker.
‘The Princess has had enough trauma. I did not want to remind her of that final tragedy and it hardly seemed necessary.’ Varvakis’s eyes were hard flints, the gaze of a man who’d seen many campaigns. ‘I have killed men in the line of service, Your Highness. I do not remember them all, but I still remember my first: a blonde boy my own age, who had the misfortune of being less adept with a blade than myself. I ran him through and his eyes went wide—brown eyes with long black lashes—if you take my meaning?’
Ruslan nodded. He did. He knew very well the personal nature of taking a life even when it was in self-defence and there was no choice. His work in the underground was not without its risks.
‘If the Princess has forgotten such an ordeal, perhaps it’s best to let it remain so,’ Varvakis concluded staunchly. It was difficult to argue with that logic out of personal concern for Dasha, yet the logic in him wanted to contend that knowledge of any sort was valuable in this situation.
‘What of the woman she claims was there? Any idea who would have been with her?’ Ruslan returned to his original question.
‘I could not see anyone. Not that it matters beyond the luxury of knowing and being able to solve the Princess’s mystery dream for her. The reality, however, is that the Princess is here and whoever may have been with her, if there was anyone at all, was not fortunate enough to escape the flames.’ Varvakis answered with a tone of finality that said he did not want to be pressed further on the subject. Ruslan let it go. He and Varvakis needed to work together. Antagonising him would not help that. But Ruslan’s gut told him this was a subject to revisit tactfully another time. Between Varvakis’s decision to omit certain details and Dasha’s dream, there was more here beneath the surface.
A rustle of skirts at the door had him and Varvakis rising from the table. Dasha swept in, a bright smile on her face that said she’d rested well. Ruslan would like to take credit for that. ‘Good morning, gentlemen. Are we ready to conquer the world?’
Chapter Eleven
They were not conquering the world, but they were conquering London, one heady dinner party at a time. The days turned into weeks, those weeks passing in a whirlwind of events as dinners multiplied into invitations to political teas, and teas into shopping expeditions, and expeditions into a drawing room full of influential women who came to return Dasha’s calls as September wore on. If only Ruslan could be conquered so easily.
Not that she wanted to conquer the handsome prince. By day, he was her advisor. By night he was her escort and always Kuban was between them, the one thing binding them together and the one thing keeping them apart. There was far too much for her to deal with to think about engaging in a flirtation and he’d made it clear that, as her advisor, he would not muddy the waters of their association with a less-than-neutral relationship. But that didn’t stop a shiver of awareness from skittering up her spine when he touched her, his hand light at her back guiding her through drawing rooms, or from creating the fantasy that played through her head each night. It was intoxicating to go out with him every evening, to watch women’s heads turned when he entered a room, to see men greet him with respect, all of which was passed on to her by extension. Even more intoxicating were the moments when he looked at her and she thought for the briefest of instances that he played with the fantasy, too. Then, the moment would pass and he would be Ruslan, her handsome advisor, once more.
It was a potent fantasy, to be sure; a fantasy where she stayed in London at his side and they attended parties in glittering mansions and gave parties of their own in Ruslan’s new town house, perhaps lobbying aid for Kuban. They would be the most dashing couple in town. As the days went by, it was easier to lose herself in the fantasy. There’d been no news from Kuban summoning her home. The threat of a rogue assassination had not materialised.
Ruslan seemed in no hurry to see
her go. Quite the opposite—he seemed glad to have her under his roof. When she didn’t need to spend her afternoons learning about Kuban’s politics or shopping with the ladies, Ruslan devoted himself to her with singular attention, taking her about London to see all the sights: the Tower and the Thames, driving her through Hyde Park. He even made good on his lost wager and took her to Gunter’s where she had the most decadent chocolate ice. They picnicked at Greenwich to watch the boats and visited Klara’s father’s estate in Richmond with Maximus. When autumn hit in full force and afternoons required them to stay indoors, he took her to the museums, the opera and the theatre. She’d never lived like this, memories or not. She’d never had the singular attentions of such a man, even if he didn’t mean anything beyond friendship by those attentions.
This is what you’ve given up, her conscience would whisper. This could have all been yours, but you chose to go back.
Maybe she wouldn’t have to go back. Not yet, at least. Maybe she’d have the winter. If word didn’t come soon, there would be no choice but to stay through March until travel became possible again. That reality didn’t disappoint her. It would be more time with Ruslan, more time to learn about him.
He might aspire to a neutral friendship, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t coming to know him. She knew blue was his favourite colour, that he took his tea with milk although he preferred coffee, that his favourite desserts were blinis topped with berries.
She knew important things about him, too—that he was solicitous and kind, although he’d deny the latter. One only had to watch him with Maximus to know better. He was loyal, unto a fault. Nikolay and Stepan could call upon him any time. And he was private. He listened to others, but seldom spoke of himself. Even when prompted to do so, he was reserved in what he shared. She still knew very little about his past, though, other than his escape story, that he’d been a companion of her brothers and that he’d been responsible for planning all sorts of royal outings.
For some, such facts would be enough. Not for Dasha. They only made her hungry for more. Who was his family? Did they miss him? Were they waiting for him in Kuban? Was there a special woman waiting for him, someone who had captured his affections? She didn’t like to think of the last, or that it might possibly be the reason for his staunch detachment. She tried, instead, to enjoy each moment, each outing, each evening.
There were only two blots on her happiness, the first being her lack of memories. They had still not returned beyond brief snatches like the one she’d had in Nikolay’s stable and at the pianoforte. They were helpful, but not illuminating in determining who she was. The second was the guilt. As long as her memories remained unattainable, her doubt over her identity remained intact.
What if she wasn’t the Princess?
She ought to tell Ruslan her doubts, if for no other reason than to seek his reassurance. But she couldn’t burden him, not after all he’d done. The point of no return had been reached, at any rate. It was too late to change her decision. To do so would be to make a laughing stock of Ruslan and all who supported her. In turn, those supporters would ostracise her from society in order to save face. No, that was one burden she had to carry alone and one that would hopefully resolve itself in time. Besides, Varvakis was sure of who he’d rescued. Her doubts were her own. So she forged on: Dasha Tukhachevskenova, London’s latest fascination, the lost Princess of Kuban.
* * *
Dasha was an overnight sensation, her transformation into one of society’s ladies a marvel. She could easily be one of them, Ruslan mused at the gentlemanly distance of the drawing-room door frame, watching as she charmed the English ladies. It was an astonishing enough feat to watch a debutante ‘take’ in society, a girl who’d been trained from the schoolroom to master the ton with all of its idiosyncrasies and hypocrisies. To watch a woman succeed here, who had never trained for London, who had spent her adolescent years in the severe seclusion of the Kubanian Tsar’s palace, expecting to be out of the public eye until her marriage was announced, was nothing short of miraculous. Ruslan knew first-hand that a Kubanian princess, while well-educated so as not to embarrass her husband with her lack of literacy and understanding, was not trained to rule; yet there was no denying Dasha was capable of it. Neither was there any denying how the sight of her in his drawing room affected him.
Ruslan gave his afternoon brandy a negligent swirl, allowing himself to try on the nascent fantasy of Dasha in his drawing room with its cool pale blue wallpaper and excess of white wainscoting, hosting teas and at-homes regularly, surrounded by London’s finest, his Wedgwood-blue teacups balanced on their laps. He’d not yet used the china that had been selected for the house. Dasha’s tea parties were their first venture out of their carefully packed boxes. In fact, a lot of things had found their way out of boxes and cupboards: fresh linens for the dining-room table, crystal goblets, decanters for the library, books he hadn’t got around to removing from crates, and an assortment of knick-knacks: porcelain horse-head bookends, a gold scale of weights and measures and more. Perhaps without intending to, Dasha had made his house a home.
Today, dressed in a gown of blue lavender trimmed with delicate grey lace, her hair done up, the thin silver chain with its heart at her neck, Wedgwood teacup in hand, she looked the perfect hostess, the Queen of her domain, kind-eyed but alert, her gaze seeing to every guest’s comfort, even as she applied herself to conversation with those closest to her. Outwardly, she was calm and serene. One would never guess she wasn’t English until she spoke or that she spent her nights plagued by nightmares and her days relearning all that had been taken from her the night Rebels had dragged her family out and killed them. But Ruslan knew better. That knowledge puffed him up with private pride. He knew the other side of her. He saw her with tousled hair, with rumpled bedclothes, with fear in her eyes. It made her bravery so much more impressive.
She caught his eye and motioned that he should join her. He obliged with a smile. It was time to play his part, that of the doting host and fellow countryman. In truth, he didn’t mind. They made a good team as they charmed their way through London, galvanising support against the time when they’d need all their allies if they meant to go to Kuban with a show of force.
Dasha reached up to him, catching his hand. ‘I was just telling Lady Bradford-Piles about Maslenitsa. She doesn’t believe me that we burn Maslenitsa and make huge bonfires.’
Ruslan chuckled. ‘We do indeed. We eat the most delicious blini, too. Thin crêpe-like pancakes topped with jams and berries,’ he explained.
‘We should host a Kubanian Tea and treat all the ladies to our national delicacies.’ Dasha laughed up at him, inspiration lighting her green eyes.
We. Things they should do.
‘Yes, if that is what you wish.’ Ruslan complied easily. For a few moments the fantasy in his head had become real, filled with images of he and Dasha hosting events together, in his home, like Nikolay and Klara. Like a couple. His home would become their home, together. His and hers. His teacups would never linger in their boxes. All the things he’d ordered to make this house feel like a place where he could belong would get used. He’d been wrong to think having things was all he needed to master the sense of home. People made the home. His house was already changed because she was in it and he was already regretting the time when she left it. The place would feel empty. He was starting to fear he would feel empty. He’d enjoyed squiring her about town, showing her the sights, talking with her. She was intelligent and insightful. It was something he could easily get used to. And he mustn’t. Damn. His hard-won detachment was slipping. Again.
‘Ladies, enjoy your tea.’ Ruslan bowed and relinquished Dasha’s hand. ‘If you would excuse me, I have appointments to keep this afternoon at the club.’
The appointment was with Stepan and Alexei Grigoriev, Klara’s ambassador father. Alexei had written this morning saying it was important, he had news from Kuban that wou
ld help them move forward in rallying support for the return of the Kubanian Queen. Their plan, if successful, would take Dasha away from London so far. Away from him. He was not a man used to courting failure, but in this case, a piece of him hungered for it. What if they tried for the throne and failed? What if the news from Kuban encouraged them to stay put in London? Such thoughts shouldn’t make his heart glad, but it would be a lie to say they didn’t make him hope, just a little. The advisor in him was giving way to the man.
* * *
‘Well, what’s the news?’ Ruslan took a chair at the table Stepan had commandeered in a quiet corner of White’s. He was the last to join. Varvakis and Grigoriev were already there. Stepan slid a glass towards him and a decanter of samogon.
‘Ah, the good stuff, I see. Are we celebrating?’ Ruslan said with a cheer he didn’t exactly feel. He poured a healthy glass. Perhaps Stepan had known he was going to need it.
‘Order is being restored. The Moderates are slowly gaining the upper hand as people see reason,’ Grigoriev reported with a nod towards Varvakis. ‘Just as your faction hoped. Good news.’
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