She gave a nod to the council, acknowledging their applause. Serebrov made the customary toast which was followed by others. She let them have their pomp. She caught Ruslan’s eye as he raised his glass, a private look passing between them. Only the two of them knew what today would entail. This morning, Kuban had crowned its Queen. By evening, Kuban would usher in a new era of governance, and she—well, she would have her heart’s desire. But that was hours away yet and much still stood between her and that most private victory.
The formalities appeased, Elizaveta motioned for the council to take their seats. Dossiers had been placed in front of each member’s seat. Elizaveta sat up straight, summoning all the regal demeanour she possessed. She had to carry out one final act for the people she loved—for Dasha, for Ruslan—and for the life she might have as her true self, a life lived outside of a lie.
‘Gentlemen, I thank you for your attendance and for your willingness to begin the work of nation-building so immediately. Our country cannot wait any longer for the issues raised by the revolution to be addressed. If you will open your dossiers, you will see that I have compiled a collection of royal decrees regarding the revoking of certain laws.’ Elizaveta was well aware that today she played the part of benevolent tyrant. Today, in these hours, she alone had the power to decide law. It was what a monarch did. As things stood, the council might make suggestions to her, but ultimately, her will decided the law. It was too much power for any one person to have, even when advised by a group of supposedly diverse councillors. The margin for error in ignoring the true needs of the people was great. Too great. A single monarch would always, inherently, be too insulated to decide for those he or she ruled. The system could not last. It bolstered her confidence that her decision was not only in her best interests but in her country’s as well. The time had come for something different.
‘We’ll start with the marriage laws.’ She smiled at the council, directing them to the first sheet in the dossier. It was the one likely to meet with the least resistance and the most acceptance. ‘As of today, the laws binding noble families to matches sanctioned and arranged solely by the ruling Tsar will be repealed. Families are welcome to arrange their own children’s marriages, as are individuals over the age of twenty-one, as they see fit.’ The repeal was not perfect. A woman who married at eighteen would still be under her family’s rule. She would not be able to decide for herself until she came of age, but it was a start, and starts were made on compromises.
‘The next law regards the terms and conditions of a noble male’s service to the crown...’ Ruslan had arranged the dossiers strategically, presenting the easiest issues to resolve first and moving towards the more difficult. The idea was to build a culture of success before hitting the hard issues. A group that saw themselves making progress would deal with difficulty better than a group who viewed a situation as a logjam.
* * *
The morning became afternoon. Lunch was served. Jackets came off. Progress was made, alliances established that she hoped would last. Elizaveta felt the stack in her dossier thinning as they reached the last of the business. Afternoon gave way to Kubanian twilight. The end was nearly here. She glanced at Ruslan, something she’d refrained from doing throughout the long day, afraid she’d give away too much. He gave her a nod.
Elizaveta rose. ‘Gentlemen, we have accomplished much and I commend everyone on their work today. This has been a true beginning.’ The laws might have been her laws, in truth no one could have gainsaid her, but she hadn’t wanted acceptance through force. ‘We have one last issue before us today and that is the future governance of Kuban.’ She was met with inquisitive looks from some, confused looks from others like Serebrov, who’d crowned a new queen today and felt the issue decided.
‘There is a new world beyond our mountains, one that is not ruled solely by kings and queens, but by parliaments and prime ministers. It is time for Kuban to join that world. In your dossiers you will find a new structure for ruling.’
‘Your Highness, will St Petersburg allow this? We are but an independent province. We still answer to the Russian Tsar,’ Serebrov put in as he scanned the radical document.
She was ready for this. Ruslan had briefed her. ‘We are not breaking away from Mother Russia. We simply feel answering to one Tsar is enough. On a local level, we feel we can better serve the Tsar in St Petersburg through self-governance.’
‘Respectfully, Your Highness, Ekaterinodar, indeed most of Kuban, is land gifted to us by the Tsar,’ Serebrov said, voicing the most logical of fears that the land would be taken away.
‘A gift the Tsar needs defended,’ Ruslan put in from his seat further down the table. ‘To be blunt, the Tsar needs us to defend the port and the mountain passes from the Ottomans. It was the whole reason Russia settled Kuban in the first place. We are an outpost, the first line of defence against invasion. We are too important to the Tsar for him to squabble about what we do a thousand miles from St Petersburg. He has enough to defend.’
The questions came and Elizaveta fielded each one tirelessly. Every question resolved was one step closer to freedom. Darkness fell outside, snow had begun. It would be a beautiful night for a drive in a troika, with stars overhead, lap robes warm, the man she loved beside her. Elizaveta answered the last question and reached to her head, taking off the crown. The time had come at last. The diamonds in the diadem sparkled in the candlelight as she set the crown on the table. ‘Gentlemen, as the last act of your Queen, I commend you for your service today, and in the months preceding. I commend you for your vision and I exhort you to finish the work begun here. You have been given the tools from which to start our new republic. I expect you to do so.’
She nodded to Ruslan. ‘Prince Pisarev, will you take things from here?’ She bowed to the council. ‘Gentlemen, your Queen bids you farewell. When and if we meet again, I will be a citizen of this grand republic you will build. Prince Pisarev, the future is in your hands.’ Ruslan moved to the head of the table before anyone could protest or question and she quietly slipped into the hall.
She could hear Ruslan’s voice as she shut the door. ‘Gentlemen, I have here the recommendations for the various posts you will want to fill...’
At the entrance of the building, a footman met her at the door. ‘Your Highness.’
‘I need you to take these for me. Put them away safely.’ She exchanged the heavy robes for her own dark cloak, feeling lighter already as the last ruler of Kuban stepped out into the snow.
* * *
An hour later, boots crunched behind her in the snow. Ruslan. ‘Is it done, then?’ she sighed, leaning back into the arms that encircled her.
‘It is done. Kuban, by royal decree, is now officially a republican principality, probably the first of its kind.’ Ruslan’s arms were strong and warm, the snow on her face, cold. It was a perfect moment. She could live in it for ever. ‘You are free, Elizaveta.’ Free to go anywhere she liked, free to love as she pleased.
She turned in his arms, brushing the snow off his shoulders as she kissed him. ‘Thank you.’
The sound of bells on harness broke the quiet night. The troika arrived, the blades fast and light on the snow. ‘I believe we have business of our own?’ Ruslan helped her into the sleigh and dismissed the driver, taking the reins himself. He called to the horses and they set off, bells jingling. Elizaveta had thought she might feel sad leaving the city palace behind, that she might have some remorse over leaving the crown. She had done good for her people today, but how much more could she have done if she’d stayed Queen? But she felt none of it—no second thoughts, no remorse. This was the right choice for both her and Kuban. She tucked her arm through Ruslan’s and smiled.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked. He’d been very secretive about these arrangements.
‘I am taking you to a little chapel I know at a very fine estate in the country.’ He grinned. ‘I am taking you h
ome.’
‘Does that chapel happen to have a priest?’ Elation was starting to take her now, the euphoria of a plan complete. Happiness was within reach. There would be no more daggers in the dark, no more wondering where she belonged. She knew. She belonged with this man whether it be in Kuban, or in London, or in the French countryside growing grapes.
Ruslan winked. ‘It just might.’
* * *
He’d planned everything carefully, right down to the hour and the setting. It was fitting to him that the most important event of his life to date happen at a place that meant the most to him—his home, the one trapping that remained from his past life in Kuban. When they arrived at his beloved estate, all was ready. Lanterns lit the way to the stone chapel, his servants lined the drive with candles set amid small evergreen wreaths. Inside, the home was decked with evergreens and satin ribbon, candles instead of flowers.
He and Elizaveta might have a quiet wedding, attended by none but Ruslan’s housekeeper and his butler, but that didn’t mean his bride would have a ceremony devoid of decoration.
‘The candles are lovely!’ Elizaveta’s eyes sparkled. ‘You always move me to tears with the simplest of gestures.’
Ruslan leaned close. ‘The candles remind us even in a season of darkness, there is light.’ This woman had experienced darkness enough. From now on, he vowed silently, she would have nothing but light. His voice was low at her ear. ‘Are you ready, Elizaveta? To be my wife?’
‘More than ready...’ she breathed.
They walked down the short aisle together. The priest and the two witnesses were waiting. But for all the planning Ruslan had done, the next surprise was his. Instead of his servants, Illarion and his wife, Dove, stood there, wrapped in furs and beaming. Their cheeks were flushed with the cold night air as if they’d just arrived.
‘How?’ Ruslan was at a loss for words.
Illarion came forward and embraced him, reading his mind. ‘Some things can’t be planned. We were in the area visiting a family friend,’ he said obliquely. That would be an interesting story to hear. Later. Illarion stepped back with a knowing smile. ‘All my news will keep. There is more important work at hand.’ He nodded in Elizaveta’s direction and the priest began.
The rings were blessed and Elizaveta made a blushing bride as a birch crown was settled upon her head, a very different sort of crown than the one she began the day with, Ruslan thought. As magnificent as she’d been today, this one suited her far better.
‘Are you happy?’ Elizaveta murmured as the priest intoned the final blessing.
‘Yes.’ Happy didn’t begin to describe the way he felt. It was as if he’d never been happy before, that all other previous joy was merely a shadow of the emotion that now consumed him. He’d always thought he needed a place to serve, a place to be needed. But he was wrong. He’d not needed a place. He’d needed a person. He’d needed her.
‘You may kiss the bride, my son.’ The priest smiled at him.
‘The first kiss of our married life,’ Ruslan whispered to Elizaveta, tipping up her chin.
‘The first kiss of for ever,’ she answered, tears sparkling on her cheeks like diamonds. He kissed her then, long and full and satisfying, a wish for all their life would be together.
‘I love you, Elizaveta Semenova.’ He pressed his forehead to hers. ‘You are my Princess, now.’
Epilogue
London
Ruslan had done it! Stepan Shevchenko laughed out loud at the letter in his hand, the sound echoing in the empty town house. Around him, furniture was covered in sheets against the dust in anticipation of a long absence and his travelling valise stood ready at his feet. Had the letter arrived five minutes later, it would have missed him entirely. He meant to be on the road to Little Westbury before the afternoon grew too dark. This time of year, darkness fell early.
He re-read it again, just to savour the news. Kuban had abolished the monarchy that had oppressed it for years. Their fight had not been in vain, their protests, even their exile had mattered. And of course, Ruslan was just the man to orchestrate such a feat. But the best news was that Ruslan had married, that his heart was whole. They would winter in Kuban, honeymooning in his family home on the river. Stepan smiled fondly at the thought. There would be ice skating and bonfires on the frozen river bank and snuggling beneath furs. In the spring, though, when they could travel, they would leave Kuban and make their way to France. Ruslan had it in his mind to become a vintner in Burgundy. He suspected there was a story behind Ruslan’s decision, but had no doubt Ruslan would be a success at whatever he chose.
He folded the letter up and put it carefully away in his pocket. Dimitri would want to read it. Stepan was already anticipating sitting by the fire in Dimitri’s study, their feet propped on the fender, the house quiet after everyone else had gone to bed, and watching Dimitri’s face as he read Ruslan’s news. More than that, Stepan was looking forward to going home to Little Westbury. After all, home was where the heart was, and his heart was there, such as it was.
* * * * *
If you enjoyed this story
check out the first two books in
the Russian Royals of Kuban miniseries
Compromised by the Prince’s Touch
Innocent in the Prince’s Bed
And look out for Stepan’s story,
the fourth and final book,
coming very soon!
Keep reading for an excerpt from Forbidden Night with the Prince by Michelle Willingham.
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Forbidden Night with the Prince
by Michelle Willingham
Chapter One
1175
Joan de Laurent was cursed.
Most folk believed she was foolish in such thoughts, but in her heart, she knew it was true. She had already been betrothed twice, and both men had died before they had wedded her. One had perished in battle while the second had fallen ill with the pox.
For some reason, God did not want her to be married. She was convinced of this, and moreover, any man who dared to seek her as his bride would draw his last breath before the wedding Mass was over. The people of Montbrooke believed it, too. Men crossed themselves whenever she walked by. The women avoided her, particularly those who were pregnant. Some of the children ran away from her, and had she not been the daughter of an earl, they might have accused her of witchcraft.
Joan had done everything in her power to prove them wrong. Ev
ery gown she owned was white, a symbol of her innocence. She wore an iron cross around her neck to keep away the fairies. Her dark hair remained veiled at all times, and she went to Mass every day.
But she could feel their stares burning into the back of her head. She heard the whispers and knew that their hearts had turned against her out of fear. No men wanted her, despite her father’s attempts to arrange a third betrothal. Why would they, when it meant a death sentence?
Joan had resigned herself to a life of prayer, one where she would never marry or conceive a child of her own. And that was the problem. She loved babies with all her heart. After her brother’s wife, Lianna, had given birth to a daughter, Joan had been overwhelmed by love for this beautiful girl. It was her secret that she desperately wanted to be a mother. The need burned within her in a fervent desire. She had been lonely for so long, shunned by everyone. She longed to fill the emptiness by cradling a beloved child against her breast, to rest her lips upon a soft head and feel that soul-deep love.
You are too old, her mind chided. Four-and-twenty was an age when most women had several children, whereas Joan was still a virgin. There was little hope of her ever marrying or bearing a child.
But her father had no intention of letting her serve the Church. Instead, he’d sought a betrothal with an older nobleman from Ireland. Her intended husband already had heirs, and Murdoch did not need children from her.
It should have been the perfect arrangement—and yet, she was afraid of this marriage. She didn’t want to see another man die, though the sensible side of her brain knew her fears were foolish. But no matter how many times she told herself it was only a coincidence that her previous bridegrooms had died, she couldn’t quite dispel the belief.
After weeks of travelling, they arrived in Ireland. Her father, Edward de Laurent, had sent her brothers, Warrick and Rhys, to accompany her and to witness the vows. Warrick had lands in Killalough, and he’d brought dozens of soldiers with him to protect his wife and children at his estate. Rhys had brought half a dozen of his own men to guard them on this journey.
Awakened by the Prince's Passion Page 23
