Golden Paradise (32 page)

"I'll never let you go," he quietly replied, the nature of his love less benevolent. It matched the strength he'd fashioned into his
destiny,
it matched the fear he'd lived with when he thought her indifferent. It spoke, too, of his confidence. The Commander of the Tsar's Cavalry had never suffered defeat. She was his. He was content, and more, he was whole again.

If he'd been asked he wouldn't have been able to answer why he'd abandoned his long-held beliefs so readily. He'd fought against loving her, against acknowledging he cared; he'd told himself his feelings were some aberrant temporary fascination. But he'd discovered his emotions wouldn't so obediently comply
to
his rationalization or yield to any objectivity.

"I have estimated the influence of Reason upon Love and found that it is like that of a raindrop upon the ocean," Hafiz had written.

And Stefan's own heart understood at last.

They played with teasing silliness that afternoon in his bed made of chased gold. It was large enough—having been cast originally for his Orbeliani great-great-grandfather, who had kept a harem of eight hundred concubines—for facetious games of pursuit. It was soft enough to engulf one in gossamer down and ostentatious enough, Lisaveta bantered, to support Stefan's reputation for exhibitionist play. Rumor had it he'd entertained multiple women in his splendid bed. He didn't deny or confirm the rumor; he only said, "You're my only love… you're my world."

He was gentle when he entered her sweet and heated body after the teasing play and romp; he was so gentle he scarcely breathed for fear of hurting her if she carried his child; he was so gentle she felt as though his body drifted over her, weightless. And the sensations built for both of them with
an intensity
so extravagant and extreme they were inebriated with combustible vaulting passion. He lay above her afterward and shuddered, eyes shut and breath held; Lisaveta trembled in sweat-sheened excess, every nerve ending wantonly exposed.

Their afternoon was heated and self-indulgent; it was the stuff dreams were made of, it was the enchantment troubadours embroidered in song.

And so unlike, Stefan said with a smile, his previous notions of prenuptial events.

Meanwhile, on the Palace Square where the Taneievs' princely abode faced the vista of Peter the Great's equestrian statue and the gilded domes of the Admiralty, Nadejda was saying, narrow-eyed and livid with anger, "He cannot be allowed to humiliate me here in Saint Petersburg. Don't make any excuses for him, Mama." She swung around in her pacing before the windows to face her mother, the bustle of her pink taffeta gown quivering at her sudden halt. "I won't have it! In Tiflis it didn't matter. Good God, that backwater scarcely has sufficient nobility to play two rubbers of bridge—but here!" Her face was contorted with indignation, her blond curls trembling, her jeweled fingers clenched into unladylike fists. "I will
not
be the laughingstock for his scandalous behavior!"

Her mother, seated calmly behind the tea service, opened her mouth to speak.

"And don't you dare mention his fortune," Nadejda irately exclaimed. "I don't care about his fortune!" One could see
how violent were her feelings
, for Nadejda had spent the better part of her engagement composing shopping lists against the time she would be Princess Bariatinsky.

While Irina wished her daughter satisfaction or perhaps revenge, she wished her a wealthy husband more… and a little better grasp on her temper. She was a practical woman who was also actively involved in her husband's financial speculations. "I was going to say," she patiently said, "your
father
is interested in his fortune.
And also in Bariatinsky's considerable influence in the progress of the war.
Papa is directly engaged, as you know, in the cannon contracts."

Irina couldn't go into any detail about those contracts because Nadejda wasn't completely capable of understanding their complexity, the several levels of corruption that had to be coordinated, nor would she have been trustworthy in keeping silent, had she known.

Vladimir Taneiev and Melikoff, along with several officials from the highest levels of government, were involved in the awarding of cannon contracts. Stefan's name as a future son-in-law added credibility to their consortium, as did General Bariatinsky's reputation for honesty.

In addition to the usual bribes required to secure contracts, Vladimir had a personal ancillary scheme to extort further sums of money from the manufacturers. He was soliciting sizable donations for General Bariatinsky's cavalry, as well. Stefan was known for spending his personal funds in outfitting his regiments and no one begrudged the extra sums requested. So Vladimir's very lucrative scheme required General Bariatinsky's presence in his family, at least until the war was over.

"I also don't care about
cannons,"
Nadejda petulantly retorted, shredding a potted fern frond between her fingers.

Her mother winced inwardly at her daughter's heresy and at the litter falling on the carpet. The plant stand would have to be turned to hide the mutilation, so she rang for a servant with an unobtrusive tug on the bellpull near her chair. Irina was a compulsively neat person who viewed life with an eye to advantage rather than subscribing to what she considered the fiction of emotion. Emotion was all very well and good for poetry or opera perhaps, but it interfered with sensible plans and practical goals. Nadejda was still very young so she couldn't be expected to understand the realities, and Irina's restraint was gentle. "You
must,
my dear, at least until the war is over."

Nadejda ripped one entire frond from the plant and tossed it to the floor. "Are you telling me," she said, bridling, "I must suffer his indignities?"

"Papa will explain to you, darling." She hoped the servant would come soon.

"I won't marry him unless he is brought to heel. I mean it, Mama! Find me some other rich man to marry." Nadejda's debutante season had been gratifying—ten proposals of marriage and a deluge of suitors. Her pale beauty was all the rage, a superficial although substantial consideration for Stefan along with her other suitors. He'd always favored blond females.

"Certainly, dear, but you must wait until after the war. Now come sit down and calm yourself—Papa will be home directly. I sent Peotr out to fetch him, and when he explains the need to endure Bariatinsky's scandalous behavior for a limited time yet, you'll do your part, I'm sure. And then after we talk to Papa, why don't we go shopping?" Irina's voice was soothing, the tone one would use with a child throwing a tantrum. "Brabant's has a new jeweler who's a magician. Wouldn't you like a necklace like Sophie's with strawberry blossoms, or perhaps some earrings for your new tangerine gown?"

Predictably, the lure of jewels was effective. Nadejda cast a thoughtful glance at her mother, who was patting the sofa cushion beside her, and after a small theatrical sigh crossed the Aubusson carpet.

"What do I get out of this, Mama, besides some new jewelry, since I must put on a good face in the storm of gossip you know will be horrendous?" She obediently seated herself beside her mother, but her expression was stormy.

"Let Papa tell you," her mother said, handing Nadejda a cup of tea with a composed smile. "I believe there's also a rather large sum of money involved should your engagement be broken…."

Her daughter smiled for the first time that day.
"How large?"

" I'm
not exactly certain.''

"Enough for a new sable cape?"

It was her mother's turn to smile. How naive one was at eighteen. "For several dozen I'd say," she replied. "The particulars in the marriage contract are quite specific."

They were more so than he recalled, Stefan discovered late that afternoon when he presented himself at the Taneiev palace; Vladimir had written in addenda to every exigency—all very expensive. And he only had himself to blame, for against his legal counsel he'd waved away every warning for protection. At the time of his betrothal, intent on the practical issue of marriage, Stefan had been unconcerned with defenses against a change of mind. His purpose, after having finally selected a bride, was to
marry
her… not renege.

Now today, although he hadn't anticipated ready compliance to his request for
a dissolution
of the engagement, he was appalled at the Byzantine complexities in the contract.

Vladimir's obduracy he'd expected.

And the unsubtle threats.

All of which he'd felt could be suitably managed with offers of money.

But his proposals to negotiate a settlement seemed to fall on deaf ears, and after the tenth refusal, he said in exasperation, "Why don't you tell me what it will take, Vladimir?" He was past diplomacy and restrained
courtesy,
he was beyond concerns for his poignant past or his uncertain future. He only wanted it finished and concluded at any cost. He was an extremely wealthy man. He wanted it over.

He wanted to marry Lisaveta because she had stolen his heart and he loved her.

Without her, the rose was
not fair nor
merry the Spring, he thought with rueful regard for the significance of Hafiz's words. At last he had come to understand his heart was in her hands.

And… he wanted his child to have his name. There was no time for a wedding later, not when he was returning to Kars… not when he didn't know—if he'd be coming back.

"What it will take is your honoring your engagement to my daughter," Vladimir flatly declared.

"You'll force me to go to the Tsar," Stefan countered, "if you persist in your obstinacy." Since he'd already tried money, the Tsar was his last threat, and he was not as confident as he sounded. While the Tsar
was
a close personal friend, his father had thought the same thing once. But Stefan knew he wasn't bluffing. He was in truth willing to put his career on the line for Lisaveta, something that even a month ago he would have found unthinkable.

Having had several hours previously to contemplate countermoves to Stefan's expected responses, Vladimir said blandly, his smooth and scented hands steepled near his chin, "If you go to the Tsar, I'll implicate you in the Sesta fodder scandal."

Half a division had been wiped out at Sesta when reinforcements had been unable to come to their aid because of foundering mounts. Five thousand cavalry horses had died from tainted feed that week and the Tsar had vowed to hang the perpetrators regardless of their rank or position. Alexander had taken a personal interest in the case, and three investigating teams had been sent out from Saint Petersburg to unearth the culprits."

"I have reports," Vladimir added, "I can release to the Tsar. Your name could very easily be inserted."

"He won't believe you."

"When I show him the correspondence in your hand, he'll be convinced, I assure you, my dear boy. And I have witnesses. Your disgrace would be complete." Witnesses could be bought, Stefan knew, and documents altered, and Vladimir had the advantage of the Tsar's fervent interest in determining culpability. The newspapers had been following the scandal for weeks; families of the dead soldiers were crying for revenge; the Tsar himself was offering a personal reward for information. It was a cause célèbre without a scapegoat, and Stefan suddenly felt all the nameless fears from the past suffocating him.
Disgrace.
The word he'd been fighting a lifetime to overcome.
Disgrace.
He took a steadying breath, grappling with the ungovernable flood of memories. The humiliation of hearing the whispers when one entered a room, and the never-forgotten sidelong glances, assessing and curious.
The occasional rudeness and disparagement.
The people who always compared him to his father first and seemed surprised when he wasn't an exact duplicate. He'd learned very young to hide any evidence of his feelings, learned to give nothing away in his demeanor or speech or temper.

He felt again at that moment as though those awful years of his father's disgrace were hurtling back, as though all his hard-won triumphs and successes had never occurred or were inconsequential against Vladimir's threat. He felt as if all the doors to the future were closing before him, all means of escape were disappearing from sight.

Vladimir had survived enough years in the bloody battlefield of court intrigue to recognize an expression of discomfiture. His voice was silky with malice when he spoke. "I
thought
you might reconsider, Prince Bariatinsky."

Stefan hesitated, feeling trapped, a rare, almost unprecedented sensation for a man who'd won all his battles because he'd never considered defeat. But the scars were deep when contemplating a repetition of his father's fall from grace. "I'll have to think about what you've said," Stefan carefully replied, wanting an opportunity to regroup and assess his options.

"When are you planning on returning to Kars?"

"Tomorrow."

"In that case you have till noon tomorrow to reach a decision. I'm sure you'll see the practicality of honoring your engagement to my daughter. Once the war is over, well, then—" Vladimir opened his palms expansively "—Nadejda can have her pick of eligible officers."

Stefan controlled his shock. Why hadn't Vladimir mentioned the time element before? Why not indeed? Stefan thought, surveying the corpulent figure opposite him. Because Vladimir preferred flaying a man alive if possible; he had a reputation for taking pleasure in torturing his victims, and had he mentioned the engagement could be regarded as temporary when their conversation began, he would have been deprived of Stefan's torment.