Golden Paradise (35 page)

"If it came to a choice, I would." His statement was without subterfuge or arrogance. No longer
the commander of the Tsar's cavalry or his father's son, Stefan was
only a man in love, a man who'd discovered happiness after years of dismissing the concept as poetic license. "So…" He covered her small hands with his. "Will you mind a very precipitous wedding tonight?"

"Tonight?"
Her squeal was spontaneous feminine surprise, the kind reflecting wholly practical considerations like dresses, flowers, family and guests, all the ritual every young girl dreams of as fairy-tale magic.

"We leave in the morning." Stefan's voice was tolerant male but wholly practical, too. He had a war to fight, and dresses and flowers and family hadn't even remotely crossed his mind.

"In the morning?"

"Am I speaking in some unintelligible language?" he amusedly asked.

"Maybe we shouldn't," Lisaveta abruptly replied.

"Don't even start," Stefan said. "I sold my soul."

"That's what I mean," she protested. "I don't want you to sell your soul." She pulled her hands free. "Maybe you'll be sorry in a week or a year… maybe Vladimir will change the Tsar's mind and then you'll hate me for ruining your life. Maybe—"

"God, Lise, stop being noble."

"I'm not being
noble,
I just don't want to hurt you. I don't want you to decide later our marriage was too hasty." The petulant moue she made signified her uncertainty and disquietude.

"I could always divorce you—" Stefan's grin was playful "—if that happened. Boris divorced his wife one weekend when he was out shooting with the Tsar. Alexander signed the special decree and Helene discovered her new status on Monday."

"Well, I could divorce you, too," Lisaveta immediately retorted, her sense of outrage aggravated by his teasing male arrogance and the ease with which he could expedite a divorce if he wished.

"So there. We're perfectly matched. Why not take a chance?" His casual words were disconcerting and reminiscent of the transience of his affairs and, after his last remark about divorce, not precisely the tone conducive to a romantic concept of marriage. She could feel her heart pounding at the nonchalance of his remarks, alarmed he might in truth view this marriage as an indulgent whim. She wanted her deep love returned in kind, and resentment prompted her reply. "I don't wish to marry someone as a speculative venture."

She looked very young in white eyelet and tumbled curls and a petulant scowl, and Stefan thought that although in many ways she was learned beyond her years, she was also ingenuous and unsophisticated in feminine wiles. There wasn't a woman of his acquaintance who would have risked refusing his proposal.

"Look, darling," he said with a winning smile, conscious of her pursed lips and high color as well as the temper in her remark, treading lightly because he was never absolutely sure of her response, "I'm leaving in the morning. I don't want to but I must, and while I prefer not pulling rank on you and I love and adore you in all your moods, you needn't be fearful or noble or testy about our marriage. I'll never divorce you, I swear. I was teasing. So just humor me and say, 'Tonight would be perfect for our wedding,' and I'll have the palace staff do their damnedest to follow every little order you wish to give
and
we'll live happily ever after till the end of time, my word on it,
dushka."
And his smile not only touched her heart with its boyish winsomeness but made her feel guilty for her temper.

"I don't have a wedding dress," she said in a very small voice.

"Oh, Lord," he said softly, "is that what this is all about?"

"No, it isn't," she hotly retorted. Instantly she chastised herself for another overheated response, and with a faint sigh that encompassed the impossibility of putting all the normal wedding preparations into the minutes allotted her, she added, "It's about… everything."

"Everything?"
Reaching up to ruffle the curls at her temple, he cordially inquired, "Do I have time for a definition of 'everything'?"

"You're not very romantic." Her expression was that of a pouty small girl and utterly delightful.

He smiled, apologizing, promising to be romantic, this man who had always scoffed at the notion, then pulling her into his arms, he held her tight, thinking himself the luckiest man alive. Not only did he love beyond the mountains of the moon but he'd never be bored.

Her plaintive "ouch" brought him out of his cheerful reverie.

"Your embroidery," she softly reproved, the sheer eyelet of her nightgown no barrier to bristly metallic thread.

Pulling his shirt out of his trousers, Stefan undid the buttons at his neck and tugged his shirt over his head in one swift movement. The dark China silk fell in fluttering folds to the floor. "So fill me in," he said, drawing her back against his chest, "on 'everything,' and we'll have the staff take care of it."

"How much time do I have?" Lisaveta asked, looking up at him. "Does that sound impossibly pragmatic?" she went on in a tentative voice,
then
answered her own question in the next breath. "Well, maybe it does, but I've always dreamed girlish dreams of frothy gowns and flowers and priestly choirs and candles and music… and true love."

Stefan touched the fullness of her bottom lip lightly with one finger and said with a quiet intensity, "You have true love,
dushka,
and you can also have all your girlish dreams. And there's nothing wrong with being pragmatic… it's your wedding." His smile was indulgent. "Is two hours enough?" It was a man's question and he thought a reasonable one.

"Two
hours!"
she wailed.

He could see their concepts of reasonable differed. "Four hours then, how about that?" he generously offered. "But anything after eleven o'clock, I draw the line." He shrugged and gently reminded her, "The Turks won't wait."

"We'll have to tell Nikki and Alisa," she said, capitulating.

"I already told them on the way home."

"Some men are terribly sure of themselves." Her fine brows lifted in teasing rebuke.

He grinned. "Years of practice."

"I can still change my mind," Lisaveta
warned,
her golden eyes bright with laughter. "No, you can't."

"Why can't I, pray tell? I'm not
obliged
to marry you." Her glance was mischievous.

Your cousin Nikki may disagree with you there, Stefan thought, but said instead, "All the guests will be disappointed."

"
All
the guests?" she said in a very tiny voice.

"And the Tsar."

"The
Tsar?
" she whispered.

"The chapel candelabra are being polished even as we speak." His expression was amused.

"What if I'd said no?"

"You already said yes."

"I could have changed my mind," she said in a feminine way that over the centuries had been bred into every female on earth—the art of being contrary on principle.

"Well, then I'd have to change it back. I'm good at that." His dark eyes were suddenly as suggestive as his voice, and she was momentarily reminded of his… competence.

"How many guests are invited?" she asked with a studied casualness, aware he was correct in his assurance and wondering in the next beat of her heart how many of his former lovers, how many recipients of his "competence," would be in attendance.

"I think the chapel holds three hundred."

"How many are women?" There. She'd said it. It would have been impossible to be subtle, so her blunt question conveyed the full extent of her concern.

"Just wives of friends," he carefully replied. "I didn't count." Did she really think he was that insensitive?

"I'm jealous," she candidly said.

"So am I. None of your gallants were invited." His voice was gruff.

She smiled at his vigilance. "We agree then."

"I hope so.
I
wasn't dancing with every man in Saint Petersburg."

"I thought you were probably doing something much less innocent wherever you were."

"Well, I wasn't," he huffily said, as if after years of dalliance she should have intuitively realized he was being celibate across two thousand miles of Russia.

"I adore your jealousy." Lisaveta soothed the crease between his black brows.

"Humpf," he
muttered,
all his territorial feelings too new to fully assimilate.

Reaching up, she kissed him in selfish gratitude and miraculous wonder, her heart so full of love she wanted to laugh and cry and shout her happiness to the world. And when one small tear spilled over her eyelid and trailed down her cheek, Stefan followed it with kisses, his breath warm on her cheek.

"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.