Golden Paradise (9 page)

"I eat anything," he said blandly. "Militza, you know that. Nadejda can keep her French chef by all means. When you've campaigned as long as I, you learn to eat anything." He was the perfect host, pleasant, affable,
ready
to step in and smooth over controversy. "Georgi, more wine for the ladies." His major-domo, who stood beside Stefan's chair, signaled for a footman.

"Oh, no," Nadejda refused, waving away the servant. "Mama says a lady never has more than two glasses." Her lavender
eyes,
cool as her disdain, cast a scornful glance at Aunt Militza, who'd been keeping up with Stefan's consumption over dinner.

"Your mother was from the north," Militza curtly said, her brows drawn together in nettled pique, "where all they drink is tea to keep warm. Leave the bottle," she added to the young footman filling her glass.

Stefan couldn't help but smile at Militza's snappish answer to Nadejda's prudery. It could be a battlefield of a dinner, he thought, managing to hide his grin behind his uplifted wineglass. When he raised his eyes a moment later as the glass touched his lips, his gaze met Lisaveta's, and immediately memories returned of the bottle of wine they'd shared one morning in an enormous wooden tub set out on a flower-bedecked terrace. The sun had been warm, and they warmer still, hot with need and tumultuous passion, and the wine, chilled in a nearby mountain stream, was ambrosia to senses already attuned to pleasure. They had made love endlessly and then much later laughed with silliness and frivolous intimacy, as if they were the only two people in the world. Tonight, he thought, he'd touch her again and kiss her and make her laugh and give to her the enormous pleasure she'd given him.

Lisaveta dropped her eyes first before his dark gaze, more concerned with appearances than he. Stefan never cared about comportment; in that he was his father's son. Only his betrothal to Princess Taneiev was an aberration in personality. No one on either branch of his family had ever been practical. There had been no need with their wealth and status, but then, none before him had seen their father die in slow degrees, consumed by drugs,
none
had seen their father die a broken man living in exile at the spas of Europe. So Stefan was going to be practical in the one facet that had been his father's downfall. He would have a wife beyond reproach; he would have children with a legal patrimony from birth.

"Do you like my wines?" he asked Lisaveta. "They say some of the Georgian sun is captured in each bottle." He spoke to her as though no one else existed at the table.

"It does warm one's senses," she replied, her smile enchanting. After several glasses of wine Lisaveta found herself relaxed and without rancor. In fact, after listening to Nadejda over dinner, she'd actually begun feeling sorry for Stefan. The young woman was devoid of amusement or charm, fastidious only of her position and the refined affectations of society. How dreary for Stefan, who loved to laugh.

"It reminds me," Lisaveta went on, holding her glass up to the light, its golden contents rich and sunshiny, "of a special wine from Tzinondali Papa and
I
once had. Papa called it Angelglow because one's blood turned warm."

"Those," Stefan said, smiling back, "are my vineyards."

"My
papa prefers French wines," Nadejda interjected. "He says only French wines are of superior quality and fit for the palate of a gentleman." She spoke to the table at large as though she were delivering news of importance. "The Emperor, you know, only drinks French champagne."

Stefan knew better—Tsar Alexander had a fondness for his vintages and they'd shared many bottles together over the years—but Nadejda's insipidity wasn't his concern. "I'm sure you're right," he said in a detached way, more interested at the moment in the beautiful flush on Countess Lazaroff's cheeks. Had her smile been as suggestive as her remark or was he imagining her response? His eyes took in her azure gown and the way Militza's pearls at her neck and ears set off her sun-kissed skin to perfection. Considering the haste required of the dressmaker in Aleksandropol, she'd done exceptionally well, and his glance drifted down to the provocative splendor of Lisaveta's breasts displayed so enticingly by the low-cut décolletage. Even her skin exuded warmth; it glowed like his wine with fragrant allure, and he could almost smell its heated perfume.

Shifting slightly in his chair to accommodate his arousal, he glanced at the clock.
Nine-thirty—four more courses to go.
A brief half hour, he hoped, in conversation in the drawing room, and then everyone could retire. He was impatient and restless. Lisaveta was near enough to reach over and touch, but he couldn't.
Because this stranger who was his fiancée had decided to spend several days in residence while her family visited the Viceroy in Tiflis.

Militza had to ask him twice whether Archduke Michael had returned to Saint Petersburg, and when she did finally gain his attention, his answer was brief. He didn't participate further in the conversation, and after all the discussion of his taste in food, he hardly ate, as though he were host by requirement but detached from the actual proceedings. Georgi, on an informal footing with his employer, coaxed him to try the sturgeon, which Stefan did to please him, but he wouldn't be cajoled to taste anything more until the sorbet—a lemon ice, Georgi reminded him, he'd favored since childhood.

He seemed very different here tonight, Lisaveta thought, a prince in his palace, familiar with deference, accustomed to being waited on, intent on his own interests, polite to his aunt with a genuine warmth but no more than civil to his fiancée, although he had every intention of spending the rest of his life with her. None of the casual intimacy she'd seen last week remained in his character; none of the animated banter or amused laughter she'd come to know was apparent. Not even a critical comment materialized to make him seem more human. And when Stefan rose directly after the lemon ice, she wasn't surprised.

"Forgive me, ladies," he said, excusing himself, "but I promised
Had
some time after dinner. Thank you all for a pleasant evening," he added, then bowed politely and left the table.

As the door closed behind him, Militza said, "He was bored."

"Stefan isn't one for conversation," Nadejda retorted, as if she were the expert on Prince Stefan Bariatinsky after a week's acquaintance.

Poor child, Lisaveta thought, remembering their heated conversations on subjects as esoteric as Kurdish shaman mythology or as trivial as the state of dressmaking in Aleksandropol. She'd found Stefan a charming conversationalist, but if today was any indication of his attachment to Nadejda, he'd treat his wife abominably. She felt a sudden sympathy for the Princess Taneiev.

"If you don't mind," Nadejda declared, addressing Militza in a tone that suggested she didn't care if she minded or not, "I'd like to take charge of the dinner for my
parents
tomorrow night. Papa will
not
eat this—" her pouty lips curled upward in reproof "—native fare. I'll have a chef brought over from the Viceroy's palace."

Lisaveta's sympathy instantly evaporated at Nadejda's insufferable tone and priggish demand. Stefan might not deal with his future wife affectionately, she reflected, but his wishes in turn weren't of the slightest interest to her. Their bargain for a marriage of convenience apparently was equally made. Princess Taneiev didn't love Stefan, it was obvious. She didn't look at him with affection or longing. She seemed immune to his sensuality—a startling revelation to Lisaveta, who found his attraction so powerful it outweighed all perceptible logic. But Nadejda was very young and perhaps simply unawakened. Or more likely, as her prudish comments on a variety of subjects denoted, she was very much attached to her mother's primly artificial views on life. She would probably find the concept of love too emotional. Mama no doubt would have a homily to that effect.

A shame when Stefan was so very easy to love.

A shame, she thought with a flashing spontaneity of feeling, when she could love him so very much.

"Bring over the entire staff if you wish, my dear," Aunt Militza replied, her voice suspiciously warm. "Stefan won't mind at all," she added with an innocence that was entirely out of character.

"Very good," Nadejda replied in a tone one would use to a servant. "And if you have other plans, I'm sure we won't need you in attendance tomorrow night." It was a blatantly rude dismissal. Nadejda was extremely self-centered, a personality trait humored by her parents, who had allowed her whims in every instance save those that might interfere with theirs. She had been pampered, spoiled in a small-girl way and schooled in the normal studies considered proper for refined young ladies, which meant that she was, in effect, uneducated. Her world was luxurious but narrow, and she considered her wishes preeminent because no one had to date disabused her of that notion. Stefan had a tendency, it seemed, to be abrupt and caustic, if today was any indication, she decided, but Mama had warned her of men's moodiness and told her it was best to ignore or simply smile it away and then later…do as you wished. She thought Mama's advice quite sensible, and certainly everyone agreed her smile was radiant. She used it on Militza.

"I did have plans for bridge," Militza said, her meekness so unusual anyone with half a brain would have been instantly alert.

"Well, that's settled then," Nadejda said
,
pleased Stefan's aunt was eliminated from her family party. She had tried to like her but found Militza had very little conversation; she couldn't talk about fashion or the latest gossip from Saint Petersburg. She read, it seemed, and helped train Stefan's polo ponies and actually oversaw the farms and vineyards on Stefan's estates. Nadejda found her odd, and thought Mama and Papa would prefer an intimate evening alone with Stefan.

"If there's anything you need…" Militza offered.

"No, thank you, I'm sure the Viceroy's
staff
is adequate, and since tomorrow will be an enormously busy day," Nadejda said, rising, "I'll retire early. Have the carriage brought round at nine and I'll drive to the Viceroy's to gather the necessary servants." She could have been addressing her housekeeper. But then Nadejda viewed herself as a superior young woman from a superior family, and while the Orbelianis might be wealthy, they were, after all, not Russians but Georgians. She found it very satisfying that Stefan on his father's side was related to the Tsar.

"Pleasant dreams, my dear," Militza responded, her expression wreathed in smiles. "I'll see to the carriage." When Nadejda swept from the room in a froth of lavender crepe, Militza leaned back in her chair, motioned to have her wineglass refilled, took it from Georgi with a complacent sigh and said, "Thank you, Georgi, we won't be needing you any longer. Tell the staff to retire. All this will wait until morning." She indicated the table with a small gesture.

Leaving the bottle within reach, Georgi stood for a moment at her side. He was a middle-aged man with the dark coloring of the region and a pleasant manner. "The Prince seemed—" He searched for the word, obviously used to discussing Stefan with Militza.

"Bored, Georgi, there's no polite way to say it. Princess Taneiev is dismally boring and deplorably stupid. He's going to hate himself a week after the wedding."

Too courteous to denigrate a female, Georgi mentioned instead, "The Prince won't want to see the Viceroy's staff, Princess. Why did you allow her license?"

"Because he'll be furious, Georgi, that's why." Militza's dark eyes, very much like Stefan's, gleamed with glee.

Georgi
beamed,
an instant co-conspirator. "Ah…of course, and our staff is dismissed then for the day."

"We wouldn't want you 'natives' to get in the way of those frogs from the Viceroy's, Georgi. Everyone has the day off." Sheer unmitigated cheer resounded in Militza's voice.

His bow was sweepingly dramatic, indicative of his own agreement to Militza's plan. "Thank you, Your Excellency." Turning to Lisaveta he inquired politely, "Would you care for more wine, Countess, before I leave, or perhaps a sweet?"

"No, thank you," Lisaveta replied, intrigued by the extent servant and mistress felt they could interfere in Stefan's life, "although Stefan's wines are exceptional."

"We think so," Georgi returned. His family had been personal servants to the Orbelianis centuries before Georgia was annexed to the Russian Empire. The vineyards, he felt, were as much a part of his family as Stefan's. In fact, his brother was head vintner for Stefan.

"A shame Nadejda's family drink only French wines," Militza said very softly.

Directing his attention back to his mistress, Georgi said in an equally soft voice, "She won't do."

"Exactly."

"If you need anything, Excellency, the
staff
is at your disposal." His tone was moderate, but aware of the warrior code so prevalent in this area of the
country,
Lisaveta wondered precisely what "anything" implied.

"We'll begin by clearing the palace," Militza briskly said. "Please have everyone out by morning. Stefan should appreciate that interference from his fiancée."

"Excellent idea, Princess."
Georgi reminded her, grinning from ear to ear.

"I know," Militza winked. "Have a pleasant holiday."

"Won't he be angry with you?" Lisaveta asked as soon as Georgi left. She was unfamiliar with palace intrigue, her own tranquil life with her father insufficient education for the subtleties of manipulating people. As an only child with her father alone for company, Lisaveta was unaccustomed to the machinations of society.
"'What if Stefan discovers what you've done?"