Royal Renegade (25 page)

A choking noise behind her told Tatiana that the sharp-eared Lord Wellesley, at least, knew what she meant. But for the benefit of the less informed listeners, she added artlessly, "Catherine the Great—Alexander's grandmother—wasn't known for fidelity, you know. In fact, her husband, Tsar Peter III, never admitted paternity of her son. Oh, don't you know that? It's common knowledge in Petersburg."

The Prince Regent's mind worked so slowly that Tatiana could predict its every step. So she was ready with an answer when he said, "Then Alexander is a bastard?"

"Oh, no, Alexander is legitimate enough." As the prince shrugged his disappointment, she went on sweetly, "It's his father who was a bastard. But we Russians don't make much of the lapse of the Romanov bloodline. After all, Catherine the Great was just a German princess before she ousted her husband and became Empress of All the Russias. And she, at least, really is Alexander's ancestor."

"But Peter the Great is not?" Fallenwood prompted. "He is your ancestor, however?"

"Well, yes, on both sides," Tatiana said modestly. She speared a piece of melon with her fork, marveling at the extravagance of fresh fruit in December. The Winter Palace never offered such luxuries, even in summer. She risked a glance at Michael, wondering if he liked melon, and found him studying his untouched fruit, his hard mouth relaxed just a bit as he listened to her scandalous speech.

An impatient movement from Fallenwood recalled her. "Oh, yes. Both sides. Mother was the great-granddaughter of Peter the Great's half sister. And my father, of course, was in the direct line. His paternal grandmother was Peter's daughter."

"His daughter?" Fallenwood's lips moved in silent calculation. "Then—then why wasn't he in the succession?"

Tatiana sighed dramatically, raising her gold fork like a baton. "Great-grandmother Katerina, I fear, was born on the wrong side of the blanket. Peter acknowledged her, of course, and created her a duchess. But a true blood connection outside wedlock is not as cherished as a bastard born within wedlock."

She had lost Fallenwood, she thought with small dismay. He leaned back a bit, as if an indiscretion four generations old was enough to make her suspect. "He only made her a duchess?" he asked, shrugging one bulky shoulder.

Insulted on behalf of her ancestress, Tatiana shot back sweetly, "Oh, Your Grace, you mustn't think that `duke' and 'duchess' are trivial titles in Russia, though they might be in England." This earned her an outraged snort from Fallenwood, a soft "
touche
" from the count, and one of those lovely reluctant smiles from Michael. "Daughters of the tsar are always named grand duchesses. It's only those of us farther down the line who are termed princess. Russia is so promiscuous—I mean, generous—with that title. I imagine if I were to count it up, I would be princess three or four times over. At any rate, Katerina eventually traded in duchess for the title of queen, which served her well enough."

"Queen?" Fallenwood said in a strangled voice, his finger going to ease the restriction of his neckcloth. "You mean your great-grandfather was a king?"

Now that he was duly impressed, Tatiana regarded the duke benevolently. But regally, she made him wait for her reply as she dipped her soup spoon into her shrimp bisque and let the liquid dribble back into the bowl. "My grandfather also. They were Kings of Saraya Kalin. Oh, don't bother to look for it on a map, for it doesn't exist anymore." She sighed gustily for her lost homeland, which she had never seen and seldom missed. "It was a poor sort of kingdom, anyway, only forty thousand subjects, not enough to support a king. Royal families are so expensive—" A glance at the regent suggested she might do best to avoid any further explication of the expense of maintaining royalty. "So Grandfather sold the kingdom to Catherine the Great."

"You can sell a kingdom?" Far from taking offense, Prinny turned toward her, his eyes lighting up in anticipation of a new solution to his debt crisis.

"It was either that or be taken by force. Catherine was so ruthless. She was set to invade, although the queen was her own first cousin. So King Denis sold out for a little cash and an apartment in the Winter Palace and a place on the Council of Advisors." She touched her emerald necklace possessively. We got to keep the crown jewels, but that was all."

"So by blood right, you are—" Fallenwood's voice became hushed. "Queen of Saraya Kalin."

Tatiana couldn't keep from laughing aloud at the absurdity of it. "Oh, famous! Well, I suppose I am, for my father had no siblings. And we did not follow Salic Law, so daughters could inherit. But a paltry prize it would be—the place doesn't exist anymore. It's been entirely absorbed into Russia. And I know I should make a lamentable queen." She paused to straighten her tiara, tilted to one side of the knot of red curls. "You see, crowns always trumble right off my head!"

She stole a glance at Michael, sure that he would laugh also. But he was finally looking away from her, his jaw set, and painfully she realized that the thought of Queen Tatiana did not amuse him. It was just another reminder of the difference in their stations

But the count had a full measure of Bourbon superiority and felt not the slightest intimidated. "And you are a first cousin, aren't you, of our poor Queen Marie Antoinette?"

"Twice removed," she answered distractedly, wishing Michael had been sitting at another table so he wouldn't have heard her silly recital. But it made no difference, after all. Better to acknowledge now that they had no future together, that their dreams were only that—dreams. Reality was all this talk of bloodlines and kings and tsars and alliances formed through family relationship. Reality was Napoleon and his relentless ambition. Reality was this genial prince and his plans for her and his ungenial brother.

Her breath caught in her throat and then closed it off entirely. Her eyes stung, but she couldn't let the tears fall. So she squared her shoulders and managed a glittering smile as she turned to Fallenwood.

The duke halted in the middle of a sentence, his mouth open. Finally he was able to finish his boast. "And the Fabares, of course, are descendents of William the Conqueror."

Weary of all this pride in lineage which had brought so much grief to the world, Tatiana replied with an air of faint disappointment, "Oh, that was very long ago, wasn't it?"

While the duke sat stunned at this dismissal of his exalted breeding and the count laughed behind his napkin, Tatiana turned to the prince and his favorite subject. "Oh, cousin, I have so admired all your artworks. Such a rich display! It must have been hard to assemble such a collection during wartime!"

The regent expanded under her attention, granting that Napoleon's rapacity had depleted the available store of art treasures. "But I have sources, you know," he declared, tapping his finger wisely on the side of his nose.

His words struck a chord of memory. "I know a sm- an art dealer who is dedicated to the same great mission."

"What mission is that?" the prince asked, bewildered, for he hadn't ever seen himself as a missionary of any sort.

Tatiana's mind went blank. How had Captain Dryden justified his criminal activities? Michael was rubbing his jaw, knowing what she was about, refusing to prompt her. "Ah, he—he—he is saving the cultural heritage of Europe from the barbarity of the French!" she finished triumphantly.

A gasp from across the table made her add hastily, "I mean from Bonaparte, who is Corsican, of course, not French in the least. But he specializes in saving the glories of the ancient world."

“He does?" The prince waved away the footman who had come to remove their salmon in green sauce. "Do you think he could find me a small statue of Diana the Huntress for my Game Room? No, tell me his name, why don't you, and I'll ask him myself."

"John Dryden." Tatiana did not flinch when she heard the strangled cry behind her, or even when a pair of footmen ran over to pound on poor Lord Wellesley's back.

And the regent took no notice of the imminent choking death of his foreign secretary. "Dryden, John Dryden. Now where have I heard that name before?"

"Dryden was an English poet," Tatiana interposed helpfully.

"A poet and an art dealer? What an intriguing man!"

Only Tatiana, perhaps, heard Michael's smothered laugh, but warmth crept into her. She could still make him laugh, at least, as no one else could ever do.

"You must give me this Dryden's direction. I am longing to meet him." The prince took her hand and squeezed it, smiling at her fondly and calling her his dear little cousin until she could hardly bear it.

Once she had amused Michael, half-choked Wellesley, pleased the prince, and secured a royal commission for Captain Dryden, all in one fell swoop, Tatiana found the rest of the dinner anticlimactic. Remove followed remove, crown of lamb followed pheasant under glass, fresh asparagus followed sweet new peas. Tatiana touched none of it, except to stick her fork in each dish and swirl it around in a pretense of appetite. Finally the sweets were brought round, and then Lady Hertford rose and suggested that the ladies leave the gentlemen to their cigars.

Tatiana cast one last glance at Michael, but that was enough. He was watching the slow transit of her circlet of sleeve as it slipped off her shoulder again. When he looked up, she saw the naked longing in his eyes. But then he tilted his head to the left in an unmistakable suggestion. She trailed after the prince's mistress on legs weakened by her guilty anticipation.

Those legs were strong enough, however, when she made the usual excuse and quitted the Blue Velvet Room. Slipping past impassive footmen, sweeping through the doors they opened, she found her way through endless corridors to a hall on the south side of the Circular Dining Room.

She had stopped breathless, leaning against a large statue of an archer when she heard "Tatiana." Michael came to her, impeccable, unreachable in his blue uniform. But his eyes were dark with emotion restrained. They had not been alone for nearly a week, and she found she could not speak. She could not even muster up her usual cheerful chatter about the events of her life; she only stood there, trembling a bit from her run, waiting for him to speak.

Michael slowly stripped off his white glove, then, with his bare hand, tugged her sleeve back up to its proper place on her shoulder. "That's been driving me mad all evening. Ridiculous excuse for a sleeve." His fingertips lingered for a moment on her gold-tinted shoulder, the roughness sending a signal of fire through her, leaving only ashes and heat in its trail.

Distracted, her eyes on that gold medal, she observed, "I've never seen you in uniform before. You look very military."

"That's rather the point, isn't it?" His mouth quirked up in a rueful smile. "You have been flirting with social ruin, haven't you? And yet, despite your efforts, you are a roaring success."

"Are you surprised?"

"Only dismayed. If you ruined yourself—" He reached out to test the archer's marble bow, frowning as he ran his fingers along the frail length of string. "You never told me your lineage was tainted by illegitimacy."

She managed a fair imitation of her usual teasing smile. "Are you very shocked? Fallenwood was taken aback, I think. I should have reminded him that his precious William the Conqueror was just as much a bastard as my great-grandmother."

"Your grandfather the king redeemed you." He turned back to her, his head tilted to the side, and drew a ragged breath. "Tatiana, I can't bear this, seeing you. So don't look for me. I'll be in town for another fortnight. If you need me, send a note by my house. Fifteen Cavendish Square."

She shook her head blindly, bewildered, hurt, her hand straying unconsciously to the gold braid on the front of his jacket. If she needed him—"But you're saying you won't be here."

"I will, if you send for me." He caught her chin up so that she had to gaze into those cloudy eyes. There was a promise there, but she didn't know what it meant, or what it demanded in return.

He glanced over his shoulder, alert to a sound she could not hear. "Someone is coming." Quickly he turned her hand and kissed the softness of her inner arm, just where the glove left off. The skin reddened under his caress, and she rubbed at the burn as he vanished around the corner.

The countess cried, "Princess! I've been looking for you everywhere! The royal duke—"

Tatiana balanced herself with one hand on the marble statue and let her breath escape silently. "I'm afraid I got lost coming back from the withdrawing room. So many doorways and mirrors! I'm very glad you found me, for I was so disoriented. Would it be too bad if we left soon?"

The countess regarded her flushed face suspiciously. Then her eyes flickered to the corner where Devlyn had turned. An agonizing moment passed before the countess nodded coldly. "The prince prefers early nights, as a matter of fact. He was just hinting that he wanted to seek his bed soon. But no one can leave before the guest of honor, so I would suggest, Your Highness, that you return with me immediately."

Within minutes they were making their farewells. As Tatiana nodded and smiled and made her way from the Blue Velvet Room, she was aware only that Michael, true to his word, was not there to see her off.

Chapter Fifteen

Michael continued true to his word. Tatiana saw nothing of him the next week, though at every social occasion her eyes never left off their restless search for his lean figure in the dashing cavalry uniform. "I can't bear this, seeing you," he'd said in that heartbreaking whisper. He might just have well have said, "I love you, and be damned to you," for all the joy and anguish that farewell gave her. Farewell.

That was what it was, a farewell. He was forever kissing her and then pushing her away, seducing her and resisting her. But this time he had made it clear enough. Whatever he felt—whatever they felt—it was two painful, too tangled, too impossible to be borne.

Caution, she warned herself again as she made her way through yet another receiving line. This one was at Blessington House, one of the immense town palaces built during the raucous Restoration era. When she retrieved her hand from the lascivious Lord Blessington's grasp, Tatiana looked out over a sea of faces, looking back at her with anticipation. It was a tribute to her success that so capacious a ballroom was swarming even in this first week of December, when men of sporting disposition were used to be foxhunting in the shires. Now the men had other sport in mind, for the whole country had heard about the Russian princess with her scandalous tongue and her unspecified but presumably exalted future.