Several hours later Alex arrived home, three parts drunk and feeling the martyr. Christ, he'd turned down women all night long. It was unnatural.
Entering the bedroom with less grace than usual, he caught his spurred boots on the dressing table skirt, knocked over a chair, and bruised his shin. Cursing loudly and fluently served to assuage the pain but served as well to waken his wife.
"What time is it?" Zena murmured, still half asleep.
"Lord, how do I know. It's so damn dark in here I just about killed myself." Fumbling with a match, he lit one of the wall lamps. Electricity by choice had not reached the dacha at Podolsk.
"If you weren't so drunk you wouldn't fall over the furniture," Zena chastised as the heavy liquor fumes quaffed their way across the room.
"I'm not drunk. I never get drunk!" The bottles of champagne seemed to have had little effect on him. Alex was steady enough, but there was that glitter in his eyes that betrayed the extent of his drinking.
"Don't yell," Zena said.
"I'm not yelling! This isn't yelling!" he yelled.
A pungent odor of musk and roses entered Zena's nostrils as Alex drew near. "Since when did your bachelor friends take to wearing musk and attar of roses?"
"May I recommend, madame, that you refrain from upbraiding me; I can't vouch for my temper at the moment," Alex said with dangerous quiet. "There's that tone," Zena said.
"What tone now? What tone?" he sneered, thinking to himself this catechism was intolerable and incredible.
" That one, the one that puts the little wife in her place, the condescending velvet-gloved threat. You know what you can do with your threats and your condescension and the little piece that left the reek of perfume on you." Zena stared at the lip rouge on his neck. "I hope you enjoyed your tumble with the tart," she spat. "If you'd try as hard to be pleasant with your wife as you obviously did with that female tonight, perhaps we'd get along better. In the future I'd appreciate a little more discretion with your hussies. Stay overnight in town if you must."
"Oh no, madame," he said softly as he stalked to the bed, "no more musts. Must marry. Must become a father. Must rusticate as a docile husband at your grandfather's pleasure." The last accusation was not wholly true, and he knew it, but the rest were true and galling. "But no one says must to me on how I go to the devil, least of all a wife!"
"It's quite plain you've been going to the devil with no added urging from me," Zena said sweetly.
"Please, madame," he said, each word dripping with acid, "spare me any more of your damned insolence."
"And who was it tonight?" Zena purred hatefully, despising his arrogance. "Amalie's back in St. Petersburg; perhaps some ballet dancer or pliant gypsy."
"Listen, you bitch," he exploded, "don't tell me I haven't been doing my damnedest. I turned down the sweetest beauty tonight, and all I got for my pain was god-awful teasing from my friends and abuse from my wife. I'm sorry now I turned her down; for all the appreciation, I might as well have mounted the wench and enjoyed myself."
"Yes, that's all you men think of, enjoying yourself with some woman," Zena cried.
"All you women think about is ensnaring some man into the marriage trap. I've seen it all a thousand times, all the debutantes languishing after my title and fortune. God! I spent years watching the parade of hussies looking for husbands, their sole concern splendor and position. All the lures, enticements, beautiful clothes, soft curls, exposed bosoms—all bait until the trap snaps shut."
Prince Alexander Kuzan had known so many artful, wanton women and evaded so many carefully baited traps over the years that his perception of sincere, true innocence was distorted.
"I hope you're satisfied. You got what you were after. I married you. But you aren't going to get my goddamn soul, because that's not in the contract. You've got me. Isn't that what you were pursuing from the first coy approach on the Dolgorouky stairs. Very clever of you, and I fell for all the innocence, damn fool that I was. Merde, you women are all the same—a soft, compliant exterior, all passiveness and softness masking a core as ruthless and determined as a striking cobra."
"You arrogant bastard! So I entrapped you! Who the hell forced me during that train ride to Moscow when I pleaded and begged you to stop. You've a convenient memory, you son of a bitch. Maybe all the other women you knew were scheming to trap you in marriage, but let me assure you, my conceited, insolent stud, that I wasn't one of them. You're insufferable. You think you can have any woman you want at the snap of a finger."
"But, madame, I can," he said simply.
Zena snorted disgust at his arrogance. "Nevertheless, you were the one who pursued me into the mountains, if you remember," she said crisply.
"But not, I think you know full well, with the intention of matrimony," retorted the prince ignobly.
"I didn't propose to you, if you recall."
"Nor I to you. If my memory serves me, for some fiendish Tartar had beaten me almost senseless. I believe I proposed to your grandfather," he rejoined coolly.
"That was none of my doing."
"However, you acquiesced to the plan."
"They wouldn't have listened if I had protested."
"A flimsy excuse, I'd say. Did you even try?" he demanded.
"Damn you! You don't know what it's like to be a woman in a man's world!" Zena cried indignantly.
"I do know what it's like to be bludgeoned bloody as a seducer, though," Alex raged.
"But you're not six months pregnant with a child now, are you?"
"No, I'm not, but if I hadn't offered to marry you I'd be dead now, madame," he spat.
"You don't care at all about me, do you?" There was no mistaking the agony in her voice.
"Frankly, my dear, not at the moment."
Across the short distance they challenged each other. Blue eyes flashed hot while the gold eyes remained cold. All the repressed discontent of the past months hung in the air patently real. All pretense and sham fell away— they were antagonists.
"I'm leaving then, damn you!"
"And where does madame propose to go this time?" inquired Alex with a studied politeness. "Good God," he growled, "don't start that again. The last time you left it cost me a fortune and the inconvenience of a couple of broken ribs. I warned you. You knew you were tying yourself to a scoundrel. Grow up, for Christ's sake. Do you think most marriages are any different from ours? Those made in heaven, my dear child, are only found in romantic fiction. The ones of this world are quite a different matter, let me assure you. You can't run away every time things don't go quite right."
"Quite right?" Zena laughed bitterly. "I'd say this particular instance is a shade more serious than that," she snapped. "Is there anything right?"
Alex threw back his head and laughed. His lip curled mockingly. "Ah, the romantic female soul forever seeking perfection." His eyes narrowed savagely. "Count your blessings, pet," he sneered. "You've a roof over your head, and console yourself that you're free from the gropings of that lecherous old slug, General Scobloff."
"I can't say I find your gropings any easier to stomach."
Fifty generations of pride stiffened Alex's spine. His eyes were cold as ice as he glared at her. "Be assured, madame," he said in a chill murmur, "you need never suffer them again."
He strode to the door, paused with one hand on the crystal handle, and said, "I'll be at the club in Moscow for a few days." Then his voice softened. "Say goodbye to Bobby for me, and tell him I'll bring him back a new toy."
Alex acknowledged with a vague awareness that all these unresolved problems of their marriage were aggravated in part by himself. While aware of this view, he totally rejected the reasonable logic.
Quietly, her head held proudly, Zena watched Alex walk away.
The door shut with a soft click, and he was gone.
5
Zena collapsed on the pillow. All her worst fears were realized. She lay there filled with terror and sick at heart. It had finally been verbalized. For months she had hoped
that Alex would love her. She had dreamed that underneath the apparent indifference he really cared.
Well, that cloud castle had come tumbling down. There was no more deceiving herself. Alex intended to live a marriage of convenience, had never envisioned anything more. She'd been the stupid one, weaving preposterous fancies of undying love, of mutual need and caring. Alex had gone into this marriage with both eyes mercilessly open. She was the only fool.
What to do now? Does one accept the status of a marriage of convenience, of figurehead wife and mother? Does the future hold only endless tomorrows of being a docile puppet, a dim, placid wife of convenience who appears ar her husband's side at social functions?
It may work for other people, this marriage of convenience. It may even work for most other people. She didn't care if it worked for all people. Her independent mind rebelled at the eviscerated image of a ttactable wife in a marriage of convenience. She refused to stay as an unwanted appendage to Alex's life, a nuisance to be tolerated, perhaps even hated.
She may not be happy wherever she went, but she couldn't be any more unhappy than in Alex's life when he
clearly didn't want her. If she stayed, she would have to submit to the daily torment of never being able to really touch him.
If she didn't care, it would be easy. She could take her own lovers and lead as dissipated a life as her husband. They could greet each other briefly as they passed in the halls and to and from their rendezvous. Somehow she couldn't see Sasha allowing her that freedom, though; he had such a ruthless proprietary streak. But she didn't want other lovers; she wanted only Sasha. It was her misfortune to love him. If she didn't care, she could stay and endure the cold eternity of a marriage of convenience, but unfortunately she cared passionately. She would have to leave.
The next morning Ivan took charge of the departure. Zena told him simply that she and Bobby were going on a visit to her grandfather's. Servants' gossip had already spread, for Alex's thundering voice had carried well in the early morning hours, and a groom had had to saddle a horse for the prince at five in the morning for the ride back to Moscow.
Ivan, with the circumspect behavior of a kindly steward, asked no questions and efficiently took in hand the details of packing.
A carriage was taking them into Moscow. As the anger of the previous night dissipated, a sickening dread gripped Zena. This was forever—never to see Sasha again, never to wake with her beloved, never to walk with him through the country meadows. Her head throbbed.
How was she going to live life without him? What had seemed a reasonable prospect now appeared dismal. Zena's heart ached for another chance, and a sort of desperation seized her.
Oh, Lord, Sasha. Why can't you love me, she cried silently from the wretched depths of her soul. Why can't you love me as I love you? I don't want to leave I don't!
She decided to send a note to Sasha at the club telling him she loved him and would try to live amiably in a sensible marriage arrangement. She would set aside her pride and write.
With her mind resolved, her spirits rose optimistically. Maybe by this time tomorrow she'd be back at the dacha. Maybe by this time tomorrow she wouldn't be miserable and dejected, but blissfully returned to Sasha's arms.
She and Bobby were deposited at the Hotel D'Angleterre and soon settled in a sunny apartment.
If she had any pride, she told herself one last time as she sat staring at the blank sheet of paper, she would refuse to ever think of Alex again. But an image of his tall figure rose in her mind, and with a sigh she sat down and dashed off the note. It was a straightforward declaration of love and her wishes for a future together. Before her courage faltered she sent it off by messenger.
Maybe Sasha would respond immediately when he read the message. Maybe she'd see him within the hour. Her heart shivered joyfully. Alex would realize his mistake. Please come home, Zena, he'd say, please take me back. She both dreaded and longed for the answer that would decide her fate.
Late that afternoon as the sun's long shadows crept into the sitting room, Zena's optimism had faded. She was morose and melancholy, half-heartedly attempting to placate a fretful three-year-old who was tired of staying indoors. "We'll go out tomorrow morning, Bobby. It'll be dark soon. I don't want to go out now."
They ate a quiet supper in their room and retired early. Sleep eluded Zena for hours. She tossed restlessly, her mind assessing the endless reasons Alex hadn't come. Deep in her heart she excused him a million ways. Maybe he'd returned home, and the note would take a day to reach him. Maybe he'd gone out with Yuri and hadn't returned yet. The excuses multiplied and mounted, her spirit unable to cope with the frightening possibility that Sasha had read the note and didn't care enough to respond. She would give herself one more day, and if she hadn't heard from him by tomorrow evening, she and Bobby would go abroad. Her whole body trembled at the thought of the future. Much as she wanted Alex, to beg was intolerable. She'd wait, hope fading, one more day. She lay in the darkness silently crying for her husband; the tears ran over her temples and into her hair.
The note in question, the missive that contained the anguished outpourings of Zena's heart, was delivered to the club promptly by the messenger. While the messenger was inquiring of the doorman the direction of Prince Alexander's room, Baron Matsenov sauntered in, returning from his afternoon ride.
"Prince Alexander Kuzan? You looking for Archer? I'm going up to see him now. I'll take it and save you the trip." Tossing a silver ruble to the messenger, he was handed the envelope and proceeded up the stairs.
The baron knocked on Alex's door. He had still been up when Alex returned to the party in the wee hours of the morning, and they had made arrangements to go look at Alex's stud at Serpukhov. Baron Matsenov didn't recall the exact details of their plans, and he was going to check on those particulars now with Alex. Knocking once more and receiving no answer, he decided Archer was either still sleeping or entertaining one of the gypsy wenches.
In any event, his questions would wait; they were all planning on meeting at Yar's for dinner that night. He could talk to Archer then. Slipping the envelope into his jacket pocket, the baron resolved to deliver the letter later. Sliding an envelope under the door might be distracting if Archer were entertaining a female.
At this point heinous fate intervened. On the way to his own room Baron Matsenov was intercepted by his cousin with both sad and happy news. The elder Baron Matsenov, from whom the son had been estranged for several years, had but recently passed to the other side in the arms of the holy monks to whom the elder was much attached and to whom the son resentfully attributed the parental estrangement. His father's death was sorrowful news, although the old baron had lived a long and pious life. Heaven would welcome him. The happy tidings were that the scandalous young baron had providentially not been disowned by his father's will as so often threatened.
During the past year as the health of the elder baron had seriously deteriorated, the priests from the Monastery of the Trinity and Saint Sergius had been advising the old baron to change his will. They insinuated that the manner in which his wealth would be dissipated by a licentious son would be a sin in the eyes of God.
Peotr had been aware of the machinations and lived in the very real fear that he might be left a pauper. He breathed a sigh of relief. "Maybe the old bastard cared a little about me underneath all that zealous religious frenzy," he said to his cousin. "Let's go and give him a proper burial and kick out all those priestly spongers who have been living off his estate the past ten years."
"If we hurry we can catch the four o'clock train to Nijni Novgorod," his cousin replied.
"Do I have time to change? A hacking jacket and buckskins aren't exactly proper attire for traveling."
"No time, Peotr. Good Lord, you're so rich now you can afford to be eccentric. Travel in whatever you like."
In this convoluted fashion Zena's message traveled into the country halfway to Perm in the pocket of Baron Matsenov's hacking jacket. As the affair
s of the estate were in great disorder due to ten years of priestly intrigues, Baron Matsenov was forced to extend his visit several months after the burial of his father. The elegant hacking jacket hung unused in his closet. In its pocket reposed Zena's tender, anguished avowal of love for her husband.
Alex slept the entire day away, waking at seven and dressing leisurely for dinner. He and a group of his friends were dining at Yar's tonight. Memories of the quarrel kept recurring despite his best efforts. He refused to think of his marital squabbles anymore, he decided with finality. He'd go out tonight with Yuri and head back to the dacha after he woke tomorrow.
It was too bad all this senseless wrangling was constantly arising, but he supposed a great deal of it was his fault. Try as he would, it was impossible to reconcile himself to marriage; he was just too young to settle down. He'd talk to Zena tomorrow, quietly and rationally, when he returned home. Maybe they could come to some amiable agreement in their relationship so that this continuous bitter repartee could be ended. He had to have more freedom, that was all. Staying home every night and playing dutiful husband wasn't his style. Perhaps after the baby was born, Zena could be induced to take a prolonged vacation at one of the German health spas. Then he'd have a few months to kick off the traces and be ready to re-embrace domesticity for a time. They'd talk it over tomorrow.
In the meantime there was tonight. If that pretty gypsy charmer could be found, the tables would be turned. He'd be the pursuer this time.
While Zena sobbed herself to sleep in the gloomy solitude of her hotel room, Alex passed the evening in an atmosphere of gay conviviality in a private second-floor dining room at Yar's. The food was superb, the restaurant cellars were above reproach, and damned if Yuri hadn't known the little puss's name. The comely dark gypsy was, at the moment, seated on the table directly in front of Alex with her legs straddling his shoulders. He was partaking of dessert.
Alex spent the night in a gypsy lair deep in the heart of the city, and the sun was almost setting again by the time he emerged from the narrow, dingy street. Christ, he was tired—too fatigued to face a serious marital discussion. He decided to sleep at the club and go home the next day.
Kuzan 02 - Lovestorm Page 24