Golden Paradise

by Susan Johnson

  "She'll make you unhappy."

  "I won't be seeing much of her."

  "She'll still be the mother of your children."

  "I'm counting on it." The words came out stone cold and grim.

  "Does that mean so much?"

  "To me it does."

  "What about love?"

  He quirked a brow. "It hasn't been a problem."

  "What if you fall in love someday?"

  "Masha, darling," he said with light sarcasm, "remember to whom you speak. Being married doesn't preclude being in love. As you recall, I'm a product of such a union."

  "What if you want to marry her?"

  His eyes took on a flinty cast. "It won't happen to me, Masha. Rest assured. Now, could we change this subject, since we've already exhausted it on numerous occasions in the past? I'm marrying Nadejda whether—" he grinned then, and his tone lightened, as if to mitigate the curtness of his previous declarations "—she knows Melikoff or not."

  Militza snorted both at the mention of Melikoff and at Ste­fan's stubbornness. "He's a pig."

  "Yes, but an influential one, you will agree, dear aunt of mine."

  "So you persist in your path to—"

  "Destruction," Stefan offered cheerfully. She gazed at him without speaking for a short time. Since he was alone at home with her, he wore black silk, a shirt and loose trousers belted in costly gem-encrusted gold; the slippers on his bare feet were fine kid, black too, and embroidered with ruby beads. He could have been one of his princely Persian ances­tors. But unlike them, he wasn't allowed the luxury of a harem. "Boredom," Militza threatened. "You'll be bored in a day."

  "Well, then I'll leave." He was lounging and unthreatened by his aunt's bullying.

  "Not for long I'd guess, or Papa Vladimir will grow resent­ful."

  "A soldier's life is not his own," Stefan sweetly replied.

  "I thought you and the Countess enjoyed each other," Mil­itza interjected, as persistent in her maneuvering as Stefan was in his evasion.

  He hesitated the barest fraction of a second before replying, a fact duly noted by his aunt, as was his altered expression. "As a matter of fact, we did. She's a delightful woman."

  "I thought so, too. She reminded me of her mother in her youth. The Kuzans were always… unconventional."

  Militza's delayed emphasis on the last word sent a rush of sensation through Stefan's body as though he could see Lisa­veta again in all her glorious unconventionality. He needed her already, had recalled a dozen times that afternoon how she felt in his arms and how she felt as he slid into her heated interior, how she matched his passion or exceeded it at times so he had to calm her and slow her and bring her whimpering and impet­uous to climax.

  "Do you think so?" His aunt's words, obviously repeated, roused him finally and he looked at her, perplexed. "Do you think she bears any resemblance to Nikki?" Militza asked, a satisfied look in her eyes. Another nail in the coffin, she jubi­lantly decided.

  "Her eyes, of course. The Kuzan eyes are notorious." And he thought of her golden eyes, flagrantly exotic, unvirtuous, torrid, like her lovemaking.

  "She's tall, too," Militza said. "The Kuzans are known for their height."

  A moment passed before he responded, preoccupied as he was with memories of the beautiful, heated Countess Laza­roff. "Yes," he said finally in a voice more subdued than he intended, "she is."

  "Will you be seeing her again?"

  Stefan's "No!" was so swift and harsh that Militza raised her brows in mild astonishment.

  "Did you have a spat?" she asked.

  "No, we didn't, and if you don't mind," Stefan said in a tone that made it clear he didn't care whether she minded or not, "I'd like to discontinue the discussion of the Countess Lazaroff."

  "Of course, darling," Militza replied pleasantly, pleased with his agitation. "I was curious only. Now what do you see as the first campaign move against the Turks? Haci tells me some larger calibre artillery is scheduled to be brought to Kars."

  The remainder of their evening visit was devoted to topics pertaining to the war.

  He didn't inquire once about his fiancée or the letter she'd left for him, but Militza was careful to bring it to his attention before she left. "You should read it, Stefan," she admon­ished, indicating the pastel envelope lying on the lamp table, "in the event it requires an answer."

  "My secretary can answer it," he replied, but relenting at his aunt's judgmental glance, added, "oh, very well, I'll read the bloody thing. Satisfied?"

  Her contented smile was answer enough.

  "Do be careful now, Stefan," she went on to say as she stood to leave, adjusting her shawl against the cool evening air.

  "One can't be careful, Masha, and win a war." But his smile was warm; he understood her platitude.

  "Well, send me a message occasionally, so I know you're safe." Her words were a ritual of goodbye because both knew he conscientiously sent her letters every other day. Reaching up to touch his cheek tenderly, she softly whispered, "Go with God."

  The letter forgotten on the table, he left the next morning before dawn, Haci beside him and his troop following in fault­less formation. They were equipped for a fall campaign, fully aware progress had to be made before the winter set in. They pressed their mounts because news had it the Grand Duke was meddling. If he had his way, a full-scale attack might occur in the next fortnight, whether they were prepared or not.

  Chapter Ten

  When Lisaveta had arrived at Vladikavkaz, she'd been met by the Tsar's envoy and one of the Tsar's railway coaches. With politeness and protocol she'd been escorted into her private car, told by an obsequious aide that her wish was their command and invited to enjoy her journey north.

  Astonished at first by her preferential treatment, she in­quired whether they had the right person. She was assured they did. The young officer smiled winningly and said, "Please, mademoiselle, relax and make yourself comfortable. The Tsar looks forward to meeting you." Pampered by a full staff of servants, she sped northward to the capital.

  The next morning over breakfast she asked the Tsar's equerry whether all the guests to the ceremony commemorat­ing her father's work were treated so royally. He hesitated only the minutest moment before replying, "My orders were to es­cort you, Countess, and beyond that I don't know. I never," he added politely, evading her question nicely, "question the Tsar." He knew of course that a telegram from Prince Baria­tinsky had set the Tsar's orders in train; he also knew schol­ars, even scholars honored by the Tsar, were rarely treated with such pomp. And while not privy to the details of the Prince's telegram, he'd already come to his own conclusions apropos of the Countess Lazaroff's relationship to the Prince. As a man of the world, he understood Bariatinsky's request and, per­haps upon seeing the lady, understood also his possible rea­sons for ensuring she had private accommodations.

  Perhaps the Prince was protecting his paramour from prying eyes or other men's advances; maybe he merely wished her journey to be as luxurious as possible. Certainly, whatever his reasons, the lady was worth the effort. She was breathtakingly beautiful, her fresh blooming youth not only dazzling the eye but stirring the imagination. In her peach-colored summer frock adorned with cream lace flounces at neckline and cuffs, she seemed both lushly opulent and heatedly alive.

  At the Countess's request, a message was sent from Mos­cow to her cousin Prince Nikki Kuzan, informing him of her arrival time. When they detrained at the Station Sud, Nikki and his wife, Alisa, were at the platform to meet them. Amid hugs and kisses, introductions were made, since Nikki had married rather precipitously since her father's funeral and neither woman had met. While Nikki dwarfed the pretty redhead at his side, he deferred to her, his smiles those of a besotted man, and as the two women chatted with the familiarity of old friends, he listened with amusement and courtesy.

  "Do you think," he said at last, breaking in during a short pause for breath on his wife's part, "we could rediscover the merits of royal rail trav
el and the Russian landscape in the comfort of our home?" His grin was appealing. "And let all these vastly bored officers and railway officials leave?"

  "Oh, dear," Alisa said, glancing at the ranks of officialdom standing at attention.

  Lisaveta flushed in embarrassment at her discourtesy. Un­used to royal entourage, she'd simply forgotten they were pres­ent, having in the past always traveled in the utmost simplicity. "By all means," she said, and with a directness that Nikki watched with interest and the entourage found delightful, Lisaveta shook hands with and thanked each man.

  When they arrived at Nikki's palace on the Neva Quay, Katelina, Alisa's daughter from a previous marriage, two-year-old Alex and the new baby were all waiting with their nannies and descended on their parents with squeals of excitement. Katelina was eight now and poised in an engaging way that would shatter abruptly when Nikki teased her. Alex was a chubby toddler, testing his curiosity and independence with tugs on Lisaveta's skirt and questions of his own. He pronounced his baby brother's name in a charming two-year-old lisp, and Lisaveta thought how warm and loving the small family ap­peared. The children were allowed at the table for dinner, served unfashionably early to accommodate their bedtimes, and when the last child was tucked into bed, the three adults settled in the drawing room for tea and sherry.

  The intervening years since they'd last met were discussed, Nikki and Lisaveta exchanging pertinent details of their lives. Nikki's new family, of course, was a more staggering altera­tion than Lisaveta's continuing research, and Lisaveta listened with interest to the story of Nikki and Alisa's courtship and marriage. She could see they were happy, and she found her­self wishing her relationship with Stefan might have had the same fantasy ending. Stefan was apparently more immune to Cupid's arrows… an unfortunate circumstance when she had found herself so vulnerable.

  Eventually, the reason for Lisaveta's visit to Saint Peters­burg was spoken of.

  "Uncle Felix is much revered by the Tsar," Nikki said, warming the glass of brandy he preferred drinking in his cupped hands. "This ceremony is more than the usual diplomatic dis­persal of medals in a palace stateroom. A dinner is planned and a ball with a very select guest list."

  Unaware of the reason for Alexander's unusual favors, Lisaveta said, "Papa did have a very special relationship with the Tsar. They corresponded for years, although their letters were mostly analyses of obscure translations or interpretations of particular stanzas. It was a bit," she added with a smile, "like playing chess through the mails."

  "And you came to follow in your father's footsteps," Alisa said. "I suppose you've been asked countless times whether you find the field unusual."

  Lisaveta nodded. "Hafiz seems very normal to me, raised as I was in the midst of his research. The exotic qualities of the topic elude me. It's rather like a comfortable old sweater."

  Nikki smiled. "An uncommon metaphor for Hafiz, I'd warrant, but I understand. Mother's Romany blood may seem exotic to others, but their culture is prosaic and second nature to me. I may see it as interesting but certainly not exotic."

  "Exactly," Lisaveta agreed warmly.

  "Be warned, though," Nikki cautioned out of concern for his cousin's feelings, "some in society may see your interest in other terms."

  "I understand," Lisaveta replied, her smile intact. "Papa was careful to apprise me of those possibilities years ago, and I've all the bland phrases readily available. I deflect the rab­idly curious, politely correct the detractors, and I tell the mildly inquisitive that Hafiz was a troubadour of sorts, much like the medieval European ones. He composed love songs. It sounds all very innocent." She was composed, Stefan's pearls at her neck, a sherry in her hand, unintimidated by prurient interpre­tations of her work.

  "Should you need a champion beyond the curiosity seekers, I'm at your disposal," Nikki offered, "and apparently the Tsar is, as well. Note was taken, you can be sure, of your arrival in a royal railcar."

  "His special courtesy was very kind…. I was wondering, perhaps, if Stefan had anything to do with it." She spoke moderately without inflection, and her golden eyes were guile­less.

  "Stefan?" Nikki carefully repeated, knowing only one Ste­fan that close to the Tsar, conscious as well of that Stefan's libertine reputation.

  "Bariatinsky," Lisaveta supplied.

  The Tsar's overture of hospitality was immediately crystal clear.

  "You know Stefan?" Nikki asked casually. He and the Prince had been frequent compatriots in female amusements before his marriage, had in fact been friends from their days in the Corps of Pages.

  "I met him by accident on the Plain of Kars," she said, and proceeded to describe her dramatic rescue, their journey to Tiflis and her meeting with Militza and Nadejda. She didn't, however, detail the exact chronology of these events, nor did she mention their two-week holiday in the mountains.

  Nikki, though, knew the distance from the Plain of Kars to Tiflis. He also knew Stefan's propensity for beautiful women and knew Stefan had been actively involved in the siege of Kars for several months. Stefan would not let an opportunity like Lisaveta innocently pass, certainly not after being deprived of female companionship for so long.

  "Princess Orbeliani is pleasant, is she not?" Alisa men­tioned, having met Militza several times at Stefan's over the past few years.

  "Utterly charming," Lisaveta declared with warmth. "Her candor is—"

  "Much like Stefan's," Nikki finished.

  "Yes," Lisaveta answered. "Both are without subterfuge." There had been times in the past few days as she traveled north when she had wished Stefan had been less bluntly frank. She would almost have wished to cling to the unreal hope that they would meet again rather than the reality of their parting. He had said a simple goodbye. And meant it. The sorrow she felt for a moment, knowing she would never see him again, was evident on her face.

  "He's back to Kars, then?" Nikki inquired, aware of Ste­fan's habit of transient affairs. But this time, with a female relative of his involved, he viewed Stefan's amorous amuse­ments with less tolerance. And Lisaveta was obviously de­spondent.

  "As I understand it," Lisaveta replied, recovering from her futile grieving over Stefan with a ready logic she'd always commanded. Mourning his loss wouldn't recall him, and she was in Saint Petersburg for the first time in her life and about to be introduced into society. There was enjoyment in the prospect. "Apparently the Grand Duke is on some fact-finding junket," she added, able to smile again.

  "Making trouble no doubt," Nikki snorted. "Will Stefan be coming up to Saint Petersburg soon?"

  "I don't know."

  And his question of Stefan's interest was answered. "We'll have to see you're introduced around," he said avuncularly, annoyed despite his own sexual adventuring that Stefan had preyed on his cousin. His sense of outrage surprised him mo­mentarily—it must be a sign of domesticity. He smiled at Alisa. "Alisa will see to your gowns. Won't you, darling?"

  "I'd love to." Since she knew many of Nikki's friends and their predilections she, too, had come to her own conclusions about Stefan Bariatinsky and the Countess. Lisaveta was very splendid, her disposition charming; Alisa understood what Stefan had found alluring. There were, however, scores of men less ruthless in amorous dalliance and she meant to see that Lisaveta enjoyed herself in Saint Petersburg. "Did you bring something for the ceremony? For the ball? Do you have a court dress?"

  "No…on all counts, I'm afraid. My baggage was all left behind when the caravan was attacked, although it wouldn't have been adequate anyway, and while Stefan had a dress­maker at Aleksandropol repair my wardrobe deficiencies, it was a sketchy arrangement."

  Nikki was not pleased to hear Stefan had clothed his cousin; he'd done the same too many times himself for the paramours in his past to misunderstand the nuances of the situation. "How many days do we have," he said in a crisp voice, "be­fore the ceremony?"

  Alisa looked sidelong at her husband as he sat beside her on the sofa. He was angry about Stefan. "Two days,"
she said, and added with a placating softness, "it's plenty of time, dear. Madame Drouet will manage."

  Turning to her, he smiled an apology; he knew she was ac­tually suggesting they would manage to repair the hurt caused by Stefan's philandering. "Of course, you're right." Of Lisa­veta he asked, "Are you up to a day of standing and being measured and fitted?" It was obvious from his tone that he had taken on her protection in all things.

  "To please the Tsar, of course. What do you suggest, Alisa? I'm completely ignorant of fashion, existing as I have so long in the country."

  And the conversation turned to deciding on the basic re­quirements she would need to be entertained by the Tsar and Saint Petersburg society.

  The next three weeks were like a young girl's dream come true. The Tsar feted Lisaveta beyond the ceremonial functions surrounding the honors given her father. He invited her to small dinners at the palace, he took her out riding in his carriage, he sent gifts and flowers, he danced with her always at the balls he attended, and he wasn't known to exert himself as a dance partner. He was, in a word, assuring Countess Lazaroff's suc­cess in Saint Petersburg society. His deliberate patronship was noted and remarked on, although even without the Tsar's rec­ognition, Lisaveta's beauty would have gained her avid atten­tion.

  The whirl of parties, dinners, balls, the deluge of admirers, was heady. Enormous numbers of bouquets and male callers descended on the pink marble Kuzan palace on the Neva Quay, and the Countess Lazaroff became the most sought-after belle in Saint Petersburg. Lisaveta enjoyed her first encounter with Saint Petersburg's gilded set; she danced and flirted and smiled; she met everyone of importance and was treated with the deference and fervor her beauty and the Tsar's favor engen­dered. She appeared in the Kuzan box at the ballet and opera; she attended musical soirees and afternoon teas; she danced till dawn and slept till afternoon; she indulged herself completely in the aristocratic world of luxury and amusement.

  But in the rare moments of respite from the dizzying diver­sions, she would recall the quiet solitude of the mountains and the man she'd come to love. Against the yardstick of that cherished time, the glitter of Saint Petersburg paled. She'd promised Alisa to stay until Katelina's birthday and she would, but after that she intended returning to her country estate. Once the war was over she'd accept the Khan's invitation to return to her study of his collection in Karakilisa. In the meantime, she could begin collating her voluminous notes and, she reflected with a small sigh, try to forget the man who'd captured her heart.