Golden Paradise

by Susan Johnson

  "You're taking this all remarkably calmly." Under the cir­cumstances Alisa was surprised at Lisaveta's tranquillity. She should have been hysterical or angry or sobbing or con­cerned… or at least open to the suggestion of pregnancy, con­sidering her time with Stefan.

  Was it possible, Alisa briefly thought, that Lisaveta knew of some unusual, esoteric method of birth control, discovered in some old manuscript, learned from some ancillary reading to Hafiz, unearthed among the tribes of Kurdistan? Was she un­concerned because no real possibility of pregnancy existed? But as she had known Nikki's cousin for only a few weeks and since Lisaveta had never confided any of the details of her relation­ship with Stefan, Alisa felt awkward asking such an intimate question.

  "If falling into a faint would help, I'd consider it. How­ever—" and Lisaveta smiled ruefully "—it won't change or alter a minute of my past. So…do we pin this offending neckline together with your brooch or substitute the burgundy silk."

  She apparently was intent on changing the conversation, Alisa decided. "It is looser," she said, debating whether she dared pursue the topic further.

  "The burgundy it is."

  "How can you be so cheerful?" Alisa inquired. Hesitant or not, she was disturbed by Lisaveta's serenity in the face of a possibly portentous issue.

  "How can I not be when I think of Stefan. He's a remark­able man." Lisaveta's smile was self-assured when she stood abruptly in a swish of silk. "And I'm sure you're wrong."

  While Lisaveta changed, Alisa excused herself and went to speak to Nikki. As usual, having dressed swiftly, he was pa­tiently waiting for the ladies in his study, his feet up on his desktop, a glass of brandy half-drunk. He looked relaxed, leaning back in his chair, and he smiled in greeting.

  "Madame Drouet has outdone herself, darling. You look exquisite." Alisa's pistachio-green damask gown was fes­tooned with garlands of pearls and crystal, her fine shoulders and bosom rising above a low décolletage trimmed with pink silk chrysanthemum petals.

  "Thank you, dear," Alisa automatically said, making sure the door was closed behind her. Turning back to her husband, she announced, "I think she's pregnant." She stood stiffly, her back to the door.

  "Who's she?" Nikki asked, but his feet had already dropped to the floor and he was sitting upright, his posture belying his casual inquiry.

  And he knew the answer to his question before his wife said in a short expulsion of air, "Lisaveta."

  "Stefan."

  "Of course." Her reply seemed distracted for a moment, her mind in the grip of unresolved pique over Stefan's cavalier treatment of Lisaveta.

  "Damn!"

  "Thank you," she crisply said. "My sentiments exactly." In her voice was affront for the casual victimization of women in these circumstances. "And she's cheerful," she added, her as­tonishment evident.

  "Are you sure?"

  "That she's cheerful?"

  Nikki raised one dark brow in contradiction. "That she's pregnant."

  "She says no, or probably not or maybe not, all in a calm, deliberate way that unnerves me, but the signs rather disagree. She's not had her menses since she's come to Saint Petersburg and her gowns are getting tight. She's eating too much, she says, like a young naive girl would."

  "Which she might be. Oh, God," Nikki groaned, and leaned his head back against the soft green leather of his chair.

  , "You know Stefan's engaged to Vladimir's daughter." Alisa had moved across the room and sat down now in a chair across the desk from Nikki.

  "If you're right about Lisaveta, he'll have to get disen­gaged," Nikki growled. "She's my cousin."

  "Lisaveta says Stefan is intent on his marriage to Nadejda."

  "Has the man no scruples?" Nikki's face was darkened by a scowl.

  "You should know, darling, since he was so often your companion in—" his wife paused significantly "—adven­ture."

  "Point taken," Nikki replied with a crooked grin, leaning forward to clasp his hands on his desktop. "But I've re­formed." His golden eyes were both amused and affectionate as he gazed at his wife.

  "Would he, perhaps?" Alisa suggested, aware what pro­found changes she'd made in her husband's life.

  His eyes turned flinty. "If she's pregnant, he will whether he likes it or not," Nikki replied, and no suggestion graced his voice, only peremptory command.

  "Can you force Stefan? "

  "Damn right I can." Nikki's voice was soft with restrained anger, his eyes half-closed in contemplation of that necessity.

  "Would that be prudent… for Lisaveta?" Men responded differently to compulsion, and while Alisa might take issue with Stefan's casual liaisons, she was realistic about the possible re­sults of forcing a man of his temperament.

  "The prudence, or lack of it, can be debated after they're married. She's my cousin, dammit, and he should have thought of that before he seduced her!" Nikki's assessment didn't have the subtlety or nicety of Alisa's.

  "Unfortunately, he's at Kars."

  "If necessary, he can be called back for his wedding," Nikki said grimly.

  When Nikki suggested as much to Lisaveta as they rode to the Gagarins' ball, his tone courteous instead of grim, she replied, "Don't be ridiculous, Nikki. You needn't play avenging rela­tive for me. I wasn't some simple young girl unaware of my choices. I'm quite content."

  "And if there's a child?"

  Their golden eyes, identical in color if not mood, met and held steadily for a moment.

  "There isn't," Lisaveta said, her gaze dropping away first. Despite her denial, she recognized she'd been intimate with Stefan too often in the past weeks to discount the fact she might be carrying his child. And at the thought, both stupefying and strangely pleasant, she felt a flutter of sensation in the pit of her stomach as if her body were trying to tell her something. "But if there should be," she said, raising her gaze again to con­front her cousin, "I'm perfectly capable of rearing a child. My father raised me alone."

  "It's not the same." Nikki wasn't concerned with child de­velopment but rather with protocol.

  "It may be for me," Lisaveta said very quietly, as deter­mined as Nikki to decide the direction of her life. She wouldn't be persuaded to change her mind even though both Nikki and Alisa tried to reason with her.

  They brought up all the societal pressures she would be ex­posed to.

  "Not in the country," she answered. "Sometimes the country is worse—more provincial and conservative."

  "Nikki, darling, Papa and I were practically hermits. It's not a problem."

  "Well, think of the child in that isolation."

  "It might turn out like me, you mean?"

  Nikki smiled a rueful smile. "No, I don't mean that."

  "Nikki, you of all people to be lecturing me on protocol. You've said all your life that a Kuzan can do anything."

  "This is different."

  "How?"

  "You're my cousin."

  She grinned. "And Stefan must pay."

  "Damn right." And then he grinned, too. "This is not logi­cal, is it?"

  "No, Nikki, I'm afraid not." From the first moment Stefan had walked into her room in Aleksandropol, logic had ceased to function in her mind. She more than anyone understood that.

  "Nikki, dear, Lisaveta knows best how she feels," Alisa in­terposed, touching her husband's arm in a small gesture of re­straint.

  "The decision, of course, is yours, Lise," he said immedi­ately, his voice congenial. "Forgive our interference." His smile was bland; his words a lie. He had no intention of releasing Stefan from his obligations. "Everything will work out," he added as a polite disclaimer. "I'm sure."

  "Or course it will," Lisaveta replied with alacrity, her tone remarkably cheerful. "I'm as much a Kuzan as you, and we make things work out, don't we?"

  Nikki's frame seemed larger in the confining space of the carriage, his size overwhelming the narrow dimensions of the interior, but his voice when he spoke was mild. "We always make things work out," he said.


  Stefan arrived at the palace on the Neva an hour after the Kuzans and Lisaveta had left for the ball. "Prince Gagarin," Nikki's butler said to him, "is celebrating his newest Rem­brandt acquisition at his villa on the islands."

  "When did they leave, Sergei?" Stefan stood impatiently waiting for the answer.

  "At ten, Your Excellency. Would you like me to send them a message?" Stefan was wearing an informal tweed jacket and riding pants; Sergei assumed he wouldn't make an appearance at an evening party in such dress. "I could have brandy brought into the library for you."

  "Thank you, no."

  "The Prince will be sorry he missed you."

  Stefan smiled politely. "I'll be seeing him later. An hour, you said?" He had taken two steps toward the door, and the foot­man was already opening it when Stefan turned back. "Did the Countess have an escort?"

  "No, sir."

  Twenty minutes later, Stefan arrived at Prince Gagarin's villa. They had been twenty very long minutes in which he cautioned himself to prudence, warned himself against mak­ing a scene, knew without illusion his mere appearance would be scene enough, thought transiently of returning to his own palace for evening clothes, as quickly discarded the notion be­cause he refused to take the time when hours counted on this flying trip, told himself he would simply say, "Good evening, Countess, may I have a moment of your time?" and then they would find someplace quiet to talk. That was of course a euphemism for what he really wanted to do, for what was causing the blood to drum in his ears and pulse through his body, for what had driven him across the length of Russia.

  His entrance was as dramatic as he knew it would be; every­one in Saint Petersburg thought him halfway across Russia in Kars, but the drama extended as well to his notoriety, his handsome good looks, his unorthodox attire and tantalizing curiosity. Why had he come? Why hadn't he been announced? Why was he scanning the crowd with interest?

  He stood perhaps five seconds in the entrance to the ball­room before the first whispers began, and in five seconds more he was surrounded by well-wishers and admirers, by beautiful women and inquisitive statesmen. He politely evaded them all, offering brief answers to their avid questions or courteous re­fusals or smiling acknowledgement to the compliments even as he moved forward, his gaze intent on the dance floor. He hadn't seen Lisaveta yet or Nikki and his wife, and he wondered rest­lessly if they'd changed their plans.

  The ballroom was ablaze with light, the crystal chandeliers illuminating the large room as if it were noon, the throng of twirling dancers a blur of colored silk and jewels and orna­mented uniforms. His own swelling entourage, its rising buzz of whispered comments, exclamations and cries of recogni­tion, was beginning to contest the orchestra's music, and he'd just reached the border of the dance floor and finally caught sight of Lisaveta dancing with a young lieutenant in the Tsari­na's Hussars when the music abruptly ceased.

  "Ladies and gentlemen!" the leader of the orchestra cried, his eyes on Stefan, his baton raised, "we have the honor of welcoming the Conqueror of Tubruz, the Savior of Mirum, the fearless General Prince Stefan Bariatinsky!" The orchestra di­rector's hand chopped the air, his baton falling in a swift ara­besque, and in a muted fanfare of oboes and bassoons, embellished with a flourish of drumrolls, Stefan was presented to the hundreds of guests.

  Oh, hell, he swore under his breath as an aisle to the band­stand opened like the passage through the Red Sea and all eyes were directed his way. Hell and damnation. But there was nothing to do under that numerous gaze but graciously ac­knowledge his introduction. Striding swiftly through the pas­sageway of smiling and congratulatory guests, he lightly leaped onto the stage and bowed to the assembled guests. Modestly accepting the frenzied applause and cheers, he spoke then as he did to his troops, with informality and cordiality: the war was going well; Russia's soldiers were sure to conquer the Turks; the assault on Kars was certain to be victorious this time. He was humble and charming, he was gracious and smiling, he was a potent spokesman for Russia's sacred duty; the crowd loved him.

  Lisaveta's first irrelevant thought when, with fluttering pulse and wide-eyed astonishment, she watched him stride toward the stage was, he's not dressed for the ball. His cavalry twill and tweed was a startling contrast to the jeweled and ornamented throng, and he was overpowering in his size. She'd forgotten in the weeks away from him how tall he was and how the width of his shoulders dwarfed other men… and how his smile daz­zled.

  Her second, more relevant, observation concerned his rea­son for appearing dressed like that. Her heart began beating in a small rhythm of hope.

  Perhaps he'd come for her, she thought, like a young maiden pining for her absent lover. Perhaps the most popular man in Russia was here in Saint Petersburg for her. How fairy-tale perfect it would be if her love were requited, if he could no more live without her than she could without him, if he'd traveled across the breadth of the Empire to sweep her into his arms.

  Stefan's speech when he spoke, though, wasn't of frenzied lovesick longing but was essentially political. His manner was one of ease, as though he stood often in riding clothes before a ballroom, and when he stepped down into the crowd after sev­eral rounds of additional applause, he didn't seek her out but was immediately surrounded. Even Lisaveta's dance partner apologetically asked her pardon to withdraw and greet the General. She smiled him off with a wave and then moved to a quiet corner away from the stage, watching Stefan in the midst of the adulatory crowd, complex and confused feelings of de­sire conflicting with pride tumbling through her mind.

  "I won't be staying in Saint Petersburg long, but thank you," Stefan was saying for the twentieth time to an invitation, when his searching gaze fell on Lisaveta again over the heads of the importuning crush pressing round him.

  Two men were approaching her as she stood near a console table adorned with an enormous arrangement of fuchsia-colored lilies, and her welcoming smile to their mannered bows triggered a surge of resentment. The Golden Countess had used that same smile on him. He'd seen it early in the morning and late at night, in bed and out-of-doors, over the dinner table and across a small cool mountain pool. He'd always thought it was her special smile, used for him alone. But there she was, dis­playing it for other men.

  His temper showed minutely in a faint crispness in his voice, but it was several tedious minutes more before he was able to disengage the last beautiful clinging woman from his arm, make the last gracious refusal to dinner or something more in­timate and break away from the mass of people intent on fawning sociability.

  The floor was open between them because the orchestra hadn't yet resumed playing, and when Stefan stepped out onto the polished parquet, his progress was noted by every pair of eyes in the room.

  He was obviously on some urgent mission, dressed as he was; he wasn't simply passing an idle night two thousand miles away from the war. And while his fiancée was in attendance tonight, no one to whom he'd spoken had heard him ask for her. The style of his engagement, though, was common knowledge, and none of the guests labored under the illusion that he was here for Nadejda. So they watched, avidly curious and titillated by the demonstrable impetuousness of his appearance.

  The Golden Countess, it was seen as he crossed the mid­point of the ballroom floor, was apparently the object of his advance. And it didn't surprise a single soul. Prince Bariatin­sky had always had an eye for the exotic in women, and surely the Countess was exceptional. Was the rumor true, too, that the Countess and he were… friends? Did Nadejda's spiteful dis­regard for the Countess have basis in fact?

  It looked very much as though it did.

  The buzz of speculation rose in a low humming resonance like bees over a flower bed as the distance between the Gen­eral and Countess lessened. People instinctively held their breaths… waiting.

  Reaching Lisaveta in three strides more, Stefan acknowl­edged the two men at her side with the merest of curt nods and brusquely said, his voice very low and, Borsoff said later, hot with temper, "Countess
, may I have a moment of your time?" Without waiting for her answer, he took her hand in a grip just short of punishing and, leaving the two men openmouthed, began stalking toward the terrace doors.

  They were the focus of everyone's breath-held scrutiny, but the three people who might actually have done something were all missing at that moment. Nikki was in the card room as was his custom at balls, Alisa had been cornered in the refresh­ment room by a young matron intent on describing her last confinement in lurid detail, and Nadejda was petulantly up­braiding a maid in the powder room for not adjusting her shoulder flounce properly. So Stefan was allowed to pull Lisa­veta from the room unimpeded.

  Stiff-armed, he pushed the terrace door open, dragging her through without ceremony onto the flagstone terrace over­looking the manicured grounds falling away to the shoreline. The evening was cool, the breeze off the Baltic harboring the first faint touches of fall, and Lisaveta shivered at the sudden contrast to the heated ballroom. Walking no more than a few paces from the opened door, a distance just barely outside the range of direct illumination from the lighted entry, Stefan pushed her back against the ivy-covered stucco and, bending down, kissed her.

  Chapter Twelve

  It wasn't a kiss of welcome or greeting or even pleasure; it was distinctly a kiss of possession, as if the harsh pressure of his mouth somehow indelibly acknowledged ownership. Strug­gling against his strength the moment she realized his inten­tions, she protested verbally as well as physically to his brutal kiss.

  "You're drunk," she remonstrated, turning her mouth away with effort, shoving uselessly against the solid muscle of his chest, her hands small in contrast to his massiveness.

  "I haven't had a drink in five days, dushka," he replied, his voice a growl, the endearment an epithet in tone, his arms tightening around her. He'd been traveling day and night for five days while she'd been smiling her special smile and offer­ing more no doubt to every fawning man in Saint Petersburg. He knew what she could offer, he knew what her smile pre­faced. He had been told she was everyone's darling and jeal­ousy ate at his reason. His lips brushed over her cheek, his lower body pressed into her, and intent on being the next re­cipient of the Golden Countess's favors, he said, "Relax, dar­ling, this won't take much of your time."