"I find everything about her intimidating," Stefan retorted, adding with a smile, "in a most refreshing way. And I'd like to thank you for her sponsorship into society."
"I was more than happy to comply with your request. She's very entertaining.''
Stefan's glance went steely for a suspicious moment and they were no longer Tsar and Commander but only two men.
"I meant that in the most benign sense," Alexander II said mildly. He stroked his heavy sideburns for a second or two and then quietly declared, "I'm no longer young, and Catherine and my small family are my comfort."
"Forgive me," Stefan apologized. "As you can see," he said with a sigh, "I'm beyond sanity when it comes to the Countess." Taking a deep breath he plunged on. "Which point, in fact, brings me here today." He went on to describe his current problems with Vladimir and his rather sudden termination of his engagement.
Alexander was quiet throughout Stefan's recital, asking questions only twice, both having to do with the Sesta incident.
"Vladimir threatened to see you tonight," Stefan finished, "and suggest my involvement."
"We'll see that he's detained for a time at the chancellery," Alexander said.
Greatly encouraged by the Tsar's reaction to his story, Stefan dared to add, "But there's something about him that doesn't seem quite right. He and his daughter both made remarks along the lines of 'just until the end of the war.' I don't have the time to find out what he's involved in—if it's anything. You know I have to get back to Kars. But perhaps, sir…?" He hesitated.
Alexander stroked his chin meditatively. "I've never liked Taneiev. Perhaps he should be looked into." He stared at the photo of his two young sons. "Trust is so difficult these days," he said, his voice sad and introspective. He'd become more isolated and suspicious over the past few years, distrustful of friends, appalled by the dissensions and intrigues among his chiefs of staff in the course of the war, aware of the venality of his bureaucracy. He was a man under siege.
"The war's unpopular in some quarters," Stefan said. "Perhaps when it's over things will get better." Stefan might be the Tsar's best field commander, but he had spent years fighting the timid protectionist policies of the general staff, the incompetence of the Grand Dukes who had power in the war councils. He knew indignant voices were often raised in Saint Petersburg against him, against the Tsar and the war.
"I won't give in to the reactionary forces," Alexander declared in his deep, weary voice. "This war must be won or all the lives lost in the Turkish atrocities will be in vain." Russia had been the only country willing to come to the aid of the Christian minority in Turkey.
"We're in a much better position now with reinforcements and supplies almost in place, and the Turks are having problems in Istanbul, too. Various factions are demanding a ceasefire. The war is costly to them, as well. Perhaps if Kars can be breached, it will accelerate their surrender. Bezna-Pasha took his Turkoman troops home last month and vowed not to return. All of the border tribes are restive because they haven't been paid by the Turks. No gold, no Circassians, is a proverb the truth of which can't be denied," Stefan said with a quick grin. His face sobered in the next instant. "The fall campaign could be decisive." Then he smiled again, because he felt on familiar, secure ground. "With the border tribes melting away, the Turks have no cavalry, no scouts, no way of knowing our plans. We can take them this time, Excellency."
"Thank you, Stefan," Alexander gently said, "for your encouraging news, and for all your victories in this war. Your father would have been proud of you." The Emperor still missed his old friend, the Field Marshal; they'd remained in touch until Alex Bariatinsky had died, vacationing together occasionally at Plombières, Ems or Baden-Baden.
"He was Russia's greatest Field Marshal," his son said. Stefan's father's conquests had never been matched before or since, and his sense of honor and duty had been passed on to his son.
"Some say you'll surpass him." The Tsar's smile was benevolent.
"Never, Excellency." Stefan's voice was softly emphatic and he looked away briefly to suppress the wetness welling in his eyes. Whatever soldiering he knew, he'd learned from his father; whatever capabilities he had as a commander, he'd inherited from him. All his skills and talent and aptitude he owed to the man who'd loved him most in the world and had taught him that the measure of one's worth was in one's deeds. And despite the passing years and the sorrow of his disgrace, his father had always been Stefan's only hero.
Alexander II had also had his share of sorrows and he'd always felt a sympathy for Stefan, for the way he'd overcome his father's humiliation and forged a life for himself conspicuous for its success. "I believe I shan't have time to speak with Vladimir tonight," the Tsar said. "My equerries will inform him of my wishes." He smiled then, his thin careworn features brightening. "He should have known better. If I trust anyone, it's you, Stefan. And my congratulations on your marriage plans."
Stefan's dark eyes lighted up first and then his mouth creased into an answering smile. "Thank you. It gives one incentive—" he grinned "—to end the war speedily."
"Excellent idea," the Tsar declared, his weariness less a burden now, his thoughts more buoyant. Stefan was always able to give him hope for victory. "I'll count on you to expedite the Turkish surrender." Reaching over he rang for his aide. "Now, then, we need a special license."
When Stefan left the Winter Palace a half hour later, he held the special license, signed and sealed, in his hand. Vladimir was checkmated, and he had a wedding to organize.
Lisaveta was sleeping when he returned, exhausted from the previous night as well as from their sensual play that afternoon, and Stefan tiptoed into his room in order not to disturb her.
Drawing up a chair, he sat beside the bed, content, happy, pleased and very much in love. He was going to marry her, he thought, with a bubbling jubilation unique to his jaded soul. He was going to marry the silk of her dark curls and the sweetness of her rosy cheeks; he was going to marry her small hand lying on the Venetian lace of the pillow cover and her lush pink mouth and all the multiple and varied wonders of her to the tips of her perfect toes.
He was besotted, he realized, when he reached out to stroke her hair spread out on the pillow, feeling a need to touch her. She delighted him and bewitched him, and very gently in order not to wake her, he stroked the texture of one curl.
Although lightly done, Lisaveta seemed to sense his movement, and her eyes opened. "I missed you," she murmured, her smile drowsy with sleep.
"You had better," he answered, his smile so benevolent the angels could have taken lessons.
Remembering suddenly where he'd gone and why, she sat upright in agitation, the bed linen falling away, her eyelet nightdress pulled askew, the curve of her shoulder bared. The apprehension she'd put aside in sleep came rushing back. "How are you?" she fearfully asked.
Gazing at her, flushed and beautiful, he thought with a stab of terror how close he'd come through pride and arrogance to losing her. Perhaps he could have abducted her again, but he would not have been able to make her stay, for she was too complex or independent or simply not willing to adapt to his wishes. Even if she had stayed he would never have felt completely secure. And he needed her, he realized, the way he needed air to live.
"How am I?" he repeated gently. With exultation and joy he answered his own question in the utter silence of her apprehension. "I'm free," he said.
She didn't move. He'd expected her to laugh or smile at least, jump with excitement or throw herself into his arms, but she was fearful still, as was her tone of voice. "You can't be. They wouldn't make it that easy. Don't tease me, Stefan, or equivocate if it's not true. It can't be true."
"Have you no faith?" he teased, lounging back in his chair.
"Not in Vladimir Taneiev and his ice-cold daughter." In the course of her stay in Saint Petersburg, the Taneiev family had taken every opportunity to show their malevolence. She was well
aware of the full extent of their viciousness.
"Does your faithlessness extend to the Tsar?"
She smiled then, tentatively. "He supports you?"
Stefan drew the special license from his pocket, lifted it so the bold printing was visible and grinned.
She launched herself into his arms like a gamboling puppy and covered his face with wet warm kisses. "I was terrified… I'd never see you… after tomorrow," she whispered between the rhythm of her kisses. "I thought Nadejda would spirit you away—or make you stay away—or somehow barricade you from me." Her murmured voice was an agitated rush of words. "But you're here, you're really here!" Leaning away from him, she gazed at Stefan as if to certify her words. As a blind person might, she ran her hands over his face and down his throat, over the breadth of his shoulders and down his chest, resting them finally, her palms on the embroidered black China silk directly over his heart.
He hadn't touched her except to steady her when she landed in his lap, basking in the glory of her jubilant kisses and joyful hysteria, letting his own sense of unutterable joy inundate his mind.
"I love you," Lisaveta whispered, "so much I thought I'd die if I lost you."
"I love you, dushka," he softly said, his dark eyes beneath his heavy brows intense with emotion, "enough to give up my command."
"You didn't!" Her exclamation was an explosive whisper, vibrating with shock. "I would have."
"No!" Her single word was as firmly declarative as his admission. She'd listened to the sadness in his voice those weeks in the mountains when he'd spoken of his father. She couldn't face him if he'd made that same sacrifice for her.
"If it came to a choice, I would." His statement was without subterfuge or arrogance. No longer the commander of the Tsar's cavalry or his father's son, Stefan was only a man in love, a man who'd discovered happiness after years of dismissing the concept as poetic license. "So…" He covered her small hands with his. "Will you mind a very precipitous wedding tonight?"
"Tonight?" Her squeal was spontaneous feminine surprise, the kind reflecting wholly practical considerations like dresses, flowers, family and guests, all the ritual every young girl dreams of as fairy-tale magic.
"We leave in the morning." Stefan's voice was tolerant male but wholly practical, too. He had a war to fight, and dresses and flowers and family hadn't even remotely crossed his mind.
"In the morning?"
"Am I speaking in some unintelligible language?" he amusedly asked.
"Maybe we shouldn't," Lisaveta abruptly replied.
"Don't even start," Stefan said. "I sold my soul."
"That's what I mean," she protested. "I don't want you to sell your soul." She pulled her hands free. "Maybe you'll be sorry in a week or a year… maybe Vladimir will change the Tsar's mind and then you'll hate me for ruining your life. Maybe—"
"God, Lise, stop being noble."
"I'm not being noble, I just don't want to hurt you. I don't want you to decide later our marriage was too hasty." The petulant moue she made signified her uncertainty and disquietude.
"I could always divorce you—" Stefan's grin was playful "—if that happened. Boris divorced his wife one weekend when he was out shooting with the Tsar. Alexander signed the special decree and Helene discovered her new status on Monday."
"Well, I could divorce you, too," Lisaveta immediately retorted, her sense of outrage aggravated by his teasing male arrogance and the ease with which he could expedite a divorce if he wished.
"So there. We're perfectly matched. Why not take a chance?" His casual words were disconcerting and reminiscent of the transience of his affairs and, after his last remark about divorce, not precisely the tone conducive to a romantic concept of marriage. She could feel her heart pounding at the nonchalance of his remarks, alarmed he might in truth view this marriage as an indulgent whim. She wanted her deep love returned in kind, and resentment prompted her reply. "I don't wish to marry someone as a speculative venture."
She looked very young in white eyelet and tumbled curls and a petulant scowl, and Stefan thought that although in many ways she was learned beyond her years, she was also ingenuous and unsophisticated in feminine wiles. There wasn't a woman of his acquaintance who would have risked refusing his proposal.
"Look, darling," he said with a winning smile, conscious of her pursed lips and high color as well as the temper in her remark, treading lightly because he was never absolutely sure of her response, "I'm leaving in the morning. I don't want to but I must, and while I prefer not pulling rank on you and I love and adore you in all your moods, you needn't be fearful or noble or testy about our marriage. I'll never divorce you, I swear. I was teasing. So just humor me and say, 'Tonight would be perfect for our wedding,' and I'll have the palace staff do their damnedest to follow every little order you wish to give and we'll live happily ever after till the end of time, my word on it, dushka." And his smile not only touched her heart with its boyish winsomeness but made her feel guilty for her temper.
"I don't have a wedding dress," she said in a very small voice.
"Oh, Lord," he said softly, "is that what this is all about?"
"No, it isn't," she hotly retorted. Instantly she chastised herself for another overheated response, and with a faint sigh that encompassed the impossibility of putting all the normal wedding preparations into the minutes allotted her, she added, "It's about… everything."
"Everything?" Reaching up to ruffle the curls at her temple, he cordially inquired, "Do I have time for a definition of 'everything'?"
"You're not very romantic." Her expression was that of a pouty small girl and utterly delightful.
He smiled, apologizing, promising to be romantic, this man who had always scoffed at the notion, then pulling her into his arms, he held her tight, thinking himself the luckiest man alive. Not only did he love beyond the mountains of the moon but he'd never be bored.
Her plaintive "ouch" brought him out of his cheerful reverie.
"Your embroidery," she softly reproved, the sheer eyelet of her nightgown no barrier to bristly metallic thread.
Pulling his shirt out of his trousers, Stefan undid the buttons at his neck and tugged his shirt over his head in one swift movement. The dark China silk fell in fluttering folds to the floor. "So fill me in," he said, drawing her back against his chest, "on 'everything,' and we'll have the staff take care of it."
"How much time do I have?" Lisaveta asked, looking up at him. "Does that sound impossibly pragmatic?" she went on in a tentative voice, then answered her own question in the next breath. "Well, maybe it does, but I've always dreamed girlish dreams of frothy gowns and flowers and priestly choirs and candles and music… and true love."
Stefan touched the fullness of her bottom lip lightly with one finger and said with a quiet intensity, "You have true love, dushka, and you can also have all your girlish dreams. And there's nothing wrong with being pragmatic… it's your wedding." His smile was indulgent. "Is two hours enough?" It was a man's question and he thought a reasonable one.
"Two hours!" she wailed.
He could see their concepts of reasonable differed. "Four hours then, how about that?" he generously offered. "But anything after eleven o'clock, I draw the line." He shrugged and gently reminded her, "The Turks won't wait."
"We'll have to tell Nikki and Alisa," she said, capitulating.
"I already told them on the way home."
"Some men are terribly sure of themselves." Her fine brows lifted in teasing rebuke.
He grinned. "Years of practice."
"I can still change my mind," Lisaveta warned, her golden eyes bright with laughter. "No, you can't."
"Why can't I, pray tell? I'm not obliged to marry you." Her glance was mischievous.
Your cousin Nikki may disagree with you there, Stefan thought, but said instead, "All the guests will be disappointed."
"All the guests?" she said in a very tiny voice.
"And the Ts
ar."
"The Tsar?" she whispered.
"The chapel candelabra are being polished even as we speak." His expression was amused.
"What if I'd said no?"
"You already said yes."
"I could have changed my mind," she said in a feminine way that over the centuries had been bred into every female on earth—the art of being contrary on principle.
"Well, then I'd have to change it back. I'm good at that." His dark eyes were suddenly as suggestive as his voice, and she was momentarily reminded of his… competence.
"How many guests are invited?" she asked with a studied casualness, aware he was correct in his assurance and wondering in the next beat of her heart how many of his former lovers, how many recipients of his "competence," would be in attendance.
"I think the chapel holds three hundred."
"How many are women?" There. She'd said it. It would have been impossible to be subtle, so her blunt question conveyed the full extent of her concern.
"Just wives of friends," he carefully replied. "I didn't count." Did she really think he was that insensitive?
"I'm jealous," she candidly said.
"So am I. None of your gallants were invited." His voice was gruff.
She smiled at his vigilance. "We agree then."
"I hope so. I wasn't dancing with every man in Saint Petersburg."
"I thought you were probably doing something much less innocent wherever you were."
"Well, I wasn't," he huffily said, as if after years of dalliance she should have intuitively realized he was being celibate across two thousand miles of Russia.
"I adore your jealousy." Lisaveta soothed the crease between his black brows.
"Humpf," he muttered, all his territorial feelings too new to fully assimilate.
Reaching up, she kissed him in selfish gratitude and miraculous wonder, her heart so full of love she wanted to laugh and cry and shout her happiness to the world. And when one small tear spilled over her eyelid and trailed down her cheek, Stefan followed it with kisses, his breath warm on her cheek.
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