by Anita Mills
The girl plopped down in a chair across from her and reached into an open tin for a sugared date. “No doubt Lexy will get someone to teach you—if Lena will let him.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“She is the Little Mother here.” Tatiana made a face. “The Empress Ekaterina who married Peter the Great was called Little Mother also. She always had her way with him by being clever.” She bit into the date, then chewed thoughtfully. “But Olga was right—none of us thought Lexy would wed. When he wrote me, I did not believe it. And Olga—well, Olga was furious!” She giggled. “She wishes to have Domnya, and Lena will see she does not. Even if it meant that Lexy had to marry, Lena would have him do it.”
“I am told that there is difficulty between Lexy and Paul.”
“By Lena, no doubt.”
“Actually, it was Lexy.”
The girl reached for another sugared date and popped it into her mouth. “Well, it is apparent enough that my sister chose you—you are a meesch.” Her blue eyes met Katherine’s. “A mouse,” she explained. “But if you can tolerate Lena, who am I to complain?”
“Tati! Von asyooada! Syaychass!” Galena came into the room, shooing at her sister. “Ookadee-tye!”
Tatiana shrugged, then rose from the chair. “I am going, Lena.” At the door, she turned back. “Welcome to Domnya, Ekaterina Ivanova.”
“You must pay no heed to her—Olga has filled her head with nonsense.”
“She said she came up to translate for the maid.”
“Nyet. I said I would do it. She makes mischief because Lexy would not let her wed Genady Tcheramatov. Maria! Maria! That girl definitely goes to Boganin, for she is incompetent!”
“Dahma?”
“She would have a bath.” When the girl stared blankly, Galena threw up her hands. “Koopatsa! Doorak!”
The girl blenched. “Ya nye Angleechahnka.”
Galena turned to Katherine and sighed. “You will have to tell her if the water is too cold, I’m afraid. The word is khalodnee. If it is too hot, tell her it is garyachee.”
Katherine repeated the words carefully, then nodded. “We shall manage, I am sure.”
“Good. Anna will aid Maria with the bath.” That settled, Alexei’s sister started for the door, muttering under her breath something about Tatiana and shkola.
Footmen struggled in with huge kettles of steaming water and disappeared behind a large, carved wooden screen. The maid Maria could be heard, presumably directing them. More footmen came with kettles that did not steam. Katherine listened to them dispute, acutely aware that she had not the least notion as to what they said. Finally, the men left.
“Dahma?”
“Yes—that is, da,” she corrected herself quickly. Pointing to her own shoulder, she added, “Ya Ekaterina Volskaya.”
The woman nodded. “Dahma.” She gestured for Katherine to stand, and immediately began tugging at the buttons of the traveling dress. When Katherine caught her hands, she looked up blankly.
“I can do it myself.”
“Nyet. “Once again, the maid’s fingers struggled with the tiny jet buttons.
“Please.” Katherine sought the word in Russian, and tried “Pazhahlsta.”
The girl shook her head, then bent to lift the hem of the gown, pulling it upward. Undeterred, she appeared intent on undressing her. Unable to communicate, Katherine bent her head obediently. Then came the under-shift, and finally the zona. Katherine stood naked and utterly embarrassed.
“Nye troosee?”
“I don’t know,” Katherine muttered.
The girl giggled and lifted up her plain wool skirt, revealing yellowed linen pantalettes. Pointing to Katherine’s bare legs, she said, “Khalodnee.”
“We don’t wear them much in England.”
Another perplexed look.
“Look, I am khalodnee, Anna,” Katherine said impatiently.
“Da. “The maid stood back, waiting for her new mistress to pass, then followed her behind the screen. She said something to Maria, and the other maid nodded, gesturing to the long copper tub.
Katherine surmised her bath was ready. Her face still red, she stepped into the water, and the shock was nearly unbearable. Struggling to get up, she gasped, “Garyachee—garyachee!”
Maria hurriedly poured a steaming kettle from the fire into the water.”
“Nyet! Nyet! Ya garyachee!” Katherine cried, rising from the hot water.
“Khalodnee, Anna—khalodnee!” Tears welled in Maria’s eyes. “Veenavat, dahma—veenavat,” she whispered, her face a mirror of terror. “Pazhahlsta …”
“It is all right. Just put in the cold.” When both women exchanged blank looks, Katherine reached for a large ewer and tested the water. It was cold. She poured it into the tub herself, then looked for another. “More cold—more khalodnee.”
Finally, they managed to get the water right, and Katherine sank once again into the tub. Maria unstoppered a vial of scented oil and added it to the water. The fragrant scent of sandalwood permeated the air. Anna took a cloth and began soaping Katherine. After several attempts at explaining she’d rather do it herself, Katherine gave up and endured.
“Daragaya?”
Both girls cringed at the sound of Alexei’s voice. He peered around the screen, then murmured apologetically, “I am sorry—I thought you would be done.” He said something to Maria, and she went white, stammering some sort of explanation. As soon as he left, she burst into tears. The other maid dropped the cloth and tried to console her. Katherine finished washing herself.
When she was done and wrapped in a heavy woolen sheet, she came from behind the screen to find her husband sprawled across the bed. He gestured for Maria and Anna to leave, and they fled.
“You are feeling better, Ekaterina?” he murmured, watching her dry herself.
“I was not ill, Lexy—merely tired.” She held out an arm and sighed. “I will have to learn your language quickly or I will be burned in my bath.”
“The water was too hot?”
“Definitely.”
“You have but to tell Lena, and they will pay for the mistake. But you do not need to worry about Maria—I have decided to give her to my aide.”
She swung around. “Is that why she was crying?”
He shrugged. “It does not matter. She is a miserable maid.”
“But I like her,” Katherine lied. “And if she does not want—”
“I told you—it does not matter,” he interrupted curtly. “You can choose another. Lena will have Madame Popov find some girls for your approval.”
Clearly, he considered the matter closed. But Katherine, who had been less than pleased with Maria herself, suddenly felt she could not let the girl be passed like a slave to a man she did not like.
“Alexei—please—I’d keep her.”
He brushed her request aside. “Lena has decided she is unsuitable for you.”
“But I want her! Lexy, am I your wife—or is it Lena?”
He gave a start, then recovered. “What do you mean? Only you are Countess Volsky, Ekaterina.”
“Then Maria should be my choice, I think.”
“Maria is a serf.”
“I don’t care. I would have some authority in this house.”
“Ekaterina … Ekaterina … you do not yet understand.” He rose from the bed and came to stand before her. Putting his hands on her shoulders, he smiled down at her. “If it means so much to you, I will ask Lena.”
“I don’t want you to ask her—I want you to tell her I intend to keep Maria. Otherwise, I shall do it myself.”
“Da. “ He brushed her cheek lightly with the back of his hand. “She would have you happy here.”
“But would you? Lexy, I married you, not Galena. I love you, and—and it seems as though you do not really care for me—that Lena loves me more than you do. There, I have said it.”
“How could you say such a thing?”
“I don’t know,” she answered miserab
ly.
“It is the babe,” he decided. “But if you want, I will show you what I feel.” His voice dropped nearly to a whisper. “Ekaterina—” His mouth sought hers, and as she felt the heat course through her, he pulled at the woolen sheet. “Let us not quarrel.”
It would be quickly over—she did not doubt that—but she threw her arms around his neck eagerly. She wanted desperately to believe he loved her. And this was the only proof she had.
The Sherkovs’ Moscow mansion was richly appointed, darkly ornate, in the old style. And as the winter set in, it became almost a prison to one used to the mildness of the English climate. Bellamy Townsend began to think he’d made a mistake, that perhaps he ought to have chosen the heat, the dust, and the insects of India.
He was going to remove to a hotel, and not a moment too soon, given the situation with Sofia. If she did not stop hanging on him, she was going to get him killed, and the irony would be that again he was innocent. Not because he was not attracted to the woman, but rather because he had a sense of survival in this backward place. Every time she tempted him, he remembered Galena Malenkova’s warning.
He didn’t like Russia, and he cared even less for the Sherkovs. Sofia was increasingly insistent, her husband nearly insufferable, the weather utterly intolerable. And the longer Bell stayed, the more he had to dissemble. As loath as he was to go somewhere he could not be understood, he did not think he could spend another week under the Sherkov roof.
The marshal was a blunt, boorish man, overgiven to boasting and drink, with the former increasing in direct proportion to the latter. After his second bottle of vodka, he was more than willing to take personal credit for the allies’ defeat of Napoleon. And when he was not in his cups, his gout made him mean-spirited and cruel. Aside from vodka and vanity, his only other indulgence appeared to be Sofia.
And she detested Gregori, disparaging him behind his back. Spoiled, pampered, and petty, she relieved her boredom by flirting, heedless of the danger. Since Bell had been there, he’d observed her pressing against frightened equerries who suddenly disappeared—dispatched, it was rumored, to Siberia. And woe to the fellows foolish enough to appear to enjoy her attention. It was whispered they did not even get into exile. Whether Bell liked it or not, she was determined to be the noose around his neck. Whenever he mentioned leaving Moscow, she clung to him, begging him to stay the winter with them. He was now at the point where he was afraid to remain and afraid to run.
Lately he’d begun to feel that the marshal watched him, waiting like a bird of prey, ready for the moment Bell succumbed. It was as though they played a game, the three of them, and he was the only one who did not understand the rules. It was, he reflected wryly, his longest period of celibacy in nearly fifteen years.
On this night, sleet pelted the distorted windowpanes, and ice-covered branches rattled in the wind. As he locked his door, Bell loosened his cravat, and set down the half-empty bottle of vodka he’d carried up to his bedchamber. He was beginning to detest the stuff, he was beginning to long for a good port—or some Madeira even. But Gregori did not favor much of anything beyond his vodka, and Sofia’s taste ran more to the sweet, heavy liqueurs of the East.
There was something wrong with a place where a man had to get drunk with a fermented potato. Nonetheless, he poured himself a glass and stood looking out the window. The yellow glow of lanterns below made the ice sparkle, and in another time and another place, he would have been struck by the beauty of it. But not tonight. Tonight he longed for England—and for Elinor Kingsley. And he wondered if she lay abed in Cornwall longing for Longford. Or if Longford had come home and she lay in his arms.
He drained his glass, then walked across the room to blow out the brace of candles beside his bed. He undressed quickly, for despite the noise of the fire that blazed in the hearth, the cold northern wind seemed to penetrate the walls of the house. Shivering, he pulled on a wool nightshirt more suited to a peasant than any English lord. Fingers already stiffening from the cold worked buttons from his chin to his chest. The damned thing was itchy, but he forgave that in his quest for warmth.
He moved again to the window. As he watched, an overladen branch broke and fell, shattering the thick layer of ice when it hit the ground. Man was not meant to live in a place like this—he was sure of that.
Even his ears were cold. He drew away from the window, chafing his hands. Walking to the fire, he leaned toward the flames, trying to draw the warmth before it fled up the chimney. Finally, he did the once unthinkable—he pulled on his borrowed nightcap. Despite his dislike of it, he could not help smiling at the irony of it all—he, Bellamy Townsend, buck of the ton, Aphrodite’s Adonis, was getting into bed in a woolen nightshirt and a damned cap. If Brummell could see him now …
He turned around, found the bottle again, and took it to bed with him. The covers had been neatly turned back, and the sheets had been warmed, but he had no hopes of keeping them that way. He climbed between the feather beds, sinking deeply, shivering. Taking one last long pull from the vodka bottle, he put it down on the floor. He was becoming a sot—hell, he was a sot—no doubt at all about that.
He lay in the darkness, watching the flames cast eerie, licking shadows on silk-patterned walls, feeling empty and morose, probably from too much vodka. He was getting too damned moody, and he knew it, but he did not seem to be able to stop himself anymore. He’d trade each and every remarkable feature of his face for the chance to be Longford.
He let his mind drift, carrying him back to England, back to a time when Longford had been his best friend, back before Diana. Then he heard the click of a key in a lock, the unmistakable sound of a doorknob turning, and the hinges creaked as his door opened slowly. Pulling off the hateful cap, he sat upright. The door closed carefully, and the lock turned again.
“Don’t be a fool, Sofia,” he hissed at her.
She moved between him and the fire, and the outline of her body was visible beneath an all-too-thin nightshift. She knew he watched her now, and she lifted the gown over her head, letting it fall at her feet. She crossed the room slowly, deliberately, as the firelight bent her shadow over his bed.
“Sherkov—”
“Gregori could not waken if he wanted,” she whispered, slipping between the covers beside him. Twining cold arms around his neck, she nibbled at his lips, murmuring, “I gave him laudanum for his gout.”
“He had too much vodka. What if—”
She stopped his words with a searching kiss, and her naked body pressed into him. When she raised her head, her eyes were already darkened with passion. “I did not come to speak of him,” she murmured as her hands roamed lower, feeling his manhood beneath his heavy nightshirt. Her mouth moved to his ear, and her breath sent a different shiver through him. He felt her fingers arouse him as she said softly, “I came for this.”
His heart pounded as desire threatened to overwhelm him. “Not here—not now—”
“Cher Bellamy, you make me wait forever,” she wheedled. “I tell you Gregori will not know.”
He tried to stifle the feeling by drawing Kate Winstead to mind, recalling every barb she’d cast his way. Her words rang in his ears. But you trespassed on my father’s welcome. He could hear the disapproval in her voice when she said it. And certainly he trespassed dangerously on Sherkov’s. With an effort, he pushed Sofia Sherkova away.
“I cannot.”
“But Gregori—”
“Not Gregori,” he lied. Sitting up, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Sofia—”
She leaned against his back. “There is nothing you can tell me, Bellamy, that would make any difference.”
“The time is not right!”
She sat back at that. “Why not?”
“I don’t know. I just cannot do this—not now.”
“Poor Bellamy,” she murmured. “With Sofia it will be different.”
“No. I cannot.”
“You are impotent?” she asked incredulously. “Since
when? And you did not tell me? You let Sofia Sherkova make a fool of herself, I think!”
Seizing on the excuse, he looked away. “It isn’t the sort of thing a man tells a woman, but under the circumstances—”
“I don’t believe you!” Nonetheless, she moved away from him. “You have the sickness, don’t you?”
He knew he was going to regret it later, but he nodded.
“But you did not tell me! Why did you not say something to me before?” she demanded furiously. “I would not have wasted so much time on you!” She rolled off the bed and stared at him with loathing. “I want you out of my house! You are useless to me! No wonder you have come to Russia,” she cried. “You do not want the English to know it!”
“Sofia-”
“Where did you get it?” she shouted.
“It comes from associating with whores, Sofia.”
“You leave tomorrow!”
“I had planned to inquire of a hotel. Perhaps you know of one suitable?” he asked, his jaw tightening.
She calmed down at that. “No,” she said finally. “Gregori will think it is a lover’s quarrel. And he will think it strange you desert his hospitality for a hotel.” She considered a moment, then decided. “You leave here to go—to Domnya. Yes, you have been invited for Christmas by Lena. She must have company for the English stick. I will write her in the morning.”
“I’d rather you did not tell Madame Malenkov why,” he said.
“I may—and I may not.” She moved to the door for a moment to listen, then opened it. “Good night, cher Bellamy,” she said regretfully. “We could have enjoyed each other.”
“I know.”
He felt both relieved and chagrined. To get rid of Sofia Sherkova, he’d probably given himself the life of a monk.
The old man was already down for breakfast, and he looked sourly over his paper as Bell joined him, then nodded. For a moment, Bell wondered if Sherkov’s head ached as much as his.
“My wife does not join us.”
The hairs at the back of the younger man’s neck stood. “Oh-is she ill?”
“Not at all. She said she did not sleep well last night—that my snoring kept her awake. I told her it was the laudanum, of course.” He touched his wrapped leg and winced. “But with this, what is there to do?”