“I will not wear it. Tell Pavel to bring another. No Romany wears red. It is the color of death.”
The maid stared furiously back, outraged that a mere gypsy should scorn the hospitality of her master. She stalked out the door, slamming it emphatically on the stormy scene behind her. Zofia would never understand the count’s desire to bring gypsies — trash! — into his home. Granted, the girl was beautiful, but such a temper. Almost as quick to blow up as Ivanov himself.
As she scurried down the hall, Ivanov stepped out of the shadows and halted the maid. “What is going on?” he demanded softly, gesturing at the room she had just left.
Zofia was glad to complain. “What a one. Screeching at me about the dress Pavel brought for her.”
“What was wrong with the dress?”
The thin, homely Zofia shrugged and threw up her gnarled hands. “Something about the color. It’s death, she says. All that blather about nothing. And such a pretty gown it was, too.”
Ivanov thought fast. Distracted, he said, “Carry on, Zofia. Go tell Pavel she will be ready soon. I will see to it myself.”
Bobbing a curtsey, the maid hurried off. Moments later Ivanov hurried up the central staircase and opened another door on a host of memories, as he breached the dusty peace of the golden bridal suite for the first time in two decades.
Inside the row of closets, creased and pressed and carefully wrapped in protective tissue, was the entire untouched trousseau he had commissioned a Paris dressmaker to craft for Ekaterina. Blues, greens, and golds dominated the color scheme, those shades she wore so well. As if making an important decision, he went through the wardrobe carefully, setting aside any red hues.
There. Suitable for dancing, a flared knee-length skirt of green silk trimmed with gold fringes was attached to a golden-shot silk bodice over a lace chemisette. Though outdated in style, the material was as bright as if it had just been made. Taking it reverently from the closet, Ivanov carried the outfit back downstairs and, after hesitating, knocked softly on the guest chamber door.
“Damien?” A sweet, clear voice inquired, and as she hurried to answer, “You won’t believe what that rat Pavel has done now.”
As she flung open the door, April gasped in shock and embarrassment, trying to cover herself too late from the intense stare of a pleasant-looking older man. In his arms was a mound of glistening material, and before she could speak, he said gravely, “I would be honored if you would wear this instead.”
His Russian was fluent and very cultured. April felt like a clumsy country maid, but tried to overcome her shock by taking the dress he proffered and hugging it to her body.
For a moment, neither spoke. She wondered who this man was, why he was dressed so finely and most especially why he was staring at her so disconcertingly.
“You favor green, don’t you?” he finally said to shatter the tense silence.
She nodded, her eyes wide as she looked over the beautiful dress he had given her. “It’s my favorite color.”
Ivanov smiled even as his heart pounded furiously in his chest. Her voice was musical, but more importantly, the girl was a mirror-image of his Katya in her youth, even more stunning than his fiancée had been in the height of her beauty. There was a palpable quality to this girl that was similar, yet different. For certain she had the same formidable temper, but there was a softness in her eyes that had not been there in the frigid green pools Ekaterina had possessed.
“I have been terribly remiss,” he said then, giving her a short bow. “I am Count Vasili Ivanov. I am delighted to welcome you to my ancestral home, Samarin.”
April tilted her head curiously. She had never met a count before, of the nobility that she could recall. Yet this man put her instantly at ease, though she was but half-dressed. She did not fear him, and did not hesitate to return a greeting in kind.
“My name is April. I am Romany.” There was no shame in her voice, just simple pride.
“You are the entertainer for this evening?” Ivanov already knew as much but he wished to linger, drinking in her unsullied aura. Something about her innocence relieved a great ache in his breast.
“Yes, along with my husband, Damien, who makes the music for me.”
At the mention of a husband, Vasili’s spirits plummeted. Pavel had said nothing about a husband. Perhaps the dwarf did not know? Unlikely, knowing that shifty little fellow. He offered an indifferent nod for April’s sake.
“I will leave you now to prepare. Do you require Zofia again?”
“No, thank you.” He watched a small smile dance around the edges of her sweetly-shaped mouth. “I am not used to servants hovering about me like moths around a fire. You will have to excuse my country ways.”
“Country, perhaps, but charming nonetheless,” he countered smoothly. “I shall see you later at the performance. Welcome to Samarin, my lady.”
The way he emphasized the last two words struck April as strange somehow, but before she had time to muse on it, he had gone. Slowly pushing the door shut again, she shook her mind free of fancies and went to prepare for her dance.
“YOU MUST BE DAMIEN, the musician.”
The suave voice that suddenly spoke behind him caused Damien to tense and turn quickly around. He met the cool bland gaze of a middle-aged man, no doubt their mysterious host, finely dressed and fully mannered even for a gypsy’s benefit.
Damien returned the aristocrat’s intense appraisal with his own. He saw the count flush under the stare of a supposedly lesser man.
“Yes,” Damien grudgingly acknowledged at last, returning his attentions to tuning his violin. “And who are you?”
“I am Count Ivanov, owner of Samarin House. I am your host, a grateful one indeed that you and your lady consented to entertain me on this dismal winter night.”
Something in the count’s smooth response bothered Damien, though he couldn’t put his finger on it just yet. The man acted too cordial, especially after Damien’s blatant disrespect. Why should one of Moscow’s elite choose to sponsor a pair of gypsies, whether he was desperate or not? Surely such a fellow could have his share of doting females, and keep well enough entertained during the long winter in the privacy of his own bedchamber.
Though the count seemed obviously ill at ease, he still pressed Damien for information. “I am told the dancer will be joining you soon. Your wife, I believe?”
Ivanov saw the gypsy’s flint-blue eyes narrow on him at the observation, and he tensed. Did this fellow possibly sense his keen interest in April? He was certain he had kept his tone polite and noncommittal. Yet the scrutiny with which Damien examined him made the count feel as if he had just blurted his passions aloud.
“Yes. My wife.” The words held obvious possession, thin as a knife and twice as sharp. To his chagrin, Ivanov found he was the first to break gazes with Damien and call out with relief as another joined them, “Pavel. You have done very well.”
Ivanov’s gesture included Damien’s new outfit, a rich ensemble that did not disguise the Romany’s powerfully muscled, tall frame. The slacks were fine black linen, the white silk shirt topped with a dark blue velvet vest trimmed with gold braid and sequins.
There was thinly-veiled disapproval in Ivanov’s tone, the fact that he had also noted the cost to his coffers in buying this stranger new clothes. Pavel came hurrying over, ignoring the count’s look of censure with a falsetto gushing that made Damien raise one eyebrow.
“I am delighted that you are pleased. Are they not a picture, him so dark and her so golden? Ah, but forgive me, of course you have yet to feast your eyes on the beautiful little dancer. Rest assured she is as light as this one dark, perfectly suited to him.” Pavel enjoyed thrusting the little barb at the count, who was powerless before Damien to disagree.
Ivanov kept a smile pasted to his features. “I look forward to making her acquaintance as well.”
“You shall not have long to wait. No, indeed, for here she is now.” Pavel pointed at April standing hesitant
ly at the entrance to the grand ballroom, poised upon the checkered squares of onyx and ivory like a queen debating her move in the game.
As all three men turned to stare, her color heightened under their combined scrutiny. Quickly she read the expressions there; Pavel, disdainful as always, Damien, concerned and so grim, and the count’s dark eyes clouded with some unreadable emotion.
She entered under an arch gilded with gold leaf and walked in a whisper of silk up to Damien. “Are you ready?” she asked him softly, taking hold of his sleeve for comfort and support.
“Whenever you are,” he replied flatly.
Something was wrong. April sensed it stronger than ever, her finely tuned nature silently shrilling with alarm as she surveyed the ready room and its few occupants.
A cold chill caressed her skin, and she parted her lips to speak, to beg off the performance, but then Damien broke abruptly free and went to take his place across the room.
April was left alone with the count and Pavel, who both murmured meaningless compliments before departing to their own chairs placed squarely in front of her. As Ivanov sat back and studied her intently, she felt a rush of overwhelming trepidation, though whether from nerves or an imaginary danger she did not know.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, April swept the count a dramatic curtsey. Vasili’s narrowed eyes noted that her grace was feline and a perfect unconscious mimicry of the Grand Duke’s niece. Katya had been like a golden lioness, lithe and beautiful, and just as deadly. Known as the Circassian Cat among court circles, her exotic heritage had only made her more desirable to men, and rumors that she was directly descended from the fierce 12th century Queen Tamar had never been questioned.
April was so similar that merely watching her made Vasili’s blood rush and pound in his veins. One moment she was a simple gypsy girl, whirling and clashing her finger cymbals, the next she was that sultry court siren Katya weaving her timeless spell around him again. He was so haunted by the resemblance that he soon had to force his gaze away from her and concentrate upon the musician instead.
Noting the count’s sudden aversion, April assumed she had done something wrong. Her emotions plummeted. It seemed that she could please nobody of late. Even Damien, whom she knew loved her, was cool and remote. Deciding to take a short-cut and end the humiliation, she gave one final spinning flourish and dropped to the floor in a puddle of green and gold silk.
Cut off in mid-draw, Damien looked at April in annoyed confusion. What was she trying to do? Her face was averted from him but he could clearly sense her intent not to continue. And if they did not please the count, he might toss them out. Not to mention the vengeance Pavel would extract, as the dwarf had already threatened what would happen should they fail to amuse Count Ivanov.
Pavel’s expression was thunderous, but he was intelligent enough to look to Ivanov before he reacted. Seeing the predisposition to kindness in the count’s eyes, Pavel merely glared at April until she finally raised her face to all the men and murmured one simple word.
“Please. I can’t continue right now.”
It was a plea and a statement, all in one. It was clear she either would not, or could not, go on. Damien didn’t know whether to be angry or proud, but when the count rose and extended his hand to April, raising her slowly up with his dark eyes riveted to her, he knew he definitely wasn’t happy.
Jealousy clenched Damien, surprising him yet again. It was obvious that Ivanov was intrigued with April. And what man wouldn’t be, he reasoned. She was living beauty, grace inborn, and as refreshingly innocent as the court ladies were not.
Like a fawn, April quivered before Ivanov, seemingly unsure of her first instinct for flight. Something in her eyes obviously appealed to the count’s male instinct to want to protect her. Though Damien knew April could fend for herself, he longed to break Ivanov’s grip on his wife’s hand with a brutal bodily thrust between them.
“Don’t you feel well, my dear?” the count inquired in a solicitous, fatherly tone that didn’t fool Damien for a minute.
“No, I don’t,” April responded breathlessly. “I’m feverish and a little dizzy.”
“Then I insist you immediately retire for the evening. You are my guests, and are welcome to reside in my home for the night.” Ivanov turned slightly to include Damien in his invitation. “Of course I will provide you with separate chambers, so that your wife may rest undisturbed.”
Damien’s eyes narrowed at that suspiciously hospitable statement, but he could not speak before Ivanov had summoned one of the maidservants who was hovering near the foiled entrance.
“Zofia. You will show Madame April to the Gold Room for the night.”
“But —” the woman began, obviously taken aback about something.
Ivanov gaze hardened on the maid. “If she needs anything, you will see to it.”
Dropping her gaze, Zofia nodded and bobbed a mutinous curtsey. Satisfied, the count waited until April turned to follow the maid out.
Ivanov saw Damien still stood clutching the neck of his violin as if he would strangle it. Amused, he considered the imposition of the girl’s unwelcome husband, but decided that the fellow had earned a hearty meal and a warm bed for one night. Tomorrow he could be paid or persuaded to relinquish his lovely young wife into the safekeeping of Samarin House.
Chapter Thirteen
THE ROOM THAT APRIL was shown to had been hastily dusted and readied for occupation only moments before. Anticipating the count’s commands, Zofia had seen to it that the Gold Room was presentable. Though April had no idea what caused the maidservant to regard her so darkly, she immediately picked up on the strange atmosphere within the room.
“Someone left their things here,” she remarked, turning in surprise to confront Zofia.
But the maid slipped out, slamming the great carved oak door behind her. April was a little disconcerted, but not frightened. She assumed Zofia disliked her for her dancing, which was not so unusual. And she did not feel energetic enough right now to confront the woman.
With a weary sigh, April undressed. She found the wardrobe conveniently full of beautiful gowns and chamber wear, and chose an ermine-trimmed satin wrapper to ward off the chill. She padded curiously around the room, wondering who usually kept residence here.
On a Queen Anne vanity of deeply polished wood, she found an array of delicate crystal flagons and cosmetics, most still uncorked or in their original wrappers. There was a heavy ivory-handled hairbrush and matching carved comb, exquisitely designed and yet free of stray hairs, unused. She had no idea that only an hour earlier a priceless emerald necklace had been strewn across the same vanity, for it had been whisked away to safer quarters now.
April wondered if the count provided such homey touches for all his guests. Perhaps so. But as she circled the room, studying the huge velvet-canopied bed with its sable throw, she felt an icy shiver of fear that could not be fully explained.
Of course, she was still uncomfortable about imposing on the hospitality of a stranger, and about coming to Moscow in the first place. The elegance of the room and the beautiful gowns arrayed like jewels in the closets could not fully distract her from worrying about the future.
Surely sometime this chamber had belonged to a young lady like herself. The count’s wife, perhaps, or his daughter? But he had mentioned nothing like that. Still, April’s senses were finely tuned and she fancied she could catch the faintest whiff of a perfume still clinging to the room.
At last, too tired to ponder further, she sank into a deeply cushioned, gold satin chair that faced the only window. Unlike the room on the first floor, this chamber had no open door to the tiny balcony outside. Instead it appeared that it had been bricked off to create the smaller window instead. The view was currently limited to blowing gusts of snow and an occasional glimpse of an icy moon. April had not felt so lonely in a long time.
When a soft knock came at her door, she found herself anxious for company. Even if the unfriendly Zofia was onl
y returning to check on her, she decided she would delay the maid with an excuse to talk.
“Come in,” she called, turning in the chair to welcome her visitor.
She was surprised when Ivanov himself appeared. In his hands was a beautiful silver tea tray and an array of tiny sandwiches.
“Oh,” April started to get up, but he shook his head kindly at her as he paused to shut the door behind him.
“I thought you might welcome a bite of food and something warm to drink,” he explained. “I doubt if you had time to sup before you came.”
The sight of the sandwiches filled to overflowing with thinly sliced meat and cheeses did look appealing. Not thinking to consider her state of dishabille, April helped him to move over a small table between two chairs.
“You must join me,” she said, truly hoping he would stay for a minute. The storm outside and the dark night had brought a loneliness to her soul that could not be quelled by the fire crackling merrily in the grate beside the bed.
Ivanov was trying all the while not to stare at the deep shadow that was revealed when the top of April’s wrapper gaped a little. Though he knew her to possess a lovely body, this first glimpse of paradise almost rendered him breathless. Had he been Damien, he knew he should have demanded his wife wear sackcloth to still the hungry gazes of other men.
April curled like a little cat in the chair across from him, waiting for his cue to sink her teeth into a sandwich. Then she rolled her eyes and exclaimed in delight, “It’s delicious. You can’t imagine what we’ve been eating all these weeks on the road.”
Ivanov was amused. Her honest enthusiasm thawed something in his heart. He hadn’t felt this young in years.
“I hope you enjoy every bite,” he said sincerely. “And rest assured, I had a platter twice this size taken to your husband. Cook will be furious if you don’t eat every crumb. You see, I roused her at this late hour to see to my guests’ comforts.”
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