Who was the musician? Where had he learned A Night in Madrid? Had he studied under Mikhail Glinka, perhaps? Speculation flew as the boyar stood for an encore, but Damien did not reappear.
‘Take me out of here,” April begged Ivanov under the cover of clapping and cheering.
“Nonsense,” he said as he leaned close to her, “it will only confirm the rumors that you are my mistress then.”
“What? You cannot mean they believe the princess?”
Ivanov laughed at her. “Are you as innocent as you seem? They have been thinking that ever since you first appeared by my side in the sleigh. That is what I meant by opportunity, April. Either you are my mistress or you are a relative, but at any rate you are fit to be among the boyar.”
“You tricked me,” she said, yanking her hand free of his possessive grip, “but your little game is over. I want to leave.”
“Will you cause another scene so quickly, my dear? I assure you they are all still fascinated by your little duel with Tatiana earlier. You have opportunity to have them at your mercy now, if only you listen to me.”
“As you have me at yours? I am not a weapon to be used against those you hate.”
With surprising swiftness Ivanov recaptured her hand, and crushing it painfully under his arm, he murmured, “Are you not? We shall see.” And he rose then, dragging her with him down the aisle, making it look as if she clung to his arm of her own free will.
There was no opportunity to protest. Hundreds of eyes watched them leaving. April was helpless and furious at the same time. How could she have been so foolish as to trust Ivanov? It was clear he was only using her as a tool to strike back at the boyar who had laughed at him so long ago.
Instead of leading her to the exit, as she had hoped, the count took her to the ballroom for dancing. Other musicians were already set up, playing a lively ensemble. Flocks of people were arriving by means of various entrances after Damien’s performance.
“Now we will see what you are made of,” Ivanov told April in a low voice. “I know you can dance, but can you waltz?”
“I can do anything I wish,” she shot back angrily. April carefully observed the couples whirling gracefully in triple-time to the lilting music. “It does not look so difficult.”
“We shall put you to the test shortly. But for now, I think I must revive your color with some punch. I trust you will not wander off.” His voice was genial, but his eyes were hard.
April nodded curtly and he left her standing alone for a minute. The Strauss music, though lovely, was beginning to make her temples ache. She sought for a place away from the curious eyes of the aristocrats around her. Some of the men had begun sidling closer to her the moment the count had gone.
Slipping into an adjoining small chamber that hinted a brief respite, April paused to catch her breath away from the crush and the stares. She closed her own eyes and tried not to think of the man she still longed for and loved.
“You are creating quite a stir, little girl.”
Damien! She opened her eyes and stiffened to see him appear on a circular staircase above her, walking down and studying her with cool blue eyes. “I did not recognize you at first, draped in all those jewels.”
“What are you doing here? I thought you had left.”
He reached the bottom of the stairs and regarded her indifferently. “But I was invited to attend the ball by the Princess Menshikov herself. How could I refuse?”
How indeed? April glanced just outside the antechamber then and saw the volatile Tatiana presently distracted with another gentleman across the ballroom. Otherwise she knew the woman would not have hesitated to create another scene.
“You are lovely tonight,” Damien said softly. And it was true. His wife — if she still was — did not look out of place in the slightest. What a beautiful countess she would have made at his side. Her bearing was as regal as a queen’s. For a moment, Damien wondered if he could pass her off in England as a Russian princess. Then he saw the fury in April’s eyes and he knew she would never agree to it now.
“Please leave,” she said, her hands clutching the blue velvet folds of her skirts. “You are only making things worse. I am doing what you told me to do —”
“Whoring for Ivanov? It certainly seems you are dressing the part.” Damien took in her low-cut gown with faint disgust. “Perhaps he is selling you to the highest bidder right now.” He gestured into the ballroom again at a paunchy, whiskered boyar who was talking with Ivanov at the refreshment table.
“That’s not fair. Count Ivanov has been kind to me since you left, and there is nothing between us —”
“Yet, he is not doing this merely out of the kindness of his heart, ma chere. Surely you realize that?”
“Kindness is not something you understand,” April shot back. “You left me, remember? Where else was I to go?”
She had a right to be angry, Damien knew. But seeing April coiffed and perfumed like a damned porcelain doll for men to drool over made him furious. He had made a mistake in leaving her. She was an innocent surrounded by wolves.
“I thought you were better off without me,” he admitted after a brief silence. “I was wrong, April.”
April refused to be swayed by Damien’s words. He had wounded her too deeply, too abruptly. The shock of his desertion would scar her for a long time, and the time that had passed had only made her bitter and resolved that she would never love so trustingly again.
“The count is returning,” she observed coldly. “I think you should go now.”
Damien’s eyes burned into hers. “I will be back, April. You cannot avoid me forever. And you know you won’t forget me …”
He stalked away just as Ivanov came in search of her. She stepped out of the antechamber with the breathless excuse that she had felt faint. Damien disappeared back up the stairs and the count was none the wiser.
“You are too pale,” he agreed critically. “Here, drink this.”
April took the punch he proffered and quaffed it in one unladylike gulp. It burned all the way down and brought tears to her eyes, but her color returned as two bright spots on her cheeks.
“Dance with me,” she said, aware that Damien emerged on a inner balcony and was watching her from above. “I wish to try this fancy whirling in circles.”
“It will make you giddy,” Ivanov warned, but April was not to be swayed. He saw she was prepared to return an encouraging glance to any of the men who lingered hopefully nearby, and with a sigh he swung her out onto the floor.
It had been years since the count had danced, but he had not forgotten how. Ivanov guided her smoothly into the next refrain, and April followed his lead flawlessly, watching the other dancers. She was gifted with a natural ability that made her appear light as gossamer, born to glide across fine floors with her belled skirts swirling.
The punch, which was mostly colored vodka, went to her head as Ivanov had predicted. She smiled and enjoyed the breeze blowing across her face as they spun gracefully around the huge floor among the other brilliantly-costumed dancers.
Suddenly, another boyar cut in unexpectedly. The man was unfamiliar to April and Ivanov purpled, but was forced to relinquish her to avoid a scene. Soon the interloper was replaced with another and yet another enchanted nobleman.
All of them tried to coax personal information out of April. Who was she? Who was her family? She laughed and chatted easily, avoiding any direct questions. They were all too charmed by her dazzling beauty to note how she adroitly failed to reply. April left many a man standing bemused after she whirled off with another courtier, realizing he knew nothing about the mysterious beauty except her first name.
Soon it was like spring inside, and the hothouse flowers lining the bowls about the room brightened under April’s spell. She was indeed a breath of fresh air to a court long since grown stale, and her various admirers sighed and stared after her. Half a dozen men were convinced they were in love, including two older gents who distinctly recalled
her predecessor Katya and the heartbreak that one had wreaked as well.
Only two people were totally immune to April’s magic that eve. One was Damien, glowering helplessly as his wife was swept laughing from arm to arm; the other was Princess Tatiana, thoroughly enraged and inconsolable that she should be so upstaged at her own fête.
“Mikel,” she snapped to her escort, who hurriedly tore his own gaze from April and rushed to do her bidding. “I find I am weary of this night. It seems that Ivanov’s slut has all the men slathering after her. But I have my own entertainment that will prove far more amusing.” And she flicked a pointed fingernail in the direction of Damien standing rigidly on the balcony, watching the dancers. “That one. See that he follows.”
Without waiting for the young man’s reply, she raised her Titian head and sailed from the room. Mikel gulped and hurried to do the princess’s bidding. It was not up to him to approve or disapprove of her lovers, as she often scolded him. Like many young men, he was enthralled by Tatiana and her potent personality. Her willingness to take on all comers was common knowledge, but morals in czarist Russia were different from other European courts.
“Sir?” Mikel approached Damien, stammering in polite Russian, receiving an ice-blue stare in return. “The p-princess Menshikov requests an — uh — audience with you.” The stammering boy colored, not knowing what else to say. To his surprise, Damien let out an abrupt laugh and slapped Mikel on the shoulder as he passed. “That much I understand, boy. Now go find a less dangerous woman to play with. You would do well to learn from my mistake.”
Damien found Tatiana out in the reception hall, where she stood impatiently waiting and tossing her brassy hair like a high-strung filly.
Whirling by the gilded portal, April’s eyes widened to see Damien take the princess’s arm and murmur something low against the lady’s ear. Laughing huskily, Tatiana shot a seductive look up at her handsome partner. Damien was helping her into a luxurious red fox coat that nearly reached the floor.
April’s own grip tightened on her dancing partner so noticeably that he made an exclamation of delight, supposing she urged him closer. Then they were on the other side of the room, and April looked about in vain when they passed again. Damien and Tatiana had left, obviously together. She was so distraught she could hardly choke down her tears when her escort gushed passionate compliments to her under his breath as they parted.
In a daze, April sought the only refuge she knew. Ivanov smiled triumphantly as he took her on his arm, having seen what she had. It suited his cause well that the insatiable Tatiana had taken a liking to Damien. Though he was annoyed Dmitri had failed to dispose of the gypsy as ordered, the fact Damien had caught the princess’s eye would surely keep him out from underfoot until Alexei could be sent to finish the job.
So Ivanov had April all to himself now, body and soul. And when he saw her tortured green eyes, he knew too that he had his beloved Katya back.
NUZZLING CLOSELY INTO HER chosen lover inside the gilded sleigh, Tatiana murmured, “You played divinely, Demetro. I know I shall never forget the sound of your music. It brought tears to my eyes. I know my uncle felt the same, for I watched him during the performance.”
“Uncle?” Damien repeated stupidly, probing for information, which she provided with a willing little laugh.
“Do you not know who I am? I am more than a princess, I am also Alexsandr Menshikov’s niece.” Tatiana waited for his reaction, and when met with a puzzled stare, she supplied patronizingly, “The commander of the Russian armies at the front. You must have seen him. The large, glowering man sitting by me at your performance.”
Damien had indeed, and he had also managed to brush close enough to Menshikov during the dancing later to overhear interesting comments about the latest troop movements.
He shrugged in apparent ignorance. “I am Romany. War does not concern me.”
“How fortunate for you, Demetro. It seems that I am always being tugged about in political discussions nowadays.” She sighed petulantly, then blinked her large dark eyes up at him. “I would much rather be tugged about in matters of love, wouldn’t you?”
Instead of being enticed by her obvious ploys, Damien was repulsed. He could not help but contrast April’s fresh, unsullied air with that of Tatiana, who had known so many men that it had become a sad addiction with her. He recalled her as an insatiable lover, demanding and tireless, and with no shred of modesty.
Tatiana had not changed, he soon saw, when on the seat beside him she suddenly unlaced her gown and let her full breasts spill out in full view of any passerby.
Enjoying his obvious shock, Tatiana murmured throatily, “Touch me. Take me if you want. Here and now. Why wait?”
Once he would have jumped at the chance to couple anywhere with a willing woman, but Damien carefully masked his revulsion with a fierce look that shot thrills through the obviously jaded princess.
“Cover yourself. You will not do anything tonight without my orders.” He saw in a flash that his gamble paid off. Tatiana was startled but scrambled to do his bidding. She apparently craved a strong man, subject as she was to endless court fops with weak wrists and wills that could not match her own.
Her dark eyes gleamed with excitement as she whispered, “When will you take me?”
“When and where I decide,” Damien responded curtly, suspecting correctly that his little game only thrilled her further. Suddenly submissive, Tatiana remained silent for most of the ride, only asking once, “Why be a gypsy, Demetro? You could pass for nobility, given the right clothes and manners.”
“Does it matter why?” he asked, trying to quell her curiosity with a smoldering glance.
Tatiana took the ruby-encrusted combs from her hair and shook the flaming red locks out over her shoulders. “No,” she said huskily, “but for a moment there, you reminded me of someone. I can’t think who.”
Damien’s blood turned to ice as the princess snuggled against him, boldly running a hand up his thigh. “Don’t worry,” she assured him softly, tauntingly, “I’ll remember eventually. I never forget a face.”
Chapter Seventeen
OLD MEN, YOUNG MEN, thin and tall or short and lumpish, April felt she danced with them all. She was not sorry to leave the ball, but welcomed the chance to rest her aching feet in the coach as they left. Beside her Ivanov sat stiffly lost in his own thoughts, and she was secretly glad that he was not in the mood to subject her to another history lesson.
Some of the night’s magic had worn thin for her since Damien’s appearance. She could not tear him from her thoughts, though she refused to dwell on the last memory she had of him, leaving the festivities early with Tatiana Menshikov on his arm.
Surely he was not charmed by that redheaded snake of a woman. Perhaps the princess had lured him with promises of other concerts or boyar sponsorship. Certainly, Damien had played exceptionally well. He had put more emotion into his music this night than April remembered hearing before. But she could not let herself get carried away into supposing he still wanted her, no matter what he had said there at the ball.
She must have made a weary sound, for Ivanov suddenly said, “I know you are tired, but I hope you’ll join me for a final toast when we return to Samarin.”
April glanced at his inscrutable face half-hidden by shadows. “Are we celebrating something?”
“In a way, yes.” But he offered her no information. “You certainly were a success tonight. So many men were entranced by you.” He sounded a little sad.
Seeking to cheer him, April agreed to stay up a little later on this special night. She did not admit her bone-weariness but thought of her host instead. Count Ivanov had been generous in giving her beautiful clothes and a new start in life if she chose to take it.
He had unerringly offered the simple explanation time and again to the overly curious boyar at the ball that April was his distant cousin, recently orphaned but of the same fine lineage as he. He did not lie about her origins when he said
she came from a small Georgian province in the south. Given her fairness and her exquisite bearing, nobody had questioned it. April quickly discouraged two persistent suitors on her own.
Soon they were back at Samarin House, but April wished to change her attire before reappearing downstairs. Ivanov looked disappointed, but agreed, retreating directly to the study himself. They had arrived earlier than planned, and most of the house was silent and dark. The hall itself had not been lit when they came in.
Following the faint light from gas lamps, April gathered up her velvet skirts and went up the series of stairs, her slippers making no sound on the smoothly polished mahogany.
When she came to the Gold Room, she was surprised to find the door slightly ajar. She was sure she had closed it firmly before she had departed. Then, seeing a rustle of movement through the crack, she hesitated and peered in. Perhaps Zofia was only turning down the covers or stoking the fire. But what she saw made her heart begin to pound furiously. Someone — mostly hidden in darkness, so she wasn’t sure who — was frantically riffling through the contents of the vanity table. As if they purposefully looked for her jewel.
Though she was frightened, April was outraged. She knew the count would expect her to confront a thief, and he would surely stand behind her in doing so. She only hoped the intruder did not have a weapon. When she heard the scrabbling of anxious fingers beneath the vanity, right where the secret drawer held her diamond, she knew she must act swiftly.
Pushing open the door, April cried, “What are you doing in my room?”
As she had half-suspected from the beginning, it was Zofia who whirled around and stared back at her with crazed eyes. Without answering, the maid turned back to the vanity one last time and gave a triumphant tug on the drawer she had just found.
“No!” Desperately April threw herself at the woman and the impact knocked them both to the Aubusson rug on the floor. But it was too late. The drawer had been pulled out, and the diamond fell with a muffled thud on the rug, and rolled a distance away.
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