***
Isobel is just beginning to light the lamps in my chambers when Rina is finished. She and my mother have managed to twist my hair into an elaborate design with curls and ribbons piled high on my head. I’m wearing a gown of soft sky blue with a large pannier bustle that makes the fabric wide over my hips. The top is cut low, swung across my upper arms to expose my neck and shoulders, only the soft organza in the bodice keeping my breasts from spilling out. Rina laces a pearl choker around my neck and completes the transformation with a small, pearl tiara from her own trunk.
“It’s so lovely,” I say softly.
She shrugs, as if it means less than nothing.
“There. You are all done. I will go slip into my gown, and I’ll be back in a few minutes to escort you to the staircase.”
As she slips out the door, Elizavetta comes back in. If my dress is large, hers is simply massive. Dark crimson satin, her gown is cut the same as mine in the bodice. Only without the grace of the organza, her ample bosom is on full display like a trussed ham on a platter. The red is the same color as her lips and the large, ruby tiara in her hair. The color, while bold, makes her skin look a bit green and unsettled, and it draws the natural flush from her round cheeks.
She curtsies. “My lady.”
I nod and turn back to the mirror, examining myself carefully one last time. My mother slips a dark blue sash over my head, and I secure it across my chest. She turns to Elizavetta and puts her hand to her chest in shock.
“Oh my. What a bold gown, wherever did you get it?”
The girl smiles.
“Paris, my lady. A gift from my uncle, the Imperial Chancellor.”
“Paris,” Mother mumbles. “That certainly explains it.”
Rina returns, her hair coiled into a wispy braid and fastened to the crown on her head. Her gown is the colors of spun gold, making her look like a radiant sun. She’s put a little coal along her eyes, and it makes them stand out against her otherwise porcelain skin.
Mother steps in front of them.
“Now, when we are introduced, I will lead my daughter down the grand staircase. You two will follow behind.”
They both nod. Mother opens the door and announces to the steward, “We are ready.”
He leads us down the hallway and through the corridor in the main part of the palace. Every room we pass is rich with color and finery. We go down two flights of stairs and end up on the west side of the staircase. Sergei is there waiting, along with Count Lestocq, who immediately takes Mother’s arm. Holding his arm out for me, Sergei smiles.
“May I have the honor?”
He’s traded his earlier attire for a navy-blue velvet Caftan with gold embroidery. The color is so rich and lush it’s all I can do not to reach out and stroke his arm. Carefully laying my hand atop of his, we line up. Across the staircase from us is Empress Elizabeth on the arm of Chancellor Bestuzhev, her silver gown shining in the lamplight. Behind her, a group of young men laughs good-naturedly.
I pick out Peter immediately.
He turns and our eyes connect for only a heartbeat before the empress steps forward, obscuring him from my sight. Still, I manage to hold that moment in my mind, that perfect moment when he sees me and smiles, his nose and eyes crinkling the way they did when we were little. I can see the very top of his sandy blond curls over her head. A deep sigh slides from my chest at the sight of him. Below us, the music stops and those who were dancing slide to the edges of the room as the valet announces the empress. She glides down the massive marble-and-gold staircase and the entire room honors her, their heads bowed reverently until she walks past.
But I’m not looking at the empress, radiant though she is in her finery. My eyes have locked on Peter’s face. He’s not looking at me now, but talking with the two young men flanking him. He says something and they laugh heartily, his gaze finally wandering up to mine in an expression I can’t quite place. He looks me over and it’s all I can do not to fidget under his scrutiny. When his eyes meet mine, again he gently dips his head to me and under my tight bodice, my heart races.
He is announced next, followed by his companions. Then Mother’s name is called, and she and the Count begin their descent. Beside me, Sergei pats my arm reassuringly as my name is called. I’m barely aware of my movement until we are nearly halfway down the staircase and I see all eyes on me, some joyful, some apprehensive, and some downright cold. Trumpets blast behind me, and we stop there on the stairs. Empress Elizabeth stands at the base, motioning to us as she makes the announcement.
“Princess Johanna and Princess Sophie have come a very long way to join us tonight. They have, in very short order, proven to be clever, courageous, and strong of faith. For this reason, I would like to bestow a great honor upon them.”
With a wave, she motions for us to join her. Sergei releases me and we descend the stairs, neither quite sure what’s about to happen.
One of her men steps forward as the guards around the room begin to drum softly. He kneels, holding up a red-velvet pillow on which two sashes and pins sit. Taking one pair, she approaches my mother.
“Princess Johanna, by the authority invested of me by God and man as Empress and the Great and Holy Saint Catherine of Alexandria, I bestow upon you, the Order of Saint Catherine, and the Lesser Star of Russia.” She drapes the sash over Mother’s head, and then pins the diamond inlaid cross to her bodice, placing a hand on her head to seal the ordination. Then she moves to me.
“Princess Sophia, by the authority invested of me by God and man as Empress and the Great and Holy Saint Catherine of Alexandria, I bestow upon you, the Order of Saint Catherine, and the Greater Star of Russia.”
She repeats the gesture, placing on me the sash of scarlet moiré with silver edges embroidered with the inscription: “ZA LYUBOV’ I OTECHESTVO”. Then she retrieves the pin, a massive, star-shaped pendant of diamonds and rubies attached to a red bow, and affixes it to my bodice.
She turns, addressing the room, and everyone erupts into joyous cheers.
I step forward and clear my throat.
I recite my short speech in nearly perfect Russian. “Thank you, Empress, for your kind welcome. Though I had never before seen the light of a Russian day, I fell in love the moment the sun rose in the sky. Being here to celebrate Grand Duke Peter’s birthday is a joy and a gift. I hope it is the first of many such occasions we will share.”
The crowd mutters a warm, “Here, here!” And the empress beams at me.
With a clap of her hands, the music begins and I feel a familiar hand at my elbow. I try to look pleasant, a hint of a smile on my face as Sergei takes me around, making introductions to all the emissaries from other courts. I listen to each with genuine interest even as, out of the corner of my eye, I’m searching for my fair-haired prince. The dance ends, and people clap. When the music begins up again, the empress takes the floor with the handsome, young Duke Rohebin, the envoy from Denmark. Soon, others join them. I glance around nervously. I’m sure Sergei can feel my hand shaking in his, but he says nothing. Behind me, my ladies giggle and flirt with the noble men around us. It takes me a moment to realize that the court is populated with a heavy ratio of men to women. My ladies and I, my mother, and the empress, being part of only a small handful of those in attendance.
When I finally catch sight of Peter, he’s across the room, walking towards me, a wide grin across his face. He looks incredibly handsome in his military-style green suit, his stride confident and determined. Reaching me, he stops abruptly and bows.
“My Lady Sophia, General Salkov. It’s nice to see you again.”
I curtsy.
“It’s nice to see you again as well, my lord,” I offer.
Sergei bows and politely excuses himself.
“Pardon me. I must see to Sir Rudolpho.”
Peter motions with his finger, and a maid brings over two tall goblets of wine. Handing one to me, he takes a long drink from his own before making a terrible face.
“French wine,” he complains. “It’s as bitter as their people and twice as pretentious.”
I take a sip. The red wine is smooth on my tongue, and as soon as I’ve swallowed it, it begins to warm my belly.
“It could be worse,” I say in a whisper. “It could be Portuguese.”
He laughs, and it’s light and musical.
“True. True. Now, I must know—how was your journey? I hear you had a bit of trouble on the road.”
His blue eyes sparkle, telling me he already knows the whole story.
“It was long and tiring. And we were attacked by thieves on the road.”
He feigns surprise. “How terrible. Your guard was able to dispatch them?”
I take another long drink of wine before answering.
“No. My guard fell, and I was left to defend my mother and myself.”
He grins. “You fought off a group of bandits all on your own?”
I lower my chin, looking up at him from under my eyelashes.
“Most grown men would not expect a woman to fight back, certainly not a girl, and most certainly not a noble girl. The element of surprise is a powerful weapon in such a situation.”
“Still, it’s quite impressive. You must be skilled with a blade.”
“I prefer the bow. Perhaps we could go for a hunt sometime. I could impress you with my very unladylike talents.”
As soon as the words escape my mouth, I realize how it’s sounded and I flush deep crimson. Before I can apologize for my words, his gaze slips behind me.
“And who are your ladies?” he asks pointedly.
I introduce them, and they curtsy in turn.
The music changes, picking up tempo into an Allemande. Reaching past me, Peter holds out his hand.
“Lady Elizavetta, would you care to dance?”
My heart sinks like a stone in my chest as she accepts with a laugh and smile. They make their way to the dance floor as I attempt to recover from the shock. It had been going so well, hadn’t it? I frown. He must have been horribly offended by my remark.
My eyes flicker up to find my mother, gawking at me as if I’d done something completely unthinkable. I blink back tears, handing my goblet to Rina, who sets it on the table next to us. I’m completely prepared to excuse myself to my room and wallow in my shame when two young men approach us and bow.
“Ladies, please allow us an introduction. I am Alexander Mananov, and this is my good friend, Sir Mikhail Andrei.”
I bow my head, and Rina curtsies.
“I’m pleased to meet you. Please, call me Sophie. This is my lady, Rina.”
Now it’s Mikhail’s turn to flush.
“We’ve met,” he admits meekly, staring at Rina.
Mikhail looks quite startlingly like Peter, the same blue eyes, the same build—even their hair color is similar. Only Mikhail’s face is more slender, his nose rounder at the tip, and he does not smile. He looks quite uncomfortable actually.
Compared to the other boys, Alexander is very dark. His hair is raven, and his deep-set eyes are green flecked with gold. His skin is more olive tone, his smile thin but perfectly shaped, like a cupid’s bow. As I look over him closely for the first time, I’m quite stricken. He holds himself in a manner that is both formal and somehow relaxed, and his smile is confident while still genuine.
It’s Alexander who holds his hand out to me.
“Well, Princess Sophie, may I have this dance?”
I swallow, unsure what to do. To refuse might appear rude, but I also don’t want to risk incurring Peter’s wrath by showing attention to one of his companions. I glance over at the dance floor and watch Peter clutch Elizavetta by the waist and spin her across the floor. A wave of recklessness overcomes me.
Turning my gaze back to Alexander, I set my hand in his.
“That would be lovely, thank you.”
Without hesitation, he smiles and leads me to the floor. Taking my waist with his free hand, we begin to spin. I watch him as we dance, searching for any hint of duplicity in his expression. But there’s nothing that betrays him, nothing that suggests he’s anything but genuinely enjoying himself, so I relax, allowing myself to do the same.
“Tell me about yourself, Lord Mananov.”
He grins. “Alexander, please.”
“Alexander then.”
“I’m from Sweden originally, though my mother is of Spanish descent. My father is the ruler of a large principality to the north. I have an older brother, Sven, and three little sisters. My family sent me to court as an ambassador five years ago.”
“That must be difficult, being so far from home. Do you miss it?” I ask curiously.
“I miss my family, yes. But I have made a home here.”
I smile, but say nothing. I don’t want to betray my homesickness or my desperate longing to see my father and brother.
As if sensing my hesitation, he continues. “Don’t worry, Princess. I’m sure you will come to love it here, as I have. There are many beautiful and wonderful things to see at court.”
“Like what?” I ask playfully.
He looks right into my eye and half smiles, “Well, there’s you for one.”
“Are you flirting with me?” I ask playfully.
“I wouldn’t dream of it. Well, maybe I would, but that doesn’t make it less true.” He holds my gaze for a heartbeat and I can feel a blush roll up my neck and spread across my face.
“And,” he continues, “there is a spot in the east tower where, at sunrise just a few times a year, the light shines in, reflecting off the stained glass in the little chapel, and it’s like watching the birth of a rainbow.”
“That sound lovely,” I say earnestly.
“It is. Perhaps I will show you sometime. How long are you staying?”
I shrug, remembering my mother’s earlier words. “I don’t know, but I think that my feet may never set foot on German soil again.”
“Would that be so terrible?
Looking up at him, I think that it might not be. His eyes are glistening in the lamplight and now that I’m looking at him, really looking at him, I realize how devastatingly handsome he is. Not in a cool, sunshine way like Peter, but in a dark, mysterious way. My heart pounds furiously in my chest as I try to catch my breath. The dancing ends and he bows to me as a new tune begins, slow and calm. Without asking, he steps forward and places his hands on my hips, swaying us gently, together and then apart, a slow turn, then my back is pressed against his front and I feel the length of him, firm and strong before we part again. Each movement somehow both brings us together and moves us apart in a slow, torturous ballet.
We continue to dance and as the night grows on, each movement becomes more and more a torment, an ache to touch him that I can’t stop. My heart races, my skin warm with flush. Beside me, I hear the shrill laugh of Elizavetta as Peter twirls her forcefully. I realize for the first time that they both seem very, very drunk.
Across from me, Alexander stills, watching the display with a playful shake of his head.
He motions to me, we step off the dance floor for the first time, and I hesitate only a moment, not quite ready to release the tension building between us. If anyone has noticed Peter’s behavior, they aren’t showing it—quite the contrary. They are moving around him as if he isn’t even there, making me wonder just how common this behavior might be.
Turning to me, Alexander lowers his voice.
“You should know it isn’t a slight—him not asking you to dance. It’s sort of a… game with him.”
Peter always did enjoy his games.
I wrinkle my nose, tilting my head to the side, “A game of what kind?”
“He likes to make women jealous, make them fight for his attention.”
I frown. “That seems like a cruel, petty thing to do. What does he hope to accomplish with it?”
“He hopes to determine the depths of your interest I him, before admitting his own interest. It allows him to remai
n in control.”
I look up, staring him right in the eyes.
“And what part do you play in these games?”
He holds up his hands. “None, I assure you. I’ve seen him enough to know what he’s doing. But I couldn’t bear the thought of you standing here looking so heartbroken.”
I jerk my chin up. “If you think his rudeness in any way damaged my heart, then you are mistaken. I am made from much sterner stuff than that. I’m not the sort of girl to flitter at the attention of a man, nor to weep at the callousness of one.”
Perhaps, that’s not entirely true. I had been frustrated nearly to tears at his slight, when I thought it was my fault. But knowing it was not my poorly turned phrase but his own egotistical games that spawned his behavior, well, that was a different matter entirely.
“If you intend to win Peter, you must beat him at his own game.”
I open my mouth to protest, to declare that love should never be a game, but even as I think it, I begin to doubt it’s true. How would I know, after all? It’s not as if I have any experience in the matter. No matter how many romantic poems you recite, no matter how many glorious tales of love you read, how can you really understand the condition if you’ve never found yourself in it?
“How, do you advise, do I do that?”
He grins. “I think it must be like a military attack. Strategic and precise. I have never seen a lady not respond to him, whether in love or in rage. Perhaps your best move is indifference. Perhaps you will have to make him come to you.”
“By ignoring him?” How ridiculous that sounds.
“Not ignoring him, but by making him desire you, then making yourself aloof.” His words are measured, as if he’s unsure how I will react to the idea. I feel myself begin to smirk.
I always did love beating Peter at his own games.
As if he’s never left, Sergei slides up next to me, holding out his arm.
“A dance, Princess?”
I nod. Any tension I was feeling toward Alexander before evaporates the moment my hand slips into Sergei’s. “Of course, General. Thank you for the dance, Alexander, and for your advice. I shall consider it.”
Sergei leads me onto the floor. My heart pounds as we dance, and I realize what I’d been feeling before must have been more a combination of wine and exertion than anything else.
“What advice did the young Lord Mananov give you, pray tell?”
I shrug. “He believes Peter’s lack of interest in me this evening is a game or a test of some kind. He suggested I respond by not responding.”
Sergei considers that for a moment.
“Wise advice, I think. But be careful, Princess. When waging a war of the heart, you must only fight if you are absolutely sure you can win.”
At his warning, my eyes slide over to where Peter has abandoned his dancing partner and sits, jacket undone, wine in hand, laughing with his friends. He looks over to me and winks, taking a deep drink.
“If it’s war he wants, war it shall be,” I decide.
Queen of Someday Page 6