Roman hid a smile. He hated how much it pleased him to hear her say that. He reminded himself that, no matter how charming and lovely, she wasn’t for him. He needed to keep his distance.
“Do not get so captivated, Helen,” Roman said. “All this might look stunning, but underneath, it can be cold and heartless and dirty.”
Helen glanced at him with surprise, and the wonder in her eyes disappeared, replaced by the hurt, embarrassment, and anger he had seen eleven years ago.
The sight made his stomach twist with guilt. He’d destroyed the innocent wonder she was experiencing. Well, good, he decided. This was proof that he did not deserve to be with someone as good as Helen.
Neither did Alex.
Chapter 3
1st December, 1813
“What beautiful earrings,” Jane said as she did Helen’s hair for the ball. “Did Prince Alex send them to you?”
Helen met her eyes in the mirror, then studied the beautiful rose-pearl earrings lying on her dressing table. They were gorgeous.
Not as stunning as the black pearls, the remnants of which she had found in the sitting room eleven years ago after both Alex and Roman had stormed out. She’d gathered the pearl dust as well as the delicate chips of the coating and studied them under a good light when she was alone. She had wished she could study them under a microscope to really see what made them so pretty. She had been fascinated by natural science ever since she was a little girl and enjoyed reading about flora and fauna.
“No, not Alex,” Helen said picking up one earring and inserting it in her earlobe. “Prince Roman.”
“Oh.” Jane’s hands stopped for a moment. She glanced at Helen, then resumed her fiddling.
Helen frowned. “There’s nothing to be oh-ing about, Jane. He wants me to feel welcome, that’s all.”
“Yes, Miss.”
“The whole family does. Look at this room. It’s bigger than the Herberts’s dining room. They just want me to feel at home.”
“The room is lovely.” Jane gazed around before returning to Helen’s hair.
The room had French-style furniture with golden finishings, the walls were a gentle lilac, and the curtains had lilac fleur-de-lis patterns on pale gold. There was always so much light, even now. Helen’s windows looked over the back gardens, and thanks to the snow, everything outside glowed with a brilliant white. She hoped she could see what plants grew here in spring and summer. Maybe she could have some rose bushes planted—if she was still here…
“You are living in a palace,” Jane whispered, giving a little squeal of excitement. “Like a princess. What am I saying? You will be a princess in just three weeks!”
Helen inserted the second earring in her right earlobe. “You are quite right,” she said, bewildered. “I have not given it a thought. All I could think was—”
That she would marry Alex. That he’d kiss her. That he would call her his wife. That she would sleep with him every night. That they would have dinners and talk every day and have children…
She’d forgotten that she would be a princess.
The earrings went well with the pastel-pink dress that Jane had suggested to her, making her lips look plush and her cheeks rosy even without pinching, and highlighting her dark eyes.
She had never looked so pretty.
Jane put the last pin in her hair and took a step back, cocking her head and studying Helen. “Miss, you look beautiful! The pearls do you justice.”
The pearls were a beautiful present—though Roman had given them with such a cold face, as though he had been forced to give them to her! Oh, what a strangely insolent man he was. He could be all gallantry and politeness one moment, and the next he would say something that made her want to throw a heavy and easily breakable object at him. Then at other times, he made her nervous, and her skin tingled when he stood near her or even looked at her.
“Thank you, Jane,” Helen said standing up. “If I look good, it is thanks to you.”
Jane smiled. “I only allowed your natural beauty to shine through. Now, go. They are all gathered downstairs for you.”
Ah yes, the ball in her honor. All of the English elite of St. Petersburg were invited. Whereas back in England she had too little attention, here she was the center of it. And very uncomfortable.
Helen made her way into the hall, then towards the grand double staircases leading to the brightly lit foyer. Downstairs, the three Lipovs were greeting the arriving guests. Helen watched Roman for a moment as he stood by his mother.
He was tall and very handsome, like Alex, only dark in his black suit jacket and vest, his light trousers highlighting his long, strong legs. He bowed curtly to greet the newly arrived family and flashed a polite smile. Helen’s breath caught. While the guests talked with his parents, he stood still for a moment, then suddenly turned around and glanced up at her.
No! Her feet froze to the ground.
Their eyes met.
His widened. Could it be that something resembling admiration ran through them?
It was like being under a magnifying glass in sun. Hot. Burning hot.
Sweat broke out all over her body, her stomach filling with a million of dancing snowflakes.
He gave her a slow bow without taking his eyes from hers. She curtsied on wobbling knees and began descending, not feeling her legs, afraid that she’d trip and go tumbling.
“Ah!” Prince Pavel exclaimed as he saw her. “There is our dear Helen. Come, come, my darling. You look stunning! What beautiful earrings. Mr. and Mrs. Hedgewood of Berkridge and their two sons.”
Helen gave them a polite smile as curtsies and bows were exchanged. She answered polite mechanical sentences while being acutely aware of Roman. Even standing a couple of steps away from him did something to her skin, as if she was being tickled by something soft and invisible. At breakfast, during tea, when he walked with her in the park, it was as though his eyes scorched her skin through her layers of her clothes—fur coat and all.
“Allow me to get Helen acquainted with the rest of the guests,” Roman said to his parents. He turned to her. “When the ambassador arrives, we shall go to dinner.”
“Naturally, Roman, go ahead,” Prince Pavel answered. “We shall wait for the ambassador of the British Empire.”
Roman offered her his bent arm and Helen wrapped her gloved hand around it. It felt steady and firm under her fingers.
“You look lovely,” he said while they walked towards the drawing room where their visitors were gathered.
She raised her brows slightly. She did not know why he’d decided to compliment her, but she knew it could not be sincere. “Surely you are joking.”
Roman frowned, looking surprised and hurt for a moment. But as soon as they entered the room, he assumed his cold, polite social expression and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you Miss Courtney, future Princess Lipova.”
A murmur went through the room as tense smiles and the small bows of her countrymen and countrywomen, as well as local St. Petersburg high society, were directed at her. Helen shrank internally as the attention of so many people washed over her.
Roman led her through the room and introduced her one by one to the guests, who met her with curiosity and genuine warmth. And Roman seemed to be so amicable to her. Surely, it was just a social mask.
Finally, Prince Pavel came into the room with a beautifully dressed woman in her forties by his side, followed by Princess Anna and a tall, elegant man with a balding head.
“Ambassador Lord Fenwich and his wife,” Roman whispered as he leaned close to her ear, making the small hairs stand up on her neck.
After short introductions and greetings, the procession moved into the dining hall in order of importance. Helen entered with Roman right after Prince Pavel paired with the ambassador’s wife and Princess Anna with Lord Fenwich. The rest of the guests followed them.
The dining hall was grand and brightly lit, the walls in light, rosy marble. Paintings by French and G
erman artists hung on the wall. The footmen began pulling out chairs, the prince’s household band began playing in the gallery, and the murmur of guests settling down in their places filled the room. Princess Anna sat at one end of the table with the ambassador’s wife on her right and Helen on her left, while Prince Pavel took the opposite end of the table with the ambassador and other men. Roman sat next Helen, among the women.
The dinner started with hors d’oeuvres. Caviar, salt fish, cheese, and radishes served with small glasses of vodka, brandy, and very expensive rum were distributed by the footmen.
“You must try the caviar with vodka,” Roman said to Helen as he served himself the black caviar and took a glass of transparent liquid.
Helen followed his lead. She could not refuse the serving for the fear of offending her hosts, although the idea of eating fish eggs did not particularly appeal to her. But when she tried the caviar, she was surprised to find it tasted like a tender, fresh fish in butter, and the sip of freezing cold vodka—which she had never drunk before—burned her tongue and throat pleasantly and went surprisingly well with the caviar, highlighting and smoothing out its taste.
“It is very good,” she said.
Lady Fenwich smiled at her. “I understand your surprise, my dear. Before I first tried it, I was terrified. But now, we do not dine at home without caviar and vodka. You do warm up to the local habits, which may appear strange in the beginning, admittedly. What was your initial impression of Russia?”
Even though Helen did not look at Roman, she was acutely aware of his presence by her side and his eyes on her as the question was asked.
“Oh, I think it’s lovely. St. Petersburg is fresh and beautiful.”
“Hmm. I suppose. You must miss your fiancé though, do you not? We are most anxious to come to your wedding. What an unusual notion, a wedding on Christmas Eve! How is Prince Alexander, anyway? I hear he is in Baden-Baden.”
Helen held her breath. She had been prepared by Princess Anna about what to say, but she hated pretending and lying.
Roman came to her rescue. “Indeed. Baden-Baden. He writes he is recovering and will be home in time for the wedding.”
Helen physically stopped herself from pursing her lips. She was grateful to Roman for his help because she would have blurted that Alex was still in Italy.
“Ah, how wonderful. You know, the word is out that he is not ill at all. But I do not believe that. I believe you, of course. What a scandal it would be if he did not return in time for the wedding.”
She laughed, then sipped more vodka. Helen thought she heard Roman grind his teeth.
“You know,” Lady Fenwich said narrowing her eyes at both Helen and Roman. “It is a pity you are engaged to Alexander. You two make a beautiful couple.”
Fire must have hit Helen from the inside because her cheeks went ablaze. Roman’s arm jerked, and his glass of vodka fell, liquor soaking the crisp white tablecloth. He mumbled an excuse and called a footman to serve him more vodka.
Chapter 4
After the torture of the dinner was over, the ladies went into the drawing room for tea, while the gentlemen stayed in the dining room for port and cigars. Roman watched as Helen walked away with the others. He supposed he did feel the need to protect her against the inquiring questions of Lady Fenwich as well as the other ladies hungry for scandalous news.
Luckily, they soon got tired of her and inquired after the latest news, fashion and gossip from England.
When, finally, the hour apart passed, Father invited everyone into the ballroom where the household band was setting up to play music for the dance.
The ladies walked in in a cheerful crowd as footmen put chairs and tables for playing cards along the walls of the room, leaving the center for dancing. Helen came in all pretty and graceful with her cheeks a little flushed from the warmth of the room, the inevitable consequence of St. Petersburg soirees and balls in winter.
The Lipov Palace ballroom was quite famous in St. Petersburg, and Father liked to host English society fetes here. It was two stories high with soaring windows, behind which snow could be seen falling through blackness in big soft flakes. At the far end of the room were stairs that led to a gallery of sorts, from which one could watch the dancing and doors that opened onto a balcony. His family’s love of exquisite things could been seen in the classical white moldings of Greek goddesses, vases, and flowers that decorated the yellow ceiling and in the French furnishings that echoed the pale-blue and gold of the room.
The band began playing the first dance of the program, the polonaise, and the ambassador’s nephew asked Helen for a dance. Something stabbed at Roman a little as he watched Helen accept graciously. She and her partner joined the formation of dancers while the older generation settled on the benches and chairs to watch or sat at the tables to play cards.
Roman was surprised to find himself watching closely as Helen danced with the man. It was just to ensure she did not do overstep any line with him, he told himself. Although, if he was honest, he had no reasonable ground to doubt Helen. She had never showed any signs of misconduct. When Helen’s partner finally delivered her to stand next to Prince Pavel, Roman made his way towards her. But before he reached her, another man asked for the next dance, which she, of course, accepted.
Roman gritted his teeth so hard he could not feel his mouth anymore and had to consciously relax his jaw. Something was bothering him. The images of Kitty, pretty, charming, popular Kitty flashed by. She, watching him from under her eyelashes as she flirted with another man in her dressing room, and he, waiting like a dog for her to give him a sign to approach. Jealousy had torn him apart like the shards of a cannonball, and yet love had kept his feet from moving.
All pretty women were like that, probably. So Helen must be, as well.
The next dance was the waltz, the newest, most fashionable dance, which was still not accepted at the royal court but hugely popular at private fetes.
Finally, Helen was free again, but before Roman could blink, she had agreed to dance this most intimate dance with Colonel Williams. She should dance it with Alex, her fiancé. Roman took a glass from a footman who was passing by and emptied it down his throat, not even noticing what it was.
Seething with anger, he watched Helen dance one dance after another.
What do you expect, he told himself, it is a fete in her honor. Of course every man wants to dance with her. Only look at her…
Anger and jealousy thundered in him, blinding him to everything but the way one man’s hand lay on her waist, the way another cocked his head too close to her cheek. One after another, Roman watched her dance with all of them.
And with every dance, two Romans became more and more distinct within him. One, a rational, well-educated man who knew it was just good manners from her side. The other, a caveman, a barbarian who—completely irrationally—hated seeing any other man next to her.
Finally, the last partner brought Helen to Father. But she excused herself and walked away, looking rather agitated with her big shiny eyes and burning cheeks. With surprise, Roman watched her make her way through the guests towards the stairs to the gallery. She reached the top of the stairs and then disappeared from his view. Where was she? What was she doing?
He should make sure she was all right, that her last partner had not offended her or made any advances on her. Had she gone to the balcony? If so, she’d freeze to death or catch pneumonia.
Roman left the room and asked one of the footmen to fetch his fur coat and Helen’s. With both coats in his hands, Roman took the stairs to the balcony, ignoring curious glances.
There, in the darkness of the snowy night, she stood with her back to the room, hugging herself.
Roman put on his coat, opened the door and stepped into the cold air. Small snowdrifts gathered on the floor, and his shoes sank into them. As he closed the door behind him the music became muffled, and his ears rang from the stillness of the night.
Helen turned around and looked at
him, surprised. He wrapped the fur coat around her shoulders.
“In case you don’t know much about Russian winters,” he said. “They are cold and you must wear something warm.”
She smiled and closed the edges of the coat over her chest.
“Thank you.”
He studied her profile. She did not look distressed. She looked like a proper lady, but he could not help remembering how much she had seemed to enjoy dancing with almost every man in the room…except him. He needed to make sure she would not compromise herself and the family. “You are very popular today,” Roman said. “Do not forget that you are betrothed to my brother.”
She gasped a little. “Forgive me, I am merely being polite.”
“Yes. Do not forget your manners.”
“You are being a little unreasonable, Roman. Do you not agree?”
“Our family is already on the verge of scandal. You heard Lady Fenwich. We do not need any more gossip and suspicion.”
“You are not being fair,” she said, her voice trembling a bit.
Roman felt a sting of guilt at that. She was probably right. He was just taking out his fears and frustrations on her.
“My intention is to protect the honor of this family, a part of which you are going to be very soon.”
She swallowed. “Let me remind you that your brother is still nowhere to be found, and if he does not return, your family’s reputation is not the one that is going to be ruined.”
Roman straightened. She was right, and he was about to admit that when the door into the gallery swung open from the wind and the sound of the waltz poured onto the balcony. Roman met her eyes. He longed to take her into his arms and whirl with her to this beautiful music.
“You have danced with every male guest today but not your betrothed—or me. I am not him, but I am Lipov. May I have this dance?” He offered her his hand.
Her eyes softened, and a sweet smile spread across her face. God, she had a sweet smile. Which he should not pay attention to, he reminded himself. Helen was his brother’s betrothed.
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