Golden Paradise Read online

  But it was not another time really, but actually that Stefan Bariatinsky lived a very similar life to that of his Kurdish bodyguards. "Did you pay for those?" she asked in a voice that gave him to understand that his apology was not instantly ac­cepted.

  "In a manner of speaking," he replied, responding to the doubt in her voice. Her question, of course, implied he had not.

  "Meaning?" she coolly inquired, thinking him the most beautiful man she'd ever seen and trying without success to re­main angry with him.

  "Meaning—" he grinned widely "—of course, moppet." He decided he also adored her for her sweet pouty bottom lip, which reminded him strongly of a spoiled little girl. "I paid for them," he assured her, "or my business agent paid for them, or someone else on my sizable staff in Saint Petersburg brought a smile to Lazant and Sons establishment, I'm sure of it. Now take them."

  When she wouldn't, he dropped them into her lap. "The ca­nary diamonds were Catherine the Great's," he said, his grin undiminished. "She was, I hear, pouty like you."

  "Which I'm sure your ancestor Orlov was able to mitigate with his…" She let the insinuating pause lengthen.

  "Charm?" Stefan offered.

  "Is that what you call it?"

  "A euphemism of course."

  "Blood must run true." It was not a compliment.

  "I understand the Kuzans are reputed to be hot-blooded," he replied softly. "Although there are, no doubt, exceptions on the family tree," he added with a mocking irony that implied she was not one of them.

  "Is this an argument over passion?"

  His expression matched his brigand garb, as did his sugges­tive predatory tone. "I certainly hope so." But he saw imme­diately that he'd gone too far in his teasing, and with a self-assurance devoid of the insecurities of lesser men, he became instantly conciliatory. His wolfish expression altered into con­trition and he said with genuine regret, "I don't want to argue. I don't want you unhappy." His voice, his intonation, his en­tire manner were without jest. "Tell me what to do."

  Everything she wanted to say was melodramatic and infan­tile. So instead of saying, "Leave your fiancée for me," as she longed to do, she compromised with a statement that told at least half the truth. "Don't be an autocrat with me."

  "My word on it," he quietly said. "And?" he prompted her, because he could tell there was more from both her hesitancy and mood.

  "There's no 'and,' " she lied.

  "But there is. Tell me." He was intent on pleasing her.

  She looked down at the necklace and earrings, objects of beauty and luxury so casually given, fingered the two small jade turtles nestled in the white mohair of her robe and sighed, her gaze on the exquisite ornaments. "I don't want to argue any­more, and if I tell you we will. Besides…"

  He coaxed her when she didn't continue. "Besides…"

  "Nothing, really, darling," and she smiled for the first time since he'd come into the room. Nodding at the book he held in his hand, she changed the conversation from the futile contro­versy over their differing beliefs. "What's that?"

  "Your friend Hafiz." Understanding her tactic, he obliged her.

  "He's here? I thought he was at your palace in Tiflis." She was so immersed in the fabric of the poet's life and work that she spoke of him as a living being.

  Stefan smiled. "He's both places."

  "Let me see." Her voice was excited, her face animated with delight, and he knew he'd selected the right gift.

  She moved the jewelry from her lap when he handed her the small leather-bound book and he thought how rare that ges­ture was in his experience. No other woman he knew would have casually set aside a fortune in jewelry as though she were putting away an empty tea glass.

  When she carefully opened the rare volume to the frontis­piece to check its provenance, her face lighted up. "A Bagh­dad Rotan edition! Where did you ever find it? There's only two outside the Ottoman Empire." She looked up at him quickly. "And this is one of them."

  "The other's in Paris."

  "They were both in Paris."

  "Were," he said quietly.

  Her gaze lingered on him for a moment more, as she was re­minded of both his enormous wealth and power. How much had it cost him to prize this loose from its former owner? And then the vital opportunity for research overcame her specula­tion. "May I take notes from it?"

  Her eyes were the color of brilliant sunshine. "You may have it," he said.

  "I couldn't," she exclaimed. "It's nearly priceless. The ones in Turkey are never displayed. Even the ones I was studying in Karakilisa were only available to me because of my father's long friendship with the Khan."

  "If you don't take it," Stefan genially said, "I shall pout."

  For a moment she considered both his levity and serious­ness. "You mean it."

  "You have never seen anyone pout as brutally as I."

  Her smile was pure sunshine. "You really mean it." He could have been giving her her complete heart's desire for the joy in her voice.

  "I mean it, dushka… truly."

  "In that case I accept," she readily agreed, "because you've been a monster and I deserve it, but mostly because I've lusted after this book for an eternity."

  "You don't like the jewelry."

  "Oh yes, Stefan, it's wonderful! I didn't mean to be un­grateful. It's very beautiful and I'll think of you every time I wear it. But, darling, darling, you can't know how much this book means to me."

  He found himself strangely jealous on two counts. First, be­cause she had casually mentioned she would remember him with the jewelry as if he were a summer fling at one of the spas, as if she'd think of him later only when clasping the pearls around her neck or slipping Catherine's canary earbobs in her ears. He could visualize her in a year or so, saying to some man she'd married as she put on the yellow diamond earrings, "What was his name again… ?" And second, he took mild issue with the adoration in her voice over the book. He envied the damn book!

  "Thank you, thank you, thank you," Lisaveta cried hap­pily. Carefully placing the book on the windowsill, she threw herself at Stefan, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  I've thirty more books by Hafiz, he thought smugly, savor­ing the feel and scent and excitement of this remarkable young woman who'd been thrown into his path on the Plain of Kars. He was looking forward to offering her the remainder of his gift. "You're very welcome, moppet," he murmured, his arms folded around her, her head resting against his chest. "And we're not going to fight again, I promise."

  "It's my fault, too," she said softly, clinging to his strong shoulders, knowing she never felt happier than in his arms. "I should overlook your autocratic ways. They're cul­tural… that's all."

  "I'll be better."

  "And I'll be more understanding." His voice had a smile in it. "I see only blue skies ahead."

  "Without a cloud," she sweetly added.

  He laughed. "How long will all this harmony last?"

  "Till the end of time or your first surly remark," Lisaveta dulcetly said, "whichever comes first."

  "Or yours."

  "It won't be mine."

  "Is this a contest?"

  ''Depends on the wager.''

  "Say… loser bathes the winner for a week."

  "You're on, mon général."

  It was a wager that could have only winners.

  Chapter Nine

  Now, while all this teasing bantering was taking place on the mountain rim of the world, Nadejda was saying to her mother, "Must we have the graceless woman over for tea? She has no manners at all."

  "Yes, we must. She's his only aunt, and it's fortunate for you, my dear, that Papa and I talked some sense into you when we did or you might have done something foolish."

  "I don't know how you can be so lenient, Mama. He ig­nored you and Papa, as well," Nadejda said, her face fretful with annoyance. She was still abed though it was past noon, the bedclothes scattered with crumbs from her breakfast tray.

  "Darling, these thi
ngs happen. Stefan was called back to the front." Although Princess Irina Taneiev was as swift to take offense as her daughter, her added years of experience cau­tioned her to prudence. One never, she'd reminded both her daughter and husband the day of Stefan's abrupt departure, risked losing a fortune such as Stefan's over something as foolish as temper.

  "Well, he could have sent me a note, too. You'd think I'd have more importance than his old aunt."

  "His only aunt, darling, which is the point. She has no chil­dren. Think of it for a moment, Nadejda. Where will all her fortune go? Remember, she's outlived two wealthy husbands in addition to being an Orbeliani with her own personal assets."

  Nadejda brightened visibly. She'd been raised to consider her beauty a negotiable item and she understood the value of money. "Why, to Stefan and me of course."

  "Exactly. And that's why we'll continue to entertain Ste­fan's aunt until your papa's business is finished here in Tiflis." Nadejda had moved into the Viceroy's palace with her parents after Stefan left, but her mother had seen to their continuing relationship with Militza. Although once Vladimir and the Viceroy had completed the details of their arrangement to sup­ply artillery to the army, Irina had no intention of spending an additional minute in this sleepy provincial capital.

  "In that case, I'll be polite to the old bitch. Is Stefan really her only heir?" Nadejda asked the question as if verification were required for the nasty task ahead.

  Her mother nodded significantly.

  "Oh, very well," her daughter distastefully agreed.

  So when Militza came for tea, Nadejda was as civil as her mother's promptings could make her. Spoiled from a young age, however, she found it difficult to instill any warmth in an endeavor she found tiresome. Had Stefan seen her outside the ballrooms and formal dinners of their brief courtship, he would have noticed her very narrow focus of attention—herself. But in the short days of their acquaintance he'd only played the courting male. Nadejda was at her very best as the center of attention; she played well to an admiring throng; it was her fa­vorite role—her only role. In it she was without peer.

  "Did Stefan give you any indication in his note when he might next have leave?" Princess Irina was saying to Militza, and Nadejda yawned without any attempt at concealment.

  "I'm afraid the war is in great flux now," Militza replied, noting Nadejda's discourtesy. She did not mention the real purpose of Stefan's note. Although he had made use of Haci's return to Tiflis to make apologies to Militza for leaving so abruptly, he'd wanted most to see that Masha would open his town house to those of his men who weren't going to their vil­lages on furlough. Haci, for one, was looking forward to the female pleasures available in Tiflis, the capital city of the Cau­casus.

  "It's such a shame Kars is proving recalcitrant. I do hope it falls soon so all the young men will be back for the season." Irina saw the war as an obstacle to her social activities.

  "I'm sure the Tsar's officers agree with you," Militza iron­ically replied. Another afternoon in company with the vac­uous Taneiev women was reinforcing her conviction she must intervene in Stefan's disastrous marriage plans.

  "I really don't understand what's taking so long," Irina continued complaining, as if the war were a personal affront to her standards of speed. "Surely the Muslim rabble will capitu­late soon. Vladimir says Grand Duke Michael is going down to investigate."

  As daughter to a general, sister-in-law to a field marshal, wife to two military men and Stefan's aunt, Militza was well aware of the formidable opponents Russia faced. This war wasn't going to be a question of waiting patiently in dress uniform for the Turkish commanders to signal defeat. She'd heard enough from Stefan in his letters from the front and her own contacts with the Chiefs of Staff to understand the particular brutality of this campaign. "Michael will find his journey eventful" was all she said. Her faith in the Tsar's brother was faint; Michael drank and gambled better than he officered.

  "Mama, I won't hear another word on this dreary war," Nadejda snapped, tearing a small piece from her macaroon in testiness. Her fifth macaroon, Militza noted. The girl would approximate her mother's girth someday and Stefan liked slender women. "I'll be glad when we're back in Saint Peters­burg where every other word isn't about the silly war," Na­dejda finished petulantly.

  For a man who'd devoted his life to the army, Stefan appar­ently hadn't selected a wife inclined to view his profession with sympathy, Militza reflected, although she did have consider­able affection for macaroons.

  "And I wish Stefan would have taken my advice and had Melikoff rescind his orders back to the front."

  Militza abruptly ceased contemplation of Nadejda's capac­ity for macaroons. Melikoff? Nadejda had suggested Stefan petition Melikoff? Militza would have bartered a year of her life to have seen her nephew's expression at that recommendation. There wasn't a man he hated more than Melikoff. When they met in public as they did occasionally in the small world of Ti­flis society, Stefan quite literally glared daggers at the man whose family had replaced his as Viceroy of the Caucasus. Only his promise to Alexander II, his Tsar, had kept him from chal­lenging Melikoff to a duel. Alexander wouldn't have the scan­dal, he'd said, of Stefan killing Melikoff.

  "He wouldn't?" Militza casually inquired, watching Na­dejda's face for her response.

  "He said he only takes orders from the Tsar, which I don't fully understand because Melikoff distinctly told me he was Stefan's superior."

  "Perhaps Melikoff neglected to make that clear to Stefan," Militza sardonically replied.

  "Well, he should then," Nadejda asserted, tossing her chin up in an affected way that might have been charming in a four-year-old. "And everything would be much nicer. Stefan could come home from that ridiculous war and we could begin mak­ing marriage plans."

  "If you'd like to write Stefan a note suggesting that, it seems sensible to me," Militza said, her face as bland as her tone. "I could have a groom deliver it to him."

  "Mama, the macaroons are gone," Nadejda noted fret­fully. Then, as if Stefan's future were secondary to her sweet tooth, she added, "I'll drop him a note on the subject before we leave."

  "You're leaving?" Militza could have been on a treaty ne­gotiating team for all her understatement and calm.

  "Tomorrow or possibly the next day," Irina interposed. "Poor Nadejda is bored so far from Saint Petersburg, and I confess—" she smiled artificially "—although Tiflis is en­chanting, I miss the stimulation of court."

  What she meant was that she feared being away too long from the machinations of court politics. Stefan would also ap­preciate Nadejda's boredom with his native city. Militza dearly hoped Nadejda would include in her note an indication of her feelings on that subject, as well. "My wishes then for a pleas­ant journey," she said cheerfully. She chose not to mention she'd be following soon. Once Stefan actually returned to Kars, she also intended a trip to Saint Petersburg.

  Leaving the Viceroy's palace after tea, Militza felt her years and, in the logical assessment of things, despaired whether she'd be successful in dislodging Nadejda as Stefan's fiancée. Her nephew was stubborn at times in his wishes and he hadn't lightly undertaken his choice of bride. His selection hadn't been whimsical but rather utilitarian, and her hope of discrediting Nadejda was minimized by that judgment. Stefan had made clear to her that the question of liking Nadejda was incidental to the usefulness of her family. Vladimir Taneiev controlled many of the ministers of state, although the army had always remained independent. It was actually Vladimir that Stefan was marrying and the power he wielded in the inner circles of gov­ernment.

  Tsar Alexander spent less and less time in the daily activities of government now that his young mistress and their three children were actually installed in the palace only a floor be­low his consumptive wife. Rumor had it the Tsarina was de­termined to hang on to life as long as possible to thwart her young rival. Although ravaged as she was by tuberculosis, she'd already outlived her physicians' estimates by five years.<
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  In Saint Petersburg Militza intended calling on all her old friends to inform them she might be in need of their favors.

  Even though she wished Stefan to renege on his engagement for his own future happiness, she wasn't unaware of the possible consequences. Prince Vladimir Taneiev was known for his vindictiveness; many political rivals rued the day they'd op­posed him. Several were spending their remaining years in Si­beria thanks to his implacable vengeance, and while Irina and Nadejda might be foolish and superficial, it would never do to underestimate Vladimir.

  However… she felt she had sufficient influence herself to oppose any possible obstacles Vladimir might establish, pro­vided she could convince Stefan to sever his ties to Nadejda. And Stefan's personal relationship with the Tsar was a very strong advantage. To a point.

  Through bitter experience they all knew there were circum­stances where even the Tsar had bowed to pressure.

  On the same July night that Militza sat at her desk compos­ing a list of friends in Saint Petersburg who might be needed should Vladimir turn difficult, and Stefan and Lisaveta were dining alfresco under the dark whispering pines, Choura was the featured entertainment at a bachelor party in Tiflis at Chezevek's Restaurant.

  The windows were all thrown open to the heated night air, and Captain Gorsky, the host for the night, was in shirtsleeves in the middle of the floor encouraging Choura with energetic hand clapping and smiles. The Caucasian music had a pulsing rhythm of drumbeats interwoven with melodies both plaintive and voluptuous. The sound seemed to tremble in an insistent, fevered undulation, angry at times, hypnotic at intervals, con­vulsive, monotonous and galvanic. And Choura danced in her own expressive way: languorous and slow, stamping and im­petuous, in a stylized version of courtship, of pursuit and re­treat and ultimate seduction. She was wild and untamed, her dark eyes flashing, the lamplight flickering and glittering off her necklaces and rings and bracelets as she whirled, her bare feet barely touching the floor, her red silk skirt fluttering like flower petals in the wind. Her black lace blouse barely covered her firm young breasts, and when she smiled in sensual invita­tion, Captain Gorsky wasn't alone in planning on spending a portion of his wealth on the beautiful Gypsy girl, now that she was back in circulation.