She was standing as though she were expecting him, and he decided Vladimir was unquestionably confident. He waited for the servant to close the door before he spoke, and without moving from the vicinity of the entrance, he said, "I've come to apologize. I didn't realize you were at Gagarin's last night." There. It wasn't precisely an apology but a general statement. He took brief pleasure in his evasion.
"Obviously." Her single word was sharp as a knife thrust, her lavender eyes so devoid of warmth his hair rose briefly on the back of his neck. Dressed in a white lace tea gown adorned with red silk roses, she reminded him of blood on a corpse and gave every indication of the same uncompromising coldness. "And in future, I'm sure my father warned you, I will not tolerate such behavior!"
His spine went rigid.
"Nor will I allow that native dress in my presence," she disdainfully added.
Stefan wore the loose trousers and belted shirt of his mother's people, his favored form of dress out of uniform, and far from being the shabby attire Nadejda's tone implied, his garments were luxurious. His black silk blouse was China silk embroidered in gold thread, and his trousers were of wool so fine each yard could be pulled through a woman's ring. The goats that supplied the raw material for the fabric were only found in one small section of the Himalayas and were so fragile they couldn't be sheared; the hair from their coats had to be gathered from the odd residue left on the brambles and bushes of their habitat. And his red kid boots were dyed with precious scarlet madder by his bootmaker in Tabriz.
He could feel the blood begin to throb in his temple; he'd never been spoken to in that tone of voice. He controlled the Tsar's cavalry; he was the wealthiest man in the Trans-Caucasus, perhaps in Russia. "I dress as I please," he said in a low growl. He didn't want to say more; he wished to leave before his temper gave way, and there was no need to speak further with Nadejda.
He'd observed the obligation Vladimir required and he was turning to leave when Nadejda said, "I'm not finished with you yet."
Her father had assured her that afternoon when he'd come home that he would find a means to restrain any further embarrassing incidents by Prince Bariatinsky. He had further assured her that while she must suffer the fiction of their engagement in public, in private she need not. In a vastly simplistic and highly edited fashion he'd explained that Prince Bariatinsky was valuable to their family until the war was over, although, he'd added, he couldn't go into any of the particulars due to the secrecy required in wartime. The visit to Brabant's had further reconciled her to her required role. She was wearing a new and very expensive ruby necklace.
"I expect you to conduct yourself," she said, advancing toward him with revenge in her heart for the scene at the Gagarins', "without any further scandal. Should I hear even the merest breath of misconduct, Papa will have your bars and your command. And I will personally take great pleasure in your disgrace."
Nadejda had been too long assured the world was hers. She had no sense of proportion.
Stefan's uncommon prudence disappeared in an explosive rage. He couldn't go through with this farce if they hanged him tomorrow for high treason. Vladimir be damned! He'd stand up to his threats the way he should have from the beginning. His fleeting display of caution gave way to Stefan's more familiar headstrong boldness. "Consider this engagement over," he tersely said, each word a blunt hammer blow, "as of this moment." And he drew a deep breath to steady a killing instinct.
"You can't," Nadejda raged, her pale skin mottled, her lavender eyes narrowed with spleen.
"I can do anything I please, mademoiselle." Stefan was absolutely still, his hands rigid at his sides in an effort to curtail his rash impulse to strike out. "And it pleases me," he softly added, "to terminate this very large mistake."
"Papa will not allow it!" Each of Nadejda's words rang with authority.
Stefan had heard that already in a variety of nuances, but she seemed so very sure he asked, "Why?" in a quiet, menacing voice. She had spoken as though she knew Taneiev's reasons; perhaps she might offer a better reason than the one her father had given.
Nadejda knew immediately she'd misstepped when Stefan's brows came together and his voice softened in query, when his dark eyes seemed to be scrutinizing her with a new attention. "He…Papa wouldn't want me to be embarrassed. Once the war is over, I'll break the engagement."
"Yours and your Papa's timetable is intriguing." Stefan's drawl was low and silken, his mind racing, contemplating the circumstances contributing to this obstinate delay.
"There are no men now," she said, the way a child would say, "The candy store is closed."
That remark at least had the ring of sincerity. Stefan wished he had the time to get to the bottom of this matter, but he didn't.
At least he'd had the courage to end this damnable engagement. He felt a great sense of relief, a tidal wave of deliverance.
"You might like to congratulate me," he said with a grin, thinking how simple it had been after all to cut away the impediment of his engagement. "I'm to be married tonight." He was suddenly well-disposed to the world at large, including Nadejda, who was no more than a silly young woman now- detached from his life with a few simple words.
"Papa will kill you," she said in a neutral voice contrasting starkly with her statement, "if you shame our family so."
"He can try," Stefan quietly replied, "but he may not succeed. And you might want to give him that warning." Stefan's eyes narrowed slightly although his smile was still in place. "My bodyguard," he added, his tone soft as velvet, "reverts at time to some of their barbaric Kurdish customs. Tell your father it takes a man eight hours to die-forgive me, mademoiselle, for my bluntness-with his entrails on the ground."
Nadejda's face was white as her dress when he left the room. Immune to the perils of his future, as though a decision of the spirit had been made distinct from rational deliberation, he thought only of his freedom, of his escape from Nadejda, and he wondered with a curious speculation whether his father's life would have been different if he'd fought against his disgrace. He had thought at first he could deal with Vladimir's demands, submit enough to buy the time he needed, say yes, when he didn't mean it, apologize to Nadejda for something he didn't feel. But his nature wouldn't allow it, and he was wildly exhilarated now, striding down the hallway, his sensations reminiscent of the excitement he felt in battle.
It was the same-when there was no longer time for apprehension or indecision or any of the debilitating hesitation that marked the cognitive man. The irrepressible energy carried you, drove you, brought victory as if by magic, and Stefan felt at that moment the same triumph. He had succeeded at last in putting the past to rest. What had happened to his father would no longer be his burden. In a way totally unplanned and tumultuous, he'd severed that impediment to his life. As he sailed down the bank of steps to the street in two leaping bounds, the driver glanced at his partner beside him on the carriage seat and said, "Things must have gone well."
"Even better than that from the looks of it.''
"Home, Excellency?" the groom holding the door open for Stefan inquired as Stefan reached the blue-lacquered carriage.
"No, to the Winter Palace."
The liveried servant came to attention. "Very good, Excellency." His voice was crisp when he repeated the order to the driver.
The Prince was going to see the Tsar.
Chapter Fifteen
The Tsar's equerry had only said, "I'll do what I can."
Stefan paced the small room, knowing he'd faced the entire Turkish army with less trepidation than he was currently feeling. He'd stop to gaze out the windows on the vista of the Neva for a moment, or try sitting on the numerous chairs lining the walls of the chamber, only to find himself pacing again a few moments later. Alexander could be unpredictable and with good reason.