Alexander II had also had his share of sorrows and he'd always felt a sympathy for Stefan, for the way he'd overcome his father's humiliation and forged a life for himself conspicuous for its success. "I believe I shan't have time to speak with Vladimir tonight," the Tsar said. "My equerries will inform him of my wishes." He smiled then, his thin careworn features brightening. "He should have known better. If I trust anyone, it's you, Stefan. And my congratulations on your marriage plans."
Stefan's dark eyes lighted up first and then his mouth creased into an answering smile. "Thank you. It gives one incentive-" he grinned "-to end the war speedily."
"Excellent idea," the Tsar declared, his weariness less a burden now, his thoughts more buoyant. Stefan was always able to give him hope for victory. "I'll count on you to expedite the Turkish surrender." Reaching over he rang for his aide. "Now, then, we need a special license."
When Stefan left the Winter Palace a half hour later, he held the special license, signed and sealed, in his hand. Vladimir was checkmated, and he had a wedding to organize.
Lisaveta was sleeping when he returned, exhausted from the previous night as well as from their sensual play that afternoon, and Stefan tiptoed into his room in order not to disturb her.
Drawing up a chair, he sat beside the bed, content, happy, pleased and very much in love. He was going to marry her, he thought, with a bubbling jubilation unique to his jaded soul. He was going to marry the silk of her dark curls and the sweetness of her rosy cheeks; he was going to marry her small hand lying on the Venetian lace of the pillow cover and her lush pink mouth and all the multiple and varied wonders of her to the tips of her perfect toes.
He was besotted, he realized, when he reached out to stroke her hair spread out on the pillow, feeling a need to touch her. She delighted him and bewitched him, and very gently in order not to wake her, he stroked the texture of one curl.
Although lightly done, Lisaveta seemed to sense his movement, and her eyes opened. "I missed you," she murmured, her smile drowsy with sleep.
"You had better," he answered, his smile so benevolent the angels could have taken lessons.
Remembering suddenly where he'd gone and why, she sat upright in agitation, the bed linen falling away, her eyelet nightdress pulled askew, the curve of her shoulder bared. The apprehension she'd put aside in sleep came rushing back. "How are you?" she fearfully asked.
Gazing at her, flushed and beautiful, he thought with a stab of terror how close he'd come through pride and arrogance to losing her. Perhaps he could have abducted her again, but he would not have been able to make her stay, for she was too complex or independent or simply not willing to adapt to his wishes. Even if she had stayed he would never have felt completely secure. And he needed her, he realized, the way he needed air to live.
"How am I?" he repeated gently. With exultation and joy he answered his own question in the utter silence of her apprehension. "I'm free," he said.
She didn't move. He'd expected her to laugh or smile at least, jump with excitement or throw herself into his arms, but she was fearful still, as was her tone of voice. "You can't be. They wouldn't make it that easy. Don't tease me, Stefan, or equivocate if it's not true. It can't be true."
"Have you no faith?" he teased, lounging back in his chair.
"Not in Vladimir Taneiev and his ice-cold daughter." In the course of her stay in Saint Petersburg, the Taneiev family had taken every opportunity to show their malevolence. She was well aware of the full extent of their viciousness.
"Does your faithlessness extend to the Tsar?"
She smiled then, tentatively. "He supports you?"
Stefan drew the special license from his pocket, lifted it so the bold printing was visible and grinned.
She launched herself into his arms like a gamboling puppy and covered his face with wet warm kisses. "I was terrified… I'd never see you… after tomorrow," she whispered between the rhythm of her kisses. "I thought Nadejda would spirit you away-or make you stay away-or somehow barricade you from me." Her murmured voice was an agitated rush of words. "But you're here, you're really here!" Leaning away from him, she gazed at Stefan as if to certify her words. As a blind person might, she ran her hands over his face and down his throat, over the breadth of his shoulders and down his chest, resting them finally, her palms on the embroidered black China silk directly over his heart.
He hadn't touched her except to steady her when she landed in his lap, basking in the glory of her jubilant kisses and joyful hysteria, letting his own sense of unutterable joy inundate his mind.
"I love you," Lisaveta whispered, "so much I thought I'd die if I lost you."
"I love you, dushka," he softly said, his dark eyes beneath his heavy brows intense with emotion, "enough to give up my command."
"You didn't!" Her exclamation was an explosive whisper, vibrating with shock. "I would have."
"No!" Her single word was as firmly declarative as his admission. She'd listened to the sadness in his voice those weeks in the mountains when he'd spoken of his father. She couldn't face him if he'd made that same sacrifice for her.
"If it came to a choice, I would." His statement was without subterfuge or arrogance. No longer the commander of the Tsar's cavalry or his father's son, Stefan was only a man in love, a man who'd discovered happiness after years of dismissing the concept as poetic license. "So…" He covered her small hands with his. "Will you mind a very precipitous wedding tonight?"
"Tonight?" Her squeal was spontaneous feminine surprise, the kind reflecting wholly practical considerations like dresses, flowers, family and guests, all the ritual every young girl dreams of as fairy-tale magic.
"We leave in the morning." Stefan's voice was tolerant male but wholly practical, too. He had a war to fight, and dresses and flowers and family hadn't even remotely crossed his mind.
"In the morning?"
"Am I speaking in some unintelligible language?" he amusedly asked.
"Maybe we shouldn't," Lisaveta abruptly replied.
"Don't even start," Stefan said. "I sold my soul."
"That's what I mean," she protested. "I don't want you to sell your soul." She pulled her hands free. "Maybe you'll be sorry in a week or a year… maybe Vladimir will change the Tsar's mind and then you'll hate me for ruining your life. Maybe-"
"God, Lise, stop being noble."
"I'm not being noble, I just don't want to hurt you. I don't want you to decide later our marriage was too hasty." The petulant moue she made signified her uncertainty and disquietude.
"I could always divorce you-" Stefan's grin was playful "-if that happened. Boris divorced his wife one weekend when he was out shooting with the Tsar. Alexander signed the special decree and Helene discovered her new status on Monday."
"Well, I could divorce you, too," Lisaveta immediately retorted, her sense of outrage aggravated by his teasing male arrogance and the ease with which he could expedite a divorce if he wished.
"So there. We're perfectly matched. Why not take a chance?" His casual words were disconcerting and reminiscent of the transience of his affairs and, after his last remark about divorce, not precisely the tone conducive to a romantic concept of marriage. She could feel her heart pounding at the nonchalance of his remarks, alarmed he might in truth view this marriage as an indulgent whim. She wanted her deep love returned in kind, and resentment prompted her reply. "I don't wish to marry someone as a speculative venture."
She looked very young in white eyelet and tumbled curls and a petulant scowl, and Stefan thought that although in many ways she was learned beyond her years, she was also ingenuous and unsophisticated in feminine wiles. There wasn't a woman of his acquaintance who would have risked refusing his proposal.