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Lisaveta nodded, mute and touched with apprehension.

He gave her a smile, the first she'd seen since meeting him, and she understood immediately a portion of his allure. His dark eyes lost their severity, his perfect teeth flashed white, his sculpted mouth reminded her powerfully of classic Greek archetypes come to life. She felt bathed in a sudden shimmering happiness.

"Good," he said, and was gone, taking the entrance stairs three at a time.

Despite the heat, the surrounding air seemed to cool momentarily at his exit. Good heavens, she thought, shaking away the unusual sensation. Was she so gullible, so unsophisticated, that a simple smile from the illustrious Prince Bariatinsky changed the temperature of the sun?

No doubt he was familiar with the power of his smile. No doubt he was familiar with women responding to that smile. Well, that might be, but he was also overbearing and imperious, and while she was grateful for his rescue, she disliked his style of womanizing man.

The next moment she chastised herself for not showing proper gratitude for her rescue. Without him, she'd be dead now or wishing for death. Certainly, it was the height of ingratitude to be pettishly caviling over his lady loves and amorous leisure activities. She was truly grateful. Period. His style of life was incidental. And she summoned a smile to her face in indication of her sincerity.

He didn't seem to notice when he returned a short time later.

"We're set," he said gruffly, and lifted her down.

He was enormously tall, she thought, a wayward perception that she immediately suppressed as totally irrelevant. As if it mattered what he looked like.

"Would you like to keep the pistol?"

Had he repeated the question? She wasn't sure, but his dark glance was mildly perplexed.

"No…no…not at all…here," she answered, stammering in a rare unease. You'd think she'd never seen a man in skin-tight leather cavalry breeches, half-nude above the waist, his chest sleek with sweat, his muscles…

She felt the revolver being taken from her grasp and her gaze fell from the prominent definition of his pectorals to his hand, only inches from hers. His fingers were long and slender and very tanned, shades darker than her own. He didn't speak as he replaced the weapon in its holster on his saddle, and while she was debating some appropriate casual remark to cover her unease, he turned back to her, put out his arm like a gentleman at a ball or a promenade and said, "This way, mademoiselle."

"Was the villa vacant?" Lisaveta inquired as they ascended the short bank of stairs. She'd seen no one exit.

"A few officers only, mademoiselle, who were more than happy to oblige you."

"Have they gone?"

"I believe so," Stefan replied with equanimity, not about to detail the true nature of his confiscation. A small amount of force had been required in addition to the threat of his rank, and the artillery colonel had been swearing as he'd departed through the back door. The transport officers had been willing to negotiate, offering Stefan several hours of their female companions' time, but Stefan fancied cleaner women and had declined. The Countess Lazaroff, he thought, would appreciate sleeping without the raucous sounds of an all-night party. And he, too, would prefer quiet tonight. Choura was only a few days away; he could wait. After three months, he could wait a few days more.

As they passed through the walled courtyard, its fountain miraculously still playing despite the disruptions of war, and crossed the elegantly tiled pavement, Stefan said, "I've commissioned a bathtub for you, and supper. I hope you'll find the accommodations comfortable. In the morning I'll see you have an escort with one of the guarded convoys traveling to Tiflis."

While his statements were courteous, the tenor of his voice implied he was released from any further responsibility by these acts. "The villa is guarded," he added in afterthought to the dust-covered woman in black. "Sleep well." And with a minimal bow he left Lisaveta at the base of the staircase, waving a servant over to escort her to the second-floor rooms.

"Thank you," Lisaveta ironically said to the back of his head as he walked away. "You're too kind." A sudden resentment, disturbing in its novelty, overwhelmed her. Why did it matter that he dismissed her as insignificant? Why did she care what he thought of her? She should be above the triviality of female coquetry.

When her mother had died, her father had returned to his country estates and never entered the world of society again. Lisaveta had been raised in a quiet country existence, but she still remembered her early years in Saint Petersburg before her mother's death. She had fond memories of her beautiful mother, a Princess of the Kuzan family, and recalled their pink marble palace filled with people for parties and teas, recitals and balls. Bach evening before Maman and Papa left for one of their parties or entertained their own guests, they would come to the nursery to tuck her into bed, and Maman had always been gorgeous in magnificent gowns and splendid jewels. When she'd hug Lisaveta good-night, she'd smell of blooming roses and smile her radiant smile and sometimes slip her tiara on Lisaveta's curly hair and call her "my baby princess." It wasn't often she thought of those long-ago years in Saint Petersburg or of Maman's hugs and kisses or of the very different life her father had once led. She and her father had lived away from the capital so long she'd forgotten the frivolity of the aristocratic world existed. And she'd considered herself insensitive to its amusements and glamour.

But somehow Prince Bariatinsky gave rise to a provoking sense of inadequacy. And it annoyed her. She never felt inadequate. It was his dismissive gaze and tone and attitude-as though she weren't worth noticing. An incipient spirit of challenge stirred in her at his bland negation of her womanhood, an unprecedented feeling, not focused enough to even fully acknowledge, only a tiny flutter of long-suppressed femininity.

And while she despised the Prince for all his arrogant insouciant notoriety, she couldn't deny his sinful, obvious beauty. She'd been too close to the perfect modeled planes of his face, too near the splendid magnificence of his heavily lashed eyes, and she was aware despite herself that his tall lean body possessed an unusual charismatic power and virility. She wasn't the first woman to note these vividly masculine characteristics, she thought, following the servant upstairs. Only the latest.

After arranging quarters for Cleo and his troopers, who would presumably appear once the Bazhis were dispatched, Stefan returned to the villa, took the stairs to his rooms in a run, stripped off his filthy uniform with efficient speed and was in his waiting bath in record time. Submerging himself briefly to rinse the dust from his face and hair, he came up out of the water dripping and degrees cooler, reached for his brandy flask, which he'd set conveniently near, slid back down so he was leaning comfortably against the painted porcelain headrest and sighed his first exhalation of satisfaction in three long months.

Tipping the gold flask engraved with good wishes from Tsar Alexander, he let the amber liquid spill into his mouth, and after his first slow swallow, he smiled into the quiet shaded room. Contentment came from such simple pleasures, he philosophically noted.

In the course of the next hour he emptied the brandy flask while the water cooled, and when he was sufficiently relaxed, the numbing fatigue of the past weeks alleviated not only by the liquor but by the soothing water, he bathed.

When his food arrived sometime later, Stefan was lounging on the bed in one of the silk robes left behind by the villa's owner when his home was requisitioned by the Russian army. The fabric was a cinnamon brocade shot through with a heavy underweaving of aquamarine, and the robe accented the oriental cast of Stefan's features, emphasizing the slight obliqueness of his eyes and the elegant dark wings of his brows. The long-skirted luxurious silk was juxtaposed with his harsh masculinity, the contrast both dramatic and sensual, as if a warrior knight were transposed briefly into a worldly courtier. He'd rolled up the trapunto-trimmed sleeves, an incongruous touch in such a stately robe, as incongruous as his galvanic power contained in the delicate silk.