Golden Paradise (30 page)

Why had he come?
she
wondered when the footman came to fetch her from the library. Surely there was nothing to say after last night. Had she not thought she would appear cowardly to refuse his card, she would have.

He automatically rose to his feet when she entered the drawing room, but slowly, to favor his throbbing temples, and immediately apologized. "Forgive my actions last night at Gagarin's," he quietly said. "I was entirely at fault."

Since Lisaveta's sleepless night had to do with the humiliation of her unrestrained surrender to the irresistible Prince, she wasn't in an absolving mood. "Yes," she said with censure and disapprobation, "you certainly were…but then, you and shameless excess are synonymous."

Stefan opened his mouth to speak, about to remind her of the nail marks she'd left on the back of his neck, but decided against it and said instead, "I'm extremely sorry."

Lisaveta scrutinized him sharply, since his tone was much too contrite for the Prince Bariatinsky she knew. But perhaps he had manners after all, or perhaps a conscience. Regardless, this visit was over. "If you came to apologize, consider it done. Good day, Prince Bariatinsky."

"Wait."

Her hand was on the door latch. "Yes?" she said in stern inquiry, as a teacher might.

She was dressed in a morning gown of cucumber green, plainly cut, and she looked quite different from the seductive beauty of last evening. She looked…scholarly, he decided was the proper word. Even her chestnut hair was braided into a coronet, enhancing her puritanical image, and she wore only Militza's pearls in her ears for jewelry. Why did he find her chaste and virtuous appearance so sensual? Was it because her unornamented frock was suppressing what he knew lay beneath? Or was it her cool and distant attitude he found challenging? He wished, he decided
,
to take down her braids and unbutton her high-necked gown; he wished to touch her soft warm flesh and bring her to life.

"You had something more to say?" she prompted as the silence lengthened, but there was demand in her tone rather than geniality.

Restored to his purpose, he said, "Yes… actually I do." He found himself at a loss momentarily on how exactly to begin. How precisely, he wondered, do you politely ask, Are you pregnant, and if so, is it mine, and if so, should we marry, and if I propose, will you accept, and do you really want this or find it as embarrassing and awkward as I? Not to mention the overriding fact he still had a fiancée, who might or might not be easily disposed of, Nikki's nonchalance notwithstanding.

He didn't contemplate asking questions about love, because in the current circumstances it was irrelevant. But the thought of love did enter his mind in a strange and elusive way, because he had faced last night the solid truth of his journey north and he hadn't been able to place the impetus on lust alone. As the brandy in the bottle declined he had had to admit that assuaging his lust could have been accomplished with infinitely less effort in Aleksandropol. And he could have saved himself eight days of travel.

"Am I supposed to guess?" Lisaveta coolly asked into the new small silence, not in the right frame of mind to parry verbally with the man who'd entered her life with the abruptness of a meteor, made himself essential to her without even trying with the same casual charm he extended to all women, and then as abruptly took his leave—only to disastrously repeat his performance in an abbreviated version last night. She was bitterly resentful of his charm and her attraction to his careless seduction.

"I talked to Nikki last night," he said in way of gentle introduction.
"And?"

Apparently she wasn't going to make this easy. He took two steps forward so they wouldn't be conversing across so great a distance and, editing the bluntness of Nikki's statements of last evening, said, "He mentioned, or suggested… that is—he's aware we spent some time together before you arrived in Saint Petersburg."

He had gone home from the Yacht Club soon after sunrise and bathed and breakfasted. An early-morning ride had helped marginally to clear his head and he'd come directly to the Kuzan palace afterward, as some men ascend the scaffold briskly in order to speed the inevitable. His hair was still damp from the sea mist that lay over Saint Petersburg in the mornings.

Lisaveta knew he'd been out riding, dressed as he was. And she took issue with the even tenor of his life. Presumably a morning ride was routine in Saint Petersburg. Last night's events might have disrupted her life wretchedly, but his customary practices obviously remained unchanged. Her voice was mildly peevish when she said, "I didn't make a particular secret of my knowing you, although rest assured, Prince Bariatinsky,
I
didn't make an issue of it, either."

"Stefan," he prompted, and sighed. "Good God, Lise, stop standing there like some avenging angel. Look," he said, moving close enough to take her hand, "come sit down so we can talk."

She resisted for the briefest moment because the simple act of holding his hand was doing disastrous things to her heart rate. And what could they possibly have to discuss?
she
thought, after last night. She said exactly that the next moment, and his voice was solemn when he replied, "I'm abysmally sorry,
dushka.
I was jealous and that's the honest truth."

She looked up at him, surprised, and he was startled himself at his admission.

"So we should talk," he said, tugging at her hand, and this time, touched by his candor, she followed him. They sat on an Empire sofa, rose-colored like the carpet, with a careful distance between them, both cautious and circumspect, both plagued by a sleepless night… and touchy.

"Since there's no way to lead urbanely into this," Stefan said, feeling more like a young lad than the Commander of the Tsar's Cavalry, "I'll simply say—" he took a short extra breath for courage against the coolness of her eyes "—Nikki told me you're pregnant."

"It doesn't concern you."

He should have been ecstatic with her temperate reply; it had in fact been his own first reaction to Nikki's disclosure. Inexplicably, he wasn't. He was annoyed. "Of course it concerns me," he said, sounding pompously stuffy even to
himself
.

"Look, Stefan…" It was the first time she'd used his Christian name since she'd walked into that room, and it gave him pleasure, as if somehow he were succeeding against her cool reserve. "Nikki may not have told you…the—" Her hesitation over the word
pregnancy
charmed him. She was in many ways too sweetly naive for the brutality of the world, and a novel sense of protection overcame him. "The…situation," she went on, "may not develop into anything you need concern yourself with."

"Are
you pregnant?" Suddenly he wanted to know rather than be left out with her equivocation.

"I don't know," she said, a blush pinking her pale cheeks.

"What do you mean,"
he
inquired, his voice hushed, "you don't know? Have you or have you not missed your menses?" he asked bluntly.

The flush on her face deepened, but her voice when she spoke was firm. "I don't answer questions like that." She thought he looked tired, his dark eyes underscored with faint shadows and half-lidded, as if it were an effort to hold them
open,
and he was here this morning because he'd talked to Nikki last night.
Because Nikki had talked to him.
About her.
And she resented the notion that Prince Bariatinsky was trying, under duress, to distinguish what his minimum responsibilities were.

"Actually," she said decisively, "I don't answer to you at all. As a matter of fact," she added, "I'm quite independent of you. As you no doubt prefer, since I don't recall any discussion of a future when we parted after our holiday at your lodge."

"Hell, Lise, you're making this difficult."

"On the contrary, I'll make it very easy. Shall we drop the subject?"

"Maybe I don't care to drop the subject."

"And maybe I don't care whether you care or not."

"Dammit, I'm just trying to get to the bottom of this."

"And then what, Prince Bariatinsky, will you do?"

There was a short silence. "Nikki says I have to marry you."

Lisaveta's eyes took on the gelid glint of an arctic winter. "Is this a marriage proposal?" she inquired in a sherbet-sweet accent.

"Yes, dammit, it is," he growled, exasperated at her evasion, frustrated with her disinterest.

"Well, then, dammit, I refuse your gracious offer," she snapped.

"You can't refuse me," he snapped back, this man who only hours before had been appalled at the prospect of marriage.

"But I just
have
and that, I think, concludes our conversation.
If you'll excuse me, Prince Bariatinsky.
Your fiancée, perhaps, would be a more suitable recipient of your charming proposals." And she abruptly stood.

As abruptly his hand closed around her wrist and he dragged her back down. "You'll leave when I tell you to leave." He hadn't traveled five swift and fatiguing days across the Empire to be dismissed like some servant.

"You forget, General, you're not dealing with a subaltern," Lisaveta wrathfully flared, struggling to free herself from his steely grasp. "Your orders mean nothing to me."

"Does this mean something, then?" he asked, and pulled her roughly into his arms and kissed her, something he'd been wanting to do since she'd first entered the room.

She fought against his strength and his encroaching mouth and tongue, but she was effectively imprisoned in his arms despite her violent efforts. And unlike last night, when only consummation was a priority, Stefan lingered and teased, he tasted the sweetness of her lips as if she were new to him, as though young ladies wearing coronet braids were an untried flavor, as though he'd traveled five days and nights to exchange kisses like a proper gentleman.

She was surprised at first, after the initial shock of his aggression, because she'd expected his anger again and found instead a tenderness and restraint. He only kissed her, dulcetly, delicately, on her mouth, her cheek, her eyes, on the tip and slender fine bridge of her nose. And only when at last, at long last, she began kissing him back, did his mouth slowly drift downward over the silky curve of her jaw onto the warming flesh of her throat.

He carefully released her arms, which he'd been restraining at her sides in measured degrees until she leaned into him of her own accord, and he began breathing again in a normal rhythm.

"I shouldn't let you kiss me," she murmured above his bent head, her hands resting lightly on the solid muscle of his shoulders.

"But you are," he answered, his deep voice a husky low resonance against her throat, his slender dark fingers beginning to slide the small jet buttons at her collar free.

"You're too practiced…I should resist," she whispered, her eyes half-shut against the tremors of pleasure rushing through her senses.

"And you're not practiced at all," he whispered back, raising his head to look at her. "I find it arousing." He smiled then, a small faint smile of gratification. "Although resist if you like, Countess. I'd find that arousing, as well."

"I hate your licentiousness," she quietly said, her tawny eyes accusing in a curiously erotic way. Perhaps it was the feline quality of her slightly oriental eyes or the manner in which she surveyed him from beneath the lacy fringe of her lashes.

"I can tell," he said, brushing his palms over the tips of her hardened nipples visible through the cucumber-colored silk of her gown.

"And I hate your damnable assurance," she added hotly, but her voice was husky with a desire he recognized.

"I, however," he murmured, his hands moving upward to slip two more buttons free, "adore your temper." His fingers slid inside the eight inches of open neckline he'd freed and he slowly stroked the mounded fullness of her breasts. His hands were as warm as she remembered, and gentle and skilled. Lisaveta's eyes briefly shut and she moaned in warming bliss as luxurious sensation flooded through her body.

But a moment later she sharply said, "No," steeling herself against the pleasure he so easily roused, refusing to willingly surrender again, wishing to save herself from the humiliation she'd experienced last night. Her eyes were focused once again and aggressive, her hand coming out to rest on his wrist. "Don't touch me."

His wrist, muscular and strong-boned, dwarfed her small hand. "I want to," he replied, no aggression in his voice, only patience and courtesy.

"You must allow me my prerogatives," she said quietly, and waited.

His wrist moved under her hand and drawing back, he shook her hand free. "Your obedient servant,
mademoiselle,"
he said in a parody of good manners, but his voice was tinged with surliness, like a restive boy called to order.

"You're sulking," she declared, her tone suddenly teasing, because he was moody and scowling, his large frame sprawled against the pink feminine sofa like some great dark thundercloud.

"I don't sulk," he said with unmistakable sulkiness.

"You can't always have your own way," she said, thinking how very beautiful he was even when he was scowling.

"But I always have," he replied with neither apology nor ostentation. He smiled then, because she was studying him as though he were an archaeological oddity. "I recommend it."