Love Storm (41 page)

God, what was he going to do? All avenues led to a dead end. Six detectives had been unable to find a clue to Zena's destination. She had for all intents dropped off the face of the earth.

Unaware of the desperate efforts to locate them, Zena and Bobby were living very quietly in a pension on a quiet street in Nice. Zena's landlady was kindly and politely tactful about questioning her new guest. The striking young widow was beautifully dressed but very frugal in her habits. She spoke French without accent, although her name, Mrs. Nazarin, was definitely Russian. The beautiful widow was a perfect tenant, however, never noisy or demanding, living a very circumspect, routine existence, taking her small son to the park both morning and afternoon, doing her own cooking and retiring early in the evening.

Zena's landlady observed the peaceful, placid habits of her guest and concluded Mrs. Nazarin was tranquilly awaiting the birth of her second child. Zena had schooled herself on the train from Moscow to present a serene face to the world. It was essential for Zena to maintain this exterior at variance with the inner reality. Outwardly she obeyed the rules of civilized behavior. But despite her best efforts, the first weeks in Nice were just a black anguish, hardly separate one from the other.

As the feeling of numbness subsided, Zena consciously hoped to eventually make the sham a reality. All it takes is time, she told herself. Time would soothe the spiritual wounds of pain and despair that tormented her. Time would cure and restore the deep hurt of her rejection.

Time would dignify the humiliation of her inglorious, unrequited love.

But the practicality and logic of sensible reason didn't easily withstand the strength of willful emotions and a temperament decidedly less than practical.

The remembrances of Sasha's gentle touch, the warmth of his boyish laugh, the infinite pleasures he could provoke, pushed aside all sensible emotions. Passionate memories of love reacted very poorly to cold rationality. With an effort of will Zena sent away the images of Sasha that mysteriously appeared before her. In the meantime, she had lost ten pounds. So much for good intentions.

Shortly after her arrival, Zena made the acquaintance of an English gentleman who frequented the little park near her pension. He had kindly played catch with Bobby one morning when Zena had become fatigued with Bobby's inexhaustible reserves of energy. She had caught and chased Bobby's erratic throws for quite some time before the gentleman had politely offered to relieve her. He had taken over as partner to Bobby's youthful enthusiasm, allowing Zena a much needed rest. When Bobby later entertained himself by tossing bread crumbs to the pigeons, the tall man sat down and introduced himself. He was Alistair Prescott, Earl of Glenagle. Zena offered a minimum of information, introducing herself as Mrs. Nazarin, a widow from Moscow who had recently lost her husband.

The earl made it a habit after that first meeting to frequent the park at the same times Zena did, and over the ensuing weeks they had become friends. He played childish games with Bobby and then chatted or strolled with Zena when Bobby was preoccupied with his own activities. Oddly enough, Zena noted Bobby had never taken to calling the earl "Papa," as he had done immediately with Sasha.

The earl was kindness itself to them both, bringing small gifts for Bobby occasionally or presenting Zena with a dainty bouquet of violets or primroses, often leaving a book he recommended. After a fortnight of such pleasant attentions, Zena invited him for tea one afternoon, and the invitation was reciprocated several days later as Zena and Bobby took tea with the earl in his little villa two streets away. The earl, it turned out, was a childless widower, his wife of ten years having died of consumption two years before after a lengthy illness. He came to Nice in the off season, preferring the relative peacefulness to the tremendous crowds of late winter. He was gentlemanly in every way, observing the proprieties of courtesy and politeness in his association with Zena. Alistair Prescott had fair skin and light brown silky hair combed back from a fine, aristocratic forehead. Pale blue eyes looked out serenely from under straight dark brows. A refined, high-bridged nose attested to centuries of good breeding, while his straight slash of a mouth was capable of the most disarming smiles. He carried his height gracefully on a slim, muscular frame tanned from the suns of thirty-nine years. He was everything Sasha was not: placid, serene, polite, understanding, deprecatingly modest, and compassionately kind to both Zena and Bobby. Zena couldn't help but be drawn to the tender comfort he offered in her world of tumultuous memories and tortured, painful emotions. He was like a strong, steady rock of solace and consolation in a world that had in the past few months been tempestuously, violently agitated by the stormy upheavals of love and passion.

Zena's sad, poignant beauty had drawn the earl, the lure of such delicate loveliness more than his usual discretion could withstand. Quite unaccountably he had approached her as a perfect stranger, decidedly
outré
behavior for the civil, refined earl. Despite her obvious pregnancy, or perhaps because of it, the childless earl had viewed the fair, comely woman as a pensive, modern madonna. Sometimes her deep blue eyes expressed a pain so pure, so pitiful and tragic, that it left him yearning to remedy her heartache. Over the weeks he had often seen the sadness dispelled from those cobalt eyes and a warm friendliness shine out toward him. He had kissed her once briefly as he stood near her, devouring the stunning quality of her beauty, but she had trembled so in anxious fear that he had resolved to restrain himself in the future until such time as she could perhaps return his feelings.

The earl had been her compassionate friend now for more than six weeks, spending much time in amiable companionship. Zena cherished the serene comfort of Alistair's affection. She chastised herself at times for accepting his solace, when she knew she could never return his love, but she was so dreadfully alone that she selfishly allowed herself to succumb to his consolation. Being alone was so devastating after one had known the violent pleasure roused by Sasha's presence. She needed someone, no matter how different, to fill some of the terrible void. Alistair had been pressing her for two weeks to consider marrying him. She hadn't revealed that she was still married, but if she decided to accept his offer, a divorce could be obtained. Alex would never contest it. In fact, he would probably be extremely grateful if she freed him from his matrimonial bonds. So the germ of acceptance began to grow. She had had her brief fling of madness and passion. It had been a sweet glimpse of paradise, but it was over, and common sense required she set aside childishly silly, romantic dreams of eternal love and settle down to a life that could be very pleasant and serene. The jewelry she had sold since leaving Moscow had met her expenses adequately, but it wouldn't last indefinitely. With two children soon to support, perhaps she should begin to consider Alistair's kind offer. He loved her very much, he declared, and although Zena couldn't return his love, she could be kind to him. Having been a participant in a one-sided love affair, she was very aware that it could work. If Sasha had simply returned her passionate love with a kind affection, she could have survived. But his casual indifference was too bitter to bear. She vowed if she decided to accept Alistair's marriage proposal, she would never forget to show her affectionate devotion to his very great kindness in befriending her.

_{Paradise Regained}

Alex existed in a vortex of clubbism and social intercourse, each day becoming more depressingly frustrating and melancholy due to the thwarted efforts to locate Zena. He was drinking more than usual and surly to a dangerous degree, but then no one could be expected to know how much alcohol it took to drown out the echo of his voice telling Zena he didn't care for her and that she need never suffer from his touch again.

Everyone concurred that apparently marriage had not agreed with young Prince Alex. He was exceeding even his previous unsurpassed wildness. If anyone had dared, he would have been called out a dozen times in the past few weeks.

Zena lived her routine life in Nice, missing Sasha with a daily remorse that showed no obvious signs of decline despite the passing weeks. As she lived unobtrusively in the warm, temperate climate of the seaside town, she began to consider the necessity of remarriage.

The second week in September Alex was out for the evening as usual. It was still early, and he and Yuri were beginning the night at the Acheevs' before moving on to more abandoned entertainment. Wolf had chosen not to join them tonight, muttering something about needing his rest. Yuri had shot a cynical look at Alex but refrained from immediate comment. Later, as they strolled down the

marble steps of the Neva palace, Yuri remarked sardonically, "Into Katelina's bed, finally, it appears."

"Apparently," Alex replied. "They've had the most doleful, serious look about them lately. Can't think of any other reason Wolf would be going to bed at home at ten o'clock."

"It's about time Katelina began enjoying herself. She must be the only married beauty in St. Petersburg who has been chaste, and with a husband like hers. Ridiculous!"

"That's what I've been trying to tell her," Alex said. "But she's always said she finds promiscuity a bore." He paused for a moment. "She might have something there." He had come up to St. Petersburg weeks ago to be amused, but somehow the old pleasures had lost their piquancy and he was bored. "Been damned dull, lately. Must be getting old," he said with a grimace of disgust. At four and twenty, the prince could scarcely be deemed old; his problem was that he simply had had the world at his feet too long.

"You'd be even more damned bored celibate," Yuri snorted derisively.

"True, true," Alex grinned. "Common sense like that is not to be controverted. Well, my partner in vice, shall we try again tonight to press back the ennui. Where do we start?"

"We meet Kasimir at Acheev's. He wants a chance to recoup his losses of last night. We promised him an hour or two of baccarat. Then maybe on to Amalie's; she guarantees some new dance troupe she's picked up is worth seeing. After that I don't care—perhaps the Countesses Golgorky. Care for an orgy with the Golgorky twins? Those two nymphomaniacs always ensure an enlivening evening," Yuri said with a wide grin.

"You know the classic line, Yuri," Alex drawled impudently. "You could call the Golgorky twins nymphomaniacs if you could slow them down a little." He shrugged and grimaced ruefully. "Frankly, I don't know if I'm up to the performance tonight. It's been a heavy schedule of late. Let's see how we feel in a few hours," he said abruptly, thinking to himself that he'd run through the whole gamut of amusements St. Petersburg had to offer, and he was weary to the soul.

At the Acheevs' Yuri wandered into the cardroom while Alex followed a footman carrying a tray of champagne glasses into the ballroom. Taking one in each hand, he quickly downed them both and set the glasses on the nearest table. Catching sight of Kasimir, he strolled over to him. They casually eyed the flesh on display as silken-clad ladies adorned with sparkling jewels flitted before them.

Even in the midst of the gaiety, rustling silks, light laughter, brilliant bejeweled nobles, and merry music, Alex's thoughts were elsewhere, his eyes unfocusing, unguarded, brooding. A disreputable comment of Kasimir's, concerning the acrobatic expertise of a certain young matron dancing by, served to return Alex to the present. He forcibly cast aside his bitter musing. As they were discussing the merits of the various females, in the bantering crudeness so typically male, Kasimir's wife detached herself from a group across the floor and made her way toward the two tall men in black evening dress. Her eyes dwelt on the handsome, arrogant figure of the prince.

She cast a sidelong glance at Alex from under long, black lashes before turning to her husband, who was busy helping himself to more champagne from a passing footman.

"Kasimir, will you be in the cardroom long? The mazurkas begin soon," she pouted prettily.

"Mazurkas?" the baron harrumphed, clearing his throat. "Egad, woman, find some courtly ladies' man to dance attendance on you, my dear. You know I abhor dancing."

That was exactly the answer the lady expected, allowing her to pursue the actual dancing partner she had in mind.

Flashing Alex a seductive look, she swayed toward him just sufficiently to allow an apparently unstudied brush of her magnificent bosom against his arm. Alex glanced at her cleavage, and his eyes widened in surprise. This startled look did not go unnoticed by the Baroness Demidoff, and she preened coyly, attributing the prince's keen stare to admiration of her luscious, white breasts.

"Do you dance the mazurka, Prince Alexander?" the. baroness breathed intimately.

Alex raised his stunned eyes to the pretty but vacant face and smiled warmly to erase the lie. "Perhaps later, my dear baroness, but for the moment I've promised Kasimir and Yuri a chance for revenge after my inordinate luck at their expense last night. I'm desolate to have to refuse such a charming partner," and he bowed over her hand, acknowledging the pressure of her fingertips by a suitably grateful expression. She tittered and glided away.

Baroness Demidoff had been in hot pursuit for several weeks now, but Alex had eluded with an expert grace. She was not in his style, although God knows, he was realistic enough to expect a minimum of intellect in the society belles; Baroness Demidoff, however, was so featherheaded as to dismay the most hardened cynic. He had had the misfortune to occasionally bed her type and knew, for a fact, he quite definitely abhorred giggles in the boudoir.