Seized by Love (6 page)

"One and the same,
Madame," he carelessly retorted in a deep, husky voice. "Allow me to
retrieve your sketching materials which I so heedlessly forced you to
scatter," Nikki continued agreeably as he dropped to one knee and began
gathering her supplies.

"Oh, no, Monsieur,
that's not at all necessary," Alisa quickly responded in supreme
embarrassment, "I can do it myself." And she, too, knelt down and
frantically began picking up the pencils, brushes, and paint containers.

The
Prince Kuzan
here! It was horrifying! It quite shattered her composure. Rumors and gossip of
his eminence and escapades had penetrated even her confined, retired world. She
would simply die of mortification if she stammered one more time; she must
certainly appear as the most gauche, discomfited girl he had ever met.

At one point their hands
accidentally brushed as both reached for the same object. Nikki was amused to
see her drop her eyes self-consciously and snatch her hand back as if burned. A
true innocent? Nikki reflected. Impossible! She was married to that old
misanthrope Forseus. No doubt she was merely an accomplished coquette who could
very effectively blush on cue. Whatever the case, he thought, innocent or
actress, he'd know the answer before three days were past.

All the artistic
paraphernalia properly replaced in Alisa's small basket, Nikki disposed his
lean form comfortably on the grass, remarking politely as he scrutinized her
landscape sketch, "You're a most accomplished artist, Mrs. Forseus. Are
you self-taught or have you studied with someone?"

Alisa didn't answer.

"Please sit
down," he requested cordially, and patted the grass as she remained
kneeling. "It's such a pleasant spring day, I impulsively decided to taste
the pleasures of nature, and upon seeing you painting, intruded on your
privacy. Do forgive my impertinence." And he grinned warmly to disperse
the lie.

With consummate skill he
continued to try to put her at ease. What could she say unless she wished to be
rudely uncivil?

"Of course, Prince
Kuzan, there's no need to apologize. You're right," she said as she
settled less stiffly on the grass, but kept her distance from him, which didn't
escape Nikki's notice. "The weather is altogether remarkable for this
early in the spring."

"Have
you studied
somewhere?" he repeated politely.

"Oh, no, I've never
been beyond Helsinki, but my parents studied in Paris; in fact, they first met
while sketching at the Louvre. Both served as my teachers, although Father
viewed his painting as a hobby and was rather more interested in gathering
information on the historic roots of the Kalevala. He quite devoted his life to
the enterprise and had collated thirty-four stanzas of the epic before he and
mother died—"

An unmistakable expression
of pain passed over her lovely face and her sentence trailed off.

She was from the gentry.
That accounted for her delicate beauty and fluent French, he thought.

"My condolences,
Madame, the memory must be painful."

Alisa nodded, unable to
speak. Recalling her parents' death could still paralyze and stupefy her even
after all this time. With a palpable effort she returned to the present and
quickly brushed off Prince Kuzan's sympathy and her self-pity. "It all
occurred six long years ago; I am quite reconciled to my loss."

Nikki, however, could see
she was not, and he experienced an uncharacteristic pang of compassion for the
obviously distraught young woman. She at least wasn't acting when it came to
her bereavement over the loss of her parents.

"With your training,
you no doubt are interested in the new exhibits of the Wanderers," he
conversationally stated, hoping to distract and cast aside her painful thoughts.
"I saw an extraordinary reception of their work last winter in
Petersburg."

The diversion was more
successful than he'd anticipated. Mrs. Forseus's eyes, her expression,
immediately, patently brightened.

"The Wanderers!"
she exclaimed. "Have you
really
seen their work?"

"Yes, I have several
catalogues of their exhibitions and a small landscape of Shishkin's."

Her violet eyes widened in
fascinated excitement. "You do?" she breathed in wonder, her face
overcome with a childlike awe.

Nikki refrained from
revealing to her that he was relatively uninterested in the Wanderers, or any
other painters, for that matter. He'd been cajoled against his will into
attending the exhibitions because his mistress, Countess Amalienborg had
seductively insisted, and he was in a receptive enough humor to yield to her
extremely pleasurable methods of entreaty. And as for his purchase of the
Shishkin landscape, the only reason he'd bought it was to annoy that pompous
ass, Count Borcheff, who was bent on having the painting. Nikki had derived
inordinate satisfaction from carelessly raising each one of Borcheff's bids
until the bombastic Count had been forced to drop out and lose the painting.
His personal secretary, Ivan Dolorosky, conscientiously bought the exhibition
catalogues as well as every other new book, pamphlet, and article published and
added them to Nikki's extensive library. Ivan had been given carte blanche to
purchase for the library since the pursuit was so gratifying to the young man.
Nikki vaguely recollected Ivan speaking rapturously of the newest Wanderer
catalogue; thank heaven, he'd attended, however superficially, to Ivan's
enthusiastic monologue.

Alisa conversed freely
after Nikki's fortuitous attempt at diverting her morose memories, explaining
her admiration for these new painters, who with a technical skill, par
excellence, portrayed socially significant subjects, historical scenes,
landscapes from life, that were poignantly effective as well as exquisitely
rendered.

Alisa glowed with fervor
when she spoke of the courage it took for Kramskoy and a group of fellow
students to resign from the Academy in a dispute over subject matter. How the
"Mutiny of 13" had become the "Peredvizhniki" or
"Wanderers," basing their approach on N. Chernyshev-ski's revolutionary
book
Aesthetic Relations of Art and Reality,
which stressed the
superiority of reality over its representation in art.

"You see, my parents,
too, painted from nature; painted outside and not exclusively in the studio. It
was revolutionary in their generation, but they were acquainted with many
French painters who vacationed at Barbizon and worked directly out of
doors."

"Ah, yes, the vanguard
of the—what are they calling those young painters in Paris?—the
Impressionists?"

"Yes, that's exactly
right!" Alisa replied in delight. Since the death of her parents she'd not
had a single opportunity to discuss art with anyone. "And Repin…" she
breathed ecstatically, "such subject matter; it brings tears to one's
eyes."

"His new painting
'Volga Boatmen' was just finished last year after three years of preparation.
Marvelously stunning when I viewed it," Nikki said.

"Oh!" another
gasp of excitement, and Alisa chatted away volubly, free from restraint. Nikki
had only to murmur appropriate responses intermittently and he was not, after
all, completely untutored in the new movements in art. Having lived in Paris
for two years, he toured Europe often and extensively, and when lured to the
new art exhibits by Countess Amalienborg's desire to be seen at the avant-garde
displays, he was not altogether unseeing. Behind Nikki's normal posture of
indifference was a keen mind and a perspicuity beyond the common. He observed
much without appearing to. As a matter of fact, on the occasion of his purchase
of the Shishkin landscape, he'd also impulsively bought an extremely small
Savrassov still life which he'd sent to his mother and until the present moment
completely forgotten.

"I have some of the
catalogues in the library at the hunting lodge and also the Shishkin
landscape," he lied. "Perhaps you would like to come over for tea
some afternoon and see them," he casually suggested. He would send a
message to Ivan this evening in Petersburg and have the catalogues and painting
delivered to him post haste, wherever they were.

"No! No!" Alisa
exclaimed in highly nervous agitation. "I couldn't—I'm sorry, I'd love to,
but—" she stopped in a near state of panic.

Were his intentions that
transparent? Nikki wondered uncomfortably, and decided not to press the
suggestion. He quickly changed the subject, exerting his charm to calm the
unusual display of alarm his invitation had occasioned.

Nikki couldn't have known
that fear of her husband's actions rather than Nikki's had prompted her
inordinate manifestation of fear. Valdemar Forseus had on two recent instances
beaten Alisa, not grievously, but enough to frighten her. After years of almost
total indifference, since the birth of their daughter Forseus had once again
begun, infrequently, to press her with bizarre and unwelcome demands. Alisa was
dreadfully terrified, and more sure every day that soon she would have to take
her daughter and leave her husband regardless of the consequences. The last few
months had become so increasingly intolerable, she now wondered daily how much
longer she could last.

Nikki restricted himself to
polite and innocuous inanities for the next fifteen minutes, ultimately
succeeding in restoring Alisa's lively spirits and bringing the delightfully
ingenuous smile to her lips. Feeling it best to depart now that her cheerful
disposition was reestablished, Nikki rose from his relaxed sprawl and, towering
magnificently above her, remarked equably, "Perhaps if you're sketching
here tomorrow, I could bring my catalogues to show you."

"I don't know. I
can't, I mean… I don't think so," she stammered falteringly.

"It doesn't signify if
you're otherwise engaged," he reassured her. "I'm rather at loose
ends at the moment, and if you're not here, the stroll over will, at least, be
a pleasant occupation of my time." He smiled faintly. "Charmed to
make your acquaintance, Mrs. Forseus. Good day."

"Good day to you,
Monsieur," she quietly replied.

And bowing courteously, he
strode slowly away.

Alisa was left with
multitudinous and conflicting emotions waging war in her mind, a sweet confusion
holding sway. He was so handsome, faintly foreign- and exotic-looking. Alisa
couldn't drag her memory from the strikingly attractive maleness he exuded.
Prince Kuzan was also enchanting company (of course, since Nikki was out to
ingratiate himself), so kind to her and wholly conversant in the new art
movements, a topic of infinite delight to one who could keep abreast of the new
currents only by irregular periodicals that might find their way to Vüpuri.
Alisa didn't allow herself to dwell on his handsome attractiveness. In the six
years since she had been forced into marriage with the sixty-one-year-old
Forseus, no man had ever treated her gently. The entire encounter that
afternoon was bewildering and left her unusually agitated. She couldn't
concentrate on her painting anymore. All thought of color and form had left her
mind. She knew she wanted to meet Prince Kuzan tomorrow. But dared she follow
her own warm feelings of pleasure he engendered within her this afternoon? If
her husband had been home, she would have had no choice. But he wasn't, and
these few days of freedom from his tyranny had brought a Prince into her life.

Alisa gathered her supplies
and walked home slowly, lost in tumultuous thought, hugging each enchanting
memory of the Prince to herself. Arriving home, she devoted herself to her
five-year-old daughter, Katelina, who had just awakened from her afternoon nap,
and in entertaining her child endeavored to push aside the distracting,
disturbing thoughts of Prince Kuzan.

When Nikki returned to the
lodge, he was greeted with rapid-fire, coarse, and teasing questions from the
importunately inquisitive, now slightly drunken Cernov and
Illy-
ich.

"Well, how is the bull
of Petersburg doing with Forseus's ice maiden?" Illyich laughed
uproariously, more amused than ever at his choice of prey. He felt quite
certain of collecting his winnings.

Cernov slyly added, "I
see your clothes are as unruffled and immaculate as ever. Didn't get to her
this afternoon, eh, Nikki? Losing your touch?"

Nikki good-naturedly
accepted the crude jesting interspersed with much helpful and extremely graphic
advice.

He was eminently familiar
with barracks humor and also entirely satisfied with the course of the
afternoon's efforts. He looked forward eagerly to a leisurely, unhurried
seduction; the victory would be sweet.

"My friends,"
Nikki explained with a patient forbearance, "Mrs. Forseus is not a common
slut. She is, surprisingly, in spite of having married that peasant-mer-chant
Forseus, of gentle birth and upbringing. She's also a lovely, skitterish young
filly unused to the bridle, so I must gentle her slowly before she'll be tame
enough to ride. Today was not entirely unsuccessful, so don't count your
winnings yet, Illyich."

Nikki had been unprepared
to find Alisa so well-bred. Her French was fluent and without accent. She
wasn't a peasant after all, although Nikki had no scruples or class
distinctions when it came to taking his pleasure. His sexual diversions were
international, interdenominational, non-ideological, entered into with a true
and open spirit of brotherhood.