But when she'd made those required objections and he'd refused them all in his teasing, smiling way, she'd allowed the full measure of her happiness to invade her heart, so she felt now a rosy warm magic, as though she could touch the whole world and make it smile with her. She couldn't have accepted him had he been coerced or reluctant. She was too prideful herself to take a husband who didn't love her immensely. And he did, it was plain. Beyond his teasing and irony, it was clear he loved her so much he'd come across Russia for her and would marry her even in Vladimir Taneiev's shadow.

"I'll make you happy, Stepka," she whispered, her face alight with love, "always."

And he knew with that certainty reserved for those rare and perfect unions, she would. He'd searched for her, blasé and unknowing, too long to doubt it.

He knew it with that blinding flash of mystic revelation.

With a Zoroastrian belief like burning flame.

With a shaman magic-he knew it.

He smiled, thinking of an additional intuitive reason more: she said "Stepka" with the exact inflection that his father had, and in all the world he'd found someone to love again. Or perhaps she had found him, he thought, considering how they'd met.

"And I'll try, little mother," he murmured, "to make you both happy."

Her eyes showed a small startled reflex and she said very softly, "It's a very new thought…"

"The way it works, darling," he said, his smile so close she could feel its warmth, "you'll have time to get used to the idea."

He kissed her then, and she him, with a giddy smiling kiss that tasted of love and delight and wonder. They had both found the illusive prize of life, the spilled-over love chalice of everyone's quest, the insupportable marvel of requited, deep and perfect love…and it seeped like blissful sunshine into every corner of their mind.

Their kiss in the normal sequence of events turned in time from sunshine into licking flame, and it was then Stefan gathered Lisaveta into his arms with effortless strength, rose from the sofa with a fluid grace and began walking toward the doors leading into the hallway. As if already mated in mind and spirit, he said, "I'm taking you to my palace," before she could ask her intended question.

Chapter Fourteen

But Nikki was waiting in the corridor, seated on a bargello-upholstered Venetian chair directly facing the drawing room doors.

"Chaperoning, are you?" Stefan mildly inquired, his tone benign, holding Lisaveta in his arms as though he always casually held her while conversing.

"I thought I'd read for a time," Nikki pleasantly replied, his book unopened beside him on the console table.

"And that was the only chair in this block-long palace?"

"The only convenient one," Nikki answered with a grin. "I see all is reconciled." He could see Lisaveta was happy-it was apparent in her beaming face-and Stefan had the look of a triumphant man.

"And if it hadn't been?" Stefan said in a quiet voice.

"I brought my revolver. One never knows when one might need it-reading." He had not of course, but a measure of coercion existed beneath his amused words.

"Before you two do something adolescent and ruin all this unalloyed bliss," Lisaveta interjected with a smile, "may I point out that all this masculine pride is rather irrelevant since Stefan proposed and I accepted."

"Congratulations." Benevolence and cordiality infused the single word, for beyond the fact that Lisaveta's future was secure, Nikki was genuinely fond of them both. "Should I talk to my priest?" he inquired, rising from his chair.

"So subtle, mon ami," Stefan replied with a grin, "but I'll speak to mine instead." And in afterthought for a man used to command, he looked down at Lisaveta. "If that's all right with you, darling," he added with deference.

Lisaveta was currently feeling an over-the-moon happiness and was capable of complacently viewing the yawning jaws of hell with equanimity. "Whatever you think," she said, her voice compliant.

Stefan's eyes widened in mock surprise. "No argument, no contention, no combative response? Had I realized," he went on with teasing brightness, "how simple it was to curtail your temper, I'd have proposed long ago."

"There, you see, the feminine mystique transparent at last," Lisaveta facetiously replied. "I'll teach you everything I know," she promised in a whispered aside.

Her remark immediately refocused Stefan's attention on his original mission. "I'd really like to stay and chat," he said to Nikki, who was beaming visibly at the success of his cousinly pressure, "but I've only a day and half before I have to leave."

"I'll call at your home later, then," Nikki said, "to hear your plans. Do you want me to inform anyone?"

Stefan's answer was staccato swift. "Not just yet," he said, his glance over Lisaveta's head significant with meaning. He had first to face Nadejda and her family. "I'll get back to you."

"Say goodbye," Lisaveta murmured into the sweep of black hair near Stefan's ear, and he promptly did, as anxious as she to be alone, the problem of Nadejda's family instantly discarded in lieu of more gratifying thoughts.

"Have a pleasant day," Nikki volunteered, his doting grin that of an extremely pleased man.

"Thank you," Stefan replied, his face creasing into a broad smile as his eyes met with Lisaveta's. "We will."

The weeks of their separation past, their ruinous jealousy resolved, neither chose to dwell on the unreliable future; they were feeling only intemperate joy. And when Stefan had Lisaveta at last where he'd so often fantasized of late, in his home and bed, softly warm beneath him, he told her how much he loved her with a rare and garlanded poetry she found captivating. She answered him with her own simple words, words she'd contemplated in the long days of their absence and the bitter nights of their separation, words she'd once considered forever denied her. "I love you," she said, "with all my heart."

"I'll never let you go," he quietly replied, the nature of his love less benevolent. It matched the strength he'd fashioned into his destiny, it matched the fear he'd lived with when he thought her indifferent. It spoke, too, of his confidence. The Commander of the Tsar's Cavalry had never suffered defeat. She was his. He was content, and more, he was whole again.

If he'd been asked he wouldn't have been able to answer why he'd abandoned his long-held beliefs so readily. He'd fought against loving her, against acknowledging he cared; he'd told himself his feelings were some aberrant temporary fascination. But he'd discovered his emotions wouldn't so obediently comply to his rationalization or yield to any objectivity.

"I have estimated the influence of Reason upon Love and found that it is like that of a raindrop upon the ocean," Hafiz had written.

And Stefan's own heart understood at last.

They played with teasing silliness that afternoon in his bed made of chased gold. It was large enough-having been cast originally for his Orbeliani great-great-grandfather, who had kept a harem of eight hundred concubines-for facetious games of pursuit. It was soft enough to engulf one in gossamer down and ostentatious enough, Lisaveta bantered, to support Stefan's reputation for exhibitionist play. Rumor had it he'd entertained multiple women in his splendid bed. He didn't deny or confirm the rumor; he only said, "You're my only love… you're my world."

He was gentle when he entered her sweet and heated body after the teasing play and romp; he was so gentle he scarcely breathed for fear of hurting her if she carried his child; he was so gentle she felt as though his body drifted over her, weightless. And the sensations built for both of them with an intensity so extravagant and extreme they were inebriated with combustible vaulting passion. He lay above her afterward and shuddered, eyes shut and breath held; Lisaveta trembled in sweat-sheened excess, every nerve ending wantonly exposed.

Their afternoon was heated and self-indulgent; it was the stuff dreams were made of, it was the enchantment troubadours embroidered in song.

And so unlike, Stefan said with a smile, his previous notions of prenuptial events.

Meanwhile, on the Palace Square where the Taneievs' princely abode faced the vista of Peter the Great's equestrian statue and the gilded domes of the Admiralty, Nadejda was saying, narrow-eyed and livid with anger, "He cannot be allowed to humiliate me here in Saint Petersburg. Don't make any excuses for him, Mama." She swung around in her pacing before the windows to face her mother, the bustle of her pink taffeta gown quivering at her sudden halt. "I won't have it! In Tiflis it didn't matter. Good God, that backwater scarcely has sufficient nobility to play two rubbers of bridge-but here!" Her face was contorted with indignation, her blond curls trembling, her jeweled fingers clenched into unladylike fists. "I will not be the laughingstock for his scandalous behavior!"

Her mother, seated calmly behind the tea service, opened her mouth to speak.

"And don't you dare mention his fortune," Nadejda irately exclaimed. "I don't care about his fortune!" One could see how violent were her feelings, for Nadejda had spent the better part of her engagement composing shopping lists against the time she would be Princess Bariatinsky.

While Irina wished her daughter satisfaction or perhaps revenge, she wished her a wealthy husband more… and a little better grasp on her temper. She was a practical woman who was also actively involved in her husband's financial speculations. "I was going to say," she patiently said, "your father is interested in his fortune. And also in Bariatinsky's considerable influence in the progress of the war. Papa is directly engaged, as you know, in the cannon contracts."

Irina couldn't go into any detail about those contracts because Nadejda wasn't completely capable of understanding their complexity, the several levels of corruption that had to be coordinated, nor would she have been trustworthy in keeping silent, had she known.

Vladimir Taneiev and Melikoff, along with several officials from the highest levels of government, were involved in the awarding of cannon contracts. Stefan's name as a future son-in-law added credibility to their consortium, as did General Bariatinsky's reputation for honesty.

In addition to the usual bribes required to secure contracts, Vladimir had a personal ancillary scheme to extort further sums of money from the manufacturers. He was soliciting sizable donations for General Bariatinsky's cavalry, as well. Stefan was known for spending his personal funds in outfitting his regiments and no one begrudged the extra sums requested. So Vladimir's very lucrative scheme required General Bariatinsky's presence in his family, at least until the war was over.

"I also don't care about cannons," Nadejda petulantly retorted, shredding a potted fern frond between her fingers.

Her mother winced inwardly at her daughter's heresy and at the litter falling on the carpet. The plant stand would have to be turned to hide the mutilation, so she rang for a servant with an unobtrusive tug on the bellpull near her chair. Irina was a compulsively neat person who viewed life with an eye to advantage rather than subscribing to what she considered the fiction of emotion. Emotion was all very well and good for poetry or opera perhaps, but it interfered with sensible plans and practical goals. Nadejda was still very young so she couldn't be expected to understand the realities, and Irina's restraint was gentle. "You must, my dear, at least until the war is over."

Nadejda ripped one entire frond from the plant and tossed it to the floor. "Are you telling me," she said, bridling, "I must suffer his indignities?"

"Papa will explain to you, darling." She hoped the servant would come soon.

"I won't marry him unless he is brought to heel. I mean it, Mama! Find me some other rich man to marry." Nadejda's debutante season had been gratifying-ten proposals of marriage and a deluge of suitors. Her pale beauty was all the rage, a superficial although substantial consideration for Stefan along with her other suitors. He'd always favored blond females.

"Certainly, dear, but you must wait until after the war. Now come sit down and calm yourself-Papa will be home directly. I sent Peotr out to fetch him, and when he explains the need to endure Bariatinsky's scandalous behavior for a limited time yet, you'll do your part, I'm sure. And then after we talk to Papa, why don't we go shopping?" Irina's voice was soothing, the tone one would use with a child throwing a tantrum. "Brabant's has a new jeweler who's a magician. Wouldn't you like a necklace like Sophie's with strawberry blossoms, or perhaps some earrings for your new tangerine gown?"