ten months of their
affair, Tatiana had been ruthlessly ravished by a gypsy, coldly claimed as a
spoil of war by a Prussian general, seduced by the exotic rituals of a prince
of India, and thrust heavenward in the arms of a Greek god.
Today
he was wearing the plumed hat of a French aristocrat, red velvet riding britches,
and one boot. She sat up on her elbows to consider his latest manifestation.
“The
velvet is fetching, and more practical too. The trouble with satin is that it’s
so hard to grab hold of. And I don’t wish to slide off.”
He
grinned and flopped down beside her, the grand hat tumbling to the side as he
did so. “I can find a way to travel to the coast this summer, you know. It
isn’t impossible.”
“It
is.”
“All
I must do is send a message to the tsarina saying that the littlest grand
duchess needs extra practice. That my progress with Xenia has been so hard-won
and tentative I fear two months without any dance lessons at all might knock
her right back to the starting point.” He shrugged. “It’s true enough, in a
way.”
“Most
lies are.”
He
looked at her from the corner of his eye. “You’re in a strange mood today.
What’s wrong?”
What
was wrong? Only a man could ask such a question, half-naked, in that
particular tone of voice.
“The
thought of you coming to the coast for the summer scares me,” she said. “St.
Petersburg is big and busy with lots of places for us to hide, but you can’t
imagine how different the Crimea will be. It’s a small world and everyone is
far too aware of what everyone else is doing.” Tatiana settled back into the
soft nest of ball gowns. Her own red dress was in here somewhere, among all
the others. “Filip does not have so many duties in the Crimea.”
“Giving
him more time for his wife,” Konstantin said flatly.
“You
know I hate it,” she said. It was true. But on this trip in particular, more
than ever, she must at least make a show of keeping her marriage together.
They
lay for a moment in silence. “Besides,” she finally added. “A single summer
is not so long.”
Now
this was an outrageous lie, perhaps the worst Tatiana has ever told. A single
summer could be forever. Whenever she stopped to consider it, she was not sure
she would survive nine weeks trapped in the villa of her husband. Konstantin
suddenly sprang up, as if the same mental image had struck him at the same
time, and began to dig once again into the pile of clothing.
“I
cannot seem to find my gypsy costume,” he said ruefully. “Which is a great
tragedy for the mood of the day seems to require a gypsy. A snarling
knife-wielding king of the gypsies, to be more precise.”
“I
suppose,” she said. This was possibly their last time together before she left,
and Tatiana knew she was ruining everything with her mood. He was trying very
hard to entertain her, was he not? He pulled on the rough woolen traveling
robe of a monk – most likely Friar Lawrence from the abandoned Romeo and Juliet
ballet - and turned toward with a wicked grin.
“And
what of this? Perverse enough to please you?”
“Quite
perverse. Shall I dress as a nun?”
“No,
too much the cliché. You shall be the grand lady who confesses her sins to the
holy brother and then allows him to lead her into many more. Put your red
dress back on. It’s beautiful, you know. I can hardly stand to see you in
it.”
“You
must be careful. Someday when we are dancing your face will give you away.”
“Or
something shall.”
She
laughed and fished a single red sleeve from the pile of costumes, draping it
across her chest like a military sash. She would give him this much, but she
would not obey him completely. She was not in the mood for costumes today.
“It’s the nicest dress I’ve ever worn.”
“You’ll
have nicer things yet when we’re in Paris.”
She
gave him a half-hearted smile. Paris, always
affair, Tatiana had been ruthlessly ravished by a gypsy, coldly claimed as a
spoil of war by a Prussian general, seduced by the exotic rituals of a prince
of India, and thrust heavenward in the arms of a Greek god.
Today
he was wearing the plumed hat of a French aristocrat, red velvet riding britches,
and one boot. She sat up on her elbows to consider his latest manifestation.
“The
velvet is fetching, and more practical too. The trouble with satin is that it’s
so hard to grab hold of. And I don’t wish to slide off.”
He
grinned and flopped down beside her, the grand hat tumbling to the side as he
did so. “I can find a way to travel to the coast this summer, you know. It
isn’t impossible.”
“It
is.”
“All
I must do is send a message to the tsarina saying that the littlest grand
duchess needs extra practice. That my progress with Xenia has been so hard-won
and tentative I fear two months without any dance lessons at all might knock
her right back to the starting point.” He shrugged. “It’s true enough, in a
way.”
“Most
lies are.”
He
looked at her from the corner of his eye. “You’re in a strange mood today.
What’s wrong?”
What
was wrong? Only a man could ask such a question, half-naked, in that
particular tone of voice.
“The
thought of you coming to the coast for the summer scares me,” she said. “St.
Petersburg is big and busy with lots of places for us to hide, but you can’t
imagine how different the Crimea will be. It’s a small world and everyone is
far too aware of what everyone else is doing.” Tatiana settled back into the
soft nest of ball gowns. Her own red dress was in here somewhere, among all
the others. “Filip does not have so many duties in the Crimea.”
“Giving
him more time for his wife,” Konstantin said flatly.
“You
know I hate it,” she said. It was true. But on this trip in particular, more
than ever, she must at least make a show of keeping her marriage together.
They
lay for a moment in silence. “Besides,” she finally added. “A single summer
is not so long.”
Now
this was an outrageous lie, perhaps the worst Tatiana has ever told. A single
summer could be forever. Whenever she stopped to consider it, she was not sure
she would survive nine weeks trapped in the villa of her husband. Konstantin
suddenly sprang up, as if the same mental image had struck him at the same
time, and began to dig once again into the pile of clothing.
“I
cannot seem to find my gypsy costume,” he said ruefully. “Which is a great
tragedy for the mood of the day seems to require a gypsy. A snarling
knife-wielding king of the gypsies, to be more precise.”
“I
suppose,” she said. This was possibly their last time together before she left,
and Tatiana knew she was ruining everything with her mood. He was trying very
hard to entertain her, was he not? He pulled on the rough woolen traveling
robe of a monk – most likely Friar Lawrence from the abandoned Romeo and Juliet
ballet - and turned toward with a wicked grin.
“And
what of this? Perverse enough to please you?”
“Quite
perverse. Shall I dress as a nun?”
“No,
too much the cliché. You shall be the grand lady who confesses her sins to the
holy brother and then allows him to lead her into many more. Put your red
dress back on. It’s beautiful, you know. I can hardly stand to see you in
it.”
“You
must be careful. Someday when we are dancing your face will give you away.”
“Or
something shall.”
She
laughed and fished a single red sleeve from the pile of costumes, draping it
across her chest like a military sash. She would give him this much, but she
would not obey him completely. She was not in the mood for costumes today.
“It’s the nicest dress I’ve ever worn.”
“You’ll
have nicer things yet when we’re in Paris.”
She
gave him a half-hearted smile. Paris, always
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