Natasha's Dream by Mary Jane Staples Page A

have considered it suitable evening wear, but it gave her an elegance, and its soft, silky shimmer was delicately feminine. The wretched creature who had come into his life out of a cold, damp night was suddenly an attractive young lady, and would be more so when all her hollows filled out.
    ‘I am looking and watching, Mr Gibson, sir,’ said Natasha, ‘and if I do see anyone who would interest you, I shall tell you.’ She sighed. ‘Oh, that poor sick lady.’
    ‘Why do you say that?’
    ‘But why not?’ said Natasha in reproach. ‘If she should be the Grand Duchess, think how dreadful she must feel about being rejected. Oh, you will have to be very careful. I shoulddislike it intensely if, because of your curiosity and your questions, someone cut your tongue off.’
    ‘I’d dislike it even more myself,’ said Mr Gibson, and waved away a waiter who wished to know if further courses were desired.
    From out of the blue haze, eyes peered. Female eyes, heavy-lidded, lingered on Mr Gibson. Male eyes, either bold or speculative, dwelt on Natasha.
    ‘It is not something to joke about,’ she said. ‘Berlin is not a place of jokes. Oh, you can hear people laughing in clubs and restaurants, but not because of jokes, no. Because Berlin once had everything, and now it only has clowns with painted noses. I have been thinking it was a mistake to tell Count Orlov you were more well informed than he was. He did not like that.’
    ‘One can’t please everybody—’
    Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of violins and balalaikas coming to life again. The music was an invitation to customers to dance the mazurka. At once, Russians were on their feet, men and women whirling into motion. The mazurka was Polish in origin, but part of Poland had belonged to Russia for over a century, until the end of the Great War,and Russians had adopted the dance as their own.
    The restaurant burst with revelry. A pale young man, slender and handsome, emerged from a throng of dancers and came flying towards Natasha. Laughing, he reached for her, took her by the hand, pulled her irresistibly to her feet and galloped into the mazurka with her. Mr Gibson sat and watched. Natasha, flushed and excited, her thin body alive with movement, danced and whirled with the laughing young man.
    A woman, whose hair was as raven-black as Natasha’s, and whose crimson gown and sultry looks put Mr Gibson in mind of an operatic Carmen, glided towards him. Her gown shimmered around her full-bosomed figure, and her teeth gleamed in a smile of brilliance. She extended a jewelled hand.
    ‘Come, my friend,’ she said in Russian.
    ‘Could you try English?’ asked Mr Gibson, coming gallantly to his feet.
    ‘English? English?’ Bold brown eyes swam with delight. In English, she purred, ‘Not Russian, not German, not Polish – but English? Then come, friend of the Tsar, ally of Imperial Russia, come to the dance.’
    Mr Gibson smiled and bowed. He was seized by hands ardent for acquisition, and the brilliant smile poured radiance over him.
    Natasha, heated and exhilarated, stared at the sight of Mr Gibson in what looked like an abandoned social engagement with Princess Irena Sergova Malininsky, notorious for her promiscuity. She was wickedly rich. It was said she had brought enough diamonds out of Russia to stud all four walls of her boudoir and leave no room for a single ikon. Her husband, Prince Malininsky, had unfortunately been left behind to be buried alive by the Bolsheviks. Natasha stopped dancing, appalled that her kind and resourceful friend and patron had allowed himself to be ensnared by a woman bold enough to devour him. On the other hand, Mr Gibson perhaps had designs of his own. Princess Malininsky was a monarchist of very independent views, and it would not take Mr Gibson long to find out if she had her own ideas about the woman in the clinic. All the same, Natasha disliked the possessive way she was dancing with him and smiling at him. Her