Silver Nights by Jane Feather Page A

emerging from the brush. “Here she comes now, General. Perhaps we should ride and meet her.” Without looking to see what response his statement and suggestion received, he set off himself.
    Sophie saw the two riders coming toward her, both in the dark green tunics with red facings of the Preobrazhensky regiment. But she saw immediately that Adam’s companion was not one of his guardsmen; as the distance lessened, she saw that he was a lot older than Adam, distinguished, with graying hair and the erect posture of the career soldier. Then, with a sudden jolt in the pit of her stomach, she realized who he must be.
    She drew rein and sat, waiting for them to reach her.
    â€œPrincess.” Adam spoke almost distantly. “Permit me to introduce General, Prince Paul Dmitriev.”
    Dmitriev looked in stupefaction. He had noticed first that she was riding astride, then the quality of her mount. Now he absorbed the divided skirt of her shabby, dust-coated riding habit, the wind-whipped tangle of her hair, the candid gaze of her dark eyes meeting his in fearless appraisal. He became aware of the energy that seemed to radiate from her, the restless vigor of some wild creature of her native steppes; he took in the sun-browned health of her complexion, the lean muscularity of her body. And he was filled with a great rage. This was no Sophia Ivanova of an exquisite, delicate beauty; this was no fragile daughter of the naive, trusting, softhearted Alexis. This was a woman to be reckoned with, one not easily broken to his will.
    He bowed. “I have been awaiting this moment with the utmost eagerness, Sophia Alexeyevna.”
    â€œI also have been curious, Prince,” she replied bluntly. She took in his immaculate dress and smiled her crooked, quizzical smile. “I trust you will excuse my untidiness, but we have been long upon the road.”
    â€œThat will soon be remedied,” replied Dmitriev with another bow, impervious to the charm of that smile. “We are but four hours from the gates of St. Petersburg. Her Imperial Majesty is most anxious to welcome you.”
    Sophie felt a tremor run through her. Instinctively she looked toward Adam for some sign of comfort. There was none forthcoming, however. He seemed to have withdrawn from the scene, his eyes cool and distant. “We should perhaps rejoin the troop, Princess,” he said.
    So she was to be “Sophie” no longer, she realized with a desolate stab. His task of escort now completed, he would withdraw, having handed her over to her prospective husband. Would he not even stand her friend? A panicky shiver prickled along her spine. She was to go friendless into this new world? Then she stiffened her shoulders, lifted her chin. “Yes, indeed, Count. I would be done with this wearisome traveling.”
    â€œI see you carry a pistol, Sophia Alexeyevna,” commented the prince, his tone neutral, hiding his shock and outrage at this scruffy hoyden he was to make his wife.
    She shrugged. “I am accustomed to doing so, Prince. Mygrandfather taught me to be an excellent shot, so you need have no fears of an accident.”
    â€œYou will not find it necessary to go armed around the imperial court,” he pointed out, thinking acidly of the elegant fans, the dainty tortoiseshell combs, the lace-edged handkerchiefs, the embroidered gloves he had provided as appropriate welcoming gifts for an unsophisticated young woman from her eager, considerate fiancé.
    â€œOf course not,” she replied, hiding in her turn the apprehensive quiver at the thought that perhaps he was neither impressed nor reassured by her declaration of prowess with a firearm.
    There was nothing further he could do for her, Adam thought. He had brought her to accept the card fate had dealt her, and the acceptance would ease matters considerably. Why should he imagine that she would not eagerly embrace the life ahead of her once the initial unfamiliarity