Queen of Someday (5 page)

Peter motions with his finger, and a maid brings over two tall goblets of wine. Handing one to me, he takes a long drink from his own before making a terrible face.

“French wine,” he complains. “It’s as bitter as their people and twice as pretentious.”

I take a sip. The red wine is smooth on my tongue, and as soon as I’ve swallowed it, it begins to warm my belly.

“It could be worse,” I say in a whisper. “It could be Portuguese.”

He laughs, and it’s light and musical.

“True. True. Now, I must know—how was your journey? I hear you had a bit of trouble on the road.”

His blue eyes sparkle, telling me he already knows the whole story.

“It was long and tiring. And we were attacked by thieves on the road.”

He feigns surprise. “How terrible. Your guard was able to dispatch them?”

I take another long drink of wine before answering.

“No. My guard fell, and I was left to defend my mother and myself.”

He grins. “You fought off a group of bandits all on your own?”

I lower my chin, looking up at him from under my eyelashes.

“Most grown men would not expect a woman to fight back, certainly not a girl, and most certainly not a noble girl. The element of surprise is a powerful weapon in such a situation.”

“Still, it’s quite impressive. You must be skilled with a blade.”

“I prefer the bow. Perhaps we could go for a hunt sometime. I could impress you with my very unladylike talents.”

As soon as the words escape my mouth, I realize how it’s sounded and I flush deep crimson. Before I can apologize for my words, his gaze slips behind me.

“And who are your ladies?” he asks pointedly.

I introduce them, and they curtsy in turn.

The music changes, picking up tempo into an Allemande. Reaching past me, Peter holds out his hand.

“Lady Elizavetta, would you care to dance?”

My heart sinks like a stone in my chest as she accepts with a laugh and smile. They make their way to the dance floor as I attempt to recover from the shock. It had been going so well, hadn’t it? I frown. He must have been horribly offended by my remark.

My eyes flicker up to find my mother, gawking at me as if I’d done something completely unthinkable. I blink back tears, handing my goblet to Rina, who sets it on the table next to us. I’m completely prepared to excuse myself to my room and wallow in my shame when two young men approach us and bow.

“Ladies, please allow us an introduction. I am Alexander Mananov, and this is my good friend, Sir Mikhail Andrei.”

I bow my head, and Rina curtsies.

“I’m pleased to meet you. Please, call me Sophie. This is my lady, Rina.”

Now it’s Mikhail’s turn to flush.

“We’ve met,” he admits meekly, staring at Rina.

Mikhail looks quite startlingly like Peter, the same blue eyes, the same build—even their hair color is similar. Only Mikhail’s face is more slender, his nose rounder at the tip, and he does not smile. He looks quite uncomfortable actually.

Compared to the other boys, Alexander is very dark. His hair is raven, and his deep-set eyes are green flecked with gold. His skin is more olive tone, his smile thin but perfectly shaped, like a cupid’s bow. As I look over him closely for the first time, I’m quite stricken. He holds himself in a manner that is both formal and somehow relaxed, and his smile is confident while still genuine.

It’s Alexander who holds his hand out to me.

“Well, Princess Sophie, may I have this dance?”

I swallow, unsure what to do. To refuse might appear rude, but I also don’t want to risk incurring Peter’s wrath by showing attention to one of his companions. I glance over at the dance floor and watch Peter clutch Elizavetta by the waist and spin her across the floor. A wave of recklessness overcomes me.

Turning my gaze back to Alexander, I set my hand in his.

“That would be lovely, thank you.”

Without hesitation, he smiles and leads me to the floor. Taking my waist with his free hand, we begin to spin. I watch him as we dance, searching for any hint of duplicity in his expression. But there’s nothing that betrays him, nothing that suggests he’s anything but genuinely enjoying himself, so I relax, allowing myself to do the same.

“Tell me about yourself, Lord Mananov.”

He grins. “Alexander, please.”

“Alexander then.”

“I’m from Sweden originally, though my mother is of Spanish descent. My father is the ruler of a large principality to the north. I have an older brother, Sven, and three little sisters. My family sent me to court as an ambassador five years ago.”

“That must be difficult, being so far from home. Do you miss it?” I ask curiously.

“I miss my family, yes. But I have made a home here.”

I smile, but say nothing. I don’t want to betray my homesickness or my desperate longing to see my father and brother.

As if sensing my hesitation, he continues. “Don’t worry, Princess. I’m sure you will come to love it here, as I have. There are many beautiful and wonderful things to see at court.”

“Like what?” I ask playfully.

He looks right into my eye and half smiles, “Well, there’s you for one.”

“Are you flirting with me?” I ask playfully.

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Well, maybe I would, but that doesn’t make it less true.” He holds my gaze for a heartbeat and I can feel a blush roll up my neck and spread across my face.

“And,” he continues, “there is a spot in the east tower where, at sunrise just a few times a year, the light shines in, reflecting off the stained glass in the little chapel, and it’s like watching the birth of a rainbow.”

“That sound lovely,” I say earnestly.

“It is. Perhaps I will show you sometime. How long are you staying?”

I shrug, remembering my mother’s earlier words. “I don’t know, but I think that my feet may never set foot on German soil again.”

“Would that be so terrible?

Looking up at him, I think that it might not be. His eyes are glistening in the lamplight and now that I’m looking at him, really looking at him, I realize how devastatingly handsome he is. Not in a cool, sunshine way like Peter, but in a dark, mysterious way. My heart pounds furiously in my chest as I try to catch my breath. The dancing ends and he bows to me as a new tune begins, slow and calm. Without asking, he steps forward and places his hands on my hips, swaying us gently, together and then apart, a slow turn, then my back is pressed against his front and I feel the length of him, firm and strong before we part again. Each movement somehow both brings us together and moves us apart in a slow, torturous ballet.

We continue to dance and as the night grows on, each movement becomes more and more a torment, an ache to touch him that I can’t stop. My heart races, my skin warm with flush. Beside me, I hear the shrill laugh of Elizavetta as Peter twirls her forcefully. I realize for the first time that they both seem very, very drunk.

Across from me, Alexander stills, watching the display with a playful shake of his head.

He motions to me, we step off the dance floor for the first time, and I hesitate only a moment, not quite ready to release the tension building between us. If anyone has noticed Peter’s behavior, they aren’t showing it—quite the contrary. They are moving around him as if he isn’t even there, making me wonder just how common this behavior might be.

Turning to me, Alexander lowers his voice.

“You should know it isn’t a slight—him not asking you to dance. It’s sort of a… game with him.”

Peter always did enjoy his games.

I wrinkle my nose, tilting my head to the side, “A game of what kind?”

“He likes to make women jealous, make them fight for his attention.”

I frown. “That seems like a cruel, petty thing to do. What does he hope to accomplish with it?”

“He hopes to determine the depths of your interest I him, before admitting his own interest. It allows him to remain in control.”

I look up, staring him right in the eyes.

“And what part do you play in these games?”

He holds up his hands. “None, I assure you. I’ve seen him enough to know what he’s doing. But I couldn’t bear the thought of you standing here looking so heartbroken.”

I jerk my chin up. “If you think his rudeness in any way damaged my heart, then you are mistaken. I am made from much sterner stuff than that. I’m not the sort of girl to flitter at the attention of a man, nor to weep at the callousness of one.”

Perhaps, that’s not entirely true. I had been frustrated nearly to tears at his slight, when I thought it was my fault. But knowing it was not my poorly turned phrase but his own egotistical games that spawned his behavior, well, that was a different matter entirely.

“If you intend to win Peter, you must beat him at his own game.”

I open my mouth to protest, to declare that love should never be a game, but even as I think it, I begin to doubt it’s true. How would I know, after all? It’s not as if I have any experience in the matter. No matter how many romantic poems you recite, no matter how many glorious tales of love you read, how can you really understand the condition if you’ve never found yourself in it?

“How, do you advise, do I do that?”

He grins. “I think it must be like a military attack. Strategic and precise. I have never seen a lady not respond to him, whether in love or in rage. Perhaps your best move is indifference. Perhaps you will have to make him come to you.”

“By ignoring him?” How ridiculous that sounds.

“Not ignoring him, but by making him desire you, then making yourself aloof.” His words are measured, as if he’s unsure how I will react to the idea. I feel myself begin to smirk.

I always did love beating Peter at his own games.

As if he’s never left, Sergei slides up next to me, holding out his arm.

“A dance, Princess?”

I nod. Any tension I was feeling toward Alexander before evaporates the moment my hand slips into Sergei’s. “Of course, General. Thank you for the dance, Alexander, and for your advice. I shall consider it.”

Sergei leads me onto the floor. My heart pounds as we dance, and I realize what I’d been feeling before must have been more a combination of wine and exertion than anything else.

“What advice did the young Lord Mananov give you, pray tell?”

I shrug. “He believes Peter’s lack of interest in me this evening is a game or a test of some kind. He suggested I respond by not responding.”

Sergei considers that for a moment.

“Wise advice, I think. But be careful, Princess. When waging a war of the heart, you must only fight if you are absolutely sure you can win.”

At his warning, my eyes slide over to where Peter has abandoned his dancing partner and sits, jacket undone, wine in hand, laughing with his friends. He looks over to me and winks, taking a deep drink.

“If it’s war he wants, war it shall be,” I decide.

The night rolls on endlessly. I move between chatting and talking politics with Sergei to somehow dancing with Edmund, The Duke of Buckinghamshire, a visitor to the court from England. He’s regaling me with tales of his lovely Brittan and his astute and powerful King George, when I see Mikhail pick up a very drunken Peter under the arm and help him out of the room, toward his bedchamber. Alexander follows after, but not before finding me in the crowd with his eyes and giving me a subtle tilt of the head, which I return.

“Perhaps that is the true purpose of me being here, to keep the peace between our countries,” he continues, though I’m only half-paying attention. My thoughts are with Peter and the dark-haired boy, whom I can’t quite decide whether I can trust or not. “But it leaves me here to continue to negotiate a peace, with Russia at least.”

I nod softly. England and France are a hair’s breadth from one side or the other declaring all-out war, a prospect with the potential to rip Europe apart at the seams.

“It seems a shame that a treaty cannot be reached between them,” I offer in a light tone. “War is such indelicate sport.”

He frowns at my light remark.

“War is not sport, my lady.”

I shrug. “Perhaps. But, in all this, a war began when two great powers disagreed over matters that should have been simple.”

He lowers his chin, glowering at me. “I do not think you understand.”

“I understand that there was a decree signed, one that should have been honored and was not. And then, another decree, another promise unkept. I know that because of this, the rightful heir was overlooked in succession and that there are those who will not willingly accept such a thing.”

“That agreement was long undone.”

“Perhaps. So which agreement should be held to? My thought would be the first. An oath made requires a leader who is honorable enough to keep it, despite any fleeting inconveniences that might arise. But then, perhaps I do not understand. I am only Prussian after all.”

He frowns and sets his jaw.

“I think you are mistaken, Princess. Surely, you are as Russian as the empress herself is. I see it in your countenance. You may have been born elsewhere, but your heart is Russian.”

Count Lestocq interrupts, taking me by the arm gently.

“Excuse me; I must speak with the princess.”

I mumble my excuse and let him lead me away, as we pass the table a take a glass of wine and drink it quickly.

“Already making enemies with the English, are we?” he asks, his tone friendly.

I sigh. “He smelled of bitters and vodka and spit when he spoke.”

Now my companion laughs heartily.

“Very true. But I suspect we will be rid of him soon. I expect the empress to side with France, though the chancellor would very much like to see a different outcome.” He stops himself, as if realizing to whom he’s speaking, and waves me off. “Not your concern. But, right now, I do have news that should concern you.”

I take another drink, finishing off the chalice and setting it down as the wine begins to soften the edges of my mind.

“What news?” I ask, a bit afraid to hear the answer.

“We are expecting more company in only two days’ time. Princess Charlotte of Saxony. She’s coming at the chancellor’s behest. No doubt as an attempt to undermine your engagement to Peter.”

“There is no engagement. Not yet.”

“And if Bestuzhev succeeds in offering her as an alternative prospect, we could lose any chance of seeing that engagement happen.”

I sit at a long bench near the hallway and motion for him to do the same.

“Tell me about her, what do you know?”

“She is a true Saxon princess, a daughter of King Augustus of Poland. She was all set to be wed to the next Dauphin of France before the battles began. Now they will send her to us, in the hopes that a union with Peter could turn Russia to their favor, against France.”

“Yes, but what of her?”

He shrugs. “She’s quite lovely, by all accounts. Well bred, versed in all things of the gentler nature. And if her mother is any indication, she will be more than capable of providing plenty of heirs. Sixteen children or something like that, her mother has.”

He stretches warily, as if exhaustion has seeped into his very bones.

“But this, this is of the most importance to you. She will try to win Russia by winning Peter. Bestuzhev knows the empress’ favor lies with you, only a very impassioned plea from Peter himself might change her mind.”

I let that sink in. The empress would choose me, unless Peter loses his heart to another. She would put his happiness above her loyalty to my family—as she should. If I have any chance, I must have Peter securely in my hands before Charlotte arrives.

That doesn’t give me much time.

“Can you do something for me?” I ask, a plan still formulating in the back of my mind.

He nods.

“Find the royal seamstress. Tell her I need a riding habit. By morning.”

He looks at me, his expression curious.

“Apparently, I only have two days to win a war.”

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