Seized by Love (5 page)

The young Prince was never the same either. What shreds of romantic illusion and idealism and naïve belief in happiness he had managed to retain in the brittle society in which he lived were swept away that night and eventually obliterated during the next two years he spent in Europe.

Prince Mikhail had not taken any chances of losing his only child to some dueling pistol held in the hands of an irate husband. He had kidnapped Nikki to save him. And after his confrontation with Soronina, Nikki was unhappy, disillusioned, and consequently could be persuaded to sojourn away from Petersburg.

“You will forget her, my son,” his father had said, and he was partially right. Once in Europe, nothing was too rash to attempt. Morality, never of great concern, was gone
from his mind. Unfettered feverish activity prevailed, and before long the pursuit of this wildly dissipated life served to dislodge most of his old romantic memories, but not without its price of self-torture.

Two years later a much wiser, more cynical young man came back to Petersburg, cool, restrained, elegant, guarded. He took his place in society and never again was persuaded to turn from a confrontation. He was, in fact, extremely quick to take offense, indeed, provocative to an unnerving degree, soon bordering on the notorious after his fifth duel in the same number of years. Nikki could even manage to meet Countess Plentikov in public and blandly pass the time with her as if their tempestuous
amour
had never been. It took an effort, for one never quite forgets the sweetness of first love, but he had grown up and civility demanded that much from him. One must set an example, he would mirthlessly remind himself.

But the unhappy affair set the direction of his future liaisons. Never again did he expose his heart, swearing that the ignominy of offering his heart and soul only to find them refused would never be repeated. Women became merely an amusement, a convenient receptacle for his passions when the need came over him, or else a frivolous pursuit to idle away the measured tedium.

Lightly jumping across the gurgling expanse of water, Nikki silently walked up behind Alisa. She was seated with her back to the water, a sketchbook on her lap, rapidly capturing the woodland scene in vivid watercolors.

“Nikolai Mikhailovich Kuzan at your service, my lady,” he said softly (and unthinkingly in the habitual French spoken by the Russian aristocracy; it was not the language of this area of the duchy).

Alisa jumped up, wildly scattering her sketchbook, paints, and brushes in the process.

“How do you do, sir,” she stammered, replying in the same language, but totally flustered by the unexpected handsome stranger looking down at her. She flushed uneasily under his close inspection.

Nikki lifted one eyebrow quizzically, smiled slightly, and
calmly waited for her to introduce herself. The silence lengthened.

Nikki prompted her.

“I believe I’ve seen you on occasion in Viipuri, but, unfortunately, always at a distance,” he said smoothly. “I fear I don’t know your—”

“Of course,” Alisa blurted out, embarrassed at her lapse in manners but shaken by meeting the piercing scrutiny of those pale golden eyes. “I’m sorry, forgive me, Monsieur. Mrs. Valdemar Forseus at your service, sir,” she responded rapidly, and bobbed a quick curtsey.

I certainly hope so, Nikki said to himself. His eyes swiftly swept her bowed figure as she gracefully executed the curtsey.

Nikki’s former glimpses of Mrs. Forseus hadn’t done her justice. She wasn’t simply another wholesome country lass, merely pretty and vivacious. She was breathtakingly beautiful. Her hair at a distance seemed to be copper. It was in fact a scintillatingly luxuriant golden-red; her eyes were large, dark violet, seductively lashed; her lips inviting (still slightly parted in surprise); her creamy complexion was flawless; her figure full-bosomed and slender-hipped. She was a lovely sight, and Nikki viewed her with a slow smile of sheer aesthetic appreciation. On second thought, alas, only partly aesthetic, for she had an opulent, ripe lushness about her that generated a surge of pure lust in Nikki’s libertine soul.

Her long-lashed eyes lifted, bright with a startled vivacity, and meeting Nikki’s gaze, she encountered a hungry look that made her creamy skin glow again for an instant with rose.

For a man of his experience and jaded appetites, Nikki felt, ridiculously, a crazy, youthful elation as he contemplated the beautiful upturned face, a stirring of desire that comes on one at the sight and scent of a perfect masterpiece
of female flesh. This little seduction should prove to be tantalizing, he speculated pleasantly to himself.

“You must be related to the Prince Kuzan who owns the hunting lodge,” Alisa remarked a little unsteadily, feeling she must say something to break the spell of those magnetic, unnerving tawny eyes.

“One and the same, Madame,” he carelessly retorted in a deep, husky voice. “Allow me to retrieve your sketching materials which I so heedlessly forced you to scatter,” Nikki continued agreeably as he dropped to one knee and began gathering her supplies.

“Oh, no, Monsieur, that’s not at all necessary,” Alisa quickly responded in supreme embarrassment, “I can do it myself.” And she, too, knelt down and frantically began picking up the pencils, brushes, and paint containers.

The
Prince Kuzan here! It was horrifying! It quite shattered her composure. Rumors and gossip of his eminence and escapades had penetrated even her confined, retired world. She would simply die of mortification if she stammered one more time; she must certainly appear as the most gauche, discomfited girl he had ever met.

At one point their hands accidentally brushed as both reached for the same object. Nikki was amused to see her drop her eyes self-consciously and snatch her hand back as if burned. A true innocent? Nikki reflected. Impossible! She was married to that old misanthrope Forseus. No doubt she was merely an accomplished coquette who could very effectively blush on cue. Whatever the case, he thought, innocent or actress, he’d know the answer before three days were past.

All the artistic paraphernalia properly replaced in Alisa’s small basket, Nikki disposed his lean form comfortably on the grass, remarking politely as he scrutinized her landscape sketch, “You’re a most accomplished artist, Mrs. Forseus. Are you self-taught or have you studied with someone?”

Alisa didn’t answer.

“Please sit down,” he requested cordially, and patted the grass as she remained kneeling. “It’s such a pleasant spring day, I impulsively decided to taste the pleasures of nature, and upon seeing you painting, intruded on your privacy. Do forgive my impertinence.” And he grinned warmly to disperse the lie.

With consummate skill he continued to try to put her at ease. What could she say unless she wished to be rudely uncivil?

“Of course, Prince Kuzan, there’s no need to apologize. You’re right,” she said as she settled less stiffly on the grass, but kept her distance from him, which didn’t escape Nikki’s notice. “The weather is altogether remarkable for this early in the spring.”

“
Have
you studied somewhere?” he repeated politely.

“Oh, no, I’ve never been beyond Helsinki, but my parents studied in Paris; in fact, they first met while sketching at the Louvre. Both served as my teachers, although Father viewed his painting as a hobby and was rather more interested in gathering information on the historic roots of the Kalevala. He quite devoted his life to the enterprise and had collated thirty-four stanzas of the epic before he and mother died—”

An unmistakable expression of pain passed over her lovely face and her sentence trailed off.

She was from the gentry. That accounted for her delicate beauty and fluent French, he thought.

“My condolences, Madame, the memory must be painful.”

Alisa nodded, unable to speak. Recalling her parents’ death could still paralyze and stupefy her even after all this time. With a palpable effort she returned to the present and quickly brushed off Prince Kuzan’s sympathy and her
self-pity. “It all occurred six long years ago; I am quite reconciled to my loss.”

Nikki, however, could see she was not, and he experienced an uncharacteristic pang of compassion for the obviously distraught young woman. She at least wasn’t acting when it came to her bereavement over the loss of her parents.

“With your training, you no doubt are interested in the new exhibits of the Wanderers,” he conversationally stated, hoping to distract and cast aside her painful thoughts. “I saw an extraordinary reception of their work last winter in Petersburg.”

The diversion was more successful than he’d anticipated. Mrs. Forseus’s eyes, her expression, immediately, patently brightened.

“The Wanderers!” she exclaimed. “Have you
really
seen their work?”

“Yes, I have several catalogues of their exhibitions and a small landscape of Shishkin’s.”

Her violet eyes widened in fascinated excitement. “You do?” she breathed in wonder, her face overcome with a childlike awe.

Nikki refrained from revealing to her that he was relatively uninterested in the Wanderers, or any other painters, for that matter. He’d been cajoled against his will into attending the exhibitions because his mistress, Countess Amalienborg had seductively insisted, and he was in a receptive enough humor to yield to her extremely pleasurable methods of entreaty. And as for his purchase of the Shishkin landscape, the only reason he’d bought it was to annoy that pompous ass, Count Borcheff, who was bent on having the painting. Nikki had derived inordinate satisfaction from carelessly raising each one of Borcheff’s bids until the bombastic Count had been forced to drop out and lose the painting. His personal secretary, Ivan Dolorosky,
conscientiously bought the exhibition catalogues as well as every other new book, pamphlet, and article published and added them to Nikki’s extensive library. Ivan had been given carte blanche to purchase for the library since the pursuit was so gratifying to the young man. Nikki vaguely recollected Ivan speaking rapturously of the newest Wanderer catalogue; thank heaven, he’d attended, however superficially, to Ivan’s enthusiastic monologue.

Alisa conversed freely after Nikki’s fortuitous attempt at diverting her morose memories, explaining her admiration for these new painters, who with a technical skill, par excellence, portrayed socially significant subjects, historical scenes, landscapes from life, that were poignantly effective as well as exquisitely rendered.

Alisa glowed with fervor when she spoke of the courage it took for Kramskoy and a group of fellow students to resign from the Academy in a dispute over subject matter. How the “Mutiny of 13” had become the “Peredvizhniki” or “Wanderers,” basing their approach on N. Chernyshevski’s revolutionary book
Aesthetic Relations of Art and Reality
, which stressed the superiority of reality over its representation in art.

“You see, my parents, too, painted from nature; painted outside and not exclusively in the studio. It was revolutionary in their generation, but they were acquainted with many French painters who vacationed at Barbizon and worked directly out of doors.”

“Ah, yes, the vanguard of the—what are they calling those young painters in Paris?—the Impressionists?”

“Yes, that’s exactly right!” Alisa replied in delight. Since the death of her parents she’d not had a single opportunity to discuss art with anyone. “And Repin …” she breathed ecstatically, “such subject matter; it brings tears to one’s eyes.”

“His new painting ‘Volga Boatmen’ was just finished last
year after three years of preparation. Marvelously stunning when I viewed it,” Nikki said.

“Oh!” another gasp of excitement, and Alisa chatted away volubly, free from restraint. Nikki had only to murmur appropriate responses intermittently and he was not, after all, completely untutored in the new movements in art. Having lived in Paris for two years, he toured Europe often and extensively, and when lured to the new art exhibits by Countess Amalienborg’s desire to be seen at the avant-garde displays, he was not altogether unseeing. Behind Nikki’s normal posture of indifference was a keen mind and a perspicuity beyond the common. He observed much without appearing to. As a matter of fact, on the occasion of his purchase of the Shishkin landscape, he’d also impulsively bought an extremely small Savrassov still life which he’d sent to his mother and until the present moment completely forgotten.

“I have some of the catalogues in the library at the hunting lodge and also the Shishkin landscape,” he lied. “Perhaps you would like to come over for tea some afternoon and see them,” he casually suggested. He would send a message to Ivan this evening in Petersburg and have the catalogues and painting delivered to him post haste, wherever they were.

“No! No!” Alisa exclaimed in highly nervous agitation. “I couldn’t—I’m sorry, I’d love to, but—” she stopped in a near state of panic.

Were his intentions that transparent? Nikki wondered uncomfortably, and decided not to press the suggestion. He quickly changed the subject, exerting his charm to calm the unusual display of alarm his invitation had occasioned.