Page 3 of You Belong to Me

  Vasili ran an agitated hand through his golden mane. "It wasn't easy. I suppose you told her you hadn't sent me anywhere."

  "No, I merely said I would locate you and send you along to her posthaste. Why are you avoiding her, cousin?"

  "Because anytime she sends me an 'official' summons, as this one was, it's almost guaran­teed I won't like whatever it is she has to say. Either she's going to harp at me about getting married—it's been three months since the last time, so she's due—or she's going to blast me about my latest affair."

  "Which affair?" Stefan asked curiously.

  "Whichever one she's found out about."

  Since Vasili had not one mistress but three at present in the city—not including Fatima, who was installed in his own house, or the other women who constantly threw themselves at him—the fact that he was spreading himself around among the Gypsies had to be wondered at. Vasili liked variety as well as any man, at least any man not in love, as Stefan was, but he already had more variety than any man could want.

  "Why don't you send me somewhere?" Vasili suddenly suggested.

  Stefan laughed. "When Aunt Maria man­aged to get me to assure her that I would de­liver you personally if necessary? You'll have to take the harping or blasting this time, my friend. Next time give me prior warning, and I'll send you off to Austria or France for a few months, though I don't see what good it will do, since she'll still be here on your return. Have you thought about doing what she wants?"

  "You mean get married?" Vasili snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. I couldn't be satisfied with just one woman."

  "Who says you have to be?"

  Vasili gave Stefan a sour look. "Your queen probably would. She's got old-fashioned ideas about faithfulness, if you haven't noticed. Je­sus, if I married, I wouldn't put it past Tanya to make it a royal command that my bed is off limits to any woman but my countess."

  Serge and Lazar were laughing before he had finished speaking. Stefan wasn't quite amused and asked his cousin, "Has Tanya said something to you?"

  "Merely that I ought to devote as much time to finding the right woman as I do to pursuing all the wrong ones. For some reason, she's got it into her head that I'm not happy. Can you imagine that? When I couldn't be happier."

  "But she's a woman in love," Lazar re­marked. "Women in love like to see everyone in love."

  "Either that, or my mother's been complain­ing to her about me, as she does to anyone who'll listen," Vasili said. 'If s a damn curse, being an only child, and having a mother wor­ried about the continuation of the line."

  "Try having a royal father worried about it," Stefan said dryly.

  They all laughed, but it had been no laugh­ing matter last year when Stefan had been sent to America to collect his princess bride. He'd been furious about it and had dreaded his marriage. But fortunately, he'd been smit­ten by the royal heiress, and even more fortu­nate, she had come to love him as well.

  "I have the answer," Vasili said suddenly. "Why don't you order my mother to remarry, Stefan? That ought to give her something else to think about besides grandchildren."

  Stefan shook his head, though he was grin­ning. "I'm too fond of my aunt to order her to do anything she doesn't want to do, and well you know it. Now, what are you doing here by yourself? You usually drag Lazar and Serge along with you—for this sort of enter­tainment."

  Vasili finally smiled. "Actually, I hadn't planned on this sort of entertainment. I came here to purchase a new horse. Dinicu had sent his boy to tell me he had a fine stallion to sell."

  Lazar perked up at that, for his passion for fancy horseflesh was as keen as Vasili's. "Did you buy it?"

  "It wasn't so fine after all."

  "Ah." Lazar nodded. "So you are compen­sating yourself for a wasted trip?"

  "Certainly. You are welcome, of course, to join me, and Serge as well—but not you, Stefan."

  "As if I would accept." Stefan grinned.

  "I'm not taking any chances," Vasili assured him. "I'm staying on the queen's good side these days, now that she's deigned to forgive me."

  Stefan quirked a brow and teased, "Are you sure she has? She still calls you a peacock, you know."

  "Yes," Vasili replied rather smugly. "But she says it fondly now, and leaves off the 'jack-assed' that use to go with it."

  Stefan chuckled. His wife had never been one to mince words, and being the Queen of Cardinia and under almost constant atten­dance certainly didn't help to curb her tongue. But his court was becoming used to her Amer­icanized ways, and her utter lack of diplo­macy.

  Thinking about his wife reminded him that she was waiting for him—and what she had seemed to promise. "We are forgetting about your mother."

  "I was trying to," Vasili grumbled, and as his arms slipped around the two closest Gyp­sy wenches, he added, "Have a heart, cousin. Tell her you couldn't find me."

  "I won't go that far, but I'll give you two hours to present yourself at your old home. Lazar and Serge will make sure that you're not one minute late. In the meantime, enjoy, my friends."

  Lazar and Serge were already dismounting with eager anticipation. But as Stefan left them to ride out of camp alone, Vasili leapt up and shouted for him to wait. When he yanked his shirt out from under a nicely shaped hip, the women started protesting, loudly, and Lazar, realizing that Vasili was letting duty come before pleasure, as always, did some protesting of his own.

  "Don't be ridiculous, Vasili. He's got twenty men waiting for him."

  "Not good enough," was all Vasili said as he found his coat and tossed it over his shoul­ders.

  Serge rolled his eyes. It wouldn't do any good to point out that Stefan would feel in­sulted that Vasili didn't think he could take care of himself for the short trip back to the palace. Stefan would feel insulted, but he'd be amused, too, that Vasili would leave such ac­commodating wenches when he didn't have to.

  Serge sighed and started to remount, but Vasili stopped him. "He needs only one of us. You two go ahead and enjoy. The ladies are al­ready warmed up."

  "Yes, but you did the warming." "So thank me. I'm no longer in the mood, anyway, thinking about that appointment with my mother and having to endure one of her lectures. If you insist on coming along, I'll insist you endure it with me."

  "In that case, we'll see you tomorrow."

  3

  Vasili's mother wasn't wearing the correct expression when she joined him in her parlor later that night. At least her expression wasn't the one he'd come to associate with her lectures. In fact, her expression was so pleased and happy, he had to wonder if he'd mistaken the reason for her summons.

  Long experience assured him that good news would have brought her to him, and he wouldn't have even considered turning her away at his door as he had her messenger. Af­ter all, he did love her, and did try to please her when it was reasonably possible to do so.

  It was only for the scoldings and the lec­tures, when she anticipated arguments from him, that she wanted him in her own territory, which was here in the house he had grown up in. It didn't matter that he'd moved out of the family home some twelve years ago, first into the palace to be closer at hand for Stefan's im­promptu outings, then into his own town house after he had taken the grand European tour. His mother still felt that this house, and her own parlor in particular, somehow en­hanced her authority. The hell of it was, it did.

  The evening was young enough that he had caught the countess before she left for which­ever party she was attending tonight. That was exactly what he had counted on, so he could get this over with and enjoy the rest of the night himself. He hoped her party was an important one for which she wouldn't want to arrive late, thereby keeping this meeting short. Her clothes were no indication, nor the amount of jewels she was wearing, for she never attended any social engagement with­out being decked out in grand style.

  Maria Petroff was a handsome woman in her later years, perhaps more handsome now than she had been in her youth, for no one had ever considered
her a beauty. Her thrust­ing chin and patrician nose, which weren't ex­actly feminine, endowed her with a close resemblance to her brother Sandor, the late king, and she'd never been far from robust and stocky of build, which now could kindly be termed matronly.

  It had always been a source of bewilder­ment to her, as well as fierce pride, that she had produced a son like Vasili. But then he took after his father in his looks. All that he had from her were the Barony eyes, eyes so light a brown that strong emotion turned them golden.

  On Cardinia's young King Stefan, with his raven-black hair and dark complexion, people called them devil's eyes. But on Vasili, with his golden hair and skin tone, they were merely beautiful, a complement to the fine bone structure that made him so very hand­some.

  "You look disgraceful," was the first thing Vasili's mother said to him.

  Since he hadn't bothered to go home and change before making his appearance, his shirt and jacket were both understandably wrinkled. His hair was also a mess, after so many hands had tested its softness tonight, but on Vasili, anything less than impeccable only gave him a rakish look that women found incredibly sensual.

  But his mother's remark made him in­stantly nervous, for she'd been smiling when she'd said it. Something was definitely not right here.

  His eyes narrowed suspiciously now, he demanded, "What are you gloating about, Mother?"

  She actually laughed. "What a distasteful word, and something I would never do, of course." And with another smile: "Why don't you pour us a drink?"

  He returned her smile, deciding to go along with her for the moment. "An excellent idea," he said, but as he headed for the sideboard where a variety of spirits were kept on hand for guests, he added under his breath, "Obvi­ously I'm going to need it."

  "I'll have some of that fine Russian vodka I keep stocked just for you," she said before he began to pour exactly that for himself.

  The request arrested his hand and made him frown. "You don't like vodka," he re­minded her.

  "True," she replied with a shrug. "But it seems ... appropriate tonight."

  She was smiling again. He brought her a small amount of the potent liquor, but he went back to get the bottle for himself and took it with him to the chair opposite the sofa she had settled on. He had filled his glass twice, draining it both times, before he felt fortified enough to say, "All right, Mother, let's have it. What are you so disgustingly thrilled about?"

  "You're going to have to leave within the week for a trip to Russia."

  "And that delights you?"

  She nodded, her smile positively glowing now. "Indeed it does, since you will be collect­ing your bride while you're there."

  Vasili went very still, and the only thing he could think to say to that alarming statement was, "I'm not Stefan, Mother. He had to go and collect a bride. I don't happen to have one, thank God."

  "You do now."

  He shot out of his chair and came to stand over her, the very image of bristling male cha­grin. He couldn't remember when he had ever been this annoyed with his mother. Interfer­ing in his life was unacceptable. She knew that and had always respected it. Lectures and sermons she was allowed, worry and concern she was permitted, but something like this?

  What the devil had made her think she could get away with it?

  "Whatever you have done, Mother, you can just undo. Whatever embarrassment you'll have to suffer for it, you'll suffer on your own. I don't even want to hear another word about it."

  Incredibly, she was still smiling, and she didn't keep him in suspense as to why. "You might have to hear one or two more words about it, dearest—"

  "Mother—" he tried to cut in warningly.

  "—since I haven't done anything, so I have nothing to undo."

  "That's absurd. Of course you—"

  "No, not me. The fact that you have a bride waiting for you is entirely your father's doing."

  With that piece of the puzzle supplied, Vasili began to relax. It wasn't like his mother to indulge in a practical joke, but he supposed there was a first time for everything.

  "And how was he supposed to have ar­ranged this marriage? From the grave?"

  She drew in her breath sharply. "That was uncalled-for, Vasili."

  "So is this joke of yours," he retorted.

  "A joke? You insult me even to think that I would joke about something like this."

  "But it's been fourteen years—"

  "I know exactly how long it's been since your father died." Her tone was clipped, her displeasure with him still strong. "But accord­ing to the letter I received, your betrothal was made fifteen years ago. That would have been the last time your father was in Russia."

  "You expect me to believe he did something like this without telling you about it—or me?"

  "I don't know why he never mentioned it, but he most definitely did arrange it. I can only assume he felt there was ample time to apprise us of it. After all, you were so young back then—"

  "I would have been sixteen, hardly in the cradle," he snapped.

  As if he hadn't interrupted, she continued. "But he died the next year."

  Vasili's eyes were glowing by now. This was sounding too serious by half for him to merely feel annoyed. "If s a lie," he stated em­phatically. "There is no conceivable reason why he would do such a thing."

  Her smile was back, giving him clear warn­ing that he wasn't going to like her answer. "There is one. Your betrothed is the daughter of your father's very dear friend, Baron Rubli-ov. Even you can remember how often Simeon spoke of the baron, how highly he thought of him. Several months out of every year your fa­ther went to Russia to visit him."

  Vasili did remember, and remembered resent­ing the time his father had spent away from home. Of course, when he and his friends had had their grand tour, it had included Russia and the Imperial Court, and he had learned firsthand what his father would have found so appealing about Russia. The ladies there, at least the aristocrats, were incredibly bold in their promiscuity. They didn't even wait for marriage to take lovers, virginity apparently not being as highly prized there as it was in the rest of the world.

  "I, for one, can imagine your father sign­ing this betrothal contract," the countess went on. "After all, there was no one here in Cardinia whom he liked half as much as he did Constantin Rubliov. He would have been delighted to have his family joined to Rubli-ov's."

  That word "betrothal" was making Vasili see red, and starting to make him panic. "But Rubliov waits fifteen years to bring it to our attention?"

  Maria shrugged. "From the tone of his let­ter, I would say he didn't think he was telling us anything we didn't already know."

  "But why wait fifteen years, or—what is the girl, just barely out of the schoolroom? Was he just waiting until she grew up?"

  "He doesn't mention her age, but it doesn't sound as if she's that young, for he does men­tion that she was in no hurry to marry, which is why he hadn't written about the betrothal before now. He also says that he was waiting for you to write, but since you haven't..."

  "Let me see that damn letter."

  She didn't have to leave the room to re­trieve it. Obviously she had expected the de­mand, and now pulled the letter out of a pocket in her skirt. Vasili tore it open to pe­ruse the fine French scrawl. He had been hop­ing it had been written in Russian. His mother could have misinterpreted Russian, because even though they both spoke it fluently, nei­ther of them could read or write it very well. But just about everyone in the Cardinian court could read and write French, and the letter left nothing for misinterpretation. For all its diplomacy, it was a demand for him to honor a betrothal contract that had promised he would marry one Alexandra Rubliov.

  Vasili crumpled the letter in his fist and threw it across the room. It bounced off a vase of flowers and rolled to the floor. He felt an urge to grind it into the carpeting with the heel of his boot. Instead he went to the bottle of vodka he'd left by his chair and tilted it to his lips, uncaring that his mothe
r would find such swilling the height of crudeness. Her tsfcing proved it, but that didn't stop him from draining half the bottle before he turned to ac­knowledge her disapproval with a mocking bow.

  Casually now, as if he weren't seething in­side, he said, "Answer his letter, Mother. You can tell him that I've already married. Or tell him I've died. I don't care what you tell him, as long as you make sure he understands I can't marry his daughter."

  Her back straightened. Her lips pursed for battle. "You most certainly can."

  "But I won't."

  Before the bottle could reach his lips again, she said, "But you will."

  "No!"

  He shouted it, surprising them both. He never raised his voice to her, no matter how irritated he was; at least he never had before. But now he was feeling anger, gut-churning fury, and it stemmed from the sensation of having a trapdoor slam shut on him.

  Softer, though no less emphatically, he added, "When I am ready to marry, I will, but it will be my decision, and my choice."

  He would have liked that to be the end of it. It should have been the end of it. He even started to leave the room, taking the bottle of vodka with him. He didn't get very far before his mother's words struck his back like shards of glass, lacerating, drawing blood.

  "Even you, disreputable scamp that you are, won't dishonor your father's name."

  4

  Tanya lifted her veil slightly, just enough so that her tongue could tease the flat male nipple she had exposed on her hus­band's chest. He groaned and reached for her, but she made a warning sound and his hands returned to their death grip on the back of the chaise lounge he was lying on.

  Not being able to touch his wife was driving Stefan crazy, especially with her straddling his loins and having no such restriction placed on her. But they'd made a deal. She would dance for him as long as he swore to control his re­sponse this time. He'd sworn, and she'd al­ready danced, but now he was having the devil's own time keeping his word, and his sweet little witch had decided to do some teas­ing while she had the chance.