Winter Rose

Sumarokov Palace, home of Princess Nashtya Sumarokov

Two weeks later

"If that man does not stop in one minute, I swear I shall go mad."

Igor's lips twitched. "You are not enthusiastic about his efforts?"

"Do I enjoy ten pages of blank verse in praise of a woman's eyebrow?" Violet raised her eyebrows at the Prince from behind the safety of her fan. "No."

"But consider." Igor narrowed his eyes at the speaker. In his spotted neck kerchief and disordered hair, he looked like a stuffed peacock on the small stage erected by Nashtya's footmen. "He has art."

"Is that an attempt at humour?"

"Me?"

The innocent look did not deceive. In the two weeks since they commenced the secret courtship of Lidia Niemov and Nicholas Sumarokov, Violet learnt quickly that Igor rarely took anything seriously.

Her own lips threatened to break from their severe expression. To forestall it, Violet turned back to the speaker. He had now moved on from his lover's eyebrow to the mole on her hand.

"I think I know who it is."

"Sssh!"

The indignant hush from behind made the desire to laugh harder to control. Like a naughty child, Violet laid her hand over her wrist and dug her fingernails into her skin, hoping to sting would distract her long enough to control herself.

A larger hand settled itself across her own. Her pinching fingers stilled.

Igor's head tilted towards hers. "It's Lidia."

"What?"

The black eyes danced in glee, like a little boy. "She's had a mole on her hand since she was a little girl. I remember because I used to tease her about it until my nurse scolded me."

"A rival?" It was seductively easy to fall into the rhythm of easy banter. As though every conversation was a continuation of the first. Violet pressed her fingers against her lips to choke down her own giggle. "Please don't say so to Count Nicholas. He's already finding it hard enough to excuse his own deceptions!"

"Sssh!"

The second hush recalled them to civility, just in time for the aspiring poet to reach his literary crescendo.

"What is he saying?"

"Do you know, I do not think this is a rival."

"You hardly mean it is Count Nicholas?"

"Observe." Igor nodded toward the couple, seated two rows in front, in upright chairs as stiff as dolls. "He is nervous."

Violet lengthened her neck, the better to see the reason for their attendance at one of Nashtya's literary evenings. The young lovers sat firmly side by side, with a space of several inches between their bodies. Lidia's head was turned to the right, the better to chat with her friend in blue silk beside her. Count Nicholas cordially ignored his own companion, the better to fix his gaze on the poet. Violet narrowed her eyes. Igor was right. The Count mouthed the words along with the poet unerringly.

"One would not consider Sumarokov had such hidden depths, no?" Igor's voice rumbled against her ear, enough to send a tingle along the skin of Violet's neck.

They had fallen into this pattern too. It was not quite flirting. Not quite touching. Just a hairs-breadth from the boundaries of behaviour acceptable between two people, each married to other people.

Some would call it playing with fire. Every meeting was planned with the care of generals on campaign. They could not meet in areas too popular with the elite of Petersburg society for fear news would filter back to Count Niemov's ears. Neither could they meet in areas frequented by Violet's English acquaintances, for fear news would filter back to Patrick.

Instead they met in parks and galleries, in carriage rides and once, a memorable time, dashing through the snow on a droshky sleigh. Lidia and Count Nicholas strolled together, hands clasped neatly in front of them and several paces behind, like all good chaperones, Violet and Igor dogged their steps.

In the realm of chaperones, Violet reflected, the two of them fell far short of requirements. Good chaperones should not be so absorbed in their own conversation so as to completely forget the existence of their charges. More than once, they had broken off from their conversation and looked up, only to realise that Count Nicholas and Lidia had wandered out of sight behind a corner or off the path.

Igor, freed from his initial sense of duty to Count Niemov's wishes, had laughed then and voted to let them wander off for the amusement of seeing what would happen. Only when Violet insisted, did he comply and then with a smile that suggested they had as much to gain from the children's absence as the young couple did from theirs.

Perhaps it was the unexpected release that Patrick's absence granted her. Perhaps it was because the number of English courtiers remaining in Petersburg had grown less and less. Or perhaps it was because closer acquaintance with Igor Kuragin did nothing to diminish the attraction she had felt for him, right from the very beginnings of their interaction to the moment when he had kissed her in the drawing room of the Winter Palace.

Whatever the reason that lay behind her pursuit of this reckless game, Violet found it was increasingly difficult to stop.

A burst of applause signalled the conclusion of the epic. Violet broke away from their murmured exchange to join the rest of the room...although whether they celebrated the poem itself or merely the long-awaited conclusion, it was hard to tell.

"If it really was Sumarokov, one could only wish his depths remained hidden." Violet murmured, shaking her head as the speaker delivered one jerky bow after another to his audience. "Love is fragile enough. A strong dose of such poetry is enough to render it quite dead!"

"I shall remember that and make sure never to praise you in verse, Violet."

"No, you had best stick to your French philosophes," Gathering her skirts together, Violet made to do her duty. She had already seen Lidia glancing around, dismayed by the absence of her respectable barrier. It was madness to linger but Violet turned and slanted a smile at Igor, still sitting in the chair. "What was it Voltaire said? Men who play at poetry are like wasps among birds?"

"It's your sting and not mine that people should fear, solnyshka."

She should move on but Violet could never resist the final word in their arguments. "You still have not told the meaning of that word."

Igor smiled in return.

The nerves in Violets' hands tingled with the need to trace its move across his face. The unexpected rush made her step back, made her reply more flippant than she intended. "I can always ask Katya. After all, one Russian knows as much as any other and I am determined to discover the truth of it before I leave."

The easy smile suddenly tightened on Igor's face, drawing his strong dark eyebrows together in a cold frown. As though to belie the sudden tension that frosted the air between them, he sat back, stretching one arm across the back of the chair Violet had so recently exited. "Then, of course, I shall tell you, Violet. On the morning you leave."

Violet stilled. Common courtesy, to say nothing of the easy friendship between them, would demand that Igor stand as soon as she did. The snub was unmistakeable. Other members of the party had already noticed. She did not even need to imagine their whisperings.

Igor did not move. His black eyes gazed up at her, as though challenging her to retaliate for his actions. What did he expect her to do? Violet demanded silently, torn between embarrassment and indignation. Snap back at him, lose her temper and her composure as she had before?

*If they had been alone..* But she could not begin thinking that way. That would suggest that, somehow, Igor was privy to the private parts of herself, the prickly impetuous parts she had kept hidden since she began pinning her hair up in the careful, proper style of a young woman.

She nodded instead, a quick snap of her head. "Soon enough then. If you will excuse me."

She returned the insult by not even dropping a brief bob to soften her departure. Without a backward glance, she made her way across the room to where Lidia stood awkwardly by the side of her swain.

Polite enquiries impeded her progress. New acquaintances, friends of Nashtya and Katya who took the English countess into their circles, touched Violet's elbow, murmuring greetings in French. Violet returned in kind, smiling. It was strange to think that she had gained as many friends in St Petersburg in a few weeks as she had in London in as many years. When she left, as she must, she would miss them.

She realised this. Was it such a difficult concept to grasp, the idea of finite time? How dare Igor...castigate her in such a fashion? Did he imagine he was the only one who-

"Lady Grantham, do you enjoy the presentation?"

"Oh, very much, Lidia."

"Ivan Rostov is very skilled at metaphors, no? 'Her hair is sunshine, her skin is snow'. Me, I think that very pretty." Lidia flushed a little and slipped a glance sideways at Count Nicholas. The Count's cheeks were beet-red.

For once, Violet did not feel in the mood to smile at the antics of the two lovers. Their shyness and feints irritated her and knowing she was irritated by them, knowing why she was irritated, only served to increase her fit of bad temper. So her voice was curt when she replied. "Rather an unusual mix, sunshine and snow. One would expect the lady in question to melt before anyone had the chance to view her."

Silence followed. Count Nicholas went from beet-red to ghost-white in less than a second. The other guests shifted in discomfort, their complacency displaced by Violet's words as effectively as an ice-cube gliding on bare skin.

Hell and damnation smarted on the tip of Violet's tongue.

The Countess of Grantham cleared her throat. "But a pretty image. Yes."

It was a lame addendum.

"Igor!" Grateful for any interruption, Lidia jumped forward, her hands outstretched. "Igor, what did you think?"

Kuragin, Violet thought with a flush of annoyance that stiffened her shoulders, had no trouble in capturing both white palms and pressing a courtly kiss to each. "Pretty words indeed. Did it go on for long?"

As though he had not spent the entire time sniggering in my ear. Violet turned her gaze away, determined not to give Kuragin the satisfaction of her annoyance. She could not miss Lidia's flirtatious smack of her fan against the epaulet and her lips tightened in a thin line.

A line she forced to curve upwards in a warm smile, directed entirely at Count Nicholas, as soon as she realised what was happening.

"Oh, Igor!" If Violet had not known better, she would think the pretty debutante switched her affections from the Count to the far less suitable Prince. "You never listen properly!"

"You know I don't, little one. This modern stuff isn't for me."

Kuragin turned his usual charming smile on the company, black eyes flashing. Not once did he look to Violet, standing like a candle-flame in the midst of the brunettes and ice-blonde heads. Instead, he was all bonhomie. The jester firmly in place. Not a single crack in the shell.

The resentment that thought brought was quick and shocking, like a surge of bile to the back of her throat. It seemed few others were so affected, if the smiles and chuckles in the small group were anything to go by. One gentleman, a skeletal envoy from the Ottoman embassy who seemed overburdened by his own monocle, shook his head good-naturedly.

"Your highness has attended the incorrect soirée, surely! Princess Nashtya, she is a lady of most modern tastes."

"But you see, Sulayman-Bey, you have uncovered my cunning plan." Igor dropped his smile in comical dismay. "How am I to win Nashtya's converts away from modern literature if I do not attend and discover its secrets?"

"Ve İşte budur!" The monocle chuckled and shook his head. "And there it is, the truth eventually!"

"One thing you can guarantee, Sulayman-Bey, is that in Petersburg, all secrets come out eventually." A pretty brunette in lilac shot Igor her own teasing frown. "And Igoryuha has never been able to keep his own counsel for long."

"Hush, devka, wench! Tolik, can you not beat that impertinent wife of yours?"

"Only seven times a day and eight on Sundays." The elegant officer, dressed in the same uniform Igor had worn on the evening of the Winter Palace ball, shrugged off the demand with a nonchalant twitch. "I must agree with our Lady Grantham, however. The modern imagery is a little strange to a simple soldier like me."

"Strange, Colonel Voronov?" The red heat started creeping up Count Nicholas's neck, edging over the white rim of his cravat. "I- I beg to d-d-disagree."

The Colonel twitched his shoulder again. Violet noticed his sleeve was pinned up, his right arm missing from midway between his shoulder and his elbow. "Disagree? Ah… Count?"

Baiting him, Violet thought and then caught the glance between the Colonel and Igor, a sly curve of the lips. Oh, you… jester.

She forgot herself and her irritation long enough to send a separate glare in Igor's direction. Right across their little group and in full view of the rest of Nashtya's guests.

It was ridiculous for a grown man to play tricks with his friends on such an easy subject as Count Nicholas. The poem had been overblown and silly, but, Lord…

Count Nicholas, missing the glance and incensed on defending his work, reddened deeper. "Of an assurity, Colonel, sir. I- I- consider the work suitable in the extreme."

"It is, indeed, modern. Considering the poet's youth, we cannot expect the influence of the ages past." The Ottoman envoy took a sip from his fragile glass coffee cup.

"Modern sir! It is as modern as landscape! As beauty! As the beauty of subject!"

"I will find myself deeply disappointed if the subject is an old, old woman." Igor let out a lazy drawl. "I do not, myself, see the beauty in age. Only the inconvenience."

"Your highness jests!"

"Dear Count," Violet cut in, laying her hand on Nicholas's sleeve before he so forgot himself and tore his cravat completely off in agitation. "You should consider that when Prince Kuragin appears most in jest, it is then that he is at his most serious."

"With the inference, Lady Grantham," The black eyes sharpened. "That the opposite is also true."

"Now, Igor, please do not interrupt." The brunette clapped her hand, much like a music teacher ending a class. "I am intrigued to hear my husband argue the case. He reads so few books, it is sure to be of interest to hear him argue about literature."

"Perhaps, my darling Roza, I should reconsider my stance on beatings. Ten times a day would be more appropriate?" The smile he turned down and the blush that rose in the brunette's cheeks told a different story. "But I leave Lady Grantham to defend our position with… how do the Holy Scriptures put it? Fire and sword?"

"I am sure you flatter my martial capabilities, Colonel."

"I have a feeling I understate them, Lady Grantham. A woman who…" He paused and twitched his empty sleeve once more. "Forgive me. Continue, Count."

Count Nicholas squared his shoulders. His flush subsided a little and he appeared calmer. A situation, Violet observed, not unrelated to the rapt attention his sudden outburst garnered from Lidia Niemov. The little blonde's arm was still interlinked in Igor's grip but looser now. Her pink lips parted a little in an 'o' of awe.

"The imagery is as timeless as the subject of beauty itself. What can be more than the ancient steppes of our motherland-"

"A patriot, dear God preserve us."

"Igoryuha, hush." This time it was Lidia. The pink 'o' tightened and creased into a petulant pout.

The support helped Count Nicholas rise above Igor's interjection. "The permanence of a crystalline winter, the glory of sunshine on winter's snow. Heat and ice, compulsion and repulsion. The studied brilliance of contrast, of elements of the agonies of difference-"

"Quite disregarding the natural and scientific logic that fire and ice cannot exist alongside one another?"

Violet bit down on a laugh. Was she one of the few who found the Count's hyperbole a trifle high-flown? The Ottoman envoy nodded along with the air of a scholar, the others hung on Nicholas's every word. Any more of such attention and the much-overlooked Count's pride may explode.

"The differences compel them together, Countess. It is a situation the poet cannot resist!"

"Nonsense. Literature is a discipline that requires self-control. Like life."

"Always the English practicality." Igor murmured, unable to resist himself.

"French, your highness." Violet retorted, her laughter cooling abruptly. "Was it not Voltaire who said that absurdities lead to atrocities?"

"What is this?"

Like a blue chiffon whirlwind, Nashtya swept into circle. Today, for the sake of propriety, she had forsaken her ever-present copy of Dickens in favour of a novelette of poems by some Russian Violet had never heard of. Translated, naturally enough for high-society St Petersburg, into French.

The change in subject and size did little to diminish Nashtya's tendencies to use her book as a weapon. "Anatoly Arkadyevich Voronov, what pranks are you up to now?"

"I protest, Aunt! Lady Grantham-"

"Ah, my dear Violette!" Leaving Colonel Voronov to the giggles of his pretty wife, Nashtya swirled about and embraced Violet. "It is going well with you? And our little plan?" She added in a soft undertone. A mock-stern look shot in Count Nicholas's direction.

"Very well." Violet whispered back. She blinked. The motion was enough to recall her to the present and the purpose for her attendance on the evening.

"Then why so many sad faces? Mon Dieu, dear Suleyman-bey you are the only among us who has a smile for me."

"No one can but help to smile at your highness's appearance." With a fluttering gesture, the envoy bowed low over the tiny hand outstretched towards him.

"Ah the Byzantine manners are so wonderful." Nashtya gave a dramatic sigh. "But come, what do we discuss? Violette?"

"A clash of views, Nashtya. New worlds and old, drawing swords over poetry."

"With Igor decrying the new styles." Roza Voronov interjected. "As ever, he must come down au contraire to the current mode."

"You make me so predictable, Roza."

"You and Tolik, you are all the same, you army men." Roza shrugged. "You decide and, enfin, that is that."

"A relic from our death-or-glory charges." The colonel chucked his wife under the chin. "And if you are not quiet, devka, we will not be able to hear Nashtya's revenge."

"Is there to be revenge?" Lidia blinked in surprise. "But how?"

"Violette, what do you recommend to punish Igoryuha in his impertinence?"

"Impertinence-?"

"I know!" Before Violet had a chance to speak, Nashtya clapped her hands once more. "A party."

"You wish to punish me with a ball?" Igor raised his eyebrows. "While it is entirely in keeping with your tastes, Nashtya, I must wonder how this is a punishment?"

"Not a ball, silly boy." The novelette of plays flashed out once more with a smack. "A literary event. A chance for you to defend your dreadful reactionist views."

"Oh yes!" Equally predictable, Lidia clasped her hands together in front of her bodice. "A party! And in that lovely conservatoire. It will be like summer in the midst of winter, just like Ni- like the poem."

It was hard not to miss Igor's wince. "I pray not. But if that is your wish, I will certainly speak with Irina. I do not think she has a pressing engagement."

"Pfft. It is your home too, is it not?" Nashtya gave an airy wave. "No matter. No matter at all. We shall all, of a certainty attend. After all," She added, with a twinkle threatening to overcome the stern expression on her face.

"We do not often see the dragon's lair, where he keeps all his secrets."