Zoya полностью

“It wouldn't have made any difference anyway.” He knew that was not why she loved him, and that was refreshing too. It was a relief not to be hounded by aging debutantes, or the daughters of his late mother's friends, recently widowed or divorced, on the prowl for a prosperous wellborn husband. And he fitted the bill perfectly, but more important to Zoya, he was loving and kind, and he had saved her. “I was always so embarrassed talking to you about life in St. Petersburg … I was afraid you would think it all so excessive.”

“I did,” he laughed, “but also excessively charming … like my pretty bride.” He watched her slip into her new satin underwear, and then decided just as quickly to remove it.

“Clayton!” But she didn't object as he carried her back to bed. They were late for dinner every night, and Zoya was embarrassed by the butler's obvious disapproval.

The servants were not warm to her, and she was aware of a certain amount of whispering whenever she walked through the house. They served her, but reluctantly, and whenever possible they mentioned his previous wife. The ex-Mrs. Andrews had apparently been the epitome of perfection. The maid even managed to leave a copy of Vogue in her dressing room, open to the pages where Cecil Beaton raved about her latest gown, and a party she had given for her friends in Virginia.

“She was lovely, wasn't she?” Zoya asked quietly one night, as they sat by the fire, in their bedroom. But here, the fireplace only enhanced the decor, it was not a necessity for their very survival. She thought sadly more than once of Vladimir in his freezing apartment, and their other friends, literally starving in Paris. She felt guilty for all that Clayton gave her.

“Who was lovely?” He looked at her without understanding.

“Your wife.” Her name was Margaret.

“She was very well dressed when she wanted to be. But so are you, little Zoya. We haven't even begun to go shopping yet.”

“You spoil me too much.” She smiled shyly at him, blushing in the way that touched his heart, as he reached out and pulled her to him.

“You deserve far more than I can ever give you.”

He wanted to make up to her for all that she had lost, all that she had suffered in Paris after they left Russia. The imperial Easter egg was proudly displayed on the mantel in their bedroom, along with photographs of his parents in handsome silver frames, and three tiny exquisite gold sculptures that had been his mother's.

“Are you happy, little one?”

She beamed up at him in answer in the quiet room. “How could I not be?”

He introduced her to his friends, and took her everywhere with him, but they were both aware of the quiet resentment of the other women. She was pretty, she was young, and she looked exquisite in the expensive gowns he bought her

“Why do they dislike me so much?” She felt the pain of it more than once, as the women stopped speaking when she arrived, and quietly shunned her.

“They don't dislike you, they're just jealous.”

He was right, but by late May, he was furious at the rumors they had started. Someone had begun saying that Clayton Andrews had married a cheap little dancer in Paris … there was vague mention of the Folies-Berg£re, a drunken lout at his club had even asked him if she did the cancan, and Clayton was hard pressed not to strike him.

One woman at a party asked another as they watched Zoya dance if it was true that she had been a paid whore in Paris.

“She must have been. Just look at how she dances!”

She had mastered the steps of the new fox-trot to perfection, under Clayton's careful direction. And he stood handsome and proud as he whirled her around the floor, so obviously in love with his beautiful young wife that it made everyone hate her. She was twenty years old with a waist he could encircle with both hands, graceful legs, and the face of an angel. And when the waltz struck up, she felt tears sting her eyes, as they moved slowly around the floor, looking up at him with the memory of the night they'd met, and painful memories from long before that. If she closed her eyes, she was in St. Petersburg again … dancing with Konstantin, or handsome young Nicolai in the uniform of the Preobrajensky Guard … or even Nicholas at the Winter Palace. She remembered the coming-out ball she was to have, and never had, and now none of it seemed quite so painful. He had made it all up to her, and now she was even able to look at her photographs of Mashka, with a sad smile, but without tears. She would carry her friends and her loved ones with her in her heart forever.

“Hove you so much, little one …” he whispered as they danced at the Astors’ ball in June, and then suddenly she stopped and stared, as though she had seen a ghost. Her feet were rooted to the floor, and her face went pale, as Clayton whispered to her, “Is something wrong?”

“It can't be …” She looked ill as he felt her hand go cold in his own. A tall, stunningly handsome man had just entered the room with a pretty woman in a shimmering blue gown.

“Do you know them?”