Free Golden Paradise by Susan Johnson Page A

of her choice, and blowing him a smiling kiss, she left.
    "Until tonight, mon chou" Stefan softly breathed. He'd make love to her then and convince her to stay, the best soldier in the Tsar's army vowed. And he'd never lost a campaign in his life.

Chapter Four
    N adejda wore lavender crepe de chine with diamonds in her hair at dinner, and were it not for her disagreeable tongue she would have been the picture of radiant beauty. She had, however, since being seated, complained of the heat, taken issue with the servants' casual behavior and condemned the country style of food numerous times. Her patience curtailed by yet another remark about its quaintness, Aunt Militza coolly said to her, "Stefan has a Georgian palate and refuses to have a French chef."
    "We have always had a French chef," Nadejda replied, as though her wishes were primary, as though she were already running the household. Her mama had assured her she would have total control since men preferred detachment from household functions.
    "Perhaps you should think of adding a Georgian chef, as well," Militza retorted, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice. Her family had been royalty for a thousand years before the Taneievs had been elevated to princely status.
    "Surely Stefan enjoys French cuisine, don't you, my dear." Nadejda turned to Stefan with her winning smile, the smile she felt had successfully gained Stefan's attention in Saint Petersburg six months ago.
    Stefan, dressed comfortably in the embroidered silk shirt and loose trousers native to his mother's land, was sprawled back in his chair, his wineglass in hand. His expression had remained unreadable while Nadejda had complained, Militza had seethed and the two women had discussed him as if he weren't present. While he appreciated Militza's advocacy for his taste in food, he could only see the disagreement escalating, and Nadejda's opinion on food or anything else was really rather incidental to him. He'd chosen her for a bride because her family was well connected at court, not for personal reasons. After the irregularity of his own childhood and his father's disgrace and loss of the Viceroyalty of the Caucasus, Stefan didn't care if Nadejda Taneiev liked African chefs, as long as the stability of the Taneiev family was intact. He was marrying that dependable stability, the court attachments, the conservative background. But he disliked the cattiness of Nadejda's tone and her grasping possessiveness as much as the thought of continuing disagreements over dinner when all he wanted to do was relax and drink his favorite wine from his own vineyard.
    "I eat anything," he said blandly. "Militza, you know that. Nadejda can keep her French chef by all means. When you've campaigned as long as I, you learn to eat anything." He was the perfect host, pleasant, affable, ready to step in and smooth over controversy. "Georgi, more wine for the ladies." His major-domo, who stood beside Stefan's chair, signaled for a footman.
    "Oh, no," Nadejda refused, waving away the servant. "Mama says a lady never has more than two glasses." Her lavender eyes, cool as her disdain, cast a scornful glance at Aunt Militza, who'd been keeping up with Stefan's consumption over dinner.
    "Your mother was from the north," Militza curtly said, her brows drawn together in nettled pique, "where all they drink is tea to keep warm. Leave the bottle," she added to the young footman filling her glass.
    Stefan couldn't help but smile at Militza's snappish answer to Nadejda's prudery. It could be a battlefield of a dinner, he thought, managing to hide his grin behind his uplifted wineglass. When he raised his eyes a moment later as the glass touched his lips, his gaze met Lisaveta's, and immediately memories returned of the bottle of wine they'd shared one morning in an enormous wooden tub set out on a flower-bedecked terrace. The sun had been warm, and they warmer still, hot with need and tumultuous passion, and the wine, chilled in a