Free Curse Not the King by Evelyn Anthony

Catherine’s shadow, waiting and hoping for another’s leavings. Potemkin noted his grey hairs and sneered with all the arrogance of youth.
    â€œM. Naryshkin is mistaken,” he said in his deep, resonant voice. “The source of all excitement, and pleasure, is to be found in Petersburg. A smile from you, Madame, and any soldier would declare the stimulus greater than cannon!”
    Leo opened his mouth to retort, then the sight of Catherine’s hand resting upon the other’s arm restrained him. He examined his cards closely, struggling with his jealousy and the certainty of defeat. This ugly barbarian had already been selected. He knew it. At that moment he raised his eyes and found that she, the idol of his life, was looking at him; Catherine smiled and he read the message in that smile. It was a gentle, regretful, final ‘no’ and he acknowledged it with an answering smile, which promised that the war of words was at an end between him and the victor.
    â€œI hope you’ll forsake your battlefields and remain long in Petersburg, General.”
    Potemkin bowed.
    â€œThe length of my stay depends on the Empress,” he said boldly and turned his single blazing eye upon her.
    Catherine lowered her cards, sustaining that imperious, ardent gaze, aware that he had drawn very close to her, and that the fierce masculinity of the man transcended his appearance. The climax of twelve years of patient wooing was about to overtake her.
    Now Gregory Orlov was gone and his old rival had returned, courting her by letter and in person, displaying gifts of charm that made the luckless Vassiltchikov seem even duller than he was.
    â€œHow much longer must I wait, Madame?” he whispered. Catherine stared down at her cards, hesitating, knowing that those who played with them were watching. The fate of Russia, the future happiness of the Empress, the ultimate destiny of Paul hung in the balance and were suddenly resolved.
    â€œWe’ve both waited long enough, my friend,” she said quietly. She threw down her cards and rose from the table.
    â€œI’m tired to-night,” she said. Then turning, she placed her hand upon Gregory Potemkin’s arm. “General, will you escort me to my rooms?”
    For weeks after that night the whole of Petersburg held its breath, watching the new favourite with the Empress, seeing the special marks of affection that had once been Orlov’s privilege; and this fresh scandal thrust Paul and Natalie into the background.
    When he heard of it, the Czarevitch told Natalie and raged against his mother. Every instinct of a son jealous of the love which was his due, no matter how he thought he hated, rose in rebellion at the sight of yet another common paramour: Catherine the ruler, symbol of power and authority, was bad enough, but the crude associations of sex filled him with repulsion and fury.
    The men his mother loved were always big, tall and broad-shouldered like Russian Hercules—Orlov, Vassiltchikov, and now this Gregory Potemkin. For twelve years the favourites had towered above him, and a proud, primeval instinct hated to be overshadowed. As he had loathed Orlov and despised his unintelligent successor, so he became Potemkin’s enemy.
    And with this resolve Paul began a personal war that was to wage for over twenty years.
    In December messengers hurried to Catherine with momentous news. Panin’s opinion of human treachery and greed were fully justified at last: the huge reward of 100,000 roubles offered for the capture of Emilian Pugachev had proved too much of a temptation. As he lay drunk in the ruins of his camp, surrounded by those he thought to be his friends, his followers had seized him and delivered him to the forces of the Empress. He was already on his way to Moscow in chains.
    The Court was in residence in the Wooden Palace in the heart of the old Muscovite capital, and Paul insisted upon watching the triumphal entry of the