Читать книгу Awakened By The Prince’s Passion - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 13

Chapter Four

She’d nearly kissed him! That one thought kept running through her mind as Dasha pored over pattern books in the morning room. The dressmaker, Madame Delphine, had been there since ten o’clock, trying patiently to tempt her with fabrics and designs. But her attention was having difficulty focusing on anything except that moment last night: his hands on her arms, their heads close together in front of the fire, his voice low and private, their bodies so near. It had only been a matter of inches, the tilt of her head, such small, insignificant gestures to manoeuvre for a kiss.

Dasha understood why she’d done it. It was only because of circumstances, because she was desperate. She couldn’t connect to herself so she wanted to connect to someone else, with someone else, and Ruslan had been there, full of command and control, a tangible human bulwark against the abstract form of her despair. Understanding her rather immediate attraction was theoretically simple. The Prince was empathetic, shrewd and yet kind, and he was easy on the eyes—a handsome prince in all sense of the word. He was the Ruslan of fairy tales come to life. He would fight for her, whatever she chose. Did she dare believe he meant it? The offer was too good to be true. Inherently, such conditions made the offer suspect. The monster of distrust reared its ugly head. Could she trust Prince Ruslan Pisarev? Could she trust Captain Varvakis, a man who, according to his own account, the only account, had saved her from certain death?

Her conclusion was that trust came with a price. She could trust these men if she gave them what they wanted. She knew what Varvakis wanted: a princess of his choosing on the throne. What did Prince Pisarev want? If she hadn’t been foolish last night, she might have known. There’d been more he’d wanted to discuss, but they’d never got to it.

Dasha turned a page in the pattern book absently. Madame Delphine would be disappointed in her progress. She wondered what Captain Varvakis would do if she chose not to return? Would he be as generous as the Prince? All his plans would be in ruins without her. He would have risked himself for nothing. It was easier for the Prince; he had less to lose if she chose to stay. Perhaps he’d even prefer that. It would be less effort on his part and less risk. And yet, what did the Prince gain if she did go back? Surely there must be some benefit for him, otherwise why go to all the work to hire tutors, to house her, to dress her? How would he feel about that level of investment if he knew her real fear?

Dasha turned more pages in the pattern book, marking a few items that caught her eye to appease the dressmaker, her guilt growing. She’d not been entirely truthful with the Prince in the garden. She did remember nothing; she did doubt her capabilities to rule without those memories. That was all true. But she’d held back her third fear: that the reason she doubted her ability to rule, the reason she hadn’t remembered being the Princess, was because she simply wasn’t the Princess. Surely a real princess would not question the decision to return to her country. And yet she did.

Dasha stared at the pattern book, unseeing. Questioning her identity was not a conclusion she’d been drawn to out of mere whimsy. That damnable dream had pushed her there, night after night, leaving her awake and screaming. In the dream, she felt someone was with her on that flame-engulfed landing, behind her as if she was protecting them. But who? She always woke up before she was even sure there was someone. She woke when the flames killed her. She’d heard it suggested people only woke up when they ‘died’ in their dreams.

The incompleteness of the horror left her with a final question. If she was not Dasha, who was she? In the absence of an alternative, the question was answered by default. She was Dasha Tukhachevskenova because Captain Varvakis rescued her and he said so. She was Dasha Tukhachevskenova because Captain Varvakis, and the Moderates who kept Kuban from outright civil war, needed her to be, because Dasha Tukhachevskenova was more useful to powerful men like Ruslan Pisarev than a woman with no name and no lineage.

‘Your Highness, have you decided?’ Madame Delphine stood at her shoulder expectantly. Dasha scanned the page and pointed at random to a gown. Madame Delphine nodded appreciatively. ‘An excellent choice. The gown is simply cut but, with the right fabrics, simplicity can be its own elegance. You have a good eye.’ She gestured towards the fabrics laid out across chairs and sofas. ‘Let me show you some materials, perhaps the silks. Here’s a nice aquamarine for that gown.’ Madame Delphine passed her a swatch.

Dasha ran her hand over the dressmaker’s fabric, rubbing it between her fingers. She held it to the light, checking the lustre. ‘Do you have something more delicate perhaps?’ This was not high-quality silk. There was nothing wrong with it. It was sturdy enough, pretty enough to fool the casual observer, but she knew instinctively this was not what a convincing princess would wear.

The dressmaker smiled knowingly and went to an unopened trunk. ‘I think I have something you will like. It just arrived from India.’ Inside lay bolts of fine silk in varying colours.

Yes, this was more to her taste. Dasha rubbed the first bolt. Eyes closed. Good silk sounded a certain way. It seemed ages since she’d had something fine and she relished the little luxury after weeks in coarse, often dirty clothing. But the luxury was followed by guilt. A pretty dress was a petty concern and it was charity. Her family was dead. She had no money of her own. Nothing of her own. Dasha set aside the silk to the alarm of Madame Delphine.

‘Is something wrong, Your Highness?’

Dasha gave her a soft smile of reassurance. ‘The silk is fine. It is too expensive, however. Perhaps there are some muslins that would do?’

‘The Prince has given instructions that price is no object,’ Madame Delphine scolded, sounding more imperious than a queen. ‘You are to have a full wardrobe. Undergarments, nightclothes, day dresses, walking dresses, carriage ensembles, ball gowns, pelisses and all the necessary accessories: bonnets, gloves, shoes, stockings.’ She tutted, taking in Dasha’s outfit, another dress borrowed from Nikolay Baklanov’s wife. ‘No woman is herself when she’s walking around in another woman’s clothes.’ Madame Delphine pulled out a tape measure as if all was settled. ‘Now, let’s get your dimensions so my girls can start on your new wardrobe.’

* * *

The wardrobe took the better part of the day. Building one from the basics up was ridiculously exhausting. Dasha had just closed the last pattern book with relief when Ruslan appeared at the door, dressed for going out in buff breeches and a jacket of dark blue superfine, his unruly waves combed into something close to submission. He looked immaculate and fresh despite the day being nearly gone, the exact opposite of how she felt and probably how she looked. Feeling self-conscious, Dasha tucked an errant curl behind her ear.

‘My morning room has been overrun, I see,’ Ruslan said expansively, clearly in good humour. ‘I stopped by to see how things were getting on and to see if I might persuade you, Your Highness, to come for a walk. It’s a lovely day out.’

A walk sounded lovely after being cooped up. Dasha smiled at the offer. ‘Let me just tidy my hair.’ Then she paused, smoothing the lavender skirts of her borrowed dress. ‘Is my gown smart enough?’

Madame Delphine was all brisk efficiency. ‘We have a ready-made walking dress that should do from an order a woman didn’t pick up.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Suzette, help Her Highness change, quickly now, while monsieur and I step into the hallway.’ No doubt, Dasha thought, to inform the Prince of the atrocious bill that awaited him and perhaps even to tell the Prince how she’d performed today. Suzette came forward to strip off her gown and Dasha sighed. A princess had no privacy. Her body, her actions, her every movement was up for public dissection, it seemed.

Suzette had her transformed in record time with a saucy hat perched on her head to match the blue walking ensemble and soft ivory-coloured half-boots and gloves. Ruslan was waiting for her in the hall, while Madame looked smugly pleased with herself. ‘Definitely worth waiting for, you look lovely.’ Ruslan offered her his arm and the awkward moment last night loomed large between them in her mind, although not his. Dasha wished she could be as assured as he, able to act as if her misstep last night had not happened. But she couldn’t forget she’d tried to tempt him to kiss her and that he’d rejected the overture. Well, technically he’d only averted the overture. She wasn’t sure if that was because he simply didn’t want to or because he was being a gentleman.

The air outside was crisp and fresh. Autumn hung in the balance as the seasons transitioned. The trees bore hints of yellow in their leaves. ‘There’s a garden at the centre of the square, it should be private this time of day.’ Ruslan led her across the street, helping her avoid the carriage traffic, and opened the gate with a small key from his pocket. He held up crossed fingers and gave her a friendly smile as he ushered her forward.

‘London is a busy city,’ Dasha said, slightly breathless after the adventure of crossing the street. The garden was quiet and empty in contrast.

‘It takes some getting used to.’ Ruslan shut the gate and the busyness behind them. ‘It’s an exciting city, though, full of modern advancements. I am eager to show it to you, as soon as you feel able. There’s an international district in Soho with a Russian neighbourhood. Prince Baklanov has his riding academy there.’ The hints were subtly layered as they walked and Dasha did not miss a single one. To go out into London required making a decision. How was Prince Pisarev to introduce her? How was she to see London? As the Princess Dasha, frequenting embassy balls and state events? Or as a woman who had yet to be named, an émigrée who would take up residence somewhere in Soho with others looking for new lives far from home? No one in the Prince’s lofty circles would maintain a long acquaintance with that woman.

‘How much time do you suppose I have?’ Dasha asked bluntly.

The Prince did not pretend ignorance. ‘I would not wait long. Word could come from Kuban at any time, although I would not expect it for another month. Still, by the time news comes, it will be too late to start preparing. We’ll have to be ready to move at a moment’s notice.’

He allowed her to walk in silence beside him. She appreciated the conversational reprieve. He was giving her time to ponder that news, but there must be more. He was patiently holding back, perhaps recognising either decision was daunting. To reinvent herself meant to give herself up entirely, to stop seeking answers, to stop hoping she’d wake up one morning and remember. Instead, she would have to hope she would never remember. Remembering risked discovering she was wrong. What if she woke up one day and knew with a certainty she was Princess Dasha? She’d have thrown away a chance to lead her people when they’d needed her most. That guilt would haunt her the rest of her life. ‘It is an impossible decision,’ Dasha said. They’d reached the far corner of the park where a bench waited under a tree.

The Prince sat, dusting leaves off the seat beside him for her. ‘Not impossible, just difficult. Would you like to talk about it?’

Why not talk with him? Hadn’t he, too, decided to reinvent himself? ‘How did you decide?’ Dasha sat, arranging her skirts. There were some similarities between them. He was a prince, a man of status and wealth and family in Kuban. He’d known her brothers. He’d been close to the royal family. Of the two of them sitting on the bench, he knew her life better than she did herself. He knew precisely what reinvention would cost her.

Ruslan gave her a smile. She was learning to read him. It was one of his wry smiles, the sort where only part of his mouth curved upwards. She thought far too much about his mouth. Best to look elsewhere. ‘I didn’t think about it, I just did it. When the moment came, I just kept going and never looked back. My friends needed me and, I suppose, I needed them more than I needed Kuban.’ It posed a question, perhaps as he’d known it would. What did she need more than Kuban? What was she willing to do, willing to give up?

Dasha leaned forward, the intrigue of his statement irresistible. ‘Tell me.’