perhaps it was safer to say he answered to only one man. His position as cavalry commander didn't fully encompass the additional native tribes pledging allegiance to his family, and on the eastern frontier, the fealty of the nomadic tribes constituted an army in itself. The Chiefs of Staff knew that, the Grand Dukes knew that, and he was treated with careful deference.
The power and authority he wielded was almost unreserved and explained a wedding accomplished with such speed and finesse.
No one refused him.
He had but to indicate his desire and it was accomplished.
He was very different from the man she'd come to know on their journey from Aleksandropol to Tiflis or in the informal surroundings of his mountain lodge. Even his palaces in Tiflis and Saint Petersburg were run without undue pomp. He was human, warm, a natural man without formality. This new image of Stefan as master and commander of all he surveyed made her question for a moment whether she really knew the man she was about to marry.
Chapter Sixteen
Five hours later, the chapel was filled with expectant guests, delighted to have been called away from previous engagements to witness the sudden and startling wedding of Stefan Bariatinsky to a beautiful young lady who'd been hidden away from society until short weeks ago. A lady who'd been introduced into society by no less a figure than the Tsar, a lady of the prominent Kuzan family, known over the centuries not only for their wealth but for their unconventionality…a polite word for what the less courteous called excesses. The scandal of his broken engagement to Nadejda, of course, only added piquant expectancy to the festivities.
Those more perceptive of the guests in the chapel noted the absence of all of Stefan's previous paramours.
'It must be love,' they whispered to one another.
'But for how long?' the more cynical replied.
'She's a Kuzan,' some others murmured, insinuation delicious as sin in their voices. 'I'll give it a year.'
But Stefan had never been noted for the longevity of his infatuations, and Kuzan or not, no one risked their money on a day more.
Countess Lazaroff's suitors weren't invited, either, they noted. He was jealous. Stefan jealous? The thought was novel. Stefan had always been known for the number and variety of his women. The unspoken comment was in everyone's mind. Would one woman satisfy him?
The site of the wedding was an exuberant baroque chapel dedicated architecturally to an earthly approximation of heaven. Built of white marble, it was accented with tall polished pilasters of lavender amethyst rising to support a cornice leafed in gold under a frescoed ceiling and decorated with a profusion of statuary and gilded motifs. The luxury of material and style combined to give the sanctuary an intensely emotional appeal, like a flamboyant architectural melody. Incorporated into this variation of baroque grandeur was the very Russian addition of thousands of candles, votive and otherwise, in chandeliers and candelabra, in display cabinets of great beauty.
And as if the splendor of marble, amethyst and gold, of frescoes depicting the dazzling light of heaven gleaming on angels and cavorting putti, all illuminated by flickering candlelight, wasn't enough to suggest heaven on earth, orchids, large and small, stark white and delicately hued, were massed in great arrangements throughout the chapel. They tumbled in faultless disorder over the altar, twined up candelabrum stands and torcheres, were tied into garlands with angel fern and hung in luxurious swags between pilasters. In contrast to the sumptuous display of flora, each row of gilded chairs in the nave was fronted by a tall basket of stately lilies. 'For my wife,' Stefan had said to the florist, 'but I want colored lilies. The white ones are too funereal.'
It was done.
As everything he requested was done. As was the customary procedure with Stefan Bariatinsky's wishes.
And now in white dress uniform, tall, dark and spectacular, he stood before the gratified eyes of Saint Petersburg's aristocracy, the Savior of Russia, the most decorated soldier in the Empire's history, the man who'd loved hundreds of ladies but never for long, waited to be married.
He seemed remarkably composed, the cynosure for three hundred pairs of eyes, chatting quietly with his priests, smiling occasionally, putting his hand out in casual greeting to a junior prelate who came in late, immune apparently to his guests' curiosity.
A small fanfare of muted horns announced his bride, and when he turned to her, it was plain for all the world to see that he adored her, and she him. The bride and groom smiled at each other, an intimate smile that ignored their guests, the avid curiosity and indeed the world. For that evanescent moment they existed alone, separated by only a white satin carpet strewn with rose petals.
And then in a curious gesture of tender welcome and intrinsic command, he held out his hand to her.
His priests, elaborate in embroidered silver on midnight-blue velvet vestments, flanked him like bearded robed shamans from an ancient time. Scented incense from thousands of flickering candles lent a perfumed ambience to the dazzling white-and-gold interior, muting the soft undertone of fragrant lily.
Lisaveta stood alone in the entrance to the nave, her pearl-encrusted gown and gold-embroidered veil shimmered in the candlelight, the diamonds at her ears and throat-a gift from her bridegroom-catching the light in brilliant display. She raised the small bouquet of white violets she held in one hand toward her bridegroom in silent, minute answer to Stefan-and smiled again, beautiful and assured.
Without a word spoken, every guest understood the nature of their relationship. Prince Bariatinsky and the splendid Countess Lazaroff were not only in love, they were equally matched. In mesmerizing silence the inconceivable concept was absorbed, followed closely by the piquant speculation: how exotic, how accomplished, how brilliant was the Countess to have attained parity with the most lionized man in the Empire.
The organ chords of the processional broke out triumphantly and Lisaveta, arresting the endless possibilities rife in everyone's mind, moved in stately grace toward her bridegroom.
The ceremony was lengthy, protocol carefully observed; Stefan wanted no doubt to the legitimacy of his marriage or his intentions. Before the entire world of Saint Petersburg elite he was marrying Lisaveta, and if there was a child, he was acknowledging it as his. He believed her-and in her-implicitly.
His faith was all the more stunning because he had been a man so successful with other men's wives and lovers over the years.
He was being offered the glass of wine to drink by the priest, and taking it, he turned to Lise with a smile. Saluting her, he drank and waited while she in turn sipped from her wineglass. They were symbolically toasting to fertility and good fortune-a bit late, he thought, and she seemed to read his mind because she winked at him.
Scandalizing the priests, he responded to her mischievous gesture by pulling her close with his free arm and, bending low, said in a murmur near her ear, the poufed silk tulle of her veil brushing against his cheek, 'I love you
She smiled back her own pledge of love and kissed him gently on the cheek. 'Only a thousand years?' she whispered, sweet teasing in her voice.
The buzz of comment rose in the perfumed air at the extraordinary show of affection; Stefan wasn't a demonstrative man.
'Till the mountains crumble into the sea,' he whispered, and kissed her very gently. Then straightening, Stefan signaled with a nod of his head and the ceremony continued.
The seated guests looked at one another in silent comment. Now that was like Stefan, they thought, intimidated by neither man nor God nor scowling priests. His brief nod was understated authority from a man intent on his own prerogatives and spontaneity. And his bride hadn't even blushed. Of course, she was a Kuzan. They'd been recognized as beyond blushing several centuries ago.
Lisaveta and Stefan were able to kiss with the priests' blessing after the benediction some time later, and then, beaming with pride, Stefan escorted his bride to the Tsar, seated in the first row. Not only a gesture of courtesy, it was meant as a warning to Vladimir Taneiev; Stefan intended any report going back to Vladimir was perfectly clear on his position with Alexander II.
The reception was glittering and resplendent. Even the Tsar stayed longer than he intended, intrigued by Stefan's Georgian wines, the charm of his bride, the Gypsy dancers who entertained the guests through dinner and
