Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (27 page)

'Can you believe it?' Senda breathed, ogling the lifelike
metre-high likeness of Irina Danilov with wide eyes. 'It's actu
ally made of
butter.'
She had come to a stop with her plate
extended, and thinking she wanted squab, a waiter with ster
ling tongs fished a whole tiny bird from a flock of crisply bur
nished squab and placed it on her plate with a flourish.

She eyed the bird suspiciously and moved on to the next
table.

Luxury was heaped upon luxury. For the sweet-toothed,
one table was devoted exclusively to crystal bowls of out-of-
season fruit brought in from the Crimea. Another held more cakes—fruit cakes, pale almond cakes, and deep, dusky choc
olate tortes. A third table of pastries held only white-frosted
cakes, sugar-iced cookies, and white candies, all arranged
among a sumptuous table of gilded nuts and masses of lustrous
strung pearls.

Their plates filled, they carried them into one of four cham
bers adjoining the ballroom being used as dining rooms. From
the other diners there was an almost simultaneous
'Nasdrovya'
as they raised their glasses to toast Senda. Blushing, she
returned the cheer and proceeded to a table. Each of the
small tables had been set with an exquisite centrepiece: silver
candlelabra were hung with heavy garlands made of pink
roses. Senda and Schmarya saw lavishly wrapped boxes at
each place and, following the lead given by other guests, opened theirs. They were stunned beyond words. For the
men, Schmarya included, there were solid gold lighters, and
for the women solid gold compacts. All were engraved with
the date and the Princess's monogram. When they were finally
recovered enough to eat, Senda picked up a heavy knife and fork and cut a crunchy piece of squab. She bit hungrily into
it. 'I'm starved,' she said, beginning to chew. 'I haven't had
anything to eat all day.' Suddenly she stopped chewing and
looked stricken, her eyes bulging.

'What's the matter?' Schmarya asked.

With her tongue she shoved her food into the pocket of one
cheek. 'This bird is all bones.'

He looked at her with amusement. 'Well, chuck it, then.'

She reached under the tablecloth and pinched his thigh. He
jerked his leg, banging his knee on the table.

Countess Florinsky, her egret-feathered headpiece bounc
ing, swooped down upon their table, 'Enjoying yourselves,
my dears?' she sang.

Senda nodded. 'Except for this bird, whatever it is.' She
scowled at her plate.

'It's squab, I believe.'

Senda jabbed it with her fork. 'I thought it was a particularly
starved pigeon.'

The Countess trilled with laughter. 'You do say the most
amusing things.'

'What do I do with the bones? I have a whole mouthful of
them.'

'I think you're supposed to chew and swallow them.' The
Countess frowned. 'Or is that with partridge? Dear me, I keep
forgetting. I can't see my way to eating fowl. They're really a
delight to watch or wear'—she patted her headpiece affection
ately—'but I simply can't eat the little creatures.'

'Oh,' Senda said, 'well, I'm having trouble eating this one
myself. I'm afraid to swallow the bones. I'll choke to death.'

'Then spit the bones out into a napkin. If you're discreet, no one should be the wiser. By the way,' she said casually,
looking around, 'you didn't happen to run into Vaslav?'

'Earlier, with you. When we came in.'

'No, no. Since then.' The Countess's eyes roved the tables.
'I ran into him. He told me he was looking for you.'

'For me?' Senda stared at her. 'I wonder what he wants.'

'To dance, probably. Oh! There he is. Vaslav!' The Count
ess got on tiptoe and raised her fan, waving it briskly to catch
his attention. 'He's coming, and off I go, my dears!'

Vaslav Danilov approached their table. 'I hope you are
enjoying your repast, Madame Bora?'

'Thoroughly, your Highness,' Senda assured him, though
she wished she had something to eat other than the brittle,
bony squab.

'Good.'

'Countess Florinsky said you wished to see me?'

He smiled. 'Later, after you have eaten. I was going to ask you for a dance.' He paused and looked at Schmarya. 'With
your permission, of course, monsieur?'

'By all means,' Schmarya said, gesturing magnanimously.

'Then why not right now?' Senda asked. She swallowed,
dabbed her lips with a heavy linen napkin, and pushed back
her chair.

'But your food,' the Prince pointed out. 'You haven't fini
shed.'

'I'm really not at all hungry,' Senda said. Especially not for squab, she thought, rising and proffering her crooked arm.
'Your Highness?'

'With pleasure.' Taking her arm in his, the Prince led her back to the ballroom, where an elegant Viennese waltz was
playing. 'Johann Strauss,' he said his eyes sweeping the dance
floor. 'A very sweet melody, though I am not at all certain
that sweetness becomes you. A steamy Argentine tango, per
haps, or the wild new American jazz I have had the pleasure
to hear on occasion.'

'Oh?' She lifted a studied eyebrow. 'And why should that
be?'

'Because'—he smiled—'I sense passions smouldering within
you.'

'Then perhaps you have overestimated the power of your
senses, your Highness. Perhaps they have misread me?'

'They never misread anything,' he said quietly.

She turned away quickly, a flush intensifying the red of her
hair, the slivers of aqua in her emerald eyes dimming as though
a veil had descended over them. 'I think we had better dance,'
she said soberly, casting furtive glances around her. 'Every
one's looking at us.'

'And why shouldn't they? I am, after all, Vaslav Danilov, and you are the evening's star attraction. And a beautiful
woman by anyone's standards.'

'You are making me feel conspicuous and uncomfortable.'

'You will soon be over that.'

'Shouldn't you be dancing with the Princess? It
is
her
birthday.'

'I led her in the first dance of the evening. Besides, Irina
would rather not dance.'

'Oh?'

'She dislikes showing her hands to disadvantage.'

Out of the corner of her eye Senda could see Countess
Florinsky and the Princess staring in their direction. She
caught the speculative glances of other guests, the openly
appreciative looks of the Hussars in their elkskin breeches,
and she could hear whispers carrying gossip on sibilant lips. 'I
think,' she said rather unsteadily, 'that if we do not begin to
dance soon, this waltz will be over before we start.'

'This waltz is unimportant.' He looked down at her keenly,
a film glistening over his eyes. 'It is the next dance which
interests me. I asked for it myself.'

'And what would that be?'

'Something infinitely more Russian. Livelier and, I daresay,
closer to your heart.'

Even as he spoke, the waltz reached its last honeyed strains, and then, without warning, furious balalaikas broke through
the last note, thundering into that most Russian and soul-
rousing of music, an authentic Gypsy dance. The couples on
the dance floor were momentarily at a loss. They looked about
in astonishment.

'So wild music is closer to my heart, is it?' Senda asked,
raising her chin challengingly. Her eyes sparkled. 'Then so be
it!'

She did not wait for him to lead, but tossed her hair and
clicked her heels as if a fine madness had swept over her. To her surprise, the Prince did not hesitate. He dropped his stiff
aristocratic veneer. The other couples on the dance floor
parted as swiftly as if Moses himself had ordered the Red Sea
to recede. The floor was theirs, and theirs alone. Except for
the balalaikas, silence descended. The two of them, she in
Madame Lamothe's exquisite gown, and he in his black, gold-
laced formal uniform, swirled and stomped and kicked with
their hands on their hips.

As the ballroom bounced and jumped and spun madly around her, Senda caught a fleeting glance of open mouths, of guests jockeying for a view from the packed balustrades above, of Countess Florinsky's fan stopping mid-flutter, of the Princess's inscrutably veiled eyes, and then Schmarya's amused grin from the perimeter of the dance floor. So he had been drawn by the music too.

Knowing he was watching, she let herself go, flinging aside
any inhibitions which remained, and assumed the dervish moves of a devilish gypsy gone beserk on the steppes. When
the racing instruments finally reached their crescendo and
stopped, spontaneous applause thundered in the ballroom.

Senda reeled dizzily. She was panting.

'And now,' the Prince whispered between gulping lungfuls
of air, 'we can catch our breaths during a waltz.'

She felt his hands gripping her as he led her to
The Blue Danube.
One by one, other couples began to whirl around
them, and soon the ballroom was as before, elegant with the
sweetness of civilized music and the expensive rustling of
billowing gowns. Senda couldn't help thinking that she had
preferred the gypsy music. It had had torment and ecstasy and
soul.

The Prince was in his element. He grinned at her and danced
faultlessly. 'I was right, you know,' he said softly.

'Right?' Senda frowned. 'About what, your Highness?'

She could feel the breath of his words on her bare shoulder.
'The smouldering passions I was so sure you possessed.'

Her eyes narrowed. 'And if they smoulder, your Highness,'
she countered tartly, 'I think it best you take care before
you're burned.'

'For them, I daresay I would gladly burn anywhere, hell
included.' Despite the soft timbre of his voice, he seemed to loom over her. There was an animal surety glowing in the
depth of his eyes.