Synnovea wondered what tedious insinuation the princess was alluding to now. “Why should I not? If I’d been sent to a monastery, I doubt that my freedom could have been curtailed any more than it has been here.”
Anna’s lips drew up in a disdaining sneer. “No doubt, under your father’s authority, you had many admirers visiting your home in Nizhni Novgorod and indulged in liberties that would shock most boyarinas. Your conduct here has certainly demonstrated your license with men. I’ve no doubt that if you had received some kind of encouragement from Aleksei, you’d have found cause to stay here during my absence.”
Synnovea grew visibly incensed by the woman’s suggestion. “Forgive me, Anna, but I wouldn’t dream of compromising my reputation by staying here with that…” The word debaucher was on the tip of her tongue, but upon recalling that Ali was listening to everything that was being said, she refrained from calling the wily fox what he definitely was simply to save herself the ordeal of having to later explain her choice of appellations to the old servant. She smiled crisply as she corrected herself. “I mean, with Aleksei.”
The gray eyes were hostile above a sneering turn of thin lips. “No, of course not. You wouldn’t do anything unseemly behind my back.”
Synnovea canted her head as she tried to understand the rationale behind the other woman’s disdain. “Have I offended you so much by attracting Vladimir’s attention, Anna? Or is there another reason for your resentment?”
Anna strolled away, deeming it wise to avoid a discussion that would lead them into an ugly fray. Already she yearned to claw those green-brown eyes from their sockets. If she really unleashed her hostility upon the girl, no telling what she’d be tempted to do. A violent confrontation would only detract from her elevated authority, through which she had intended to seek retribution.
“Just think of it, Synnovea. In a thrice of weeks you’ll be Vladimir’s bride,” Anna prodded shrewishly. “It should please you to know that you’ll be marrying such a wealthy boyar. You’ll probably be able to wheedle whatever you desire from the old wolfhound.” Her lips curved briefly in a dull smile as she considered the girl. “But then, I haven’t really noticed any inclination on your part to limit your self-indulgence. Your gowns and jewels readily demonstrate your enormous greed. Still, as Vladimir’s wife, you’ll be far richer than you are now. That fact should lend you some comfort when it comes time for you to endure his awkward attempts in bed. Though I’ve heard rumors that he’s still capable of mounting a maid, it doesn’t promise to be the most enjoyable experience for you, not like it would be if you were to wed a younger man, especially someone as accomplished with women as Colonel Rycroft.”
A darkly winged brow arched sharply as Synnovea watched the princess saunter across the room. “I wasn’t aware that you knew Colonel Rycroft well enough to offer any opinion about him, Anna. You haven’t given him more than ten minutes of your time. Yet now it seems you know his most intimate secrets.”
“Oh, I hear things now and then.” Anna turned her face aside with an attitude of haughty indifference. “The Englishman seems to be the darling of every addlepated boyarina who has ever seen him. The fact that he lives in the German district with all of the other outcasts who come into this country increases his opportunity to gratify his manly appetites in the most sordid ways. ’Tis widely rumored among those who know that there’s at least a half-dozen strumpets for every foreigner who’s housed there. To even suggest that the colonel would deny himself of their availability while vying for your hand seems rather farfetched, don’t you agree, Synnovea? Or did you actually think you were the only pigeon in whom that wily English hawk yearns to sink his talons?”
If Synnovea had been asked to explain her rising vexation with the woman at that precise moment, she’d have been unable to provide a viable reason, except that the slander had come from one who knew the Englishman not at all. “Your conjectures are only that, Anna. Unless you spy upon him, you couldn’t possibly know what Colonel Rycroft does in his private life.”
Anna tossed her head with a contemptuous laugh. “You’re a fool, Synnovea, if you think a man like that hasn’t tasted his share of trollops. Mark my words, he’ll scatter his seed throughout the countryside ere he returns to England. But if you’re so naive as to believe that he’ll remain chaste while petitioning His Majesty for permission to court you, then I’ve better things to do with my time than to argue with you over the depth of his coarseness.”
Upon reaching the door, Anna paused briefly to consider her charge, feeling rather elated over what she had managed to accomplish. Synnovea’s dejection was unmistakable. The intended betrothal had shattered whatever expectations the girl had dreamed of for her future. Indeed, Anna could almost feel sorry for her ward…if she didn’t hate her so much.
The almost imperceptible squeak of door hinges sounded like a death knell in the gloomy silence that followed Anna’s departure. Stricken by the news of her forthcoming marriage, Synnovea slumped listlessly upon the bed and stared in utter gloom at nothing in particular. Had her life been declared forfeit, she’d have felt the same. Her despair was too burdensome a weight to bear in mute misery, and with a harsh sob, she flung herself across the mattress. Listlessly pummeling a fist against the bedclothes, she wept and bemoaned the day that she had ever entered the Taraslov manse.
“Oh, me lamb! Me lamb! Do not weep so!” Ali pleaded pityingly as she scurried forward to soothe her mistress.
Synnovea shook her head, refusing to be consoled. Her woeful heart seemed a ponderous burden within her chest; no gentle cajoling could ease the dark gloom that constricted it. “Pack up everything that belongs to us,” she choked in a ragged voice. “If I fall under heaven’s mercy, I’ll never darken the door of this house after my departure on the morrow!”
“Can ye not stop this thing that they’re doin’ ta ye?” Ali asked fretfully. “Could ye not go ta His Majesty an’ beg for his mercy? Or escape ta England an’ stay wit’ yer widowed aunt?”
“I can go to no one,” Synnovea muttered bleakly. “Least of all to England. If I sought passage on a ship, Anna would likely find a way to arouse His Majesty’s ire against me, and I’d never be allowed to return. The arrangement of marriage has been agreed upon, Ali, and with naught but the necessary signatures verifying the legality of the contract, I’ll be the promised bride of Prince Vladimir.”
Anna’s elaborate script acknowledging Vladimir as her betrothed would seal her doom, and once the agreement was drawn up, not even Aleksei would be able to undo what he had set into motion. Only Tsar Mikhail or Prince Vladimir could break the pact, His Majesty by whatever reason he might ordain, the ancient by giving evidence of her unworthiness. But the likelihood of that occurrence seemed remote if Vladimir had asked for her hand so soon after their meeting. No doubt Aleksei had relished magnifying her merit as his potential bride.
Synnovea’s thoughts lamely sought some avenue of escape. A half-dozen options came to mind, but such notions as insulting Vladimir or telling him how vehemently she disdained the idea of becoming his wife were rejected as quickly as they came. Even if it meant giving up her freedom, she wouldn’t cause the old man such grievous hurt just to gain her own end. To do so might lead him to the grave, and she refused to have his death on her conscience. Nay, if ever he refused to speak the vows with her, it would be because he had been the one to find fault with her.
Closing her eyes, Synnovea rested a cheek against the counterpane, letting her tensions ease as she forced her mind along a path that had become quite familiar of late, the vision of her English champion in scratched and dented helm. Although she was still incensed by the comments that Anna had made about him, she couldn’t help but wonder if they were true. His casual disregard for his nudity in the bathhouse certainly verified the fact that he suffered no unease being unclothed in front of a woman. But then, when a man had a physique as exceptional as his, why should he be embarrassed about it? Indeed, if his face had been equally subli
me, Tyrone Rycroft would have gained the unswerving admiration of ladies everywhere, herself included.
It seemed futile to torment herself with wanton memories of her encounters with the Englishman, yet, as the wife of an ancient boyar, she might well have to use her recollections to suffice as conciliation for what she’d likely be missing in her marriage, for she’d never be able to enjoy the excitement and delight of being joined by wedlock to a man of noteworthy face or frame. Such reverie was perhaps more than some women were gifted with in a lifetime. Still, Synnovea was inclined to wonder if her brief view of such a magnificent specimen had spoiled her for the mundane and ordinary and made her less than tolerant of what she was about to receive.
A plaintive sigh escaped Synnovea as she made a concerted effort to commit herself to her betrothal. At least Vladimir wasn’t as repugnant as some doddering ancients, but when her own sire had been so much younger, she feared it would be tantamount to going to bed with a grandfather. Still, it was highly unlikely that she’d ever become bored while his sons resided with them. In light of the brothers’ bent for mischief and mayhem, an enormous probability existed that she’d be wont on occasion to beg for a little peace and privacy.
Steeling herself against the unrelenting disquiet that threatened to dissolve her fragile forbearance, Synnovea wiped away her tears and left the bed. She helped Ali pack and took comfort in the prospect that she’d soon be leaving the Taraslovs for good. Though marrying Vladimir wasn’t much of a reprieve, it was nevertheless an improvement.
Synnovea made a point of seeking Ivan out in his chambers and returning the books he had told her to read. The fact that she wouldn’t have to contend with the man’s bigoted views anymore allowed her some relief.
“I hope you’re happy now, Countess.”
A weary sigh slipped from Synnovea as she met his glare. “I’ll try to be.”
“How can you not with all that wealth at your disposal?” he derided caustically.
“Happiness doesn’t depend on a person’s wealth, Ivan,” she stated dully. “A man could acquire all the riches in the world and still be utterly miserable. Possessions are a poor substitute for loving friends and family.”
Ivan scoffed at the idea of such platitudes. “My family never meant anything to me. I despised my mother. My father? Well, I was told he was killed shortly before my birth, but I was given my mother’s name like any misbegotten offspring. I never saw any evidence that he ever cared a whit about what he was leaving behind. I’d have been much fonder of his memory had he left some inheritance to see me nurtured and clothed until I could fend for myself.”
“I’m truly sorry, Ivan,” Synnovea murmured in genuine empathy, understanding now why the man was so tormented. “It must have been very hard for you growing up.”
“It was hard,” he acknowledged with a prideful smirk. “But I overcame it all and made something of myself. I’m here by no one else’s will but my own.”
“Are you not lonely at times?”
“Lonely for what?” he asked sharply, taken aback by her question.
“People? Friends? Someone perhaps like Anna, who appreciates you for yourself or for what you are or may have done…”
“No one appreciates what I am and what I’ve accomplished more than I.”
Synnovea could see no benefit in continuing the discussion when it was apparent that Ivan Voronsky had long ago rejected the notion that friends and a loving family were important to one’s well-being. She found it difficult to imagine such a solitary existence even worth living.
The time came for Synnovea to prepare herself for her first visit to the vast estates of Prince Vladimir. She spent a leisurely hour doing so, not caring how she might anger Anna by her delay in joining them. When she presented herself in the lower hall ten minutes past the hour designated for their departure, the princess was absolutely livid.
“Well! You certainly kept us waiting long enough!” Anna barked. “But then, you awful girl, I’m certain ’twas your intent!”
Synnovea dismissed Anna’s heated glower and Ivan’s scowl with no more than a mental shrug. Aleksei’s rude appraisal of her curves, however, thoroughly outraged her. Even after wreaking havoc in her life, he seemed unable to keep his eyes from sliding down her iridescent green silk sarafan, as if he still considered her a potential paramour. Curbing an urge to slap his swarthy face, Synnovea displayed a stilted decorum as she faced Anna. “You had wanted me to look my best for Vladimir, did you not?”
Weeks ago Anna had discovered that Synnovea complimented her garments far beyond the ability of most women. Her sleekly curving figure, lustrous fair skin, and eyes that seemed more green now than brown were excellent assets. They would’ve made the dowdiest garment look unique, but her present attire was beautiful by itself. The delicate artistry of the gilded stitchery liberally adorning the stiff collar, lower sleeves, and hem of the sarafan as well as her bejeweled kokoshniki was so rich and fine that it could only have been created by a gifted artisan. Still, Anna was not above soliciting some criticism from the two men, who seemed, for once, of a kindred spirit in their desire to seize some redress from the girl.
“I really can’t see that our lengthy wait was worth the results. What do you think, Aleksei?”
The prince managed a tolerant smile, knowing well what his wife wanted to hear. Although Synnovea’s beauty was nearly without equal, he was convinced that she needed subjugation to bring her to heel. He was committed to seeing her wed Vladimir and equally resolved to take his pleasure of her when the time was ripe. To serve his wife’s whim now, no matter how trite her ridicule, would bolster Anna’s confidence for an early departure, for he was reluctant to see his plans thwarted by her presence not only in the manse but in the city. “Perhaps we should consider delaying a bit longer to allow the girl more time to improve her appearance.”
“We’ve endured too much as it is,” Ivan complained tersely. “I beg you, let us be off.”
Aleksei bowed stiffly for his wife’s benefit. “At your pleasure, my dear.”
Anna brushed past Synnovea and accepted the arm Ivan offered her. As they led the way through the front portal, Aleksei waited to claim his usual place at the rear of the procession, where he could freely ogle Synnovea. While the cleric helped Anna into the carriage, Aleksei pressed against the girl’s back to feed a prurient fetish of his own. He remained unfazed by her smoldering glare, but her small heel bearing down painfully upon the toe of his soft leather boot convinced him of the wisdom of retreating to a more respectable distance.
Vladimir came out to greet their carriage upon their arrival at his mansion and eagerly pressed an exuberant kiss upon Synnovea’s slender fingers as he handed her down. Liberally expounding upon her beauty, he drew her into the great hall, where his sons stood arrayed in rich kaftans and their best manners on display. Ivan and the Taraslovs were left to follow in the couple’s wake, and as the ancient proudly escorted Synnovea to a cushioned chair beside his own, the three were left to find their own seats nearby.
Ivan’s blood nigh boiled. Before he had been arbitrarily demoted by the girl, he had tasted the rare sweetmeat of success as Vladimir’s guest of honor. Now his attempts to draw the man’s attention were, at best, randomly given heed to, and only then with a modicum of interest. In sharp contrast, the old boyar doted on every word that issued forth from the gently smiling lips of his intended.
Synnovea chose to make the best of her unfortunate fate and deliberately ignored Ivan’s irate glowers and Anna’s sharpening frowns as she laughed and chatted with her future family. For a time, the Taraslovs retired with the elder to discuss the nuptials, the dowry Alexandr had set aside for his daughter, and to sign their names to the betrothal agreement. While the three were absent, Vladimir’s brood of sons entertained her with hilarious accounts of their many kindred; upon their return, Ivan’s ire reached its zenith, for it was then that the old man presented Synnovea with a necklace set with large diamonds and emeralds,
earrings to match, and a betrothal ring impressive enough to stagger the wits of the three, who looked on with a strange blend of rancor and awe.
“My dearest Synnovea, please allow me to present these meager offerings as tokens of my affection,” Vladimir exclaimed with a buoyant smile. “Once you’ve become my bride, I’ll dress you in robes of gold and precious jewels of every color. You’ll want for nothing.”
“Tut-tut, Prince Vladimir,” Anna chided through a stiff smile, knowing her revenge would be better served if she could believe the old boyar meant to abuse the girl. “You’ll spoil Synnovea with such extravagant gifts. I’d advise you to pamper her less and keep her more submissive if you wish a well-ordered marriage.”
Her comments caused Aleksei to lower his libation and stare at her in amazement, but Anna ignored the implication of his dubious regard, which silently challenged her own compliance to his husbandly authority. Admittedly she had always been more ambitious than he. Even as a child she had learned to be assertive to get what she desired. Now she yearned to see her rival vexed by hardships, not elaborate gifts.
“Nonsense,” Vladimir rejoined, blustering a bit at the notion that he was being counseled by a woman whose husband, according to frequent hearsay, roamed far afield. “If I’ve gleaned anything from my earlier marriages, it has been the fact that women can learn to be content with an old rascal like myself much more easily if they’re coddled and pampered. In showing their gratitude, my wives nurtured me with their affection, keeping me quite content to stay at home.”