“Dance, Angel?” Leonid whispered on a puff of cigarette breath. “Parents talk much and say little. These ears of mine are bleeding.”
Svetlana nodded. “I would be delighted.”
On the dance floor, Leonid swept her around in something akin to a waltz with a strange beat similar to what a skomorokh, or traveling minstrel, might pluck.
“Enjoying the party?” he asked as they whisked past a waiter carrying bowls of caviar. Where had they found these extravagances? It was nothing short of a return to the world she had known, one that had all but disappeared into a dank basement of merest survival. For one night she wished only to revel in the memory of what once was.
“It’s very exciting.”
“Everything is loud and big with Papochka. Love life is a Sheremetev tradition.”
“I’ve never been to a party quite like this.”
“That is because you are from old Saint Petersburg. Whole city filled with walking corpses.” He pretended to snore. He was right. Her home city was one of grand architecture, watercolors, and stale conversation by aristocrats too busy imagining themselves in a French court. The only life that existed was the vein of gossip pumping to keep society upright. “We Muscovite. Know how to live!” He thumped his chest, which garnered a loud cheer from whirling couples.
A slight pain shivered on her shin. The wound from the shard of glass was healing nicely, but it would be some time before the discomfort vanished completely. “Is this what it’s like every night in Moscow? Music, dancing, drinking, and general merrymaking?”
“Da, though drink first. First, and second, and third, and always at end.” He laughed loudly in his easy manner. “It is rude ending a party before sun rises. Bad host.”
“I imagine the Sheremetevs are magnanimous hosts.”
“Da. It is noble custom to open doors at mealtime. ‘On Sheremetev account’ is considered other name for generosity in Moscow.”
“Careful. You open those doors too wide and any ol’ riffraff can walk in.” Wynn stood at the edge of the dance floor, effortlessly relaxed amid a sea of jostling Russians.
“Doctor! How excellent see you.” Leonid twirled them to a stop, his words bubbling out in broken English. “We think no come.”
“I almost didn’t, but things calmed down enough for me to slip out. I hope you’ll forgive my tardiness.”
“Anything for man save life.”
“In that case, may I steal your partner? If the lady is agreeable, of course.” Though he was dressed identical to many of the gentlemen in the room in black tails and white tie, Wynn’s was tailored to show off broad shoulders and a trim waist. His hair, customarily shoved back with an indifferent hand, was combed and pomaded to the side with one defiant wave passing over his right ear. A dangerously handsome complication, if ever there was one. Why did he not stay away?
Every woman in the nearby vicinity stared at him with more than passing interest. And he watched Svetlana.
“Da, da! Go, go.” Grinning wildly, Leonid stepped back and was immediately swallowed into the crowd of well-wishers.
Wynn held his hand out. “Shall we?”
Svetlana stepped into his arms, placing one hand on his shoulder and slipping her other into his waiting hand. Her hands and arms felt scandalously bare without proper gloves as she touched palm to palm with him. His hands were wide with long fingers that wrapped completely around her own, and his skin felt cool against hers, which had suddenly climbed several degrees.
An accordion vibrated in her ears in a clash with her beating heart.
“I don’t think I know this one.”
“Pardon?” The noise and rush of blood cleared. Svetlana looked around to find them the only couple standing on the floor. All others were moving back to the tables as a troupe of men and women in brightly colored sarafans and kaftans danced out to a pliaska, a traditional peasant dance.
“We better move before they think we want to join their circle.” Still holding her hand, Wynn led her to one of the few empty tables.
Svetlana eased onto the chair he held out for her. “I do know this dance. It’s traditional.”
Wynn pulled his chair close to hers and sat. He smelled of shaving lotion, ironed starch, and faint metal. Like his hospital instruments. “Do all Russian children learn the traditional dances?”
“In villages, I suppose. The aristocracy are taught more courtly dances.” She traced the pattern of the steps with her eyes before the dancers’ feet moved. “I learned for one of our ballets.”
“You’re a ballerina?”
“Yes. Or I was.”
“That would explain your calves.”
Her gaze snapped to his. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your calves. The gastrocnemius muscles are more well-defined than most women’s.” He held her gaze, not the least bit embarrassed at the topic. “Apologies. Anatomy isn’t the talk of polite society outside the surgery. Forget where I am sometimes. And who I’m with. You look beautiful tonight.”
The straightforwardness caught her off balance, but she quickly recovered. If life in a palace had taught her one thing, it was not to be thrown off by charm. Besides, she had a course to maintain.
“The hospital must be desolate without you.”
“Alas, it must survive in my absence. I needed to see for myself why you were so eager to attend tonight.”
Her impulsive hand grab in Leonid’s apartment hadn’t gone unnoticed, as she would have preferred. “I thought it only polite when Leonid wished to express his gratitude.”
“And the enticing Sheremetev name, by chance?” He’d noticed more than she gave him credit for. Denial at this point was her worst option and likely to incur more of his curiosity.
“They are one of the most influential families outside of the Romanovs themselves.”
“I wonder if the Romanovs—they’re your royalty, aren’t they?—carry sidearms to parties.”
“It is war.”
“And yet I find myself woefully unprepared for the battle before me.” A half smile curved his full mouth in the manner of a man who knew precisely what he was about.
The confidence sent a tremor through Svetlana as she met him head-on. Somewhere across the room the balalaika’s strings trembled as the dancers spun in colorful whirls.
“What battle might that be?”
“One of intrigue.” Placing his arms on the table, he leaned forward to catch the candlelight glowing in the center of his eyes. The heart of a flame. “No matter how often I try to dispense myself of it, the allure returns me to the frontline time and again. I’ll be honest. I don’t know if I’m winning or losing.”
Svetlana danced around the flame, refusing to be captured by it. “Perhaps you’ve already lost.”
“Oh, no. It’s just getting started.”
“I should only wage war if the odds are in my favor.”
The smile gained full control of his lips, tilting them up at both ends. “Diminished odds for impossible causes are my weakness.”
“Some call that an honorable pursuit.”
“Honorable? No. A challenge. The greater the challenge, the greater the reward.”
She hiked a disinterested eyebrow that belied the fluttering in her heart. “What reward do you have in mind for this battle of intrigue?”
“I’m still deciding, but it’ll be worth the patience.” His gaze lingered on her, allowing the words to settle deep inside her. Given enough time they might take root. That she could not allow.