‘I don’t know who I am supposed to be. A princess? An exile? Someone else entirely?’ The desperation in her eyes drew him.
Against his better judgement, he set aside his glass and went to her at the fire, his hands firm at her forearms, his body close, his voice husky from the lateness of the hour. ‘Think of your situation as a blessing. Many people would envy you that choice. You have a chance to remake your life, to remake yourself. You can be whoever you want to be, no history, no backstory, no chains to your past. That can be a gift, Dasha. I will help you find a new name, a new life if you want.’ Being this close to her was wreaking all kinds of sensual havoc on his body. He was doing this for encouragement’s sake, or so he told himself. But his body had other ideas—all of them bad.
Ruslan licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry, his mind aware of the details of her. She smelled of sweet summer roses, she was warm and naked beneath the nightclothes. All the ingredients for a disaster were there: the late night, the long day, a beautiful woman in distress looking at him with emerald eyes that begged for resolution and relief, comfort and companionship. She must have sensed it, too. He felt her body move into his. It was the smallest of movements, but it was enough to warn him, her lips parted in slight but unmistakable invitation.
His reflexes were faster. He placed a chaste kiss on her forehead. ‘You’ve had a trying day, Your Highness.’ He was giving her absolution, an excuse to fall back on when she awoke in the morning and realised what she’d done, what she’d asked for. Given the circumstances, it was entirely understandable. She was confused and alone. She would seek comfort where she could. He had no such convenient excuses. He had to resist the temptation on behalf of them both. Ruslan stepped away from her. ‘Best get some sleep, Princess, lessons start tomorrow.’
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
