Written on the Wind (The Blackstone Legacy #2)(86)

“Yes,” he admitted. “I am enchanted with my life here. Sadly for Baron Freedericksz, I also remain committed to forcing a public reaffirmation of the Treaty of Aigun from the czar, and I have a plan to force his hand.”

He passed an old, battered volume filled with dry government reports to Felix. “I’ve always found that shining sunlight on inconvenient facts is the best ammunition,” he said, and quickly conveyed his scheme to Felix. After a few hours fleshing out the details, he sent Felix to Saint Petersburg to continue gathering research.

Then Dimitri joined his guests. It was the fifth day of his mother’s weeklong house party for their friends from the valley. The days were filled with card games, charades, and long hikes in the woods. They sang songs around the piano late into the evening. Tonight they planned a bonfire out back, and the local schoolmaster would recite a theatrical reading.

Dimitri loved the languid pace of life in the countryside. A few of the men had gone fishing, but most relaxed after a full luncheon in the gathering room. Dimitri settled into the corner table with a cup of tea. From here he could watch Olga by the fireplace as she chatted with his mother, because any man with a pulse found it easy to admire Olga Zaripova.

She no longer wore mourning clothes. Olga’s dark emerald gown looked spectacular against her blond hair, which was perfectly styled, as always. Olga was Count Ulyanov’s daughter, a good man who loved the valley as much as Dimitri did. They’d both been disappointed when the marriage was called off, but perhaps it was for the best. Olga had always preferred the city.

Count Ulyanov beckoned Dimitri over to join a game of dominoes with his wife and the young man who worked as the village tutor. While the tutor distributed the dominoes, Count Ulyanov used the break to retrieve a flask from his breast pocket and pour a splash of amber liquid into a tumbler.

“Applejack?” he offered. Dimitri declined with a slight shake of his head, but Count Ulyanov pressed. “Are you sure? It’s the best in the valley. I paid ten rubles for it.”

“Is it from Ilya Komarov?” the tutor asked.

“Indeed it is,” the count affirmed, and the tutor eagerly proffered his own glass.

“Then you were cheated,” the tutor said. “He only charged me four rubles, and I hear he sells it to the farmers for as low as two.”

“I told you that man wasn’t trustworthy,” Dimitri’s mother called from the other side of the room.

The tutor shrugged. “It seems like good business to me.”

“But he’s making it at our mill,” his mother sputtered.

“He’s only pressing the cider here,” Dimitri said. “The work of growing the apples and fermenting them happens on his own property.”

Why was he defending Ilya Komarov? The man was a surly hothead who never had a kind word for anyone. He hadn’t even thanked Dimitri for the barrels, just walked away as though they were his due.

The dominoes were forgotten as a good-natured debate ensued about whether it was dishonest for Ilya to charge people different prices for the same applejack.

Olga approached, a hint of amusement in her eyes. Dimitri had never realized back when they were children prowling the woods together how lovely she would someday become. Now, with her elegant figure and white-blond hair, she looked like an ice princess . . . but a warm and friendly ice princess.

“When are you coming to Moscow?” she coaxed. “Princess Maria has begged me for an introduction to you. She says heroes are too rare in the world today, and she wants to hold a feast in your honor.”

Heat gathered in Dimitri’s face. It still felt odd to be considered a hero. No man who quaked in terror the way he had in the Siberian forest could claim hero status, and those anxieties were starting to take root again as he contemplated his coming battle with Baron Freedericksz.

“You know I don’t care for Moscow,” he said. “Too big. Too crowded.”

“The princess lives in a palace surrounded by three hundred acres. You won’t feel crowded. I can introduce you to the princess, and then we can dine on caviar and champagne.” Olga settled on the arm of his chair. She lowered her voice as she leaned down to whisper in his ear. “Then we can run out into her garden and search for frogs.”

“You remember that, do you?” He smiled up into her eyes. She was so close that her lemony scent surrounded him.

She touched the back of his hand, her fingers soft as eiderdown. “Of course I remember.”

The spot where her fingers touched tingled. It was only Friday, and they had a long weekend ahead of them. He needed to change the subject from thoughts of running into a moonlit garden with her.

“When am I going to hear you play the piano?” he asked. “My mother says your rendition of Chopin could make angels weep.”

Olga squeezed his hand. “But will it make you weep, Dima?”

No one besides Olga called him Dima anymore, but his childhood nickname felt right on her lips.

“We won’t know until you play,” he said, wondering if it was wrong to flirt with Olga when his heart still belonged to Natalia.

Either way, he needed to escape from her. It was suffocating in here. He stood, causing Olga to shift off the armchair.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I promised Pavel I would help at the mill this afternoon.”

He gave a perfunctory bow to Olga, who looked stunned as he left, but he needed to get away. The prospect of working at the mill with Pavel suddenly seemed more appealing than another game of dominoes. Wasn’t that odd? There was a time when he loved every moment of these long house parties from start to finish, but that was before he started work on the Trans-Siberian. Things were different now. Around-the-clock leisure no longer held quite the same allure.