Olga sat on the upholstered arm of a sofa in her aunt’s sitting room, her toes just barely brushing the floor for balance. As always seemed to be the case, Aunt Olga had invited more people to this afternoon’s tea party than there were seats in the room: Felix Yusupov was sitting on the floor, a silk cravat hanging loose around his neck; behind the potted palm tree, Dmitri Pavlovich was conversing with Princess Irina Alexandrovna, a rakish grin on his face as he stood a shade too close. Aunt Olga was holding court with a group of soldiers clustered near a table piled high with sweets, her beloved Captain Kulikovsky at her side as the afternoon’s indulgences transitioned from caffeine to alcohol.
“Book title—a book title!” shouted Tatiana. In front of the fireplace, Anya Kleinmichel nodded, then tapped her forearm to denote syllables.
“Seven!” Olga shrieked. Giddy, she overbalanced on the sofa arm and tipped to one side; thankfully the Duke of Leuchtenburg, standing behind her, caught her before she tumbled to the floor.
“Thank you,” she laughed. With the tercentenary celebrations over, Olga was glad to be back in her aunt’s sitting room, grateful for a momentary pause before moving on to Crimea for the summer. A few weeks away from her official duties—bliss, to Olga, who’d shaken more hands and made more small talk during the celebrations than ever before in her life. She’d enjoyed it, the nights out to the theatre with Papa, admiring the women in their gowns—but Mamma’s ill health meant that Olga had been taking on more of the duties of an empress than a grand duchess. And after her time in the limelight, she could better understand her parents’ preference for a peaceful country life.
Not that tonight was particularly peaceful, she thought, watching Anya Kleinmichel grow increasingly agitated as the hourglass on the mantel counted down her turn in grains of sand.
Across the room, Pavel leaned against the back of his chair, balancing a champagne coupe on his knee, watching Anya act out her clue without participating. Despite her misgivings about Pavel’s indiscretions on board the imperial train, now that they were back in her aunt’s home Olga felt that the ebb and flow between them had righted itself. On tour, they had been the grand duchess and the officer; here, they could simply be Olga and Pavel, two guests at a party.
“The Death of Ivan Ilych!” shouted Felix Yusupov, and Anya threw up her arms, her plain face merry with triumph.
Olga clapped along with the rest, then took advantage of the momentary pause in the game, as Tatiana took Anya’s place, to sidle toward the back of the room.
As she’d hoped, Pavel joined her.
“How many syllables,” he said, leaning close enough for his lips to brush her ear, “for a word meaning dull?”
Olga smiled and held out her coupe; Pavel filled it, bubbles roiling.
“Not enjoying the game, then?” she asked.
Pavel shrugged, replacing the bottle in ice. “Charades, sardines... Aren’t you tired of games?” With everyone’s attention fixed on Tatiana, Pavel took Olga’s hand and pulled her out of the sitting room.
“Pavel, they’ll miss us,” Olga whispered as they raced through the ballroom and into the hall, her aunt’s footmen tactfully raising their gaze to the ceiling.
“No, they won’t.” He grinned, pulling her into the alcove of a locked doorway. “Charades will end in five minutes and they’ll move on to catch-me-if-you-can. We’ll all end up in the same wardrobe and laugh and laugh like simpletons when it falls apart.”
“I like catch-me-if-you-can,” Olga replied, stung by the derision in his voice—but then he pressed his lips to hers, sending her mind spinning as she relished the feel of his kiss.
“I’ve missed you,” he murmured, his hands heavy against her shoulders, her arms, her waist. “All those weeks watching you from across the parade grounds...it’s enough to make a man go mad.”
He kissed her again, with such force that her back dug into the molded wall behind her and her desire turned to irritation. She pushed him away, Tatiana’s voice ringing in her head: He’s being terribly obvious.
“Pavel,” she hissed. Was he truly so beholden to his desires? “I want to go back inside. They’ll be moving on to sardines, we don’t want to miss that.”
He stepped back, breathing raggedly. “Is that all I am to you, too?” he said. “A game?”
Olga didn’t answer.
“I don’t understand,” she said finally. “We’re together, aren’t we? We’re here—”
“Together? Is this really how you think couples are when they’re together? Sneaking about at your aunt’s house? Attending the same party, over and over and over? Pretending we don’t know each other when we leave?”
“I hardly think that’s fair,” Olga retorted. She glanced down the hall, wishing Pavel would lower his voice. “We just got back from a tour of the country.”
“A tour where we couldn’t even speak to each other, Olga! How can this be enough for you?” He broke off, his arms loose at his sides. “Is it enough for you? Truly, is it?”
Olga’s heart was beating furiously now, with fear and frustration. She wished she could offer him more—she longed to, more than she’d admitted even to herself. What would her life look like if her title didn’t stand between them? A ring, a promise. Children; a life. She could see it all, there for the taking, in Pavel’s brown eyes.
“It’s all I can offer,” she said finally. “You know that.”
Pavel closed his eyes, the last vestiges of composure stripped away by the look of anguish on his face. “It’s not enough,” he whispered. “Not for me.”
They leaned against opposite sides of the door frame. From within the sitting room, a roar went up as Tatiana’s turn came to an end.
Olga could feel the pinprick of tears behind her eyes; determined not to let them fall, she looked down, wishing she could grasp at the edges of the gulf that was growing between them, pull the threads that had bound them close back together again.
“If you truly feel this way, perhaps we should take some time apart,” she said finally, in a poor attempt to conceal her distress. “To think about—to think about what we want.”
Pavel raked his hand through his hair. “Yes,” he replied, avoiding her eye. “Yes, perhaps we should.”
“Well, we’re both in Crimea for the summer. Maybe we ought to keep our distance. Decide what’s best for each of us,” she said, though she felt sick at the thought of it. Pavel would be on tour with them; he would be there, at dinners and dances; at Aunt Olga’s parties and at official functions. Unavoidable.
She lifted her chin, determined not to let her lip tremble as Pavel nodded once more; down the hall, the door to the sitting room swung open with an echoing bang. “I think that would be for the best, Grand Duchess,” he replied.
Aunt Olga and Tatiana came toward them, Aunt Olga’s black shawl billowing behind her like a sail. “You’re needed back home,” she said, and the expression on Tatiana’s face was enough to make Olga’s heart stop. “It’s Alexei.”