2

 

“I’m sorry, so very sorry.” The prima danseuse’s voice conveyed contrition, and quite out of character with what Domitri Auberchon had previously observed.

Rubbing his stinging jaw, he glared, not trusting himself to speak.

“I don’t know why I did that. Please forgive me. But you left me face down in the mud.” Irregular grayish smudges marred her creamy cheeks and the tip of her nose.

He was momentarily consumed by the oddest sensation to produce his handkerchief and wipe away the dirt. “No less than what you asked for. I believe you told me to release you.”

“I did, but I had no idea you would do so in so ungentlemanly a manner. I am truly sorry I slapped you, but you have some apologizing to do, as well.”

It took everything within Domitri not to laugh at Olar’s pretty powder puff.

And what else could she be considered, for certainly there was very little of substance contained inside that lovely head covered in glorious chestnut curls.

“If anything, you should thank me for rescuing you from that obnoxious man.”

“I was handling him well enough on my own.”

“Is that why you grabbed my hand and ran when you realized he was following?”

“I merely wanted to hurry back. You were dawdling.”

“Enough!”

The bellow caused Domitri and the American ballerina to cease their argument and look at the count.

The short Monsieur Rubenevski hovered at the count’s side, his face red with anger.

“I do not waste my money on temperamental ballerinas. Charice, you will resume rehearsing and Domitri, you will come with me. Now.”

Domitri noticed with some satisfaction that Charice Marin’s eyes widened, and she shuddered at the count’s bark.

Turning about, she cast off her cloak, revealing a trim and toned dancer’s figure enhanced with soft curves, then rushed out upon the stage while the corp de ballet assembled. Charice took her position; toes pointed, arms curved, and raised her face, meeting his gaze. Something deep in her violet tinted eyes spoke to him, igniting a long dormant spark in the pit of his stomach.

Banishing the sensation, he turned to his former father-in-law.

“So she was where I sent you. I was certain she would run to Matilda. Their bond is strong.”

“Mademoiselle Marin was there, but not alone. An overzealous admirer was pestering her. However, I am glad she is your concern and not mine. She is too spirited for her own good.”

“There was a time when you admired spirit.” Olar Stanislov spoke in French, although the two could have just as easily conversed in Russian or English.

Domitri’s mother was a Russian native, and he’d learned English over a two year period while living in New York City.

“Sophia’s spiritedness was different.” Domitri fought the wave of bitterness that threatened. “Never have two women been more unlike. There is no comparison.”

“Oh, really?” Olar seemed surprised by his reply. “Do not allow Sophia’s untimely death convince you she was perfect. I, her father, knew well her faults. Yet, her charm overshadowed all defects.”

Sophia Stanislovna had been an ethereal dream who vanished far too quickly. If only the accident had claimed him as well, there’d be no emptiness in his heart. As it was, he was forced to endure the memories and a jagged scar that reminded him constantly of his loss. Couldn’t Olar see how his words affected him?

“I’d rather not speak of her.” Domitri replied with a civility he was far from feeling. “You asked me to join you today to assist you. So far all I’ve done is follow a tantrum-throwing, ill-mannered ballerina and been slapped for my efforts. In what way am I to assist?”

“You already have.” The count’s reply confused Domitri.

Pondering the man’s words, his gaze was pulled to the stage where the wayward imp was performing her Act II solo to the familiar strains of Adam’s Giselle.

He’d seen Carlotta Grisi dance the role in the premiere performance four years earlier at the Paris Opera House. But never had he witnessed a more compelling execution.

Lured from Olar’s side, Domitri peered through the part in the curtains, transfixed. Movement surged within him in a way it hadn’t in seven long years. He’d not so much as stepped foot on a stage since Sophia’s death. At that moment, he was overwhelmed by the urge—the need—to join Charice Marin on the stage, bathed in the golden glow of the gas lamps.

Physically gripping the curtain, he drew a deep breath when her Albrecht, a danseur of some renown, joined her for their pas de deux. The music filled him, lifted him; allowed him to remember a happier time.

“You know you should be out there.” Olar’s whispered words drifted over his shoulder. How could Olar even suggest as much?

Domitri had only danced with Sophia—she had been his life and his world for five magical years. Until the train wreck. Blinding pain replaced the music—he was once again holding her in his arms, her body battered and crushed while fire and steam rained down and the few surviving passengers screamed and begged for mercy.

“Non; jamais.” His tone was brusque as he released the curtain. Quickly, he moved from his view of the stage and dropped heavily upon an overturned crate, running his hands over his face. A fierce chill enveloped him.

“I suppose I should tell you the real reason why I asked you to meet me today.” Olar stood before him, hands folded upon the gold wolf’s head topping his cane. A signet ring caught the light of a lantern hanging on the wall and glittered hypnotically. “Sophia would not want to see you like this. You have mourned too long. And you are wasting the magnificent talent God gave you. It is time you rejoined the living, Domitri.”

The count’s words caused him to lower his hands and look up at the man whom he had always respected and admired. It was unusual to find a wealthy man who could have anything he wanted, yet chose to live simply in close communion to the Lord and Savior. Olar’s one and only passion was the ballet.

Sophia had once confided to Domitri that Olar had dreamed of being in the ballet but his parents had quashed any such notion. Perhaps God had given Sophia her love of the ballet so that Olar could watch her attain what he’d been denied.

“I am living.”

“But you’re not dancing.”

“When Sophia died, the dancing died, too.” Domitri was certain the twisted flesh of his scar pulled tighter. He nearly winced.

“Many families lost loved ones in that accident. You were not alone. God spared you for a reason. I believe—”

Whatever it was that Olar believed was never revealed for there was a howl of rage followed by rapid fire Russian that even Domitri had trouble following.

Coming quickly to his feet, he reached the stage before Olar and the theatre crew.

Judging by the wildly flailing arms of Rubenevski and the equally flailing arms of Charice’s male partner, the two glaring at one another, Domitri reasoned they were arguing.

Antoine Valmiere, an athletic danseur prone to bragging and prancing, was not one to make friends, but Domitri had learned to tolerate him. Admittedly, Valmiere could give an amazing performance when he put his mind to it, but those occasions were rare.

Olar had confided on their drive to the theatre that Valmiere was not the first choice, but the desired danseur, Aleksei Ullavich, had a commitment to the Imperial Ballet in St. Petersburg.

Domitri swallowed a chuckle when Valmiere marched off the stage, and then leapt theatrically into the orchestra pit.

“Break your leg and your neck,” Rubenevski bellowed in Russian at Valmiere’s departing back. “See if it matters to me.” Turning to Charice and the others in the company, he shook his shaggy gray head, his longish beard quaking with his uncontained rage. “Too many distractions—first you, Charice, and then Valmiere. I will not tolerate this.”

“Need I remind you I pay you to ‘tolerate’ this sort of thing?” Olar spoke in Russian as he walked up to the agitated man.

“There is nothing you can do to me to make me accept such behavior. Hire another ballet master. I can walk two blocks over and be taken on just like that.” Rubenevski snapped his fingers in emphasis of his words.

“Monsieur Rubenevski, you are free to seek employment elsewhere. The Paris Opera will undoubtedly find a use for your abilities. So, if that is your wish, please take your leave, so that my ballet company can practice.”

Domitri glanced at Charice, whose lovely face displayed bewilderment and guilt. She stepped forward, drawing all eyes. Even her walk was graceful and controlled. Who could ignore such beauty?

“I fear I am to blame.”

Dimitri marveled at her flawless French, rare for an American.

“My emotions ruled my head earlier, and now everyone is upset. Monsieur Rubenevski, please let us practice. We all want to do well and make you and Monsieur Phillipe and Count Stanislov proud. Please give us another chance.”

“How can you practice when you have no partner?” Rubenevski demanded.

“I can dance with her,” spilled from Domitri’s lips before he realized what he’d said. He was now the center of attention.

Rubenevski’s look was incredulous, Olar’s expression one of smug delight, and Charice’s one of horror. The look on her face made him want to laugh.

Unbeknownst to anyone, including Olar, he’d given lessons for the past two years, using the huge basement level in his Paris townhouse as a studio.

And when no one was around and Muzette, his housekeeper and cook, did the marketing, he danced to the music that had never left his soul. Being here today had brought it all back. Perhaps it was God’s will that he dance again even though he’d vowed not to after losing Sophia. He’d found contentment as an instructor at the Academie de Paris, teaching Russian and English. Yet, something deep inside urged him to dance.

“That’s preposterous,” Charice exploded. “If this is some sort of cruel jest, you are truly in need of help. What makes you think you can dance?”

“Allow me to properly introduce my son-in-law, Domitri Auberchon.”

Charice’s mouth snapped shut, and Domitri saw her convulsive swallow. It appeared she had at least heard of him, although when he and Sophia had danced on the Paris stage, Charice would have been but a child.

“You were Sophia’s husband,” she spoke slowly and softly. “Of course—I should have known. I saw you and Sophia dance in New York on my twelfth birthday. It was a marvelous performance. Do you recall that night, Count Stanislov? That was the night we met for the first time.”

“Yes, I remember that night well, my kitten,” the count said, and smiled at Charice affectionately. It was obvious to Domitri that Olar was fond of Charice—but whether as a father or something more, Domitri couldn’t guess.

But Charice would never replace Sophia in Olar’s heart. Sophia had been the man’s flesh and blood child.

“Shall we start?” Domitri’s tone was intentionally impatient as he shrugged out of his overcoat and shed his jacket. He disliked all the attention his suggestion had created and sincerely wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

“But how can you do this?” Monsieur Phillipe demanded, his curled mustache quivering in outrage.

How fortunate he’d finally decided to join what was becoming a circus, Domitri thought ironically.

“Mademoiselle Marin could not possibly dance with you—you have not danced in years, and you are much too large to partner with her.”

“Henri,” Olar spoke up, “Domitri is only filling in. He is not taking Valmiere’s place. Rubenevski wants a full rehearsal. Here is a way to have it.”

“He is right,” Rubenevski declared. Even though the Russian could roar worse than a bear, Domitri knew the man was exceptional. He had been the ballet master of his mother’s company when she had been the prima danseuse of the Imperial Ballet.

That was before her marriage and his birth. Now she was content to teach ballet to little children, make her colorful quilts, and sit before the fire with his father. How different their lives were when compared to the whirlwind days of their youth.

“We will begin now.”

“But…” Charice began.

She was completely ignored as Rubenevski clapped his hands and urged everyone into their places in Russian.

Domitri watched her shoulders raise and lower as she released a deep sigh, and then obediently took her place, vaguely aware that Rubenevski was reciting his steps.

Walking several paces away from where she stood, Domitri drew himself up and sucked in a deep breath to cover his nervousness. For all his outward bravado, he was suddenly scared to death. What if he messed up dreadfully or even, worse, dropped Charice? What was left of his career could be quickly destroyed over the next few minutes. Lord, I have once more jumped into something without asking for Your direction and guidance. Please help me not to look completely ridiculous.

The orchestra tuned up, and Domitri broke into a sweat.

Then the music began and the dancers commenced their steps.

Suddenly, Domitri was swept away into a world he’d thought lost to him forever.

 

****

 

Charie tamped down outrage just in time for her to take the first steps toward Domitri Auberchon.

The nerve of the man to think he could simply waltz in and partner her. The next time she saw Antoine she planned to tell him exactly what she thought of arrogant danseurs.

But when her gaze met Domitri’s, she forgot her anger, plunged into emerald green pools that shook her to her soul. How could a man be so handsome and so infuriating all at once, she silently demanded, as she raised her arm and he took her hand.

His touch sent delicious shivers racing through her, and for a moment, she forgot where she was and why she was standing on a stage. Then her gaze fastened on his again, and her feet began to move of their own accord, as though unseen angels swept her along. She glided effortlessly with Domitri, who was amazingly competent for someone who’d been away from the ballet for so many years.

They flowed easily through the pas de deux of Act II, and after the execution of the sissonnes, Domitri lifted her. It was as though she weighed no more than a feather pillow.

When her toes again touched the stage, they moved in sync and in such harmony, Charie felt as though they had danced together forever. She’d never felt this with any of her partners. Tears gathered in her eyes as the notes of the music died away, her face now cupped by Domitri in his role of Albrecht.

For the first time in her life, she was caught up in the beauty of the music and the movement, unable to separate the two.

Who was this Domitri Auberchon and how had he so turned her world upside down?

His eyes were haunted and melancholy, almost as though she had turned into the wili that she portrayed in the ballet. Something made her want to stroke his cheek and assure him she wasn’t a ghost—that she was very much alive.

A slight smile touched his lips as he placed a fingertip on Charie’s mud—smudged nose.

She started to speak when startling applause erupted all about them. Pulling away, flustered and embarrassed, Charie slowly turned to see Rubenevski wiping tears from his eyes, Phillipe clapping the count on the back, and the company hopping about excitedly.

Domitri was motionless.

“Brilliante!” Phillipe declared. “Magnifique! I have not seen such magic since I witnessed the premier performance of Giselle with Grisi and Petipa. The ballottés were marvelous. Rubenevski, you will tell Valmiere not to return. Ever. Count Stanislov, we must talk. Come with me.”

“There will be no talking,” Domitri interjected tersely. “I was merely accommodating Mademoiselle Marin. There will not be a repeat performance.”

Voices exploded all around as Phillipe bellowed in French and Rubenevski raged in Russian.

To her amazement, the count took hold of her arm and Domitri’s and ushered them off the stage and away from the brewing ferment. He shoved them into a small dressing room, slammed the door and braced it with a chair so that no one could enter. Stanislov turned about to face them, arms folded across his chest, his look determined, his jaw steely and inflexible.

Glancing at Domitri, Charie noticed that his expression was very similar, the scar more pronounced at the moment.

Shivering, she wrapped her arms about her, though the temperature of the small, cramped space did not cause her discomfort. Dear God in Heaven, something is about to happen, and it frightens me. Please bring me through this. I have always liked and admired the count, and he has been good to me. I can’t imagine that he would want to do something that would hurt me. But this Domitri Auberchon—I don’t know what to make of him. Help me, Father. Please help me.

“Domitri, you and I both know that Valmiere is not the one to dance this role. The only way that Charice will dance to her fullest potential is if she is partnered with someone of equal skill. You could be that partner.”

“But I will not be. I told you I would never dance on stage again. I cannot.”

“What you mean is that you will not. You cannot simply fade away because you lost your wife. She was my daughter, and not a day passes that I do not mourn her, but she would want me to live—to move forward. And Sophia wants the same for you. This is your chance, Domitri.”

“I do not appreciate your underhanded way. This is beneath you, Stanislov. I have never known you to be anything less than straightforward and candid. Why?”

“Why?” the count repeated, and then laughed sadly. “How else would I have gotten you on that stage so that you could see how much you still love the ballet?”

“Don’t I have some say in this?” Charie demanded, and then realized how petulant she sounded. Even so, she continued. “In no way am I partial to Antoine Valmiere, but to consider dancing with this—” here she paused as she searched for a suitable description of the man who had become both a tormentor and rescuer over the course of a few hours. “—very tall man, I must protest.”

“Did you not feel it, Charice?” the count asked excitedly as he met her gaze. She couldn’t tell him before Auberchon that she’d never felt so wonderful.

“The sheer beauty of your movements—like a picture of Heaven. I saw something within you as you danced that I have never seen before. I am asking you to trust me, Charice.”

“I would like to pray about it,” she insisted, though the fight whooshed from her leaving her weak-kneed.

Domitri possessed a commanding, fluid gracefulness that was manly, yet yielding.

Partnering with Valmiere was like dancing with a strutting peacock who wanted to make sure everyone saw him preen.

“I will think on this tonight.”

“Good,” Stanislov declared. “And you, Domitri? What say you on the matter?”

“I, too, must pray,” he replied brusquely.

Charie arched a brow questioningly.

“Yes, I do pray,” Domitri retorted as he fastened his angry glare upon her.

It seemed to her that the last thing he wanted to do was partner her. Why should he bother to pray?

“May we leave?” he asked.

To her surprise, the count chuckled.

“Certainly.” Stepping aside, he allowed Domitri to pass.

Taking up the chair, Domitri hurled it across the room, and then threw open the door, a multitude of faces and bodies huddled just beyond. Domitri snorted in disgust, and then plowed a path.

Phillipe and Rubenevski rushed the count.

“What did he say? What did she say?”

“They have to pray about the matter.” Those were the count’s final words as he moved past the curiosity seekers.

 

****

 

As Lizbet fussed with her disobedient curls before the mirror of her alabaster vanity, Charie learned that Markham Fitzhugh was dining with them that evening.

Fitz, Matilda’s shortened version of her agent-manager’s name, was a welcome guest in the Marins’ Paris home and frequently dined with them.

But when Lizbet let slip that the second dinner guest was to be Baron Bauerhausen, annoyance brought Charie to her feet. Drawing a deep breath, she raced from her bedchamber, leaving Lizbet standing open-mouthed before her vanity.

“Maman, how could you?” Charie demanded as she burst into her mother’s room directly across the hall.

Matilda, also seated at her vanity, quickly turned. “How could I what, dear?”

“Invite that odious, obnoxious man to our home. You know I dislike him.”

“He’s here to discuss a new play for me. The baron wishes to provide financial backing if I agree to perform in Frankfurt. I’ve always wanted to visit.”

“But you don’t speak the language. He’s doing this to irritate me.”

“I doubt he would dine with us simply to irritate you. It’s been nearly a year since you refused his suit.”

Charie clenched her fists at her sides, taking deep breaths to keep from shouting at her mother, who had turned back to the mirror of her vanity, lightly dabbing a bit of color on her cheeks.

“You’re not the one he was ‘showering’ with affection. I thought I would never discourage him, and now you bring him here? Perhaps you’ve developed a fondness for him.”

That brought Matilda back around, her brows lowered in a rare show of anger.

Charie realized she’d gone too far.

“You know very well that’s untrue. I have no feelings for the baron beyond that of a possible business relationship. He is much too young for me. Charie, I ask that you be polite this evening. The baron is here on business and business only. I’m sure he regrets his silly behavior. You must be flattered that he was so smitten.”

“I’m not. Had the count not intervened, the man would still be hounding me.”

“Ah, yes, the count. Your knight in shining armor.” Her mother’s tone held a trace of rancor. “He always comes to your rescue.”

“It’s his sense of responsibility. Today, after I left the theatre, he sent someone after me because he was worried. And with good reason. Did I tell you that short, heavy man waiting outside your dressing room wanted to talk to me about my father?”

“Your father?” Matilda’s face paled to the point Charie feared she would faint.

Should she call for Lizbet?

“I thought you said the man represented an individual from New York who is interested in becoming patron of the ballet.”

“I forgot to tell you the part about my father.” It’s a wonder I can think straight after everything that’s happened today. “The man insisted on speaking to me and my father. What an odd request.”

“It is.” Matilda quickly turned back to her mirror and attempted to rearrange a curl that coiled perfectly.

Charie sensed her mother wasn’t being completely honest. Details of her father had always been inadequate, at best. “Could you contact him—my father—and see if he knows the identity of this potential patron? Does he still live in New York?”

“No.” Her mother’s tone was uncharacteristically sharp. “I won’t be contacting him—not for any reason. He isn’t in New York.”

“I see.”

Her mother’s vehemence was unsettling.

“But dinner with the baron—” Charie hesitated.

“Will go smoothly if you keep your comments to yourself. There’s nothing to fear. If I detect inappropriate behavior on the baron’s part, I will ask him to leave.”

Nodding, Charie left her mother’s room, though she paused once she was back in the hall. Perhaps she could obtain the whereabouts of her father from someone else and write to him about her strange encounter. She had no desire to establish a relationship with the man; she just needed a few answers.

Fitz might be able to help her—she’d corner him before the evening was over.

 

****

 

Her mother proved to be right, and the baron, who had sent Charie roses daily for six months the year before, seemed to have focused his attention elsewhere.

Blond, tall, and dashing, he exuded a confidence that easily turned a female’s head, but not Charie’s. When he’d decided to woo Charie after witnessing her performance in Marionette, nothing Charie could do or say would dissuade him from his pursuit.

Charie finally confessed her dilemma to Count Stanislov, and the baron’s amorous overtures ceased. A tremendous relief, for the man was overly fond of wine and too suave to be trusted.

Now as she sipped water from her goblet, she watched him, deep in discussion with Fitz, and found herself unintentionally comparing him to Domitri Auberchon. Both men were tall and handsome; Domitri’s appearance somewhat flawed by the prominent scar. But Domitri had the athletic, danseur’s build. There was no forgetting how effortlessly he’d lifted her when they’d danced.

Unexpected warmth slid through her as she recalled the brief minutes he’d held her while performing the pas de deux.

Is anything wrong, dear? her mother mouthed silently to her from her place at the head of the elegantly appointed table resplendent with crystal and gold-rimmed china.

Charie shook her head and smiled reassuringly.

It was then the baron addressed her. “I can hardly wait for your opening night, liebchen. I’ve heard wonderful things about this ballet. You are certain to outshine Grisi.”

“I only hope to give my best. My desire is that my love of the ballet will show through to the audience. There’s no expectation that I’ll surpass Grisi’s performance.”

“Which you won’t if Valmiere is not replaced,” Fitz pointed out as he stabbed his veal with intensity.

Charie shifted her gaze to the charming, slender Englishman.

His gift of negotiation had secured her mother many a successful contract over the course of her acting career.

Fastidious in appearance and in business, Fitz never left a detail to chance, and the graying man of indeterminate middle age took pride in his accomplishments. “Several sources say he made a spectacle of himself today.”

“As did I.” Charie glanced down at her plate, her meal hardly touched. She was embarrassed by her earlier behavior. Would she ever put that behind her? Had she behaved herself, Antoine would never have stormed out, and she would never have danced with Domitri. More importantly, she wouldn’t be sitting here thinking about him and how strong his arms were. “This seemed to be the day for fits of temper.”

“But I also heard Olar found a replacement. He actually convinced his son-in-law to dance with you during rehearsal.”

Her mother gasped, her fork clattering to her plate.

All eyes turned to Matilda.

“You said nothing of this,” Maman accused, locking gazes with Charie.

Charie squirmed.

“You danced with Domitri Auberchon?”

“He replaced Antoine. That’s all—just so Monsieur Rubenevski would cease fuming. We managed to finish rehearsal. Do you know Monsieur Auberchon?”

“I know of him.”

Once more, Charie sensed her mother wasn’t telling all.

Matilda had lowered her eyes, pushing food about on her plate. Mention of this man disturbed her.

“I, too, know of him,” Bauerhausen said. “I have seen him dance with his late wife, your Count Stanislov’s daughter, Sophia.”

“I only saw her perform once, but I’ve never forgotten how wonderful she was,” Charie said.

“Indeed,” the baron agreed. “Sophia was like a forest sprite floating across the stage. They were very good together—she and Auberchon. Sophia Stanislovna was killed in a train wreck outside of London, and Auberchon was badly injured. Rumor was he swore he’d never dance on the stage again after losing Sophia. You, liebchen, must have convinced him otherwise.”

“I convinced him of nothing. He volunteered to help out when he saw Antoine leave.” Her words tumbled out much too vehemently, and her mother frowned.

“Amazing,” Bauerhausen replied, his eyes conveying the fact he found the situation anything but. He always wore a smirk.

At the moment, Charie had no tolerance for his attitude. “Domitri Auberchon was merely appeasing the count, who’d wearied of Rubenevski’s whining.”

“Why don’t we have dessert?” Matilda suggested, skillfully redirecting the conversation. “Amalie,” she said, and then rang the bell by her plate. “Amalie, dessert please.”

As Madame Jeaneau came towards the table bearing a silver tray, Charie noticed the pallor of her mother’s face and the gleam of speculation in Bauerhausen’s eyes.

Charie knew before the night was through she would have a private word with Fitz.