Page 8 of Tiger's Tale
“It is.”
Andrey took her hand and tucked it around his arm. The pair began to stroll about the room, and as they did, she relaxed. Though she was at least a foot shorter than him, her stride was purposeful and strong. She didn’t flounce about to preen for others or show off the sway of her full hips or the swish of her skirts. He liked that she kept pace with him and was solely focused on the conversation.
As they turned around the ballroom, she launched into a barrage of questions regarding everything from his stances on the newly passed laws governing the lands to the east, to farming, to how he managed the recruitment of new soldiers from groups of orphaned children, to suggesting visiting dignitaries he should keep a watchful eye on.
Andrey answered each query as succinctly as possible, amazed and sometimes even embarrassed that he or his advisors hadn’t considered some of the items she already had.
Then, out of nowhere, she added, “I should like to see your gardens, if at all possible.”
Almost grateful for the change in subject, he replied, “Of course. My gardens are at your disposal at any time.”
Her eyes dropped from his then, and she clasped her hands in front of her, not in a nervous way, but in a way that spoke to him of steadiness and surety. “May I be candid?” she asked quietly.
“Yes,” he replied, taking a step closer, wishing the two of them were alone and not currently being stared at and whispered about by everyone in the lavishly appointed ballroom.
“I believe a garden shows the heart of a man. That and how he cares for his uniform. If I am to marry you, I first desire to judge your character. I’ve determined that your uniform is well cared for; therefore I’d like to move on to the garden. My apologies if I’ve offended you, and if you aren’t interested in me in that way, you are free to move on to the next young lady. I just loathe wasting time, and I can’t imagine a tsar such as yourself would appreciate his time being wasted either.”
Andrey blinked not once but twice before he replied, but when he did, a genuine smile lit his face. Mila had thought her blunt comments about marriage, the garden and the uniform, and her barrage of questions would irritate him at the least, but when he smiled, and she saw the mask lift from his face and warmth light his eyes, her heart actually skipped. For the first time in her life, Mila’s breath caught, and she chided herself for being distracted by the tsar’s handsome face and silky demeanor. Apparently, she was as easily charmed by him as everyone else, and she didn’t like it. Not one bit.
“My dear Miss Dalle, I appreciate your candor. However, I find fault with your judging criteria. Though I, too, favor a well-pressed uniform, I must ask you how you can assume one such as I, as important as I am, cares for his own uniform? Surely you would prefer to wed my dresser or perhaps my launderer rather than myself if that is your criteria. As to my gardens, the same principle applies. A man such as I would not have time to work in a garden or care for it. So how would you judge me worthy?”
“I know you care for your uniform yourself,” she began, slightly distracted by the hard muscles beneath her palm. The very uniform she was speaking about suddenly became a very tangible, weighty thing.
“Indeed?” he prompted, retreating into old tricks to say as little as possible so as to get her to talk of herself and spill her secrets.
Indeed?Indeed?Her tongue felt thick. Her skin hot. The brush of skirts hit her legs, and her pulse sounded in her ears. Was she ill? What was happening to her?
When she didn’t immediately chime in, Andrey became frustrated. He wanted to see her face. His body began to hum in anticipation, like it did the night before a battle. This was a game unlike any he had played before. He felt almost as if he didn’t understand the rules. Before he could stop himself, he pled, “Tell me: How do you know this?”
She glanced up at him with a distracted expression. Was she not even paying attention? What was going on in that mind?
“Oh. About your uniform?” she asked.
Andrey nodded, encouraging her to talk.
Mila shook her head as if to clear it. “That was easy. The soldiers guarding you care for their own uniforms. Each one of them is mussed in a slightly different way. Not enough polish on one pair of boots or a torn sleeve or collar here or there. Perhaps a button is missing on one or a thread is dangling from a hem. Your personal guards’ uniforms are all cared for by the same man. He is very good but not as good as you. The lint is brushed away, the fabric is pressed, the buckles are gleaming, and the boots are evenly polished.”
That was better. When Mila focused on details, her thoughts cleared. Her skin was still warm, however. Perhaps some cold air would help.
They reached the end of the ballroom, and Andrey led her around the edge and toward a door that led to a balcony overlooking the estate. “Go on,” he said.
“Though each man, I assume, dresses himself, accounting for the slight differences in insignia placement, the skew or bend of a hat, the laces of a boot, or the wear of a belt, your uniform shows that someone has blackened and carefully polished your boots to a high gloss. I suspect that the blackening is of a different type than that used on the boots of the others. Either that or there might be something added to it such as extra beeswax or lanolin or perhaps you simply allowed the polish to dry longer or took more care in the buffing. Regardless, I can see that you have also meticulously cared for the exposed side indentations. This is something not found on any of the other pairs of boots.
“Then there are the buttons. They have been polished, yes, but the carved details have also been meticulously cleaned with a tiny tool. This also was not done on the other uniforms.”
Andrey didn’t realize he’d stopped walking. When he saw that she simply clasped her hands behind her back, shrugged, and continued on to the balcony doors without him, he hurried to catch up, desperate to hear more details of how her incredible mind worked.
“Please forgive me,” he said, taking her hand and tucking it under his arm again as they proceeded to the doors that were immediately opened by guards. The crisp, cold night air of St. Rostislav swirled around them, promising a dusting of snow by morning, but where other women would have called for furs or used the weather as an excuse to paw at him, Mila inhaled deeply and seemed to derive strength from the brisk breeze.
For the first time, Andrey found he desired to draw a woman closer simply because he wanted to, because he liked her, because she interested him. At the same time, he wanted to relish every single moment and discovery of her. He began studying her, truly seeing her then, considering her as a serious match.
There was no advantage for him politically. But she was clever, strong, and capable. He shrugged off such thoughts. There was plenty of time to think about her later. Right now he wanted to hear more. Learn everything he could.
Mila thought the cool night air would help with whatever was ailing her, but if anything she felt the heat of the tsar’s body behind her even more intensely. She trembled, but not with cold. He wasn’t responding to her like any man before her had or like she had expected.
“Will you continue?” he asked softly as they stood at the balcony, side by side.
His voice was quiet. Smooth. Silky. As warm as a fur-lined cloak. At once she wanted to hear that voice murmur in her ear and have it wrap around her on a cold winter night.
