Encore by Monique Raphel High Read Free Book Online Page B

embossed with a calligraphic name: Count Boris Kussov. Was the name familiar? He had scrawled below it: “May these herald full-blooded roses at the peak of their bloom.” Suddenly she felt the presence of someone behind her and turned abruptly to face Lydia Markovna Brailovskaya.
    â€œAll alone, our Sugar Plum?” Lydia asked. “Finished with the encores?”
    â€œDid you like it?” Natalia broke in hastily. “The way I danced her?”
    â€œInfinitely better than I liked Clara,” Lydia said and laughed. “You were adequate, lovey.”
    Natalia said nothing, but the color drained from her face. Lydia’s eyes softened. “You were much more than that, and I think you know it. You were the most spirited Sugar Plum I have ever watched.” Then, quickly looking away, she noticed the roses. “What’s this?” she cried. “Your first admirer?”
    â€œI’m not sure,” Natalia responded hesitatingly. She handed Lydia the bouquet with its card. The other read it carefully, then raised her eyebrows quizzically and gave the flowers back to the young girl.
    â€œThe praises of Boris Vassilievitch are worth a mountain of roses,” she commented wryly. “He is a true balletomane. He follows his favorite dancers to Moscow when they go. They say he organizes claques to applaud his pets, but I don’t believe it. He’s Svetlov’s friend—you know, the ballet critic.”
    â€œDo you know him?” Natalia queried.
    â€œI’ve met him. He’s a magnificent man, yet I’ve never heard his name linked with a woman’s. Perhaps he is discreet. He is much coveted in society. The Kussovs are an old aristocratic family, friends of the court ever since there’s been one in Russia. But none of the Kussov men has ever worked to increase the fortune. Oh, there is a great deal of wealth—but I have heard that Count Vassily, Boris’s father, is becoming worried. He is marrying off his two younger daughters, and Boris spends more money than any man in Petersburg. Soon, he will have to find a wife.”
    â€œBut—why?”
    â€œAh, you are naïve, love,” Lydia said. “For men such as Boris Vassilievitch Kussov, wives mean handsome dowries to recuperate funds lost by marrying off his younger sister. Although I don’t suppose he’ll have much trouble finding a lady to his taste—there are so many who would wish to be selected!”
    Natalia began to laugh. “Well then, let’s wish him luck!” she cried. “And I shall keep his rosebuds, for they have brought me luck, too, haven’t they?”
    In Boris Kussov’s victoria, Pierre Riazhin, his cravat untied, his eyes wild and glowing like a cat’s, was laughing. He had never felt such ecstasy in his twenty-two years of life, and the champagne that had flowed at the Aquarium nightclub had only improved his already ebullient mood. He had consumed it like water, and now his head spun round and round. “The Paris exhibition!” he cried over and over, remembering that Diaghilev had been impressed with his sketches and ideas, and had suggested that Pierre come by his apartment to show him some of his more serious work. He might include Pierre’s work in the art exhibition which he was planning at the Grand Palais in 1906. Pierre could hardly believe his infinite good fortune.
    â€œNaturally, there are no guarantees,” Boris was saying somewhat cruelly. “Serge’s taste—and that of our friends—is very particular.”
    Pierre’s effervescence seemed to subside. He did not understand why his patron was placing a damper on his enthusiasm—he who had arranged this meeting with such apparent care. But Boris said: “Well? Are you going to accompany me to Prince Lvov’s gathering?”
    Pierre shook his head. “I don’t think so, Boris Vassilievitch. I—have work to