“I most certainly would. I wish I could do so morning, noon, and night, but you already know of my miserable failings as a man. I won’t make any sort of advance unless you ask me.” He leaned down, close enough that the tip of his nose brushed against her soft hair, and whispered in her ear. “Ask me.”
She tilted her face toward his, her mouth only an inch from his own. Time felt suspended as she said nothing. He kept his arm braced on the wall above her, but true to his word, he did not touch her. The sound of their breathing was theonly thing that could be heard in the marble emptiness of the hallway.
Then she stepped away. “I need to get back to my family.”
She did not look back as she hurried down the hallway, the gentle swish of her skirts sounding fainter as she departed. His heart thudded in disappointment, but he’d suffered worse. He could be patient.
“Good night, my dearest Natalia,” he whispered after her.
20
After the cramped and rackety sleeping berth on the train, the massive four-poster bed in the Blackstone guest room made Dimitri feel like a visiting potentate. He awoke on his first morning after arriving in New York enveloped in such grandeur that he simply lay flat on his back to savor the opulence. Velvet draperies framed the windows, an Aubusson rug warmed the floor, and crystal teardrops dangled from the chandelier. Each corner of the room featured marble Corinthian columns made to look like they were holding the carved plaster ceiling aloft.
The bedroom was gaudy, but he loved it. No more shivering on a bed of pine needles or wearing boots taken off dead soldiers. No more cedar nuts washed down with hot water for breakfast. He now had silken sheets, running water in the adjoining washroom, and servants to assist him with whatever he needed.
He eventually rose and pulled on a robe, then pressed the call button to summon a servant. He had no idea where or when breakfast would be served, but a footman wearing a cutaway black jacket arrived two minutes later with an invitation to join Mrs. Blackstone in the breakfast room. Dimitri thanked him and offered a five-dollar bill, but the man seemed taken aback and made no move to accept it.
“Is tipping not done here?” Dimitri asked.
The footman was visibly embarrassed. “Sometimes guests leave an envelope on the dressing table after an extended visit, but it is certainly not expected, sir.”
Dimitri slid the bill back into his billfold. “My pardon. I was premature.”
There would surely be other missteps as he adjusted to New York, but his first order of business would be to restock his wardrobe with a complete set of tailor-made clothes. Persuading men of consequence to support him could not be done while wearing ready-made suits purchased off the rack in San Francisco.
Natalia had told him last night that she would be at the bank all day, but he suspected Poppy knew where the best tailors could be found. Now that he had access to his funds, he was eager to begin looking like a gentleman again.
He indulged in a ridiculously long and hot steamy bath, then groomed his beard. He had shaved his beard entirely in San Francisco because of the lice fiasco, but it had grown back over the past week, and he shaped it into a sleek, tightly clipped style. A slick of Macassar oil on the sides of his hair, a dash of cologne, and a quick buffing of his nails with a chamois cloth, and he was ready to face the world.
He headed down a curving marble staircase and navigated through mirrored hallways until he arrived at the blindingly white breakfast room, where a bank of windows overlooked a courtyard garden. The early spring greenery was the only relief from the white walls, white table linens, and white roses. Silver food warmers weighted down a sideboard, where even the candlesticks were white and hard.
This was the setting for his opening battle with Mrs. Poppy Blackstone.
Poppy wore a slim-fitting gown of ice-blue silk embroidered with pearls and crystal. Her golden-blond hair was elegantly styled atop her head, and she brightened when he entered.
“Count Sokolov,” she purred, setting down her teacup. “Did you sleep well?”
Noise from clattering horses’ hooves and the rumble of street trolleys had awakened him repeatedly. He’d never liked cities, and New York was exceptionally rife with all the qualities he found disturbing, but these were trifling things.
“It was the most comfortable night I have enjoyed in more than four years,” he replied truthfully. “You have a lovely home, Mrs. Blackstone.”
“Please, you must call me Poppy.”
A woman of her standing had no business initiating such an intimacy with an aristocrat, but Dimitri didn’t mind. The closer he could bring her under his wing, the better. Poppy was his key to New York society, and he was happy to begin fostering the relationship.
“And you must call me Dimitri,” he said as he surveyed the offerings on the sideboard. Broiled smelts with tartar sauce, curried eggs, baked apples with sweet cream, raspberry tartlets—all of it exquisitely prepared and presented.
“There are so many things I must show you,” she said once he joined her at the table. “We can take a carriage ride in Central Park. The mild weather means we should be able to take the open carriage so you can see the park properly.”
Or so she can show me off, he thought.
“Naturally you will want to see a performance at Carnegie Hall. Perhaps later today we can have tea at the Waldorf. All of society takes tea there after a day of shopping, and I suspect we may see Mrs. Astor herself.”
Ah, Mrs. Astor. Natalia had warned him that Mrs. Astor was the social arbiter of the New York elite and the one remaining battlement Poppy had yet to conquer. Hosting a European aristocrat at her home would surely make inroads with Mrs. Astor’s set.
Unless they learned of his denunciation for cowardice in Russia. He had to move quickly before this house of cards collapsed around him. He would gladly help Poppy with Mrs. Astor, but not until she helped him make inroads of his own.
“Last night you mentioned Senator Lansing is in town and how much you enjoy his wife’s skill at the piano,” he said.
