The Tsarina's Legacy by Jennifer Laam

Author:Jennifer Laam
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781466877344
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Eleven

POTEMKIN’S PALACE

MARCH 1791

Mornings were difficult under the best of circumstances, when his mind played its queer tricks. Perhaps the soul desired to remain forever wrapped in pleasant dreams.

Grisha shielded his eye from the muted light streaming in through the high windows of the master bedroom. All of his muscles were spent. He had hoped to rest his hand on the softness of a feminine hip, or perhaps in a nest of sweet-smelling hair. He lifted himself, wincing at the pain in his shoulders. The silken sheets and pillowcases were still damp. The sable was gone, the fire in the hearth extinguished. He pulled the blankets tighter.

Praskovia had snuck out in the middle of the night. Some women were like men in that respect, good for a quick cuddle but then they disappeared, afraid of opening their carefully guarded hearts. But Praskovia had stayed through the night always; he often awoke to pry her lovely arms from his neck for fear of suffocation. Endless tears spilled as she spoke of the differences between Grisha and her husband, how he made her feel so much better about herself.

He wasn’t interested in someone who loved him for how he made her feel. He wanted someone who loved him for his soul.

Grisha grabbed a lavender sachet from the basket stored near his bed and draped the linen over his eye. His thoughts raced so quickly they pained him. With Praskovia gone so soon, in a manner so unlike her, she must have had more in mind last night than simple sensual release. Grisha ran his hands through his hair, perspiration beading on his forehead. Perhaps pleasure remained part of the equation, but Praskovia had a keen and quietly ambitious mind. She had wanted something.

When he first returned to St. Petersburg, he had hoped to once again warm Catherine’s bed. Now that seemed a faraway dream. He was old, broken, and Catherine was done with him in that way. She saw him only as an aging friend in need of small physical comforts. For all he knew, Catherine had sent Praskovia to him.

Grisha could not summon the name of one person who still loved him for who he was and not what he could do for them. How agreeable it must feel, to be loved for oneself and not for what one might offer to others, to have a family of one’s own. But it seemed it was a happiness not meant for him.

He tugged on the top layer of bedding, a quilt Catherine had embroidered for him, with a makeshift design of curving arabesques in honor of his victories in the south. She had found the pattern during her tour of New Russia, in one of the old Islamic cities where they sat still to listen to the long musical call to prayer.

An image of Catherine astride her stallion flashed. Her shining eyes met his before she tied the gold tassel to the hilt of her sword. He had remembered that day when he read her letters insisting he take Ochakov.

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