Chapter 14 #2
The steward didn’t recognize Anastasia. He seemed frazzled, beckoning them forward and eagerly asking for their names.
Anastasia smiled sweetly, rattling off her full name, her title included.
Mikhail took a small pleasure in watching the steward’s face balk.
He started stuttering, afraid to say her name aloud, afraid the tsar had not sanctioned this appearance.
Anastasia leveled him with one look, cocking her brow in such a subtle but powerful way that she dared him to go against her.
Mikhail’s heart warmed at the sight of her, pushing past her nerves and demanding respect from the people of the Winter Palace.
The steward cleared his throat, his voice echoing off the corners of the ballroom like church bells.
“Presenting the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova, and her royal tutor, Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin.”
Nearly eight hundred guests and servants stopped in their tracks.
An awkward, screeching note cut through the air as the musicians ceased playing, their bows dragging across the strings.
More than one dish dropped in surprise, shattering on the floor and filling the air with the sound of tinkling glass, before total silence descended over the ballroom.
The band faltered, but they were the first to resume their composure. As the music started again, masks flew off, and people jostled closer to the grand staircase. Everyone wanted to get the first look at the mysterious grand duchess.
Through the chaos, Anastasia and Mikhail were searching for only two faces: the tsar and tsarina.
Anastasia’s nerves climbed higher when she caught her father’s eye, who looked ready to put a bullet through them both.
In contrast, the tsarina’s shocked expression quickly faded to one of annoyance as she recognized Anastasia’s dress.
The noise in the ballroom slowly started to pick up again. Mikhail could feel Anastasia move closer to him. As suddenly as the party stopped, it resumed, the cacophony reaching a fever pitch, now fueled with gossip around the duchess.
Anastasia released a controlled, sharp breath. They descended the grand staircase slowly, with as much decorum as they could muster, immediately accosted by guests coveting the grand duchess’s attention.
Although she had spent the last fifteen years secluded from court, the tsar and her tutors insisted she keep up with a semblance of understanding of the court’s inner workings.
She was frequently quizzed on the who’s who of St. Petersburg; never meeting them in person but studying each person’s motive and standing in court.
The tsar always imagined Anastasia returning to court someday, once he controlled her magic, and he wanted her to be ready for that day.
That day had finally come, and it looked nothing like the way the tsar had imagined.
Anastasia wasted no time. She ignored the ladies flocking to her, fawning over her dress, and began addressing the lords and boyars in attendance. Mikhail was quickly separated from Anastasia in the crowd as her royal training kicked in, flattering each person of the court as they approached her.
Mikhail watched her, unable to take his eyes off her.
In the middle of the Winter Palace’s opulent ballroom, surrounded by wealth and beautiful objects, the only thing he stared at was Anastasia.
Since she returned to her magic, becoming more familiar with it, she’d become even more captivating.
He attempted to rein in some of these thoughts, which grew with greater fondness for her by the hour, but was unsuccessful.
She is a strategist, no matter the setting, Mikhail thought to himself. Admirable. Mikhail had no court experience and was desperately out of touch with the mannerisms and intricacies of the required etiquette. He politely excused himself to stand on the periphery, to avoid embarrassing Anastasia.
Yet, as Mikhail would soon learn, a handsome man in a crowd of overinflated, boorish lords was never alone at a party for long.
Hardly a minute passed before women began to descend.
They circled him like buzzards, their fans either open wide or held in front of their faces.
Mikhail nodded politely to each one, blissfully unaware.
Across the ballroom, Anastasia was barely listening to a boyar, her eyes narrowing as she watched an endless string of women present themselves to Mikhail.
He was clueless about the customs, but in terms of body language and their use of fans, the women were publicly announcing their seductive intentions.
Anastasia gripped her own fan so tightly that a few pearls popped off. Jealousy was rising in her chest, making her see red.
“I’m sorry,” she turned to the lord speaking to her.
“I am needed elsewhere. Would you mind saving me a waltz?” The nameless face nodded enthusiastically, and Anastasia rolled her eyes internally before giving him a graceful smile and walking away.
She crossed the dance floor, shrugging off two other men, before storming over to Mikhail.
She glared at the women who were surrounding him, her fan sliding graciously up to her left ear.
The small crowd recoiled, their faces shocked, before scoffing and promptly stomping off with bruised egos and targetless libidos.
Mikhail watched all the upset courtiers, nervous that their cause was slipping away with every disapproving glance.
“What was that about?” Mikhail grabbed Anastasia’s arm and tugged her behind a column. “We’re supposed to be making allies, Anya. Why are you stomping around like a child? You’re scaring people off that might be useful.”
“You have no idea how useful,” Anastasia rolled her eyes, her lips pursed as her attitude soured further. “And don’t call me Anya.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mikhail gave her a once-over, studying her annoyed posture. “Did someone say something to you?”
“Look,” Anastasia peered out from behind the column, surveying the crowd. “Do you see that woman?” She pointed at a blonde woman in a black Venetian mask, who was laughing at something a priest said. Her hand playfully rested on his shoulder.
“Yes,” he shrugged, “What’s your point?”
“Her fan, Mikhail,” Anastasia hissed, stepping out in full view of the party. Her eyes didn’t leave the woman, staring daggers from across the dance floor.
“Okay? Maybe she’s warm?” Mikhail tossed his hands in the air, confused and increasingly frustrated.
“Mikhail,” Anastasia’s voice dropped to a whisper, “She was looking right at you with her fan at her mouth. She’s telling you, and this whole party, she wants to fuck you. It looks like she’s moved on to that priest, but no one could mistake her intentions when she was talking to you.”
Mikhail’s eyes went wide, and he could feel the blush rising to his cheeks. The last thing he needed was someone trying to leave with him. “She what?”
“And that one,” Anastasia pouted, pointing to another woman, “She’s the daughter of the French ambassador.
She’s engaged to the son of an Italian business magnate.
It seems she and her fiancé would be most welcome to a third this evening, and you fit the bill.
” Anastasia rattled off the observation like she was watching the weather, annoyed it might rain on her picnic, instead of gossiping about courtiers’ sexual preferences.
Mikhail blinked rapidly, taking in the sea of finely dressed women and fans before him. When he looked back at Anastasia, he burst out in laughter at the look of jealousy etched into her face.
“Oh, Anya,” he crooned, enjoying this far too much, “Are you jealous? You look ready to tear them apart.”
“I am not jealous!” Anastasia’s magic flared at her fingertips, sending a small flurry of sparks floating to the floor. Mikhail’s laughter dropped an octave as he stared down at her.
“Calm down,” he said, a smirk slowly spreading over his face. “Your magic, Anastasia. Tonight isn’t the time for people to discover it. Do you want to use your fan and tell me what’s wrong?” Mikhail bit his lip to keep from laughing at his own joke.
Anastasia sputtered, her temper attempting to take over.
Mikhail wrapped an arm around her waist, something he’d been eager to do since they arrived, and spun them swiftly back behind the column.
He pressed her up against it, his hand going to her forearm and tracing the barest of touches across her exposed skin.
“Keep it under control, your grace,” he grinned.
Anastasia’s eyes went wide at the feel of his bare skin against hers.
Heat raced up her arms, and for once, she wasn’t thinking about her scars when someone touched her.
A rush of emotion and arousal flooded through Anastasia’s veins, causing her hands to spark into a brief, shining ball of light before dissipating as quickly as they’d come.
Mikhail rolled his eyes playfully and shook his head as he leaned down towards her ear, dropping his voice to ensure only she could hear him.
“You’re so beautiful when you respond to me, Anya.” His breath brushed over her neck, and goosebumps erupted in its wake. Anastasia gasped, sinking against the marble.
Mikhail registered her reaction with a satisfied smile and pulled off her, turning on his heel and disappearing into the crowd. Anastasia was infuriated, breathless on the sidelines as she stared after him.
“I should’ve made him play the part of a damn mute,” she muttered. She straightened up and rolled her shoulders to refocus her efforts.
Two can play that game, Mikhail. I will make you suffer.
For the rest of the evening, Anastasia and Mikhail watched each other.
They swept through waltzes, drinks, and dinner with separate partners.
They were attempting to curry favor with the nobility while simultaneously making each other jealous.
Neither would admit it, but they were doing a splendid job.