The Last Days of the Romanov Dancers Read online

  When she turned back, she saw that Luka’s hands were fiddling with his sleeve cuffs. She gestured for him to follow her across the tiled foyer to the stairs. As they made their way to the first floor, Valentina couldn’t help seeing the surrounds through his eyes. The walls, decorated with floral patterns in diamond shapes, heavy paintings spread across them at even intervals. The floors that alternated between dark tiles and light wooden boards to create a lush mosaic effect. The solid silver candlesticks and lamps that sat on the many polished surfaces. They were the spoils of her many years of hard work; physical evidence of what she had achieved through her manipulation of male desire. Would Luka be impressed, or judge them?

  Valentina led Luka into a reception room decorated in varying shades of soft blue. It was the room she always used to receive guests, and was kept in crisp perfection by her housekeeper and maid.

  ‘Sit,’ she said, perching herself on a chaise longue whose quilted pattern matched the wallpaper.

  Luka took a chair opposite, tapping the tips of his fingers together as he watched her unpin her hat. She gave her bobbed hair a shake, running her hands through it as Madame Ivkina entered with a tray laden with caviar sandwiches and grapes. Valentina told her to leave it on the low table between them so she could serve the food herself. She wanted to do something with her hands.

  ‘Do your lot ever eat anything else?’ Luka asked after the housekeeper had lit the cut-glass lamps and left them alone.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Since I began attending Mathilde’s events, I could swear I’ve eaten my own body weight in caviar.’

  ‘Don’t you like it?’

  ‘It’s not that. It’s just I’d never had it before joining the ballet, and now I seem to …’

  He trailed off, leaving Valentina feeling as if she’d done something wrong. She thought about telling him that the bread for the sandwiches had cost more than the salty delicacy, but decided against it.

  ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘Thank you for letting me wait out the weather here.’

  She waved a hand. ‘It would have been too cruel to send you back into that miserable day.’

  As if in response, a crack of thunder sounded overhead. Valentina cried out, startled, then pressed a hand to her chest and laughed.

  ‘Are you alright?’ Luka asked.

  He leaned forward, reaching for her hand, but couldn’t quite grasp it. His hand came to rest on her knee instead, his fingers gentle against the white flounces of her dress.

  Valentina pressed her fingers to her wrist to try to stop the sudden quickening of her pulse.

  ‘Of course. I just got a fright, that’s all. It was the thunder. I didn’t expect …’

  Luka, his eyes fixed on hers, shifted off his chair until he was kneeling on the floor in front of her. His hand was still on her knee. Valentina’s heart raced as she watched him come closer. This was just how it had been outside the Alexandrinsky. She knew she should pull away, tell him to leave regardless of the weather. But the memory of that kiss, how intoxicating it had been, stilled her.

  Slowly, Luka raised both his hands and cupped them around her face. One kiss can’t hurt, she thought. Just one more, then she’d make him go.

  She waited, heart pounding, and the kiss came. His lips were sweet from the grapes, but it wouldn’t have mattered; there was sweetness enough in his touch. The desire she’d felt last time ran through her again, its spark quickened by anticipation.

  Luka pulled back from the kiss to breathe her name against her lips, then his mouth was on her neck. This was where she should stop it. The one kiss she had promised herself had ended, and so should this intimacy.

  But she didn’t speak up.

  ‘Valya,’ Luka said again. He was softly, tantalisingly, kissing the place where her neck met the slope of her shoulder. Slowly, he trailed up her neck and along her jawline.

  His hands moved downward, and Valentina made a small sound in protest; she’d liked the protective feeling of them against her face, the way his fingers played with the soft curls at the nape of her neck. But when they stopped, one was curled around her back and the other resting on her breast, and she left off her complaint.

  Lightning flashed, illuminating the room with a brightness that gave everything a razor-sharp edge. Luka’s hands trembled against Valentina’s clothing.

  ‘Kiss me again,’ she whispered, her voice thick. Somewhere in her head, another voice was telling her to stop, that she’d already gone too far. But her body was alight now, hungry, and she’d had enough of denying it.

  ‘I can’t,’ he whispered. ‘If you make me go on, I won’t be able to stop.’

  Valentina knew this was her last opportunity to cease what they were doing. She knew because she had seen it a thousand times before: the growing hunger in a man, the way he resisted until he was sure of her, then the uncontrolled release of his full desire.

  She looked at Luka. His face was twisted, showing his eagerness for her body in the same way as the men before him. There was one difference this time: she was just as eager. She could feel it, the ache between her legs that she was sure would never go away if Luka left her now. She’d never been on this side of it before, had never felt how desperate the longing to have their bare skin touching and their bodies enveloping each other could be.

  Wordlessly, she grabbed Luka’s hand and drew him up onto the chaise longue with her. Eyes never leaving his, she lay back and brought his hand to her breast again. Only this time she slipped his fingers underneath the lace of her dress so they were touching bare skin.

  He froze for a moment, his eyes fluttering closed, then began to trail his fingertips over the soft, small curve. Valentina arched her back in an effort to press herself more firmly into his hand. She was used to having control of her body, but here, with Luka, it had a mind of its own.

  His lips met her skin again as his weight settled on her, and she couldn’t think of anything but his name. She breathed it out softly, her voice lost in the whispers of their clothing peeling away from their skin.

  Luka sat on the cool timber floor, his bare shoulders against the plush edge of the chaise longue. Valentina’s fingers were resting on the back of his neck. She was lost in thought, unaware of his sweat dampening her fingertips. Her white dress was around her waist, exposing her naked torso so that she looked like a mermaid rising from a frothy, wild sea.

  Luka wished he could think of something to say to her. Afterwards with Xenia, his silence had come from contentment. This was different.

  ‘That was … it was unlike …’ Valentina’s voice trailed off.

  ‘Yes, it was.’ Luka shyly took her hand and kissed it. He understood why she couldn’t find the words to explain what had happened between them. They had been overtaken by an intense and unexpected need, yet even in their desperation there had been gentleness, a delicate respect that had surprised Luka even more than the strength of his desire for her.

  Just thinking about that tenderness aroused him again, and he turned to face her, tentatively encircling her small waist in his bare arms. ‘Somehow I find myself wanting more.’

  ‘You’ve only just put your trousers back on,’ she teased.

  ‘I know. But with you sitting there, your dress around your waist …’

  Valentina glanced down as though she hadn’t realised she was still half naked, but she didn’t make any move to cover herself. Luka pulled her closer. He wanted to press his face to her nakedness, to tease her skin with his tongue. He wanted to make her cry out the way she had only moments before. He wanted to forget all complications, forget his grief, and just enjoy her for a while longer.

  ‘Luka.’ His name was a sigh escaping her. ‘That was wonderful, but we can’t do it again. I have a protector, and he pays very highly for the privilege. I can’t risk that for … for what?’

  Luka didn’t reply. Anything he said would only be an admission of his own selfish desires. Of course he knew she had a protector.


  ‘Just one last kiss then,’ he murmured, gently resting his lips against her neck.

  He could taste the saltiness of her skin, could feel the way her body responded to him as her breathing quickened.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Summer 1916

  Valentina stood before the wall of mirrors in her home studio, her foot pointed to the side. Shifting it behind her, she planted her weight firmly down so that both knees were bent. She pushed off, whipping around in a sharp turn. As she came to face the mirror again, she lowered the foot she was standing on so she was no longer on her toes, straightened her other leg to the side, then flicked it back in so the force of the movement turned her around again—all within the space of a second.

  She counted each time she turned, trying to ignore the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm her.

  Eight. Nine. Ten.

  She was sure she was travelling sideways instead of staying on the one spot as she was supposed to, but that didn’t matter for now. She’d get the number first, then concentrate on the rest later.

  Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

  With the last turn, she toppled over sideways, only just managing to catch herself with her hands before her face hit the timber floor. She stayed in that position, willing the spinning in her head to stop.

  It was the same every time. She started off executing the fouettés perfectly, then slowly the feeling of control slipped away from her. She always knew the moment when she’d lost it: her centre of balance shifted, and no amount of tightening her stomach or shortening the movement of her legs would bring her upright again.

  The thirty-two fouettés from Le Lac des Cygnes were a newly iconic feature that perfectly showcased Odile’s cruel attack against the unknowing Prince Siegfried and his love, Odette. Only a handful in all of Russia had been able to complete the full thirty-two, and Valentina was determined to become one of them by the time she performed at the Hermitage.

  Biting down on the curse that wanted to roll off her lips, she picked herself up and walked over to a balled-up piece of fabric in the corner, using it to wipe the sweat off her face. It seemed, in this particular moment, that she had as much control over the fouettés as she did over her life. A tremor of fear ran through her at the thought, and she pressed the sweat rag to her abdomen as though that might suppress it.

  She didn’t know what was happening to her. All those years of schooling herself to only follow the desires that could further her position, and now she was acting like one of the love-struck characters she danced onstage. She didn’t want to be Odile in life, as Maxim so often accused her; but neither did she want to be Odette, losing everything because of a man. Her fascination for Odette and her desire to dance the role wasn’t because of how Odette stayed true to her feelings until the bitter end; rather it was because of the way those feelings betrayed her and caused her downfall. It was a role Valentina thought she could capture in a way that made it fully her own; as Pavlova, Kschessinska, Nijinsky and Karsavina had done with other roles.

  She would not make Odette’s mistakes in real life, though. What she needed was to unlock the secret of the thirty-two fouettés: if she did, she would be the first dancer in all of Russia to have done so without first attaining the rank of principal. Then she would be back on the track Mamma had set for her all those years ago. Money, power and connections—those were the things Mamma had taught her to count on, the only things that mattered. Valentina had had her own thoughts on the matter as a child, but eventually she’d fallen in line. She could remember the exact moment she’d finally reconciled with her mother’s ambitions. She was fifteen, in her fifth year at the ballet school, and there was a step she couldn’t get right. It had plagued her for weeks, and her teacher had almost given up on her. She’d been terrified of telling Mamma, and had practised until her feet bled. And one day she got it. She’d been in a studio surrounded by young girls in their practice dresses, watching herself in the mirror. Her outer self looked relaxed and at ease, a bead of sweat dripping down her face the only evidence of how much effort the movement cost her. An ecstatic tremor ran through her limbs as, finally, she executed the grand rond de jambe en l’air perfectly, receiving a small nod from the teacher in recognition. It was proof, demonstrated by Valentina’s own body, that if she strove for something long enough, she would achieve it in the end. And that realisation made her begin to believe in Mamma’s plan of a protector and influence and amassing wealth beyond dreams.

  A plan that had, only a few years later, come to fruition without Mamma there to see. A plan she was now risking—for what? A few hours of fun with a man who would never pay?

  She’d made a foolish mistake. It wouldn’t happen again. She would let Luka Zhirkov know that never again would they go beyond dancing with one another. The privilege of her body was for Maxim alone. Then she would be in control once more.

  Valentina kept her eyes closed, silently counting the rhythm of Luka’s breathing next to her. The distraction of pleasure had died down and she was aware now of her dewy skin and the dampness between her legs. She could hear in her mind the cries she hadn’t meant to make but had been unable to stop. Shame at her weakness in not being able to let this young man go, despite the danger he posed to her goals, threatened to overwhelm her.

  ‘Why do you close your eyes like that?’ he asked, his voice a soft whisper.

  How was she supposed to answer? When she watched Luka, it was like she had never seen a man before. She drank in the fragile skin of his eyelids, the line where his hair met his forehead, the creases on his knuckles when he reached up to caress her cheeks, committing every last part of him to memory. There was always something new to look at, and every time it gave her the same strange tightness in her chest, almost like pain. So she did what she always did when emotions threatened to interfere: she tried to block it all out. It was the only way she knew how to keep winning at these difficult games.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Luka murmured.

  The bed dipped underneath his shifting weight. Valentina tried to turn her face away, conscious even with her eyes closed that Luka’s were on her. But his hand cupped her cheek, turning her back to him with a touch that was as gentle as the warm night air on her skin.

  ‘You are beautiful,’ he whispered.

  Valentina had heard those words so many times they’d long ago lost all meaning. But never had anyone said them when she was like this—naked, unclean—and they pierced her. She was afraid that if she opened her eyes, the tears now stinging them would find an escape. Then they would both start asking questions she couldn’t—didn’t want to—answer.

  She rolled over so that her back was to him. She felt him shuffle closer, the warmth of his solid torso against her back. He draped an arm over her, and she opened her eyes to see his square hand resting on the sable coverlet. She resisted the temptation to take it in her own.

  ‘Luka?’ she said softly.

  She was trembling, knowing she was about to speak the words she shouldn’t; words that would expose the Valentina Yershova she had been running from for so long.

  ‘Do you think it’s possible to have been lonely your whole life, only not know it?’

  Only silence answered her. Luka had fallen asleep.

  Valentina and Luka ran onto the small stage together, her a little ahead, their hands joined. In her black tutu and gold headdress, Valentina felt as she should: haughty, calculating, confident that this moment would be hers. A tremor ran through Luka’s fingers clasped in hers. Good, she thought, Prince Siegfried should be nervous. He believed himself on the verge of getting all he wanted, but in reality he was about to lose everything, Odile’s clever deception destroying the love between him and Odette.

  Flirtatiousness raced through Valentina’s veins as she danced. She couldn’t stop herself flashing a grin each time her eyes met Luka’s. Whenever she faced the audience, she saw the hulking figure of Rasputin in one of the large reclining chairs normally occupied by the imperia
l family, and the disfigured outlines of the soldiers spread in semicircles behind him. Grimness would grip her for a second; then she was looking at Luka again and her smile reappeared. The conflicting expressions made her the perfect Odile. Maxim would have been gratified.

  Valentina took a wild lunge forward into an arabesque penché en pointe. Only Luka’s hand holding hers stopped her from toppling forward onto her face, but she had total trust in him. As he pulled her back and turned her into a jump that sent her soaring higher than his head, she could feel the strength of him. She had been right: he was going to be one of the great dancers; a man who would elevate every partner he danced with, whose name would become almost as famous as the great female dancers.

  The music slowed, and instead of her triumphant taunts, Odile became tantalising. Valentina’s heart was racing, the slower movements somehow reminiscent of the many hours she and Luka had spent in bed together. And then she was pulling away, letting Prince Siegfried wallow in confusion, wanting more. Ensuring he came to her as she mimicked Odette’s gentle movements, fooling him. He was on his knees and she couldn’t help being cruel in her triumph. She drew him to her with nothing more than a look, then was whipping around in eight rapid pirouettes, until they stopped together in a final arabesque.

  They held the position as the music died away, waiting for the applause. Valentina’s mind was already racing ahead. Luka would be dancing Prince Siegfried’s variation next, then it would be her turn. They would alternate: he celebrating what he thought was the culmination of his love for Odette; Odile celebrating her victory. The movements would become ever more difficult, showing off their virtuosity, culminating with the triumphant thirty-two fouettés before a final flourish that finished with one last lift.