Danielle Steel - Zoya

“Who was lovely?” He looked at her without understanding.

“Your wife.” Her name was Margaret.

“She was very well dressed when she wanted to be. But so are you, little Zoya. We haven't even begun to go shopping yet.”

“You spoil me too much.” She smiled shyly at him, blushing in the way that touched his heart, as he reached out and pulled her to him.

“You deserve far more than I can ever give you.”

He wanted to make up to her for all that she had lost, all that she had suffered in Paris after they left Russia. The imperial Easter egg was proudly displayed on the mantel in their bedroom, along with photographs of his parents in handsome silver frames, and three tiny exquisite gold sculptures that had been his mother's.

“Are you happy, little one?”

She beamed up at him in answer in the quiet room. “How could I not be?”

He introduced her to his friends, and took her everywhere with him, but they were both aware of the quiet resentment of the other women. She was pretty, she was young, and she looked exquisite in the expensive gowns he bought her

“Why do they dislike me so much?” She felt the pain of it more than once, as the women stopped speaking when she arrived, and quietly shunned her.

“They don't dislike you, they're just jealous.”

He was right, but by late May, he was furious at the rumors they had started. Someone had begun saying that Clayton Andrews had married a cheap little dancer in Paris … there was vague mention of the Folies-Berg£re, a drunken lout at his club had even asked him if she did the cancan, and Clayton was hard pressed not to strike him.

One woman at a party asked another as they watched Zoya dance if it was true that she had been a paid whore in Paris.

“She must have been. Just look at how she dances!”

She had mastered the steps of the new fox-trot to perfection, under Clayton's careful direction. And he stood handsome and proud as he whirled her around the floor, so obviously in love with his beautiful young wife that it made everyone hate her. She was twenty years old with a waist he could encircle with both hands, graceful legs, and the face of an angel. And when the waltz struck up, she felt tears sting her eyes, as they moved slowly around the floor, looking up at him with the memory of the night they'd met, and painful memories from long before that. If she closed her eyes , she was in St. Petersburg again … dancing with Konstantin, or handsome young Nicolai in the uniform of the Preobrajensky Guard … or even Nicholas at the Winter Palace. She remembered the coming-out ball she was to have, and never had, and now none of it seemed quite so painful. He had made it all up to her, and now she was even able to look at her photographs of Mashka, with a sad smile, but without tears. She would carry her friends and her loved ones with her in her heart forever.

“Hove you so much, little one …” he whispered as they danced at the Astors’ ball in June, and then suddenly she stopped and stared, as though she had seen a ghost. Her feet were rooted to the floor, and her face went pale, as Clayton whispered to her, “Is something wrong?”

“It can't be …” She looked ill as he felt her hand go cold in his own. A tall, stunningly handsome man had just entered the room with a pretty woman in a shimmering blue gown.

“Do you know them?”

But she could not speak. It was Prince Obolensky, or someone who looked exactly like him, and the woman on his arm appeared to be the Grand Duchess Olga, the young Grand Duchesses’ aunt who had brought them into town every Sunday for lunch with their grandmother, before stopping for tea at the Fontanka Palace with Zoya.

“Zoya! …” He was afraid she might faint, as the woman stared and gave a gasp of surprise as she hurried toward them. Zoya gave a little cry like a child, and flew into her arms.

“Darling … is it you? … oh, my little Zoya …” Lovely Olga folded her into her arms as they both cried tears of joy, filled with the tender memories of the loved ones they had lost, as Clayton and Prince Obolensky watched them. “But what are you doing here?”

Zoya curtsied low, and turned to introduce her handsome husband. “Olga Alexandrovna, may I present my husband, Clayton Andrews.” He bowed and kissed the Grand Duchess's hand, and afterward Zoya explained that Olga was the Tsar's youngest sister.

“Where have you been since …” She had difficulty saying the words as their eyes met. She hadn't seen her since they both left Tsarskoe Selo.

“I was in Paris with Grandmama … she died after Christmas.”

The Grand Duchess embraced the girl again, as everyone in the ballroom watched, and within hours it was everywhere. Clayton Andrews's new wife was a Russian countess. The tales of the Folies-Bergdre faded on the wind, and Prince Obolensky told tales of glorious and exotic balls held at the Fontanka Palace.

“Her mother was the loveliest woman I'e ever seen. Cold, of course, as Germans are, and rather high-strung, but incredibly pretty. And her father was a charming man. It was a terrible loss when he was killed. So many good men gone.” He said it with regret over a glass of champagne, but with less emotion than the women. Zoya never left Olga's side for the rest of the night. She was living in London, but had come to New York to visit friends. She was staying with Prince Obolensky and his wife, the former Alice Astor.

Word spread around New York like fire, about Zoya's origins, her noble family, her relationship to the Tsar, and within moments she was the darling of society. Cecil Beaton chronicled her every move, and they were invited everywhere. The people who had shunned her suddenly loved her.

Elsie de Wolfe wanted to redo the house, and then instead proposed a remarkable suggestion. She and her friends had bought a group of old farms on the East River, and were remodeling the old houses on a street called Sutton Place. It was not fashionable yet, but she knew that when it was finished it would be.

“Why don't you let me do one of them for you and Clayton?” She was decorating one of them for William May Wright, the stockbroker, and his wife, Cobina. But Zoya thought they were fine where they were in his comfortable brick mansion.

Zoya gave her first dinner party for Grand Duchess Olga, before she returned to London again, and her fate was sealed after that. She was destined to become the darling of New York, much to her husband's delight. He indulged her every whim, and secretly commissioned Elsie de Wolfe to remodel one of the houses on Sutton Place for them. It was an elegant gem, and when Zoya saw it, her eyes grew wide in amazement. It was not as excessive as the Wrights’ new home, where they had been the night before, and met Fred Astaire and Tallulah Bankhead. The most shocking thing of all had been the mink-lined bathroom, but there was none of that excess in the Andrews home. It was quietly elegant, with marble floors, lovely views, large, airy rooms, and filled with treasures de Wolfe had felt certain would please the young Russian countess. People had begun to address her as such, but she always insisted that she was now Mrs. Andrews. The thought of using the title seemed ridiculous to her, although Americans seemed to love it.

There were scores of other émigrés in New York by then, fresh from Paris and London, and some having come directly from Russia, with harrowing tales of their escape as civil war raged on, between Red and White forces trying to take control of the anguished nation. But the White Russians in New York more often than not amused her. There were, of course, the true nobles, many of whom she knew, but dozens of others now boasted titles they had never had in Russia. There were princes and princesses and countesses everywhere. She was even stunned to be introduced to an imperial princess one night, whom she recognized instantly as the woman who had made her mother's hats, but she said nothing to embarrass her when they were presented to each other. And later, the woman begged her not to expose her to the ever mourning Russians.