He looked over at me again, his beautiful dark eyes glittering like black glass, even in the dim interior of the big car. He had honestly asked me if I would spent the night with him. I paused so long he prompted me. "Theresa?" Such a voice, such a sincere man, the most attractive man I'd ever met, and charming, intelligent, cultured, --- okay, sure, and rich too! What were the chances I'd meet such a man again? Ha, --- REALLY ZERO,,ZERO! Ummm... I'd had a great deal of champagne, the excellent stuff had gone down so easy! I'd always been a little timid, missed, I think, many chances because of it. For once in you life, Theresa, I thought, --- LEAP! I touched Great Grandma Lisel's pearls, --- the lucky pearls.
"Yes," I whispered.
Alexandre smiled gently, nodding. Whatever WAS I DOING?, I thought, wildly. We'd been driving through downtown. Now, we were in the suburbs, --- University Heights... Then, we were in Shaker Heights... Alexandre pulled into a long lane, lit with soft light from lamp posts and covered by a natural arch of furry looking evergreen branches, hanging from gigantic trees. How well he drove the powerful car, masterfully, like he does everything, I supposed! He put the Brougham in a huge garage. I there were other well-cared for cars, but he didn't turn on the garage lights. Instead, he took my arm and led me into the house..
Gilded wood was everywhere and high ceilings plastered with designs like the frosting of a wedding cake. We walked through a gold-veined marble entrance hall, --- period furniture in the living room, paintings in fancy frames hung on burgundy linen covered walls; an especially big abstract one was done in blues, reds and greens. A cheery fire was in a stone fireplace so big an average size man could have walked into it without ducking. Floor-to-ceiling windows were bordered with heavy gray velvet drapes and hung with immaculate lace sheers.
A middle aged woman with light brown silver streaked hair neatly contained in a bun, bowed to Alexandre. ."Did you enjoy the opera, Your Grace?"
"Missus. Brighton," Alexandre smiled at her tolerantly, in a very kind way. "Please, no bowing, and I've asked you over and over not to call me 'Your Grace' here in America, --- or, please ANYWHERE. You know Americans have never had lords and ladies."
Missus Brighton looked up at him. "Of course, Your..." She corrected herself. "Yes, Mister Volkov."
"Much better." Alexandre smiled, handing her his top hat, walking stick, tux jacket and cape. She took them and looked at me, expectantly. Alexandre removed my cloak, handed it to her. He pulled the black satin ribbon from his ponytail, shook his head. His thick gorgeous mane of black hair settled around his neck and shoulders. I almost gulped, but not quite. I didn't want him to see the effect he had on me; --- his height, his strong muscular body, his beautiful face, his charm, his intelligence...
"Some tea, please, Missus Brighton," he said.
He led me to easy chairs near the fire. I sat down. Alexandre surprised me by carefully, with the lightest of touches, taking off my tiara, taking out the pins in my hair. It fell around my shoulder and I shook my head to free it more. He kneeled. (A real Duke was kneeling at my feet!) He removed my high heeled satin shoes/ His warm hands moved over my ankles, my feet, massaging, very gently. I sighed.
"I've thought, high heels must be torture. They're unhealthy, forcing the foot into an unnatural position."
I closed my eyes, slouched back into the comfort of the chair. "Ballerinas suffer with their feet too, much more, on their toes, dancing, dancing, dancing, in pain, pain, with blood soaked rags in their beautiful pink satin toe shoes, which are all handmade, their deformed toe nails cutting into their tender skin. But, they dance, regardless. It's expected. On the stage they look so serene. As soon as they get behind the curtain they collapse.."
"That's just so awful," I whispered.
.
"It is... Ballet is beautiful to watch, --- the reality.. The ballet world is brutal. My brother Nikolai told me. But, I knew, anyway. Men never dance on their toes, of course. My little ten year old sisters Ekaterina and Valentina are determined to become ballerinas, but my parents aren't so sure they want them to enter that life."
"R-r-right," I whispered.
The combination of a full stomach, the champagne and the foot rub, I was almost asleep. I shouldn't fall asleep! I SHOULDN'T!, Then, I felt the slight weight of an afghan placed over me and that was all I knew for a while.
--- Copyright 2021, by Antoinette Beard.
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