Long ago had Anastasia come to recognize and appreciate the differences between Alexander and Matteo, discovering quite swiftly that the sprightly Frenchman would indulge her whims and wishes where Alexander surely would not. Matteo, with his words and embraces, would dote upon the young woman he had taken as his niece in a manner far removed from that of Alexander... almost akin to the way in which her father would dote upon her, the most spirited of his children. But she did not begrudge Alexander his austerity, for this too was a trait so beautifully remniscent of her late father that she could do naught but afford him her utmost admiration. He would forever have the heart of the woman he had made.

"Ah, I have been traveling as always... London, Milan, Krakov, Moscow of course. But, I'm afraid that is a discussion for another time," she cooes, not at all laboring under the self-delusion that Matteo had not seen what it was that she had been doing with her time over the previous decades, the reason for her endless travels. He did, after all, hold the future in his hands; a veritable looking glass to peer into whenever the fancy should move him to do so. A source of envy for the Russian woman who, likewise, held the past and the present within her own hands.

The greeting offered to Alexander is marked by its brevity and yet it is no less affectionate in its own right. They had their way, as it were. It had always been so. The one that the Duchess proffers to Dorian, however, is far more formal in nature. A simper quirks gently at the brims of her crimson lips as he brushes a soft kiss across her hand, a gesture that had fallen away from modern custom in favor of far lesser forms of greeting between men and women. And yet it is one that she delights in, descending in a smooth curtsy before her counterpart before retiring to the lounge chair reserved for her. Yet no sooner has she taken to her over-stuffed perch than she is met with a peculiar compliment, one that serves only to broaden the smile as it pulls ever so gently at her lips. And one that Matteo seems to take a marginally greater deal of pleasure in. "As fate would have it I take quite strongly after my father, Nicholas. My eyes though... they are my mother's," she explains, the barest suggestion of nostalgia striking a spark within her sage green eyes before it plummets back into the depths of her secret self.

The query that the Italian royal poses, however, has Anastasia incline towards him, accepting the crisp, iradescent invitation as the other is passed betwixt the pair of elder gentlemen before being handed to her. Far removed from the jests of Matteo, the Grand Duchess' features solidify into focused consideration as delicate hands caress each invitation in turn. Finally do her eyes rise to those of Dorian, the ivory envelope raised. "The ivory. It is classic, and far more sophisticated. The pearl is beatiful, but I am afraid it is more appropriate for a... hmm...," she turns to Alexander then, a look of veiled perplexity suggested in the slight furrow of her brow. "Kak vy govorite 'debyutant'?" How do you say "debutante'"? It was a notably rare occurance, the century-old Russian having long ago mastered the linguistic arts of several of the world's tongues, though in moments such as these she seeks assistance from the only individual she would have ever accepted it from. "Debutante. The ivory is fit for a king," she continues as she shifts back to Dorian, extending the envelopes to him with a remarkable and warm simper. "Is this what has brought you to town, Matteo? Must there be a wedding for you to grace us with your presence?" It is a jest, a rare and lighthearted tease reserved almost solely for the elder Frenchman.

Anastasia Romanova

Grand Duchess of Imperial Russia