The Passion and the Flower

by Barbara Cartland

Lord Marston put his hand up to his forehead.

  “Ivan! Ivan!” he groaned. “If the newspapers should learn of this!”

  “No one will learn of it,” the Prince replied. “They were taken on my instructions to the château of the Duc de Guise next door. It has been empty for over a year.”

  “And what happened then?”

  “I rescued them! The hero in true swashbuckling form!”

  “And they were exceedingly grateful to you, I suppose?” Lord Marston asked sarcastically.

  “Naturally! But, Hugo, as I lifted her through the window I touched her and I knew then that what I felt for her was different from anything I have ever felt for any woman before.”

  Lord Marston did not answer, but he looked sceptical.

  The Prince glanced at him and then walked across the floor restlessly.

  “I know that sounds banal and I sense exactly what you are thinking. But this is different. I worship her, I adore her! She is pure, Hugo, so pure that I did not even attempt to kiss her lips.”

  “That is certainly unlike your usual buccaneering tactics,” Lord Marston remarked ironically. “As you have so often said to me, ‘a man should always take what he wants and argue afterwards’.”

  “There was no question of argument, but I would not take what she is not willing to give.”

  “You are betting on your irresistible charm that you will not have to wait for long,” Lord Marston observed.

  He looked at the Prince and then he said,

  “What was the dragon, as you call her, doing all this time? Did she just sit and watch you kissing the hand and flirting with this girl she has guarded so fiercely?”

  “She was asleep,” the Prince replied.

  Lord Marston sat upright.

  “Ivan, you have not told me the whole truth! What other crimes have you been perpetrating?”

  “Nothing in the least harmful,” the Prince replied. “Just a little pill in the coffee, so mild that she did not even realise that she had taken it.”

  “I give up!” Lord Marston cried. “You are impossible! If you think you have won Kingfisher by such behaviour you are very mistaken.”

  “I don’t want your damned horse!” the Prince answered fiercely. “I don’t wish to speak about a wager in the same breath that I speak of Lokita. She is something apart, someone whose name should never be bandied about like that of other women in this loose and profligate City.”

  Lord Marston looked at him and then said in a surprised voice,

  “When you talk like that, Ivan, I begin to believe that you really are in love.”

  “I am in love,” the Prince answered in a low voice, “but it is much more than that. She is a part of me, an indivisible part. At the same time I am at her feet, worshipping her because she is so different from any other woman I have ever met or even imagined.”

  “And you know all this on so short an acquaintance?” Lord Marston asked.

  “I might have known you would not understand,” the Prince retorted furiously. “And why should you be expected to do so? You are not a Slav!”

  That was true enough, Lord Marston thought, and he knew that the extravagant Slav temperament was a national attribute, almost a matter of pride like sex to the French.

  To all of them Dousha – the soul – was as real and as much a part of their lives as pride and integrity was to an Englishman.

  The Prince when he loved would love not only with his heart but with his soul and, if as it appeared Lokita had become enshrined in his soul, then Lord Marston knew that this was something that had never happened to him before.

  The Prince walked to the window and flung back his handsome head to look up at the stars overhead.

  “Lokita is a star,” he said. “Yet I shall hold her in my arms and she will become mine as she was meant to be when the first star shone in the sky.”

  *

  Lord Marston came down to breakfast the following morning to find his host already at the table.

  Both men were dressed in riding clothes, for the Prince invariably rode in the Bois de Boulogne immediately after breakfast and Lord Marston was only too willing to join him, especially as he could ride one of the Prince’s superlative horses.

  As he entered the room, Lord Marston was aware that there was an alertness and a light in the Prince’s expressive eyes which warned him that something unusual was about to occur.

  “If you have an assignation to meet Lokita,” he said as he seated himself at the table, “then there is no reason for me to accompany you.”

  “I have no assignation,” the Prince replied, “but I know where we will find her.”

  He laughed softly.

  “I was very subtle and very diplomatic, Hugo. You would have been proud of me”

  “When you did what?” Lord Marston enquired.

  “When I extracted from Lokita the information that she rode every morning in the Bois. It was so easy. She admired my horses, I asked her if she rode, and she said that it was an exercise she enjoyed more than anything else except dancing. We agreed that it was most pleasant in the early morning before the Bois became crowded with all the fashion of Paris.”

  “And her duenna was listening?” Lord Marston asked.

  “I had learnt what I wanted to learn and I think, if the truth be known, that the dragon was still a little sleepy.”

  “I suppose it is no use my telling you that I am appalled by your behaviour?” Lord Marston stated.

  “Only Englishmen could quote the proverb that ‘all is fair in love and war’ and then not expect to live up to it!” the Prince retorted.

  “Gentlemen are expected to be sportsmen,” Lord Marston said severely, “but the way you have behaved, Ivan, was like shooting a sitting duck! It was as easy as that.”

  “Certainly not,” the Prince said. “To boast would be unlucky.”

  “Superstitious as well,” Lord Marston teased him. “You are certainly involving all the emotions where Lokita is concerned. Let’s hope that you will not be disappointed.”

  “I shall never be,” the Prince replied. “Never, do you hear, Hugo?”

  “It is difficult not to, considering that you are shouting,” Lord Marston answered.

  He was hardly allowed to finish his breakfast before the Prince was insisting that they should leave for the Bois de Boulogne.

  As they rode up the Champs-Élysées, it was not surprising that the passers-by turned to look at them or that women, fascinated by the Prince, watched him until he was out of sight.

  When they reached the Bois de Boulogne, they trotted through the trees and then galloped in the open space where the Prince rode every morning.

  It was over an hour before Lokita appeared and, riding with her servant, she came towards them. Lord Marston had to admit that the Prince had been right, she was even more beautiful off the stage than she was on.

  Her skin had a translucent clearness and there was, he thought, something very spiritual about her that she portrayed in her dancing.

  She wore a blue habit against which her fair hair was the colour of sunshine, but her eyes were a definite green.

  The Prince rode his horse alongside hers and, taking her gloved hand, raised it to his lips.

  Then he looked into her eyes and Lord Marston knew that his friend had not exaggerated.

  These two people belonged to each other.

  “I thought – perhaps I should meet – you here this – morning,” Lokita began, making no pretence that she had not been looking forward to it.

  “I have been waiting an Eternity,” the Prince said in his deep voice. “I was afraid you might have changed your mind.”

  “Miss Anderson wanted me to – stay at home and rest,” Lokita replied, “but I had to – come.”

  “I was willing you to do so.”

  The Prince relinquished her hand.

  Then, as if he suddenly remembered his manners, he said,

  “May I introduce my best friend, Lord Ma
rston? He is an Englishman.”

  “And, may I add, an admirer who has been spellbound by your dancing,” Lord Marston added.

  “Thank you,” Lokita replied simply.

  “I have seen you five times now,” Lord Marston went on, “and each time has been more enthralling than the last. Moreover your dance is always a little different.”

  “I dance as I feel.”

  It was what Lord Marston had thought.

  No Teacher and no Producer could have designed such movements and such steps that came, as the Prince would have said, from the soul.

  Their horses were restless and they moved forward, riding three abreast with Serge behind them.

  The Prince's eyes were on Lokita’s face and, as if she could not help herself, she kept looking at him and finding it hard to look away.

  “Let me come back with you,” the Prince asked. “I would like to pay my respects to Miss Anderson and hope she is not too distressed by the events of yesterday evening.”

  “It was very frightening for her,” Lokita said, “and for – me. She has decided in future that when we go to the theatre – we will take Serge with us.”

  She looked back at the man behind her and the Prince followed her glance.

  Then he said in surprise,

  “Your servant looks Russian.”

  “He is Russian.”

  “And you?”

  There was a little pause before Lokita replied,

  “My mother was Russian.”

  “I knew it!” the Prince exclaimed. “I knew that there was something not only in our minds and hearts that drew us together but also in our blood.”

  He looked at Lord Marston with a smile of triumph.

  “Do you see, Hugo? We are both Slavs! That is why we understand each other and we shall always understand each other while you often find it difficult!”

  “I don’t – know whether Andy would wish to see you,” Lokita said a little hesitatingly, as if she was following the train of her thoughts.

  “She would think it very remiss of me and exceedingly ill-mannered, if I did not call to enquire after you both,” the Prince averred. “Besides, I have a suggestion to make.”

  “What is that?”

  “It is that I should give a party for you, for you and Miss Anderson, on Saturday night.”

  “A party?” Lokita questioned. “I have never been to a party.”

  “Then mine will be the, first,” the Prince said with a note of triumph in his voice, “and it will be a new experience.”

  He and Lokita looked at each other for a moment.

  Then she said,

  “I don’t think that – Andy will allow me to go to a – party.”

  “I will persuade her,” the Prince said confidently, “and it shall be a Russian party.”

  There was a sudden light in Lokita’s eyes.

  “Really a Russian party?” she asked.

  “Everything about it shall be as Russian as possible. We will wear Russian dress and there will be gypsy violins – ”

  He stopped suddenly.

  “It will all be a surprise.”

  “It sounds too wonderful, just too exciting,” Lokita enthused, “but I am afraid that Andy will say ‘no’.”

  “Leave Miss Anderson to me,” the Prince replied firmly.

  They galloped their horses and then turned towards the little house on the edge of the Bois de Boulogne.

  The Prince had seen it the previous night and now in the sunshine he thought, as Lord Marston did, that it was as perfect in its small simplicity as Lokita herself.

  She rode in through the iron gate and, while Serge held their horses, Lokita led them inside the house.

  There was the scent of lilac and in the little salon it seemed to Lord Marston that every possible table was decorated with vases of flowers.

  Miss Anderson was sitting writing at her desk, but, when Lokita entered with the two men behind her, she rose to her feet.

  Lord Marston, watching her closely, thought there was an expression of horror on her face.

  Then courteously she greeted both the Prince and himself and asked them to sit down.

  “We were on our way to call on you, Miss Anderson,” the Prince said, “when we met Miss Lawrence riding with her servant. I am delighted to see that she has suffered no ill effects from the events of last night and I am hoping that you can say the same.”

  “I am quite well, thank you, Your Highness,” Miss Anderson said in a somewhat repressed tone.

  The Prince engaged her in conversation as he had done the previous evening and, although Miss Anderson responded politely, Lord Marston had the idea that she was exerting a rigid control over herself.

  There were, he was sure, deep reservations behind the commonplace remarks that they were exchanging.

  Lokita said nothing. She only sat, looking exceedingly beautiful, listening to the conversation.

  “I have an invitation to offer you,” the Prince said to Miss Anderson, “which I hope very much you will accept.”

  She did not reply, but her lips tightened for a moment.

  “It is,” he went on, “that you and Miss Lawrence should after the theatre on Saturday night permit me to give a party for you in my garden.”

  “While appreciating the kindness of your invitation, Your Highness, I regret that we must refuse,” Miss Anderson replied.

  For the first time since they had sat down Lokita made a little sound and it was almost a cry of pain.

  The Prince, who had been looking only at Miss Anderson, now turned and, as their eyes met, it was too obvious to anyone watching what they felt for each other.

  Then with an effort the Prince turned again to the Englishwoman and said in his most beguiling voice,

  “I cannot take no for an answer. Miss Lawrence tells me that she has never been to a party. I am prepared to give you any sort of party you choose, but I think that she would like it to be a Russian one.”

  “A Russian party, Andy!” Lokita interposed. “Think how exciting that would be. We have talked of them so often and I have read about them in books, but it is not the same as being present at one.”

  “No, of course it is not,” the Prince agreed, “and so, Miss Anderson, please give your consent. As Miss Lawrence can rest on Sunday, it will not be too tiring for her.”

  Miss Anderson seemed to be thinking seriously and Lord Marston watching her was aware that she was tense.

  Then she said slowly,

  “It is difficult, Your Highness, to refuse your kindness.”

  Lokita jumped to her feet.

  “That means we can go! Oh, Andy, how wonderful! I was afraid – so desperately afraid that you meant to refuse.”

  Her eyes were like a child’s sparkling with excitement as she said to the Prince,

  “It will really be Russian, just as if we were not in Paris but in St. Petersburg or Moscow?”

  “Or on my own estate,” the Prince finished. “I promise you it will be completely authentic.”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you!”

  She looked lovely and in her excitement she put out her hands towards the Prince impulsively and then dropped them suddenly.

  The Prince was once again addressing Miss Anderson,

  “If you will permit me to do so, I would like to send you and Miss Lawrence Russian costumes to wear at my party. I will have them conveyed to the theatre so that you can change into them there and my carriage will bring you straight to my house.”

  As if he sensed Miss Anderson’s hesitation, he added insistently,

  “You would feel embarrassed, I am sure, wearing fancy dress driving in a hired fiacre.”

  “Yes, of course,” Miss Anderson agreed. “You think of everything, Your Highness.”

  “I try to,” the Prince replied.

  As if having gained his objective he knew that it would be a mistake to overstay his welcome, the Prince said ‘goodbye’ to Miss Anderson and then to Lokita.

&nbs
p; The Prince was aware that, as he touched her hand, it was as if a tremor went through them both and there was a sudden magnetism in the air that was inescapable. Hastily he made some remarks to Miss Anderson to try to distract her from what was happening.

  As she replied in her calm sensible voice, he thought that she had not observed anything unusual.

  As the Prince rode away with Lord Marston, he called out,

  “Saturday! It’s a hell of a long time ahead, Hugo!”

  “You can see her in the Bois,” Lord Marston replied.

  “I do not know if it is wise,” the Prince answered.

  “Wise?”

  “I am afraid of that woman. I don’t know why, but I have the feeling that she is a dangerous antagonist.”

  Lord Marston laughed.

  “You are exaggerating, Ivan. She seems pleasant enough to me. After all it is obvious that neither she nor Lokita have really any affinity for the stage. In fact it seems extraordinary, now that I have met Lokita, that she could ever have entertained a stage career for one moment.”

  “Something that will speedily come to an end as soon as she is with me,” the Prince said and added fiercely, “How do you think I can bear to have other men looking at her? People being able to pay money to see her dance?”

  “You wish to shut her up in a harem?” Lord Marston questioned.

  “That is exactly what I want!” the Prince replied. “I want her to myself, entirely and completely. I want to be alone with her without the interference or intervention of anyone.”

  He sighed and then he added,

  “If I had any real sense, I would kidnap her and take her off to a deserted island or to some far-off part of the earth where no one would ever find us.”

  “Ivan, for God's sake!” Lord Marston expostulated. “That is something that not even you can do! I am quite certain that, if you attempt anything of the sort, Miss Anderson would have the Police on your heels within ten minutes of your departure.”

  “That is what prevents me from doing what I really wish. I have no desire for Lokita to be embroiled in any scandal.”

  “And what you suggest would be an international one,” Lord Marston said. “Her mother may have been Russian, but I am prepared to bet a large sum of money that her father was English.”

  “Why not?” the Prince asked carelessly. “She does not look English, but her hair is fair and Lawrence is certainly an English name.”