When Love Commands

by Jennifer Wilde

  “Was he?”

  “As concerned as I. He did not want to leave when you were still—still in such poor condition, but it was necessary.”

  “There was no reason why he should have stayed.”

  “He felt responsible for you, as did I. He said—” She hesitated a moment, as though debating whether or not to continue. “He said you were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.”

  “Your uncle must be extremely gallant.”

  “Oh no,” she protested. “He meant it. He never makes the idle—how does one put it?—the idle words, the chitchat. Is this correct? He gazed and gazed at you while you were sleeping. He brushed the damp locks from your brow. When you moaned, he frowned, deeply disturbed. He ordered the doctor to make you well, Marietta. He promised him much gold if he succeeded, promised him much pain if he failed. The doctor was most worried.”

  “I can see why.”

  “All turns out well, though,” she continued. “You are restored to your health and the doctor will be much richer.”

  “And still able to walk,” I added.

  “You make the jest?”

  “I make the jest,” I replied lightly. “I think I’ll go up to my room now, Lucie.”

  “We shall lunch?”

  I shook my head. “I need rest far more than food. I will see you later, my dear.”

  Stepping inside the inn, I was enticed by the smells of strong ale and bacon, beeswax and herbs. The proprietor’s wife was arranging pink roses in a glazed blue pot as I passed the front counter with its heavy leather registration book and tarnished brass bell. Much wearier than I felt I should be, I climbed the uneven wooden stairs to my floor, relieved when I shut the door of my room. The bed looked wonderfully inviting, though I had left it only a few hours ago.

  You’ve overdone it, I scolded myself. You can’t have a relapse now. Think of the poor doctor and what Count Orlov will do to him. Break both his arms and legs, probably, perhaps tear out his tongue as well. Use the knout on him at the very least. These Russians! I would be very glad to be rid of them, I thought as I unfastened the hooks of my pale blue dress, although Lucie was enchanting and Count Gregory sounded … most intriguing. There was still a mild, aggravating nag at the back of my mind that told me I should know the name Orlov, but I was unable to summon forth the knowledge, if knowledge it was. Removing the dress, I hung it in the immense, ornately carved wardrobe that almost reached the low, beamed ceiling.

  So Count Gregory Orlov thought I was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen? I smiled a rueful smile as I closed the wardrobe door. I had been bruised, battered, feverish, soaked with perspiration and had probably been moaning like a madwoman, yet he had “gazed and gazed” at me, had brushed the damp locks from my brow. Had I been properly clothed at the time, or had I been wearing the white silk nightgown with the insets of fragile lace that had scarcely covered my bosom? I wondered if Count Orlov was one of Lucie’s typical Russians, brooding, full of repressed emotion, given to bursts of violence and bouts of maudlin sentiment. It hardly mattered. He was obviously a very important person in Russia, incredibly wealthy, and after I rode to London with him I would never see him again.

  Wearing only a thin white petticoat, I moved across the room to pull the curtains shut. The room grew deliciously dim, filled with hazy blue-gray shadows. The polished hardwood floor was cool to my bare feet as I walked over to the bed. What luxury to nap at this hour of the day, I mused, turning the covers back. I was feeling drowsy now, a bit dizzy as well, and it was lovely to climb between the crisp, fresh sheets, and sink into the softness. If I were to travel to London tomorrow, I would need all my strength, and a long nap was just the thing … London … Jeremy.

  He moved toward me in that jaunty stride, the heavy chestnut wave flopping across his brow. The vivid blue eyes were full of mischief, and a teasing smile played on his lips. I scolded him—silent words I couldn’t hear—and he tilted his head to one side and arched one eyebrow and pulled me into his arms and kissed me and I could feel the lovely fever stealing through me as he crushed me to him. We were walking across a large clearing with cottonwood trees in the distance and stars blazing above and I knew we were going to make love again and this time I would hold him forever. The grass was brushed with moonlight, a pale silver turning white, whiter, and wolves were howling, and ice encased the trees and the snow was so deep we could hardly walk. He was wearing tall boots and tight brown breeches and a loose beige satin tunic with very full sleeves. He spoke to me in Russian. I couldn’t understand a word he said.

  The wolves were howling, howling, coming nearer, and we were running toward a rustic wooden cabin half-covered with snow and then we were inside, safe, and the wind howled and the windows were covered with crystal patterns of frost. A fire was blazing brightly and there were fur rugs in front of the fireplace and he undressed me and I writhed naked on the fur, my body warmed by the heat of the flames and the heat inside. He stood over me, hands on hips, legs spread wide, looking down at me, the loose beige satin tunic gleaming in the haze. He spoke to me again, again in Russian, and I frowned and realized words were not important, there had been far too many words between us.

  Jeremy smiled slowly, his eyelids drooping slightly over eyes now filled with desire, dark, smoldering blue eyes that feasted on me as I stretched before the flames, sliding on soft fur. The smile grew taut on his lips and his handsome face was tense, the skin stretched tightly across those broad cheekbones. He kneeled over me, a knee on either side of my thighs, hands pinioning my wrists to the fur. He loomed there over me, his face inches from my own, lips parting. Slowly, slowly, he lowered his head, eyes shining brightly and telling me of his love, his need. A noise came from the distance, clattering, jangling, and Jeremy turned his head and frowned, and I arched my body under his and longed for those lips to cover mine, longed for the pressure of muscle and bone bearing down on me. Hooves clattered on the cobbles. A whip cracked and Jeremy disappeared, melting into mist, and I was alone and lost in the snow. It was cold, so cold, and snow whirled around me, white, yet whiter, blinding, and Jeremy was gone and my arms were empty.

  I sat up with a start, shaken, for a moment still caught up in the toils of the dream. The skirts of my petticoat were tangled around my legs, and the bedclothes were tangled, too, and I was shivering because there was no fire in the fireplace and the room was chilly. Loud noises were coming from the yard below. Harsh orders were being given. Horses were stamping. Climbing from bed, I went over to the window and held the curtains back. An enormous coach, the largest I had ever seen, stood in front of the inn, four perfectly matched grays in harness. The coach was a gleaming white with sumptuous trim in gold leaf. An exotic crest of red and blue, surrounded by a gold sunburst, adorned the side of the door visible to me, and blue velvet curtains hung at the windows, concealing the interior.

  Vladimir and three other servants were yelling at the grooms and making furious gestures. A wagon of hay had been overturned in front of the coach. Geese scattered in panic. A black and white spotted dog barked at the Russians. The innkeeper’s wife was wringing her hands, visibly upset by the commotion. The innkeeper stood stout and happy in his thin black leather apron, smiling in anticipation of the showers of bright golden coins soon to come his way. As I watched from the window, six horsemen came charging into the yard on yet more grays. The men all wore blue velvet livery and towering black fur hats and short blue capes trimmed with black fur. All six were heavily armed, sabres dangling at their sides, knives strapped just above their boot tops, guns thrust into their belts. The grays reared and neighed, kicking in the air as reins were savagely jerked. The men dismounted and the horses stamped and snorted and Vladimir and the three other servants greeted their compatriots with lusty cries and hearty embraces. Backs were pounded. Stomachs were punched. Bodies swayed and stumbled in a joyous melee. The Russians were indeed an emotional race, I reflected.

  Miraculously, order was restored. The geese disapp
eared. The dog stopped barking. The wagon was turned upright and dragged away, the loose hay scattered over the cobbles. Nervous grooms led the skittish grays into the stables, and the innkeeper’s wife led the six outriders into the tap room where, I assumed, they would drink themselves into an even more boisterous mood. In a matter of minutes, the yard was empty of everyone but the innkeeper, Vladimir, and a now lethargic dog. It was then that Vladimir opened the door of the coach and a tall, slender man with brick red hair climbed out. He was wearing English attire—polished brown boots, tan kidskin breeches, elegant rust velvet frock coat, gray silk waistcoat—and carried a thin leather case that obviously contained papers. I couldn’t see his features from where I stood, but I was almost certain he wasn’t Count Orlov.

  I was right. Vladimir gave him a curt, clearly hostile nod, and the innkeeper scarcely glanced at him. The Englishman turned, peering back into the interior of the magnificent coach. Vladimir nudged him aside and stood at attention beside the open door. I saw a glossy gray leather boot, a long, muscular leg tightly encased in pale gray broadcloth and then thick folds of a dark gray cloak as the man stepped out. The cloak swirled, and I saw flashes of its white satin lining before it settled into place, covering the man from shoulder to toe. The shoulders were extremely broad, I noted, and he was very tall, even taller than Vladimir. The innkeeper rushed over and began to fawn outrageously Vladimir gave him a rough shove. The innkeeper stumbled, crashing against the side of the coach. Orlov appeared not to notice. Saying something to the Englishman, he strolled briskly toward the door of the inn. A sleek fur hat covered his head, and because of its tilt I could see nothing of his face.

  Disappointed, I let the curtain fall back into place. Oh well, I told myself, I would soon have ample opportunity to observe more closely the mysterious Count Orlov. Not that it mattered, of course. He was merely a means of my getting back to London. Glancing at the clock, I was amazed to discover that it was already after six. No wonder I felt in such a stupor—I had slept the entire afternoon away. A hot bath was the only thing that would revive me, and I had considerable difficulty arranging that. The maid I located in the hall looked dubious, said it was terribly late for a bath and ’eaven knew they ’ad enough on their ’ands with all these mad foreigners chargin’ all over th’ place disruptin’ things. I managed to persuade her to indulge me and to have a long, hot bath in front of a roaring fire in a plain, decidedly uncomfortable tin tub. I also managed to dry myself without any assistance.

  Putting on a thin cream silk petticoat with half a dozen full skirts, I sat down at the dressing table and examined myself in the mirror in the glow of the candles the maid had begrudgingly lighted. Nature was going to need some help tonight, I decided, and after I had brushed my hair until it glistened a coppery red sheen, I took out my cosmetic case and began to apply pale brown powder to the lids, merely a suggestion of shadow, a touch of pink to the pale cheeks, carefully rubbed in to give a natural glow, pink lip rouge used sparingly. Better, I thought, studying my reflection, but I was not likely to launch a thousand ships. Not even one tiny skiff, I told myself. Despite the subtle use of cosmetics, I still had a wan, fatigued look.

  I knew what gown I was going to wear tonight, one of the loveliest I owned. It was a heavy, cream silk completely overlaid with beige lace in floral patterns, lace as delicate as cobwebs, and it was worn with a narrow brown velvet sash that tied in a bow in back, the sash emphasizing the snug waistline and the lush swell of the skirts. The form-fitting bodice was cut low, and the large puffed sleeves were worn off-the-shoulder. As I put it on, I was honest enough with myself to acknowledge that I was dressing for Count Orlov. What he might think of me didn’t matter, of course, but he had, after all, saved my life, and it was only natural that I would want to make a pleasing impression.

  The gorgeous skirt rustled as I returned to the dressing table, the delicate lace whispering softly. Sitting down in front of the mirror, I began to put my hair up, arranging it in an artful pile of waves and letting a few curling wisps brush my temples and the nape of my neck. Finally satisfied, I stood up and adjusted the bodice that accentuated the full, rounded curves of my bosom. I might not launch a single skiff, but at least I looked far better than I had the last time Orlov had seen me.

  Too restless to remain in my room, I decided to take a stroll in the gardens behind the inn, and as I stepped into the hall I could hear the rowdy merriment issuing from the taproom. There was gruff, hearty laughter, raucous shouting, the crash of breaking glass. The count’s men were certainly enjoying themselves, tearing the place apart from the sound of it. Fortunately the inn had a private dining room for more affluent guests, so I needn’t be exposed to the boisterous revelry. I assumed Orlov and his niece would be dining there and that I would be asked to join them. I was rather surprised, in fact, that Lucie hadn’t come up to check on me.

  Moving down the creaky back stairs that smelled of cabbage and soiled linen, I marveled at the curious twists and turns life held in store for us. Two weeks ago I had been in London with the man I loved, convinced I loved another, and now here I was in a sprawling old country inn on the outskirts of a tiny village whose name I didn’t even know, all through the kindness of an exotic, enigmatic young Russian girl and her mysterious, dazzlingly wealthy uncle. Had their coach not come down the road when it did, had they not acted so promptly, I might well have died. I owed them a great deal, and I intended to thank Count Orlov as best I could. Smiling at an untidy scullery maid who was busily polishing a pair of boots in the dusty back hall, I opened the door and stepped outside.

  Twilight was just beginning to settle in, and the air was soft with a fine blue haze while, above, the sky was a pure pearl gray. I reveled in the marvelous smells of herbs, of bark and moss and rich, loamy soil. Completely enclosed by gray stone walls and surrounded by old oaks with low, groaning boughs, the gardens were quite extensive, extending at least half an acre, flagged walks winding throughout. Asparagus, carrots and lettuce grew in the kitchen garden, and there was a bed of peas and beans as well. The herb garden was a square of pink and purple and brown and a dozen shades of green from palest yellow-green to darkest emerald, the herbs cleverly planted to form an ornate pattern. A rake and a battered straw hat had been abandoned there. Walking past an old stone well dark with mossy stains, a rusty bucket hanging over it, I moved under the arched trellises and strolled slowly through the flower gardens, the lovely, deliberately unkempt beds ablaze with color.

  How peaceful it was here, surrounded by the wild, riotous confusion of flowers. How serene it was with the oak boughs groaning quietly and a solitary bird warbling plaintively among the leaves. As the blue haze gradually deepened to soft violet, as the sky darkened to ashy gray tinged with amethyst, I smelled the heady fragrance of poppy and hollyhock and thought about the dream I had had this afternoon. A poignant sadness crept over me as I experienced anew the frustrations of that dream. I had lost Jeremy in my dream. In my dream he had vanished just as we were about to experience the bliss we both craved. Had I lost him in real life? For the first time I faced the realization that he might no longer want me, and who could blame him?

  Plucking a hollyhock blossom from one of the tall stalks, I lifted the luscious red bloom to my nostrils. Jeremy Bond had loved me from the first, and he had proved that love over and over again, only to be met by my disdain, my hauteur, my wicked, wounding tongue. He was a bounder, yes, a merry, mercurial scamp full of infuriating faults, but he had loved me as no man ever had or ever would. Did he love me still, or had that love finally been thwarted when I left him? Had he waited a week, still hoping I would return, finally giving up? Had he left London in despair or, even worse, had he found some woman to assuage his grief? Women would always flock around Jeremy Bond, drawn to him as moths to a flame, that virile beauty, that dazzling charm utterly irresistible, and, like moths, they would invariably be burned.

  The hollyhock was a mass of bruised petals in my hand. I hadn’t been aware th
at I was crushing it. Dropping the petals, I gazed at the flowers without seeing them, seeing, instead, that beloved face, that look in his eyes when I left him. The bird had stopped warbling. Leaves made a soft whispering sound in the breeze, and the first fireflies had begun to float among the shrubbery to dot the twilight with flickering golden glows. There was a tight feeling in my throat. I felt very frail, very vulnerable, for once unable to cope with these emotions inside.

  “You must not be sad,” he said.

  I turned. I hadn’t heard him approaching. He stood several feet away from me. He was dressed all in white. He was, without question, the most beautiful man I had ever seen.

  Chapter Three

  I was startled, momentarily unable to speak, and I could only stare at him with disbelief. Standing there with legs spread wide, one hand resting lightly on his thigh, he seemed an apparition in the deepening violet haze. Six feet five if an inch, he had the superbly muscled body of an athlete in top condition, a body Michelangelo might have sculpted, I thought, seeing the broad shoulders and powerful chest, the slender waist and long, muscular legs. White leather boots came to mid-calf, and the legs were sheathed in supple white kidskin breeches that clung to every curve. He wore a loose, smocklike shirt of fine white silk, the full bell sleeves gathered at the wrist, the collar fitting around his neck in clerical fashion. A heavy white velvet cloak fell back from his shoulders, flaring behind him in sumptuous folds. He looked like … like a fallen archangel, for that face, while beautiful, was undeniably the face of an extremely sensual man.

  His hair was a thick, luxuriant golden brown. His dark brows were perfectly arched, lids drooping heavily over eyes so deep a blue they seemed navy blue. His nose was Roman, a great prow of a nose, his cheekbones broad and slavic. He had a strong, square jaw with clefted chin, and his mouth was wide and pink, the lower lip generously curved. The near-feminine perfection of his features was offset by a stamp of rugged virility. He should smell of gunpowder and dust and sweaty flesh, I thought, and I sensed that he frequently had. He had the confident, near-arrogant stance of the soldier, a veteran of many battles, and the fine clothes merely emphasized the unquestionable toughness.