When Love Commands

by Jennifer Wilde

  Gracious, garrulous, teasing young Lloyd and urging him on, Count Rostopchin seemed completely unaware of the undercurrents affecting the rest of us. He was, I sensed, a simple, uncomplicated man with a great capacity for pleasure. Inept at intrigue, free of complex emotions, he gadded through a gilded world of fashion, frivolity and fleshly indulgence, a preposterous old scoundrel without a serious thought in his head, immensely likeable nevertheless. The courts of Europe were filled with his kind. He turned to me now, smiling a roguish smile.

  “More wine, Miss Danver?” he inquired.

  “No, thank you,” I replied.

  “I’ll have some more,” Bryan said.

  “You’ve had quite enough,” our host told him. “One more glass and you’ll undoubtedly start telling us about your next play. Eat your fish like a good little boy.”

  “There’s going to be trouble,” Bryan growled. “I must warn you that I have absolutely no compunction about beating up a man old enough to be my grandfather.”

  “Grandfather! I’m not a day over forty-five. These wretched lines and wrinkles you see marring my handsome visage are the results of riotous living, not encroaching old age. You’re an impudent pup, sir!”

  “And you’re a liar. Forty-five? What a hoot!”

  “I may adopt him,” Rostopchin confided. “He’s a joy.”

  “He’s also drunk,” Lucie said sullenly.

  Bryan gave her a glowering look and decided to ignore the remark. Orlov chuckled. The footmen removed our plates and brought in the next course. I felt as though I were trapped inside a gilded cage and longed to flee, but I managed to maintain a polite, social composure, almost screaming with relief when the meal was finally over and we adjourned to the enormous library done in pale blue, white, and gold, thousands of leather-bound volumes filling the lacquered white shelves. The men had brandy. Lucie sat down at the pianoforte and began to pick out a plaintive tune. I wandered about examining the wonderful objets d’art, still feeling trapped.

  “You admire these things?” Orlov inquired.

  Perhaps fifteen minutes had passed. Lucie was still at the pianoforte, studying a piece of music. Rostopchin and Bryan were cackling over a folio of pornographic engravings, and I was gazing disconsolately at a Sèvres porcelain of a splendidly attired courtier ardently embracing a plump shepherdess in pink. Immersed in thought, I hadn’t been aware of Orlov’s approach, and I looked up at him in surprise.

  “I—I’ve always admired fine porcelains,” I said. “Count Rostopchin’s collection is particularly lovely.”

  “This is so,” he said.

  He hadn’t the least interest in porcelain, didn’t so much as look at the superbly detailed example I had been gazing at. The dark navy blue eyes with their heavy, drooping lids never left my face. The lids made him look indolent, lazy. I had never realized before just how seductive those eyes were, so dark a blue, blue-black, so attentive, making one feel so … so female and fragile. I lowered my gaze, feeling a faint blush tint my cheeks.

  “I notice you do not eat much tonight,” he said.

  “I wasn’t hungry,” I replied.

  But you noticed, I said silently.

  “Does this mean you do not feel well?”

  “I feel fine,” I said.

  “The journey is very hard on you. Soon it will be over.”

  “Yes.”

  Lucie began to finger the keys again, idly picking out a tune. Across the room, Rostopchin and Bryan had taken down another heavy folio and opened it on a table. The room was so large, the others so distant, that Orlov and I might have been alone. I seemed to be having trouble with my breathing, my bosom rising, straining against its silken prison, my nipples taut and hard as Orlov continued to gaze at me with lazy eyes. Dozens of candles created pools of golden light. The room seemed suddenly very warm, almost overwhelmingly so.

  “You are uncomfortable?” he asked.

  “Not at all,” I lied.

  He was standing so close, so close I could feel the warmth of his body and smell his skin and sweat and hair and the scent of velvet. He looked at me, and I couldn’t meet those eyes, couldn’t look into their depths and read the message there. I looked at his mouth, wide and firm and fleshy, curving full and pink. I remembered the touch of those lips. I tried to forget. I remembered how insistent, how assertive they had been, forcing my own apart so that his tongue could thrust and probe. The wine, I told myself. I had far too much wine. I feel weak. I feel dizzy. The room is so warm.

  Bryan said something I couldn’t make out. Rostopchin cackled.

  “I—I like your friend very much,” I said.

  “Yes, Vasily is a good friend indeed.”

  Why was he standing so close? I could … I could reach up and touch that broad, flat cheekbone, the skin stretched so tautly across the bone. I longed to do just that. I caught my breath, my nipples rubbing against silk. The sensation was like a subtle caress. Orlov was fully aware of my discomfort, but he did not step back. He was so very large, so solid and muscular, his body exuding brute strength, making me feel small, vulnerable. Damn him for doing this to me, I thought, and I felt a touch of panic as smooth silk softly tormented my expanding nipples.

  “He is very fond of you,” I remarked.

  Did my voice tremble? Why did my throat seem to ache?

  “Vasily is the only one of my friends who remains loyal after my fall,” Orlov said. “The others, they fade away like shadows, but Vasily remains my friend,”

  “He—he certainly admires the French.”

  “Yes, this is—what do you English call it?—this is his chief eccentricity. The French furniture, the French art, the French clothes—is very tiresome, but it gives him pleasure. Me, I am proud to be Russian and have no patience with this passion for things French.”

  “I think I will go back up to my room,” I said.

  “I will escort you.”

  “That isn’t necessary.”

  “This I will do,” he said firmly.

  There was no point in my protesting, no point at all. My knees seemed weak, and I was still a bit dizzy as we moved slowly across the room, Orlov close beside me. As we joined them, Bryan and Rostopchin looked up from the book spread open before them on the table. I caught a glimpse of the engravings and quickly averted my eyes. Orlov explained that I was not feeling too well, that he was going to take me up to my room. Rostopchin was concerned. I assured him I was just a little tired.

  “A good night’s sleep is all I need,” I told him.

  “You should be comfortable. The bed is very special.”

  “Du Barry slept in it,” I said.

  He arched a brow, surprised. “How did you know?”

  “I guessed.”

  I smiled. He kissed my hand. Bryan turned the page. Lucie gave me one of her exasperated looks as Orlov and I left the room. I felt terrible, deserting her like this, but Bryan would eventually tire of the engravings and Rostopchin would leave them alone together and the two young people would undoubtedly circle each other cautiously and continue the game begun the moment they met.

  Orlov and I walked down the hall, past the lovely, titillating Fragonard panels that had once belonged to Richelieu—all those billowing petticoats and naked limbs, all that exuberant sexuality in flowery surroundings. The French were obsessed by flesh, it seemed, or … perhaps they were simply more honest. Orlov took hold of my arm as we started up the staircase, his fingers curling tightly just above my elbow, squeezing the flesh. My skirts rustled with a silken music, gold spangles shimmering in the candlelight. I felt as though I might faint.

  He maintained his grip on my arm when we reached the hallway leading to my bedroom. Neither of us had said a word since leaving the library. I wasn’t sure I could speak without betraying the emotions that filled me with a sweet, familiar torment. We reached the door of my bedroom. Orlov released my arm. I turned, polite, cool on the surface, that composure hard won, impossible to maintain much longer. He looked int
o my eyes, still silent, and his own were twin pools of desire, dark and smoldering beneath drooping lids. His mouth tightened, the lower lip full, taut. The invisible wall was gone, the air between us charged with age-old tension.

  Would he make the first move? Should I? I stood poker-stiff, so cool, my chin tilted, looking up at him with frosty composure that utterly belied the sensations stirring within. Orlov frowned, bothered, uncertain, waiting for a signal I was unable to give him. Damn my reserve. Damn my pride. He continued to gaze at me, the frown deepening, and then he stepped back, nodding curtly, and I knew it was not to be. Tonight it was not to be.

  “Thank you, Count Orlov,” I said politely.

  “I hope you will feel better.”

  “I’m sure I will.”

  He hesitated, clearly reluctant to leave, tormented himself and either unable or unwilling to make the move both of us wanted him to make. The man celebrated for his sexual conquests was, now, as awkward and inarticulate as an adolescent boy. Why did he hesitate? He wanted me. The snug fit of his velvet breeches left no doubt about that. Why didn’t he make the move, and why must I be so frostily composed when I longed to melt against him and assuage the needs consuming me?

  “You—you wanted to say something else?” I asked.

  He scowled, angry now, though whether with me or with himself I couldn’t determine. He took a deep breath, his chest swelling.

  “I do not force you,” he said brusquely.

  He turned and moved briskly down the hall and I went into the pink and cream room with gold gilt gleaming in the candlelight and subtle, erotic art on every side. A fire burned cozily in the fireplace. The satin bedcovers had been turned back. The room was warm, the air perfumed with the sensuous fragrance of cut flowers. The voluptuous Louison seemed to watch me as I removed my spangled silk gown and draped it over a chair. The randy shepherds and coy shepherdesses seemed to taunt me as they cavorted on the gold-framed panels. The French found it so easy, so natural, so gloriously right and uncomplicated.

  I do not force you, he had said. Did he think force would be necessary? Was I so very unapproachable? Had my experience with Jeremy made me so aloof and guarded that another man was afraid to reach out to me? I suddenly realized that Orlov wasn’t responsible for that invisible wall that had sprung up between us. I had created it myself. Removing the pale yellow petticoat, I put out the candles and, naked, climbed into the bed Du Barry had once used to entertain her royal lover. The bed was very large, too large for one person, and the perfumed silk sheets seemed to caress my flesh. As pale silver moonlight streamed through the windows, I gnawed my lower lip, empty, bereft, with only myself to blame.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lucie looked bored and irritable as we strolled slowly down the long white gallery, examining Count Rostopchin’s collection of paintings. They were, for the most part, by Boucher, Fragonard, and Watteau, of that flowery, fleshy school he seemed to admire so much. Georgeously framed, lining one wall, they were indeed beautiful, but I didn’t care if I never saw another fluttering petticoat, another passionate shepherd, another flowery garland draped across a naked shoulder. Lucie seemed to feel the same way. It was early afternoon now. Both of us had slept late, lingering over breakfast in our rooms, skipping lunch.

  “Louison again,” Lucie remarked. “Boucher must have painted her hundreds of times. Insipid little thing, isn’t she?”

  “She’s quite pretty.”

  “Much too plump,” Lucie declared. “Look at those vacuous eyes. You can tell she never had a serious thought in her life.”

  “I don’t imagine she had to think all that much.”

  “Do men really like that? Do they really want a plump, curvy little imbecile?”

  “I’ve no idea what men want,” I said dryly.

  “I thought you were an expert?”

  “If I were an expert, my dear, I wouldn’t be strolling down a gallery with a sulky young woman.”

  “There’s no need to be bitchy about it.”

  “You, my dear, do not have a monopoly on bitchiness.”

  “Let’s don’t fight,” she said. “I did quite enough fighting last night, thank you.”

  “Oh?”

  “With Bryan,” she replied.

  We paused in front of a majestic, full-length portrait of Louis XIV by Hyacinthe Rigaud. The Sun King stood with one hand on his hip, the other leaning on a golden cane. An ermine-lined, black velvet robe embroidered with gleaming gold fleurs-de-lis seemed to engulf him, although his legs were bare, red heels and white silk stockings making him seem a bit more human. The puffy, sensual face was framed by a curly black wig much too large for him.

  “Did he use one of his famous holds on you?” I asked.

  “He tried,” she said. “Rostopchin, the old devil, left us alone shortly after you and my uncle left. Bryan tried to interest me in those wretched engravings. I told him I wasn’t interested. He told me I might find them quite educational. Can you imagine?”

  “I can imagine.”

  “The cheek! I played it cool and demure, the proper young maiden. Perdita never gave a better performance. He told me I needed to loosen up. He said I had no idea what I was missing.”

  “If only he knew.”

  “That was cruel, Marietta.”

  “I know, darling. It was unforgivable. I—I’m terribly sorry. I had a very bad night.”

  “No harm done,” she said. “It happens to be true—I’ve had more experience than that—that callow youth ever dreamed of having, and I felt like a bloody hypocrite, fluttering my lashes, attempting to blush. I was quite convincing, though.”

  “He retreated?”

  “On the contrary, he advanced all the more. You’re right—Englishmen do find innocence intriguing. I suppose it’s their desire to corrupt. Corrupting me was definitely on the agenda last night.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He took my hand. He looked deeply into my eyes and told me there was a world of pleasure he longed to show me. His voice was low, his eyes dark and dreamy. I almost laughed in his face. I figured it would be a serious tactical error.”

  “Definitely.”

  “He ran his hand up my arm, took hold of my shoulder, squeezed it gently, terribly sincere. He told me I was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, told me he’d perish on the spot if he couldn’t savor the sweetness of my perfect pink mouth.”

  “No wonder his play was a failure,” I said. “If he used lines like that it’s a miracle they didn’t stone him.”

  “I wish they had.”

  “Not really, dear.”

  “Not really,” she confessed. “He squeezed my shoulder with one hand and touched my throat with the other and parted his lips, all sleepy and seductive, looking like a moon-sick calf. I drew back, timid, confused. He pulled me into his arms and crooned that he would never, never hurt me, and then he kissed me for a very long time.”

  “How was it?”

  “Divine. I don’t know that I’ve ever been kissed so—so thoroughly. He certainly knows what he’s doing. I struggled like a kitten. He tightened his arms.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I broke loose and slapped him so hard he went reeling backward and fell flat on his bottom. I felt rather bad about that, but instinct told me it was the right thing to do. He was livid—rightfully so, I suppose. He pulled himself up and glared at me and told me I was a spoiled, silly little simp who hadn’t a clue what life was all about.”

  “And you said?”

  “I said I knew what he was about, all right. I told him I found his juvenile attempts at seduction insulting to my intelligence. He looked like he wanted to murder me.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “He shouted some more and then stormed out of the room. He’s not accustomed to being rejected.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “I didn’t want to reject him,” she admitted. “He may be churlish and a bit too sure of himself,
but—he’s terribly appealing.”

  “I agree.”

  “That cocky, confident manner of his is—is really merely a defense. Beneath it all he’s terribly serious and quite insecure.”

  “He needs a steadying influence,” I said.

  “Exactly.”

  We moved down the gallery, eyeing more Bouchers, more Fragonards, more flowery Watteaus. There was a portrait of Madame de Montespan by Mignard, an interesting study of Louis XIV as Mars, a landscape by Boucher blessedly free of cupids and naked nymphs. Lucie seemed thoughtful now, a pensive expression in her violet-blue eyes. In her simple dusty rose frock, with lustrous golden brown waves streaming down her back, she looked every bit as innocent as Bryan Lloyd believed her to be.

  “I—I keep thinking about the conversation we had back in London,” she said quietly. “You were so—so understanding. You told me I should save myself for the right young man. I—it was very hard, but I promised myself I wouldn’t—wouldn’t do those things anymore.”

  “Lucie—”

  “These past months, I’ve learned to respect myself. I’ve even learned to like myself—at least a little. Having a friend like you has helped. I know I would never have been able to keep my promise if I hadn’t had you.”

  “I’ve been an awful bitch at times.”

  “So have I,” she said. “Last night I—I almost broke my promise to myself. I’ve never met anyone like him. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. It’s not just wanting to sleep with him—”

  “I know, darling.”

  “Do you think I could be in love?”

  “I think it’s highly possible.”

  “Damn! Wouldn’t you know it would be someone utterly impossible. I wish I’d never met him.”

  “I know that feeling.”

  “Celibacy may be admirable,” she complained, “but it’s damned hard on a person.”

  I wisely refrained from comment. Lucie sighed and tossed her head, lustrous waves swaying. We had reached the end of the gallery and turned back, eventually reaching the main hallway. The house was silent. The men had gone out much earlier. When she saw the magnificent gold and white porcelain clock on one of the tables, Lucie let out a little gasp.