“I must fly!” she exclaimed. “I promised Bryan I’d meet him at the stables at two.”
I looked surprised at that. She smiled ruefully.
“He knocked on my door this morning,” she told me. “He was very serious and sober and contrite. He asked me to forgive him for his unbecoming conduct last night, said he’d had too much to drink. He vowed he’d be a perfect gentleman if only I’d let him make amends. I was terribly sweet and understanding.”
“Of course.”
“It’s almost two. I have to change. I’ll see you later, Marietta.”
She hurried down the hall and raced nimbly up the stairs, waves bouncing, dusty rose skirt fluttering wildly. I watched her with a satisfaction not untinged with envy. She was a young girl in love, with all those charming mannerisms such a state imposed, and when I thought of the miserable, self-tormenting creature she had been in England I was amazed at the transformation. If I had had something to do with it, then all these months of hardship and frustration had been worthwhile.
I wandered idly about the great house, encountering no one but an occasional silent footman, and I had the feeling I was adrift in an empty, luxurious ship. I was sad, restless. My cheeks were pale. There were faint gray shadows beneath my eyes. I selected a book from the library and tried to concentrate on it, but it was futile. I put the book aside and resumed my wandering, admiring the splendor on every side, beginning to find it oppressive. Eventually I found myself at the entrance to an enormous glass conservatory that had been appended to the east side of the house.
I stepped inside, closing the door behind me. Brilliant afternoon sunlight streamed down through the domed glass ceiling, gilding the vivid green leaves of hundreds of exotic trees and plants. There were flowers, too, opulent cream and mauve orchids speckled with gold, purple bougainvillaea in thick strands, roses of every description. I marveled that they could be blooming at this time of year, the ground outside covered with thick white blankets of snow. The moist, warm air inside was laden with heady fragrances, a dozen perfumes mingling, blending to produce a scent that was almost intoxicating.
The glass walls and ceiling were beaded with moisture. Moisture dripped from pale green fronds, from large, rubbery green-black leaves, from spikes of the richest emerald and jade. I was amazed to see pineapples growing, to see palm trees and bizarre shrubs that must have come from the Orient. Here, too, I knew, Rostopchin was following the example of Empress Catherine who had had a spectacular domed glass conservatory built on the roof of the Winter Palace, filling it with shrubs, trees, plants, and flowers from all over the world. I stroked a satiny green leaf, fingered a strand of delicate yellow-green ivy, gazed in wonderment at long green stalks that spouted marvelous bird-shaped flowers of orange and blue. Water dripped, pattering softly. The moist air seemed to caress my skin.
Turning a corner, I came across a bed of moss, a bank of ferns. Growing in glazed white pots were a dozen rose bushes, each in full bloom, the roses a gloriously subtle shade of pink, rich yet delicately pale, a perfect pink, the pink of a fragile shell. Pink was furled in tight buds. Velvety petals spread and swelled in full-blown pink roses. I had never seen such beautiful flowers, the sight of them so poignantly lovely it almost brought tears to my eyes. It was as I was examining these roses that the door to the conservatory opened. I heard footsteps approaching. I turned.
Count Gregory Orlov walked down aisles of greenery toward me.
I wasn’t surprised. Not really. I stood there in front of the blaze of pink roses in my simply cut tan silk frock, watching him approach. He had removed his jacket and vest. He wore brown leather knee boots and snug brown breeches and a full-sleeved, loosely fitting shirt of thin beige silk, opened at the throat, the garment bagging where it had been casually tucked into the waistband of his breeches. He paused a few feet away from me, placing his hands on his thighs. He looked at me. He didn’t speak, nor did I. A long moment passed.
“I come looking for you,” he finally said. “One of the footmen tells me he sees you going toward the conservatory.”
“You’ve been out?” I asked.
“Rostopchin and I leave early this morning. We ride around the estate. He points with pride to the improvements he has made. Me, I am bored. I want only to speak with you. I can think of nothing else.”
“Where—where is Count Rostopchin now?”
“He goes to the summerhouse to placate his mistress. She is a Frenchwoman, an actress. She is irate that he banishes her to the summerhouse during the time of our visit. She throws a tantrum. Vasily finds it amusing. Me, I would beat her.”
“You would beat a woman?”
“If she deserved it. This Minette, I meet her. She is a skinny, painted shrew, very rude and spiteful. I long to beat her black and blue, but then I am in a very bad mood at the time.”
“Oh?”
“I am thinking of you, thinking of all the things I wish to say. I am impatient to be gone, but Vasily insists we stop so that I can meet his treasure. He does not wish to have her in the house while you and Lucie are here. Vasily is very proper about these matters.”
“I see.”
“I search the house. I find you at last.”
“This is a wondrous place,” I said quietly.
“There are things I need to say.”
“These roses—look at them, Gregory. The petals are like soft pink velvet. I—they’re so beautiful I could cry.”
“I do not see them. I see only you.”
“Please—”
“Last night I wish to make love to you.”
“I—I don’t think I care to hear this. Talk is—”
“You shall,” he said. His voice was firm. “Last night I see you in the golden gown and my throat aches, my muscles tighten, I am filled with passionate desire. I control myself. I can barely sit at the dinner table. I wish to roar like a madman each time I glance at you.”
“Gregory—”
“In the library, I watch you. You look so sad, so lost. It is time, I think. It is time I make her forget about this man she grieves for. It is time I force her to forget. I go over to you. I am polite. You are polite, too, and cold, as cold as ice.”
“I—I didn’t—”
“You shut up. You listen. I take you upstairs, planning to force you to acknowledge my passion. All this time I wait and wait, so patient, and I tell myself I cannot wait any longer. I must have you. I want you so much I am ready to drive my fist through the wall.”
His hands were balled into fists now, and his handsome face was stern, the navy blue eyes dark, determined. His tawny golden brown hair was slightly damp, and his skin was damp, too, moistened by the air. I gazed at him, beautifully calm, all inner turmoil resolved. His thin beige silk shirt clung lightly to his chest, and a tiny rivulet of moisture ran down his temple.
“I wish to tell you this last night as we stand in front of your door,” he said.
“Why didn’t you?” I asked.
“You are like the block of ice, lovely, aloof.”
“If only you knew,” I said.
“I leave you. I go out to join my men in the quarters Vasily has provided for them. He has also generously provided women for them, six healthy peasant girls with rosy cheeks and flaxen hair. They giggle and titter and make the eyes. I drink much vodka. I take one of these plump girls and make love with her. I am fierce and strong. I pound and pound until she cries out for me to stop.”
I was silent. He scowled.
“I tell you this because it is important you know what I am feeling. I take this girl and use her roughly because I cannot have you. All the time I am thrusting inside her I am seeing you in my mind. I am longing for you to be beneath me.”
“I see,” I said.
“You are shocked by this?”
“No, Gregory, I’m not shocked.”
“You are offended?”
I shook my head. He looked bewildered now, all the vehemence gone, his face glistening with moistu
re. It seemed to droop wearily, the soft roll of flesh beneath his chin more pronounced. Water dripped all around us with a quiet pattering sound. Leaves rustled in the warm air. Gregory reached up to brush a damp wisp of hair from his brow. I turned to look at the roses again, touching one delicate shell pink petal with the ball of my thumb.
“I should not have told you these things,” he said.
His voice sounded strained. I could feel him standing there behind me, his presence so strong it seemed to fill the air with energy. I stroked the rose petal, in command now, in control. I felt that age-old power every woman feels when she knows the game is hers.
“Now I have spoiled things,” he told me.
“No, Gregory.”
I turned back around. He was ill at ease, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. He was perspiring freely, the thin silk shirt moist, hanging limply now. His eyes were full of misery. Men are so dense, I thought, so slow to comprehend the things women know instinctively. I smiled at him, confusing him all the more, and he frowned.
“You make me crazy,” he said roughly. “Never have I known a woman who makes me feel like—like a great, stupid ox.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I look at you and I want to smash something. This is the only way to release these feelings boiling inside me.”
“The only way?”
“If you were a peasant woman or a whore I would know what to do, and I would not hesitate, but you are a fine lady. I fear to offend you. I fear you will think me a brute, a boor.”
“Poor Gregory.”
“You taunt me?”
“You have far too many fears,” I said lightly.
He frowned again, puzzled. “This means?”
“This means no woman likes to be placed on a pedestal for too long. A time comes when she longs to be brought down to earth and made to feel she’s flesh and blood. Kindly extend my apologies to Count Rostopchin,” I continued. “Tell him I will not be dining downstairs tonight. I prefer to remain in my room.”
I left him there, moving slowly, serenely down the dripping green aisles. I left the conservatory without looking back. I fetched a book from the library and took it to my room and read, peaceful and content, and later as the light began to fade, as shadows gathered on the snow, and pink and orange banners melted on the horizon, I found a servant and requested a bath, and I bathed in perfumed water and washed my hair, reveling in the rich lather and the delicious warmth of the water. Bath things removed by two husky footmen, candles glowing, a fire crackling quietly in the fireplace, I dried my hair. Louison seemed to watch from over the mantel, her dark, seductive eyes understanding all, approving.
No elaborate coiffure tonight. I let my hair fall free in a rich tumble of waves. They glistened with a deep red-gold sheen in the candlelight. No spangled gown tonight either. I donned a petticoat of frail, cobweb-colored lace with a form-fitting bodice that half concealed, half revealed the flesh beneath. The full skirts floated like smoke as I moved across the room, and I smiled to myself as I slipped on the gown of pale pearl gray satin printed with tiny sapphire and silver flowers. The cloth was sumptuous, the gown itself simple and elegant in cut with a full skirt that spread in gleaming folds.
I waited. It was dark outside now, moonlight gilding the snow with a silvery sheen, candles creating a warm golden glow inside. It was after eight when I heard the expected knock on the door. I opened it, surprised to see a scowling, disapproving Vladimir instead of one of Count Rostopchin’s servants. I stepped aside. Vladimir entered, followed by three other servants who carried a small round table, two gilt chairs, and various other items. I watched silently as the table was set up in a corner, covered with a snowy white cloth, two places set with gorgeous bone china adorned with blue and gold and solid silver cutlery, all under the scowling supervision of Vladimir.
He finally nodded his approval. The other three servants left, returning a few moments later with dishes of food and a silver bucket with a slender bottle nestling in ice. Vladimir continued to scowl as dishes and bucket were placed on the table, and then, giving me a long, fierce look, he jerked his head toward the door, ordering his men out, following them a moment later. Not a word had been spoken. I closed the door behind them, totally unperturbed by Vladimir’s hostility. By this time I had long since grown immune to it.
Several minutes passed. Draped in her garland of flowers, naked flesh glowing pink in the candlelight, Louison seemed to wait too, smiling coyly. Du Barry’s bed stood in gold and white splendor, the shell pink satin counterpane smooth and inviting. If ever a room was designed with seduction in mind, it was this one. Candles flickered, washing everything with a golden haze. The air was softly perfumed, filled with a subtle, erotic atmosphere. Boucher’s shepherds and shepherdesses cavorted on the panels in soft, delicate hues. A delicious anticipation tingled inside me as I waited for him to join me.
He knocked. I opened the door. He smiled, peering at me over an armful of roses, the glorious pink roses I had admired earlier in the conservatory.
“I bring these,” he said. “I hope to please you.”
“I’m very pleased.”
“I cut them myself,” he continued. “I carefully remove every thorn. I jab my thumb quite bad, bring blood.”
“Poor dear,” I said. “Did it hurt?”
“I hardly notice. I suck the blood away and go on cutting. I want to do this job myself. I do not call a servant.”
“It was very thoughtful of you.”
I led him inside the room. He pushed the door shut behind him. I took the roses from him and placed them carefully on the dressing table.
“You tell me you do not dine downstairs tonight. You say you remain in your room. You must eat, I tell myself. I take the liberty of arranging a light meal.”
“How kind.”
“I come to join you. You are displeased?”
“What do you think?”
“I think maybe you are glad to see me,” he said.
His voice was a deep, husky rasp. His hooded navy blue eyes took in my glistening hair, my naked shoulders and the sumptuous low-cut satin gown. It was hardly the garment one would wear to spend an evening alone in one’s room. Orlov had read my subtle invitation correctly, all right, and he had the exultant, confident manner men have when they know a certain conquest is in the offing, sexual energy carefully, impatiently contained, a good-humored glow suffusing from within. He grinned, a wide, lovely grin that perfectly expressed his expectations.
He was wearing supple gray leather knee boots and clinging gray breeches that fit his muscular legs like a second skin. His fine white lawn shirt was as thin as air, bagging slightly at the waist, opened at the throat, the full sleeves gathered at the wrist. Casual, elegant attire, much more appropriate than gold-frogged velvet uniform, I thought. With his rich golden brown hair attractively tousled he looked like an aging choirboy, wonderfully virile and spectacularly handsome, exuding magnetism quite impossible to resist.
“Let me see your thumb,” I said.
He held it out. I took it in my hand, examining the narrow cut outlined with tiny clots of dried blood. I stroked it lightly. His huge fingers curled around my hand, clasping it firmly, his thumb gently scratching the inside of my palm. Tantalizing sensations stirred as his fingers uncurled and wrestled with mine, squeezing, pressing, bending. My knuckles cracked as he bent my fingers back, clasping them tighter. He grinned again, pink lips stretching wide, dark eyes gleaming.
“I hurt you?” he asked.
“I’m afraid you don’t know your own strength.”
“I know my strength,” he said. “Later on I show you.”
“Oh?”
“Me, I have the stamina of ten.”
“I’ve always found boasting unbecoming.”
“I do not boast. I speak the facts.”
“We’ll see,” I said, pulling my hand free.
“I am so happy. I want to throw my arms wide and embrace the world. I wa
nt to yell until my throat is raw. For months I look forward to this night. For months I dream of it. I think you do not want me. I fear I will frighten you away if I say the things I long to say.”
“I—I needed time,” I said.
“This I realize. I give you lots of time. I suffer. I scowl. I pound my pillow with my fists because I want you so much, because you are not there beneath me to receive my gift of passion.”
The words might have been ludicrous coming from another man, but he was Russian, and florid melodrama was perfectly natural to him. I smiled anyway, turning away from him, moving to stand in front of the fireplace. Gregory looked at me, feasting his eyes, the bulge in his breeches growing more and more pronounced. For all his need, he was in no hurry, nor was I. Both of us knew the tantalizing delights of prolongation. He sauntered lazily toward me and stood in front of me, looking down at my face, my bare shoulders, the swelling curve of my half-exposed bosom.
“Never have I known so beautiful a woman,” he crooned huskily. “Never have I wanted so strongly, waited so long.”
“You must have known dozens of women.”
“Hundreds,” he said. “None of them like you.”
He took hold of my arms and tilted his head, lips parted. He pulled me toward him and lowered his head and I tilted mine back and his fingers tightened on my arms and our lips met and sweet splendor blossomed inside. After a long, long minute, he drew back, his dark eyes glowing, a smile curling on those lips so recently caressing my own.
“I open the wine now,” he said.
He stepped over to the table and grasped the neck of the slender bottle and pulled it out of the ice. Pressing his strong thumbs against the cork, he began to ease it out, grimacing in concentration as he did so. It flew free with a loud pop, shooting across the room. A foamy amber spray fizzed in the air like a miniature geyser. Orlov jumped back, startled. I smiled as he fumbled about and finally filled two fragile crystal glasses, bringing them over and handing one to me.
When Love Commands Page 28
