“Count Gregory Orlov!” he thundered. “Miss Marietta Danver!”
All eyes were upon us as we stood at the top of a shallow flight of marble steps leading into a vast reception room with a sky blue ceiling painted with pink-hued white clouds, the superb oval molding framing it lavish with gold gilt. Half a dozen immense chandeliers shed radiant light, hundreds of crystal pendants glittering, and the creamy white walls were divided by pale pink and sky blue panels framed in gold and overlaid with leafy gilt designs. It was a spectacular setting for the brilliant, bejeweled crowd who stared openly as Gregory tucked my hand into the crook of his arm and led me slowly down the stairs and into their midst.
Gregory beamed, savoring his moment of triumph. I felt numb, as though this were all happening to someone else. Marietta Danver, a former convicted thief and indentured servant who had trekked the Natchez Trace on a mule, who had made a perilous journey through the swamps of the Gulf of Texas pursued by cannibal Indians, now in the Winter Palace, waiting to meet Catherine of Russia—it seemed unreal. I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be in Texas with Em and Randy, people who were real, people who had suffered and survived as I had, who didn’t live in a brilliant, artificial world like carefully nurtured greenhouse flowers. I took a deep breath, preparing myself.
There must have been two hundred people in the room, the women gorgeously gowned and bejeweled, the men as splendidly attired, and an inordinate number of the them were strapping, handsome young military types in full-dress uniform. The Turkish ambassador, in colorful native garb, was surrounded by a chattering clique, but Catherine hadn’t appeared yet. I knew from Gregory that, except for state occasions, she liked to dispense with ceremony and the boredom of tedious protocol, conducting court affairs with a breezy informality horrifying to certain of her ministers and those of the old regime who felt it unseemly for an Empress to be quite so cavalier.
As Gregory and I moved across the polished parquet floor I could feel the stares and hear the excited whispers exchanged behind fans. I nodded at several people who had dined at the Marble Palace, smiled politely, began to play my role. We were quickly surrounded, for Gregory’s appearance here tonight was of tantamount importance in court circles. Was he to be reinstated? Was Potemkin to be supplanted? Would Orlov soon wield his old power and influence? The whole structure of court politics could change overnight, and those whose livelihood depended on the favors of those in favor made certain to cover all bets. Greetings were effusive, compliments lavish, smiles openly fawning.
“Well, Gregory, I never expected to see you here again,” a tall brunette announced.
Her voice was sarcastic and, amidst all the gushing insincerity, quite refreshing. Rather heavyset, she wore a black velvet gown appliquéd with silver leaves, the full skirt parting in front to reveal a cloth-of-silver underskirt. Well into her forties, she had a round, fleshy face dominated by cynical brown eyes and a sullen scarlet mouth that drooped at the corners. Her heavy eyelids were coated with mauve shadow, and she wore far too much powder, yet she still had a curiously potent sexual allure. One was reminded of a bruised, overripe peach still savory to the bite.
“Ah, Protasova!” Gregory exclaimed. “I thought you would have retired to a nunnery by this time in order to repent of your sins.”
“Were I to retire to a religious order, a monastery would be more likely. All those love-starved men.”
“You would be the answer to their prayers, Protasova. No doubt about it. I would like you to meet my friend. Marietta, this is Madame Protasova, chief lady-in-waiting to Empress Catherine. Protasova, Miss Marietta Danver.”
The cynical brown eyes swept over me, missing not a detail.
“I’ve heard a great deal about you,” she said.
“And I’ve heard a great deal about you,” I replied, ever so sweetly.
I had indeed. Madame Protasova was known as l’épreuveuse, “the tester.” According to rumor, her job was to test candidates for Catherine’s bed. If the applicant showed sufficient strength, stamina, and invention, a favorable report was passed to the Empress. If not, he was summarily dismissed, all hopes of royal favor extinguished. The opulent, aging brunette looked well suited for her work, I thought bitchily, yet her frankness and refusal to fawn raised my opinion of her considerably.
“You’re every bit as beautiful as they claimed you are,” she informed me. “I assume that hair is natural. No dye could simulate such a brilliant color.”
“It’s natural,” I said.
“Would that my own were,” she retorted. “Living at court is hazardous to hair. Mine turned gray years ago. I’d kill to look like you,” she continued, “and if killing would turn the trick I’d lay waste left and right.”
“I believe that was a compliment.”
“Begrudgingly given,” she said dryly. “Well, Gregory, your arrival in St. Petersburg must have been something of a disappointment. No triumphal arches erected to greet you, no gold medal struck by the Imperial mint in your honor. Catherine had all this done in ’72,” she added, seeing that I was puzzled. “When he returned from a mission in Moscow.”
“I treasure that medal,” he said.
“One of the less popular issues.”
“The arches are still standing.”
“In shocking disrepair, I’ve noticed, and covered with bird droppings.”
Gregory scowled, uncomfortable under that cynical brown gaze. He and Protasova were clearly old adversaries, and he was no match for her. Catherine apparently liked to surround herself with strong, formidable woman, I reflected, remembering Princess Dashkova in London. Having deflated his ego, having spoiled his jovial, expansive mood, Protasova allowed a smile to curl on her scarlet lips.
“Cheer up, Gregory dear,” she said in a consoling voice. “I don’t expect you to believe it, but I’m actually on your side.”
“This I doubt,” he retorted.
“You may have been a troublesome lout, but as long as you had enough expensive toys to keep you occupied you were at least manageable and didn’t meddle in matters over your head. The current incumbent fancies himself a great statesman and feels he should run the country.”
“I rue the day my brothers and I bring this Ukrainian to Catherine’s attention,” he grumbled.
“As do a number of us, dear. Good luck with your little scheme. It may be obvious, but I hope it works. Charmed to have met you, Miss Danver.”
She sauntered away with a soft swish of black velvet and silver skirts and a few moments later was immersed in intimate conversation with one of the handsome guardsmen. Mouth in a petulant curl, Gregory cast resentful looks in her direction, but his good humor soon returned as more old acquaintances came over to welcome him back and tell him how splendid he was looking. He basked in the adulation, delighted in the compliments, convinced they were all sincere, convinced his charm and magnetism were solely responsible for all the fuss.
I smiled politely and listened to the outrageous flattery, wishing I were anywhere else. A gushing old princess in peacock blue taffeta told me I was a vision to behold. I thanked her. A doddering courtier with a dissipated face and lascivious eyes said he would like to pay my rent after Orlov tired of me. I elevated an eyebrow. We had been here for half an hour now, and the evening was already beginning to seem interminable. Catherine hadn’t appeared yet, nor had her consort. My attention began to wander, and I glanced around the enormous room, noting the spectacular gowns, the glittering jewels, the animated faces, and had the feeling I was trapped in an exotic aviary with gorgeously plumed birds of prey. And then I saw the tall, lean youth in pale gray velvet and my heart seemed to leap.
He was standing near one of the gilt-embossed blue panels, talking with a woman in amethyst satin and black lace, a mass of long blonde ringlets falling between her shoulder blades and belying the weary middle-aged face. His black leather pumps had silver buckles. His white stockings were of silk. The knee breeches and frock coat were English in cut, and his w
hite satin waistcoat was embroidered with fragile black leaves. The heavy blond hair gleamed, one wave tumbling over his brow, and there were faint gray shadows under the lackluster gray-blue eyes. He looked bored and disconsolate and scarcely listened to the vivacious chatter the woman fired at him.
As though feeling my stare, he glanced up and saw me across the room, but he didn’t nod. He merely gazed as though I were a stranger, then gave his attention to the woman with blonde ringlets. I had to speak to him. I had to explain. Orlov took my hand and led me over to another cluster of people, and when I looked again Bryan was no longer standing beside the blue panel. I was certain he hadn’t left the reception. Somehow, before the evening was over, I would locate him again and find an opportunity to be alone with him for a few precious minutes, whether Gregory liked it or not. He had looked so pale, so drawn, all that marvelous vitality completely missing.
“—is good to be back,” Orlov was saying. “You must come to see us at the Marble Palace.”
“I shall eagerly await the invitation,” Count Razumovsky replied. “And how do you like Russia, Miss Danver?”
“It’s very interesting,” I said.
“Court life must be quite different in—”
He cut himself short. A hush fell over the entire assemblage. The double doors at the end of the room opposite the steps had opened and a giant in outlandish finery shambled clumsily into the room, dominating it at once. Though hunched and walking with a stoop, he was easily the tallest man here, taller even than Orlov, and his large, awkward body reminded one of a bear’s. His greasy powdered hair was pulled back and tied with a black velvet ribbon at the nape of his neck. His pasty pale face was pockmarked, the lips thick and sensual, the nose too large and crooked. A black satin patch covered his left eye. He was hideously ugly, there was no question about that, yet his magnetism galvanized the whole room.
Gregory Aleksandrovich Potemkin wore scuffed black pumps with bejeweled buckles. His silk stockings were baggy, one of them deplorably snagged, and his rumpled white satin knee breeches looked soiled. His frock, coat was golden brocade lavishly embroidered with black and silver and scarlet flowers, and exquisite gold lace spilled from his neck and cuffs. His hands were inordinately large and looked gnarled, a workman’s hands, powerful enough to crush a skull as easily as an eggshell. Several diamond and ruby rings flashed on the long fingers. Although the attire was indeed outlandish, he wore it with reckless aplomb. Preposterous Potemkin might appear, even repellent, but it was impossible to take one’s eyes off him.
He lumbered forward a few more steps and peered around like a surly bear abruptly awakened from a long sleep. The room was still silent, and the air seemed to vibrate with tension. The royal favorite lurched, blinked, seemed about to fall, and then he straightened into a moderate hunch and toyed with the lace at his throat, looking directly at Gregory. Breaths were drawn in sharply, held. The people standing around us moved back discreetly, silently, and suspense crackled as the two giants faced each other across the long room.
Orlov stood proudly with head held high, an arrogant, confident smile on his lips. Only moments ago he had been a resplendent sun, shedding the radiance of his presence throughout the room, the center of all attention. None of that radiance had gone, but it had been eclipsed by the curiously sinister magnetism of his successor. If Gregory was like a resplendent sun, Potemkin was like a swollen moon shining in a dark, forbidding sky. I was reminded of a sorceror who kept mere mortals enthralled by dark spells and primordial magic.
Potemkin lumbered slowly toward us, and I, too, was caught in his spell, utterly fascinated, frozen, it seemed, unable to breathe properly. He paused a few feet away from us and shook his shaggy head and then smiled. At least I thought it was a smile. Those thick lips curled and lifted at the corners, though whether in amusement or disdain it was impossible to determine. That one black-brown eye glowed like a dark coal, the brow above it lifting into a high arch.
“Orlov,” he said. “I heard you had returned. It is most interesting to see you again.”
His voice was surprising, a deep, rich, musical voice that seemed to tenderly caress each word, a voice made for singing. I remembered that he was an accomplished musician and was said to serenade the Empress with love songs he had especially composed for her. I could imagine that voice crooning, caressing, lulling one into a delicious stupor.
He moved forward and curled his huge hands around Gregory’s arms and gave him a tug, pulling him against his chest, and then he kissed him resoundingly on each cheek. Powerful and strong as he was, Orlov might have been a slight, delicate boy in that powerful grasp. Potemkin released him and stepped back, pleased with his unexpected gesture. Gregory was dumbfounded, but he quickly regained his composure.
“It has been a long time, no?” Potemkin said. “The last time I see you you give me this.” He pointed to the black satin patch covering his left eye. “It makes me more beautiful, I think. The pretty boy becomes an irresistible man.”
And, strangely enough, Potemkin had once been a very pretty boy, I knew. The pox, the broken nose, the loss of his eye had destroyed the angelic face, and years of excessive indulgence in all the pleasures had cruelly bloated a body once slim and upright. The physical appearance might have changed, but the sexual allure that had enchanted an Empress was still so strong it seemed to assault one physically.
When Gregory Aleksandrovich Potemkin turned his dark gaze on me, I understood his power over women. My knees grew weak. Warm waves seemed to wash over me, caressing my skin. I seemed to have lost all will, suddenly helpless, an abject slave to that powerful magnetism. Potemkin peered into the innermost depths of a woman’s heart, conjuring up forbidden fantasies that left one shaken and utterly exposed. His physical appearance mattered not at all. In the blaze of that raw sexuality he might have been a god.
He smelled of garlic and vodka and potently of sweat, but that powerful body odor was like the headiest of musks, incredibly virile. It took me several moments to compose myself, to shake off that hypnotic spell, but I still wasn’t breathing properly.
“I hear about your beautiful friend, Orlov,” he said lazily. “I think it would be nice if you introduce me to her.”
Breaking his silence, Orlov performed the introductions. Potemkin took my hand, imprisoning it in long, powerful fingers that were rough, lightly callused. Lifting it slowly, he turned my palm up and lowered his head and planted his moist lips in the center of it. They seemed to burn my skin, caressing, sucking it. I repressed a gasp and pulled my hand away, stammering a polite inconsequentiality, praying I wouldn’t faint. Potemkin smiled, fully aware of his effect upon me.
“You have not lost your taste in women, Orlov,” he said. “This one is a treasure. I think maybe I steal her from you.”
“This is not likely, Potemkin.”
“We shall see,” Potemkin replied. “It is good to have you back in St. Petersburg. Things have been most dull of late. I think maybe now they will liven up considerably.”
“Perhaps they will,” Gregory said ominously.
Potemkin smiled again, a great, shaggy bear amused by the posturings of a fawning cub, and, indeed, that’s what Gregory seemed beside him. Potemkin shook himself and glanced around the room. People had begun to talk and circulate again, but all attention was riveted on the three of us. Gregory had lost some of his confidence now, and he sought to regain it, puffing up his chest, adjusting his expression.
“You come all the way from England, I hear,” Potemkin said, turning to Orlov. “Was the journey eventful?”
“I do not know what you mean by eventful.”
“You were not attacked by peasants?”
Gregory scowled, shaking his head.
“They grow more and more brazen,” Potemkin said. “This Pugachev has a large army, they tell me, and it grows larger every day. Soon he will begin to march, one hears, burning everything in his path.”
“The Imperial Army is looking for this m
an. Is this not so?”
“They have been for months,” Potemkin replied. “There have been a few minor skirmishes in the north, but our best officers have yet to locate his secret camp. They have captured two or three of his men and put them to the rack, but all died without revealing the information. They believe he is a saint, the reincarnation of Peter III, come back to avenge his murder. This is what he believes himself.”
Orlov shifted uncomfortably. “He is clearly a madman.”
“This is so, but you know how superstitious these peasants are. Pugachev tells them the soul of Peter III has entered his body and taken possession of him and they shake their heads in wonderment and take up their pitchforks and scythes to join his army.”
Potemkin’s one dark, glowing eye closely observed the effects of these words upon his rival. A smile played on his thick lips as he continued.
“Were Pugachev actually to march, you and your brothers would be in particular danger. Don’t you all have estates in the north?”
“This is so. My brothers are still in the country. I visit them soon.”
“In the north,” Potemkin repeated. “This is where Pugachev is building his army. No doubt our men will squelch him before he even gets started, but your brothers must be uneasy, so exposed there in the north.”
“My brothers have their cossacks,” Orlov said hotly. “This is not suitable conversation, Potemkin. You will distress the lady.”
“This I would never do,” he said in mock alarm, turning to me. “Have I distressed you, Miss Danver?”
I shook my head. He was all attentive concern.
“You look a trifle pale. I will devote the rest of the evening to cheering you up. It will be a most enjoyable task.”
Gregory started to say something, but before he could shape the words the double doors at the end of the room were opened again and two strikingly handsome guards in white velvet uniforms festooned with gold braid held them back, standing at attention as their Empress stepped through. She stood a moment, beautifully framed, then moved slowly into the room. She lifted her hand, signaling that there was to be no formality tonight, yet everyone bowed and curtsied as she made her slow progress, personally greeting her guests and thanking them for coming. Catherine might be casual and informal, I reflected, but there could be no question that she was Empress of All the Russias. Never had I seen so regal a bearing, so majestic a mien.
When Love Commands Page 34
