Love Me, Marietta

by Jennifer Wilde

  “We start with the wine,” he said.

  He clapped his hands loudly and sat down across from me, the chair creaking beneath his weight. The door opened quietly and a slim, fair-haired youth in gold-trimmed white velvet livery entered with an ice-filled gold bucket containing an enormous bottle. Calmly, deftly, he set the bucket down on one of the side tables, removed the bottle and uncorked it, his brown eyes humbly lowered. He poured a small amount of the sparkling wine into Orlov’s glass. The count took a sip, savored it inside his mouth and then swallowed and nodded his approval. The youth filled our glasses and left.

  “The other servants wear blue,” I remarked.

  “Vladimir, the guards, they wear the blue and black. The footmen and house servants wear the white and gold.”

  “You certainly have a—a great many servants.”

  “Is fitting for a man of my station. In Russia I have thousands of serfs, I lose count. They come with the property.”

  Like cattle, I thought, taking a sip of the wine. It was delicious, light and dry, creating a warm glow inside. Orlov watched me drink, a pleased half-smile on those lips that were so pink, so wide, so very sensual. His eyelids drooped heavily, giving him a lazy, sleepy look, and the candlelight burnished his hair with a dark golden sheen. He really wasn’t so extraordinarily handsome when you examined him closely, I observed. The mouth was too large, the nose too strong, the cheekbones too broad, but … but somehow these defects weren’t defects at all. They merely strengthened that remarkable virile beauty. It was indeed a face that could be either tender or harsh, depending on mood. At the moment it was very tender.

  “You like the wine?” he inquired.

  “It’s marvelous.”

  “Here, I pour you another glassful.”

  He got up, fetched the bottle and filled my glass, leaning over my shoulder to do so. I was almost painfully aware of his presence there behind me, of his smell, the warmth of his body. I noticed the way his large hand gripped the neck of the bottle, the fingers curled tightly. The wine made a soft splash as it fell and swirled in the glass, a hundred tiny bubbles exploding. I waited, breathless. Would he touch my shoulder again? Would his thighs accidently press against my back as he straightened up? I tensed for the contact. It didn’t come. Orlov slid the bottle back into its nest of ice and returned to his seat.

  “I have a sad duty in London,” he told me.

  “Oh?”

  “This driver, this man Ogilvy, I take his body back, and I must see that he is properly buried. I visit his widow.”

  “That—that was wonderfully kind of you.”

  “I take care of everything. He has very fine burial, and his widow weeps when I give her a large sack of gold coins. She kisses my hands. She goes to live with her sister in the country.”

  “Poor Ogilvy, I—I wept so. I didn’t know him well, but I feel—I feel responsible for what happened.”

  I could feel my eyes growing moist. Orlov was immediately distressed.

  “You must not weep again,” he said sternly. “You are not to blame. The fates are responsible for these things. Tonight we celebrate. My chef prepares a fine Russian meal for you.”

  “I—”

  “Tonight we enjoy,” he informed me.

  He clapped his hands again. The slim youth returned pushing a cart laden with chased gold dishes. So much gold. So much ceremony. I was beginning to feel slightly dizzy. The youth served bowls of thick red-orange soup, wonderfully hot and spicy. Orlov told me that it was borscht and made from beets. He took a loaf of coarse black bread and tore it apart with his hands, buttered a piece and passed it to me. It was marvelous, too, but not as marvelous as the next course of thin, thin pancakes folded around a filling of creamy cheese and topped with great scoops of red-gold caviar. Rarely had I tasted anything so delicious.

  Orlov ate very little but, instead, spent most of his time watching me. Elbow propped on the table, chin in hand, he slowly rubbed his full lower lip with the ball of his thumb, navy blue eyes gleaming darkly, full of masculine appreciation. The candles flickered, their soft golden glow enhancing the intimate atmosphere. All my senses seemed to be soothed, and I basked in waves of subtle pleasure. The delicious taste of the food, the glorious smells, the beauty surrounding me, yellow and white and gold—all cast their spell, and a luxurious contentment spread through me, augmented by the wine and, yes, by the presence of this man who made a woman feel … so very appreciated.

  “You—you’re not eating,” I said. The words seemed to come from a distance, seemed to melt in air. Had I had too much wine?

  “This fare is too delicate for me,” Orlov explained. “I have the robust appetite. I rip the roasted fowl apart with my hands and tear the flesh from the bone with my teeth. I devour the great slabs of red meat and gulp down the stout ale. Is carryover from the barracks, I fear.”

  I would love to see you tear the flesh of roasted fowl from the bone with your teeth, I thought dreamily, and I was immediately appalled, afraid I might have spoken the words aloud. I had definitely had too much wine. Three glasses? Four? I had lost track. Lethargic, lulled, I seemed to be caught up in a silken web of contentment, and that was dangerous. Dangerous indeed I realized as I looked into those glowing navy blue eyes half-hidden by heavy, drooping lids.

  “Now we have the dessert,” he murmured.

  “No you don’t,” I said. “You most assuredly do not.”

  “You will enjoy it a great deal,” he promised me.

  “Per—perhaps I would, but—”

  “Is very special. You never have anything like it before. You must not deny yourself the pleasure.”

  “Despite what you might think, Count Orlov, I’m really not—I—I have known a lot of men, it is true, but I have never—I have always been faithful to the man I love and I love Jeremy, and—”

  “You speak the jibberish,” he protested.

  “The jibberish?”

  “I speak of the dessert my chef especially prepares for you. Is made of eggs and sugar and the special liquor, beaten and baked, and served with sweet heavy cream sauce.”

  “I—you must give your chef my—my apologies.”

  Orlov arched his brows, eyes dark with disappointment. “I cannot tempt you?” he asked.

  “You’ve tempted me quite enough for one night.”

  The count gave an amused chuckle and stood up, moving over to the golden samovar that had been bubbling quietly all this time. He really was magnificent, I thought, so tall, so superbly built, and he moved with that lazy, supple grace like … like a lion prowling in the jungle, the lord of all. I took the cup of strong black tea he handed to me and lowered my eyes.

  “I—I think I had a bit too much wine,” I said.

  “It is very fine wine. It goes to the head.”

  “It certainly went to mine.”

  “The Russian tea is good for this. It will help.”

  He leaned against the wall with his arms folded across his chest, watching me as I drank. My head began to clear. The strands of the silken web began to loosen. I finished the tea and sighed and started to get up. Orlov hurried over to assist me, taking my hand, gently pulling me up, pushing my chair back with the toe of his boot. My limbs felt slightly leaden, but I was in complete control of my senses now, no longer lulled by flickering golden light and heavenly smells and the sight of a long, powerful thumb slowly rubbing a full pink lower lip.

  “It was a wonderful meal, Count Orlov.”

  “I am glad you enjoy.”

  “I’d better go back up to my room now,” I said quietly.

  Orlov nodded, and I noticed for the first time the small roll of flesh beneath his chin, the merest suggestion of a double chin. That, too, merely added to the overall effect of sensuality. I judged him to be somewhere in his late thirties, no longer a terribly young man, but maturity had only added line and character to a face that, at eighteen, must have looked like the face of a pretty, surly choir boy.

  “We l
eave for London tomorrow,” he said as he led me out of that glowing womb of a room. “We leave at ten.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  “I will send a servant to your room with a breakfast tray.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “You must eat. He will also pack your bags.”

  “I can do my own packing, Count Orlov.”

  “Is work for servant,” he told me. “I send him up.”

  His voice was firm. He would brook no argument. I wondered what he would think if I told him I had once been a servant myself, a convicted thief transported to America in chains, to be sold at public auction to the highest bidder and serve seven long years as an indentured servant. My accent might be cultured, my features patrician, but I was hardly the elegant lady he took me to be.

  “It is very kind of you to drive me to London,” I said. “You and Lucie have been wonderful.”

  “We of Russia have the heart,” he replied. “Is well-known fact.”

  It was a flat statement, and I had to repress a smile at the manner in which it had been delivered. Although it really wasn’t all that late, the inn was very quiet, the hallway dim. The Russian contingent had certainly settled down. Perhaps they had taken their revelry to one of the taverns in the village and were terrorizing the populace, I thought, or perhaps they were merely holding their breaths and creeping about on tiptoe after Orlov’s servant had taken his message to the taproom. My skirts made a soft whispering sound as we moved down the hall toward the front of the inn.

  “Lucie has grown very fond of you,” Orlov remarked.

  “And I have grown fond of her.”

  “She is a moody girl. Is good for her to have a friend.”

  The innkeeper’s wife had already locked up. The front door was bolted. A candle burned beneath a glass globe on the counter. A fat calico cat was curled beside the heavy leather registration book. It stretched drowsily and waved its tail as we passed. Orlov cupped his hand about my elbow as we started up the steps, his palm warm, the fingers lightly squeezing my flesh. The contact sent pleasant vibrations through my whole body, and I felt a delicious languor. I loved Jeremy Bond with all my heart and soul, but I was human, after all, and I couldn’t help but respond to this remarkable man on a purely physical level.

  No candles burned on the second floor, but the window at the end of the hall was uncurtained and brilliant moonlight spilled through, making a pale silver pool on the floor and creating a soft silvery blue haze. There was a slight chill in the air. I shivered. Orlov’s white garments gleamed in the semi-darkness. We stopped in front of my door. He stood before me. I tilted my chin, looking up at his face. He wore a thoughtful expression, and his eyes seemed sad.

  “Is pity you have this man in London,” he murmured. “I had hoped you would be our guest in the house I have rented.”

  Was he going to spoil it? Was he going to take me into his arms and try to use physical persuasion? Was I going to have to struggle and end the evening on an unpleasant note? Orlov looked deeply into my eyes for a long moment, and then he stepped back and took a deep breath, his chest heaving. I was relieved … at least that’s what I told myself.

  “Thank you for a lovely evening, Count Orlov,” I said.

  “I bring a few presents to you from London,” he said, “just a few trinkets to amuse you. I have them placed in your room while we dine.”

  “Presents? But there was no reason for you to—”

  “It is my great pleasure to give presents to a beautiful woman.”

  “Then—then I will simply say thank you again.”

  Orlov nodded and opened the door for me. The maid had left candles burning, and pale golden light washed over us. I told him good night. He hesitated just a moment, looking at me with sad eyes, then moved back. I stepped into the room and shut the door and leaned against it, closing my eyes. My head seemed to whirl, and my breathing was decidedly irregular, my bosom rising and falling, straining against its prison of silk and lace. The strong black tea had helped, yes, but I was still feeling the effects of the wine. How idiotic of me to consume so much. I had undoubtedly made a fool of myself. Count Orlov must think me a terrible ninny.

  Orlov … Orlov … Why was that name so familiar? I sighed and moved from the door, and it was then that I saw the presents on the table near the fireplace, three different-sized boxes wrapped in silver paper and tied with dark blue velvet ribbons, a tall crystal vase of magnificent red roses beside them. I really shouldn’t open them. I knew that. I should send them back. There was no reason why he should have brought presents for me, and I certainly shouldn’t accept them. “Just a few trinkets,” he had said. The count would be offended if I returned them, I reasoned, and what woman doesn’t like to open presents?

  I opened the largest first, removing the ribbons, tearing away the paper, lifting out a large, oval box of satiny pale blue cardboard, a fashionable confectioner’s name stamped in silver on the lid. I lifted the lid off to discover rows of beautiful chocolates, each in its own container of white paper lace. There was dark chocolate, light chocolate, each piece uniquely shaped. Much too beautiful to eat, I told myself, but I took a piece nevertheless. The rich chocolate shell contained a marvelous orange cream, sheer ambrosia. I licked my fingers and replaced the lid, still savoring the divine taste.

  The second box contained a fan, the thin ivory stems opening to reveal delicate flowers in gold thread embroidered against white silk as fragile and translucent as butterfly wings. The narrow handle was made of gold. The fan was incredibly lovely, a work of art, and … and it must have been terribly expensive, I thought, examining the tiny, wonderfully detailed gold flowers on the thin silk. Just a trinket, the kind of trinket Madame de Pompadour might have used to conceal her lips as she whispered a choice bit of gossip to some courtier attired in satin and laces.

  Putting the fan aside, I opened the final package and lifted out of its nest of tissue paper a small enameled metal box so dazzling that I could only stare as I held it in the palm of my hand. The deep blue enamel was partially overlaid with patterned swirls of silver filigree, and the center of the lid was set with a silver-mounted crest composed entirely of rubies and diamonds. It was the same crest I had seen on the side of Orlov’s coach. Silver gleamed against the rich, dark blue. The gems glittered. Carefully, I opened the delicately hinged lid. The interior of the box was silver. On the back of the lid, surrounded by diamonds, was a beautifully executed miniature of Count Gregory Orlov at a considerably younger age, such a handsome face.

  His hair was lighter then, more blond than brown. His mouth had a sullen curl, and his blue eyes were haughty and full of the arrogance of youth. The square-cut diamonds framing the miniature were flawless, flashing fiery rainbows of light. I would have to give the box back, of course. I couldn’t possibly keep it. What an exquisite thing it was, though. If he gave presents like this to a woman he didn’t even know, what kind of presents did he give to women who had done something to earn them? He must be rich as Croesus, yet … yet he and his brothers had had a miserably deprived childhood. I gazed at the miniature for a long time, frowning, trying to remember something, trying to call up scraps of information that had been filed away in my mind years ago.

  Orlov. Count Gregory Orlov. Alexis. Feodor. The Orlov Giants. Where did that phrase come from? Yes, sometime or other I had heard the five brothers referred to as the Orlov Giants, but when, in what context? Slowly closing the lid, setting the box aside, I got up and began to undress, and it was not until I had blown the candles out and got into bed that the veils lifted from my mind and memory returned. I had been in school and we were studying Russia and I was very bored, longing to romp in the sunshine, longing to leave the dull, stuffy classroom that smelled of chalk dust and ink and old books. The schoolmistress, a flighty, breathless spinster with a penchant for court gossip had been chattering on and on about recent events in that sprawling, snowbound country none of us gave a hang about.

 
Russia had a new ruler. The bloated, sexually depraved old Empress Elizabeth had died and her heir, Peter III, was quite, quite mad. With the help of the military, his young German bride, Catherine, had brought about a coup and usurped the throne. Peter had been spirited away and held prisoner, dying shortly thereafter. Some claimed he had been strangled by the Orlov Giants, who had been the first to leap to Catherine’s support. She had rewarded all five of them most generously. On her coronation day she had made Gregory Orlov her Adjutant General and had given him the title of Count. She had installed him in a sumptuous apartment in the Winter Palace, which had a secret staircase leading up to her bedroom. He had been her first official lover, his influence over her the scandal of Europe.

  For almost a decade Gregory Orlov had been the uncrowned Emperor of All the Russias and one of the most powerful men on earth.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1981 by Tom E. Huff

  Cover design by Julianna Lee

  ISBN: 978-1-4976-9817-8

  This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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