When Love Commands

by Jennifer Wilde

  This morning, cool, clear-headed, I could view my attraction to Orlov with objectivity. I had felt a certain stirring, yes, but it had been purely physical and in no way a betrayal of my love for Jeremy. I had been in a sad, pensive mood, feeling very vulnerable, and he had been extremely amiable, extremely charming. Any woman would have responded to that potent, persuasive, sexual allure, but there had been no seduction and, all things considered, I had conducted myself in a blameless fashion. Orlov had shown me a great deal of consideration, had not pressed, had been a gentleman, however rough at the edges. I appreciated that. Another man might have turned the evening into a very unpleasant struggle of wills.

  I pulled the heavy violet silk hood over my head and arranged the folds of the cloak more closely around me. Three more Russian guards came out of the inn, grumbling among themselves as they marched toward the stables. All three were heavily armed, I observed. I recognized Ivan and one of the others, but Vladimir wasn’t with them. He was probably standing guard outside the door of Lucie’s room, I thought, shuddering as I remembered the near-murder I had witnessed. Vladimir took his post very seriously, as, indeed, did all the guards. The villagers were certainly going to be pleased to see the last of them. One of the maids had told me this morning that “them ’orrible Ruskies” had almost demolished one of the village taverns last night after they left the taproom. There had been a bloody brawl, three villagers had been seriously injured and one of the serving wenches had been “brutally ravished” by six of the brutes, although “that Madie ’Awkins” wasn’t any better than she should be and probably relished every minute of it.

  Orlov had undoubtedly showered more gold coins around to pay for damages to persons and place, I reflected. The proprietor of the tavern was probably counting his profits at this very minute, and Madie Hawkins would be richer, too, in experience if nothing else. I stepped back as the magnificent white and gold carriage pulled into the yard, the handsome grays stamping restlessly.

  “It seems we are going to have this splendid vehicle all to ourselves,” a voice behind me said, “at least for the first lap.”

  I turned. Because of the noise of the carriage I hadn’t heard Sir Harry Lyman come outside. Tall, lanky, with short-clipped brick red hair and weary brown eyes, he was elegantly attired in black with a splendid waistcoat of maroon satin patterned with black silk embroidery. In his late forties, he had the worn, slightly faded look of a man whose life has been harried by details and minor crises. The dashing clothes merely accentuated a complexion like old parchment, the fatigue in those friendly eyes.

  “Sir Harry Lyman,” he said, “and you must be the celebrated Miss Marietta Danver.”

  “Celebrated?”

  “Count Orlov scarcely spoke of anything else on the ride back from London. Most aggravating,” he added. “I had hoped to go over some very important papers with him.”

  “He told me you handled various business matters for him.”

  “And I rue the day I agreed to do so,” Sir Harry said dryly. “Orlov is an interesting chap, but he has no head for business. The exasperation I endure is equaled only by the profits I make.”

  “I would imagine there are quite a lot of the latter.”

  “Quite a lot,” he agreed. “My nervous system may collapse, my hair may turn white, but if he continues to turn over to me such generous sums for investment, I’ll soon be a wealthy man.”

  Sir Harry removed a silver watch from his pocket and glanced at it distractedly, obviously preoccupied with the thousand and one things he needed to do in the city.

  “You mentioned that we would have the carriage to ourselves,” I said. “Lucie and the count won’t be joining us?”

  “Not this morning,” he replied. “Lucie, it seems, was eager to put on the English riding habit her uncle brought her from London and decided to do the first lap on horseback—she’s an excellent rider, if a trifle headstrong and reckless.”

  “And the count decided to join her?”

  He nodded, putting away the watch he was still holding in his palm. “He much prefers horseback, hates being cooped up in a carriage. They’ve gone on ahead, and we’ll rendezvous at noon when, it appears, we will have a picnic on the side of the road.”

  His dry, resigned tone indicated that he was less than thrilled with the idea. Although I would have enjoyed chatting with Lucie, I was relieved to have my next meeting with Orlov delayed. Why was I so apprehensive about seeing him again? What did I fear?

  There was a clatter of iron on cobbles as the four guards I had seen earlier came riding into the yard, holding the splendid grays to a slow walk. I had to admit that they were an imposing sight as they took their places, two on either side of the carriage. The driver settled back on his perch, tightening his hold on the reins. A liveried groom opened the door for us, and Sir Harry gave me his hand, helping me into an interior that was all plush white velvet and gold gilt. Sides and ceiling were covered with white leather embossed with gold fleurs-de-lis.

  “Modest little rig, isn’t it?” Sir Harry said, sinking back into the velvet cushions across from me.

  “I’ve never been in a carriage so grand,” I admitted.

  “It’s modest compared to some I’ve seen in St. Petersburg,” he told me. “Orlov himself used to have one that put this to shame. When he was—ah—officially attached to the court, he owned a blue and silver rig that literally stopped traffic when he took it out.”

  The groom closed the door and took his place on the standing platform on back of the carriage. The driver cracked his whip, clicked the reins smartly. The carriage began to move slowly out of the yard, the four guards keeping pace beside it. I looked through the window at the rambling old inn with its mellow rose-gray brick walls and thatched roof. The faded blue sign swung gently on its hinges. The Wayfarer was a place I would not soon forget.

  Sir Harry sighed, resigned to a long, unproductive journey. We passed through the brick portals and started down the road that led through the village. People came out to stare at the spectacle as we passed. Several of them booed, and I had the feeling that, had it not been for the guards, we would have been pelted with rocks and refuse.

  “It would appear that Orlov’s men have hardly endeared themselves to the local folk,” Sir Harry observed.

  “Hardly,” I said. “Did you hear about last night?”

  “In some detail. The good count severely reprimanded his men and scattered gold all over the village.” He shook his head. “I’ll never understand the Russian character. The same men who raised such hell last night will sob like infants at the sound of a native song played on a balalaika, tears pouring down their cheeks.”

  “You spent a great deal of time in Russia, didn’t you?” I asked.

  “Almost twenty years. Elizabeth was ruler when I took my first post—a very minor post, I might add. I was an attaché to an attaché to an attaché, little more than a clerk. Poor pay, very long hours, a great deal of youthful enthusiasm.”

  “It must have been terribly exciting.”

  “Exciting indeed for a youth of twenty-six. Elizabeth—now there was a figure for you, painted like a china doll, so bloated up she could hardly move without assistance, still—uh—lustily indulging in various pleasures. Her nephew and heir was a drooling, demented bully alternately drilling his private troops until they dropped or torturing his cocker spaniels—if he wasn’t playing with toy soldiers, that is.”

  “And Catherine?” I asked.

  Sir Harry hesitated a moment before answering, his weary brown eyes looking into the past. “A dull, colorless little nonentity back then,” he said, “abused by her husband, ignored by the Empress and scorned by the rest of the court. She was marking time the whole while, ingratiating herself with the army, winning the respect of the people. Without a drop of Russian blood she became more Russian than the Russians, observing all the religious ceremonies, clinging to the old customs, making a great show of it. An exceedingly shrewd woman, this obsc
ure German princess brought to Russia to wed the heir. Catherine was determined to take the throne. When the time came, she was ready.”

  “I find it incredible that she could just—just take over the country.”

  “Incredible, but not really surprising under the circumstances. Her husband was literally mad—it would have been disastrous if Peter had been permitted to reign—and she was, after all, the mother of the heir. Europe was scandalized, but the Russian people were happy with their new Empress.”

  “Is—is it true that she had Peter murdered?”

  “The official word is that he died quite suddenly of colic,” Sir Harry replied.

  “I understand the Orlovs were holding him prisoner at the time.”

  “Peter was being—uh—detained, yes. For his own good, of course.”

  The irony in his voice was light, so subtle as to be almost indetectable, but I caught it nevertheless. As the carriage moved smoothly past open fields with the guards galloping protectively on either side, I saw that Sir Harry was still very much the diplomat. Although we were speaking of events that had taken place some fifteen years ago, he was not willing to divulge privileged information. I felt certain he knew the truth about Peter III’s mysterious death, but he wasn’t going to reveal any secrets that might tarnish the image of the man whose business he was handling.

  “Count Orlov told me that you got along very well with Catherine,” I remarked.

  “I did indeed,” he replied. “I was considerably younger in those days and—uh—considerably more attractive to the ladies. The Empress didn’t get along well with the British ambassador, a fusty type, and she preferred working with—uh—healthy young men, if possible. Our relationship was strictly a working one, but a certain amount of flattery and mild flirtation made it much easier to deal with her. Catherine was—is—a strong, shrewd, formidably intelligent ruler, but she is first and foremost a woman. Those clever enough to realize it have a distinct edge.”

  “You—you seem to admire her a great deal.”

  “Indeed I do. Catherine is the best thing that could possibly have happened to Russia at this particular time. Peter the Great brought the country out of the Dark Ages, and Catherine is striving to bring the Age of Enlightenment to a country still weighed down with medieval customs and superstitions. She has thrown open the windows, thrown open the doors, made Russia a part of the rest of the world.”

  Sir Harry paused as the carriage passed over a particularly bad rut. In the luxurious, velvet-cushioned interior, we barely felt the bump. He adjusted his neck cloth, his brown eyes thoughtful as he continued.

  “When I knew Catherine, she got up at six o’clock in the morning, rubbed her face with ice and, after several cups of black coffee, set to work. She often worked ten hours without pause, surrounded by ministers who couldn’t begin to keep up with her. I’ve never known a person with such discipline, such drive.”

  “Yet her private life is the scandal of Europe,” I said.

  Sir Harry allowed himself a thin smile. “It is traditional for kings to have their favorites—Charles II had Nell Gwynn, Barbara Castlemaine and a score of others, Louis XIV had Louise de la Vallière, Montespan, the straight-laced Madame de Maintenon—and they are admired for their virility. Is it so shocking, I wonder, for an Empress equally as powerful to have her male favorites?”

  “I—I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  “Alas,” he said, “the ladies I mentioned had far too much power, far too great an influence over the sovereigns whose beds they warmed, and the same is true of the men who keep Catherine amused. Her—uh—extremely strong sexual proclivities render her quite vulnerable and are the one dent in an otherwise invincible suit of armor.”

  “Apparently Count Orlov kept her amused for quite some time.”

  “She loved him wildly, blindly, inordinately. His word was her command. She was, I fear, an abject slave to her passion for him. She heaped him with honors, lavished him with riches, built a marble palace for him and gave him more and more power.”

  “Yet she sent him away.”

  “Even the strongest passions begin to pale in time, and the good count was not always wise, not always discreet. A woman can tolerate just so many infidelities. She showered him with even more lavish gifts—another estate, six thousand serfs, an increased annual salary—and sent him packing. Orlov was desolate. All the wealth in the world—and he has a fair share of it—can’t compensate for what he lost.”

  “Power, you mean?”

  “Power,” he said. “Orlov did his best to get her back. He gave her a solitaire diamond as large as a door knob, said to be the largest in the world. It is known as the Orlov Diamond, and it is indeed a wondrous thing, but it failed to bring her back. She accepted it graciously, had it set in the Russian Imperial Scepter under a jeweled eagle but sent him packing just the same.”

  “It must have been a terrible blow,” I said.

  “It was indeed. During the intervening years Count Orlov has spent most of his time traveling rather disconsolately from country to country, trying to forget. He loved her in his way, you see, although his way was a bit too casual for a woman as jealous and possessive as Catherine.”

  “He—he hasn’t found another woman to replace her?”

  “It would be a rare woman indeed who could replace Catherine of Russia,” Sir Harry said.

  I thought about all he had told me as we continued our journey in the luxurious coach that smelled of crushed velvet and teak. All I had learned about him only imbued Count Orlov with more fascination, of course, vesting him with an even stronger aura of glamour. The man who had captivated Catherine of Russia, whom she had loved “wildly, blindly, inordinately,” must have been splendid indeed, a lover beyond compare. Dazzling male beauty and a hard, superbly muscled body could account for only part of his success. He had to have other qualities as well to have sexually enslaved a woman like Catherine for so many years. I was intrigued, I admitted that, but my curiosity was … was merely curiosity. It would be a rare woman who could replace Catherine of Russia, yes, but there wasn’t a man on earth who could replace Jeremy Bond in my heart.

  It was well after noon when the carriage began to slow down. The countryside was lovely, grassy fields of pale jade green dotted with large boulders, trees spreading cool blue-gray shadows. The carriage stopped. The groom opened the door for us. Count Orlov himself took my hand and helped me down. Those strong fingers tightly pressing mine caused no emotional tremors inside. Those dark blue eyes peering so fondly into mine prompted no corresponding fondness, and the warm, gentle smile on his wide pink lips brought no matching smile to my own. Royal favorite he may have been, but I was immune to his allure. I was grateful to him for all he had done, yes, and I would be polite and friendly, but there would be no repetition of last night’s cozy intimacy. Count Orlov was not going to have another opportunity to cast his spell over me.

  “You have the comfortable journey?” he asked me.

  “It was extremely comfortable.”

  “Ah, Sir Harry,” he said, grasping the man’s arm, half dragging him out of the carriage. “You kept the lady company. I suppose he bores you with tedious business talk?”

  “Not at all,” I replied.

  “I’d like to bore you,” Sir Harry said grumpily, straightening the lapels of his coat. “I’ve been trying for three days to talk to you about those coal mines, Orlov. If you want to invest in them we must—”

  Orlov made a mock scowl and pounded Sir Harry on the back, almost toppling him. Sir Harry gave him a resentful, resigned look, and the count slung an arm around his shoulders in a hearty, affectionate hug.

  “Always the boring details!” he exclaimed. “This man here drives me into the frenzy, Miss Danver. He has the clerk’s mentality, always the numbers, always the papers. We discuss all this as soon as we settle in London, Sir Harry, I promise. Now we have the picnic. Is fine idea, no?”

  “Positively inspired,” Sir Harry s
aid dryly.

  Orlov curled his forearm around Sir Harry’s throat and squeezed playfully, pretending to strangle him. Sir Harry coughed, freed himself and gave his robust employer another offended look as he stalked away. Count Orlov chuckled, planted his fists on his thighs and watched him depart. He was dressed in gray today, soft pearl gray velvet, although his sweeping cloak was lined with white silk. The invigorating horseback ride had given his cheeks a pink flush, and his golden brown hair was attractively windblown. His vitality charged the air.

  “Is fine fellow, Sir Harry, but a fusspot, I fear. His head is full of the business matters, the facts and the figures. I tease him about it.”

  “I should say you’re most fortunate to have him working for you.”

  “Ah, yes, he takes the money, makes it multiply. I will go and humor him a bit, let him tell me about these boring mines while the servants finish setting up our picnic. Here comes Lucie to greet you. You and I will talk later.”

  Lucie came hurrying to me as her uncle sauntered off to join Sir Harry. She, too, had a flushed, healthy glow, and her eyes were full of pride as she whirled around to show off her new blue velvet riding habit. It was very English, very smart, very flattering to her slim young figure. The hat had a black silk scarf tied around the crown, the ends floating free behind, lifting in the breeze. Neat black leather boots and a pair of supple black leather gloves complemented the outfit.

  “Do I look English?” she asked.