When Love Commands

by Jennifer Wilde

  “You went to Oxford?” I said.

  “Came down with top honors,” he confessed. “Poetry, philosophy, a dab of physics. Took my degree in history. Specialized in the Assyrian Empire. Not a bloody lot of use to me but an entertaining subject just the same. Know anything about the Assyrians?”

  “Not a thing,” I told him.

  “I’ll tell you all about them someday.”

  “I’ve no doubt you will. In detail. I’ve rarely met a young man so reticent,” I said with sarcasm.

  “Or modest,” Lucie added.

  “What about some more of that brandy now?”

  I poured it for him, enchanted in spite of myself. Bryan Lloyd took the glass, nodded his thanks and settled back against the cushions with a look of lazy bliss in those handsome blue-gray eyes. The errant dark blond wave had tumbled across his brow again. With his unruly, silken hair and his youthful, clean-cut features he looked seventeen, only the full swell of that sensual lower lip bespeaking a more advanced age.

  “Can’t say I’ve ever traveled in such style,” he remarked, looking around at the luxurious trappings. “All the comforts of home and then some. I’m used to roughing it a bit more—open sleigh, mothy blankets, plodding nags. That’s more my style.”

  “Exactly why were you roughing it out here in the middle of nowhere?” I inquired. “Or is it highly presumptuous of me to ask?”

  “Can you keep a secret?”

  “I’ve been known to.”

  “I was on an extremely important diplomatic mission,” he confided. “My father is chief adjutant to the British ambassador in St. Petersburg. A very important chap, my father—number-two man at the embassy. The ambassador is preparing a report to send back home on the living conditions of the peasants and all this unrest that’s causing such a flap. He needed some firsthand information, told my father to get it for him. Being the sensible fellow he is, and knowing my desire to see something of Russia besides the drawing rooms, he assigned me the task.”

  “Oh?”

  “‘No more of this lounging about, sponging off the old man,’ he told me. ‘If you’re going to stay here you might as well make yourself useful.’ So off I went in my open sleigh, visiting sundry villages, asking questions, making a lot of notes.”

  “Wasn’t he afraid you’d get hurt?” Lucie asked.

  “I think that was the idea,” the youth informed her. “Actually, I have a way with people and I’m more than capable of watching out for myself. I found the peasants quite unmenacing, if somewhat uncommunicative. They shared their food with me, let me sleep in their huts with the goats and pigs, always treated me like an honored—if unwanted—guest. Didn’t tell ’em what I was up to, of course, said I was gathering material for a book on Russia.”

  “They understood that?”

  “Most of ’em had no idea what a book was. They considered me an eccentric foreigner with a funny accent and a bewildering curiosity about their ways. I always gave the village priest a nice gift, got him on my side. My sleigh was filled with such gifts when I started out,” he added.

  Young Bryan Lloyd wasn’t quite the irresponsible young rogue he seemed to be on first impression. The handsome blue-gray eyes gleamed with intelligence, and I strongly suspected that the cocky manner and frivolous banter concealed a cool, tough efficiency. He would never have been entrusted with so delicate a mission were that not the case.

  “So you’re in the diplomatic service?” I said.

  “Not actually. As I said, I was just helping my father out. I’d been visiting him for four months, attending all the parties, charming all the ladies, adorning all the drawing rooms. I was getting restless, leaped at the opportunity to do something besides dress up and scintillate.”

  “And what did you do before you came to Russia?”

  “A bit of this, a bit of that.” He shoved the heavy blond wave from his brow. “I spent a lot of time in the theater,” he said.

  Lucie’s cool demeanor didn’t alter in the least, but her interest was definitely aroused by the word theater.

  “You’re fond of the theater?” I asked.

  “Fond is hardly the word I’d use. It’s a fascinating world, full of maddening, exasperating, infuriating idiots who should have been drowned at birth but happen to be blessed with special magic. Belong in cages, all of ’em. Instead they swagger about in all their splendor, scattering the magic like gold dust for the benefit of lesser mortals.”

  “You seem to know a great deal about it,” Lucie said coolly.

  “Enough to know a man’s mad to get involved in that world.”

  “Oh?”

  “Ever hear of a play called The Complaisant Wives?” he asked her.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t.”

  “Neither have I,” I said.

  “It was a marvelous play,” he informed us, “full of wisdom and sparkling with wit, packed with dramatic conflict. Belongs with Dryden, Congreve, Goldsmith, the best. It opened in London six months ago. The audience threw rotten tomatoes at the stage. The journalists who came to review it actually chased the poor author out of the theater. Brandishing knives,” he added.

  “What did he do?”

  “Only thing he could do—fled the country.”

  “And came all the way to Russia.”

  “How did you guess?”

  “I’m quick that way,” I said. “So you wrote a play?”

  “Penned every immortal word, shaped every phrase with my sweat and blood. People don’t appreciate quality in the theater,” he said glumly. “They want fireworks and foolery, nothing more. Next time that’s what I intend to give ’em.”

  He gave Lucie a sidelong glance, trying his best to impress this lovely young woman who sat across from him with such regal bearing, but Lucie wasn’t about to let herself show the slightest curiosity. Ignoring him, she gazed out at the ice and snow flowing past the window as we sped along. Bryan Lloyd was clearly perplexed. I could tell that he wasn’t accustomed to being ignored by youthful members of the opposite sex.

  “You plan to write another?” I asked.

  “Imagine I’ll have to,” he said. “Can’t let myself be remembered solely as the author of that fiasco. I learned a lot from the experience, made dozens of mistakes, know how to go about it now. I’ve got several ideas. Imagine I’ll set to work with a vengeance as soon as I get back to London.”

  Lucie was seemingly fascinated by the passing scene, gazing with rapt attention at snowbanks and icy trees. Bryan Lloyd curled his lower lip, frustrated at his inability to arouse her interest. I smiled to myself, amused by the age-old game both were playing. I couldn’t resist a bit of deviltry.

  “You must know a lot of people in the theater,” I said.

  “Far too many of ’em. Madmen all.”

  “Have you ever met Mrs. Robinson?” I asked.

  “The Divine Perdita? She was one of the complaisant wives! She wrecked my play, the slut! I was an unknown playwright and the management thought she would draw in the crowds and she condescended to appear in the piece after demanding positively absurd changes in the third act. The play called for ensemble acting, everyone holding up his end, working together, and La P. turned it into a one-woman vehicle, hamming all over the place and totally ignoring the rest of the company. Wretched woman! I’d love to strangle her!”

  Lucie couldn’t resist that. She had to come to the defense of her idol. She turned to look at him, her face beautifully composed, and when she spoke her voice was cool and level.

  “I’ve seen Mrs. Robinson act,” she said. “I saw her as Jacintha in The Suspicious Husband.”

  “Yes, she went into that immediately after Wives.”

  “I think she’s a wonderful actress.”

  “She’s an ambitious little slut who happens to have a nice face and a passable voice and a knack for meeting the right men. Sheridan put her where she is. Quite taken with her, he was, made her his protégée, used his influence to promote her career. She
’s used him shamelessly, but she’s about ready to dump the old boy now. Has her cap set for the Prince of Wales, she does, and I’ve no doubt she’ll eventually snare him.”

  Lucie didn’t believe a word he said. A pale pink flush tinted her cheeks, but she refused to let him see her ruffled. She brushed an imaginary speck of lint from her violet brocade skirt, adjusted her soft gray furs.

  “I shouldn’t doubt he’d be interested in her,” she replied. “Mrs. Robinson is a remarkably beautiful woman.”

  “You think so?”

  “She has an ethereal quality.”

  “Ethereal!” he scoffed.

  “I wouldn’t expect you to appreciate it.”

  “You ought to see her without make up,” Lloyd told her. “She looks like a startled poodle. Everything you see on stage is artificial, including her bosom. Even all decked out and bathed in soft light she’s not one-tenth as lovely as you are. You could probably act her off the stage as well. Almost any woman with a decent voice could, and you’ve got a wonderful voice, full of color and interesting shadings.”

  Lucie, of course, was far too sophisticated to respond as he had hoped to this obvious ploy. Coolly ignoring the flattery, she picked up her book and began to read. Bewildered by his lack of success, Bryan Lloyd curled his lower lip again, arched one smooth eyebrow and promptly went back to sleep until the next meal. I smiled, tucking the fur lap robe back aroung his long legs. Lucie lowered her book and gave me a withering look. Exasperated she might be, but I doubted she would find the rest of our journey quite as tedious and boring.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Standing at the elegant French windows of my bedroom, I gazed out at Count Vasily Rostopchin’s celebrated gardens, patterned after those Le Notre had created at Versailles. In full bloom, they must have been spectacular, but now the carefully terraced flower beds were covered with snow, the formal walks layered with ice. Marble fountains were still. Lily ponds were frozen. Magnificent nude statues seemed to shiver on their pedestals, the bizarrely shaped evergreen topiary shrubs providing the only touch of color. Light was fading now, violet-gray shadows spreading over the snow, the pewter sky streaked with amethyst banners that blurred softly as the pale silver disk of sun disappeared.

  Time to start dressing, I thought, turning away from the windows. Earlier I had luxuriated in a bath for over an hour and now wore only a thin petticoat of pale yellow silk, the half dozen gauzy yellow skirts swaying as I moved over to the beautiful cream and gold wardrobe where a servant had hung the clothes I would wear during our brief visit with Count Rostopchin. Each garment had been carefully pressed, handled with loving care. I took down the pale yellow silk gown completely overlaid with a deeper yellow gauze appliquéd with floral patterns in glittering gold spangles.

  I smiled, thinking of our reception when we arrived this afternoon. Our host had greeted Orlov as he might greet a long-lost brother. The robust cries, vigorous punches and bearhugs had brought a particularly fierce wrestling match to mind, with the thin Rostopchin definitely getting the worst of it. In his powdered wig, sky blue satin and frothy cream lace, he looked as fragile as a porcelain doll, and I feared he might break as Orlov pounded his back and caught him in a crushing hug. In another country such hearty physical displays of affection might have elevated eyebrows, but in Russia it was the norm, the more rugged the male, the more demonstrative his manner. Friendship among men was a joyous thing to be celebrated with gusto.

  Gusto gave way to courtliness as Count Rostopchin turned to welcome Lucie and me to his home. Restrained, refined, he kissed our hands, the epitome of the gracious French gentleman. Following the example set by Catherine herself, Rostopchin, I discovered, was enamored of everything French. Young Bryan Lloyd had been amused to note Rostopchin’s high-heeled shoes with their diamond buckles, his perfumed handkerchief and painted face, had been less amused when Rostopchin greeted him as proper French gentlemen his age greeted young boys. The youth’s expression was a sight to behold as the count took him by the shoulders and planted a resounding kiss on each cheek. Lucie had barely been able to restrain a titter.

  Remembering Bryan’s blush, his silent outrage at this treatment, I smiled again. All dignity, he had explained to the fifty-seven-year-old count that he was not a petit garcon, was, in fact, pushing thirty. Rostopchin elevated one plucked brow and said he had taken Bryan for a choirboy. That delighted Lucie. It made Bryan long to murder the foppishly attired but extremely virile Rostopchin, who made matters worse by patting the youth on the head and informing him that the nursery had been made ready for him. Though blessed with a marvelous sense of humor himself, Bryan Lloyd did not appreciate being teased about his ultrayouthful appearance. He had sulked for over an hour, vowing to grow a beard in self-defense.

  Count Rostopchin’s obsession with things French had caused him to turn the interior of his vast house into a replica of one of those exquisite mansions outside Paris where French nobility held court. The cream, gold and shell pink bedroom assigned to me was a perfect example of the renovation. The pink walls were divided by gilt-framed panels depicting elegantly clad shepherds disporting with scantily clad shepherdesses in flowery glades while plump nymphets and cupids beamed with approval. Painted in soft pastel shades against a cream background, the panels, by Boucher, had been originally commissioned by Madame de Pompadour. The soft blue rugs patterned with dusty pink flowers and delicate green leaves had been specially woven for that lady, while the magnificent cream and gold furniture had belonged to her successor, the voluptuous Jeanne Du Barry.

  Crystal pendants glittered on gilt wall sconces where candles glowed warmly, and a superb Boucher portrait of Louison hung over the cream marble mantlepiece, that young lady as sensuous and scantily clad as any of the shepherdesses, a garland of flowers her only attire. The total effect of all this was excessively grand and erotic, and as I fastened my dress I wondered about the other women who had occupied these seductive quarters. Twice widowed, with no legitimate heirs, Count Vasily Rostopchin was, according to Lucie, a notorious womanizer with an insatiable appetite for ballet dancers, opera singers and winsome coquettes, devouring them as another man might devour chocolates. The delightful pastime, though typically French, had become so obsessive and prolific in Rostopchin’s case that even Catherine had expressed her disapproval, and she was hardly prudish. As a result, Rostopchin was no longer welcome in St. Petersburg and spent much of his time in Paris where his appetites were understood and his lavish generosity greatly appreciated by its many recipients.

  Rostopchin, I knew, had been an ardent supporter of Catherine’s and, like Orlov, instrumental in putting her on the throne. In the old days, before Orlov’s fall, the silver-haired count had been one of the most important men at court, fawned upon and feared by all who hoped to win favor. Banished from the court, all his influence gone, the aging Russian nobleman accepted his lot with a good-natured shrug and continued to enjoy himself immensely. Unlike Orlov, he never pined for glories lost. According to Lucie, who had provided all this information, he was far too busy enjoying pleasures of the present to regret what was gone. Despite the difference in their ages, he was Orlov’s closest friend and looked upon the younger man as his son. Rostopchin was one of the few people in the world Orlov genuinely respected.

  Moving over to the full-length mirror in its ornate gilt frame, I examined myself critically. The gown was truly spectacular, the full puff sleeves falling off the shoulder, the form-fitting bodice cut daringly low. The waist was snug. The skirt spread out in splendor, golden spangles glittering against yellow gauze and silk. My hair was piled on top of my head in a stack of sculpted coppery red waves, three long ringlets dangling in back. I had applied a touch of pink to my lips, a suggestion of blush to my high cheekbones, and my eyelids were lightly brushed with pale brownish mauve shadow. The woman who gazed back at me was unquestionably mature, the sapphire eyes dark, disillusioned, full of sad wisdom, but I had no doubt Count Rostopchin would appreciate my e
fforts to please him.

  A wry, self-mocking smile played on my lips as I picked up one of the elegant crystal bottles of perfume. Who do you think you’re fooling? I asked myself. You’re not wearing this dress for Rostopchin, you’re wearing it for Orlov. The perfume was subtle and seductive, bringing to mind sun-kissed roses and naked flesh. I dabbed it behind my earlobes, between my breasts, applying it a bit more generously than I ordinarily did.

  “I think I’ll just forget about dinner tonight,” Lucie said. “I couldn’t possibly go down now.”

  I turned. She had opened the door so quietly I hadn’t heard her. Standing in the doorway, she looked at me with a distinctly peeved expression.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “Are you feeling ill?”

  Lucie sauntered on into the room, her satin gown rustling softly.

  “I feel positively wretched,” she confessed. “I intended to go down and dazzle everyone with my splendor, and now, after seeing you, I realize I’ll be merely a shadow to your sun.”

  “Nonsense,” I said.

  I replaced the crystal stopper in the perfume bottle, set the bottle aside and sighed. Lucie observed me with critical eyes, her head tilted slightly to one side.

  “No one has a right to be so gorgeous,” she complained. “You look positively magnificent, Marietta.”

  “You look rather magnificent yourself,” I told her.

  Lucie frowned, looking touchingly young as she stepped over to the mirror I had just vacated. Her hair was pulled back from her face, cascading down in back in a rich tumble of golden brown waves. The pale tan shadow on her lids made her eyes seem even more exotic, and light pink rouge accentuated her lovely high cheekbones. Her mouth, currently pouting, was a soft shell pink, and the scattering of light, almost invisible, golden tan freckles across the bridge of her nose added a piquant effect.

  “I hate this gown,” she said. “I don’t know why I ever let you persuade me to buy it.”