When Love Commands

by Jennifer Wilde

  “I am very clumsy,” he admitted.

  “But endearing,” I said in English.

  He did not understand. “This is good?” he asked.

  “Very good,” I told him.

  The wine was ice-cold and deliciously tangy with tiny gold bubbles dancing in the glass. I sipped it slowly. Orlov drank his own, watching me all the while over the rim of the glass. Those hooded, seductive eyes glowed darkly and told me I was the most beautiful, the most desirable woman in the world, the only woman who could make him feel such passion. Although i was much too wise in such matters to believe this silent flattery, it was wonderful to see that look in a man’s eyes once again, reassuring to know I still had the ability to cause it.

  He finished his wine and smiled a provocative smile, his hair burnished dark gold in the candlelight, his face brushed with shadow, planes and angles pronounced. I held the wineglass with my right hand, and his fingers curled over mine, lifting the glass to my lips. I took another sip, and he continued to guide my hand until the glass was empty.

  “Now I feed you,” he murmured.

  He led me over to the table and, hands on my shoulders, gently pushed me into one of the chairs. He lifted my hair and kissed the back of my neck and I arched my back, my breasts straining against their satin prison. Chuckling softly, Gregory moved around and spread a thin sliver of toast with glistening caviar and sprinkled it lightly with finely diced onion and boiled egg. He stood over me. I opened my mouth, took a bite. He nodded with approval, feeding me the rest of the toast as though I were an invalid and he my tender caretaker.

  “Good?” he inquired.

  “Delicious.”

  “Now the specialty,” he said.

  He lifted a silver lid to reveal a plate of raw oysters on pearly half shells. They gleamed a wet silver-gray with a faint pinkish sheen. I shook my head and told him that raw oysters were not my favorite thing. Orlov ignored me, spearing one with a small silver fork.

  “These are special. The chef marinates them in spiced wine. They are love food, make you feel very sensual.”

  “I’d rather not—”

  He curled one hand around my neck and tilted my head back until I gazed at the ceiling. He squeezed lightly, forcing me to open my mouth, and I felt the oyster slipping over my tongue. I bit, swallowed, felt it sliding down my throat. The taste was subtle, exotic, pleasing indeed. He smiled when he saw my expression, spearing another shimmering oyster, feeding it to me, and I felt a glorious ache stirring inside.

  “You like?” he crooned.

  I nodded, wonderfully indolent, and he placed his hands on my shoulders, looming over me, so large, so magnetic, the thin white lawn shirt belling as he leaned down to cover my mouth with his own. That glorious ache spread inside me as his lips pressed and probed, parting mine, his tongue slipping inside my mouth as easily as the oysters, long and firm, the tip jabbing lightly at the back of my throat. My head seemed to whirl as he straddled me and lowered himself, his buttocks resting heavily on my thighs, his long legs stretching out on either side of the chair. He wrapped one arm around the back of my neck, leaning against me, crushing me, kissing me with a tender fury that went on and on until my senses shredded.

  He tightened his legs around my thighs and shifted until he was even closer, his swollen manhood pressing hard against my abdomen through the layers of cloth. The chair creaked, wobbled dangerously, and I feared it would collapse under our weight, but I didn’t care, I didn’t care at all. His free hand dug into the bodice of my gown, fingers probing beneath the thin lace undergarment to curl tightly around my breast, squeezing so tightly I winced, my nipple swelling against his palm. His mouth held mine captive, smothering moans of ecstasy.

  I was spinning, whirling in a delirious void of sensations that exploded inside with shattering force. Never, never had I felt such furious need, and I remembered what he had said about the oysters and knew they must have been doctored with some aphrodisiac and didn’t care about that either, didn’t care at all. I held on to him, my hands moving over the sculpted muscles of his back, exploring the width of his shoulders, finally catching hold of his hair and tugging violently as his hand squeezed my breast and his kisses continued to torment and the chair tilted dangerously.

  He climbed to his feet and took my hand and pulled me out of the chair. My legs were so weak I would have fallen had he not curled his arm around my shoulder, supporting me, guiding me over to the bed. The fury inside me had begun to ebb, changing into a tingling ache, as though my blood had thickened and coursed slowly through my veins like warm honey. When Gregory let go of me I was surprised to find that I could stand. I watched him pull the shell pink counterpane back, revealing the silken sheets, and I seemed to be seeing it through a soft haze, everything faintly blurred. The golden light of candles seemed to melt into mist, and the delicately colored figures on the panels seemed to come alive, dancing in the mist.

  Gregory stepped behind me and began to unfasten the tiny invisible hooks that fastened the back of my gown. He did it with practiced skill, his large fingers nimble and sure. He’s done this many, many times, a voice whispered in my mind. The bodice loosened, dipping forward, finally falling as he took hold of the sleeves and slipped them down my arms. Sumptuous folds of gleaming pearl gray satin spilled to the floor, the tiny sapphire and silver flowers melting into the cloth. I stepped out of the circle, the cobweb-colored skirts of my petticoat floating on air. Gregory picked up my gown and draped it over a chair and turned and stood with his hands on his hips, gazing at me with lazy eyes, a smile spreading on his lips.

  My flesh was visible beneath the frail cloth of my petticoat, as though seen through soft gray smoke, my full breasts lightly veiled, taut pink nipples pressing against the tissue-thin lace. The skirts covered my legs like swirls of smoke. Gregory gazed, savoring the sight as the honey-sweet lethargy spread through me, tingling, tormenting. I would die, I would dissolve if that ache were not soon assuaged, and he knew it. Was that smile faintly mocking? Why had he given me the oysters? Did he think the aphrodisiac was necessary? I closed my eyes for a moment, whirling slowly through the void, and then I stepped out of my shoes and removed the smoky petticoat, tossing it aside, watching it float to the floor.

  He did not move. He continued to smile, lazy, in no hurry at all, prolonging that ultimate pleasure in order to relish it more. I raised my arms and stroked the back of my neck, lifting the heavy coppery red waves up, letting them spill through my fingers. Gregory grinned and strolled over to the dressing table and gathered up the pale pink roses and then sauntered toward me. Holding one rose by its long stem, he clutched the rest of them against his chest and, grinning still, began to stroke my body with the velvety soft petals of the single rose, causing sensations I never dreamed possible. The lethargy turned into throbbing agony as the petals gently caressed my throat, my breasts, whipping lightly across my nipples, gliding down my stomach. My knees buckled. He gave me a rough shove. I fell onto the bed, writhing on the ivory silk sheets.

  Slowly, with lazy deliberation, he ripped the petals from the roses and pelted me with them. The petals were soft, soft, thin flakes of pink velvet, yet I could feel each one strike my skin. I turned this way and that, moaning, trying to elude that soft shower, and Gregory Orlov chuckled, scattering a final handful over me, tossing the stems aside. Petals spilled over my naked body, slipping beneath me, their perfume filling the air with an intoxicating fragrance. Gregory looked down at me, his erection throbbing painfully against the snug gray cloth encasing it, yet his manner was still indolent and relaxed.

  “I make this a night to remember,” he promised in a husky purr.

  He moved about the room, blowing out the candles one by one, and as the hazy golden light vanished, a silvery mist of moonlight spilled in through the windows, brushing surfaces with a pale sheen, intensifying the blue-gray shadows that filled the corners. I could see him clearly as he sat down to pull off his boots. He set them aside, peeled off his
stockings and, barefooted, stood with legs apart, slowly removing the thin white lawn shirt, letting it float to the floor like a soft shred of cloud. Hooking his thumbs inside the waistband of his breeches, he pulled them down, leaning over, stepping out of them, naked now, looking like an animated Roman statue in the misty silver light, but no statue had ever possessed such a manhood. It seemed to stretch and strain toward its goal, throbbing with a life all its own.

  He padded slowly through moonlight and shadow and stopped at the side of the bed, proudly displaying his virility. I closed my eyes, unable to endure another moment of this excruciating torment. I felt the mattress sag and felt his knees between mine and I spread my legs and he lowered himself and I cried out as that warm, pulsating tip entered with torturing slowness, a fraction of an inch at a time, stretching me on a rack of pain that seemed to pull my limbs apart and brought pleasure beyond compare. With dazzling expertise and inhuman control he continued to tantalize and torture, shredding my senses, denying his own pleasure in order to prolong mine, still rigid and as strong as steel as I hurtled into a shattering oblivion of ecstasy.

  Again he stretched me on that rack and led me to the brink of blissful destruction, and this time, when I had arrived, he allowed himself to participate in my pleasure, sharing it with shuddering glee, and later, during the night, I woke up to find the moonlight gone and darkness like black velvet shrouding the room and felt his hands exploring my body and I stretched, aching, bruised, the ashes of aftermath still warm, filling me with that delicious glow that made my blood tingle. I moved nearer, curling my arms around him, and he shifted positions and pulled me under him and we shared new splendors, a rough and rousing bout this time, the springs creaking loudly, limbs thrashing, my nails clawing his back, his teeth sinking into my shoulder, both of us lost to a wild abandon that knew no bounds.

  When I woke up the next time, the room was filled with a soft pinkish light that slanted through the windows in softly diffused rays, gradually melting into gold. I was all alone in Du Barry’s bed, and I doubted that that celebrated lady had ever experienced such incredible physical bliss. The man who had provided it was perched on the edge of a chair in his gray breeches, struggling to pull on the supple leather knee boots. He was shirtless, and as he leaned over I saw the broad curve of his naked back, crisscrossed with four thin red trails where my nails had clawed. I sat up against the pillows and pulled the rumpled ivory silk sheet over my breasts, gloriously replete, my hair spilling over my shoulders in a copper red tangle.

  I watched as he got one boot on and smoothed the thin leather up over his calf. Golden brown hair spilled over his brow as he leaned forward, the tawny locks damp. His muscular torso was coated with a faint sheen of perspiration. I understood now why Empress Catherine had kept him so long, tolerated so much from him. Gregory Orlov was the consummate master of the art of love, his incredible technique a veritable marvel of expertise. One couldn’t take him seriously, of course. He could be very engaging and one could be terribly fond of him, but there was no danger of a deep emotional involvement. What a splendid pet for a woman to enjoy.

  He picked up the fine white lawn shirt and stood and, seeing that I was awake, grinned lazily, looking at me with hooded eyes. Misty golden pink light bathed him as he raised the shirt.

  “You feel good?” he asked.

  “I feel battered.”

  “Me, I feel very, very happy.” He pulled the shirt over his shoulders and adjusted the hang. “This afternoon we leave for St. Petersburg. As soon as we get there I make all the arrangements.”

  “Arrangements?” I was puzzled.

  “For our wedding,” he informed me.

  Stunned, I stared at him. He tucked the tail of the shirt loosely into the waistband of his breeches. Oh Lord, I thought. Oh Lord. What on earth have I gotten myself into?

  BOOK THREE

  Chapter Fifteen

  I slowed Natasha to a walk, in no hurry at all to get back to the Marble Palace, and Vanya caught up, slowing his horse, too, riding along beside me, fierce and savage-looking in his fur cap and cloak. He was heavily armed, as were the two other cossacks who followed. It was a gorgeous, sun-spangled day, much too gorgeous to stay inside, and Vanya had agreed to go for a ride with me, ordering two of his friends to come along for added protection. There was no danger in St. Petersburg, but Vanya insisted on this precaution.

  We had ridden to the great harbor at Kronstadt, west of the city, where the powerful Russian navy was headquartered. The river Neva provided a natural outlet to the Baltic Sea, and ships from all over the world sailed into the harbor, bringing exotic goods. I had been amazed at the size and splendor of the place. One of the largest and busiest ports in the world, Kronstadt was like a gigantic doorway giving Russia an opening to Europe and the rest of the world. Peter the Great had planned it that way. In St. Petersburg one did not feel closed in and landlocked. One had the feeling that … that escape was possible.

  We were on our way back now. It had been a long ride, and I felt pleasantly tired. The ride had done me good. We had arrived in St. Petersburg ten days ago, and they had been ten days of intense emotional strain. It was glorious to be out in the open, bathed in sunlight, breathing fresh, crisp air, with magnificent vistas everywhere. We were passing through Peterhof, and on our left, beyond terraced gardens and amazing fountains, rose the immense white and gold palace of Peter the Great, an incredibly beautiful sight with its long wings and gleaming white marble steps. I sighed as we rode on, still amazed by the splendor. To our right, behind the graceful white marble balustrade, snowy slopes led down to the Neva, an awesome river that flowed like a gigantic blue-gray-green ribbon unfurling in the sunlight. In the distance ahead St. Petersburg spread out like a fairy-tale city, a wondrous place indeed.

  It was surely one of the most beautiful cities in the world, I thought, and certainly one of the most fascinating. Built along the riverbank, it was stunning to behold with its majestic buildings and breathtaking white marble palaces, its spacious gardens and squares. The many canals and bridges brought Amsterdam to mind, while the magnificent Nevsky Prospekt with its glittering, elegant shops put any street in Paris to shame. The center of culture and commerce, St. Petersburg far outshone the less-favored Moscow. Moscow was for the masses, St. Petersburg the swank playground of pampered aristocrats who thronged to its theaters and opera houses, danced in its marble halls. The Admiralty dominated the city, along with the Winter Palace, and the hundreds of handsome naval officers were the delight of pretty shopgirls and worldly countesses who were bored with the blue-blooded fare at court. Awash with delicious scandal and political intrigue, the city exuded an aura of robust sophistication.

  “I still can’t believe that seventy some odd years ago this was all just a swamp,” I said.

  “It was desolate marshland,” Vanya told me. “Peter the Great decides to build a city here on the banks of the Neva. He wants a window to Europe, he says. People tell him it is impossible to build a city over a swamp, but nothing is impossible to Peter.”

  Vanya scowled. I could tell that he had no fondness for that great ruler. He drew his horse closer to Natasha, staring at the city we approached.

  “He has thousands of peasants sink a forest of piles, has them fill it in with dirt they have carried in bags and inside their blouses. They work under incredible hardships. Many, many of them die, and their bodies are tossed into the swamp along with the piles and the dirt. There are those who will tell you St. Petersburg is built upon the bones of the workers.”

  “How—how dreadful,” I said.

  Vanya shrugged his shoulders as though to imply that this huge loss of human life was totally insignificant, but the look in his eyes said otherwise. I was reminded of the fact that, although he wore Orlov’s colors and devoted his life to the service of the aristocracy, Vanya was from the people, as were most of the other cossacks. His grandfather might well have been one of the peasants who died filling in the swamp.

  �
��But Peter has his city,” he continued. “Once the swamp is filled he brings his architects and more workers and his dream city materializes. He orders a thousand of the nobility to leave Moscow and build houses here on the banks of the Neva. They have no choice in the matter. They obey. A like number of merchants and shopkeepers are ordered to set up business in the city, and workers skilled in various arts and crafts are shipped here to join them. He names the city St. Petersburg after his patron saint, and the world marvels over the miracle he has wrought.”

  This was a long speech for Vanya, and I was surprised at his bitterness. He lapsed into moody silence as we rode into the city. I saw it with new eyes now, and as I gazed at the magnificent splendor I couldn’t help thinking of those peasants who had died bringing the place into being. The sun continued to splash radiant light over waterways and parks, gilding marble columns, but the depression I had been fighting for days took hold now and turned everything gray.

  “You enjoy seeing the harbor?” Vanya asked as we crossed the Nevsky Prospekt.

  “It was very impressive.”

  “Your eyes are sad as you gaze at the ships,” he said. “I feel you wish to be on one of them. You are not happy in Russia.”

  “I—I don’t belong here, Vanya.”

  “Vanya understands. It is not your land, your people. You wish to be in this place you tell me about, this Texas.”

  “It seems so far away.”

  “Soon you will be leaving. Vanya will miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you, too,” I told him.

  We rode on in silence, Natasha prancing restlessly, wanting to race again and not at all happy at the slow canter I imposed upon her. We crossed another bridge, nearing the Marble Palace now, and I felt myself tightening up as I thought about Orlov and the strain between us. I had no idea how I would resolve the situation or, indeed, if it could be resolved, but I firmly refused to marry him. He was as firmly determined that I would and chose to believe I was merely being coy. What woman would turn down the honor of becoming the wife of Count Gregory Orlov? He believed he could wear me down with gifts and calm reasoning. I returned the gifts. I refused to listen to reason. The situation had grown steadily worse since our arrival, and Orlov’s patience was wearing dangerously thin.