When Love Commands

by Jennifer Wilde

  “Something is wrong?” he inquired.

  “I just turned my ankle,” I said. “I massaged it and rubbed it with alcohol. I think it’s all right now.”

  He frowned and, before I could stop him, moved over and kneeled down and lifted my skirts back. Fortunately I had rubbed the ankle vigorously with alcohol and it was still a bright pink. Gregory examined it carefully and said it looked slightly swollen. So much for observation, I thought. He asked me if it hurt and I said not any longer and he stood up and helped me to my feet. I took several cautious steps, limping just a little. I told him I thought it would be all right, and he looked extremely relieved.

  “This had me worried,” he said.

  Gregory Orlov had never been more handsome, more dazzling than he was tonight in his richest attire. His navy blue leather pumps had diamond-studded buckles, and his stockings were of the finest white silk. His navy blue satin knee breeches and frock coat were superbly cut to accentuate his physique, his coat was adorned with a row of large diamond-studded buttons. His waistcoat was silver brocade lavishly embroidered with blue- and silver-thread flowers, and the lace flowing at his throat and wrists was a frothy silver tissue. Oh yes, he was dazzling. How could so much virile beauty be combined with such evil?

  This was a man who could take great satisfaction, and probably a perverse pleasure as well, in flogging a peasant to the point of death, a man who could brutally rape his young niece and use her as his whore with no remorse, a man given to maniacal rages and acts of casual cruelty performed without thought. How warm he could be, how tender and engaging, this a carefully calculated facade to conceal his total amorality. I shuddered to think how I had fallen under his spell, and it was all I could do to look at him now without revealing the loathing he inspired.

  “You can walk all right?” he asked.

  “I’ll have to move a bit slowly, but—it’s fine now.”

  The necklace, I thought. He’s going to notice I’m not wearing the necklace and ask me why and ask me where it is. Dear God, what will I tell him? I glanced at the clock. It was seven-thirty, time for us to depart. Lucie and Bryan were well on their way to Kronstadt. I told Gregory I would like to freshen up a bit before we left and he nodded and I went into the dressing room and applied a touch more pink to my lips and stared at my face in the mirror. I wanted to flee the house myself. I wanted to get as far away from Gregory Orlov as possible, but I knew I had to keep playing the game until it was finished. I couldn’t back away now.

  I went back to the sitting room and told him I was ready and he took my arm and we went downstairs, moving very slowly because of my ankle. Gregory helped me into a sumptuous white mink cloak when we reached the foyer, slinging a sleek waist-length black sable cape around his own shoulders, and in a few minutes we were in the carriage and on our way and he still hadn’t asked me about the necklace, too preoccupied with his forthcoming triumph to notice the omission.

  It was a lovely night, calm and clear, the sky a smooth, cloudless black hung with dimly twinkling stars and bathed in moonlight. Pale, silvery rays floated through the carriage windows, and in the hazy half-light I looked at the man sitting across from me. He seemed to be sculpted in black and white, the face pale, brushed with shadow. Brow and eyes were barely visible, but a slanting ray softly illuminated his lower face. A thoughtful smile idled on the full, splendidly shaped mouth, and as I gazed at it I suddenly knew that this powerful Russian nobleman was not merely amoral and cruel. He was completely unbalanced, driven by an obsession that had carried him far from the shores of sanity. Madness took many forms. Gregory Orlov had been tottering on the edge for many years, ruthless, erratic, given to bouts of gleeful, boyish elation and alternate bouts of fury.

  “You are very quiet,” he said.

  “I’m rather tired, Gregory.”

  “Tonight will be the great triumph.”

  “I hope so.”

  “You are happy for me?”

  “Of course,” I lied.

  “You do not sound happy. You sound most sad.”

  “I agreed to stay a month,” I said. “And that month is almost over. I will be leaving Russia soon.”

  “And this makes you sad. You do not wish to leave your new friends.”

  “I will miss Lucie.”

  “You will not miss Orlov?” he inquired.

  “You’ve been very generous, Gregory.”

  He chuckled quietly, and in the semidarkness, in the close confines of the gently rocking carriage there was something chilling about the sound. I experienced a moment of stark fear as I realized my own vulnerability, and I drew back against the cushion, my skirts rippling, rustling. Gregory leaned forward, his whole face illuminated now, brushed with pale silver, eyes gleaming darkly. The handsome features seemed stamped with a subtle menace. Was I imagining it? I had been under a great strain. Were my nerves getting the best of me?

  “You do not have to leave,” he said. “After I am back in power I could do even more for you.”

  “Catherine would love that.”

  “I can handle Catherine. I still want you, Marietta.”

  “Tomorrow I will go to Kronstadt and see about booking passage,” I told him.

  Gregory smiled and leaned back, completely in shadow now, only his large hands visible in the moonlight, resting lightly on his knees. When he spoke, his voice seemed strangely disembodied.

  “We will see,” he said.

  I didn’t like the sound of those three words. The carriage continued to rock gently, the wheels spinning with a whirring noise, horse hooves clopping with a monotonous rhythm. You’re tense, I told myself. You’re reading things into his words. Relax. You’re got a very long evening to get through, and it isn’t going to be easy. Lucie will soon be safe, out of his reach, and that’s all that matters at the moment. The carriage bowled around a curve, and moonlight spilled over my side of the carriage, leaving Gregory in shadow. I could feel him staring at me, as though in speculation, and the vague uneasiness persisted.

  Although it was a short drive, it seemed to take us forever to reach the Hermitage. Gregory climbed out and helped me alight, and a footman holding a flaming torch led us up the steps. We surrendered our wraps to another footman and followed a third to a drawing room on the ground floor. The Hermitage was ablaze with candlelight, crystal glittering, marble gleaming, a warm, cozy atmosphere prevailing despite the splendor.

  A number of people were chattering and drinking wine in the drawing room as we were shown in. Empress Catherine hurried forward to greet us, a welcoming smile on her lips. She wore a magnificent gown of pale gray watered silk, the skirt adorned with scallops of pale gray lace and small pink velvet rosebuds. I curtseyed. Gregory made a very impressive bow and, taking her hand, lifted it to his lips. Catherine’s deep blue eyes sparkled with amusement as she told us how pleased she was that we could come.

  “We are honored, my Catherine,” Orlov crooned.

  “You’re looking unusually splendid tonight, Gregory.”

  He smiled, preening, and, eyes still amused, Catherine patted him lightly on the cheek and then took me away to introduce me to her other guests. I had already met Madame Protasova, the sultry, overripe brunette known as “the tester.” She was particularly voluptuous in a low-cut gown of crushed purple velvet, diamonds and amethysts at her throat, her lids coated with mauve shadow. She was accompanied by a tall, spectacularly handsome youth in military uniform. He had thick blond waves and innocent blue eyes and seemed terribly ill at ease. I doubted he was a day over twenty.

  “And this is Peter,” Catherine said fondly. “He has just recently become an officer. He grew up in the country and finds St. Petersburg somewhat overwhelming.”

  “Peter is going to go far,” Protasova purred. “He’s aptly named.”

  The youth blushed as prettily as a girl. Protasova laughed. Catherine saw another guest arriving and begged her chief lady-in-waiting to look after me while she went to greet the newcomer.

/>   “That’s Prince Dmitri Golitsyn who’s just arrived,” Protasova informed me. “He’s our ambassador to France, on leave from his post in Paris. Golitsyn helps Catherine select works of art—he’s always shipping huge crates to the Winter Palace. He also keeps her informed on the doings of Voltaire and Diderot.”

  Prince Golitsyn was tall and lean with distinguished features and silver-gray hair. In his late fifties, he had the carriage and confidence of a much younger man.

  “The giggling blonde in pink who is drinking her third glass of champagne is Countess Anna Zavadovsky, who is all of nineteen and Catherine’s newest lady-in-waiting,” Protasova continued. “She has the intellect of a rabbit and the personality of a poodle, but for some reason Catherine finds her amusing. The thin, dour, middle-aged man in steel gray frock coat and blue waistcoat is her husband, who keeps an eagle eye on his young wife and wishes she weren’t quite so popular.”

  Count Zavadovsky did indeed look dour and disapproving, frowning darkly as his wife took yet another glass of champagne and smiled winsomely at the footman who served it. She was a pretty thing with her bouncy silver-blonde ringlets and guileless blue eyes. Her lovely figure was splendidly displayed in the pink gown with its full gathered skirt, snug bodice and plunging neckline that left over half her ample bosom exposed. Young Peter cast a sly, admiring look at the latter. Protasova slapped his wrist and ordered him to go fetch me a glass of champagne.

  “He’s full of potential,” she said wearily, “but he still has a lot to learn.”

  “I’m sure you’ll soon have him trained.”

  “Depend on it. The old frump in the preposterous brown wig and outlandish mauve taffeta is Madame Koshelev. She’s sixty and widowed and a dreadful bore, but Catherine loves to have her when there’s to be cards. Koshelev’s a wizard at the card table, makes a small fortune at gambling, and no one’s ever caught her cheating.”

  “She looks like someone’s sweet old grandmother,” I observed.

  “She turns into a killer when she has a pack of cards in her hands. Try not to play against her tonight.”

  Peter returned with my champagne and gave me a shy smile, his eyes roaming down to my décolletage. Protasova sighed and slapped his wrist again.

  “I don’t think he ever saw a woman until he got to St. Petersburg,” she told me.

  Gregory was talking intently with Catherine, who listened to him with a distracted smile. Protasova took me over and introduced me to the ambassador to France, then hurried back to nab Peter, who was moving toward Countess Zavadovsky. Prince Golitsyn was a charming, cultured man, as dignified in manner as he was in appearance. He asked me if I was interested in art and told me about the magnificent collection of Girardon bronzes he had recently acquired for the Empress.

  Catherine came over to inquire if I was enjoying myself, a warm and gracious hostess putting her guests at ease. Gregory had been cornered by Madame Koshelev and looked miserable as she gabbled amiably. Anna Zavadovsky was casting coy, flirtatious looks at Protasova’s handsome young trainee, and Protasova kept a firm grip on his arm and looked as though she would like to murder them both. Count Zavadovsky looked as though he would like to help her do it.

  Half an hour passed and I discussed art with Catherine and Prince Golitsyn and said I would love to see the paintings in the gallery here in the Hermitage. I finished my glass of champagne and refused a second and the Empress moved on to chat with her other guests and I found myself listening to Madame Koshelev talk interminably about her accomplished nephew and her bright grandnephews and her adorable grandniece who was only two and a half but already a clever little charmer.

  Lucie and Bryan would be at Kronstadt now. They would probably have already boarded the ship which—I glanced at the clock—which would be leaving in an hour. Madame Koshelev’s mauve gown smelled of camphor and her brown wig was slightly askew and her mouth kept moving, moving, moving, spilling out fond anecdotes. “We will see,” Gregory had said. “We will see.” What did he mean? What was I doing here? What on earth was I doing standing in this room, listening to this woman, when I wanted to run, wanted to scream? Protasova rescued me from Madame Koshelev and said I really should have more champagne and I agreed and took it gratefully.

  Catherine and Gregory were having another talk across the room. He was smiling and she looked like a patient adult indulging a tedious child, but he didn’t see that, of course. He thought she was fascinated. Count Zavadovsky had cornered his wife and was berating her in a low, furious voice and Protasova had strolled over to talk with Prince Golitsyn and young Peter was standing in front of me and casting sly glances down at my bosom and telling me he really preferred younger women, women nearer his own age. He said I was very mature and experienced and all but he bet I wasn’t much older than he was, and I told him he was very sweet and charming and very good-looking but completely out of his league.

  Twenty minutes ticked by. Only twenty? It seemed several hours since I had last glanced at the clock. What were we waiting for? Why hadn’t we gone in to dine yet? Would the evening never end? Peter had moved away and Madame Koshelev had trapped him and Catherine was chatting pleasantly with the Zavadovskys and Count Orlov strolled over to me looking very pleased with himself and I thought of what he had done to Lucie and what he had done to the peasant Josef Pulaski and it took great effort to keep from shuddering.

  “It goes very well,” he said happily. “Catherine and I have a talk together. We speak of old times.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I replied.

  “She remembers. Her eyes grow all misty as I remind her of days gone by and special joys we share. I think be fore the night is over she tells me she wants me to come back to her.”

  “Perhaps she will.”

  “I notice you are not wearing the diamond necklace,” he said.

  “I—” What was I going to tell him?

  “You have me send it up to you this evening, yes?”

  “It didn’t go with my gown. I decided not to wear it.”

  “You do not have it returned to me.”

  “I left it on my dressing table.”

  “This is a very valuable piece of jewelry. It should have been put back into the safe.”

  “I suppose it was—careless of me, but I had other things on my mind at the time, Gregory.”

  “This is so,” he replied. “You realize what an important evening this is for me. You wish—”

  There was a stamping, snorting noise in the hall outside. The set of double doors leading into the room were hurled open and Gregory Aleksandrovich Potemkin lumbered in with all the grace of a wounded water buffalo, stunning the assemblage and completely paralyzing conversation. His pasty, pockmarked face was as hideous as I remembered, the black patch covering his left eye, a leering smile on the thick, sensual lips. His greasy locks were coated with stale powder, fastened at the nape with a piece of ribbon, and he was wearing a loose flowing garment of dark red brocade heavily embroidered with black and scarlet patterns. With its long, full sleeves and high neck it resembled some bizarre monk’s habit and, soiled and rumpled, looked as though he had been wearing it for several days.

  “I arrive at last!” he announced. “Now we can have the good time!”

  Gregory had stiffened, tense with repressed fury. He had clearly not expected his rival to appear tonight. Catherine moved forward to greet her lover, her gray watered silk skirts swaying, gray lace fluttering beneath the clusters of pink velvet rosebuds. She took his hands. Potemkin gave her a sullen look and pulled free, gazing past her at the guests. When he saw Gregory and me he grinned and, pushing Catherine aside, shambled over to us. He had been drinking heavily. He smelled of liquor and sweat and garlic and grease.

  “I am so happy you can make it!” he roared, pounding Gregory on the back. “Is very amusing to see you here tonight, Orlov. It will be an interesting evening.”

  Gregory was too livid to reply. Potemkin’s grin broadened as he turned to fasten that dar
k, glowing eye on me.

  “You bring the beauteous Miss Danver, I see. For this I forgive you everything. How are you, my beauty?”

  “I’ve had better days.”

  “She enchants me!”

  I tried to hide my repulsion, and I tried to deny the strange, perverse allure of the man. It was as though some dark power were drawing me to him, pulling at me, awakening urges inside I wasn’t even aware of. The room seemed to waver, fading away, vanishing into mist, and there was just this man and these urges. The eye glowed, black-brown, burning with a message only I could read, and the lips curled into a mocking smile. A part of me stood back objectively and saw the pockmarked face and smelled the garlic and sweat and recoiled, perfectly aware of what was happening, but another part was drawn to him as surely as steel is drawn to magnetic rock. Potemkin chuckled and turned away, and the spell was broken.

  I felt a bit dizzy. Colors were brighter, voices louder, the room filled with a new energy as Potemkin lumbered around in his bizarre red brocade robe, greeting the other guests. Prince Golitsyn nodded curtly, making no effort to conceal his dislike. Young Peter was awed, blushing when Potemkin laughed and tickled him playfully under the chin. Madame Koshelev gave him a warm, grandmotherly smile, and Countess Zavadovsky giggled nervously and looked as though she might swoon. Catherine watched him with proud, worshipful eyes, a pensive smile on her soft pink mouth. She loved him. She loved him with a slavish devotion that was her greatest weakness, her greatest glory.

  “This man!” Gregory growled. “We will come to blows. It is inevitable. Maybe I even kill him.”