“You mustn’t let him rile you,” I said, fully recovered.
“This is so. You are right. He wants to make me lose control so that he can laugh and sneer.”
Protasova strolled over to join us. “You look a bit pale, Gregory,” she said. “Are you all right?”
“Me, I am fine. I am not out of my head with drink.”
“Potemkin does like the fruit of the vine,” she remarked.
“The man is a disgrace!”
“I quite agree, but as long as the Empress is enthralled the rest of us will just have to endure.”
Another fifteen minutes passed before a servant announced that dinner was ready to be served. Catherine came over and asked Gregory if he would escort her to the dining room. He beamed, bad mood forgotten as he gave her his arm. Potemkin staggered out with a giggling, enchanted Countess Zavadovsky hanging on to his arm, and her husband was forced to lead out Madame Koshelev who would undoubtedly tell him all about her grandnephews. Prince Golitsyn offered his arm to me, and Protasova followed behind us with Peter. Skirts rustled noisily and voices rose as we progressed down a long hall to the dining room. Potemkin roared with laughter up ahead, stumbling along with clumping feet.
The dining room was intimate, elegant, aglow with candlelight, the elongated table set with the finest crystal, china, and silver. There was a silver engraved place card at each setting. Gregory helped Catherine into her seat at one end of the table, and Prince Golitsyn helped me into mine. He was to be seated across from me. Anna Zavadovsky was giggling. Madame Koshelev couldn’t locate her place. People were moving about. A rough, heavy hand rested on my shoulder. Garlic and liquor assailed my nostrils as Potemkin leaned down, his lips almost brushing my ear.
“I think tonight I fuck you,” he tenderly murmured.
Chapter Twenty-One
It seemed the meal would never end. After murmuring those words in my ear Potemkin had taken his place at the end of the table opposite Catherine and devoted his attention to Anna Zavadovsky, who sat on his left, and young Peter, seated opposite her. Not once during that interminable meal did he so much as glance at me. He ate noisily, lustily, tearing his capon apart with his hands, keeping up a steady flow of outrageous comments that sent Zavadovsky into fits of nervous giggling and brought repeated blushes to the cheeks of the handsome young officer. Count Zavadovsky was not at all pleased. Prince Golitsyn was disgusted. At the other end of the table Catherine charmed Gregory and amused Protasova. Happily unaware of the tense undercurrents around her, Madame Koshelev consumed her food with silent efficiency, as though it had been some time since she’d had a decent meal.
Course followed course, each more elaborate than the one before. I barely touched my food. A magnificent custard was brought in, surrounded by macaroons and covered with hot apricot sauce. Potemkin roared with glee, declaring it his favorite dessert. Countess Zavadovsky squealed and bucked in her chair as Potemkin pinched her under the table. Her husband turned ashen. Potemkin roared with laughter and began to spoon custard into the girl’s mouth. Peter’s cheeks burned a delicate shell pink. Madame Koshelev swiftly devoured her custard, ate her macaroons and, seeing that I hadn’t touched mine, silently inquired if she might have it. I passed it over to her, wondering how much longer I could sit without screaming.
The meal was finally over. We adjourned to the drawing room where liqueurs were served. Count Zavadovsky monopolized his wife, keeping her away from Potemkin. Potemkin, several new grease stains on his outlandish red robe, had decided to torment Peter for a while and, one arm hooked heavily around the youth’s shoulders, he regaled him with accounts of some of the more perverse sexual practices among the Turks. Peter looked as though he wished he had never left the country as his tormentor went into ever more explicit detail. I refused a liqueur and attempted to make light social conversation with Prince Golitsyn.
Catherine was talking with Gregory across the room, and they made a lovely couple, I thought objectively. His virile splendor complemented her mellow middle-aged glow, made her seem almost beautiful. He leaned forward, speaking to her in a low, husky voice, the charm visibly employed, and she opened up a silver lace fan and fluttered it and smiled, toying with him. She happened to glance up and see me looking at them. Her eyes twinkled as she gave me a conspiratorial nod.
“—must come to Paris one day soon,” Prince Golitsyn was saying. “I’ll show you some real treasures. The statuary in the gardens at Versailles is as splendid as any I’ve ever seen, and as for painting—”
I listened to every word he said and made all the appropriate replies but it was impossible to concentrate. Potemkin’s melodious voice kept rumbling in the background, talking about buttocks now, talking about lard and how to apply it in order to facilitate a certain sexual act. With the exception of his miserably squirming victim, everyone else ignored the voice and those words, rarely heard in polite circles. Madame Koshelev and Protasova were discussing various maneuvers at the card table and Koshelev was confiding that confidence was the secret. Catherine looked over Gregory’s shoulder at Potemkin and shook her head fondly. Her lover was “being naughty” again, her eyes seemed to say.
Liqueurs finished at last, Catherine announced that it might be interesting to play a few hands of cards. Madame Koshelev nodded enthusiastically, no doubt contemplating her winnings, and, his arm curled loosely around young Peter’s throat, Potemkin roared that he intended to “show this young pup a few new tricks.” The young pup blushed furiously and made a futile attempt to pull away from his overpowering new mentor. Anna Zavadovsky was pouting as her husband took the liqueur glass from her hand. Protasova sighed and said she had a feeling tonight was going to cost her.
“You look a bit tired, my dear,” Catherine said to me as we strolled into an adjoining room where card tables had been set up.
“I have a slight headache,” I replied.
“You hardly touched your food.”
I was surprised. “You noticed?”
“There’s very little I don’t notice, my dear. It’s a habit I developed a number of years ago. People don’t notice me noticing, but I do.”
Empress Catherine smiled, toying with her silver lace fan. I wondered if she had noticed Potemkin leaning over my chair, murmuring into my ear. I wondered if she suspected what he had said.
“You enjoy cards?” she asked.
“Ordinarily I do, but—I wonder if I might excuse myself tonight. I would much prefer to see the gallery. I’ve heard so much about your collection from Prince Golitsyn. He says there is none comparable in all Europe.”
“And well he might. He was responsible for helping me acquire most of the best pieces. Of course you may skip the cards, my dear. I’ll have one of the footmen show you to the gallery.”
“It won’t leave someone without a partner?”
“Actually, it will simplify things. Potemkin is going to coach Peter, and that will leave exactly eight of us to play. There will be coffee and refreshments after cards.”
I told her I would be back to watch them play as soon as I had seen all of the paintings, and Catherine told me to en joy myself and directed a footman to take me to the gallery. Madame Koshelev was rubbing her hands with glee as I left. Still holding on to Peter, Potemkin was telling him he had to be sharp, had to be crafty, had to show no mercy. It was with relief that I followed the footman out of the room and down the hallway and past the wide marble staircase into the east wing.
It was very rude of me, I knew, leaving the others, and probably a shocking breach of protocol as well, but I simply had to be alone for a while, away from the people, the noise, the tension. The footman led me around a corner and down a short flight of steps and asked if I would require anything more. I shook my head and thanked him, and he bowed and departed, leaving me alone in the magnificent gallery. Dozens of paintings in ornate golden frames lined the pale cream walls, each a masterpiece of its kind, aglow with vibrant color, but I scarcely glanced at them.
&n
bsp; It was after eleven. Their ship would already have cleared the harbor by now, I thought. Lucie and Bryan were sailing toward that happy ending, beyond Gregory’s reach. The future awaited them, golden with promise, and I felt sure both would realize their full potentials. Lucie would become an actress. Bryan would write her plays. Together they would share a rich and fulfilling life, with none of the financial woes that so often cast a bleakness over youthful aspirations. Gregory would be furious when he discovered the diamond necklace was gone. I would pretend to be shocked myself. I would blame myself for being so careless, leaving it there on the. dressing table for anyone to steal. He would interrogate all the servants and make a huge uproar, but its disappearance would remain a mystery.
I felt a touch of apprehension as I thought about his inevitable rage, and I felt even more as I recalled his enigmatic behavior in the carriage. Did he intend to go back on his word? Did he intend to attempt to keep me in Russia? Our “agreement” would mean nothing to Orlov. Breaking it would give him not a moment’s pause. Gregory Orlov was a dangerous man. I knew that, but I had dealt with dangerous men before, quite a few of them. I wasn’t afraid of him. I told myself that, and I tried very hard to convince myself it was true. He had great wealth, great power, and he was utterly ruthless, but I had a few resources of my own, honed sharp by years of struggle.
Tomorrow I would have Vanya take me to Kronstadt and I would book passage on the very next ship to Copenhagen, and once in Copenhagen I would make other arrangements, wait for a ship that would eventually get me to America. If Orlov refused to give me the money he had promised, I would simply open his safe in the dead of night and take it. Almost eight years ago I had been convicted of theft and was transported to America, when I had never stolen a thing in my life. Since that time I had become as accomplished at picking locks and opening safes as the most skillful footpad in London. Life was full of irony, I reflected. One acquired a number of useful skills when it became a matter of survival.
My skirts rustled as I moved slowly down the gallery, surrounded by some of the finest paintings in the world. Lost in thought, I failed to appreciate their beauty, hardly saw the glowing colors and wonderful images captured on canvas. Somewhere a clock struck, the chimes softly reverberating in the silence. Eleven-thirty. I had been here almost half an hour. They were undoubtedly having a marvelous time in the card room, Madame Koshelev raking in her winnings and nibbling the chocolates I had seen in silver dishes on the tables, Gregory beaming at Catherine and reveling in what he considered his triumph, Potemkin tormenting young Peter and telling him how to play his hand. What luxury it was to be alone, with only the paintings and the silence and the bright glow of candlelight.
I paused in front of a large Nicolas Lancret canvas depicting a young man and his maiden embracing in a grassy woodland clearing. The colors were soft, subdued, trees a misty green and brown, grass a pale greenish tan, flesh tones glowing warmly. The girl was wearing a blue dress and her glossy hair spilled between her shoulder blades in a tumble of loose waves. The man was tall and lean and had rich chestnut hair that flopped over his brow as he bent to cover her lips with his own. Lancret’s style suggested Watteau, though without the frills and flowery garlands. His was simplier, cleaner, evoking a poignantly romantic mood.
I gazed at the painting and emotions stirred and soon I was seeing another grassy clearing, another couple. I had been wearing a blue dress that night, too, and his rich chestnut hair had flopped over his brow just as in the painting, and his lips had parted, covering mine, and his arms had enfolded me, and the stars had blazed overhead in the Texas sky as he lowered me to the pile of rustling hay. The splendor of that night lived again in memory, every detail remembered, mourned. Splendor lost, splendor gone, never to be savored again. Jeremy lost, Jeremy gone, leaving me alone in a world without meaning.
Tears I refused to shed welled up inside. I turned away from the painting, desolate, determined to overcome. I had lived for twenty-four years without being aware of his existence, and I could bloody well live the rest of my life without him. If … if I were only half-alive, at least I would be free of the constant emotional turmoil Jeremy Bond inflicted. The memories would fade, and, God willing, one day I would be able to think of him without this stabbing pain in my breast. I took a deep breath and turned and stared in shocked silence at Gregory Potemkin.
“You are thinking of me?” he inquired.
How had he come down the gallery without my hearing him? How had he been able to creep up on me, so silent? It was almost as though he had simply materialized here before me.
“I think perhaps you are lonely,” he crooned.
“How—how did—”
“I grow tired of coaching young Peter. He picks the game up quickly. He even wins a hand from the wily Madame Koshelev. He does not need me. I think perhaps the lovely Miss Danver needs me much more.”
“I prefer to be alone,” I said coldly.
“This is not so. Just now you are thinking how sad it is to be alone, to have no man to make love to you.”
He seemed to loom before me, enormous, filling the hallway with his presence, his powerful aura that charged the air with energy. His huge, rough hands lightly caressed his thighs as that one dark eye peered at me, looked into my soul, saw all my secrets. A gently mocking smile curled on those fleshy lips. The man was a wreck, a ruin, his face pitted with pockmarks, yet a curious attractiveness remained once one … once one got beyond the initial ugliness. It had to do with strength, not beauty, fascination, not features. I felt that pull. I fought it.
He gestured toward the Lancret canvas, raising his arm, pointing, and the sleeve of his embroidered red brocade robe fluttered, flowed on air. The mocking smile widened.
“You look at this painting. It reminds you of other times. It makes you feel empty inside. You have very strong needs. For a long time you deny them and they build up, demand release, relief.”
His voice was low, melodious, soothing the senses like soft music, music more important than words. I hardly heard the words. I heard the melody, and it filled me with warmth, soothing, comforting, caressing. He moved nearer, the smile so gentle, so … so understanding, the dark eye gleaming with compassion.
“Potemkin will help you,” he murmured. “He will release those emotions welling up inside you. He will unlock secret sensations and make you feel the new ecstasy, ecstasy beyond your wildest dreams.”
“No,” I said.
“You fight. It is foolish to fight.”
“No,” I repeated.
“You want me,” he murmured.
“No,” I whispered.
“You want these hands to stroke every inch of your body and explore every soft secret. You want the weight of this body to crush you and imprison you. You want to be impaled on my prick.”
I shook my head. He smiled, nodding.
“You want me. You need me.”
He understood so much, and he sympathized, he wanted to help. He smiled tenderly, tenderly, moving nearer, and I seemed to be swallowed up, seemed to lose all will, drawn to him, lonely, longing to yield completely to his power. Strength and stony self-control melted, and a wonderful weakness stole through me. How pleasant to let someone else command, control. I was so tired, so tired, too tired to struggle.
“Ah, yes, it is what you want. Say it. Say you want me.”
I parted my lips, but the words refused to come. That other Marietta refused to say them. She stood back, looking on, fully aware of what was happening and utterly horrified, resisting the pull, fighting it, fighting it still. She struggled against the weakness, the longing, the lethargy that lulled senses into stupor.
“I find you—totally repulsive,” I said.
He chuckled softly, a lovely sound.
“You repel me.”
“You say this, but it is not true. You know it is not true. You want me to take you. You want to yield. You will submit to me. Ah, yes, you will submit. Submit.”
The
dark eye gleamed with a diabolical glow, black-brown flames smoldering, compelling me to obey. Look away, the other Marietta told me. You must look away. You will not let him do this to you. The bright candlelight began to grow dim, melting into mist. The paintings disappeared and there was nothing but this giant looming before me in his bizarre red robe, the most fascinating, the most marvelous man alive.
“You feel a warmth burning inside you,” he said. “It’s stealing through your blood, warming you, wonderful. Feel it.”
“I feel.”
“Your skin is tingling. Feel it tingle.”
“Yes.”
“It is wonderful, this tingling. You have never felt anything like it before.”
“Never,” I whispered.
“You are filled with yearning. You yearn to make love to me. You yearn to receive me, enclose me with your flesh, take me deeper, deeper, this is so, say it is so.”
“It is so.”
He smiled and it was a wonderful smile and never, never had I wanted anything as I wanted this man who was a god, glorious, and the other Marietta was no longer there and I was drifting, dreaming, all reserve, all restraint melting away. I could feel it melting, turning into warmth that flowed through my veins like thick, sweet honey. He slowly raised one large hand and it floated gracefully, caressing the air, and then it landed softly on my shoulder and the fingers spread out and squeezed my bare flesh like rough tentacles curling, uncurling, and a thousand sensations exploded inside as his hand moved up to curl around the back of my neck.
He chuckled, reveling in his power over me, and I knew that, knew he was a monster of depravity employing black arts on me, but that didn’t matter at all. The spell was too strong and knowledge was meaningless. The lethargy possessed me completely now as his hand tightened on the back of my neck, drawing me nearer until my face was buried in folds of red brocade. He turned me around, holding me at his side, one arm wrapping around my waist, and we were moving, floating through the mist. I was powerless, absolutely without will, an abject slave to sensation. He guided me along and we turned and moved down a narrow corridor and then another and he unlocked a door and led me into an incredible womblike room.
When Love Commands Page 42