“Miss Danver, I presume,” he said.
“Yes, I—I am Marietta Danver.”
“Marietta—such a lovely name.”
His voice was deep and guttural, yet there was a purring softness. He seemed to caress each word as it came from that broad chest. It was … it was an incredibly seductive voice, husky and persuasive. Few women would fail to succumb to it were it used to employ gentle entreaties and tender phrases.
“Count Gregory Orlov,” he introduced himself. “At your service.”
He gave me a polite nod and clicked his heels lightly together in a manner that made gentle mockery of the traditional military salute. He sauntered toward me, moving with lithe grace surprising in a man his size. Count Gregory Orlov was a magnificent male animal, his magnetism almost overwhelming. As he drew nearer I found myself growing more and more disconcerted. Never had I encountered a man who radiated such power, such presence. The very air around him seemed charged with energy.
“You looked so very sad,” he said.
“I—I was just thinking about—something.”
“You must not think this thing,” he told me.
“Sometimes one can’t help it.”
“Ah, yes, the melancholy it comes, but we must vanquish it at once.”
“And how does one do that, Count Orlov?”
“One thinks of pleasant things. One seeks pleasant company. One pampers oneself with the fine food, the fine wine—and other diversions.”
That husky, caressing voice made the nature of those other diversions quite clear. He was standing close to me now, and I had to tilt my head back slightly in order to look into those deep blue eyes. I could smell his teak cologne and faintly moist silk and flesh, and his aura was so strong it seemed to envelop both of us like an invisible cloud. Count Orlov smiled, the full mouth curving, pink, the lower lip taut. The heavy eyelids drooped, half-shrouding those magnetic eyes. In love with Jeremy, I was immune to the charms of any other male, yet I was acutely aware of the sexuality he exuded through every pore, sexuality so potent it was almost palpable.
“You like these things?” he inquired.
“I—I enjoy a good meal.”
“This is good sign. You like the wine?”
“On occasion.”
“And the other—ah, it would be indiscreet of me to ask about that.”
“Extremely indiscreet,” I said stiffly.
He looked disturbed. “I offend?”
I shook my head and turned away from him, gazing at the hollyhocks, inhaling their strong fragrance. I could feel him there behind me, warm and big and solid. It was growing darker, the haze deep violet now, the sky turning black. The fireflies flickered a brighter yellow-gold. Soon the first stars would appear. The bird began to warble again, and the oak leaves made a soft rattling noise as the breeze stirred them.
“I do offend,” he said, and his voice sounded pained. “In Russia we make light of these matters. We jest. We do not take them as—as seriously as you English. I am forgiven?”
I faced him. I nodded. He was visibly relieved.
“Good. We must not begin on—how do you put it?—we must not start on the wrong two feet.”
“The wrong foot,” I corrected.
“Right. We must not start on the wrong foot. You are sad and I attempt to bring the levity and step on the wrong foot immediately. I am the clumsy oaf on occasion, I fear. Too many years in the army barracks. The fine breeding is lacking.”
“I—I guessed you had been a soldier.”
“Oh, yes, in my youth I am the mighty Russian soldier. I ride like a demon and flash the sabre and put fear in the hearts of my enemy. I am more at ease in the thick of battle than in the drawing room with the gold gilt chairs and velvet hangings.”
“I’m sure you exaggerate, Count Orlov.”
“I am like the caged lion in those rooms. It is agony even now, many years after I leave the military and become a count. They try to civilize me, but always I long for the rowdy comrades and the brawls.”
“You—you were not born a count?”
“Oh, no. My father he is a military man, a fierce soldier. My four brothers and I are ruffians. We terrorize the countryside. Many scrapes we get into, many pranks we play. The priest says we are spawn of the devil. My father thinks it is a compliment to him.”
He chuckled, the navy blue eyes full of amusement as he recalled those days. I suspected there was still much of the little boy in Gregory Orlov, a simplicity of response the years had not diminished. He would be easily pleased, easily angered, and his responses would be as quick, as volatile and uncomplicated as a child’s. Count Orlov, I felt, would ever be guided by instinct and emotion rather than intellect.
“It is good to find you well,” he said. “I worry much.”
“You—you and Lucie have been very kind.”
“We find you on the road. We bring you here and bring the doctor. Is that not what anyone would do?”
“You saved my life.”
“I suppose maybe. It brings responsibility, this, much duty. In Russia when you save the life, you are responsible for this person.”
“I thought that was in China.”
“In Russia, too,” he assured me.
“I don’t know how to thank you for—for all you’ve done.”
“Is natural to do these things, no? We are cruel sometimes, we Russians, it is in our blood, but we are not savages. Only the savage would leave a beautiful woman broken on the road.”
“Thank you all the same.”
“Is heavy responsibility, this. Now I must see that you are not unhappy and do not have this sad look in your eyes I see when I first came into the gardens. I must make you to smile. My French, pardon me, is not the best. Always I find it agony to learn the languages. Even the proper Russian is hard for me to speak at times.”
“Your French is more than adequate.”
“In the court we speak nothing else. Always the French, never the Russian. The Empress admires everything French—the French manners, the French clothes, the French art and literature. She and this fellow Voltaire are always writing the letters. He is her mentor, she claims.”
“Voltaire? I hear that he is extremely radical.”
“Is true. He fills her head with the political nonsense, the hot ideas. She is a foolish woman in many ways, Catherine.”
“Do—do you know her well?”
“I did once,” he said.
There was a tenseness in his voice, the purr replaced by a growl, and I sensed that for some reason he was extremely touchy about the Empress of All the Russias. His eyes were sullen. His wide mouth turned down at both corners. For all his great size he looked like a surly little boy who longed to smash something with his fists. Count Orlov was hardly one to hide his feelings, I thought. A long moment passed while he brooded, and then he shook his head and sighed heavily and smiled.
“You must forgive me. I forget myself. I forget my task.”
“Your task?”
“To make you smile. To make you forget sad thoughts.”
“You mustn’t bother about me, Count Orlov.”
“Oh, but I have the responsibility, remember? I take this very seriously. Will you smile for me?”
It was such a boyish plea that I smiled in spite of myself. Orlov smiled, too, vastly relieved.
“This is much better. You are even more beautiful when this smile is on your lips. Your beauty makes the knees grow weak.”
“What nonsense you speak.”
“I speak only the truth. Never have I seen a woman as beautiful as you, and in my lifetime I know many women. It is a tragedy when my niece tells me you are already taken. This is correct?”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“This man in London, he appreciates you?”
“I think so. I’m not sure I’ve ever fully appreciated him.”
“You will marry him?” he asked.
“I fervently hope to.”
�
��Then, alas, I must not try to seduce you. I must restrain myself and be just the good friend. I give offense once more?”
“Few women are offended to know a man would like to seduce them, Count Orlov. It is a compliment.”
“I would like very much, but I have the code of honor. Only if the woman is willing do I use the seduction, the tender words, the touches that are soft and make them melt. I tell myself, though, that under other circumstances you would perhaps not be unwilling.”
I smiled again, a wry, amused smile. All this was mere badinage, I realized, smooth words that meant nothing. A born sensualist, Orlov had probably started practicing his wiles on his plump old nurse as she fed him in her lap, and I felt sure that he used an identical approach with any woman under fifty. For a man like him, women were captivating creatures meant for bedding, and no doubt he bedded them by the score. One could hardly take offense at such obvious, simpleminded ploys. Handsome as a Roman god, charged with sexual allure, he undoubtedly found them successful nine times out of ten.
“We are friends, then?” he asked.
“Friends,” I said.
“I settle for this with broken heart.”
“I’m certain you’ll find someone to mend it ere long.”
Orlov grinned. One could not help but like him. His sexuality was potent, true, but there was genuine warmth and boyish charm as well. The scent of poppies was overwhelming here in the darkening garden. The leaves continued to rustle in the breeze. It was turning much cooler. I shivered, and Orlov was immediately distressed.
“I am the oaf!” he exclaimed. “Here I am so relieved to find you back in good health and I let you freeze and maybe catch the bad cold in that very lovely gown that leaves so much of the flesh bare.”
He whipped off the heavy white velvet cloak and placed it over my shoulders with tender care, his huge hands arranging the folds, one of them gently touching the side of my neck as he did so. He let them rest of my shoulders for a moment, heavy and warm, the fingers squeezing ever so slightly, and then he sighed audibly and turned me around to face him. The cloak smelled of his musk, a male perfume that was as heady as the poppies.
“You feel better now?”
“I—I wasn’t really cold.”
“We must not take the chances. You are barely out of the bed. When I get here this afternoon I summon the doctor. He comes to see me with the pale face and the shaky knees. He stammers that you are recovered but still maybe a little weak. I pound him on the back and give him a sack of gold coins. I think he almost faints.”
“Poor man, you probably frightened him to death.”
Count Orlov looked incredulous, as though such a thing was utterly improbable. Me? his eyes seemed to say. Why, I am as gentle as a baby with a heart of purest gold. I couldn’t help smiling again, and that pleased him. He took hold of my arms and squeezed them tightly indeed, so tightly that I winced, and then he slung a heavy arm around my shoulder and propelled me toward the trellises, a great, hearty animal full of exuberant spirits.
“We eat now,” he told me. “I have my chef prepare a special meal for my English beauty.”
“Really, Count Orlov, I—a very light meal is all I—”
He curled his arm closer about my shoulder, half dragging me through the arched trellises, past the herb garden. “We do not argue about it,” he said sternly. “Orlov does not brook the insubordination.”
“I am not one of—”
I stumbled, toppling forward. He swung a strong arm around my waist, supporting me. I could feel his hard muscle tighten as he pulled me upright, and I could feel his warmth and smell that musky male perfume as, for a moment, I rested against him.
“You twist the ankle?” he asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“Me, I forget myself. I am carried away. I am too rough. Always my old nurse she says, ‘Too rough, Gregory, don’t play so rough.’ I bloody my brother’s nose when I just mean to tap him and break the stableboy’s arm when I mean only to tease him.”
I pulled away from him, overwhelmed, feeling as though I had been caught up by a force of nature. Orlov looked disturbed and apologetic. I had lost a number of hair pins. My waves began to slide and tumble. Damn! I thought as I tried to push them back up.
“But no,” he protested. “Let the hair down. It is like the liquid copper, so thick, so shiny.”
“I don’t seem to have much choice,” I said as more pins fell to the ground.
I ran my fingers through the heavy waves and pushed them back from my temples while Orlov watched admiringly. We were standing by the kitchen gardens. It was almost dark. Pale silver stars had begun to glimmer lightly against a dark violet-gray sky. Orlov stood with his legs planted apart, hands resting on his thighs. His white garments gleamed dimly in the dust. His eyes were full of admiration, full of fondness.
“We go in now,” he said. “I take your arm gently.”
“You don’t seem to know your own strength.”
“My old nurse tells me that, too. ‘Gregory,’ she says when I knock Alexis to the ground, ‘you do not know your own strength.’ Alexis is big, too, taller than I am, but always I manage to make him submit when we wrestle as boys. He is better horseman than I am, though,” he admitted reluctantly. “Feodor is a better shot than either of us.”
“You must have had quite a rowdy childhood.”
“Always my four brothers and I are rowdy and rough. We knock each other about and bash heads and such, but we stick together. We are poor, you see. We often are without shoes, often eat only thin soup and hard bread. It strengthens us though and makes us tough and sturdy.”
He had certainly come a long way from his deprived, undernourished childhood, I thought, and I wondered how the son of a “fierce soldier” who couldn’t always provide shoes for his family had become not only a count but also a man of such incredible wealth. Had a rich uncle died? Had Orlov inherited his title and estates? Was he, then, the oldest of five brothers? There were so many questions I would have liked to ask, but good manners forbade it. Gregory Orlov was definitely one of the most intriguing individuals I had ever met.
Carefully placing my arm in the crook of his, he led me into the back hall where old wax candles now burned in tarnished wall sconces. Sounds of revelry came from the taproom, louder than ever. Orlov looked very displeased, a deep furrow above the bridge of his nose. A liveried servant came into the hall and Orlov barked something to him in a very harsh voice, the Russian words unintelligible to me. Apprehensive, the servant hurried away and in a matter of moments the noise from the taproom ceased abruptly. Orlov gave a satisfied nod and led me to the small private dining room.
I had to repress a gasp. The snug, homey room had been transformed as if by magic. The dull brown oak walls were burnished gold from the glow of dozens of tall yellow candles in exquisite gold candelabra. The dark hardwood floor had been covered with sumptuous white rugs patterned in yellow and gold, and a glistening yellow satin cloth covered the table. It was set for two with gorgeous white china adorned with gold, gold cutlery and incredibly beautiful crystal glasses etched with delicate gold designs. A bowl of white and yellow roses sat in the center of the table, their fragrance scenting the air, and a golden samovar bubbled on a small side table, adding its own spicy aroma. The splendor was awesome, yet there was a feeling of snug intimacy as well. My host beamed proudly as I took it all in.
“You like?” he inquired.
“Thank God I dressed.”
“I arrange. We celebrate your return to health.”
“Apparently we celebrate alone.”
“Lucie prefers to stay in her room and examine the gifts I bring her from London. Vladimir will take a tray to her. Sir Harry has the papers he wants to go over. He dines in his room, too.”
“Sir Harry?”
“He is the English diplomat, Sir Harry Lyman. Many years he spends in Russia, doing the important work for his country. He handles the Empress with tact and does much good.
He becomes my friend. Now he is retired, and he handles my affairs for me while I am in his country, makes the investments and such.”
“I see.”
“He is fine fellow, Sir Harry. I yell at him and give him the hard time, and he ignores me and goes about the proper business.”
“Do you yell frequently, Count Orlov?”
“Frequently, yes. I am Russian.”
Moving behind me, he reached around to unfasten the ties of the cloak, his fingers lightly pressing against my throat as he did so. He removed the cloak and tossed it aside, then, taking my hand, led me over to the table and helped me into my chair. He placed one heavy hand on my bare shoulder for the briefest of moments, rubbing his fingers lightly over the flesh. My skin seemed to respond of its own accord, tingling under that casual caress. Was Count Orlov merely being friendly and demonstrative, or was it very calculated, the first overture in a far-from-abandoned attempt at seduction? He was the kind of man for whom physical contact came naturally, I told myself, a man who would pound his comrades on the back and hug them heartily, who would kiss a woman’s hand, squeeze her arm, lift her from her horse, touch her frequently and simply for the joy of contact. I had already had ample illustration of that. I had to admit that the contact was far from unpleasant.
“This candlelight, it enhances your beauty,” he said in that husky purr. “It makes you even more beautiful.”
“I wish you wouldn’t say such things.”
He arched a brow, the navy blue eyes full of surprise. “You do not like the compliments?”
“They make me—rather uncomfortable.”
“When I see something beautiful—a painting, a work of art, a woman—I appreciate it.”
“And try your best to acquire it,” I said.
“Yes, I like to have the beautiful things around me. My houses in Russia they are filled with them. I bring some of them along to make the travel more pleasant. I transform this shabby room, make it a more fitting setting for the English beauty I find broken on the side of the road.”
I fondled one of the gold-etched crystal glasses. “Everything is lovely,” I told him. “I—I have the feeling I’m inside a golden jewel case.”
Love Me, Marietta Page 67