Dare to Love (29 page)

“My apartment isn't far,” he said. “We'll walk.”

I took a deep breath. The cool air revived me, and I seemed to come to my senses. Liszt noticed my hesitation, and he smiled again, aloof, amused, content to let me make my own decision now. I looked at him, and in that instant I knew that although I might regret it if I succumbed to his hypnotic allure, I wasn't going to turn and flee as every instinct told me I should. The sadness was still inside, and the alternative was yet another night of grief and unbearable loneliness. I couldn't face that.

“Well?” he challenged.

“We'll walk,” I replied.

Liszt smiled, and then he stepped behind me and placed the brown velvet cape over my shoulders, his long, beautifully shaped hands lingering for a moment. A light breeze caused the leaves of the plane trees to rustle overhead, and moonlight and shadow danced on the pavement before us as we started down the street.

The night was lovely, bathed in silver, rows of houses white and gray, brushed with blue-black shadows. The air was scented with perfume from the flowering trees. Within a few minutes we were moving across an arched stone bridge, boats with small, bobbing lights passing below. The massive Cathedral of Notre Dame loomed in the distance, dark stone gargoyles crouching in the darkness. Sounds of merriment drifted from the cafes down the river, but the noise was barely audible here. We walked down a broad avenue and then turned into a labyrinth of narrow, twisting streets. Here it was still and silent; our footsteps were the only sound. This part of Paris was fast asleep.

We eventually reached an old, very beautiful building standing at the end of one of the streets, a small courtyard in front. It was all mellow elegance in the moonlight, rubbed worn with time, evoking a glamorous past. I fancied it might once have been the residence of a royal favorite, now remade into an apartment house. The foyer was unlighted, faintly aglow with moonlight that intensified the shadows, but Liszt moved with confidence, leading me up three flights of stairs. He unlocked the door to his apartment, led me inside, and closed the door. I stood in darkness while he lighted a lamp. The light blossomed slowly, pale yellow flickering, struggling to drive back the black. I realized we had hardly exchanged a dozen words since he first approached me in George Sand's drawing room.

“Home,” he said.

The room was large, with very high ceilings. A grand piano dominated one corner, sleek rosewood gleaming in the lamplight. There were two oversized chairs covered in worn tapestry and a sofa in blue velvet, its nap shiny with age. Heavy blue velvet curtains covered the windows. The air was chilly, and I shivered. Liszt moved over to the soot-stained white marble fireplace and busied himself making a fire. In a few minutes the flames were devouring the logs. He put out the lamp then, so the fire provided the only light.

“Wine?” he asked.

I shook my head. He stepped into the adjoining room, leaving me alone. I removed the brown velvet cape and rubbed my arms, shivering again, but not from the chill. It wasn't too late to leave. He was dangerous for me, dangerous for any woman, perhaps even cruel, and consumed with a genius that left little room for anything but his music. Watching the flames leap, I decided to remain. I moved over to the fireplace to warm my hands, deliberately thrusting aside reason and common sense. It was time for folly.

Liszt returned wearing a dressing robe of dark red silk brocade, the sash tied loosely at his waist. He was naked beneath it. He gazed at me, a deep frown creasing his brow, as though he wondered how I came to be here, and then he padded across the carpet on bare feet and sat down at the piano with a distracted air. I moved over to the sofa, my satin skirt rustling softly as I settled back against the cushions. Liszt scowled and flexed his fingers. His hands were lean, powerful, as strong as steel, yet when he touched the keys they were graceful, imbued with a life of their own, it seemed. He touched the keys as though in deep reverence, and then, throwing his head back, straightening his shoulders, he began to play.

The music, a soft, subtle whisper of sound at first, gradually swelled into a lovely, poignant melody that floated lightly, receded, repeated, louder than before. It was one of his own compositions, and surely it had never been played with such sensitivity, such feeling. His face was stern, his thin lips held tight, and in the light of the flames that thick, tawny mane gleamed golden-bronze. Watching him, strange emotions stirred inside me. As those strong fingers touched the keys with such tenderness, stroking gently, evoking loveliness even as his face retained that stern expression, I felt a warmth suffuse my body that had nothing to do with the leaping fireplace fire.

He continued to play, an even lovelier melody following the first, and as he raised his eyes to look at me, a sardonic smile flickered on his lips. Then I realized that he was making love to me already, making love with music. His eyes held mine, and the music changed, gentle melody giving way to a sensual throb that grew louder, thundering, a passionate barrage of sound that plunged and plundered and ravished my soul with its fury. Back and forth he moved, shoulders hunched, his hands rising, falling, flailing the keys. His eyes flashed and penetrated my soul. I was breathless, besieged by the music that rose to a shattering crescendo.

The silence was abrupt, as shattering in its way as the music had been. The whole room seemed to throb with silent echoes, the fierce passion of the music vibrating still. Liszt sat at the piano, looking at me calmly, his passion pouring from him in invisible waves. I trembled when he stood up; the red silk brocade robe, covering his body loosely, swayed as he moved toward me, the cloth rustling with a provocative silken sound. He stood directly over me and looked down with dark eyes that calmly assessed me. Liszt smiled again. He caught hold of my wrists and pulled me to my feet. I felt powerless, caught up in the spell he had woven with such expert deliberation.

He led me over to the fireplace. A thick rug was spread out in front of the hearth. Placing one arm around my waist, holding me against him loosely, he looked into my eyes. I tilted my head back to meet his gaze. He cupped my chin with his free hand, and then he leaned down to kiss me. I curled my arms around his back, rubbing my palms over the smooth, slippery brocade, and as his lips grew more demanding I caught my fingers in those long, thick locks. I felt myself spinning into a void of sensation sweet and searing, and when he removed his lips from mine and raised his head I was surprised to find that I was still conscious.

Liszt turned me around, and unfastened the back of my dress, so the bodice fell loose in front, my breasts almost exposed. He planted his lips on the curve of my shoulder, and then both his hands were on my breasts, caressing, kneading the flesh, causing me to gasp. I arched back against him, and he caught the lobe of my ear in his teeth, biting it with tiny bites, not gentle, not quite painful. He turned me around and crushed my bare breast against his chest. Moments passed, each an agony, each bliss. He unfastened the pink camellia from my hair and tossed it aside, and he helped me undress, the creamy white satin falling to the floor, and when I was completely naked he removed his silk brocade robe, spread it over the rug, and pulled me onto it.

I lay on my back, looking up at him. He stood with legs apart, his hands resting on his thighs, and in the firelight his tall, lean body was superb, his manhood erect. The silk was smooth and cool beneath my buttocks and back. I could feel the warmth of the flames, the warmth inside me spreading, every fiber of my being aching for fulfillment. Liszt kneeled over me, the velvety tip of his rigid manhood touching my stomach as he leaned down to kiss my temples, my mouth, my throat, his lips burning my flesh, it seemed, yet cool, firm, pliable. He kissed each nipple, caressed my thighs, my stomach, my breasts, and then his knees slid back and he was atop me, his body heavy, hard, smooth.

Then he began to play again, a new kind of music, a new instrument employed with the same beauty, the same finesse. He entered, strong, masterful, tender, playing gently, gently stroking, and I rose to meet him, moving to the music that filled me. The tempo changed, building, building, growing fast, furious, thundering now, tearing my senses asunder. He was a master of every movement, even in his own urgency employing that magnificent finesse. We reached the crescendo together. I cried out, and Liszt grew taut, his whole body taut as a bow drawn tight, and then he shuddered convulsively, finally spent. I wrapped my arms around him, shaken, senses still in shreds. His body was dead weight now, and I cushioned it with my own, his warmth a part of me still. His head rested on my shoulder.

I stroked his damp hair, stroked the curve of his back, running my hands over the smooth, warm skin. Liszt slept, and the fire died down, a heap of rose-colored ashes, glowing brightly, growing dim, gray, and the darkness lightened as the first rays of morning sunlight streamed through the slightly parted curtains. He groaned in his sleep and shifted his body, his arms gathering me to him. Though I was deeply satisfied, warm, content for the moment, I thought about Brence and Anthony and was filled with cool determination. This time it will be different, I told myself. This time it will be on my terms. This time I won't allow myself to be hurt.

XXII

George Sand, smiling warmly, put down her pen, glanced despairingly at the messy stack of papers on her desk, and stood up. Instead of a dress, she wore a pair of beautifully tailored black velvet trousers and a white silk shirt with a loose, flowing collar. A pair of brightly embroidered Persian slippers completed her unusual outfit. I had never seen a woman in trousers before, and it must have been apparent from my expression. She laughed softly, tucking the silk shirt snugly into the waistband.

“I know it must seem shocking,” she said, “but trousers are extremely comfortable. Why shouldn't I be comfortable when I work? Sitting at a desk for hours on end in taffeta and crinoline petticoats isn't at all practical.”

“They're quite fetching.”

“But you
are
shocked. I find that delightful. I didn't know I still had the ability to shock anyone. When I first donned male attire fifteen years ago, people were really shocked.”

“Is that why you did it?”

“Well, I can't deny that I enjoyed the sensation I made, but my real reason was purely financial. All my friends were male, and we were all poor, but women weren't allowed in the inexpensive coffee shops the men frequented, nor were they allowed in the pit at the theater, the only seats we could afford. Simply because I was female, and poor, I was excluded from almost any kind of social activity, and I resented it bitterly.”

She pulled a bell cord to summon her servant and, taking my hand, led me over to a sofa with a fringed purple-and-black shawl draped across its back.

“Let's sit down. Mathilde will bring refreshments. Anyway, I resented being excluded, and one night when all my friends had gathered for a night of stimulating conversation at their favorite coffee house, I couldn't stand it any longer, so I borrowed one of Sandeau's suits, tucked my hair up under a top hat, and went off to join them at the coffee shop. My friends thought it a grand lark. I thought it expedient, and I continued to dress that way when I ventured out. It gave rise to the most outrageous rumors.”

She reached for a cigarette from a box on the table in front of us. Lighting it, she exhaled a plume of smoke and settled back against the cushions. Her fingers were stained with ink, I noticed, and despite her gaiety, she looked extremely weary. It was just after ten o'clock in the morning, and I guessed that she had been working all night.

“Perhaps I've come at a bad time,” I said.

“Nonsense. My note said Thursday morning at ten. Ordinarily I'd be coiffed and gowned and ready to greet you properly, but there was simply no stopping place. The work seemed to be flowing of its own accord, and those times are very rare. When they happen, you dare not stop. I was just making final corrections when you came in.”

“You're working on a new novel?”

She nodded, and there was a rather worried look in her luminous brown eyes. “It's called
Lucrezia Floriani
. I'm afraid a lot of people aren't going to like it, Frédéric in particular. It's our story, you see. I've tried to be objective, but objectivity isn't one of my strong points. I write what I feel, and all my feelings for Frédéric are in this book, the bad feelings as well as the good.”

Chopin was currently at Nohant, George's estate in the country. His refusal to accompany her to Paris had caused considerable talk. Some said he was sulking, jealous of the attention she always received in the city, while others claimed he was preparing to leave the woman who had given him financial and emotional support for years. It seemed to me that if George Sand was writing a novel about their love affair, then the affair must truly be nearing its end.

“The critics will call me a literary vampire again,” she continued. “They claim my books are written with the blood of my lovers. Frédéric won't understand, of course, but a writer can only write about the things she knows. Anyway,” she added lightly, “I've always been more concerned with making a living than making love, despite what you may have heard.”

The servant, Mathilde, bustled in with a tray, set it on the table and, making a face, opened one of the windows to let out the smoke. She cast a look around at the balls of crumpled paper littering the floor near the desk, shook her head in disgust, and marched out of the room. George poured the coffee into lovely blue-and-gold Meissen cups.

“Mathilde hates it when I work all night. She's convinced I'll write myself into an early grave. Alas, I've two grown children to support, an estate to maintain, and a lover who's grown accustomed to comfort and ease. Bills, bills, bills, and people wonder why I keep working so hard! It's impossible for me to stop.”