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Too restless to remain in my room, I decided to take a stroll in the gardens behind the inn, and as I stepped into the hall I could hear the rowdy merriment issuing from the taproom. There was gruff, hearty laughter, raucous

.shouting, the crash of breaking glass. The count's men were certainly enjoying themselves, tearing the place apart from the sound of it. Fortunately the inn had a private dining room for more affiuent guests, so I needn't be exposed to the boisterous revelry. I assumed Orlov and his niece would be dining there and that I would be asked to join them. I was rather surprised, in fact, that Lucie hadn't come up to check on me.

Moving down the creaky back stairs that smelled of cabbage and soiled linen, I marveled at the curious twists and turns life held in store for us. Two weeks ago I had been in London with the man I loved, convinced I loved another, and now here I was in a sprawling old country inn on the outskirts of a tiny village whose name I didn't even know, all through the kindness of an exotic, enigmatic young Russian girl and her mysterious, dazzlingly wealthy uncle.

Had their coach not come down the road when it did, had they not acted so promptly, I might well have died. I owed them a great deal, and I intended to thank Count Orlov as best I could. Smiling at an untidy scullery maid who was busily polishing a pair of boots in the dusty back hall, I opened the door and stepped outside.

Twilight was just beginning to settle in, and the air was soft with a fine blue haze while, above, the sky was a pure pearl gray. I reveled in the marvelous smells of herbs, of bark and moss and rich, loamy soil. Completely enclosed by gray stone walls and surrounded by old oaks with low, groaning boughs, the gardens were quite extensive, extending at least half an acre, flagged walks winding

throughout. Asparagus, carrots and lettuce grew in the kitchen garden, and there was abed of peas and beans as well. The herb garden was a square of pink and purple and brown and a dozen shades of green from palest yellowgreen to darkest emerald, the herbs cleverly planted to form an ornate pattern. A rake and a battered straw hat had been abandoned there. Walking past an old stone well dark with mossy stains, a rusty bucket hanging over it, I moved under the arched trellises and strolled slowly through the flower gardens, the lovely, deliberately unkempt beds ablaze with color.

How peaceful it was here, surrounded by the wild, riotous confusion of flowers. How serene it was with the oak boughs groaning quietly and a solitary bird warbling plaintively among the leaves. As the blue haze gradually deepened to soft violet, as the sky darkened to ashy gray tinged with amethyst, I smelled the heady fragrance of poppy and hollyhock and thought about the dream I had had this afternoon. A poignant sadness crept over me as I experienced anew the frustrations of that dream. I had lost Jeremy in my dream. In my dream he had vanished just as we were about to experience the bliss we both craved. Had I lost him in real life? For the first time I faced the realization that he might no longer want me, and who could blame him?

Plucking a hollyhock blossom from one of the tall stalks, I lifted the luscious red bloom to my nostrils. Jeremy Bond had loved me from the first, and he had proved that love over and over again, only to be met by my disdain, my hauteur, my wicked, wounding tongue. He was a bounder, yes, a merry, mercurial scamp full of infuriating faults, but he had loved me as no man ever had or ever would. Did he love me still, or had that love finally been thwarted whenI left him? Had he waited a week, still hoping I would return, finally giving up? Had he left London in despair or, even worse, had he found some woman to assuage his grief? Women would always flock around Jeremy Bond, drawn to him as moths to a flame, that virile beauty, that dazzling charm utterly irresistible, and, like moths, they would invariably be burned.

The hollyhock was a mass of bruised petals in my hand. I hadn't been aware that I was crushing it. Dropping the petals, I gazed at the flowers without seeing them, seeing, instead, that beloved face, that look in his eyes when I left him. The bird had stopped warbling. Leaves made a soft whispering sound in the breeze, and the first fireflies had begun to float among the shrubbery to dot the twilight with flickering golden glows. There was a tight feeling in my throat. I felt very frail, very vulnerable, for once unable to cope with these emotions inside.

"You must not be sad," he said.

I turned. I hadn't heard him approaching. He stood several feet away from me. He was dressed all in white. He was, without question, the most beautiful man I had ever seen.

Chapter Three·

I WAS STARTLED, MOMENTARILY UNABLE TO

speak, and I could only stare at him with disbelief. Standing there with legs spread wide, one hand resting lightly on his thigh, he seemed an apparition in the deepening violet haze. Six feet five if an inch, he had the superbly muscled body of an athlete in top condition, a body Michelangelo

might have sculpted, I thought, seeing the broad shoulders and powerful chest, the slender waist and long, muscular legs. White leather boots came to mid-calf, and the legs were sheathed in supple white kidskin breeches that clung to every curve. He wore a loose, smocklike shirt of fine white silk, the full bell sleeves gathered at the wrist, the collar fitting around his neck in clerical fashion.

A heavy white velvet cloak fell back from his shoulders, flaring behind him in sumptuous folds. He looked like ...

like a fallen archangel, for that face, while beautiful, was undeniably the face of an extremely sensual man.

His hair was a thick, luxuriant golden brown. His dark brows were perfectly arched, lids drooping heavily over eyes so deep a blue they seemed navy blue. His nose was Roman, a great prow of a nose, his cheekbones broad and slavic. He had a strong, square jaw with clefted chin, and his mouth was wide and pink, the lower lip generously curved. The near-feminine perfection of his features was offset by a stamp of rugged virility. He should smell of gunpowder

and dust and sweaty flesh, I thought, and I sensed that he frequently had. He had the confident, near-arrogant stance of the soldier, a veteran of many battles, and the fine clothes merely emphasized the unquestionable toughness.

"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-ab, 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 ofthe 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?"