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"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 arefriends, 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 oafl" 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 chefprepare 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 myoId 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."

"Myoid 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 ofthe 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 so ·

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-fromabandoned 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."

"We start with the wine," he said.

He clapped his hands loudly and sat down across from me, the chair creaking beneath his weight. The door opened quietly and a slim, fair-haired youth in goldtrimmed white velvet livery entered with an ice-filled gold bucket containing an enormous bottle. Calmly, deftly, he set the bucket down on one.of the side tables, removed the bottle and uncorked it, his brown eyes humbly lowered. He poured a small amount of the sparkling wine into Orlov's glass. The count took a sip, savored it inside his mouth and then swallowed and nodded his approval. The youth filled our glasses and left.

"The other servants wear blue," I remarked.

"Vladimir, the guards, they wear the blue and black.

The footmen and house servants wear the white and gold."

"You certainly have a-a great many servants."

"Is fitting for a man of my station. In Russia I have thousands of serfs, I lose count. They come with the property."

Like cattle, I thought, taking a sip ofthe wine. It was delicious, light and dry, creating a warm glow inside. Orlov watched me drink, a pleased half-smile on those lips that were so pink, so wide, so very sensual. His eyelids drooped heavily, giving him a lazy, sleepy look, and the candlelight burnished his hair with a dark golden sheen. He really wasn't so extraordinarily handsome when you examined him closely, I observed. The mouth was too large, the nose too strong, the cheekbones too broad, but ... but somehow these defects weren't defects at all. They merely strengthened that remarkable virile beauty. It was indeed a face that could be either tender or harsh, depending on mood.

At the moment it was very tender.

"You like the wine?" he inquired.

"It's marvelous."

"Here, I pour you another glassful."

He got up, fetched the bottle and filled my glass, leaning over my shoulder to do so. I was almost painfully aware of his presence there behind me, of his smell, the warmth of his body. I noticed the way his large hand gripped the neck of the bottle, the fingers curled tightly. The wine made a soft splash as it fell and swirled in the glass, a hundred tiny bubbles exploding. I waited, breathless. Would he touch my shoulder again? Would his thighs
accidently
press against my back as he straightened up? I tensed for the contact. It didn't come. Orlov slid the bottle back into its nest of ice and returned to his seat.

"I have a sad duty in London," he told me.

"Oh?"

"This driver, this man Ogilvy, I take his body back, and I must see that he is properly buried. I visit his widow."

"That-that was wonderfully kind of you."

"I take care of everything. He has very fine burial, and his widow weeps when I give her a large sack of gold coins.

She kisses my hands. She goes to live with her sister in the country."

"Poor Ogilvy, I-I wept so. I didn't know him well, but I feel-I feel responsible for what happened."

I could feel my eyes growing moist. Orlov was immediately distressed.

"You must not weep again," he said sternly. "You are not to blame. The fates are responsible for these things. Tonight we celebrate. My chef prepares a fine Russian meal for you."

"Tonight we enjoy," he informed me.

He clapped'his hands again. The slim youth returned pushing a cart laden with chased gold dishes. So much gold. So much ceremony. I was beginning to feel slightly dizzy. The youth served bowls of thick red-orange soup, wonderfully hot and spicy. Orlov told me that it was borscht and made from beets. He took a loaf of coarse black bread and tore it apart with his hands, buttered a piece and passed it to me. It was marvelous, too, but not as marvelous as the next course of thin, thin pancakes folded around a filling of creamy cheese and topped with great scoops of red-geld caviar. Rarely had I tasted anything so delicious.

Orlov ate very little but, instead, spent most of his time watching me. Elbow propped on the table, chin in hand, he slowly rubbed his full lower lip with the ball of his thumb, navy blue eyes gleaming darkly, full of masculine appreciation.