Sweet Love, Survive (5 page)

Kitty woke at that moment, her lashes feathering open, and gazed into cool, golden Tartar eyes, scrutinizing her thoughtfully. The keen examination was sufficient to render the countess very uncomfortable.

There was a long moment’s silence.

But even in this most unusual of situations, the prince’s exquisite good breeding did not desert him, although he did look a slight bit disconcerted. “Accept my apologies, madame,” Apollo offered pleasantly in the sibilant French of the Petersburg aristocracy. “I had too much to drink.” She at least didn’t look surprised, he thought, which meant one of them anyway must have been sober.

Kitty’s cheeks blushed rosy at the bland, dégagé apology. Did he think …? Oh, Lord. Stammering in embarrassment, she said, “I’m not in the habit … I mean … I usually don’t … I mean, I never—” She didn’t know how to continue. The entire episode, the whole night, her incredible behavior, was unbelievable.

“Nor I, madame,” the young captain murmured politely. Contemplating the arresting, widely spaced emerald eyes, the gentle grace of her shapely mouth, he found himself enchanted. A small voice reminded him pertinently that one of the few rules he had chosen to observe was that of staying out of any superior’s wife’s bed. It had always seemed a sensible maxim, a small enough concession to society’s conventions by a man otherwise distinguished for his unorthodoxy, and one likely to guarantee the least possible trouble in the long run—but then Apollo looked once more into those marvelous green eyes, as deep and clear as a tropical lagoon, and the sensible precepts began to lose their grip. Prudence was slipping out the door without so much as a backward glance while hot blood started pulsing through his veins, irresponsibly, iniquitously, with a completely unprincipled disrespect for good manners.

His body was beginning to respond in defiance of his mind’s command. Jesus, why did she have to be so beautiful? And married? Then his focus drifted onto dangerous ground—so warm … and soft … and enticingly … sensual. He tried briefly to order his vagrant libido, and failed. The taboo on commanders’ wives suddenly seemed inconvenient.

In the space of a few seconds and rather to his own surprise, Apollo’s mind was made up. Zadia’s could wait.

Kitty found herself unable to resist the penetrating attraction of those pale golden eyes, primitive in their need, tentative and suggestive, probing to her very soul. It was those eyes particularly—in all that golden, bronzed, supplely muscled perfection—that drew her. Luminous, vital eyes like those of a nervously elegant, gold-encrusted icon; bold, dramatic, dark-centered eyes pervaded by an underlying extraordinary sensuality. Then Kitty felt Apollo’s newly aroused body stir and come to life against her warm thigh, and an answering heat, wayward and inexplicable by any previous standards of her circumspect life, coursed through her senses. She shivered slightly from fear, helplessness, and a piercing sense of susceptibility.

Apollo, feeling her tremble, drew her closer into the circle of his arms, very gently, so she could stop him if she wished. His muscles tensed as their bodies touched, but she didn’t move. His heart beat faster.

His nearness, the heat from his body, the intimacy of expert fingertips tracing a delicate pattern down her spine, intensified the discomposure Kitty was experiencing. Apollo was holding her so close she could feel the pounding of his heart through the musculature of his chest. “This is … all quite ridiculous,” Kitty whispered nervously, trying desperately to overcome her mindless, melting physical reaction to this virtual stranger.

“Yes … quite ridiculous,” Apollo softly agreed, his eyes caressing her face, coming to dwell on her inviting pink mouth, knowing, in defiance of what was right, that he could not stop himself from what he was about to do. Lowering his
golden head to kiss those full, cherry lips, he murmured very, very gently, “Absolutely … ridiculous.”

Kitty tried to pull away but it was already too late. She felt the sudden springing surge of his body and her senses reeled beyond caution, reminded of all she had discovered in the long night hours. Strong brown hands slid down to her hips and crushed her tightly against a pulsing hardness. Kitty heard faintly a groan of pleasure against her hair, and from that moment she could not have obeyed her fleeting instinct to escape had she even wished. And when his mouth crushed down recklessly over hers, she no longer cared. Apollo’s lips and tongue pillaged and despoiled, greedy for a renewed taste of her, for the woman taste, sweet, pungently libidinous. While their mouths clung and tongues intertwined, his hands lingeringly explored the curves and contours of her body, savagely efficient, sparing nothing. With a quicksilver shiver Kitty responded, the memories of last night provocatively lush, all Apollo had taught her of audacious, delectable passion between a man and a woman still piercingly fresh. Before the kiss was over, inescapable, perfect, unutterably disturbing, she let him know without speaking that what he wanted, he could have.

In an incredibly short time, Apollo was delighted to enjoy—perfectly sober—all that he had only vague recollections of having enjoyed the previous night. The countess had enormous proclivities as a courtesan, he thought pleasantly, adjusting her legs on his shoulders. His headache was quite forgotten.

    An hour later they lay content, wrapped in each other’s arms. Kitty was feeling a compelling need to say something about her behavior, her mind a shambles of conflicting emotions. Stumbling skittishly over the words, she said, “Apollo, I want to explain. That is … well, I’ve never behaved—you must believe me … I don’t know what came over me!” she ended plaintively.

The prince, who had been dozing lightly after his latest exertion, slowly eased his eyelids open and regarded the lovely,
flushed countess whose glorious cloud of buttercup curls was bewitchingly tousled from hours in bed. Just basic sexual desire, my pet, Apollo thought to himself, amused at Kitty’s sudden restoration of modesty. But his bland social mask, schooled to perfection in drawing rooms and boudoirs across Russia and Europe, betrayed none of his reflections. “No need for hysterics, Kitty,” he soothed comfortingly, his voice still drowsy. “It happens to everyone.”

“But not to me, Apollo! Don’t you see? I’m so ashamed! What will the servants think? What if Peotr finds out? Oh-h-h … it’s terrible!” Kitty’s lush lower lip began to tremble, and her fingers brushed nervous patterns over his ribs.

Pulling the distressed woman onto his chest, Apollo gently took her fine-boned face between his hands and, gazing kindly into huge, panic-stricken eyes the color of medieval jade, quietly said, “
Dushka
, relax. The servants can think what they will, it doesn’t signify. Peotr will never know. And … little kitten,” he murmured, drawing her closer, his eyes sparkling as he touched her lips lightly, “it was not terrible.”

On that point alone, Kitty could not demur.

Lifting his head a fraction, Apollo brushed his mouth across the tip of her nose, then, dropping back onto the pillow, disarmed the countess with a reassuring smile. “Now be a brave soul,” he said mildly, “and ring for some breakfast. I’m starving.”

    He sat across from her at the small table in the bedroom, washed and shaved, wearing Peotr’s navy silk dressing gown edged in red cord, looking superbly handsome, all golden hair and bronzed skin. Kitty found herself drawn by his strength and beauty, at once attracted and ashamed. Despite the degree of familiarity they had shared, she felt herself on very uncertain ground with Prince Kuzan in the clear light of day. The prince for his part appeared undisturbed, only concentrating on his food until Kitty, stricken by remorse, began speaking again of the strange circumstances of the past night.

With color flooding her fair skin, she said, “I’m really not in the habit of doing this.”

“It’s not a bad habit at all, pet,” Apollo said, smiling, “if you ask me.” Levity was the worst possible posture he could have taken, he recognized instantly. Kitty’s mouth went hard, her body stiffened. Immediately putting aside his knife and fork, Apollo spent the next several minutes apologizing. Having won his way, with some trouble and much soothing, back into the lady’s good graces, he then thoughtfully let her talk, listening calmly to all the protestations, the explanations. It was a woman’s way. He understood. She had been taught to guard her virtue and felt she had to account for her conduct. Tinged as he was with slight failings as both a voluptuary and debauchee, he could have told her he was immune to all the prohibitions of traditional society and had in fact been intimate with too many women to be astonished at any female’s actions in bed; but the declaration would have sounded too callous and brusque. Instead, well mannered when it suited him, he diplomatically expressed all the courteous rejoinders, responding politely as was required by social custom.

He accepted complete blame, thus absolving the countess from any suggestion of having harbored inappropriate intentions. Well-brought-up young women didn’t engage in such indecent conduct, Kitty’s utter confusion conveyed, and they certainly should experience an abashed, ladylike reaction to their absolute disgrace, her blushes and stammering comments implied.

So, in a reasonable, temperate tone, Apollo insisted he had quite brashly been the aggressor; it was his fault entirely—his drunkenness; his ignorance of her identity; his improper abuse. “You see, Kitty,” he indulgently declared, “I basely forced myself on you.” He deliberately neglected to mention their most recent want of principle and its attendant rapture, consummated in the morning light. The lady, also, chose to ignore that particular episode.

His self-reproach seemed to soothe her. The countess appeared relieved, less agitated.

“I am,” he said, placidly agreeable, “sensible in the bright light of midmorning, sober, and”—a faint smile effaced the
lie—“have no designs on your virtue. Paix, then, and friends?” His face was innocently clear.

Kitty’s reserve broke and vanished. Smiling in return, she said simply, “Friends.”

Apollo, about to return to his eating, was arrested—a hand midway to his tea glass—by Kitty’s quiet question. “Who’s Marousia?”

He laid his hand on the creamy damask before answering.

“Sorry about that,” he said, his eyes holding Kitty’s for a moment.

“It’s perfectly all right, I understand,” Kitty replied complaisantly, her expression placid. “Only a natural curiosity—”

Apollo’s mouth quirked wryly. “I deplore excuses, but … the last two weeks were wearing. Normally liquor doesn’t make me that befogged. Marousia’s an old friend of mine from Yalta. Small, blonde, er—nicely shaped. Quite like you.” Then his smile flashed and one brow lifted idly. “Actually,” he said softly, “not like you at all.” Kitty flushed at the meaning, quite clear although unspoken. “And if I hadn’t been so drunk,” Apollo continued teasingly, “I would have noticed sooner. You are, my little kitten”—his finger brushed slowly over her lips—“very unlike Marousia.”

Kitty, unused to flirtatious sensual banter, pulled back and blushed an even more rosy hue, further heightening the distinction between herself and Marousia. What a marvelous naivete, Apollo thought, slowly letting his arm fall and wondering if Marousia had ever blushed in her life. Reflecting pensively that some of their sexual adventuring certainly could have induced even him to an occasional blush, he could not, to the best of his recollection, recall Marousia ever having been so inclined. Kitty was quite a darling, he decided, settling back into his chair with a charming smile for his companion.

They continued with breakfast then, conversing civilly and coolly like any well-mannered society husband and wife, avoiding any further mention of the previous hours, lightly
touching on general topics, trading innocuous chatter. On that bright December morning, in the interests of the countess’s peace of mind, Apollo uttered all the inconsequential social banalities he had learned so effortlessly years ago.

“This strawberry jam is delicious,” the gentleman offered in lieu of mentioning the weather.

“I picked the berries myself.”

The golden-haired captain responded with unimpeachable politeness, “How nice,” and continued spreading the scarlet preserves on his toast.

A few moments later when Apollo paused briefly between forkfuls of country ham, Kitty inquired in a pretty wifely fashion, “Would you like your uniform cleaned this morning?”

“I’d appreciate that. I’ve lived in it for two weeks.” He smiled pleasantly at the ravishing woman with cornsilk hair and amended courteously, “If you don’t mind the bother.”

“No, it’s no trouble at all. Are you sure the toast is warm enough?” The countess nibbled at her luscious lower lip in absurdly enchanting concern.

He nodded.

There was a brief silence across the blue forget-me-not Limoges porcelain and sterling cutlery, during which Apollo helped himself to more smoked sterlet and Kitty appeared to scrutinize the appliqué work on the placemats. Suddenly her heavy lashes lifted and she asked bluntly, “Why haven’t you married?”

He looked startled and then amused. “No one has proposed to me, I suppose.”

Kitty smiled lightly. “Be serious, Apollo.”

“I am serious,” he replied, looking entertained, “and if I ever receive a proposal”—his brows lifted—“of any kind, you can be sure I’ll give it careful consideration.”

Kitty chose to ignore the innuendo. “In other words, you’re not inclined to marry.”

“So far I haven’t.”

“Surely someday?”

He stared at her. “I expect so, but right now it scares the hell out of me.” He added a question she didn’t care to hear. “Have you found marriage satisfying?” He was looking at her, his face a perfect mask—not a wink, not a smile, not a frown, just one eyebrow seeming slightly higher than the other.

Countess Radachek’s large green eyes became studiously blank. “Point taken,” Kitty replied with dainty precision. She readjusted the embroidered napkin in her lap and said mildly, “So tell me, how does your sister like the Loire valley?”

Apollo, courteous to a fault if the mood moved him, responded gracefully to Kitty’s conversational shift away from an unpalatable subject. “Ninia’s happy wherever there’s a stable. She’s at the age to be horse-mad.”