Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (23 page)

Slowly she extricated herself from his embrace. T'd better
go hone up my lines. And I've got all that greasepaint to smear
on . . . Schmarya! Let me go!' She giggled with delight as he
captured her in his steely arms.

'On one condition.'

She raised her brow questioningly.

'That you kiss me first.'

'I love you, Schmarya,' she whispered.

He kissed her lightly on the forehead, nose, ears, and lips.
Then he kissed her deeply, long and fierce, his strong hands
pulling her so tightly against him that even through all the
layers of fabric, she could feel the bulge of his erection.

'I love you so much,' she gasped, her heart pounding, tears
of joy in her eyes.
'I’
ll love you forever. For eternity.' Then
she whispered intensely: 'You're getting me excited! Now,
stop it! My legs are already wet. What if it seeps through the
gown?'

Suddenly he released her and grinned devilishly. 'Let it.'

'
Schmarya!'
She feigned shock.

'There's a little storeroom in the back . . .' His voice, a
soft, appealing challenge, drifted languidly into the unspoken
world of promises. 'It's empty. And the door locks.'

'Someone will notice.' But she didn't glance about.

'Let them.'

She met his challenging gaze and held it. 'Then by all
means,' she concurred, before practically yanking his arm out
of its socket. 'What are you waiting for?'

'This.' Effortlessly he swept her off her feet and carried her
to the little storeroom. It was dark and cold and smelled
musty, but she didn't care. When he set her down and slid the
lock in place, she could only stand there rooted to the floor,
her heart surging. She felt like a giggling young lover sneaking
away to a tryst. As she used to do in the Pale.

'I want you to touch me,' she said softly, reaching behind her and undoing the top of her gown by feel. Then she could
feel his hands.

She sucked in her breath, visualizing him in this dark
cocoon, his fingers brushing her breasts, his lips rolling her
nipples between his teeth. Then she felt him lifting up the full
heavy skirt of her gown. 'Hold it up,' he said, 'while I undo
your underwear.'

'Just make sure I don't get this gown dirty.'

'Women.' He laughed. 'Here we are, about to make love,
and you only care about your dress.'

That's not true,' she said soberly. 'I care for you.'

'I know that.' He kissed her deeply, and then he felt beneath
her gown, pawing his way past layers of petticoats and finally
unfastening the silk panties with their single fragile button.

Something tinkled to the floor.

'Damn!' he swore.

'What is it?' she asked.

'The button popped off your panties.'

'I told you to be careful!' she hissed. 'Now what will I do?'

'Nobody'll notice if you don't wear them.'

And then he felt her curly pubis. She let out a moan and
heard him fumble with his trousers. Then suddenly she could
feel his swelling hardness growing even bigger and harder
against the juncture of her legs. She reached down to touch
it, her hand gripping the familiar firm, warm thickness. She
thought she could hear his breath quickening.

She held the gown up higher. 'Put it in,' she said. Then, as she felt him sliding himself inside her, she gasped. 'Oh, God,'
she moaned. 'That's so good.'

Eagerly she thrust her hips, letting him stand still as she slid
herself along the engorged shaft, jamming him inside her,
sliding herself off, jamming him back inside.

Finally he could stand it no longer. He let out a gurgling
moan and breathed hoarsely, clinging to her now, as if for
dear life, his own in-and-out thrusts turning pitiless and savage
as he threw all his weight against her vagina.

In and out he slammed, and her mouth gasped in delirious
pleasure as she felt wave after crashing wave of orgasm roll
through her. 'Oh, yes!' she whispered. 'Oh, yes, yes, yes!'

And she could feel him climbing closer, ever closer to his
own orgasm. Overwhelmed by his onslaught, she picked up
his rhythm and desperately began hammering herself against
him. Faster, faster they thrust, his great engorged being swell
ing up even larger as he rode her furiously. And then he
bellowed as if he'd been wounded, reared back, and hurled
himself into her for one last time, letting his excruciating warm
stream of liquid mingle with hers.

He still clung to her, groaning at the afterjolts of pleasure,
the spasms racking his body, and then caught his breath. She
could feel him growing smaller inside her, and she let out a
little gasp of disappointment as his penis slid from within her.

'That was too fast,' she panted.

'We still have time,' he whispered between gulps of air. 'I
haven't used my tongue yet.'

She smiled to herself. She couldn't remember when she had
last been filled with such indescribable joy.

It was indeed a night of wizards and fairy godmothers and
magic.

Chapter 8

The performance of
The Lady of the Camellias
was scheduled
for eight o'clock.

Since six o'clock, guests had begun drifting to the palace; as
eight o'clock approached they were arriving in droves. Count
ess Florinsky dispatched a messenger backstage to announce
that the start of the play had been postponed an hour. This
news was greeted by a chorus of groans from a jittery cast, but
the message, shouted to Schmarya and Senda through the
storeroom door, was greeted with delight, at least by
Schmarya.

Outside the Danilov Palace, the coral strands of the aurora
borealis hung like a succession of muted, shimmering silk veils
in the crystalline black night above the onion-domed spires.
The weather had cleared completely, as though a royal edict
had specified a glorious night for the Princess's birthday cele
bration. The ice-sheathed circular drive was lined on both
sides with thousands of festive electric bulbs glowing with the
Princess's favourite colour, sapphire blue, and was jammed
with a steady procession of stately cars and horsedrawn
coaches bearing the guests come to help celebrate. Other,
more enterprising guests took an alternate route in small red
horse-drawn sleighs, skimming the frozen Neva on hissing run
ners and gliding into the parkland through the giant palace
gates. But no matter from which direction they came, they
were treated to a most breathtaking spectacle. Both the front
and rear facades of the palace were strung with sapphire-blue
electric bulbs in the shape of the Princess's monogram; the
huge stylized IND's—Irina Nicolaevna Danilov—seemed sus
pended in midair, each letter three storeys tall.

If enough electricity to light a small town glittered outside
the palace, candlelight reigned supreme inside; the crystal-
and-gold chandeliers and candelabra flickered their rich
golden glow on the corridors, staircases, and grandiose public
rooms, which echoed resoundingly with excited conversation,
gracious music, and an abundance of good cheer. Many a
kingdom's worth of diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, and
rubies outglittered each other as the guests, many of the ladies
in white satin, swept into the great Colonnade Hall, where
they were met by an army of servants who took their ermine,
sealskin, lynx, sable, and fox coats. From the second floor
gallery set between the jasper columns which gave the hall its
name drifted the gentle strains of baroque chamber music. No
one carried gifts; for the past week, a steady procession of
deliveries from St. Petersburg's finest shops had filled an ante
room to overflowing.

Leaving their wraps behind, the guests ascended the neo
baroque grand staircase, its marble steps red-carpeted for this
special occasion, at the top landing of which they were
required to queue up until the majordomo announced their
entrance into the Malachite Room.

After paying their respects to the regal Princess, who was
flanked by the Prince, Count Kokovtsov, and the Princess's baptizer, the ancient and resplendently bearded archbishop,
the guests mingled in animated groups, spilling into the adjoin
ing Agate Vestibule, where a black jazz quartet from New
York played the latest rage in American music. In the Blue
Salon an orchestra of stirring balalaikas animated spirits with
rousing, traditional Russian folk melodies, and in the Cabinet Doré, a jewel box named after its profusion of ormolu mouldings and furnishings, a string quartet played sedately elegant
music in keeping with its severely classical decor. Liveried
servants circulated with gold and sterling trays bristling with cut-crystal champagne glasses filled to overflowing with bub
bling Louis Roederer Cristal, the same imported French champagne delivered to the Czar; on tables, enormous silver
bowls set in huge tubs of ice held forty kilos of grosgrain beluga
caviar.

After the reception, the guests were gently herded to the
private theatre, where the chamber orchestra from the Colon
nade Hall now appropriately played the overture to
La Travi
ata,
Verdi's opera based on
The Lady of the Camellias.

Behind the thick, muffling red velvet puff curtain which had
yet to rise, the audience's excited anticipation could be both
heard and felt.

Electricity crackled in the air.

Unnoticed by the audience, Senda carefully pushed the
edge of the puff curtain aside a crack. She peered out at the
theatre through one roving eye. The rows of gilded Louis XVI
seats had already filled up. It took her by surprise that there
were more people than seats: the backs of both the orchestra
section and the balcony were crowded with people standing. Still, the two drapery-swagged boxes, swelling from the walls
on either side of the proscenium like immensely ornate bombé
chests, were empty.