Love Storm (39 page)

Damn little hussy, Amalie fumed pettishly as she took notice of the maid's attractive good looks; tomorrow the brazen slut would be reassigned to duties far from the countess's boudoir.

"Prince
Alexander?" Alex drawled. "Really, my dear. No need to choose your words. A bit late to be so discreetly politic. I'm sure most of your domestics are quite aware that our acquaintance is of long standing. Surely such pretense is unnecessary," the prince declared bluntly as he began removing his garments in a very precipitous fashion.

Amalie bristled at the gallingly insensitive attitude of her lover, who seemed interested in disrobing as rapidly as possible. But a single glimpse of the bare, muscular torso displaced such petty misgivings. The countess began untying the satin ribbons of her evening wrap.

With swift, economical motions Alex unbuttoned his trousers as he kicked off his shoes, not sparing a glance for the beautiful Amalie, who was languorously slipping a thin strap over the smooth, soft flesh of her shoulder. All her graceful, charming, seductive artifice was quite wasted on Alex, who shot a swift look from under stern black brows at the fully clothed female and expostulated exasper-atedly, "Good God! Amalie! Whatever have you been doing?" In his particular frame of mind tonight the prince was not disposed to be charmed.

Feeling rankled by this callously unromantic comment,

Amalie yielded to a temptation she had scrupulously determined to avoid in her relationship with the prince. With great restraint she had always refrained from rhe urge to chastise Alex's behavior in any way, since the prince's reputation for abruptly terminating his tender friendships with caustic women was well documented.

Under these trying circumstances, however, the countess forgot herself sufficiently to remark testily, "I hadn't realized you were in such a rush!"

Looking heavenward in mock appeal Alex retorted sarcastically, "You're the one who said Boris may be home any minute."

"But such haste! Do you take me for some common strumpet?"

"Now, sweet, courtesy forbids me . . ." "Sasha!"

The prince sighed softly. "Dear Amalie," he said sweetly, "need I remind you that nothing bores me more quickly than the sensibilities of an affronted woman who knows as well as I do the reason we're both here. And as far as undue haste, my pet, I'm only trying to be accommodating," he murmured suggestively as he swept a mocking gesture downward drawing attention to an obviously rigid tumescence.

The lusty display drew a gasp of appreciation from the countess, who had sorely missed Alex's unique virility and prowess these past months.

"Come, love," Alex urged more complacently, "let's make the most of our precious time."

Adverse in his present mood to be treated to any display of Amalie's sulky temper, Alex strode across the space separating them, drew Amalie familiarly into his arms, and took his own violent measures to both preclude his boredom and put an end to any further remonstrances of the fair Amalie by savagely and emphatically kissing away her objections.

Swift, experienced fingers manipulated the feminine garments, and within seconds a taffeta evening gown, petticoats, and corset rustled down to the Beauvais carpet followed by a shower of hairpins and combs. Quite oblivious to any gallantries of wooing, the prince fell on top of the lush beauty as he pushed her down on the nearest couch. He began vigorously pursuing the quickest path to a mutual and satisfying consummation.

This indecorous urgency moved the lady to exhale the softest murmur of rebuke. "Alex!"

The prince was not disposed to respond, his mouth being at present employed nibbling on one peaked, pink nipple.

"Alex! You're like an animal," the countess began admonishing the top of the dark, wavy-haired head in a severe tone that trailed off into a low moan of rapture as the prince's fingers found employment as satisfactory as that of his mouth.

Lifting his head briefly, Alex replied in a soft undertone, "An animal? Indeed? But not so repulsive for all that, it seems," and with a triumphant smile he noted the countess appeared to be no longer listening.

For the next quarter hour the loudest sound in the pink satin boudoir was the ticking of the dainty Meissen clock on the mantel.

The prince, never the hypocrite, had abandoned himself to the selfish pursuit of pleasure with his customary profligacy. Never one to moderate his excesses, Prince Alex was assiduously devoting himself to the game of love. His soft, dark curls were damply clinging to his forehead, and his lean body moved in a powerful rhythm that drew soft sighs of ecstasy from the beautiful countess as each thrusting stroke reached home.

This sensual, cresting, feverish atmosphere was abruptly shattered by the intrusion of a light but insistent rapping on the door, followed by the quietly urgent bass voice of the footman informing the two entwined forms on the couch, "Count Benckendorff's carriage drove up!"

Amalie squealed in fear and dismay, but Alex never broke rhythm as he swore savagely under his breath.

"Sasha! Sasha! Please!" Amalie begged, attempting to rise.

Indifferent to his lover's pleas, Alex growled, "I'll kill him!"

"Sasha! Please, you mustn't!" the lady entreated, taking literally the figurative exclamation of frustrated anger that burst spontaneously from the prince.

"I'll throw him down the stairs!
⁹
Damn him! Does he know how hellishly inconvenient his timing is?" Alex snarled menacingly.

This new threat was meant quite literally, for at this point in the throes of tempestuous passion, Alex was as heedless to danger as a baited bull.

As the beautiful countess frantically whispered pleadingly realistic reasons she hoped would indicate to Alex the dire necessity to hide immediately, he finally reached consummation and in the merest passing of a second Alex's judgment returned, transforming his reckless fool-hardiness to an instant sanity.

A scene with Boris lost its significant urgency, and a considerably cooler brain swiftly reasoned that discretion was perhaps the better part of wisdom at this point.

When a justly suspicious Count Benckendorff burst into the room after having been detained by the loyal footman, he intruded on an apparently placid, serene, if decidedly unorthodox, tableaux.

Countess Benckendorff wore a frothy wrapper inadequately covering her comely form. She was drooping gracefully against the satin bolsters of her Empire couch, a damp towel pressed solicitously against her brow by Prince Alex.

Boris cast a diffident, glaring look at the prince, whose state of dress was decidedly irregular. Although an evening jacket reposed on broad powerful shoulders, his silk shirt tucked carelessly into his trousers was open casually across his hirsute chest, while black tie was conspicuously absent.

"Oh, Boris, I'm so pleased you came home," the beautiful Amalie mendaciously wailed. "I feel simply dreadful. I was overcome by a horrid fainting spell, and if the kindly prince hadn't graciously seen me home and administered comfort, it would have been a wretched ordeal."

Looking up into the tawny eyes, Amalie cooed politely, "Thank you, Prince Alex, for your obliging succor."

The prince straightened from his solicitous pose over the prostrate beaury and replied with a facile, careless mockery, "it was my distinct pleasure, Countess Benckendorff, to be able to offer you succor," and his mouth twisted into a wicked grin.

Boris was far from a fool, and the singular disarray of the prince's clothing in addition to his wife's dishabille put the lie to the sickbed scene. But while not fool enough to be taken in by the vignette of invalid and nurse, he was also not fool enough to challenge the explanation.

In this situation Boris had two choices. He could call out the prince. Even if the
on-dits
concerning Alex's latest duel with Krasskov hadn't still been current, the prince's notorious reputation with pistols would have curtailed Boris's inclination to dispute. Quietly assessing the powerful, muscular figure of the prince, Boris didn't cavil over trifles like his wife's virtue.

Boris had long ago wearied of the prized bauble he had purchased. Amalie had been another possession that seemed worth having, since she was so much sought after. But as with all his trinkets, the having never inspired the same piquant fascination as the wanting. Being a very lazy man, Amalie's demanding sensuality at first surprised him, then exhausted him, and eventually annoyed him. Boris had withdrawn from the role of husband almost immediately, preferring to patronize his mistresses, who practiced the indulgent flattery of their profession, enabling him to leisurely lie back and await satiation.

He also knew why Amalie had married him. The day after the wedding he had incidentally informed his new wife that her father's gambling debts had been discharged, and he had continued to pay the mounting losses throughout the years. Amalie had been forced to be grateful for his indulgence of her father's inadequacies and also to be grateful for his largesse toward her. But the gracious humility hadn't come easy. She was a proud and beautiful woman. A streak of cruelty in Boris had effectively kept his beautiful wife in check, for while he overlooked her numerous affairs and conceded to all her expensive whims, he never allowed her access to his fortune. She was required to petition him for all her expenses. He quite enjoyed the role of warder.

The decision was simple. "Please accept my thanks for seeing Amalie home. Have you time for a brandy and a hand of whisr before you leave, Archer?" Boris inquired tranquilly.

"My pleasure, Boris," the prince returned composedly.

Amalie exhaled a tiny sigh of relief and immediately reached up to wrench off the frightful damp towel that was ruining her curls.

Boris cast her a dark look of censurious contempt as he said, "If you'll excuse us,
madame,
you seem to have recovered from your ordeal."

Turning to the countess, Alex, too, bid his adieus, giving Amalie a quick wink before following Boris downstairs to his study.

Several servants saw to their comforts. Brandy and cigars were presented. A fresh pack of cards was opened. Caviar and oysters were offered and refused. The men settled back in their chairs and quite amicably agreed on rhe merits of the brandy and Turkish leaf.

"What stakes?" Boris inquired as he leisurely shuffled the deck of cards on the exquisite ivory inlaid table.

If Alex had cared, they could have played for Amalie, ordinarily a tantalizing prize to any red-blooded male in St. Petersburg, he thought ruefully. Unfortunately he didn't want her. No one seemed worth having since Zena.

He sighed wearily, deprived of even slight exhilaration a duel would have offered. "I don't know," Alex replied, his enervated mind searching for a wager.

There they were, two jaded gentlemen who could have anything money could buy—and did.

Alex's eyes showed a spark of interest. "Your index finger against mine? Loser cuts his off," Alex suggested affably.

Boris's eyes widened in alarm; to bestir oneself to such a degree struck him as both vulgar and unnecessary. "Damn savage! You always had a reprehensible streak of madness in you, Archer," he declared with as much vehemence as his normal lethargy permitted.

"Lord, relax, Boris," Alex laughed. "You quite alarm me when you raise your voice above its normal languid murmur. Let's say your stallion Irish Hills against my new roan mare. How's that? Conventional enough?"

Boris's soft body subsided another degree into his velvet cushioned chair and nodded in grateful assent and relief. Although he appreciated Archer's macabre sense of humor, the requisite energy and spirit necessary to consummate the wager was quite beyond the limits of his torpid indolence.

"Deal, man," Alex ordered. "I feel lucky tonight."

Yuri woke Alex the next afternoon about three. "Wake up, you sluggard. This is late even for you. You must have spent all night exhausting yourself again in some female's bed. Who was it this time to fatigue you enough to sleep all day?"

"Well, Amalie began the night, if you must know, but she wasn't what exhausted me. Sat up until morning playing whist with Boris after he unexpectedly appeared."

"Unexpectedly?" Yuri inquired. "How unexpectedly?" he asked with a grin.

"Fortunately for him not
too
unexpectedly, or he'd have been tossed down the stairs. A few brief moments of warning from that footman Amalie pays so well allowed me to satisfy my rather crude passion. By the time Boris ambled into the room, most of our clothes were back on." Alex smiled faintly a the memory. "Boris appears extremely indifferent to his wife. I've never seen them together before. Treats her with almost a cruel contempt."

"I don't think he's ever forgiven her for the deception," Yuri said with a slight twist of his mouth. "He paid a high price for her, and she wasn't a virgin."