"Up against that," Lisaveta quietly said, putting out her hand, "I am being foolish."
How trivial her selfish motives of jealousy and resentment seemed when Stefan had only a short leave before going back to the brutality of war. How childish it seemed to say, "I won't love you," when she wanted to, with all her heart. How unimportant the issue of Nadejda's presence when he was here and wanting her with the same passion flaring through her senses.
He could die, she realized suddenly, when he returned to the war. What would she have then? The warmth of this memory tonight or the empty virtue of having refused him? Her fingers lightly touched his in affirmation and welcome.
As his hand closed over hers, he gazed down at her, thinking how fresh and young and untouched by the wretchedness of the world she looked. He wondered for the briefest moment whether she might be some apparition of his imagination.
But she smiled up at him, reminding him of her luscious corporeality.
"No, not foolish," he said in a quiet tone, then shrugged, because he knew she was only responding as any young woman of sensibility would. Nadejda's presence was a damnable obstacle. Taking both her hands in his, he pulled her close. "I'm just being selfish. Forgive me, dushka, but I am. And if it's any sop to your conscience or morality, I won't let you go tonight."
"In all honesty, I doubt I could have left you, Stefan," Lisaveta whispered. "But in the morning I must."
"I'll change your mind." He laughed then, buoyant as a young boy, plans already racing through his mind. "I'll show you my mountain retreat. You'll love it. It's secluded and high above the sultry heat. The pines reach clear to the sky. There's a stream running through the courtyard and-"
She kissed him then with tears in her eyes, because she couldn't stay and be drawn closer each day to a man she already was too much in love with. But she would love him tonight and stay with him one last time, as though she wouldn't relinquish paradise without that final lingering look back.
He intended to woo her with all the skill he'd acquired since first making love to his governess at thirteen. In the intervening years since Mademoiselle Dovrieu had come to instruct him in French art and literature and quickly lured him into her bed, he'd become accomplished at pleasing women. Perhaps Ursulina had much to do with his admirable competence. She'd taught him very young the valuable lesson of generosity. Sexual pleasure wasn't taking but giving, she'd benevolently declared. She'd proceeded in the ensuing two years, while he learned France's contributions to painting, architecture, drama and literature, to show him in a variety of ways the inescapable truth to that statement.
So he intended to give his darling Countess whatever she wished, however she wished, as often as she wished, and by the time morning came she'd have changed her mind about leaving.
He kissed her tears away first, with light brushing kisses, holding her gently in his arms and sighing in soft restraint when she reached up again to claim his mouth with hers. He was intensely aroused and had been from the moment she'd walked into the bedroom, but he only held her close, tasting the sweetness of her lips, gently stroking her back, waiting until she made the first tentative overture for more than kisses. He wouldn't rush her or force the pace; he wanted only to answer her need. Although, he thought with a confidence schooled by hundreds of satisfied women in his past, there were moments ahead when a sensuous form of aggression would be satisfying. But not yet.
Lisaveta was standing on tiptoe in order to reach Stefan's mouth, her arms raised high to twine around his neck. Stretched taut against the solid strength of his body, his arousal hard and explicit against her stomach, she felt like a human offering to some pagan god. He could have her, they both knew; she was clinging to him as though a worshiper at the altar of his sexuality, not indifferent or detached but alive with yearning. Stefan was right when he'd pressed her short moments ago to admit her need. She wanted him, she realized without pride. Her blood was pulsing through her veins in her readiness, her senses urgent in their submission. With a twinge of illogic and female conditioning, she wondered why he was content with kisses alone.
She moved her hips then with the merest of teasing pressure, and was pleased to feel Stefan's arousal swell in response. He was not, perhaps, content only with kisses. "You missed me today," she murmured, her smile the tempting one of Eve.
Looking down at her flushed and beautiful face, Stefan answered with his own captivating smile, "You noticed."
Beneath the casual restraint of his remark ran his habitual arrogance. "Mmm," Lisaveta replied, her soft voice coyly thoughtful and teasing, "I think so…"
"And reversed your decision on celibacy."
He was arrogant, she realized, about his physical attributes and prowess, although justifiably so. "I don't necessarily believe in celibacy," she sweetly said, intent on moderating his arrogance, "but I do believe in a variety of experiences." She was baiting him, her soft emphasis intentional.
"Really," Stefan quietly replied, compelling himself to suppress his sudden flare of anger. "In that case," he murmured, his eyes darkly seductive in a way Lisaveta didn't recognize because she'd never seen him celibate for an entire day, "I'll contrive not to bore you with redundance."
"Thank you," she said, her own surge of resentment impelled by his obviously nonredundant expertise. "This will be different tonight, then, won't it," Lisaveta breathed, "like a farewell performance." It angered her that she still meltingly wanted him, it angered her that she could no more walk away from him than she could stop breathing.
"Let's just call it mutual… intoxication," Stefan whispered. And not a farewell at all, he thought, but rather the beginning of-no caution was necessary in his silent contemplation; he could frankly call it what it was-a carnal adventure.
They were both, despite their anger and resentment, profoundly aroused, and as Stefan was deciding he wouldn't wait after all for Lisaveta's overtures, she reached her arms up and snaked them around his shoulders. Then, so quickly he didn't have time to protect himself, she stretched upward and sank her teeth into his bottom lip.
"So you don't forget me," she said as he stood rigidly silent, his lip bloody, his impulse to strike out curbed with only the most forceful restraint. Her arms were still on his shoulders, his loose at his sides, until suddenly, in an offensive response intrinsic to his nature and profession, his hands slid around her to the base of her spine, splayed out and crushed her to him so tightly she could feel the blood pulsing in his erection.
"You won't forget, either, darling," he said with a lazy drawl, "I promise." Lifting her into his arms in a flurry of silken skirts, he carried her over to the bed and dropped her onto the green brocade coverlet. "Do you want music?" he asked, not looking at her, pulling his shirt over his head, treating undressing and atmosphere as equally commonplace.
When Lisaveta gazed at him in astonishment from the crush of azure silk in which she lay, he added, glancing at her briefly as he tossed his shirt aside, "I could have the musicians come up." He paused a moment unfastening the first of his trouser buttons and grinned. "For the farewell performance."
"No!" she quickly retorted, realizing he was serious, realizing he probably wouldn't be embarrassed making love before an entire massed orchestra, aware his musicians were likely more familiar with this room than she was. "No music, please," she appended, wanting to make herself perfectly clear, suddenly struck with the awareness that-with or without music-Stefan Bariatinsky made her heart and quivering senses sing, made life a sweet melody of pleasure.
He shrugged, as though lack of music might be a stumbling block to his enjoyment but he'd defer to her wishes. His deepening smile was redolent with courtesy and charm. "Whatever you wish," he softly said, kicking off his boots while she watched, fascinated by his extraordinary beauty and its effect on her. And when he stripped off his trousers and underclothes with an ease that spoke of repetition, her breath caught for a moment in her throat.