Her sensuality was apparent to him, connoisseur that he was. He knew well that she was a dangerous woman, but he understood why Ernest Augustus could not do without her. She would be as exciting as a love potion and as difficult to throw off as a drug. As they stood there smiling, each was aware of the other’s physical potentialities. In any other circumstances Clara would have immediately decided on him as a lover and he would have told himself that here was a woman he must not pass by.
‘I wanted to compliment you on your dancing,’ said Clara. ‘You knew that everyone was watching you. They couldn’t help it.’
‘If so it was because I was fortunate to be dancing with the beautiful Princess.’
She leaned a little towards him and he smelt her overpowering scent as she tapped him lightly on the arm. ‘It was you I was watching.’
‘You are very kind, Countess.’
‘I am … to those who please me.’
There was laughter in her eyes; there was invitation. What a foolish young man, she was telling him, to occupy his time with the silly little Princess when all his efforts had come to nothing – she knew this because she had spies everywhere and they would have informed her if it had – when all the time there was an experienced woman waiting with a hundred delights of which he – experienced though she knew him to be – had not yet dreamed.
‘How can I thank you,’ he murmured.
‘You may dance with me to begin with.’
The music started, he took her hand, and as she came close to him in the dance he was aware of her voluptuous body, her great glittering eyes, her sensuous lips. He was even unaware of Sophia Dorothea as he passed the dais; he felt as though he were rushing downhill, and so great was the exhilaration that he would not have stopped if he could.
The dance was over, he left her and as soon as she was no longer beside him he laughed at himself. She was a dangerous woman, and what a sensuous one! She had disturbed him deeply; and chiefly, he told himself, by reminding him of the Princess. He loved Sophia Dorothea; he would never love anyone as he loved her; but what was a man to do? Go on in this unfulfilled way? He could not live on romantic dreams, if she could. He wanted something more tangible.
He would plead with her; he would make her understand that he must be her lover in fact. Why not? All about them people were indulging with abandon. Why must they be the only lovers at the Hanoverian court who must act with such unnatural restraint?
He must speak to Sophia Dorothea; he turned to the dais, but his arm was caught and turning he saw Prince Charles at his side.
‘You cannot dance with my sister-in-law again tonight, Count,’ said Charles.
‘But …’
‘My dear fellow – you in your pink and silver, she with those flowers in her hair … you cut such a figure. Everyone noticed. You cannot repeat that – or there will be talk. Once was well enough – but the way you looked at her was a little dangerous. No, for the sake of Sophia Dorothea’s reputation don’t go to the dais again tonight.’
He felt deflated. He was weary of the subterfuge. He left the ball early and went home to his mansion which was not far from the palace.
In his room he paced up and down thinking of the evening. It was Clara von Platen who had started these dissatisfied thoughts. She with her allure and her unspoken promises had made him realize what he was missing.
‘This can’t go on,’ he said aloud; and he was at his window for a long time looking out on the dark streets.
One of his pages was at the door.
‘A messenger from the palace, my lord Count.’
Sophia Dorothea! he thought. A letter. She felt as he did. She was begging him to come to her. It was time indeed.
‘Bring him in,’ he commanded.
When the concealing cloak was cast off it proved to be a woman.
‘You come from …’ he began.
‘My mistress wishes to speak to you. Will you come with me without delay?’
‘I am ready. Your mistress …’
‘The Countess von Platen is waiting for you.’
He caught his breath. He had not expected a summons so soon … not a summons at all. Perhaps it did not mean what he feared … what he hoped … it did. And yet …
He hesitated, for he could not banish from his mind the vision of Sophia Dorothea’s beautiful face, her dark hair adorned with flowers, her pure white dress so charming, so beautiful… .
But this was a summons from the Countess von Platen; and he could not ignore it.
He did not know quite what he had expected but afterwards it seemed inevitable.
She was in her apartments … alone; and she was wearing a scarlet robe the same colour as the dress she had worn at the ball. Her hair was loose about her shoulders, her face brilliantly painted.
‘Count Königsmarck,’ she said. ‘I knew you would come.’
‘A summons from the Countess von Platen …’
‘Could not be disobeyed,’ she added.
She held out her hands to him and as she did so the robe which had no fastenings fell apart disclosing her naked body.
She was laughing at him; he heard himself laugh too. There was no turning back now … even if he had wanted to.
It was early morning before Count Königsmarck left the apartments of the Countess von Platen.
Sophia Dorothea was constantly in the company of her parents; and Count Königsmarck in that of the Countess von Platen. The whole court was whispering together about Clara’s new liaison, but if it came to Ernest Augustus’s ears he said nothing. He was concerned chiefly with fulfilling the demands of Leopold and earning that Electorate.
Königsmarck suffered intermittent feelings of guilt and exhilaration; he had never had a mistress quite like Clara. His remorse when he considered what he was doing tormented him and often he would swear that he would never see Clara again; then she would come to him and taunt him; and these interviews always ended in the same way. She invited him to Monplaisir; she was enjoying life as she rarely had before. She was satisfying her immense sexual appetites and at the same time humiliating her enemy and enriching herself, for she saw that Königsmarck took his turn at her card tables and lost. Why not? He had a large fortune of which she would be happy to take a share. This she was doing, and after a successful evening there were satisfying nights.
If Clara had been romantic she would have told herself she was in love with Königsmarck. When he had left her in the early morning she would lie in bed asking herself what it was she enjoyed so much: His prowess as a lover? His handsome body? His insatiable sensuality which was a match for her own? Or the fact that Sophia Dorothea was in love with him. In any case it was a situation which appealed to her senses and her character; and what more could she ask than that?
Sometimes she had a twinge of fear that no other man would ever satisfy her after Königsmarck. That brought with it a sense of fear because she was aware every night of that remorse in him; she knew that even when he was in her bedchamber he was thinking of Sophia Dorothea and that each night there was a battle to be fought to make him forget his romantic attachment to that insipid little fool who wanted him as her lover and was afraid to accept him.
Rarely had life been so amusing, so interesting, so full of triumph for Clara. Then she began to be a little astonished at herself. It was true that no other man appealed to her, and her desire for Königsmarck was growing to an obsession. At all hours of the day he was in her thoughts; and those nights when he was not with her were unbearable. Two emotions began to dominate Clara’s life: her desire for Königsmarck and her jealous hatred of Sophia Dorothea.
Sophia Dorothea had, of course, learned of her lover’s disaffection. Rarely had she felt so desolate. She was the victim of a cruel marriage; and now the man whom she loved, the knight-errant had proved his worthlessness by becoming the lover of her greatest enemy.