Susan Johnson Read Free Page B

only a game.”
    “This, you mean.”
    “Of course. What else would I mean?”
    “I was married when I was fifteen, after two years of refinement at the Smolny Institute for Noble Girls,” she pertinently said, wanting him to know.
    “And you’re very refined,” he urbanely replied, wondering how much she knew of love after thirteen faithful years in a forced marriage. His eyes drifted downward again, his thoughts no longer of chess.
    “My husband’s not refined at all.”
    “Many Russians aren’t.” He could feel his erection begin to rise, the thought of showing her another side of passionate desire ruinous to his self-restraint.
    “It’s getting late,” she murmured, her voice quavering slightly.
    “I’ll see you upstairs,” he softly said.
    When he stood, his desire was obvious: the formfitting regimentals molded his body like a second skin.
    Gripping the chair arms, she said, “No,” her voice no more than a whisper.
    He moved around the small table and touched her then because he couldn’t help himself, because she was quivering with desire like some virginal young girl and the intoxicating image of such tremulous need was more carnal than anything he’d ever experienced. His hand fell lightly on her shoulder, its heat tantalizing, tempting.
    She looked up at him and, lifting her mouth to his, heard herself say, “Kiss me.”
    “Take my hand,” he murmured And when she did, he pulled her to her feet and drew her close so the scent of her was in his nostrils and the warmth of her body touched his.
    “Give me a child.” Some inner voice prompted the words she’d only dreamed for years.
    “No,” he calmly said, as if she hadn’t asked the unthinkable from a stranger, and then his mouth covered hers and she sighed against his lips. And as their kiss deepened and heated their blood and drove away reason, they both felt an indefinable bliss—torrid and languorous, heartfeltand, most strangely—hopeful in two people who had long ago become disenchanted with hope.
    And then her maid’s voice drifted down the stairway, the intonation of her native tongue without inflection. “He’ll kill you,” she declared.
    Duras’s mouth lifted and his head turned to the sound. “What did she say?”
    “She reminded me of the consequences.”
    “Which are?”
    “My husband’s wrath.”
    He was a hairsbreadth from selfishly saying,
Don’t worry
, but her body had gone rigid in his arms at her maid’s pointed admonition and at base he knew better. He knew he wouldn’t be there to protect her from her husband’s anger and he knew too that she was much too innocent for a casual night of love.
    “Tamyr is my voice of reason.”
    He released her and took a step away, as if he couldn’t trust himself to so benignly relinquish such powerful feeling. “We all need a voice of reason,” he neutrally said. “Thank you for the game of chess.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Not more sorry than I,” Duras said with a brief smile.
    “Will I see you again?” She couldn’t help herself from asking.
    “Certainly.” He took another step back, his need for her almost overwhelming. “And if you wish for anything during your stay with us, feel free to call on Bonnay.”
    “Can’t I call on you?”
    “My schedule’s frenzied and, more precisely, your maid’s voice may not be able to curtail me a second time.”
    “I see.”
    “Forgive my bluntness.”
    “Forgiven,” she gently said.
    “Good night, Madame Countess.” He bowed with grace.
    “Good night, Andre.”
    “Under other circumstances …” he began, and then shrugged away useless explanation.
    “I know,” she softly said. “Thank you.”
    He left precipitously, retreat uncommon for Frances bravest general, but he wasn’t sure he could trust himself to act the gentleman if he stayed.

2
    As the general walked back to Bonnay’s lodgings, he forcibly suppressed the seductive images of Teo—lush and willing, trembling like a young girl on