Free Love Storm by Susan Johnson

began.
    Observing the anxious glance as he broached the second bottle, Alex blandly explained, "It's common gossip that I'm very reliable until my sixth bottle. Rest assured, my pet, I never become difficult," and he smiled warmly to dispense the lie, for, as any of a score of close friends would attest, Alex could become difficult on the slightest provocation, with or without alcohol. Perverse intractability had bred true through generations of Kuzans.
    As the meal progressed, Alex, in one of his most expansive moods (not necessarily the result of several bottles of wine but more pertinently related to the fact that a most ravishing, delectable young woman was seated opposite him at the small table in front of the fireplace), regaled Zena with engaging anecdotes and gossip about the St. Petersburg ton. He was witty, clever, unutterably dégagé, charming the young woman as easily as all the other women in his life. His enchanting gallantry wasn't contrived; on the contrary, Alex had from a very early age adored women, and, this frank, genuine admiration of the female species was his most effective and irresistible asset. Every woman melted before this unabashed flattery, and Alex, in turn, enjoyed women with unalloyed delight.
     
    This sweet young thing would be his very soon, he calculated, but he saw no need to rush her. His promise to not touch her had been offered honorably, but his intent was the reverse. If (and to his mind, the //was merely a question of time) the mademoiselle should make the first move, it behooved him as a gentleman to respond to her initiative.
     
    In this delicious little game of seduction Alex was simply laying the groundwork: warm proximity; amiable conversation; soothing comfort when problems such as Bobby's health arose; dazzling charm; and that most potent of weapons, the undercurrent of desire that flamed repeatedly in his tawny eyes and wrapped Zena like encroaching wisps of warm mist.
    The memories of passion shared evoked potent forces within Zena's mind, which she deliberately thrust aside, finding the images too disquieting to contemplate. In an attempt to gain some control over these dangerous, insidious impulses and the ambience of the conversation that was becoming too ardently perilous, Zena abruptly inquired "Tell me, my lord, do you agree or disagree with the notion of a duma with peasant representation."
    Alex hid a satisfied smile behind his raised wine glass, all too aware of the reason for Zena's sudden shift in conversation. With the address of a consummate stalker, unhurried and confident of the outcome, Alex eased smoothly into disinterested avuncularity, which obviously calmed the young mademoiselle. He answered seriously, "It's only a matter of time before a duma, a working duma, must be come a reality. Absolute autocracy is fast becoming an untenable anachronism as we approach the twentieth century. Since the peasantry comprise a vast majority of this country, yes, it's essential that they have representation in the duma."
    The prince cheerfully pandered to the desire of the young chit to bring the topics of conversation back onto safe, respectable ground, and a vivacious discussion of the relative merits of representative monarchy occupied the time as the prince continued to drink himself into a well-mannered, affable intoxication.
    "The emperor isn't exactly the quick-witted paragon of intellectualism one could wish for in . . ." Alex was saying in explanation of the reactionary tendencies that were hindering the formation of even a diluted form of representative government when an emphatic, slightly strident female voice was heard very clearly from the hallway through the closed double doors of the dining room.
    "I insist on seeing him, I tell you! I insist!" the woman's voice demanded, rising dangerously near a scream.
    With only the slightest pause to indicate that he had heard the high-pitched demand, Alex continued urbanely, ". . . a monarch. The tsar is also,