Free Far Flies the Eagle by Evelyn Anthony

she whispered. “Anne instead of me … I can’t bear it!”
    Alexander came close to her and put his arm round her shoulders; she was beaten and he knew it. “He will never have Anne. I give you my oath on that. Go now, my sister.” He kissed her lightly on the forehead and glanced quickly over at his mother.
    She knew the truth, but he had forced her to act out the lie for Catherine’s benefit, and as usual when he exerted his will, she did what she was told. She came to Catherine’s side and led her out of the room.
    Within eight days the betrothal of the Grand Duchess Catherine to Prince George of Oldenburg was officially announced, and the unhappy Ambassador to Petersburg had the task of conveying this unprecedented insult to the Emperor of the French.
    â€œYou’ll never know how much I missed you, Marie,” Alexander whispered. He turned his head on the pillow towards her as he spoke, but the brocade bed curtains made a cavern of complete darkness; he could feel her breath on his cheek but he couldn’t see her.
    â€œI’m glad, I wanted you to miss me. I was miserable. But not now.”
    Her lips touched his and lingered. He drew her small body closer within the circle of his arm and caressed her; as he did so, the memory of the other women to whom he had done the same things passed through his mind with amazing clearness while his blood began racing with desire. His grandmother’s lady-in-waiting, a middle-aged bawd of incredible coarseness and experience had initiated him with Catherine’s approval; afterwards, bewildered and ashamed, he had imagined the Countess telling his grandmother details and the two of them laughing.
    Perhaps that was why he had failed with Elizabeth, who was nervous and strangely ardent in spite of her ignorance. He had loathed making love to her, hated the pale hair, the slanted cat’s eyes with their unexpectedly sweet expression, the slim body that stiffened with expectancy when he touched it, and never passed the point where sensual rigidity became response. He had fulfilled his marital duties for a time and then abandoned them when his wife remained childless.
    His mistresses were women of every class and type; some very young, the lisping daughter of the nobility one night, and a pretty servant girl the next; sophisticates, who began the affair out of vanity and ended by falling in love with him, common whores picked up in gypsy taverns who would have died with fear had they known who he was. Countless women had taught him the power of his own fascination for them without moving him in the least.
    And then Marie Antonova Naryshkin, who was dark and beautiful, exactly the type he admired, who laughed up at him and eluded him for a time, till the conquest of her became an obsession. After she had surrendered, her attraction increased, where it had waned with all the others.
    As a mistress she combined the qualities he needed, and had never found in one woman before; she was beautiful, a refined companion who knew how to be gay or restful according to his mood, and a lover who roused him and responded herself as no one else had ever done.
    He had taken possession of her, installed her as his official mistress, been generous, ardent and kind for three years, and only fallen in love with her after Tilsit.
    He had since learnt from experience what his reason had accepted second-hand, that love was painful, unselfish and absorbing, and had far less to do with sensuality than was commonly supposed. He had slept with women at Erfurt, and when Marie was abroad, as he would always sleep with them because he needed them, but his infidelities only increased the aching affection he felt for the woman beside him.
    â€œAlexander, oh, Alexander,” she whispered, and he smothered the words with his mouth, his mind suddenly blank as his passion engulfed him and was met by the force of her own.
    Afterwards she slept, deeply, like a child,