still wear, hardly able to breathe or think or do anything other than lose ourselves in each other.
When I tug at the hem of his shirt, he lifts it up to help me toss it away. Then I shrug the straps of my camisole away from my shoulders; I’ve never thought of my skinny body as beautiful, not until I’ve seen Paul’s eyes darken at the sight of me, not until he lowers himself over me to kiss me more passionately and hungrily than before.
“Marguerite,” Paul pants against my shoulder. “We must not—we must not—”
“We must.” I arch my body against his, an invitation no man could ever mistake. He kisses me again, our mouths open, and the way we move draws us even closer.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Paul, yes, please—”
His mind is fighting it even as his body responds. “Forgive me. Forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to—oh. Oh.”
My fingers dig into his shoulders, and I bite my lower lip. Yet I move my body to meet his, to welcome him completely.
Paul buries his face in the curve of my neck. His entire body shakes with the effort to go slow. He gasps, “You’re—are you—”
I kiss his forehead. My hands trace the length of his back, the bend of his hips, reveling in the firmness of muscle and bone. Instead of answering him with words, I move against him. He groans, rakes his teeth along my throat and follows my lead.
“I love you,” he whispers. “I’ve always loved you.”
“I love you, too,” I say, and I mean it, even if I’m not sure whether I love one of him, or both of him, or all.
When I awaken again, it’s the dead of night. The one tiny window reveals a sliver of midnight blue above a sill inches deep in snow. Our stove still glows with warmth, and Paul lies next to me, holding me in his arms, pillowing my head with his shoulder.
The enormity of what I’ve done is obvious, but I can’t regret it. Realizing how the Grand Duchess Marguerite felt about her Paul, I suspect she would have wanted this just as much—made the same choice—but there’s no getting past the fact that I made the decision for her. The night she spent with the man she loves belongs to me instead; it’s a theft I could never repay.
As for me, well, back home, I’d made out with guys. Way more than made out, really, though I never quite got this far. Yet I’m no less amazed, no less stunned.
Paul’s lips brush along my hairline, and I think, I’ll never love anyone else like this. I never could.
Guiltily, I remember Theo. If he’d been a little more selfish, a little less caring, we would have spent the night together in London.
I also think about my Paul Markov, the one who told me that I could only paint the truth. He’s with me now, asleep deep within the man I made love with. I don’t know if he’ll remember this later, which would be—weird. I don’t know him well enough to predict how he’s going to react.
But I know this Paul in every way it’s possible for a woman to know a man. He’s proved his loyalty and his devotion time and time again. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for me.
“Golubka,” he whispers. It’s a Russian endearment; it means “little dove.” That’s ordinary enough, in Russian. They’re always calling each other little animals of one kind or another.
When Paul says it, though, there’s something about the way he holds me—cradling me against his chest, his embrace strong and yet his broad hands cupped so tenderly around my back—it’s just the way someone would hold a little bird, something fragile and fluttering, if he were trying to protect it and keep it close.
My mind is made up. I lift my face to his, and Paul smiles softly as his fingers brush through my hair. “Are you well, my lady?”
“‘My lady’? Even now?”
“Marguerite.” It’s obvious he still feels wonder at simply being allowed to speak my name. His gray eyes look searchingly into mine. “You don’t regret this?”
“No. I never will. Never could.” I kiss him again, and for a while we’re lost in each other once more.
When our lips finally part, Paul is slightly breathless. “You must know, I will never betray what has happened here. Not by word or by deed.”
What we’ve done is completely forbidden. If the tsar ever learned we’d had sex . . . well, I doubt he’s medieval