“It is an honor for me to be able to provide the flowers for the princess’s funeral.” She flinched, however, when Konstantin took her hand and squeezed it gently. “Konstantin, why . . . why do you make this so hard for me? I am a married woman. What happened was a mistake, that’s all. It’s over. That it even happened is unforgivable.” Flora was surprised at the determination in her voice. It felt good. She took another breath. “Maybe it is for the best if you buy flowers elsewhere in the future.” She pulled her hand away from him and rubbed it as if she had just been burned by nettles.
When Konstantin laughed, small lines appeared as they always did around his mouth. Flora managed to withstand her urge to smother them with a thousand kisses, but it was not easy.
“And if I don’t want to buy my flowers somewhere else?” He gazed at her so insistently, so intimately, that she felt dizzy and had to hold on to the shop counter. Then he leaned across and whispered with his hot breath in her ear, “Flora, darling, in your arms I can forget my pain for a little while. I know I will never call you mine, but I beg you not to kick me away like some troublesome dog.” He took her hand again, kissed each finger, one at a time.
Flora groaned when he told her the name of his new hotel and the room number.
“I’ll wait for you . . .”
Hardly had Konstantin left when Flora grabbed a handful of flowers and trotted to the kitchen door.
“I have to make a delivery. Keep an eye on the shop while I’m out, please. And tell Ernestine that she should feed Alexander after his nap,” she called to Sabine. Then she hurried off.
Looking neither left nor right, Flora ran in the direction of the Trinkhalle. What am I doing here? she asked herself when she finally stood, out of breath, in front of the long building. It was not Friedrich she was going to see. She wanted to be alone with her unworthy thoughts and emotions.
Tears trickled over her cheeks as she crept past the Trinkhalle like a thief and tramped up Michaelsberg, the hill that formed part of the parklands beyond. Although the sun was shining, it was uncommonly quiet. Only here and there did she see an occasional walker among the trees. Most of the visitors were probably down on the Promenade or wandering along Lichtenthaler Allee, as usual. That was fine with Flora. Her legs trembled as she climbed the hill.
This bench . . . she and Friedrich had sat there often in their first summer together. And here, on these paths, they had gone strolling on many an evening. Why didn’t those memories make her feel anything?
Had her heart beat faster back then? Had she felt that strange feeling in her belly? She could not remember.
Flora blinked as the dome atop the Stourdza Chapel appeared between the trees. A Romanian count had had it built to honor his deceased son, Friedrich had once explained to her.
Oh, Friedrich . . .
Why did her heart not beat any faster when she thought of him now?
And why did it begin to pound when Konstantin flitted through her mind? She only had to look at him to forget everything around her. Earlier, too, she had almost succumbed, had wanted nothing more than to press against him, feel his powerful torso against her breasts, his hand wandering up her thighs.
She reached the chapel and, sobbing, dropped to her knees. She beat the stone with her fists, as if like that she could destroy her love for Konstantin.
Love? Was it really love?
Or was it just desire? A kind of disease?
Flora hoped so fervidly that the latter was true, because a disease could be cured, couldn’t it?
“Dear God, let me be strong! I beg you. I will do penance. Give me back my peace. I promise I will be a good wife and mother . . .”
Her words echoed in the high, domed building, her voice sounding strangely hollow.
Should she go back to G?nningen? Would she be cured there? No. She had to find her strength alone, here. She could not let herself be so easily seduced, like a whore. She would go home to her husband and child, right now.
Yes. She would do that.
Perhaps, if she tried hard to be a good wife, she could one day look Friedrich in the eye again. Perhaps, if she truly stayed strong, she could one day look at herself in the mirror without feeling wretched and ashamed.
Flora looked around the chapel one last time.
Please, dear God, give me the strength and the courage.
Then she stood up, wiped her face, and brushed the dust from her skirt.
In the distance, from town, church bells chimed four times.
“Really, your customers are becoming more and more outrageous, putting demands on your time like this. Why, it’s almost seven o’clock!” Ernestine shook her head so violently that one of her hairpins flew out and fell on the floor.
Flora crouched to pick it up. “Did you manage all right without me?” From the corner of her eye, she saw Sabine standing in the doorway, eyebrows raised, watching her critically.
Flora handed the hairpin to Ernestine, then stepped back before Sabine caught the scent of lovemaking that wafted around Flora like the sweetest perfume. Stop accusing me like that! she felt like screaming at the maid. I know very well that what I’m doing is not right. I know I’m playing with fire. But it’s . . . just playing. And I simply can’t do anything else.
Chapter Fifty-One
Her eyes closed tightly, Flora moved to the left to make room on the cool sheets for Konstantin. With a sure hand, he undid the buttons on her blouse, slid it over her shoulders, and caressed her breasts as if he were handling a precious treasure. His lips were warm and experienced, encircling her nipples, promising intimacies to come.
Flora instinctively opened her legs. She wanted her lover closer to her, to feel him inside her, to take him in. She was not used to a man taking so much time . . .
But Konstantin pushed her legs together again gently. “We have all the time in the world. You are so lovely. I could lie here and look at you for hours.”
A shiver went through Flora as she felt Konstantin’s tongue on her breasts again—small, firm motions that made them burn with passion. Forgotten was the sinfulness, forgotten her bad conscience. More. She wanted more!
Konstantin’s lips had left her breasts, and his hands traced the curves of her waist, moving a little deeper, deeper.
The tremor that began between her legs and rippled outward, down to the tips of her toes . . . up to the end of every strand of her hair! To each fingertip . . . Could one lose one’s mind from sheer desire?
“Flora, dear Flora . . . will you look at me, too? Or . . . touch me?
Flora opened her eyes abruptly and blinked several times. What did he mean by “look at me”? He was naked! And touch him? Wasn’t she doing that the whole time?
He took her hand and guided it down between them, placing it around his sex. “Like that . . . you can make a man very happy.”
It took a moment for Flora to recover from her shock. Friedrich never would have thought to ask something like that of her.
Her eyelids almost closed, she peeked downward. She had never in her life touched a man there. The delicate skin was so wonderfully tensed, and how yearningly his shaft throbbed, as if it had a life of its own. Was that caused by her touch? Was she doing it right? Wasn’t she hurting him? Uncertainly, her fingers closed around him a little tighter, and she smiled as she heard Konstantin’s groans. She seemed to be doing something right . . .
But the next moment he pulled free of her. “Slowly, my darling. You’re going too fast. Love is something to be enjoyed like champagne, not to gulp down like a glass of spa water.”
“It’s already after two. I should have been back in the shop long ago.” With a sigh of pleasure, Flora rolled onto her back and gazed around Konstantin’s room.
He had certainly made it his own. His clothes were everywhere, his boots and shoes scattered on the floor. On the small table by the window stood a bottle of port, and beside it a jar of something Flora had not immediately recognized. “Preserved walnuts. Püppi hated them,” Konstantin had explained before eating one of the nuts himself and popping one in Flora’s mouth. The delicacy had an unusual flavor, salty and sweet and sharp. The entire room smelled of the preserved walnuts and of Konstantin, of his masculinity.