Sex and Vanity(66)
“Sorry, Lady Mary isn’t doing it for me tonight. Can we transition to Alexandra?”
Lucie almost wanted to roll her eyes. She was enjoying the Lady Mary pantomime, but she knew this was going to happen—Cecil always ended up wanting Alexandra.
As if sensing her reticence, Cecil pleaded, “I promise this is the only time I’ll ask you for the rest of the month.”
“Well, in that case …” Lucie gave him a mischievous smile and took a deep breath, raised her arm, and slapped him clear across the face.
Cecil gasped loudly, grinning. “The beef Wellington is fully baked now!”
“Nikolai Alexandrovich, you have behaved very badly,” Lucie scolded, her Agent Amasova impersonation spot-on.fn3
“What have I done to disappoint you this time, Alexandra Feodorovna? Is the new Fabergé cigarette case not to your liking?”
“Why would you ever give me a cigarette case? First of all, smoking causes cancer, and those vulgar diamonds on the case …”
“Wait—there aren’t any diamonds on the Fabergé case, baby. Remember, it’s jeweled silver gilt and lavender guilloche enamel.”
“Don’t interrupt me, you miserable serf! The enameled cigarette case looks so common, like something Prince Felix Yusupov would give to one of his lesser servants.”
“I’m truly sorry, my empress. I have failed you.”
“Let’s see … how should you be properly punished today?”
“Check out my royal scepter, baby,” Cecil said eagerly.
“You peasant! How dare you insult me with your … your filthy Rasputin?” Lucie roared with outrage.
“Ooohh! Ooohh!!!” Cecil moaned in delight. “Scold me more, my queen!”
“I am not your queen. I am your imperial majesty! Pathetic excuse of a man! How will you ever defend us against the revolutionaries? Do you not hear them chanting for our heads outside the gates of Tsarkoe Selo?”
“I’m a contemptible fool, Your Imperial Majesty!”
Lucie bit her lip so she wouldn’t laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. She couldn’t believe how much he was enjoying this. “The revolutionaries are at the gates of the palace! And here all you have is this jeweled heirloom dagger to defend yourself …”
“Tell me about the heirloom dagger! Tell me more about it, baby,” Cecil grunted, his jaw clenched and his breath quickening.
“It’s a scimitar with a gold filigree handle studded with ancient Burmese jade and a scabbard crafted of lapis lazuli and inlaid amber. The razor-sharp blade is hand-forged of meteoric iron, hardened and hardened by centuries of pounding against the jagged steppes of the Caucasus.”
“Agggrrrhhhh!” Cecil shuddered in ecstasy, hugging Lucie tightly as he began sobbing against her shoulder like a little boy. “Alexandra Feodorovna, I love you.”
“I love you too, Nikolai,” Lucie murmured softly.
“Call me Alexei,” Cecil whimpered.
“Alexei, Alexei Nikolaevich,” Lucie whispered as she held him, wondering why he always wanted to be called by the name of a tragic young hemophiliac prince. As her fingers ran through the soft hair on the back of Cecil’s head, she suddenly imagined she was stroking George’s silky hair while he kissed her. Wildly, slowly, as the memory of his mouth all over her came rushing back so vividly.
CHAPTER NINE
Dorset Yacht Club
Sag Harbor
The laminated sign on the brass stand discreetly placed by the members’ door read:
HOUSE RULES REMINDER
PLEASE DISCOURAGE YOUR GUESTS FROM ARRIVING IN IMPROPER ATTIRE WITH THE NOTION OF DRESSING AT THE CHECK ROOM.
THE CLUB COMMITTEE
Cecil and Lucie pulled up to the valet of the club in his recently acquired 1973 Ferrari Dino 246 GTS.fn1 The paintwork on the car was done in an exceedingly rare “Bianco Polo Park,” so Cecil insisted that Lucie wear the white Schiaparelli couture shift dress that his mother had also recently acquired for her, and he had outfitted himself in matching white sea island cotton trousers, a snow-white cashmere sweater, and his bespoke Corthay Cannes suede loafers.
Dorset was arguably the snootiest private yacht club on the Eastern Seaboard, with a membership descended from the oldest Hamptons families, and the style of the club was conspicuously shabby and its members went to great lengths to amplify this aesthetic. Dorset members might have an Aston hiding in their garages on Further Lane or Captains Neck Lane, but they drove to the club in dusty Wagoneers with towels covered in dog hair over the back seats or thirty-year-old Land Rovers with cracked rear windows and faded Mondale-Ferraro bumper stickers. The men took great care to wear only the most threadbare of their Peter Elliot seersucker blazers and faded Vineyard Vines reds, while many of the usually chic womenfolk kept special “for Dorset only” wardrobes consisting of only their frumpiest dresses from the likes of J. McLaughlin or Lilly Pulitzer and hand-me-down Jacques Cohen espadrilles.
Lucie would normally have been embarrassed to show up at the club in such a fancy car, but she was used to Cecil’s ways by now and saw no point in challenging him. Cecil, who took great pride in his sartorial efforts, would always say, “My father was a WASP, but it skipped a generation.” He emerged from behind the wheel and handed the valet his keys, patted away the wrinkles on his trousers, and walked jauntily around to escort his beautiful fiancée into the clubhouse. He couldn’t wait to take pictures of the both of them dressed so après-beach on the Insta-worthy private dock. As they entered the foyer and Lucie approached the check-in desk to sign them in, a ruddy-faced female attendant gave Cecil’s outfit a once-over and said, “He can’t go in like this, Ms. Churchill. No collar.”