Wearing British clothes as a second-generation aristocrat

Chapter 139 Do you really think I'm a model brother?

In Russia, Naryshkina's reputation may not be glamorous; she was the mistress of the powerful Tsar and a topic of conversation among the upper class.

But this Polish beauty did something that would make Russian women of all generations grateful.

She brought "bathing" back to the civilized world.

Since the sixteenth century, ascetic religious groups have preached that physical purity is a desecration of the soul.

The most holy saints are often dressed in rags and have dirty faces and disheveled hair.

Under this distorted doctrine, the Christian world fell into a two-century-long "hygiene dark period".

Dirt became a symbol of piety, and body odor became a badge of holiness.

So much so that at European court balls, noblewomen from various countries had to use heavy perfumes to cover up the body odor caused by not bathing.

But Naryshkina did the opposite.

She bathes twice a day, using aromatherapy, milk, and flower petals.

She single-handedly made "bathing" fashionable again in Russian high society.

Today, the elegant ladies in St. Petersburg's salons no longer reek of steamed buns, thanks to this "Aspasia of the North."

"Playing hard to get—"

Dugan smirked at himself in the mirror. He wasn't averse to the deal; in fact, he felt a strange sense of mission to "sleep with the country."

But even if you're a model, you still have to have the dignity of a model.

Moreover, he was a young and handsome British major general, a man who shouldn't be manipulated so easily.

Half an hour later, the sound of a maid's footsteps shattered the illusion in the mirror.

"General, the lady requests your presence."

Dugan took a deep breath and pushed open the door to enter.

"This is a reception room? It's clearly a bathroom!"

When Dugan entered the room, he discovered that he had not entered the living room or bedroom he had expected, but a warm and cozy bathroom.

The firewood crackled in the fireplace, and more than twenty candles illuminated the room as if it were daytime, filling the air with steaming moisture and the rich, sweet aroma of milk.

The maid closed the door and withdrew.

There was only one person left in the room.

On that couch modeled after ancient Greek furniture, Maria Naryshkina leaned against soft pillows, like a living Venus.

She wore a smooth silk robe and casually leaned against the couch, her hair damp with moisture, outlining her graceful curves.

She was barefoot, her ankles slender, and her once-piled golden hair was now loosely hanging down, with a few wet strands clinging to her snow-white neck and collarbone.

She lay on her side, her right elbow propped up, supporting her chin, her left hand casually resting on her lower abdomen, holding a golden apple in her palm—a symbol of love and temptation.

Her body was slightly curled up, her legs together, her posture languid yet with a hint of deliberate shyness, as if she were showing the world an unreserved beauty belonging to a mature woman.

Dugan had to admit that the image was extremely impactful.

Even someone as worldly-wise as him felt his heart race.

Such a scene is indeed touching.

Naryshkina caught a fleeting look of amazement in Dugan's eyes, and a triumphant smile curled at the corner of her lips.

She had witnessed men losing their composure in front of her many times, which gave her a sense of control and pleasure.

She gently bit her lower lip, her voice husky and alluring from the steam: "General—do you think I'm beautiful?"

"Beautiful." Without the slightest hesitation, Dugan stepped forward, his gaze openly appreciating the work of art, and replied in his perfect French, "My lady. Your beauty is enough to make Helen of Troy ashamed and to make Paris's judgment repeat itself."

As he spoke, he unbuttoned his tuxedo coat and casually tossed it onto the carpet.

Then, he strode forward, but instead of rushing at her, he knelt on one knee by the couch, bent down, and reverently kissed her bare ankle.

My skin felt slightly cool, with a smooth, milky feel.

His kisses traveled upwards along the curve of her rounded calves, the movements elegant yet aggressive.

Naryshkina let out a satisfied sigh, closed her eyes, and awaited the deepening of this worship.

However, just as Dugan's lips were about to touch the forbidden area covered by the silk robe, a golden apple rolled down and landed squarely on his cheek.

"Wait," Naryshkina's voice rang out, tinged with an undeniable coquettishness. "Recite a poem for me, General. It must be—written just for me."

She curled up her legs, buried her face in her arms, looking like she was ready to be taken but also pretending to be reserved.

Dugan clicked his tongue in exasperation and reluctantly moved his lips away.

He straightened up, continuing to unbutton his shirt, and sat down on the Persian carpet, beginning to search his mind for verses that didn't belong to this era.

He cleared his throat and began to recite aloud, attempting to overwhelm his opponent with his imposing manner: "Life is precious, love is more precious. But for freedom, both can be sacrificed!"

These stirring revolutionary verses echoed in the erotic bathroom.

"Snapped!"

Naryshkina extended her fair hand and gently tapped Dugan's hand, her tone tinged with displeasure: "I am not a warrior fighting for freedom, General. I am merely a woman waiting to be loved. Please compose for me a song—a tender, lyrical poem."

Dugan was somewhat annoyed by being thwarted again, but he felt more excited about this high-level tug-of-war than anything else.

He pretended to ponder for a moment, and a line from the French surrealist poet Paul Éluard flashed through his mind.

He spoke again, his voice low and gentle: "I have no other wish than to love you—a storm fills the valley, a fish fills the net—"

These fresh and beautiful words finally struck a chord with Naryshkina's heart.

"Very good—" she breathed softly, finally relaxing her body completely, wrapping her arms around Dugan's neck, "Come on, love me passionately—"

Two hours later.

As Naryshkina soaked again in the milk bath filled with rose petals, sighing contentedly, Dugan, fully dressed, walked out of that embarrassing "living room."

Morgan, who had been waiting outside, remained expressionless, but his hawk-like eyes quickly swept over Dugan's collar to confirm that there were no scratches or bite marks.

Major Lewis, his face filled with undisguised envy, rubbed his hands together as he approached and whispered, "Sir—how was it?"

Dugan smacked his lips, savoring the complex scent of milk, rose, and a mature woman's fragrance, and commented, "Unforgettable."

He didn't linger and returned to the hotel with his bodyguards.

However, as he changed his clothes and prepared to think about how to face the Tsar the next day, a servant brought him a letter with a faint fragrance.

Dugan unfolded the letter; it bore Naryshkina's elegant yet strong handwriting.

To my dear General Dugan:

Your poetry is so moving; you not only conquered my body, but also indulged my whims at that moment.

As I said, I cannot possess you. Alexander (the Tsar)'s possessiveness cannot tolerate anyone sharing. But I have prepared the best gift. Lizanka will be at the banquet tomorrow night. She is Kutuzov's most beloved third daughter, and the only one who can understand your poem "If Life Deceives You".

Go love her, if you're willing. She'll be a warmer comfort than a milk bath.

Your eternal, Maria

Dugan understood perfectly well that if he were to become the Tsar's brother-in-law, he would surely lose his life.

"Kutuzov's daughter?" Major Lewis was in intelligence, so of course he knew about General Kutuzov's situation.

"Elizabeth Mikhailovna Kutuzova was born in 1783. In 1802, she married Fyodor Tisenhausen, her father's (Kutuzov's) adjutant and his most trusted student, who was to go to the front with his father-in-law that autumn. She also spoke French, German, and even a little Italian. She lived in Florence for a time, where her father had served as a diplomat. In short, she was worldly."

Major Lewis continued his analysis: "Old Kutuzov is currently worried about supplies for the front lines, and he's been scrutinizing your accounts closely, which is actually making him unhappy. If you could get closer to Elizabeth, even if it's just as a nominal lover, it might ease tensions with Old Kutuzov."

"Shit, fuck, do you think I'm some kind of genius?" Dugan swung his fist to express his dissatisfaction.

Although Major Lewis didn't understand what "model guy" meant, he could understand what Dugan was trying to say.

Looking at the two-faced Dugan, Major Lewis grinned wickedly and said, "Sir, if I could do it in your place, I would certainly do it, but this Lady Elizabeth is a beauty, and I think you would prefer to meet her yourself."

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