I am in love but, like a prudent virgin, I admitted the fact to myself only shortly before we departed for Salzburg. After I put several hundred miles between me and my fascinating Baron, all's well again.
My first love, and it was the man's audacity that won the day!
Imagine an Imperial Highness, decidedly attractive, eighteen, and no tigress by any means, wheeling at the side of a mere lieutenant who has nothing but his pay to bless himself with and nothing but good looks to recommend him. And, as before stated, he wasn't even my style.
Anna pedalled ahead some twenty-five paces; our ladies wheezed and snorted that many behind. This devil of a lieutenant took a chance.
"Imperial Highness," he commenced, "I wager you don't know what love is."
It was the one theme I was aching for, scenting, as I did, the odor of forbidden things. Never before had I the opportunity.
"R-e-a-l love," he insisted.
"Do you blame me?" I asked, vixen-like. "Would be a poor specimen of Guard officer who didn't know more about real love than a mere girl of eighteen and a princess at that."
"Will your Imperial Highness allow me to explain?" This, oh so insinuatingly, from the gay seducer.
"Why not?" I asked, with the air of a roué and hating myself for blushing like a poppy—I felt it.