Lumina - Misadventures of a Wanton Hussy

Evernight Publishing www.evernightpublishing.com

Copyright© 2011 Georgia Fox

ISBN: 978-1-926950-99-0

Cover Artist: LF Designs Editor: JC Chute

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATIO)

To My Tutor.

LUMI)A Misadventures of a Wanton Hussy Georgia Fox Copyright © 2011

Book one in a series following the sexual discoveries of a humble country duckling as she transforms into a glamorous swan in eighteenth century, pre-revolution Paris.

Prologue Paris 1788 The paper she held was in danger of being smudged in the scented water, as another quick orgasm fluttered through her pussy like a trapped butterfly and her knees hit the copper sides of the hip bath. That made five. This new acquisition was proving invaluable already. She closed her eyes until the tremor passed and then resettled, sitting up a little higher, lifting the paper to finish carefully reading her words penned across it. When writing one’s memoirs it was important to be absolutely accurate. Some people might wish she used a little discretion, but she’d always preferred brutal honesty to coy euphemism. Besides, in a hundred years it wouldn’t matter, as no one who’d ever known her would still be living. Very few of them would be wearing wings; most would be roasting their feet. Herself included. She expelled a gentle sigh, head back, eyelids half-shuttered. Dropping her arm over the edge of the bath, she opened her fingers and let the paper drift to the tiles. Her legs moved in the water, causing small ripples over her skin, lapping at her taut, rosy nipples

where they bobbed a few inches above the surface. She lifted the toes of one foot to the far edge and wriggled them as she sank deeper. Ah yes, she was supposed to be enjoying this, letting it smooth out all the knots. She’d been advised to get out of Paris, while she still could; get out of France. But a good bath, like good wine and a good cock, should never be rushed. A mischievous smile lifted the corner of her mouth. Yes. Ummm. That’s the spot. She gasped, head rolling against the copper, her damp curls stuck to her neck. A larger wave slapped up over the edge and wet the tiles; then a pretty young man rose up from the bath water, grinning cheekily, breathing hard to fill his lungs again. She patted his wet hair with one languid hand and spread her legs wider, hooking her knees over the sides this time. It was all the encouragement he needed to submerge once more between her slender thighs. Immediately she felt his tongue sliding up into her sex again, searching for her sunken treasure trove. He was really getting very good. Very good. This capacity for holding his breath under water was quite astounding and he’d learned a priceless skill today under her tutorship. She reached for the wine glass on the chair beside the bath. The delicate crystal almost slipped from her fingers as the young man’s questing tongue did its wicked work and that joyous trembling swept the inner walls of her cunt as thoroughly as his long, skilled tongue. He reappeared, bathwater dripping from his eyelashes. And this time, when he grinned, she saw the glimmer of silver coin between his teeth. “Good boy,” she purred, winking. “But there’s more where you found that one.” He shook his head like a wet dog and eagerly dove down again, tireless, hungry and determined. And very probably in need of those silver coins, she mused, glad she could help redistribute the wealth. The violinist playing in a corner of the room had come to the end of his tune, but she signaled that he should begin another. She did love a little violin music when she was relaxing. Sipping her wine, she glanced down again at the paper on the tiles, now dampened with

spilled bathwater, the ink running, words merging together, letters climbing over one another. That was what had happened to the past, she thought. One day – and probably not long from now, since she was only a few years short of thirty and thereby ancient - it would be a mere blot on her memory, if she didn’t write it all down. For now it was still fresh; the colors were vivid, the sounds clear, the tastes fresh. She’d begun her memoirs with the man who first awakened her passions. From the very first touch of his hand, she’d sensed a soul mate, although it took him years to admit it. Back then, of course, she was very different. She even had a different name. Her gaze traversed the candlelit chamber slowly, marveling over all the luxurious details of her life as it was now. How had it come to pass that she, a humble country girl, once dirty and barefoot, now lived here, in Le Marais; resident of a painted house with tall windows, servants and people to play music whenever she wanted it? How had she become the woman who called herself Lumina? How had it all begun? Ah, with Salvatore of course. Who else? Salvatore the Stallion.

Part One Whipper-Snapper

Chapter One The Loire Valley, 1777

“She’ll do.” He picked her out at once. She was the tallest of all those paraded before him and he saw through the mud spatters to the clear skin, bright eyes and good teeth. Her hair was like a field of wheat, ready for harvest, glowing in the sun. Thick and wavy, it tumbled down her back, escaping the ribbon with which it was loosely tied. Despite her grubby appearance there was nothing humble in the way she stood. She might be quite presentable, once the little guttersnipe was bathed and properly dressed, of course. She stared back at him, lips slightly pursed, waiting to argue, but not knowing yet what the quarrel was about. “How old is she?” he demanded, addressing the mother, who sat by the meager fire, nursing a jug of wine. “Fifteen.” “Seventeen,” came a sharp correction, snapped out by the girl herself. He turned his attention back to her face. There was a small dent in her chin as she held it proudly, glaring back at him with a challenge in her smoky, silver grey eyes. Her gilded lashes were long and curled; her lips full, the color of strawberry flesh. “Fetch your things and come with me,” he muttered, hoping she wasn’t the argumentative type. His employer, L’Orchidee, wouldn’t like that at all and he didn’t have a lot of time on his hands to train this girl. “Where am I going?” she demanded. He sighed heavily. He thought the mother would have explained by now; she had surely received the letter at least a

fortnight ago. “You are going to live with the Comtess de Charbonneau.” The girl didn’t even blink, clearly unimpressed. Her mother laughed coldly and sputtered, “That’s what she calls herself these days, is it?” “Your aunt,” he explained to the silent girl, itching irritably under his collar, aware of time ticking forward and many other tasks to be done. If his employer hadn’t insisted he go himself to pick out one of her sister’s children to benefit from her “charity”, he would have sent someone else into the country. But the Comtess – a former courtesan, otherwise known by the name of L’Orchidee - always got her own way and Salvatore Genovese, manager of all her financial and household affairs for ten years, wouldn’t dare refuse her orders. She held him in her debt, as she did so many others caught within her web. “Make the most of this chance, girl,” her mother yelled drowsily. “And tell the old whore to send her lovin’ sister another jug o’ wine, eh?” Salvatore looked again at the woman by the fire, shocked that she was once a great beauty. She and her sister had ruled Paris at the peak of their success. Then, so rumor had it, they had fought over the same man, an artist. This one married him, left everything behind and came out to the country, where she quickly descended into what she was now - a faded shadow in torn stockings, with filthy, tattered ribbons in her hair. The other sister managed her career shrewdly, never marrying for love, but only for money. Consequently, L’Orchidee was now a wealthy widow, whose beauty may have seen better days, but whose influence and power remained significant. “We’ll leave at once,” he said, gesturing for the chosen girl to follow him out. She swung around to her mother, asking if she truly must go. She seemed more concerned, not for her own fate, but for the little brothers and sisters she would be leaving behind and how they would manage without her. Her mother’s concern was limited to the wine in her jug, however, and the purse of coins he’d promised would be sent to her once a month. “You go on, girl, and be obedient. Don’t give this gentleman any of your lip. I don’t want you sent back again. One less mouth to feed suits me very well, and if that old whore wants to take on the trouble, she’s welcome to it.”

He frowned and walked quickly out into the fresh air, the stifling confines of that smoky cottage beginning to suffocate. Outside by the carriage he waited impatiently while the fair-haired girl found a pair of wooden clogs for her feet and a moth-eaten cloak for her shoulders. The other children gathered around her, the youngest ones weeping. “I shall come back and visit you soon,” she promised, hugging the smallest. “Shan’t I, sir?” she added, looking over at him, the gentle breeze lifting a blonde curl and stretching it across her cheek. Salvatore felt something stab into his chest. He supposed it would have been guilt, if he could afford the luxury of wasted emotion. Bending his head in a slight nod, he lied to her. “Yes.” He held the carriage door open and she stepped up. “What is your name?” he finally remembered to ask, as the horses clopped forward and the wheels lurched into motion. “Isabelle, sir,” she replied, eyes wide, inspecting the plush carriage interior. She looked very small suddenly, no longer surrounded by her shorter siblings. The button-tufted velvet seat seemed to swallow her up. Again he suffered a sharp pang deep under his ribs. He hoped that Paris and the life she was about to enter wouldn’t swallow her up likewise. She turned those big, silver eyes to his face once again and they reminded him of the moon, when, as a boy in Italy, he used to lie on his back in his father’s sheep pasture and stare up at the great, gleaming orb that seemed so close. He would whisper all his questions to it and sometimes he thought it gave him answers. Then his mother would call him in for bed, wondering what kept him outside so late. Yes, this girl had eyes like the moon, solemn and mystical. “Come la luna,” he muttered in his natural tongue. “Luminoso.” **** The city was a filthy, crowded place, full of noise and stench, traders and beggars competing with one another to be heard above the clamor of hooves and rumbling cart wheels. That was her first

impression when the man woke her with a tap on the shoulder and she peered sleepily out through the carriage window, eager to see Paris at last. Disappointment must have shown on her face, for the man who’d brought her there reminded her gruffly that she should be thankful to her aunt for this opportunity. But Isabelle already missed her younger siblings and the familiar routine she’d known for seventeen years. She couldn’t think how her mother would manage without her. And this man, who lectured her now about being grateful, had hardly spoken a word to her during their long journey. He was so stern and unsmiling; she did not like him at all. As for her aunt, she’d never even known the woman existed until today. The carriage turned, sweeping through wide, elaborate wrought iron gates and grumpy-face began fussing over his coat and hat. “Be polite at all times and don’t speak until you’re spoken to,” he barked at her. She was tempted to stick out her tongue, just to see what he would do. When she was tired, Isabelle could be ill-tempered as a bull. He would not know that, of course, having asked nothing about her. “Pick up your feet when you walk,” he told her as they crossed the cobbled yard and ascended a grand flight of steps. “Don’t shuffle and watch your shoes on her hall tiles. Don’t leave mud.” “My clogs are too big. That’s why I must shuffle.” A frustrated scowl passed over his worn, weary face and then his eyes, which were very dark and always, it seemed, prepared to criticize, closed briefly in irritation. “Then take them off. You may as well go barefoot than make that dreadful clattering, child.” “I am not a child!” “For pity’s sake, don’t stand there arguing. Shoes!” Isabelle removed her wooden shoes and, snatching them from her hands, he gestured impatiently that she should go in. “Keep you eyes downcast,” he muttered, following her. “Curtsy when you greet her, but don’t speak until she asks you something.” She stopped to examine a large portrait on the wall, but he herded her onward across a circular marble-tiled hall. “No time to look at that. Come on. Hurry up.”

Clearly grumpy-face had other, more important things to do, than escort her anywhere. White-wigged servants, holding the biggest candelabra she’d ever seen, kept their somber gazes averted – not a solitary glance of curiosity. Only the sway of candle flame registered her presence as she passed. Finally a pair of doors opened into a lushly decorated salon and her feet stepped from cool tile onto parquet. She momentarily forgot grumpy-face and his orders, because there was too much to look at, too much to take in. The room was aglow with color as extravagant and vibrant as a garden in full bloom. Three great torchieres provided the seed of light, multiplied by tall mirrors set into the wall paneling on all sides. As if they were a posy of fresh-picked flowers held in a fist, a handful of people, ornately dressed, clustered around a lady in emerald silk. Reclined on a tapestry chaise, she was telling a story they all pretended to find amusing. Their hollow laughter gave Isabelle chills and when she stole a sideways glance at grumpy-face she saw his mouth tighten, his nostrils flare, his eyes grow even darker, and she knew he felt it too. In his black coat and somber attire he did not belong there anymore than she did. Their arrival was eventually noted, when a footman crossed the carpet and whispered in the emerald lady’s ear. The laughter drizzled off and the air stilled. Grumpy-face gave a low bow and she remembered her curtsy although it was far from elegant or even neat. Too late to make her eyes downcast as he’d instructed; they’d already proven themselves disobedient by examining every face in the room and becoming completely enthralled by the gilt-framed mirrors in which everything – even her own shabby attire – was brilliantly reflected. Slightly dizzy, she reached out to grab her traveling companion’s sleeve, merely to steady herself. Instead of his sleeve, she caught his gloved hand. It was large and warm, enclosing her fingers so tightly she thought he’d break the bones. Emerald Lady raised a lorgnette to her piercing eyes. “So this is my fool sister’s child. Come here girl. Let me see the potential.” Grumpy-face released her hand so suddenly, it was as if he’d only just realized he had it, but Isabelle didn’t move her bare feet. She was frozen to the spot.

“I said come here, girl. Is she deaf?” With a sigh, the man prodded her forward. “It’s been a long journey, my lady. I’m sure she’s still not quite used to…” The Comtess held up her hand and he fell silent. “Clearly she needs a bath and a comb for that hair. I suppose she might be comely if she was dressed properly.” She gave an unpleasant laugh. “Not such an ugly country duckling, just an awkward one who doesn’t yet know her capabilities. I can see why you chose her, Genovese. She’s well developed for her age and you always had an eye for good form. Always were a tits and arse man.” Isabelle glanced back at grumpy-face, but he studied the parquet under his feet, his face flushed. “Don’t get any ideas, man,” the woman added with a shrill laugh. “She’s destined for greater things.” Leaning forward, she studied Isabelle through her lorgnette, while everyone waited in silence. Finally she pronounced, “I see she’s a fidget and she must be cured of that. I cannot abide a fidget. Her fingernails are filthy. She probably has lice and the lord knows what else. These provincials! Culs-terreux! Most of them still shit in holes in the ground.” With a collective gasp, her attendants drew back, the women lifting their fans to protect themselves from whatever disease she’d carried into the room. Isabelle scowled. “I haven’t got lice or a dirty arse. Don’t you know it’s rude to talk about a person as if they’re not right in front of you?” Another gasp rippled in shock waves around the salon. Behind her she heard grumpy-face exhale. The Comtess lowered her lorgnette. “So you are not deaf. You are, however, insolent and impertinent.” “I stick up for myself, if that’s what you mean.” There was a thick pause. She tightened her hands into fists, ready to fight if need be. The woman chuckled. “Just like Veronique, her wretched mother. Sharp-tongued and saucy-mouthed. Our dissolute father – an Englishman – always called my sister a whipper-snapper. It amused him when she talked back. Now look where that smart mouth got her – stranded in the provinces with a tribe of children and not a sou to her name.” She looked around at the richly attired people on either side and smiled like a cat with cream in its whiskers. “And I, who was

never his favorite, now have everything.” Her gaze hardened, swinging back to Isabelle, who stood there in her tattered dress. “I hope you learn from your mother’s mistakes. You may have been born ignorant, but even the dumbest creatures can be taught to obey.” Isabelle glared at the sprawled woman in rustling silk and shimmering jewels. She felt the spit rise up in her mouth. “You can’t make me do anything.” “Indeed I can, girl. This roof over your head is mine and the food soon to be in your belly will be mine, too. As will the clothes on your back. You will repay me with respect and obedience.” “I didn’t even want to come here,” Isabelle exclaimed, the fire rising up inside her, thinking of her younger siblings and their inattentive mother. They needed her to protect them. “I’ll go home,” she shouted, swinging around and finding her way blocked by the tall form of grumpy-face. “You’re not going anywhere,” her aunt snapped from the couch. “You are mine now. My property.” She tried to run around the man, but he held her arms and prevented escape, stoically bearing the sharp kicks to his shins. Of course, she was barefoot and there was little damage her cold toes could do to his strong muscles. “Clearly the whipper-snapper needs a lesson, Genovese. Bring her to me.” He lifted her off her feet and carried her to her aunt, who bent her, face down over her knee and tossed up her skirt. The folk around her chaise gathered closer and Isabelle heard a few giggles. She knew her bare bottom was exposed to the room, for she had no fancy underthings. Still she kicked and fought, but grumpy-face held her down, his strength easily overpowering her, until she lay limp, tears of anger smarting under her lashes, blood rushing to her head. The woman used her closed fan, bringing it down fast and hard across Isabelle’s buttocks. It stung, but the indignity was worse than the physical pain, as she heard the laughter encouraging her captor. A second hit came down in the same place. Isabelle bit her lip, determined not to make a solitary sound. She would not give the old hag that satisfaction. In her misty, corner vision, she saw thighs of grumpy-face in their black breeches. He was bent over to hold her over her aunt’s lap and was probably looking at her arse too. Dirty old bugger! Isabelle wriggled until her face was closer to his thighs. She

felt his hands tighten around her waist, trying to keep her still. Her aunt lost patience with the fan, which was evidently not causing her prisoner enough pain, and began using her hand instead, slapping it hard against Isabelle’s raised rump, first one cheek and then the other. “Ouch!” Isabelle shrieked as that bony hand spanked her viciously and the audience clustered around her laughed harder. Her buttocks were hot and each slap pressed her mound into the emerald silk of her assailant’s skirt. Isabelle ground herself down on it, hoping she’d stain it with her juices, for they’d begun to flow almost from the first spank. But it wasn’t her aunt’s hand that caused it. Her naughty excitement came from the ruthless hold around her waist, the sight of those thick, flexing thighs leaning over her, the halting rhythm of his breath as he struggled to keep her still. And finally, the lump in the front of his breeches, growing like rising bread dough. Isabelle had seen her mother with enough men to know what that meant. Monsieur Grumpy-Face was aroused. She watched the swelling and felt her own body react, her pussy softening and pulsing, slowly dripping onto that costly silk over which she was bent. The burning pain administered by her aunt’s hand soon fell away as her cheeks became numb and then the motion of that gnarled hand only loosened the little droplets of moisture from Isabelle’s sex. She pressed down on the soft skirt beneath her and spread her legs slightly. Somewhere above her, she heard a husky male voice exclaim softly that he believed she was enjoying her spanking. Again they all laughed. Except for Monsieur Grumpy-face, who had stiffened and then yelped in pain as Isabelle moved her mouth another half inch and closed her teeth on his thigh. At once his hands released her waist. It was fortunate for him that the Comtess had exhausted herself and was done with the spanking, pushing Isabelle off her lap as if she was a dog that outstayed its welcome. “If you have trouble keeping your mouth shut from now on, Whipper-Snapper,” the woman exclaimed breathlessly, “I’m sure Salvatore here can find you a bridle.” Isabelle scrambled up off her knees, pulling her skirt down and rubbing her bottom, hastily dispensing of the sweat on her palms.

“Now get her out of my sight until she looks halfway respectable at least.” The Comtess sank back into her pillows and fanned herself rapidly, the ruffles down her bodice shimmering with tiny pearls. “All this charitable work for the poor has quite worn me out for one night.” Her little cluster of sycophants laughed uproariously, as if this was the most amusing thing they ever heard and grumpy-face grabbed her arm to hurry her out again. “Did I not make myself clear, girl?” he muttered under his breath. “I told you not to speak until spoken to.” She’d expected him to shout at her for biting his thigh, but now he pretended it hadn’t happened. Isabelle took this moment to study his face closer. His skin was darkened by too much sunlight, as if he came from somewhere far away. His eyes were almost black, framed with thick, lengthy lashes – unusual on a man. His nose was long and slender, his lips the same and clenched tight. Fronds of ebony hair fell against his swarthy cheek, escaping the thin leather string with which he tied it back in a small tail. As he marched her along, his fingers were wrapped tight around her upper arm, probably bruising her skin, but he would not look at her. There was a rapid tic in his jaw and it spread, pulling on his lips so that she didn’t know whether he was about to snap at her in fury, or burst into sobs. Or laughter. He took her up a candlelit staircase. She almost tripped over her own feet, trying to keep up with his long stride. “Did you really choose me for my tits and arse?” She couldn’t resist it, just to see him flustered. He was surely old enough to be her father, but she saw the quick glimmer in his eyes, just before he quelled it sharply, almost guiltily. He glared at her down his long, pompous nose. “I chose you because you were the tallest and I assumed the eldest.” “Oh.” “And you had slightly less dirt on you than the others.” He opened a door and flung her inside. She found herself in a small chamber with a fire in the hearth, candles on the mantle, a bed, a chair, a washstand and a writing desk. It was more luxury than she’d ever known. There was even a little scrap of carpet, so her feet would not be cold when she climbed out of bed in the morning. Someone had thoughtfully prepared for her arrival, although she felt certain it couldn’t have been the Comtess.

“This will be your chamber,” he told her crisply. “Keep it tidy and use the candles sparingly. You will only get two new ones at the end of every month.” “Why? Is the Comtess poor?” “No.” He stood just inside the door, watching her warily, hands behind his back. “Just wise with her coin.” She wandered around the small room, both hands rubbing her posterior which had now begun to hurt again since the numbness wore off. “Is she always so rude to people?” “She speaks truthfully and doesn’t coat her words to make them more palatable.” “Is she really a Comtess?” She still couldn’t believe her aunt was an aristocrat and lived here with all this finery at her fingertips and servants to act on her every whim. Men like this one here, with his funny way of thinking carefully before he spoke, laying each word down slowly and gravely, as if they were in a church. It was all so different to the world she’d known; Isabelle was sure she walked through a dream. Any moment she expected to be shaken awake and yelled at by her mother to get on with her chores. “Her last husband was a Comte, so yes she is a Comtess.” “Does she always smell like sawdust?” A small line gathered between his brows. “I hadn’t noticed.” “Why is her hair grey... Is she so old? Maman’s hair is not grey.” “The grey is powder.” “Why?” “Why?” He made a small, exasperated sigh. “It just is. Ladies wear it on their hair.” Isabelle made another circuit of the chamber, inspecting every corner. “This will be just for me? I don’t have to share?” “No, you don’t have to share.” She looked coyly at him over her shoulder. “Is there any cock?” The man blanched. “I beg your pardon?” “A cock,” she glanced downward at his black breeches, “to rouse me.” His lips opened, flapping like those of a landed fish. “Cockerel,” she explained, rolling her eyes, trying not to laugh. A mischievous soul, she never could resist teasing and now she

was already recovered from her journey and her spanking, excited by the newness all around her, she looked for a little fun. It seemed he would be a good subject, easily flustered by her. Poor old man. He squinted. “A cockerel?” “How else will I know when to get up in the morning?” she asked, all innocence. “Without a cock to waken me.” His lips twitched and he raised one finger to scratch his nose. “I’ll make sure someone wakes you.” “Someone will be up before I am?” She was astounded. At home she was always up first, usually even before cock crow, because there was so much to do. “Yes. Probably.” “Do you live here too, sir?” “No. And you may call me Monsieur Genovese.” “Where do you live then?” “In an apartment above my offices across town.” “Where?” “On the other side of the Seine. Near Montmarte.” “Offices?” “I am a solicitor.” “What’s that?” She sat on the bed, bouncing when she found it much softer than her old bed at home. “I write people’s wills. I help them fight legal claims. I…” He stopped, his gaze following her up and down. “Go on,” she urged. “I’m listening.” But he shot her a skeptical look and she heard another of his deep sighs. He made that sound a lot, she mused. “Why am I here?” she asked, still bouncing, aware that her bosom bounced likewise and watching his gaze turn slightly misty. “What does the Comtess want me for?” “She likes to do charitable works, take people under her wing. You are her new…protégée.” “What’s that?” “A project. She will mold you into a young lady.” “Why?” He looked down at his feet. “That she will explain to you herself one day.” She paused her bouncing to study him thoughtfully. “My arse hurts.”

“Good. Perhaps you will know enough not to defy her again.” Leaning back on the bed, she rested on her elbows, her gaze traveling over his tall, muscular figure. He didn’t look much like a man of books, she thought; more like a man of action. He seemed discomforted by her steady perusal. Then he rubbed his bitten thigh, as if suddenly remembering it. “Now are you done with your questions, girl?” “Oh, no. I have lots more questions.” “Can’t they wait until morning?” He was tired, it seemed––unlike her. Although she had been sleepy in the carriage she was now wide awake and full of curiosity. But she’d forgotten this was not all new to him. And he was old. She stood and walked across the room to warm her bare feet by the fire. “I’ll send someone to fit you for new clothes tomorrow,” he added, one hand on the door handle. “And shoes that fit.” Was that a bit of a smile haunting his lips? He’d almost shown his teeth. Almost. “A maid will bring you some supper in a few minutes. I suppose you’re hungry.” She was intrigued by that quarter of a smile. He might look less ugly if he smiled, she thought. In that moment it became her mission to make him smile. “Do you really like my tits, sir?” she asked with a wicked grin of her own. His eyes narrowed. He sniffed. “The proper term is breasts. And you should call me Monsieur Genovese.” Only after he was gone and she’d stopped giggling, did she realize he hadn’t answered her question. **** The first few weeks in her new home passed quickly. As he promised, Salvatore sent a seamstress to measure her for new clothes and he came every day to give her a few lessons in behavior and manners. These things were, it seemed, very important to him. In this new world there were many rules. The rest of her time was spent in the company of the Comtess, who taught Isabelle other lessons – how to flirt and charm. She also taught her a little family history. Isabelle learned how her mother had

fallen in love with a “no good rogue” who got her pregnant and whisked her off into the country. “I warned her not to marry that man. He could give her nothing. He was an artist of all things – his head was in the clouds. She could have had anyone and she chose to throw her life away on him.” “You mean my father.” “Yes. Now he’s dead and she’s left with a battalion of shoeless children.” The Comtess paused and looked at Isabelle, a disparaging sneer cracking the powder on her face. “Listen and learn, Whipper-Snapper. Never throw yourself away on a man who can’t afford you.” “But what about love?” “Don’t be ridiculous, girl. Look around you. Do you think love put me in this house?” “Did you not love the Comte?” “Good God no. Unlike your mama, I married wisely – for money. Money makes life bearable. Love is for those who like selfinflicted pain.” As usual she waited for no reply but rattled onward. “Since I never had children of my own, I now have time and resources to spend on my other projects. You’re lucky I’m a charitable soul. Now fetch my tonic, girl. It is surely time.” The Comtess suffered from a variety of illnesses, all of which required a different tonic, and frequent visits from the doctor – a short, rotund fellow with a red face and bulbous nose. She surrounded herself with men and women who would not argue with her and any conversation was dominated by her voice and her opinions. As much as Isabelle suspected Monsieur Grumpy-face might wish to contradict the Comtess on occasion, he remained quiet and servile in her presence. “Salvatore Genovese is in my debt,” she heard the Comtess explain once. “Without me he’d be nothing. His father was a sheep farmer in the hills of Tuscany, you know. I paid for his education.” Apparently the poor man worked off his debt to her by rushing to do her every bidding, attending to her many legal suits and overseeing her accounts. The Comtess held tight rein over his life, as she did those of anyone who came near her. She commented often on

his dress or his posture, even advised him on the wine he should drink with his supper and where he should get his shirts made. He bore it all without complaint and only the subtle lifting of an eyebrow on rare occasions, which the Comtess never noticed. Isabelle did. There were other things she observed, too. She saw the way Salvatore tried not to look at her or be alone with her for long. He answered her questions with honesty, but in the fewest words possible. It became a game for her to see how long it would take before she made him blush. But he never lost his temper with her boundless curiosity and Isabelle was forced to concede that Salvatore was incredibly patient. She also studied the women who joined her aunt in the salon every afternoon for sweet little cakes and marzipan modeled into the shape of miniature fruits. She practiced using her fan the way they did, trying the flirtatious gestures and throaty giggles. The air filled with the strong scent of jasmine – the pomade they wore in their hair to make the powder stick. It stuck in her throat likewise and made her swear she would never use it. **** In August she turned eighteen and received her first taste of undiluted wine. Finding she liked the taste and especially the dizzying effect, she drank more than she should and experienced her first hangover the next day – for which Salvatore Genovese censured her in his prim fashion. “Everything in moderation,” he lectured at the breakfast table, while waiting for the Comtess. “May that be a lesson learned.” Isabelle tried holding her sore head upright on a neck that felt sadly inadequate. She groaned, leaning forward, her elbows on the table. When she cracked open her eyes, she caught him stealing a quick glance at her bosom, before he retreated again behind his newspaper. “Is it very hard, Monsieur?” she cooed. He looked at her warily above the edge of the paper. “Is what very hard?” She smirked. “Being so pious and good all the time?” He said nothing.

“Do you never do anything wrong?” “I never over-indulge.” He sniffed. Isabelle stuck out her tongue. “There is no need to be peevish and sulk,” he added. “You’re a child who has yet to learn the advantage of willpower.” The wretched old man knew of course, that she hated being referred to as a child. But she would not give him the satisfaction of getting under her skin today. Instead she sank her dry mouth into a full cup of coffee and said a silent prayer to whomever was listening. Let me one day get my vengeance on Monsieur Grumpy-face. On that morning, with a blacksmith’s hammer banging spitefully at her skull as if it was an anvil, she would gladly have sold her soul for that pleasure.

Chapter Two The girl learned quickly, an apt pupil. It was not necessarily because she enjoyed her lessons or cared about manners in the slightest, he mused, she was simply a survivor, who saw what she must do to flourish in this environment and did it. However, he was constantly required to remind her of the long list of house rules. “Never speak to the Comtess unless she speaks first. In her presence, never speak to anyone else. In fact, the less sound you make the better. Never leave the table or the room until she gives permission. Never pick up your soup spoon until she has taken her first sip. Likewise the wine. Never drink until she has proclaimed the wine adequate…” “Why can’t I talk to you in her presence?” Her endless questions were driving him steadily insane. He groaned. “It is the way things are in this house. The Comtess does not like other folk to have conversations around her.” This, he saw immediately, was the hardest command for her to follow. When they sat at supper, facing one another across the table, the Comtess at the head of it, complaining about the texture of her pudding, he saw those big silver eyes staring at him through the candles, her lips dampened by her tongue, longing to speak. He quickly looked away again so she would not be tempted. Nor would he. He could feel her frustration, her sighs almost snuffing the flames nearest to her. It was probably another of her questions, he thought. She had so many of them always crowding to get out. And he knew she enjoyed teasing him. At first he was not sure she did it deliberately, but as time wore on he came to know her spirited, mischievous ways, and even to expect them. From time to time her questions – of which there was always an inexhaustible supply, on any subject – ––veered toward the sexual in nature. He answered her somberly and truthfully, hoping she’d eventually tire of it once she saw it had no effect on his temper. “Have you ever been with a woman, Salvatore?” she demanded one day. “Yes. And it’s Monsieur Genovese.” “But you are not married, the Comtess said.”

“No.” “Was she a whore, then?” He sighed. “The first woman was a whore, yes. When I was a university student.” The girl kept seeking him out like this, hounding him with her curiosity. There was nowhere he could go to be alone with his books these days. “Did you like it?” she wanted to know, perching on the edge of his desk. He considered a moment. “I suppose so.” “Don’t you know?” “It was…very quick the first time.” “But you went to her again?” “A few times.” “How many?” she inquired, leaning over his writing desk in the library, her eyes intently watching his lips. “Less than ten? More than twenty?” “More than ten. Less than twenty.” She gasped, laughing. “Salvatore, you have been a naughty boy. I thought you so righteous and proper.” He scowled at her. “I am a man. I have needs like any other.” She considered this, her head on one side. “When was the last time you had a woman, then?” “Some time ago.” For once he was not so straightforward with his answer. Her questions were becoming too personal and he did not care to discuss Jeanne, his fiancée, waiting for him at home in the little apartment. She pushed away from his desk and twirled before him. “Would you want me, Salvatore? If you were not in my aunt’s employ?” He hesitated. “No. You are too young for me.” “Liar! You like my tits and arse.” “A young lady should not say such things.” “And a gentleman shouldn’t be looking at them.” She chuckled. “But you do, Salvatore. You’re always looking, when you think I won’t notice.” He sighed heavily, looking away from her. “Vanity is a sin, Isabelle.” “So is lust,” she answered smartly. “Naughty Salvatore!”

Fortunately, at that moment the library door opened and a footman entered, looking for her. Salvatore was saved from admitting the truth, which would only have given her a swelled head and made her teasing even more intolerable than it was already. Washed, brushed, polished and well shod, the little country maiden was certainly turning into a diamond. Even the Comtess, who seldom complimented another female, remarked upon the girl’s considerable natural beauty. “You did very well in choosing her, Genovese,” she muttered. “When the time comes, that pretty pussy, attached to such an angelic face, will fetch a high price indeed.” At this brusque reminder of her purpose in his household, Salvatore felt the blood rush to his face. The Comtess turned to him and snapped, “Don’t blush, man, for pity’s sake. It’s ridiculous at your age.” He didn’t know why his face got hot either, but for some reason Isabelle brought out his shy, boyish side. Observing her curiosity for life, her excitement each day at all the new things she might discover, reminded him of his own youth. It warmed his heart, opening a window to let playful sun inside where previously it was solemn, routine and dull. Now he loved coming here to this house of light and mirrors. And Isabelle. He felt guilty for it later, when he was home, in his dark, dreary apartment with mold on the walls, making supper for Jeanne, his crippled fiancée, who lay in bed all day and all night. “And don’t get any ideas about touching her yourself,” the Comtess muttered, casting him another dark frown. Oh no. He knew better than that. The Comtess would ruin him. He’d never work in Paris again. He’d lose his livelihood and there would be no more nurses for Jeanne, no more opium medicines to chase away her pain. They watched Isabelle running across the sun-dappled lawn in her simple muslin day gown, tied with a silk sash, chasing two hounds that played tug-o-war with her straw hat. “I think we can aim higher than I hoped,” his employer added thoughtfully. “With this sweet young lure, I shall draw even bigger fish into my net. We will set the auction next spring. By then I will have shown her off and roused considerable interest.”

Salvatore’s stomach churned. He saw Isabelle being sold off to some lecherous old Duc. She would go to the highest bidder, regardless of her own feelings. And he had put her there, into his employer’s mercenary clutches. Of course he’d always known the Comtess enjoyed manipulating the lives of those around her and none of her “charitable” missions were undertaken if they could not materially benefit her in some way. She saw nothing wrong with the mercenary life she’d led, and through Isabelle––pushing the girl into the life of a concubine––she would relive her glory days again. **** One morning he found Isabelle in the library, running her hands over the leather spines and admiring the gold leaf letters. She could read a little apparently, although she’d never had a formal education. She told Salvatore that when her father was alive he’d read to her and taught her to write a few words. Although he knew the Comtess did not approve of reading for a young lady, he found himself stopping to select a few for her, advising her on which ones to take back to her room in the servant’s wing. “Will you read them to me?” she asked, peering up at him over the stack of books in her arms. “We’ll see.” “Like my papa did.” “We’ll see.” He knew he shouldn’t encourage this friendship she sought, but she never took no for an answer without a very good explanation. Then there would be more questions. It was easier simply to give in. She dropped one of the books and he stooped to pick it up, inhaling the scent on her skirt. Why did she always smell so much sweeter and fresher than any other woman he’d ever known? As he set the book back atop her pile, he caught her watching his hands. She drew a quick breath, her cheeks faintly pink, her lower lip shining wet where she’d just licked it. “Thank you, Naughty Salvatore.” He nodded, turning back to the shelves. But even the hairs on his nape tingled. Without informing the Comtess, he gave the girl lessons in history, geography and science, as well as reading and writing, hoping

that might help satisfy her inquisitive mind. Other lessons – these approved by her aunt – included music, dancing and painting, all taught by tutors brought in. She excelled quickly in everything. Except painting. On a sunny day in September, when he took a nap in the rose garden, he woke to find himself the subject of a portrait she’d daubed for her own amusement, giving him a huge nose and a fat paunch. Neither of which he had, he pointed out to her churlishly when she showed it to him. She’d laughed so hard her straw hat fell off and her hair came undone, falling to a lush sprawl over her shoulders. He was very tempted to touch that pale golden hair, tangle his fingers in the thick, soft warmth. That sudden, disturbing thought startled him to such a degree that he got up at once and left the rose garden. When the weather cooled he spent his afternoons indoors with the Comtess, playing chess or backgammon. Isabelle sat watching, hands in her lap, trying not to fidget. On one occasion, conscious of her sitting too close, he wrapped his foot around the curved gilt leg of his own chair and shuffled his seat across the carpet, away from her. She breathed too hard and he found it distracting, especially when she wore a gown with such a low-cut bodice. He knew the girl had bathed a short while ago, for he could smell the rosemary and sage she’d used to scent the water. Another unwelcome distraction. All that fresh, clean skin. She was probably still damp in places – all dewy and pink. Damn her. A sudden snore drew his attention upward from the chessboard to the Comtess, who slumped back in her chair, mouth open, eyes closed. She’d fallen asleep after taking too much of her “tonic” while in the middle of the game. And it was her turn. He couldn’t leave the room until she dismissed him from it. One fist to his lips, he cleared his throat loudly and then coughed. She snored on. If he laid hands on her or spoke without her permission, she would be outraged. He could do nothing but wait. On the mantle, the great, ugly brass clock ticked onward – the only sound but for her snores. A small hand reached across the chessboard and moved the white queen. He stared, his pulse beating out a tight, quick tattoo. When he dared look at Isabelle’s face, she was studying the board, her eyes lit with a quick, bemused spark. He didn’t even know she could play chess. When did she learn? Surely not just from observing the game.

After a moment he made his own move, sliding a black bishop diagonally across the board. Her tongue peaked out and swept from left to right while he watched. Then she leaned forward and played her next piece – or rather, her aunt’s next piece. Too late to stop her now. May as well continue. It was highly unlikely the Comtess would even remember where she was in the game once she woke. For the first time in ten years of service to his difficult employer, Salvatore would enjoy a game of chess. He too was suffering a year of firsts. He was thirty-two, and had never been so intrigued by a woman as he was by this young chit of a girl with her quick, clever mind and mysterious, luminous eyes. Not to mention the burgeoning body that seemed to outgrow gowns as quickly as they were made for her. Of course, when the Comtess first accused him of selecting Isabelle because of her figure, he’d denied it virulently. He wondered now, however, if the shrewd old whore was right after all. There must have been something that drew him to her. It wasn’t solely her height and he hadn’t noticed the color of her eyes until he’d already chosen her. He couldn’t have known then that she had a vast curiosity for learning and a smart mind to store it all, so although he might like to pretend this was the cause for his attraction to her, he knew the root of it began in a much less worthy place. It was wrong to look at her – to think of her in that way. He had other responsibilities. She was not his to lust after. Try telling that to his prick. Every time she licked her lips he felt that tightening in his breeches. His sac was hard, aching, as it had been from the first glance at her bosom and the first sweet, chalky breath of her lavender scent. His thoughts wandered back to her first night in that house and the sight of her pretty, tender bottom presented over her aunt’s lap for a spanking. Then he remembered the bite of her teeth in his thigh. His cock swelled again, pushing at his breeches. While pondering her next move, she laid one hand to her high, rounded breast and stroked it with her fingertips. He could see the indent in her soft skin where she pressed lightly. She ran her fingernail over the lace that bordered the neckline, ruffling it, reminding him that just below that thin covering her nipples waited.

He would wager they were jaunty little rubies, as pert as the rest of her. Isabelle looked up and smiled innocently, lashes fluttering. Chess wasn’t the only thing she’d studied, it seemed. Salvatore shifted in his seat, his breeches rubbing on his cock. The first two games he won. The third he lost, because by then he couldn’t think of anything else beyond those sweet, tender young bubbies and what some lucky man – who paid the highest price would one day do with them. **** “We’re going to the opera. What do you think? Will she suffice?” While the Comtess demanded her solicitor pay attention, Isabelle stood before the mantle in her fine new gown and waited impatiently for his approval. “You don’t think it’s too mature for her?” her aunt prodded. His dark eyes took her in slowly, from the carefully arranged curls on her head to the toes of her satin slippers. Isabelle had seen herself in the mirrors that decorated every wall of the salon and knew she looked well. However, the truculent fellow would not admit it. “The opera?” he muttered. “I didn’t think you liked the opera, my lady.” “I don’t, but it’s the thing to do in winter. Everyone else will be there and I’m bored sitting here with your grim face for company, man.” The Comtess waved her fan at Isabelle, the signal that she should turn slowly to show him the ruffles behind. Arms out and chin up, she did as instructed, keeping silent – a skill she was gradually learning. “A pretty piece, isn’t she? I shall enjoy having her at my side in the box, seeing all the men fall over themselves to get a look at her.” In the mirrored panel, Isabelle watched his reflection as he sat on the edge of his chair and scowled at her new gown. “You ought to come with us, Genovese,” the Comtess exclaimed, pushing his arm with her closed fan. “I daresay you could do with an airing. When was the last time you went out into society?”

He grimaced. “I don’t care for the opera.” Suddenly he got up and strode over to where she stood. “I hope you behave yourself tonight,” he grumbled, low. Astonished, Isabelle spun around to face him. Salvatore had broken a cardinal rule by speaking directly to her in his employer’s presence. He paled a few shades. “What was that?” the Comtess exclaimed crossly. Spinning on his heels he said, louder this time, “I hope she behaves herself, my lady. Her manners are not yet all they should be.” Isabelle exhaled a huff, glaring at the back of his head and those surly, broad shoulders. She’d never had a solitary word of praise from the man and she was quite sick of it. “I wonder if she is ready yet to be out,” he added, still with his back to her. “I’m sure her manners will do well enough for a box at the opera house,” the Comtess replied, standing and rearranging her skirts. “She won’t be speaking to anyone. She’s there to be looked at and admired.” He cleared his throat. “It’s a mistake. She’s not prepared.” Silence, but for the putter of candles. Isabelle was amazed, for she’d never heard him argue with her aunt before. But he was definitely being very stubborn, raising his voice in a most unSalvatore-like fashion. The Comtess looked annoyed, but only slightly; her face was heavily powdered and she probably couldn’t risk letting the cracks show by allowing too much expression. She waved her closed fan at Isabelle. “Come, girl. Make haste.” Salvatore’s warning was ignored. Isabelle swept by him with her head up and spine straight. Her excitement over the new gown and going out into proper society was now tempered by his evident disapprobation, but she wouldn’t let it spoil her evening. He could be a grumpy old man for the rest of his life; it didn’t matter to her what he thought. At least, it shouldn’t. **** They rode to the opera house in her aunt’s finest carriage. Once there, Isabelle looked about eagerly, admiring the festive colors

of beautiful gowns and richly decorated wigs. This was a very different world to the one they’d left outside in the muddy street. The air sparkled. The gleam and glitter of diamonds danced all around her like fireflies. She could do nothing but stare, open-mouthed, at the great crystal chandeliers above, and as they ascended the grand sweep of staircase she imagined herself going up to heaven, floating amid sun-kissed clouds. In their private box she sat behind the Comtess, her gaze sweeping the circle of other boxes, piled atop one another. Never had she seen so many people all in one place. It was a bewildering array of fashion, as if the audience came mostly to show off rather than enjoy the entertainment. When the Comtess passed her a pair of brass opera glasses on a little wand, she held them up to her eyes and sorted through the faces of the crowd below. And then, just before the lights dimmed, she saw him. He was tall and lean, his dark hair quite long, tied back with a thin ribbon – no wig. When her eyes found him through the little glass magnifying circles, he was bending over to whisper in a lady’s ear. Then he stood straight and laughed, a hearty booming sound that traveled to her even above the general ruckus of the crowd. His jaw was strong and square, his brow smooth, his eyes gleaming with mischief. Her heart skipped two or three beats and everything else faded away. She saw and heard only him. When he looked up suddenly, his gaze alighting on her as if she’d called out to him, he was also the only thing she felt. His laughter faded, but a smile remained in his eyes and he inclined his head very slightly. She quickly looked away at the stage as the curtains parted, but her pulse was racing. It was Le Coup de Foudre – the thunderbolt. What else could it be? She’d heard of such things, and never imagined it might happen to her. She felt his eyes on her still, but kept her face turned away, her opera glasses directed at the stage. When she finally peeked from the corner of her eye, he was seated beside the red-headed lady to whom he’d whispered. But his gaze remained on Isabelle.

Chapter Three At the interval he made his move, entering her aunt’s box with the excuse of coming to pay his respects. “I have not seen you at the opera in two years at least, my lady,” he exclaimed, bowing elegantly over her aunt’s hand as he kissed it. “But time stands still for you, I see. Still young and beautiful. It hurts my eyes to look upon you, as it does to stare too long into the sun.” One quick glance at her aunt’s face assured Isabelle that she was not fooled by his motives and in the next moment the Comtess proved it. “Save your breath and your flattery, young scoundrel. I know you came for a closer look at my ward. Isabelle, this is Chevalier Alexandre Deschamps. Never trust a hair on his head or a word from his lips.” He laughed good-naturedly and took Isabelle’s hand to kiss it. She’d never had her hand kissed before. His touch was cool, smooth; his long fingers stroking her palm. When he placed his lips to her knuckles she felt the vibrations along her spine and knew suddenly how a cat felt when it was petted – why it arched and curled its tail and came back for more. Her heart raced, pumping blood through her veins and to the surface of her skin. She could not speak, of course; the Comtess did not make the signal to permit it. But she’d already learned how to communicate with her eyes and other gestures. She’d tried them all out on Salvatore Genovese, honing the skill to a fine art on those long evenings when they sat with the Comtess, laboring under her eccentric rules and forbidden to converse with one another. So she dipped her head, lowered her lashes and allowed a coy smile to bend her lips. “I am charmed indeed,” he exclaimed, his breath blowing across the back of her hand, caressing it warmly. “Such a rare and radiant bloom. Where have you been hiding her, Comtess? She is exquisite.” “Don’t get any ideas, Deschamps. We’re aiming high with this one. She’s not your usual mount.” Isabelle looked up in confusion, not sure what her aunt meant.

“Then I shall merely admire from a distance,” the handsome gentleman replied, other hand to his heart. “And envy the fellow who wins her for himself.” She looked at his lips and when he grinned she felt as if he’d kissed her on the mouth. An odd sensation, it stole the breath out of her for a few moments. Isabelle had been kissed on the cheek before, by reckless boys at country dances. She’d even let a boy put his hand on her breast once. She knew about sex – had seen animals mating and watched her mother entertain a variety of gentleman callers in that one-room cottage over the past few years. But never had she felt this much heated desire for a man – not just to feel the giddy sensation that she could give herself with her own hand, but to have him give it to her with his cock, his tongue. With anything he wanted to use. Her pussy moistened. Her breasts felt heavier, the nipples pricking her chemise beneath her gown, rubbing on the lace until they were quite uncomfortable. His smile widened, as if he knew what she felt. As if he’d somehow caused it deliberately. Good God, he was beautiful. She could find no fault with his features and usually she was a “fussy madam”, as her mother would say. After all, she’d refused the attentions of many men who’d come to court her at home and her mother would mock her, asking if she waited for a prince to come. He sat with them a few moments longer and when he left it felt as if he took something of hers away with him. “I might have known he’d be the first to sniff you out,” said the Comtess, her eyes agleam with wicked amusement. Isabelle gazed wistfully at the padded door through which he’d vanished. He’d called her “exquisite”. “But he’s not the one for you yet. You must learn to trot, before you gallop,” the Comtess added, rearranging her skirts as the lights dimmed again and the music started. “And we can do better for your first. Someone richer who can do more for us.” We? Us? She looked at her aunt and frowned, beginning finally to realize why she was there and what the woman had planned for her. To the Comtess she was merely a chess piece to be moved about – like all the other people around her.

“Don’t gawk, girl. Every girl’s virginity is lost sooner or later. Better we get paid for it. I haven’t spent good money on your transformation to see you give your cherry away in a breathless rush to the first handsome young man who smiles at you. I mean to be well compensated for my time and trouble. It will be a nice, orderly bidding party with attendance by invitation only.” Isabelle absorbed this information, closing her mouth as the Comtess instructed and staring down again at the stage. She was to be sold off, like a whore. Had Salvatore known? Surely he must; he knew all her aunt’s business. The second half of the evening was spent quelling her sharp anger and then pondering the handsome Chevalier. Isabelle’s stubborn streak came quickly to the fore. Isabelle was determined not to let the old woman rule her life and her choices, as she did other people in her circle. Not her. Isabelle would take matters into her own hands. When she saw the Chevalier leave his seat again, before the finale, she feigned a need for air. Her aunt, who did not care to leave her chair and miss the end of the performance, irritably sent her out with one of the footmen. Outside the box, Isabelle fluttered her fan wildly and sneakily looked down the steps, waiting to see him appear in the marble hall. There he was, striding confidently, the light from the great chandelier shining on the brocade shoulders of his jacket, gleaming in his sleek chestnut hair. Hastily she sent the footman to fetch her some refreshment. He went off at once in search of a restorative and she took her chance, lifting her skirts to run at unladylike speed, down the grand steps into the entrance hall. He must have heard her coming, for he turned in surprise just as she almost collided with his chest. He put out his hands to steady her, cupping her elbows firmly. “My lady, look where you go! Who are you running from?” He looked over her head. “No one. I wanted to see you.” It blurted out of her before she could compose anything more subtle and sophisticated. His gaze swept down over her face and a slow smile eased across his mouth. “Me? I am honored.” She nodded, catching her breath. “I hope my aunt did not give you the wrong impression, sir. I have no suitors, nothing like that.”

The Chevalier released her elbows and stepped back. He seemed amused and she was ashamed at having run after him like a silly girl. “I just wanted you to know,” she added, chin up, shoulders squared, flicking open her fan to cool her cheeks. “Thank you for the clarification, my lady.” She licked her lips. “You may call on me if you wish.” A puzzled frown passed briefly over his fine features and then his lips parted and he laughed softly. “L’Orchidee does not know you came after me, eh?” She snapped her fan shut. “No. She does not rule me.” His lips parted; his brows arched high. After another moment of silence, he glanced over his shoulder and then, one hand on her waist, guided her quickly into a curtained alcove where there was a little velvet bench. They did not sit, however. With one finger under her chin he raised it while he studied her face. “Well?” she demanded. His answer was a kiss, with warm, masterful lips that tasted of wine. She closed her eyes, falling into it, her hands on his upper arms. He held her waist, drawing her closer until their bodies touched. She shivered, a purr of excitement tickling deep in her throat. He slanted his mouth to hers, forcing her back against the wall, his warm, fleshy tongue pushing between her lips. He grabbed her hand and held it to the front of his breeches. There he left it, as if she should know what to do next. Astonished, she went limp, for this was not quite what she expected. Would it be over and done with so hastily? “Get it out, then,” he grunted, pushing his groin at her hand so she felt the firm ridge inside his satin breeches. She gasped. “I don’t know what to do.” Her mind went blank. Of course, she’d seen what her mother did, but watching through a hole in a curtain was not the same as participating. “Have you never sucked a cock before?” “No, sir.” He swayed away from her, looking surprised. “But you are with L’Orchidee. Are you not her protégée?” “I am her niece, sir.” She lowered her lashes. “And a virgin.” “A virgin?” he exclaimed, half-laughing. “A complete novice?”

“Yes, sir.” “Well, I’ll be damned.” He chuckled and then leaned down again, planting a delicate kiss to her heaving bosom. “But I want to do it,” she cried. “And I do admire a wench who knows what she wants. But I’m afraid this is impossible.” “Why?” she demanded again, growing frustrated with his wry smiles. “Just tell me what to do. I’m a fast pupil, Salvatore says.” He squinted. “Then get Salvatore, whoever he might be, to teach you. There’s nothing worse than an amateur.” “But I—” “My dear young lady, I don’t live by many rules, but I do have one. I don’t fuck virgins.” He winked. “Come back to me in a few years, when you’ve acquired some skills, and we’ll discuss the possibilities.” With that he left her, walking away from the alcove and laughing loudly. So that was what her aunt meant when she said he was not the right one for her yet. Pausing in the alcove a moment longer, she waited for her pulse to steady. Her hands twisted the fan so tightly that she snapped a strut. **** “He’s a rake of the highest order. What do you want to know about him for?” She’d burst into the library at full tilt, looking for Salvatore, wanting to know everything he could tell her about Alexandre Deschamps. He closed his book with a snap and watched her dancing around him with her eyes shining. “I’m sure the Comtess warned you against him already,” he added, knowing Deschamps was not a big enough fish for his employer’s schemes. She wasn’t listening; he could tell. Sometimes he forgot how very young she was. And innocent in the ways of men and the world. Well, he’d warned the Comtess that their pupil wasn’t ready yet for society, but his warnings went unheeded. Now this.

“But he is so handsome,” she exclaimed, as if that outweighed all his faults. “Is he?” He wondered what addle-headed young girls considered handsome these days. “I think I’m in love, Salvatore.” He scowled. She’d begun calling him by his first name lately and usually he would correct it, reminding her to call him Monsieur Genovese, but today he forgot all that. The draft she made by spinning recklessly around the table, unsettled all his papers and even sent some drifting to the floor. “And how, pray tell, would you know what love is at your age?” She stopped and leaned over. “I didn’t know yesterday. Now I do!” He tried not to look at her pretty bubbies as they were presented before him so artlessly, two soft, full swells above the tightly corseted silk bodice. “You’re still a child,” he growled, his voice hoarse. “I’m a woman. I’m eighteen and full grown. Many girls are married at sixteen and younger. Not that I want to marry yet.” “Good, then. Can we put the Chevalier out of our minds and get on with our lesson?” She laughed. “Oh, Salvatore, I was not thinking of marrying Deschamps. I only want a lover for now and I think he would do splendidly.” He fumbled for his book. “You speak nonsense,” he grumbled. “Why should I not have fun on my own terms? Why should I not choose a man for myself? I know what I want,” she clasped her hands to her bosom, “and I’m burning up with lust, Salvatore!” Appalled, he shook his head. Tapping his knuckles to his brow, he told her, “Think before you act. The head should rule the body or else you are no better than the beasts in the field. A strong mind will outlast beauty.” She argued with him, naturally, being a woman and naive. Laying a hand over her heart, she exclaimed, “You’re wrong, Salvatore. ‘Tis what’s in here that counts. Do you never feel anything in your heart?” She glanced down at his ledger and the piles of paper he worked so diligently over. “No, I suppose it is all facts and logic for you. There is no passion in your soul.”

“I am a solicitor, a man of the law. I have no time for passion.” She groaned, rolling her eyes. “If you had any sense, young lady, you’d think carefully before you throw yourself away on a man who will use you and then abandon you.” Ignoring him, she resumed her dance. “Tell me more about Alexandre, then. Does he live in Paris?” Under no circumstances would he tell her anything more about that rake. “I knew she made a mistake taking you to the opera last night. Asking for trouble.” Isabelle paused her dancing again, hands on her waist, plump breasts heaving as she struggled to breathe within the confines of her rigid corset. Those dramatic silver eyes suddenly became sultry, smoky. “Are you jealous, naughty Salvatore?” “Don’t be ridiculous.” He picked up another book and flipped it open, not even knowing what he looked at. She walked around his desk until her skirt brushed the arm of his chair. He smelled her warm, naturally sweet scent and when he swallowed hard he could taste it too. “You’re such a grumpy old man,” she said softly. “But I know you break the rules sometimes.” “Hmmph.” He kept his gaze on the page of his open book, but she leaned over his shoulder and her breath ticked his cheek. “You broke the rules last night when you spoke directly to me in her presence.” He turned a page, huffing briskly. “I bet you’d break other rules too, with a little encouragement.” Her lips had almost touched his ear. “If you are bored with our lessons, you may go. Find something else to do this morning, child.” “I’m not a child, as you well know.” She straightened up, but he was aware of her hands on the back of his chair, a hair’s breadth from his shoulders. “Which reminds me….will you show me how to suck your cock?” He stiffened, almost dropping the book. “Alexandre suggested I get you to teach me a few things.” A scream echoed around his head. He couldn’t trust himself to speak for a moment.

“I want to learn everything,” she added softly. “I should like you to teach me. You’re a very thorough and patient tutor. Most of the time. If I don’t learn from you, how will I…” “Stop! Stop this at once.” He stood and walked around the table, away from her. She waited behind his chair, luminescent eyes bright and inquisitive, lips pursed. “Don’t you want me to do it? I’d like to try it with you, above anyone.” “You have no need to learn those things.” He got the words out, but barely. Each one choked bitterly in his throat. “I suggest you stay well away from Deschamps and his ideas.” Unflinching as he raged at her, she stood unusually still, fingers clasped around the back of his chair. “Don’t worry, he says he won’t touch me while I’m still a virgin.” He couldn’t listen; didn’t want to hear, but there was no way to close his ears to her voice. “I know what my aunt has planned for me. You know too, don’t you? Salvatore, don’t you want me to know what it should be like? I wish…” She started walking forward, moving around the chair, but he backed away and she stopped. “Don’t ever approach me with this again,” he growled. “You have no idea what you ask of me. I have work to do. Now go.” “I see,” she said slowly, softly. “You’re too busy for me.” Then she broke into a high peal of laughter, barely able to stand. “It was only a jest, Salvatore. You’re so solemn and stern. Do you never find anything amusing?” His hands were trembling. “Not this.” He wasn’t convinced it was a jest as she claimed. Unless she was a very good actress. She’d certainly had him fooled when she pleaded for lessons in wickedness. “You’re a hussy,” he mumbled, rearranging his papers and books. “Not yet,” she replied pertly. “I haven’t had the chance, thanks to you.” He said nothing more and she danced out of the library, humming a merry tune, leaving him alone with his books. Salvatore had the dreadful feeling that he’d somehow inspired her to worse misbehavior, simply by trying hard to keep himself from indulging in it.

**** Now that Isabelle had passed her first test in public – proving she would not embarrass her guardian - the Comtess took her out to the theatre, parties and balls, showing her off, enjoying the attention. Isabelle heard her aunt praised for having transformed the “little country girl”, but she knew it was Salvatore who’d done the most for her. He’d provided her with books and lessons beyond the silly, frivolous things her aunt wanted her to learn. Salvatore had nurtured her mind and for that she was grateful. One day she would thank him, but now it was something other than her mind that needed tutoring, and he firmly refused to help her. She grew impatient. More aware now of her body and the sensitive parts that made her a woman, Isabelle longed to explore the possibilities. Since Salvatore was close-lipped on the subject of her handsome Chevalier Deschamps, she found servants to tell her the gossip. Apparently, Alexandre currently shared his bed with a woman named La Lionne. This was the woman she’d seen him with at the opera and subsequently she saw them together when the Comtess took her out. La Lionne was the most infamous concubine in Paris; tall, slender with a mane of glossy red hair and wild green eyes that slanted up at the corners. Her name was appropriate, for she was extremely cat-like; a prowling, purring creature. Whenever Isabelle saw that woman on Alexandre’s arm, she felt a thousand little puncture wounds of envy. My dear young lady, I don’t do virgins. His laughing dismissal had stung viciously, but it made her determined to have him for her lover one day. After that night when he kissed her in an alcove at the opera house, she saw him often in public, at a distance. He paid her no attention and that spurred her competitive spirit. She vowed to herself she would replace that brassy redhead on his arm. One evening, while passing before La Lionne, hurrying along in her aunt’s wake, Isabelle glanced over her shoulder just in time to catch the woman’s sneering look from head to toe and heard her loudly exclaim, “You can take the urchin out of the country shit but you can’t wipe all the smell off.”

Isabelle looked at the Chevalier and found his eyes regarding her with warmth. He did not join his companion’s laughter. Two days later Alexandre Deschamps paid a visit to the Comtess, bringing hothouse flowers for both her and her ward. Isabelle, who had never been given flowers by anyone, tried to look unimpressed. During the visit she sat beside her aunt and said nothing, but felt every admiring glance of the Chevalier’s sensual, violet eyes. He was full of charm and wit, the very opposite of Salvatore, who entered the salon half an hour after his arrival and sat in stormy silence by the window, arms folded, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle – his very pose one of casual disdain for their visitor. Before he left, the Chevalier greeted Salvatore with a bow, but the gesture was not returned. Later, Isabelle asked him why he didn’t like Alexandre Deschamps. He refused to answer, his lips clamped tight. “Is it because he is more handsome than you and more charming?” she pushed, determined to make him speak. Suddenly he turned to face her. They were in the servant’s passage between the kitchen and the back stairs. The light was dim, it was a narrow space and they were alone. She thought he was about to slap her for being insolent; instead, his large hands closed around her waist, he thrust her back against the paneled wall and kissed her full on the mouth. He’d knocked the wind out of her and she struggled for a breath, clawing at his arms and then his shoulders. His long, hard body pressed her into the wall and he spread his legs, trapping her there while he devoured her startled cry, drank it down and relished it. Shock fluttered through her, turning speedily into excitement. Delight. Victory. At last he succumbed. Somehow she found a breath and then she dared clasp his waistcoat with her fingers, pulling on it to bring him even closer. She heard his soft groan and she opened her lips wider, letting his tongue in, twisting her own around it, all that stifled longing flooding her veins with new courage. One hand slipped downward to the front of his breeches, but the moment he felt her fingers there, he stopped. The spell was broken. His lips left hers. His eyes were hidden in shadow, his cheeks sucked in as he inhaled a great gulp of air. Before she could say anything, he walked swiftly away, his stride long and purposeful, leaving her wilted against the wall.

It was weeks before they spoke to one another again. Salvatore avoided her. When it was time for her lessons he made certain there were footmen present and he kept his eyes averted from hers. Isabelle was confused. When she thought of that kiss her lips still throbbed and her nipples tightened. But what she missed most of all was the friendship they’d slowly begun to cultivate. She’d often felt he was her only ally in the house, the only one she could got to with her troubles and fears. Now it was all spoiled.

Chapter Four Paris, spring 1778 It rained for three days, keeping her trapped indoors. The Comtess was suffering one of her “spells” and could not get off the couch to entertain visitors, so no one new came to the house. Isabelle was restless. That evening, on her way to the kitchen for her aunt’s tonic, she stopped in surprise to see Salvatore sneakily filling a leather bag with food from the pantry – bread, pies, and small tarts. Did he not get enough to eat while at the house? He was on his way home for the evening and he no longer came to say good night to her when he left. She watched him put on his coat and hat. There was a weary stoop to his shoulders tonight, an extra crease across his brow. A few months ago she would have jumped out on him and demanded to know where he was going with that sack of food from the pantry. She would have taken a cutlass from the wall in the library and wielded it to stop him leaving, pretending to arrest him as a thief, making him relent with one of those begrudging quarter smiles. Now she could not do that. The stolen kiss had changed everything between them. Isabelle decided to follow him and see where he went with his stolen swag, curiosity once again getting the better of her. Pulling on her hooded cloak, she raced outside in the rain, forgetting her aunt’s tonic. Salvatore was always taken home in a sedan chair, two burly servants heaving him along the streets with as much speed as they could muster. But they could not outrun a young woman intent on discovering secrets. Ducking against the rain that fell like sharp pins, dodging deep puddles and piles of horse muck, she darted along just a few feet behind. When the sedan chair arrived at his offices by the Seine, she slid into a narrow alley across the street and watched him go inside. There were rickety wooden steps up the side of the leaning building, leading directly to his apartment, but he went in through the office on the ground floor. She waited until she saw a flickering lantern inside and then she dived across the street and up those wooden steps. There was no window on that side of the building and no bell pull. Frustrated, she rapped on the door with her knuckles. At first there was nothing. Rain came down full force, drenching her from head to toe. She was just about to retreat when the

door opened and he looked out, holding a lantern in one hand. His coat was off, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his collar undone. “What the Devil are you doing here?” he exclaimed, his face ghostly pale as he held the lantern up higher. What was she doing there? Shivering, wet and catching cold, she thought grimly. “Can I come in, then?” She bit her lip, rainwater falling in her eyes, soaking through her cloak. “I saw you steal food.” He finally stood aside and gestured with an irritable jerk of his head. She knew he wouldn’t leave her out there in the rain and he would probably want to admonish her severely before he sent her home again. Good. Being chastised by him, she thought, was better than being ignored completely and she could not stand their chilly silence another day. Isabelle stepped inside, dripping rain and mud on his floor. It was a small apartment, neat and tidy – as she would expect of him. There appeared to be another room beyond the one in which they stood and she guessed that was the bedchamber. She noted the sack of food placed on the table, his coat and jacket hanging over a chair to dry. There was no fire here, no comfortable furnishings. It was all very stark and practical. Much like the man himself. “Satisfied, nosy, impertinent chit?” he whispered, sitting his lantern on the table. “Why did you steal food?” she whispered back. “I didn’t.” He held out his hands and she realized he wanted her wet cloak. She shrugged out of it gratefully, for it was heavy with water, and watched as he hung it over another chair. Then he fetched a towel from the other room, closed the adjoining door and thrust the towel at her. “Dry your hair.” Only when she finally complied did he explain further, “The Comtess allows me to take scraps from the kitchen.” “Why?” He groaned, cursing under his breath. “And why are we whispering?” she demanded, rubbing her hair with the dry towel. He began emptying the sack of food, placing everything on the table. Not looking at her, he said, “Because I don’t want to wake Jeanne. Your knocking so loud at the door was quite enough.” “Jeanne?” She looked at him through a damp fall of blond curl.

“I don’t live alone.” “But you’re not married.” “No, I am not.” Snatching the towel away from her, he took over the drying of her hair with a rapid, brusque, no-nonsense motion. She quite liked him taking control, looking after her. Until he said, “Jeanne is my fiancée.” A gasp of surprise rattled through her and although she tried to swallow it, the sound came out – a small, anguished exhale. A fiancée. Ah. The mystery was solved. “She is bed-ridden,” he added. “She became so soon after our engagement.” Then, as if he thought he’d told her too much already, he clamped his lips into their familiar hard line and rubbed her head even rougher. “Ouch.” She backed away. “What’s wrong with her? Why is she sick?” At first it seemed he would not tell her. He fetched a tray from the dresser and began preparing a small supper from the food he’d brought. She waited. At last he looked up again, as if finally remembering she was there. “It was an accident. She was run over in the street.” Isabelle caught her breath. “How terrible!” “Five years ago. She has not walked since. She is weaker every day. The Comtess provides a nurse to sit with her in the daytime and also helps pay for medicines, visits from the physicians.” That explained why he sacrificed so much of his time and his life to the Comtess. “Is there nothing else that can be done to help her walk?” He shook his head. “Her legs were crushed beyond repair. Her muscles cannot hold her upright even for a moment.” He took a small, glass-stoppered jar from the top shelf of the dresser. “Opium is all that gets her through the pain when she wakes,” he added, setting it on the tray with her supper. Isabelle swallowed, but her mouth was dry. “You have looked after her all this time.” “Of course. She has no one else. She is my fiancée, my responsibility.” She watched him carry the tray into the adjoining chamber and her heart ached for him. Salvatore was simply a good man. No matter how frustrating, grumpy and stubborn he could be,

she’d never known a man so kind and honorable. It made her feel very small, insignificant and foolish. This was why he pushed her away; this was why he could not bear to speak to her after she taunted him into kissing her. Her cheeks were hot with shame. Five years. Horrified, she imagined what it must be like for the poor woman. And for him. It was a living purgatory. While he tended the sick woman, she hurriedly pulled on her still wet cloak and left, disgusted with herself for prying, sorry for all the times she’d thought him unnecessarily stern and miserable. As she walked home her tears fell, uncontrollable, mingling with the rain. But she did not know who she cried for most. **** The next day she asked her aunt about Jeanne. “When the accident happened she wanted him to leave her,” the Comtess said, stirring her coffee briskly. “But he refused. Would not turn his back on her. He could have walked away from the engagement, since she could never be a proper wife to him, yet he stayed loyal. He’s a rare man. There aren’t very many Salvatores in this world.” Even her aunt, who did not seem to have much appreciation for men in general, saw the worth in her unsmiling solicitor. Well, that was that, thought Isabelle. Salvatore Genovese was too good for her. She must put whatever curious, lusty feelings she had for him aside. She couldn’t imagine where they came from, anyway; he was too old and not in the least handsome. They’d be friends, of course, and she would look up to him for advice, but she could never display her wantonness to that man again. It would be like flashing herself at a monk. **** At breakfast one day, Salvatore opened his napkin and found a pressed sprig of lavender laying inside it, a souvenir from the summer when they’d strolled together in the herb garden and he’d saved her from the pursuit of an irate honeybee. He looked across the table and saw her sipping her coffee, a pair of wide silver eyes watching him

above the rim. Hopeful. Hesitant for once, not bold and argumentative as they often were. It was, he realized, her way of saying she was sorry and she wanted to be friends again. The Comtess, fortunately, was absorbed in shouting at one of the footmen for some reason. Salvatore lifted the little sprig of rosemary, sniffed it gently, winked at Isabelle and slid it inside his coat pocket. They were friends again. How could he stay angry with her? Besides, she thought it was her fault that he kissed her, but truly they were both to blame. The urge had built in him for a long time and on that day, in that dimly lit passage, it had simply exploded. He vowed it would not happen again. Ever. But Salvatore knew now that he couldn’t stand by and see her sold off to the highest bidder. Somehow he had to get her out of that house, out of her aunt’s clutches. But where could he take her? There was nothing he could give her. He had Jeanne to take care of, and the wrath of the Comtess would rain down on his head if she found out that he’d helped her protégé to escape. What she needed was a marriage to take her away from there. Although his heart pinched cruelly at the thought of losing her, he knew it was her only chance. There were no other options if he meant to save her from the life her aunt had planned. **** Although Salvatore discouraged it, she made visits to his fiancée in that dank little apartment, filling it with flowers from her aunt’s garden, regaling the stunned Jeanne with tales of places she went and things she did. Seldom with any roots in truth. She smuggled marzipan petit fours from her aunt’s salon parties and even a bottle of wine. After a while Jeanne smiled when she saw her and Isabelle’s heart lightened to think she might have done a little good. “Jeanne will get better, Salvatore, won’t she?” It was one of the very few questions he ever avoided answering. The air was now filled with the sweet taste of spring. The Comtess recovered from her malaise and the physician recommended daily drives around the park in an open landau to enjoy the fresh

season. She insisted on Isabelle accompanying her and occasionally Salvatore came too – on those days when the old lady refused to discuss business and had to be chased down wherever he might get her. “For pity’s sake, Genovese, you are the world’s biggest bore,” she complained. “If you cannot handle my financial affairs without asking my opinion at every turn, I wonder why I bother employing you. But if you must come and spoil my morning in the park, so be it. Hurry up and get in, man––and don’t step on my gown.” It was here, riding around the park with the Comtess, that Isabelle first saw Etienne Auvray. He was young and fair with an eager smile and lively eyes. Those were the first things she noticed about him and she would probably not have bothered to look further, had the Comtess not whispered behind her fan that he was completely unsuitable for her. What girl of eighteen would not be enticed immediately? He was, her aunt informed her coldly, the younger son of a Marquis. “There was wealth once, but little left now. Badly managed. Don’t encourage him, girl. He is not suitable for our plans.” “When you say he is unsuitable, Comtess, what do you mean?” she demanded. “Don’t be obtuse, girl.” “But he’s the son of a Marquis, and I’m a nobody.” “Did I not just explain to you that there is no money? The boy is poor, girl. He can’t afford you.” It was still difficult for Isabelle to understand that “poor” meant different things to different people. She was quite certain Etienne Auvray did not live in a dirt-floored hovel with a leaky roof and chickens running through it. The young man tipped his hat to her and she shot him a wink. She heard Salvatore clear his throat and knew he must have seen. He did not, however, give her away to the Comtess. She knew he never would. On this fine spring day she was in the mood to tease her aunt. After a moment, as they trundled along, she said to the woman beside her, “But I am not good enough for his family, because I’m not an heiress? If I’m not good enough, how can I be something he can’t afford?”

Salvatore sat in silence across the carriage, arms folded, chin down, lips curving wryly as he let the Comtess do all the explaining. “You have the capability of one day holding all Paris in the palm of your hand, girl. Under my guidance, you will be transformed into a woman of style and fashion. What you have under your petticoats will not be thrown away on some young man who cannot afford to pay for the pleasure. Can I put it any plainer? He is not suitable and that is all there is to it.” Apparently, “suitable” were those elderly, corpulent gentlemen who came to her aunt’s salon in the evenings and not so subtly cast their eyes over Isabelle’s décolleté as she played the clavichord to show the new songs she’d learned. None of those men were appealing to her in any way. Alarm set in whenever she was summoned to greet another equally repugnant guest and saw her aunt’s lips set determinedly in the grimace that passed for a smile, as her eyes glittered with greed. She realized time was running out. Her aunt’s guests gathered like vultures around a dying lamb. If she did not soon find a man on her own terms, her aunt would pick one for her. So, against orders, she began a correspondence with Etienne. If her virginity was about to be lost, she would much rather it was given to a man who was young and pretty. Isabelle knew that in her aunt’s eyes she was only a commodity to be sold to the heaviest purse. In which case, she would take herself off the auction block. The two young people conducted their courtship in secret, passing letters by way of servants. It was all very romantic – moreso because it was forbidden. She knew his family would no more approve of her than her aunt approved of him. Etienne was only twenty and had lived a sheltered life, dominated by his father and elder brother. He brought out Isabelle’s nurturing instincts; she wanted to take care of him. They would rescue one another. It was a relationship formed in haste and entirely by letter. But Isabelle was desperate. She felt the mirrored walls of her aunt’s house closing in around her and at night she woke in a cold sweat, thinking of those old men with groping, fat hands, drooling over her. Etienne wrote her sweet sonnets. Something about his elegant handwriting assured her he would never paw at her.

When, much to her surprise, Salvatore encouraged the fledgling romance it gave her pause. “You are anxious to be rid of me,” she accused him, pouting. “I fear, Isabelle, I will never be rid of you,” he muttered, sighing heavily. She did not know what he meant. Matters came to a head when the Comtess found Etienne’s love letters where she’d hidden them in her room. “I will not see you make the same mistake as your mother,” she exclaimed, slapping Isabelle’s face. “This boy tangles with the wrong woman if he thinks to steal you away from me, after all the time and effort I’ve put into your preparation. All the money I’ve spent. I expect a return on my investment.” Yelling for Salvatore, she jerked Isabelle to the bed and threw her on it, face down. “I see I’ve been lax with you, spoiled you.” Again she hollered for Salvatore and he came into the room, looking startled. Isabelle struggled with her aunt and finally got free, running for the door. “Stop her, Salvatore!” He did so, probably on instinct, following her orders as always. Her aunt shouted, “The girl needs a whipping on that soft behind. I should have done this before, when I knew she defied me to talk with Deschamps at the opera. I let her get away with that when I should have corrected her then. I daresay her angelic face deceived me into thinking her an innocent who knew no better, when all the time she was seeking ways to escape me!” With Salvatore holding her, Isabelle could not move. He carried her back to the Comtess who was now seated on the bed, breathless with fury, hair powder drifting to her shoulders as she shook with agitation. “Put her over my knees, Salvatore, and give me your shoe. ‘Tis bigger than mine.” Isabelle squirmed as she was forced down over her aunt’s lap again – just like the first evening- and felt cold air on her legs and buttocks. She swore, kicking. “Hold her down!” The Comtess demanded, growing impatient with Salvatore who couldn’t seem to get hold of her as firmly as usual. Isabelle screamed at the top of her lungs, “Get off me, you old whore!”

Her aunt had ripped her gown up over her head and in the next instant she felt the sole of a large shoe slapped hard against her lower cheeks. It stung and brought quick tears to her eyes. “Yes!” The Comtess cried with an eerie sort of exultant fever. “That will show her. That will quiet the little chit!” Again the shoe came down on her bottom and she writhed, trying to escape the pain. So carried away with her spanking, the Comtess apparently lost her grip on the shoe and it dropped to the floor. Then she resorted to her hand again, in too much frenzy to stop. “Spank her, Salvatore. I want this little arse glowing scarlet. She will learn not to push my temper again.” Now his larger hand joined in, but not roughly enough for the Comtess who shouted at him to put more strength into it. While the quick slaps of her aunt’s smaller, bonier hand smarted viciously, Salvatore’s slow spanking seemed almost to caress her cheeks by comparison. As his palm landed, it made the same sound, but it lingered for two pulse beats and, in so doing, cupped her sore cheek, his fingertips slyly brushing the crack of her arse. Even in that moment of humiliation, Isabelle felt her breasts swell and grow heavy. This time it was worse than before. This time she was more awakened to her own body and its desires. Salvatore’s hands had not touched her since he pressed her against the paneled wall and kissed her. Months ago. Now she knew how much she’d longed for it. Dangled over her aunt’s lap as she was, her upper half had all the blood rushing to it, making her nipples extra sensitive, her breasts even more aroused as they jostled with every spank of his heavy, lingering hand. Very slightly she parted her legs and bent further. As Salvatore brought his hand down on her again, the tips of his fingers touched her crack once more, almost at her anus. The Comtess had not noticed, too busy working her anger out with her own quick slaps. But Salvatore clearly knew what he’d done. The next time his hand descended, encouraged again by his employer, he tried to land it where he would not touch anything but cheek. Anticipating the prim and proper solicitor’s thoughts, Isabelle scooted her arse to the left and parted her thighs wider still. This time his fingers contacted her pudenda and he must have felt the damp between her legs. She

thought she heard his shattered inhale. She closed her eyes, willing him to touch her there again, her pussy mutely pleading for his touch. “I think that’s enough, Comtess,” he grunted. “She’s surely learned her lesson.” Damn him. Damn him for being so good and proper. Her arse was throbbing. So was her pussy. Had she known a good spanking would feel like that, she mused, she would have misbehaved much more brazenly in the past. Damn him for being so loyal to Jeanne. But they were not married. Jeanne was not his wife. Why should either of them feel any guilt for this desire that blossomed out of their control? Why did he push her away? He was a man with needs like any other – he’d told her that himself – and Jeanne could not fulfill those needs for him. Poor Jeanne. Guilt flooded her thoughts and she was sickened by her own selfish wickedness. As she was pushed off her aunt’s lap and onto the bed, she looked up at him and met a pair of heated, black eyes, fiercely, hungrily staring down at her. He raised his fingertips to his lips and she knew he was smelling her musk, tasting it. She melted inside, couldn’t even pull her skirts down to hide herself. Dear God, she wanted him. And he wanted her. The expression on his hard face was unmistakable. But he flared his nostrils and turned away, back to being good again. Isabelle was locked in her room. **** If not for Salvatore, she would probably have remained a prisoner until the Comtess found a buyer for her maidenhead, but he came to let her out much later that evening. “Go now while she’s asleep,” he said to her. “The Auvray boy waits outside the gates. He will take you away.” Isabelle didn’t know what to say. She was still dizzy from earlier, still not recovered from the intensity of her feelings for this

stern man who tried so hard to resist her. She wanted escape, of course, but it meant she must leave him behind. “Did you like spanking me, Salvatore?” “No.” “You felt my pussy.” He said nothing, but his blush spoke volumes. “And now you give me to another,” she whispered. “Do you want me, Salvatore?” He blinked. His shoulders heaved. “I want you … safe.” She stared. “You will be safe with Auvray,” he added, his voice emotionless, as if he was reciting a lesson from one of his books. “Won’t you be sorry to lose me?” she asked, while he helped her into her cape, tying the ribbons at her throat. “No,” he answered curtly. Then he managed a little smile at last. “You have not lost me, Whipper-snapper, nor I you. I will always be here for you, if you need advice. Anything you need, come to me.” The sight of that smile, coming now when it was all too late, made her want to scream at him and beat his chest with her fists. Why did he have to be such a good man? Why could he never have touched her and kissed her the way she wanted – the way she knew he wanted? Because of Jeanne, of course, the woman he would not betray. Life was not just. “Do you think I should marry him?” she said, her voice loaded with sadness. He made much of finishing the last bow. “Salvatore?” For a moment he was silent. Then he said, “Are you in love with him?” “I don’t know. How can I know?” Etienne was handsome and sweet and wrote fine verses. All indications were that she should be in love with him. But then she had feelings for the Chevalier Alexandre Deschamps too and they felt entirely different. Then there was this man kneeling before her, his fingers dexterously tying her ribbons. Her feelings for him were still a confused muddle; she knew no words to describe them. But she knew they hurt. They hurt terribly.

Salvatore scratched his chin. “You will know, when the right man comes. It should always be your choice, Isabelle. Never forget that.” They stood a moment, their hands almost touching. And then he hurried her out to the young man who waited to rescue her. **** Well, now he would have to deal with her aunt’s thwarted plans and her inevitable rage. He would have plenty to keep him busy. Turning back to the bed, he looked down at the Comtess where she stretched out, lightly snoring because of the high dose of “tonic” he’d given her. She didn’t know yet that her treasure had flown the coop. Slowly he stripped off his shirt and breeches and sat on the bed, running one hand upward along the thick length of his erect cock. His arousal was caused by Isabelle, of course. It always had been, for the last two years. But the Comtess would benefit. His mistress had often remarked, over the past few years, on his increased stamina and ruthlessness in bed, having no idea that when he closed his eyes he was fucking her niece and not her. Fucking Isabelle heartily. Pounding that tight pussy all night long; licking those beautiful tits, bruising the pale, silky flesh with his hard, hungry kisses; sucking the ruby nipples until she screamed and bucked under him, thrusting with her hips, driving him on. He caught his shaking breath, one finger stroking the swollen head of his cock, feeling the bead of moisture already sprouting thanks to his vivid imagination. Isabelle. Just as he’d told her, he would never be rid of her. In his mind he would have her forever. Behind him on the bed, the Comtess stirred, groaning groggily. “Where have you been, Genovese?” He didn’t answer, but rolled over onto her limp, prone body, spreading her buttocks with both hands. She didn’t have to know where he’d been, but this was where he was coming. Right. Up. Here. He flung his head back and forced his cock between his employer’s cheeks. She would wake up now, alright, he thought

grimly. But the Comtess enjoyed pain – giving and receiving. She never wanted him to use any salve when he mounted her up the arse. Sliding a pillow under her hips, he raised her arse higher, closed his eyes again and fucked her without mercy. Ah. Isabelle. He groaned the name deep inside, where her aunt, the woman who paid all his bills and ruled his life, would never hear it. **** Salvatore heard they were married on her nineteenth birthday. It was good that she left, he told himself. He had let her in too far as it was. Who knew what might have happened if she stayed another month, another week in that house. The youth and light she’d brought with her quickly faded, as if someone had entered the room and closed all the shutters, leaving him alone with the memory of her laughter, her endless chatter and the way she once gripped his hand – on the night of her arrival there - as if only he could save her from being swept away in a tidal flood.

Part Two Wife

Chapter Five “I can’t,” he gasped, rolling off her. “I can’t get it in. You’re too tight.” Isabelle lay on her back, staring up at the bed canopy, and cursed her bad luck. It had never occurred to her that her new husband would be a virgin too. He was humiliated by this failure to penetrate her maidenhead. She could not think what to say or do to encourage him. Already his manhood was soft again, dropping against his thigh. It was the third time they’d tried. Etienne would get hard and then, as soon as he tried to enter her, go flaccid again. Had he not been so upset, she would have laughed at the irony. It was too awful to be believed. After all this time, all this restless waiting for her initiation into womanhood, she had chosen a man who could not perform his duty. Quickly she pushed all pitying thoughts for herself aside, turned over and tried to help him by touching his balls, caressing and stroking. He flung an arm over his face and she couldn’t tell if he liked it or not. Gathering her courage, she slid down the bed and took his soft penis in her mouth. For a moment she held it on her tongue and then she sucked gently. The organ swelled a little. She ran her tongue around the crest and sucked again. “You’re acting like a whore.” Suddenly he pushed her back, climbed off the bed and muttered, “I cannot do this.” Pulling on his robe, he slumped in a chair by the dark fireplace, leaving her alone in that great bed and unsated on their wedding night. Confused, she sank back into her pillow, blinking back the hot tears that threatened to spill down her hot cheeks. Apparently his passion was all in his pen. This slender boy, who once wrote tender poetry to woo her, knew nothing of real love between a man and a woman.

Weeks passed in the same fashion. He would try briefly and then give up, retreating to the chair by the fire. He admired her beauty, it seemed, but he did not want her body. Any advances she made, he called whorish and wanted to know where she’d learned them. “I watched my mother,” she told him simply. “Your mother?” He was appalled. “I grew up in a small cottage with one room,” she explained. “There was only a thin curtain around her bed.” He gazed at her as if she had two heads and it occurred to her that he’d not known about her humble background. The Comtess had evidently spun a pretty tale around her niece’s appearance in Paris, a mythology as grand as her own. After that day, they never discussed her past again. Of course she’d had no dowry to bring to the marriage and Etienne’s family, although old nobility, had little fortune left – just as her aunt had warned. Whatever coin Etienne could get from his brother, he spent on frivolous things. He drank a great deal, spending his nights out on the town and his days laying about with a headache. Isabelle took in sewing to help pay the bills, but it wasn’t long before the rent payments were late and Etienne was running out of money. At her insistence they moved to smaller apartments and sold some of the items he’d purchased. It kept them afloat for a while. “Do you not wish to make love to me, Etienne?” she whispered one night as they lay in the dark together. It was the one thing they could do that would not cost a sou, she thought dismally. “I don’t know how,” he replied. “It’s too frustrating.” She made up her mind to find him a tutor. A married woman now, lawfully entitled to a deflowering, she would make certain she had one. Had she not waited long enough, suffered enough? Her body ached with wanting. If her young husband did not know how to do it, she would find a man to teach him. As it happened, she knew the perfect tutor. **** Salvatore gazed at her as she stood in the doorway of his office and repeated in a clear, certain, steady voice, “He doesn’t know

how to do it to me. I need your help. I need you to tell him what to do.” He couldn’t speak, even if she’d prodded him with a red-hot poker. Perhaps, he mused, she was an apparition. An angel. Darkness came early at this time of year and the pink afternoon light had already faded, but he’d not yet had the chance to light a candle. Luckily, when Isabelle arrived at the door of his office in a fur-lined cape and muff, his clerk had gone home for the night. It was six months since he last saw her. She looked thinner, with dark circles under her eyes. Anger swept him quickly, as he thought she’d been ill-treated. He thought, by letting her marry the Auvray boy she’d be safe. In so much anxiety to get her out of her aunt’s house before it was too late, he hadn’t paid much consideration to Etienne’s youth. If anything he would have imagined the hands of a such a young man to be the safest sort. A fat tear glowed in the corner of her right eye. “I have no one but you to ask, Salvatore. No one else to turn to. He would never seek a doctor’s help.” Frustrated, he flung out his arms. “What can I do?” “Talk to him. Tell him. Explain what he must do.” She stepped forward, the dusky light pierced by her brilliant silver gaze. He could not look away from that mesmerizing heat. “Please, Salvatore. You said you would always be there for me. I can trust you as I can no other.” That word please on her lips was more than he could stand. He’d missed her these past months. Seeing her there again he knew he couldn’t turn her away, however strange her request. She glanced upward. “How is Jeanne?” she asked gently. “Jeanne is much the same,” he said. “I would have brought her some flowers, but there are none to be found now and I had no coin for hothouse flowers.” He nodded. He heard her swallow. “Will you come and talk to Etienne? I do not think he will be so embarrassed to talk to you.” He rubbed his brow wearily with two fingers. Once again this girl had no idea what she asked of him, but he had promised to be there for her and she looked so sad. Once she was merry, a teasing prankster. That was gone now. Harsh reality had set in, it seemed.

“Very well. I will come tomorrow, after dinner with the Comtess. Give me the address.” **** He arrived promptly, as promised. He did not let her down. She left him to talk with her husband in the apartment while she went out to buy hot chestnuts on the street corner. When she came back, Salvatore let her in. He looked worried, his eyes very dark, sunk into his face. “What is it?” she whispered, afraid there might be something physically wrong with Etienne. “He says you seize up when he tries to enter. He can’t penetrate your hymen. He cannot get excited enough to finish the job.” She was grateful for his straightforward explanation; glad he did not mumble and speak with silly euphemisms. But of course he wouldn’t; he was a perfect tutor, always answered her questions however much they tired him out. Always explained everything in careful detail. Her husband was seated on a chair by the window, drinking wine as usual, his face pale and bloated. “I told him it’s your fault,” he slurred. “I think I was bewitched by your beauty and now you’ve cast a spell upon me.” “Nonsense. Why would I do that when I have wanted you to make love to me all these months since our wedding day?” But it was not him she wanted. She knew that now. Unfortunately, neither of the men she truly wanted to fuck her were prepared to give her the experience. One was too proper and honorable; the other – Alexandre Deschamps - had a mistress already and did not want her because she was a virgin; a problem that would never be amended at this rate. It had begun to snow ten minutes ago and a thin crust of flakes had settled on her shoulders of her cape. She shook them off now and walked to where her husband sat. “Did you listen to his advice, Etienne?” She tried to take the wine decanter away, but he swung his arm clear of her grasp. “I need an illustration.” His eyes narrowed, gleaming hotly, as if he was feverish. “I want him to show me how it’s done.”

Her heart throbbed too fast. She looked over at Salvatore, who stood with his hands at his sides, his shoulders square. No wonder he looked so ragged, his face drawn, eyes evasive. “Get on the bed,” her husband added, the decanter chinking against his glass as he poured more wine. “He can show me how to do it to you. I’d like that.” Salvatore’s gaze swept slowly upward to her face. “I should go. I’ve done what I could…” “No.” She couldn’t let him leave. If he went away all this would be for nothing – the shame of having to go to him for help, the humiliation of her situation. If this was not resolved tonight…. All she knew was that she couldn’t go another hour without unleashing this raw animal that dwelt inside her. She needed to be touched, filled up. Every pore on her skin was starving for affection, for the caress of a man’s hand, his tongue, his lips. Anything he had to use. Other women had it; why shouldn’t she? With fumbling fingers she untied her cape. “Show him,” she breathed. “Please.” Again that word seemed to have a strange effect on him, as it did before in his office, when she asked for his assistance. Salvatore’s hands twitched at his sides. Then he lifted them to the first button in his long black waistcoat and slid it free. She could hardly believe it. He was staying. At last he would touch her. Dizzy, she let her cloak fall to the floor, stepped out of her shoes and turned her back for Etienne to untie her bodice. No one spoke. The lone candle on the table was the only light, until Etienne used it to light two more stumps by the bed. His hands shook. Too much wine? Or was he simply excited by what was about to happen…? She would have kept her corset on, but her husband removed that too and then, in only her chemise and stockings, she lay back on the bed. Etienne snorted into his wine. “She’s all yours monsieur.” Salvatore sat on the edge of the bed in his shirt and breeches. He laid one hand on her thigh. “Are you sure?”

She nodded, bursting with secret happiness. She wanted to sing out his name and fling her arms around him like a fool. Did he not hear her heart beating? “Go to it, monsieur,” Etienne grunted, hitching his chair closer to the bed. “Show me how to mount my lady wife.” She saw the frown of annoyance on Salvatore’s face, but his hand stroked her thigh, his fingertips finding the garter beneath her chemise, and then his eyes lightened and the frown became something else. Slowly he knelt on the bed, parting her knees, sliding her chemise up over her stocking tops. Isabelle bit her lips. He would see her now. He would look at her most private regions. Would he see her excitement? For a moment he studied her pussy. A little color flamed on his cheeks and she saw him swallow several times in quick succession. She propped herself up on her elbows and demanded to know if there was something amiss with her. His eyes met hers, slightly dazed. “She’s too small and tight, isn’t she?” her husband shouted from his chair beside the bed. “I told her she was the one at fault.” Salvatore merely shook his head. He folded her chemise higher up over her belly. “Lay back,” he whispered. And when she hesitated he shot her a quick smile that Etienne would not see. It reassured her and she fell back to the pillows. “Watch what I do,” he said to her husband, his voice shockingly calm considering their peculiar circumstances. Isabelle didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath, until she felt his fingers gently caress her sex. With a gusty exhale, she pressed her head into the pillow and tried to keep still, when every nerve in her body urged her to move, writhe against the comforter, push herself into his palm. Salvatore was touching her intimately, slipping his fingers inside her sensitive folds. She could barely believe this was happening to her. After all this time of wanting. “See where she begins to dampen,” she heard him whisper to Etienne. “A man can help this along.” He bent forward, his head disappearing between her thighs. His fingers parted her labia carefully and his breath tickled her flesh. She gasped as he kissed her down there, very gently at first. His

shoulders nudged her legs wider apart and then his tongue lapped over the small opening. “Like this,” he explained to the watching Etienne. “You must make her as wet as possible so that your cock slides in with ease. Especially the first time.” “Show me more,” said Etienne. Salvatore’s head moved and she felt his tongue again sweeping firmly over her sensitive flesh, almost causing her buttocks to lift off the bed. His cool hands were on her inner thighs, stroking. She closed her eyes, hiding the tears of joy as he pressed his mouth to her vulva and flicked his tongue between her nether lips. It was glorious, far better than when she touched herself. Then his tongue went even lower, into the crack of her bottom, licking the tiny puckered hole hidden there, before it swept firmly back up again to her mound. He must have felt her trying to raise herself off the mattress, for his hands tightened, holding her down. Since he would not let her move up and down, she writhed her hips from side to side, her breath shallow and quick. “What are you doing now?” she heard Etienne demand. Salvatore gave her another long lick and briefly closed his teeth and lips, gathering and teasing her labia with a firm suck, as if reluctant to stop. He gently blew across her roused flesh and she moaned, trembling, not wanting him to stop either. But he took his mouth off her to answer her husband, his voice gruff. “This is oral stimulation of the woman by the man. It helps produce the softening and moisture to ready your wife for penetration. It also increases her pleasure.” His mouth returned instantly to its work and she arched, stretching. Little tremors flowed upward from that tiny spot he massaged with his tongue. She knew he was getting into the lesson himself when she felt the bed move and heard him removing more of his clothing, even while he kept his mouth on her trembling slit. She turned her head, opened her eyes and saw his breeches and shoes discarded to the floor. He was going to use his cock. The mere thought increased the flow of juice between her thighs so that she was almost ashamed of it. Salvatore would know how much she wanted him, yet she could not see the state of his arousal, couldn’t see the effect she had on him. Isabelle needn’t have worried about what she might miss, for her husband was there to give a loud narrative of every move the tutor

made. Moving closer to the bed, as Salvatore’s tongue pressed deeper inside her cunt, Etienne observed aloud in a casual, drunken tone, “It stimulates you too, monsieur. Your cock is aroused and hard as marble.” She groaned, bending her legs, pressing the soles of her feet down on the bed to push herself into his mouth, wanting more than his tongue. Much more. “My God, monsieur, your cock is magnificent.” Isabelle opened her eyes, longing to see this organ that caused Etienne such amazement that he blurted it out, but Salvatore’s tongue had found her nub and now sucked upon it, sending her over the edge into oblivion. Hot waves of desire stroked her vaginal walls. She jerked, lifting her lower body off the bed, crying out, sweat breaking over her skin. Somewhere in the distance she heard her husband still commenting on Salvatore’s prick and the size of his balls. She realized he was more interested in that than he was in learning how to service his wife. The man between her spread legs lapped up her juice with a greedy appetite, making her even wetter. She’d never seen him feast so contentedly and wildly at her aunt’s table, she thought wryly, a quick giggle bursting out of her. Now he kissed her pubic mound, her belly, her navel, moving up her body until his narrow hips nestled betwixt her thighs and she felt the head of his sturdy cock pushing at her sex, probing slowly through her tingling folds. Praise be, he was going to fuck her. At last. He pulled her chemise down over her shoulders and then her breasts popped free, so eager they almost hit him on the chin. She squirmed, her breathing labored as his heavy length stretched over her and his white-hot gaze stroked her roused nipples. She heard a small sound, deep in his throat and then he lowered his mouth to her left breast, closing his lips around the areola and tugging on the nipple. His eyes remained open, watching her face as she flushed and mouthed at him to take her. Take her hard and fast. She did not care that Etienne watched. Salvatore moved his lips to her right breast and back again, playing with those little pink pebbles at their peak, rolling them on his tongue, pretending to bite them, nuzzling his face between them and grunting softly, strange words she didn’t understand.

Meanwhile Etienne stood and moved to the foot of the bed to watch, his eyes afire with lust as he stared at Salvatore’s bared buttocks. She felt that thick cock head begin to breach her opening, but only a half inch. Her arms around his neck, she kissed him and tasted her musk on his tongue. She slid her legs around his waist, rolling her hips up, wanting him in. Every fine inch. “Yes, Monsieur,” Etienne urged. “Fuck her. Let me see that big cock do its work.” For two pulse beats she was ecstatic. Salvatore moved another short distance inside her and she clenched around him, hugging him with every muscle in her body. Their gazes clashed and she saw the raw desire flaming in the dark depths. His arms and shoulders were thickly lined with taut tendons as he held himself over her, sweating, breathing hard. And then he withdrew. The bastard withdrew from her. “’Tis your turn now, young man. Your wife is ready for you and I’ve shown you the way.” Salvatore sat back on his heels and she finally saw his cock, dark purple and reared up, the head of it shining damp with her nectar and perhaps his too. He turned his head. “And it sounds as if you are ready to take her maidenhead now yourself. You are her husband. It is your right. Not mine.” No! She wanted to scream. It burned in her throat. “Don’t,” she squeezed out, reaching for his arms, keening on the bed, quivering for him. “Stay.” “I cannot,” he muttered, low. Damn him for being so honorable. “I’ll never forgive you,” she gasped, tears of confusion and wounded pride blurring her vision. “If you leave me like this, I’ll never forgive you!” He climbed off the bed and she caught a glimpse of his taut buttocks and hard, muscular thighs, before Etienne launched himself on her, one hand fumbling to get his own prick out of his breeches, in so much careless haste that the heavy ring on his finger scratched her pussy. His shirt was stained with spilled wine and he was sweating. She knew he was not thinking of her at all as he thrust his way inside her readied valley. She caught him glancing over at Salvatore’s fine arse as the other man bent to retrieve his breeches from the floor and then he came almost immediately in a hot gush, pushing through her

hymen in the same instant so that she had no pleasure from it, no time even to enjoy another climax. And thus her cherry was broken. She was no more a maid. While Etienne continued to pump his hips, long after his seed was spilled, Salvatore finished dressing and left them, never looking back at the creaking bed.

Chapter Six He could not believe what he’d just done. Walking home in the snow, huddled down into the collar of his coat, Salvatore tried to tell himself he’d only done what he had to do. Oh, but the desire to ram himself home in her had been so strong. He could have done it, too. The milksop she’d married hadn’t the wit to object and probably would have encouraged it with a cheer. Etienne Auvray did not deserve the woman he had. The boy was, like many of his class, an entitled brat, collecting pretty things he couldn’t afford just for the sake of it and never having any appreciation of their true worth. He stopped a moment, hunching over as bitter wind cut around the corner and hit him in the face and gut. He’d made a mistake. But that was life. None of it was fair. He walked on, trudging through the thick white snow, his heart heavy. Always, it seemed to him, he was walking into the wind. It was never at his back. Entering his silent, dark, cold apartment, he sat at the table, his head in his shaking hands and fought the need to weep. He could smell her on him. Eyes closed, her saw again, her sweet pussy presented for him like a rare delicacy at a banquet. It was a neat little rose bud, poised to unfurl, full of fragrance and the promise of pollen. No man could have stopped himself from tonguing her, tasting her honeyed goodness. Even a monk would be tempted and Salvatore was no monk. He’d only meant to use his fingers to demonstrate for Etienne, but he got carried away. He felt wretched. Rather than appease his hunger for Isabelle, that taste had only increased his appetite. But he could never give in to temptation again. The timing had never been right for them. She was too young for him in any case. There was Jeanne. And there was the Comtess, who would have him chased out of Paris if she knew he’d touched Isabelle. The Comtess was a fiercely jealous woman and the only way he’d been able to stop her suspicions these past few years was by mounting her enthusiastically in bed. He’d kept her satisfied as he paid his debt. Meanwhile, it had only made his own anger and frustration grow. He was her plaything, trapped in her service because of what he

owed her. He cursed the day he’d ever accepted her financial help. But it was too late now. Salvatore – the young, innocent country boy he once was - had sold his soul to the devil. **** A week later, Isabelle found Etienne in bed with another man, a stranger. She’d suspected his preferences when she saw how he looked at Salvatore’s nakedness, but even so the proof was shattering. She had tried to make the marriage a good one and yet her husband’s interest in her was all on the surface. He liked the way she made him look when he took her out on his arm. He liked to be envied by others. But he did not like to bed her. Isabelle would never begrudge her husband his own chance of happiness, however and wherever he might find it, but she did object when it meant she was left miserable and frustrated. His feelings for her were as shallow as his silly love poems. She watched him enjoy the company of a parade of young men, while she suffered silently, thinking of Salvatore and what he’d done to her. Soon her days and nights were filled with thoughts of him. It was like a fever taking hold. There was no cure. Finally she went to his office one evening and laid in wait for his return from the Comtess. As he stepped out of the sedan chair, she rushed at him, gripping his coat with her cold hands. “Isabelle! What are you doing here!” “I need you,” she gasped. “I can’t bear it any longer.” Calming her gently, stroking her hair, he led her inside and warmed her hands between his own. “What is it? What happened?” “Don’t you know?” she cried. “You happened, Salvatore. I want you to make love to me the way a man should to a woman.” “But you are married to another.” She flung her arms around him, pressing the side of her face to his chest, listening to the firm, steady beat of his heart. “It is not right,’ he muttered thickly, his fingers still entwined in her hair. “Go home to your husband.” She wouldn’t listen. Her hands slid down to his manhood and for a breathless moment he let her touch him.

He moaned and then kissed her hotly, hands around her face. Giddy, she pressed her tongue into his mouth, flames of desire leaping tall inside her body. It felt as if only he would make her whole. His cock was growing and hardening, pushing at the front of his breeches and she was softening between her thighs. “Salvatore!” Suddenly his hands dropped to her shoulders and he eased her back, denying her another kiss. “I cannot. Go home.” “No!” She tried to reach for him again but he grabbed her wrists and held them hard. “Go back to your husband, Isabelle. When we make choices in life we must live with them as best we can. We cannot be selfish. You have a responsibility now to your husband.” He thought of Jeanne, of course, she realized. Looking after Jeanne was his choice and responsibility, just as Etienne was hers. “You’ve spanked me, you’ve licked me, but you won’t fuck me?” she demanded, angry now with the entire world. Hot tears spiked under her lashes and she could barely see his face through them. “It is impossible for us.” She tried to gather her temper, but it was too passionate and already out of her hands. “Very well, Salvatore Genovese. You had your chance. Good bye.” “There is no need for this anger.” Oh, but there was every need. “How could you do that to me and then leave me?” she cried. “I hate you!” “No, you don’t.” “Yes I do!” “Isabelle – “ “Stop!” She pushed his hands away as he tried to comfort. “You made your choice and – as you say – you must stick to it now.” “Be sensible.” Sensible? She lost all power of speech for a moment, but stared at him through a wobbling mess of tears. “Don’t sulk, Isabelle.” He spoke to her in that weary tone again, as if she was a tiresome child. Sulk? Oh, he didn’t know the half of it!

“And don’t slam the…” She walked out, slamming his door so hard she heard glass breaking. She did not look back. **** Strolling aimlessly down the street that night, she met a young girl, shivering in the foul winter weather, wearing naught but a thin gown and a knitted shawl full of large holes. Having no coins at hand to give the poor creature, Isabelle took her home instead, made her sit by the warm fire and gave her food. Her name was Carine. A few years younger than Isabelle, she lived on the streets, scraping a living by any means possible. “From now on you will stay here with me,” Isabelle told her. And so the girl stayed, working as a maid to pay for her keep. It was good company for Isabelle, especially when Etienne, deciding he’d had enough of playing the husband and declaring that it was much less amusing to be married than he thought it would be, left her. A year into her marriage she was abandoned. And almost penniless. She’d sold all the jewelry the Comtess once gave her, and sewn petticoats for fine ladies until her fingers were red and raw. If only she had some other talent by which to earn a living, but opportunities for women were few and far between. She thought of going to Salvatore again for help, but blushed whenever she thought of it. She’d gone to him in desperation twice before; she could not do it again. She had to have some pride and she’d sworn never to forgive him for leaving her on that bed, yearning for him so pitifully. That left only the Comtess, but she was unlikely to help since Isabelle left her house to run off and marry against her wishes. For a few days she mulled over the problem and then decided she had nothing to lose. She returned to the house of mirrors in Le Marais. It was early and the streets were empty of all but milkmaids and the very first traders of the day. She hoped to catch her aunt before she was fully awake, powdered, perfumed and dressed in all her armor. There was always something more vulnerable about a person, before they had a chance to hide behind all their layers and grow accustomed to the day.

But her early visit was a mistake. As she approached the gates, she chanced to look up at the windows of her aunt’s bedchamber. Hands were just opening the shutters to let in the morning sun and they were not the small hands of her maid. They were large, dark hands. And they were attached to muscular arms. Her aunt had a lover. That was no great surprise, for the woman was not ancient, despite her many curious maladies; there was still a trace of her former glamour, especially when she was all “done up”. No, the fact that her aunt had a lover in her room so early in the morning was no shock. It was the brief but unmistakable glimpse of Salvatore Genovese, bare-chested and yawning at her window that was. Isabelle stared, clutching the black iron bars of her aunt’s gate. She saw a long pale arm creep across Salvatore’s chest like a snake, heavily beringed fingers caress his unshaven chin and turn it away from the window. His black, wavy hair, usually tied back with a thin strip of leather, was loose to his shoulders. His breeches had slipped down, just enough to show the indent at the base of his spine and the first hint of a dark crevice. Clearly he had pulled them on just to go to the window and open the shutters. She stumbled back, not wanting to believe what she’d seen and yet the vision could not be doubted. Salvatore was her aunt’s lover. How long had it been that way? How long had they hidden it from her? Perhaps from the very beginning. Her blood turned cold. She thought of the way the Comtess relied on Salvatore, the way she treated him like her personal slave, a pet to sometimes be teased in that strangely familiar, improper way. Oh, why had she been so blind? This was why he would not make love to her. It was nothing to do with Jeanne or his high ideals and morals. The lying deceiver was already occupied, already the possession of the Comtess. Sickened, heart aching, she ran away, back to the cold apartment. Alone on her bed she sobbed a flood of angry, self-pitying tears. He had deceived her. He would not fuck her but he fucked her aunt. Because her aunt had something she could give him in return, whereas Isabelle had nothing. He must have thought her a stupid little country girl, trying to flirt with him.

She sat up and dried her eyes on her sleeve. No more would she be a fool. One day she would make him sorry. The need for vengeance lay cold and heavy in her heart. He list of people on whom to get revenge was steadily growing. Time to do something about it. **** The landlord, finding Isabelle and Carine alone with no money, suggested a new way for her to pay the rent. She was disgusted. The landlord stank of onions and garlic, had a fat belly and no more than three teeth in his head, all of those rotten. “I will lay with him, madam,” Carine exclaimed, anxious to help in any way she could. “I do not mind it, if it is over quickly. I have done it before for money.” But Isabelle would not allow the girl to make this sacrifice. “That will not be necessary. We will find some other way.” On the outside she was calm, unswerving; inside she crumpled, feeling alone and not knowing what to do. Once the landlord had been sent on his way with the promise that he would get his rent by the end of the week, she looked thoughtfully at little Carine. “You have done it with many men?” she asked. “Not ever so many. A few. I had no choice, madam.” She shook her head. “I don’t judge you. We all do what we must to survive.” Then she took Carine’s hand and squeezed it gently. “There is something you can teach me, however, since you have the experience of what men like.” If this was the way it must be, she would do it on her terms and no one else’s. The choices would always be hers. **** The next day, wearing her best gown and hat, she entered the apartments of Chevalier Alexandre Deschamps and he, roused abruptly from a bed he rarely left before noon, showed rumpled astonishment when she quietly reminded him of their conversation in an alcove at the opera house two years prior.

“You said you did not do virgins, monsieur and you told me to come back and find you in a few years.” She smiled slowly. “So here I am. Perhaps now we can proceed where we left off.” He was every bit as handsome as she remembered, although her heart did not go pitter-pat in that childish way it did when she was eighteen. Her eyes were wide open now, her expectations different. Alexandre had not yet tied his hair back and it fell to his shoulders, a sleek, dark brown curtain. Woken from his bed by a valet, he’d only pulled on a velvet quilted robe, belting it hastily, before he came out to see this anonymous lady who presented herself in his apartments at ten on a Sunday morning and claimed it was a dire emergency that she see him at once. It was plain he couldn’t recall her name, but the spark in his fine, violet eyes told her he remembered her face. “Clearly,” he said finally, “we are neither of us churchgoers.” “Clearly,” she agreed, crossing the carpet toward him and removing her hat. “I wish I had known to expect you,” he muttered, his gaze slipping sideways to the door through which he’d just emerged. Did he have someone else in bed, she wondered … La Lionne? As far as she knew they were still together. Or did he have some other conquest in there this morning? “But then it wouldn’t have been a surprise, Chevalier,” she cooed softly, dropping her hat to the nearby chaise and pulling off her gloves. “Indeed.” Again he glanced toward the door to his bedchamber and she was amused to find him the nervous sort. From his reputation she would have expected a more blasé attitude. She unbuttoned her little jacket so that he would see her rising bosom above her bodice. Men liked to have something to look at, she’d learned. “Now where shall we begin?” “I think you should know, madam, I’m not alone this morning.” Her hands were already on the belt of his robe and he did nothing to stop her. “I do hope she’s a sound sleeper.” His brows arched in surprised and then he chuckled softly, raising one hand finally to her hair, sliding his long, lean and cool fingers under her pinned curls. “Oh yes.”

“La Lionne?” she enquired, tipping her face up toward his as the velvet rope belt dropped to the carpet, along with her pearl-tipped hair pins. He nodded. She was amused. Good. Right under the wretched woman’s nose. She’d had enough of losing out, always being thwarted. From now on she would be the winner. This little country urchin was about to take Paris by storm. And by the balls. Where better to start than here, with the greatest libertine in the city? Alexandre lowered his head to kiss her, but she gave him no chance, dropping to her knees before him as his robe gaped open. “How lovely,” she exclaimed, running her fingertips over his cock, already erect and quite large, but longer rather than thick. “Is this all for me? Or is it left over from her?” His eyes narrowed. Suddenly his face appeared thinner, the angles sharper. “All for you,” he muttered, low. “Then let’s see what I can do with it.” In answer he spread his feet to keep his balance and pressed his hips forward. As she took his warm crest in her mouth, his fingers threaded through her curls and more pins silently dropped to the carpet. He was salty. She licked the crown and took a few soft sucks upon it, as Carine had described. Then she opened her lips wider, to take the rest of it in slowly, teasingly. The man above her caught his breath and his hands tightened around her head. Perversely, in that moment, she thought of Salvatore. She sucked hard, wishing the prick in her mouth was his. There, take that, Salvatore Liar! If only he could see her now, being wicked with another man. Would he spank her again? Ah, she grew dewy at the thought of it – his hand on her arse. Naughty, naughty Salvatore. The words rang around inside her head and she sucked in rhythm to it. Alexandre groaned, trying to guide her head, but she went at her own pace, one hand cupping and squeezing his sac as she felt the seed building. He was a lovely, charming man, she thought distantly. She shouldn’t be thinking of Salvatore when she was administering to his cock.

Only a few feet away, that callous bitch La Lionne slept in his bed, oblivious. First act of vengeance complete. It was an incomparable feeling. Isabelle paused her sucking to stroke Alexandre’s tightened balls with her tongue and then follow the thick vein upward again, tracing the route shortly to be taken by his sperm. “Yes,” he hissed, arching his back, thrusting his cock at her pouting lips. “Yes. Finish me off.” Instead she made him wait, returning her attention to his furred sac, licking and nibbling. Mmm. He was indeed a fine specimen. His skin tasted surprisingly sweet. She closed her eyes, remembering the first night she saw him, at the opera. Breathtakingly handsome. She remembered his wry smile as he told her he didn’t fuck virgins. Well, he’d take her now. That much was certain. She slipped her tongue around his crest and pressed her lips to the tiny, seeping hole, kissing him as she laughed and hummed a tune, blowing gently, playfully across the deep mauve helmet of flesh. Finally, losing his patience, he scooped her up, his hands under her arms, and flung her back onto the chaise. He tossed up her skirts and petticoats, kneed her legs apart and entered her quickly, pounding into her, his hips making a hearty slapping sound against her spread thighs. “My God, you’re tight,” he grunted, his hands grabbing her bottom roughly. “And soft as silk.” She freed her breasts, speedily unlacing her bodice and lowering the chemise. She wore no corset today in preparation for this. Alexandre gazed down at her, eyes burning hot with lust. Smiling, she gathered her tits before his face and softly suggested he might like to wet them with his load. Carine had told her how men like that. He jerked back, pulling out of her pussy and then slid his long, wet staff into the valley she made between her breasts. A few thrusts later, he growled and the first spurt of cream shot out in a high arc. She opened her mouth and he aimed his cock head at her tongue. The thick stream hit her lips, her chin and finally found its target. He grabbed his shaft and worked it with his hand, shooting more onto her

breasts, his eyes wild, that beautiful, glossy chestnut hair spilling forward, over his wide shoulders. She leaned forward to lick the last of his semen as it dribbled from his manhood. “Now I’m all sticky,” she pointed out, as if he could not observe that for himself. With one hand she wiped his spunk into her skin and over her pointy nipples. “Look what you’ve done to me, Chevalier.” He laughed huskily, already getting aroused again as he knelt over her on the chaise. “I think you’d best call me Alexandre,” he whispered, discarding his robe with one easy shrug. “And what shall I call you, my luscious Sunday morning petit dejeuner?” She rubbed her fingertip across his lips and they opened to draw her finger inside as he lowered his body over hers. Again she thought of Salvatore, her heart weeping for what she couldn’t have. Once he had said she had eyes like the moon. What was the word in his tongue? Luminoso. “Call me Lumina,” she said.

Part Three Widow

Chapter Seven June 1781 She walked through the doors of her aunt’s house with a confident stride. How different she was now to the girl of seventeen who once passed, barefoot, into this gaudy entrance hall with its overblown gilt frames and ostentatious marble statuary. Back then she was in awe; now she brazenly greeted the footmen as she swept by and they, in their black arm bands, did not know where to look or how to react. Had they been standing there in that same pose all these years? Did they have no lives of their own? No, of course not; no soul in service to the Comtess was entitled to their own life. And speaking of which – there he was – poor old Genovese, the old hag’s hired fuck, disguised in his somber clothes, a ledger under his arm as he waited by the open door of her aunt’s salon. Beneath her black netted veil she kept her calm smile in place, her head up. “How pleasant to see you again, Monsieur Genovese.” His lashes flickered. “Madam Auvray.” “It’s Lumina now,” her reply was terse. “It is the only name I go by.” He said nothing, his lips tight and pale around the edges. She swept into the mirrored salon. Again – it was all exactly as she left it. Except the Comtess was no longer in residence, sprawled in her emerald satin and barking orders at everyone. The old bat was now six feet under. They’d put an ugly stone cross on her grave, apparently. Isabelle assumed that was just to make certain she stayed down there.

The Comtess was buried in the same cemetery as Etienne, ironically. She wasn’t sure which one of them would be most offended, the old whore with coin and pretensions, or the impoverished Marquis’ son with all the nobility and taste for luxury, but not a solitary franc to his name. She caught her reflection in the mirrored panels, a slender woman in black silk, her costume fashionable and elegant. Behind her came her aunt’s solicitor and secret plaything, trying not to look at her. Something else that hadn’t changed. She supposed he would pretend to be appalled by the fact that she was the mistress of Alexandre Deschamps. Hypocrite. “I was sorry to hear about your husband, Madam Auvray.” “Yes.” She sighed. “You and every vintner in France, I’m sure.” A sudden memory tore its way in, uninvited, unwanted – of Salvatore Genovese lapping at her maiden pussy, bringing her so skillfully to the first orgasm she’d ever been given by a man. Alexandre was a very good lover, but even he didn’t do for her what Salvatore had done with merely his tongue. Damn you, Salvatore, she wanted to scream at him. Something else that hadn’t changed, she thought. She pictured him rolling off the bed, leaving her unsated, begging him to finish what he began. How he’d turned his back and abandoned her. All that time he was her aunt’s lover, yet he put on his saintly face and preached to her. “Well, let’s get on with it then,” she snapped, swinging grandly around and tossing her muff onto the nearest chair. “You summoned me here, did you not?” Slowly he lifted his gaze as far as her hands. “You did not attend for the reading of your aunt’s will last month.” “I was at Versailles. With Alexandre.” Fucking his brains out, she might have added, just to see his jaw tighten another notch. The solicitor pressed his lips tight and then released them with a sudden snap. “I thought you would want to know…” “What? Do get on with it. I have an important luncheon appointment.” “Oh?” “With my lover.” Finally his dark eyes reached for her face and settled there like angry blackbirds ready to fight over a pastry crust.

“And he is very impatient,” she added, lowering her eyelashes as if they were heavy. “So say what you must and I’ll be on my way. There is no need to drag it out.” She expected him merely to sigh in his usual dreary manner, but much to her shock he snapped at her, “Perhaps it would do him good to wait for you for once. I don’t suppose you ever make him wait. You were never very patient yourself. It’s one thing you never learned.” “Yes, you failed to teach me several things, Genovese,” she replied in a smug manner. “And it’s too late now, isn’t it?” There was a brief, cold pause and then he spat out, “The Comtess left you something in her will.” This was unexpected. When she received his note asking her to meet him at her aunt’s house the last thing on her mind was any sort of bequest. “One half of this house,” he added, placing his ledger down on the small writing desk by the window. “I just need you to sign a few papers. You’ll want to sell it, I’m sure and I have a buyer already.” “Half the house?” she hissed. “What good would half a house do me?” “Precisely,” his tone was crisp. “That’s why I knew you’d want to sell your half.” “She may as well have left me nothing. I never wanted anything from the old witch.” He didn’t answer, busy with his papers. She paced to the cold fireplace, trying to get her thoughts straight in her head. The Comtess who’d sworn never to lift a finger to help her again, had left her half a house. It seemed incredible – a prank even - yet Salvatore would never play a trick on her like this. Had he somehow persuaded her aunt to leave her something? “To whom did she leave the other half?” she demanded, suddenly feeling cold right through to her bones. There was a pause and then he looked up, catching her reflection in the mirror above the mantle. “Me, actually.” She turned to face him. “You?” “Yes. She fumed. Her corset was beginning to dig into her ribs. “And are you selling your half for the money?”

“No. I’m buying you out.” The corset pinched tighter. She struggled for breath. “How can you afford to do that? You don’t even know what my price would be.” He was watching her from across the salon, unblinking, stoic. “She left me all her money.” Then his head tilted to one side and suddenly his eyes gleamed. He was amused. She turned back to the fireplace again. “How nice for you. Still, I’m sure you worked hard to earn every sou.” “Indeed I did. Of course,” she heard him shuffling papers again, “had you not left her, I daresay it would all have come to you.” She laughed coldly. “I doubt it. She had to reward you somehow for those long, long hours you devoted to her service. Late nights. Early mornings.” “Yes. Well. If you would sign, Madam Auvray, we can conclude our business at once.” She stared down at the ashes in the dark fireplace. Apparently he’d already decided how much to give her for her half of the house and he expected no argument. Who, exactly, did he think he dealt with? She swung around and looked at him through her veil. His head was bent as he dipped his quill in ink. Her gaze traveled beyond him, through the window and into the garden that was just reaching its prettiest season, not yet full bloom, but dewy, fresh and full of fragrance. “It is a fine day,” she said softly. “Is it not?” He raised his head, his brow creased. “Yes.” She moved back across the room and took the quill from his hand. “Why do you want this house?” “Because I do.” “Why?” If he was rich now, he could buy any house in Paris and move out of that dismal little apartment above his shabby office. “Why not?” For a long moment they merely eyed one another, two cats staking claim to a mouse. Suddenly she changed her mind. “I think I’ll keep my half and buy you out, Genovese.” His face hardened. “I’m not selling.” “Then neither am I.” She tossed the quill at him, ink dripping over his lace cuff.

“You’re being foolish, Isabelle.” “It’s Lumina now. Are you stupid? How many more times must I tell you that?” She grabbed her muff and headed for the doors. “I’ll be moving my things in when I get back from the country in a few days.” Yes, she was Lumina now, no more that silly girl quaking for one warm smile from him – no longer the girl who’d embarrassed herself by begging for his love. “If you don’t want to share this house with me, you’ll have to move out.” Vengeance. He laughed scornfully. “I’m not going anywhere.” “Then if you want me gone, you’ll have to come up with a better price for my half.” She was almost to the door, when he called her back, “Why are you doing this?” He was still holding the parchment he’d wanted her to sign. “You don’t want this house. You’re being ridiculous.” Isabelle’s pulse fluttered, her heart pinched. “How is poor Jeanne?” He let the parchment fall to the desk. “Jeanne died in December.” Her hands tightened in her muff. Twice she’d tried to visit Jeanne and Salvatore would never let her in. “I didn’t know.” “How would you?” She gazed at him, her throat dry. “You might have told me. Written….” “Why?” It tore out of her. “Perhaps you were too busy to think of it.” “Yes, I…” “Because you were too busy fucking the Comtess, were you not?” It was one of those things she’d promised herself she would never bring up before him, but in the end it came out. It had to, because otherwise it would have choked her. His eyes clouded and there was an almost imperceptible lowering of his wide shoulders. “Don’t try to deny it. I saw you together.” “Is that why you’re so angry with me?” He sounded bewildered, as if she had no right to her fury. “And now she rewards you well. I hope it was worth it.” His voice was not so calm then, “There is more to it than you think. She paid for Jeanne’s nurses, the medicine…”

“I don’t care to hear the details.” She strode back to where he stood. “Or your excuses. Liar. Hypocrite. Whore.” His eyes darkened. “1ow you’re making me angry, madam.” “Naughty Salvatore,” she purred, raising a finger to his chin and running it slowly along his jaw. “All that time hiding behind somber clothes and pompous rules. Always with his big nose in a book. Who could ever suspect his big cock was in my aunt just as frequently.” He looked as if he might bite her finger. His chin, she noted was unusually rough, unshaven. Had he been up all night? With whom? The thought caused her pussy to tighten, her belly to warm. Quickly she turned away. “We must try not to get in each other’s way since we’ll now be in the same house again. Just like the old days.” She laughed lightly, carelessly. “I never thought you’d want to come back here,” he growled. “You couldn’t wait to leave it once. Not that your life turned out any differently than it would have if you stayed here and did what she wanted. Didn’t escape very far, eh?” “Ah, but if I stayed here she would have chosen the men for me. Now I get to choose who I fuck and when.” Then she put on a somber face, batting her lashes. “But don’t worry, I won’t throw myself at you again. I won’t be fucking you. Ever. I quickly got over that silly fancy and now I have Alexandre. He keeps me well content.” Salvatore’s face darkened. She tapped her fingertip to his clenched lips. “Fortunately there are so many rooms in this house we’ll never have to see one another, monsieur.” “I assume you’ll want to eat,” he muttered, grabbing her wrist and pulling her hand away from his face, but keeping it trapped in his hard fingers. “There is only one dining room.” “True.” She jerked her hand from his grip. “But we don’t have to converse. It’ll be just like it was when your old lover was alive and we were forbidden to speak to one another in her presence.” She left then, before she burst into tears and while she still felt the sweet taste of victory. It was always good to have the last word. ****

From an upstairs window he watched her walk away through the gates and step into a barouche with four horses. Contrary wench. He might have known she’d still tease and torment him. Did she even know what she wanted from a man yet? He’d known her more than three years now and the outside may have changed, but the inside was still that inquisitive, mouthy girl with defiance in every tilt of her head, every toss of her blonde curls. She wasted her time on Deschamps, who made a pet of her; it pleased her vanity no doubt and she’d always had plenty of that. But what she really needed was a man who wouldn’t spoil her rotten; a man who would test her, fight her, tell her she was wrong sometimes. He knew exactly what she wanted, what she needed. And it wasn’t some fool begging for her beautiful pussy to be his exclusively. It was adventure and answers. She still needed a tutor. He’d been remiss in giving her a thorough education when she asked before and now she was angry with him. Damn the wench for being so utterly irresistible, even when in a temper and flinging insults at him. He could never let her find out the truth – that her aunt had left her nothing. It was his idea to pretend she got half the house; his way of giving her some money, hoping it might get her away from Deschamps. But his act of charity had just turned on him and slapped his face. She’d refused the money and now thought she had rights to half the house. Isabelle was moving in and he couldn’t stop her without confessing his charitable intentions which, because she was a stubborn, prideful woman, would probably make her even angrier. And even more desirable. Salvatore was trapped by his own scheme. **** Alexandre had agreed to ride with her into the country, but he stayed in the carriage while she visited her mother, not wanting any dirt on his fine boots. “Don’t be long,” he whispered, giving her a quick kiss before she stepped down.

She smiled. “I won’t.” Thanks to his generosity she finally had some money to give her family and so, with a light heart, she’d embarked on her mission, determined to put all thoughts of Salvatore Genovese out of her mind. She hadn’t yet got around to telling Alexandre about her inheritance from the Comtess, or about her new living arrangements. He was, on the whole, a tolerant fellow, not possessive, but she wasn’t sure how he might feel about her sharing a house with her old tutor. Isabelle remembered her family home as a hovel, but as she faced it again now for the first time in years she saw the roof was new, as was the door and the gate. Inside there were better furnishings and her mother finally had shoes on her feet. Even if they were an odd pair. Her brothers and sisters barely remembered her and they certainly did not recognize the grand lady she appeared to them now. The eldest two boys had apparently gone away to school. She was stunned, wondering how her mother had ever managed to afford it. But she was not long left wondering. When her mother counted out the purse of money she’d brought with her, there was a peevish silence and then the muttered comment, “Your aunt’s solicitor always sends twice that every month.” Monsieur Genovese, she discovered, had sent money to her family once a month for three and a half years. Supposedly it came from her aunt, but Isabelle knew the old goat would never have been so generous. If the Comtess sent any money it would have been a trifle and heavily supplemented by the solicitor. He managed her accounts of course and she trusted him, because she always assumed he was firmly under her thumb – as indeed he’d always appeared to be. The payments had continued, even after her aunt’s death. Isabelle wasn’t sure how she felt about Salvatore’s interference. Like so many things, he’d kept it to himself. Unsure what to think, she decided anger was best. The man was a fraud, she reassured herself briskly. Like her aunt he made these charitable gestures to try and win himself a place in heaven. As the carriage rattled along the road back to Paris, she started to doze off, but Alexandre’s sudden shout woke her abruptly. The carriage slowed and pulled alongside another, a stricken vessel

leaning precariously to one side and missing a wheel. A young lady they both knew was standing beside it, looking helpless and fraught. “Lady Madeline,” Alexandre exclaimed. “How fortuitous that we should be passing.” Isabelle made room for the other woman, who was extremely grateful to be rescued and thanked them both heartily. Then they were off again in a gentle rocking motion. “You’re looking stunning as ever, Madeline,” Isabelle observed with a smile. Now this was something to take her mind of that wretch Salvatore. She’d known Madeline for several months. She too was a young widow with an adventurous spirit. Alexandre had introduced them both and the three of them had enjoyed several fun excursions together. Indeed, life with Alexandre was never dull. His generous charm extended into the bedroom and no one, in his company, ever went unsatisfied. He especially loved widows and other men’s bored wives. Thus he provided an invaluable service to the unhappy women of Paris, those who could not get satisfaction from their husbands. Today Isabelle was glad of a little distraction, eager to absorb herself in pleasure and chase away other thoughts. The Lady Madeline sat forward on her padded seat and laughed softly, huskily, “I fade in comparison to your beauty, Lumina.” “Nonsense. With all that rich dark hair, those big blue eyes and soft, satin pink lips, madam?” Alexandre’s eyes twinkled at Isabelle across the carriage. “And I am a very lucky man with two pretty pigeons in my basket. Which one of you shall I eat first?” Leaning forward he whispered in Madeline’s ear. Her gilt lashes trembled and she bit her lip. His finger drifted down her slender neck, traced a pattern across her plump breasts and then moved across her silk bodice until a tiny prick appeared pushing against the material. “You are too bad, Chevalier,” the lady chuckled, her gaze lowered in mock shyness. Isabelle knew they would reach Paris in a few hours. No time to waste. Her pussy was damp already. Madeline always began like this, feigning reluctance, but she very quickly joined in and her tongue was remarkably skilled. She had, of course, been raised in a

convent, and Alexandre had told Isabelle that, in his vast experience, convent girls were generally the most wanton. Once they strayed. Anticipating the entertainment to come, Isabelle kicked off her shoes and untied the silk ribbons of her hat. She arranged herself on the small seat. Alexandre slid down on one knee, lifted her skirt and widened her thighs with his cool, long hands. She leaned back, smiling at the woman who watched. “Shall I go first then? If you don’t mind, Madam.” She sighed lavishly, unbuttoning her bodice – a design she’d created herself for ease of removal in haste. “It has been a long and wearisome day for me. I really need a little treat.” She wanted something to rid her of this pointless yearning for Salvatore Genovese and sex was always a welcome distraction. Some women were ashamed of their sensual needs; some collected shoes or fine jewels to fill the void. Others ate or drank to excess. Isabelle fucked. “Yes, my darling Lumina. I’ll give you an amuse bouche.” Familiar with her preferences, Alexandre chuckled, kneeling between her legs, lifting one of them until her heel rested on the edge of the velvet seat. He paused a moment, making certain his companion had time to admire Lumina’s bared pussy and then he lowered his mouth to it and for the next few minutes there was no sound beyond the clip of hooves, interspersed with the sounds of soft, wet licking and sucking. Alexandre was very good. He was not Salvatore, when it came to eating her cunt, but he was more than adequate. Any port in a storm, she mused drowsily, writhing against the seat, enjoying the uncomplicated pleasure after such a hard, confusing few days of surprises. First there was the news of poor Etienne’s sudden death – a drunken fall into the Seine – then there was the issue of her aunt’s unexpected bequest, followed by the discovery of Salvatore’s payments to her mother for the past three and a half years. Despite the separation from her husband, she had wept at his death, remembering the pretty young man who once caught her eye in the park. She used to blame him for what happened to their marriage, but now she worried that it was her fault in the first place. She should never have answered his love letters or encouraged him by winking that day in the park. She’d been spurred by the desire to defy her aunt. Perhaps she’d even hoped Salvatore would tell her not to marry

Etienne, that her threat to leave would make him confess he had feelings for her. Ah, that villain worked his way back into her thoughts yet again! She opened her eyes and saw the other lady getting agitated, her eyes pinned to the back of Alexandre’s head, her face aglow, her breasts rising and falling with rapidity. She was clearly aroused. Lumina moaned deeply and flicked open the last two buttons on her bodice, her own full breasts spilling out into her hands. While the man between her thighs brought her to climax, she rubbed and squeezed her nipples, lifted her hips, arched her back and sighed. The woman across the carriage licked her lips and wriggled against the seat. As the little quakes died away, Alexandre sat back, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, leaving her wet, roused pussy spread for his companion’s examination. “Is it not a splendidly fine fruit, Madeline?” “Yes. It is beautiful.” “Perhaps you would like a taste, madam?” Madeline did not blink. Her breathing was very hard and she squirmed, rubbing one hand between her thighs, over her skirt. Smiling, Lumina reached down between her legs, to stroke her labia. “Shall I pleasure myself a while?” She propped both heels up on the seat, knees wide spread, shamelessly open. The other woman caught her breath. Alexandre lifted her skirt and petticoats over her clenched knees, eager to drink from her next, while Lumina slid two fingers into her sopping wet cunny and moved them in and out, finishing another wave of orgasm. “Madeline, you minx!” She heard Alexandre chuckle, playfully admonishing his other playmate. “I smell your musk and I see…ah yes…nice and damp for me already. The sight of Lumina’s little pink hibiscus flower did that to you.” “It always does,” the other woman purred deeply. “Now sit back and relax while I taste you. Hmm?” The other woman complied, opening her legs for him, but not spreading them as wide as Lumina. She did not close her eyes, but continued to watch as Lumina used her fingers faster, in and out between her nether lips, wetting them to the knuckle. By the time Madeline climaxed, her sweet, brunette pussy lifting off the seat with

excitement, she was breathless with giggles. In the next moment, she was on her knees in that small space, licking Lumina’s sticky fingers and then advancing boldly to her wet slit, all pretense of shyness forgotten. Lumina stroked the other woman’s hair with both hands and squeezed her pussy walls around that prying tongue, drawing it in and down. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. If she tried hard she could imagine it was Salvatore between her legs. Almost. Madeline’s tongue was skilled but not very long and always moved a little too quickly. When she opened her eyes again, she saw Alexandre, running a hand up and down his erect cock. “Alright, my lovelies. Who’s first for this today?” Since Madeline was occupied, Lumina licked her lips and opened them wide. She was, as it happened, hungry for a nibble of spiced sausage to go with that wonderful tongue lashing she was getting. He climbed up onto the seat beside her. If she could not have Salvatore, she could have everything else. Sooner or later it must fill the emptiness. It must. **** Rather than ride on to Paris, the three decided to stop on the road and eat supper at a cozy hostelry. Alexandre found there was a room above for weary travelers and quickly suggested they spend the night. The woman eagerly agreed. Much later the three drifted to sleep, all sprawled out nude across the bed, but Lumina woke soon after, the bright moon shining right on her face through the window. Earlier she was exhausted, now she was restless. Madeline lay on her front beside her, tangled brown waves fallen all across her shoulders, her round buttocks pressed against Lumina’s thigh, one slender arm around her waist. Across the end of the bed, Alexandre lay on his back, his long penis taking a well-earned rest inside its cowl. One of his arms rested across Madeline’s leg, his hand stretched over Lumina’s left knee. She was entwined in a tangle of bare bodies, she mused, stretching as far as she dare without waking anyone. The moment Madeline woke she would probably want to resume where they left off. The brunette was insatiable and had apparently formed a great

appetite for Isabelle’s pussy. She liked to have it astride her face while she lay on her back across the bed and Alexandre filled her cunt with his hard-working dick. This was all well and good at first, but watching the wall as she rode Madeline’s mouth, soon grew tedious for Isabelle, who was accustomed to playing a larger role in the proceedings. Even turning to watch the Chevalier rut away liked a stud horse between the other woman’s thighs, and feeling every hearty thrust of his cock reverberate through the lips and tongue working at her pussy, had limited appeal. She missed Salvatore. She still wanted him. All this was not enough. How could it not be? Dear Lord why must she think of him again. And now? Had she not just enjoyed several hours of unbridled sexual games that left her exhausted? Something, surely, would rid her of that yearning. No one man should have so much power over La Lumina. She didn’t know if it was simply the challenge, vengeance on the Comtess, or anger at the way he once pushed her away. But the need to have him wasn’t going away.

Chapter Eight On her return to Paris she gathered Carine and their few possessions and moved into her aunt’s house. The Chevalier did not try to stop her, although he was clearly confused as to why she wanted to live there. Since she promised him that nothing would interrupt their adventures, he merely shrugged, kissed her and waved to her as she left his apartments. Isabelle had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before he’d moved another woman in. Madeline perhaps. She would not mind. No human being should ever belong to another, she thought. They should all be free to enjoy life. The more the merrier. Only men like Salvatore placed restrictions on their pleasure. Despite the fortune left to him by the Comtess, he still dressed in dour clothes without a care for fashion. His lips still had a strained relationship with smiling and no one’s eyes disapproved of her so heatedly as his. But his presence filled that house – even her half of it - taking possession of her nerves and other internal organs like a fastacting poison. Once she moved in, she’d expected him to be absent as often as possible, but he seldom left the house. Clients looking for his legal services came to him and he welcomed them into the library downstairs where he conducted all his business. “You really must tell me what it would cost me to buy you out,” she exclaimed, marching into Salvatore’s library one day, venturing beyond the border he’d marked neatly down the center of the house. He was silent, leaning by the window, gazing out at the blooming rose garden, for once not buried in his work. She sighed fretfully. “Just tell me how much you want for your half.” “Sorry.” He licked his lips. “Not selling. You’ll have to leave, if you find my presence inconvenient. I can’t help that.” So that was his game. “You’re not going to chase me out, Genovese.” He faced her with a strange light in his eyes. “We’ll see who crumples first. I think we both know which of us has the greater willpower.” Pompous ass. She squeezed out a smile.

The doorbell rang. “Ah. That will be my lover,” she said. “What’s he doing here?” “Hopefully making love to me very soon.” He glowered at her so hard she felt violated. She swallowed and backed up to the door. “Are you jealous? Naughty Salvatore?” He huffed scornfully, arms folded, returning his gaze to the rose garden. With his gaze gone from her she was braver. “Is that what I can offer you to buy you out? My favors?” His answer came swift and hard. “I thought you said you’d never fuck me now?” She tried to quell her wildly fluttering heart beat. “I daresay I could manage it, just to get rid of you.” And then she couldn’t resist a chuckle. “As long as you don’t decide you want more and can’t get enough of me.” “You forget, madam. I believe in everything in moderation. I never over-indulge.” Even thinking about sex with Salvatore, she was adrift with anticipation. Her breasts felt heavy. She couldn’t understand this effect he had. No other man did this to her. Not even Deschamps who was so splendidly beautiful and charming – everything a gentleman should be. Salvatore had no charm. He was not even handsome. And he was old. “But a quick swive thrown my way like scraps to a cur won’t change my mind,” he added, giving her a grim smirk over his broad shoulder. “You’d need a better offer than that to tempt me.” She was beginning to hate the man and he knew it. He did it deliberately, of course to get her out. It wasn’t going to work. **** On Saturday evening she brought Alexandre and Madeline back to the house with her, and the three of them stayed up late, making a riot of noise in the salon. The next morning at breakfast Salvatore asked her to please keep filthy stray animals in her room and not let them run all over the house if she insisted on bringing them home with her.

That Monday he dined with a pretty widow, whose affairs he’d been handling. Isabelle and Alexandre sat at her end of the table, drinking too much wine and feeding one another with their fingers, intermittently dropping things and ducking under the polished surface. The widow did not come back again, disapproving apparently of the “harlot” with whom he shared his living arrangements. On Wednesday Salvatore tripped over her shoes and found her stockings hanging from a chandelier in the hall. He refused to give them back to her, even when she sent Carine to ask for their return. “Tell your mistress that she should take better care of her things, if she doesn’t want to lose them,” was his stern chastisement repeated by the little maid upon her return to Isabelle’s bedchamber. The next day she tipped her wash-bowl out of her bedroom window, to “water the roses” just as he was strolling in the garden below. He retaliated by eating all the croissants at breakfast and drinking all the coffee before she came down. By Friday she had removed every book from his library and thrown them all up into the branches of the old oak in the garden. He calmly fetched a ladder and brought them down again. “Still a child, I see,” he muttered, shaking his head. That was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back. Fuming, she retreated to her bedchamber with Carine in tow. “I cannot go through another day of this,” she hissed, pacing up and down. The maid watched her wearing a hole in the carpet and then suggested timidly that perhaps the time had come to put down their weapons and try a different approach. “He is a man, isn’t he madam? He can’t be that hard to win over.” “Ha! He’s not an ordinary man, Carine.” “Yes, but madam – you know how sometimes when someone is pushing a door from one way and another person is pushing from the other side, no one gets anywhere? Well, if one of the people pulls instead of pushes, the door will open and they can both get through, can’t they?” Isabelle realized she’d been approaching the matter entirely the wrong way. That evening at dinner they would be alone for once.

It was time to bring an end to this war of wills. Clearly she could never beat him with wits and he had the patience to hold out forever. But she had her body. And he wanted it. **** Salvatore heard the key turn in the lock of the dining room door and looked up in surprise, but didn’t comment. Whatever she had planned tonight, he had a feeling they’d reached their nadir. She took a step toward the table and stopped. “It’s time to barter,” she said. He finished the piece of bread in his mouth. “Barter?” “Since you’re evidently too much of a tight-purse to offer me more for my half, I want you out of this house. But I can’t afford to pay you in coin, as you know.” A little bread had caught in his throat. Salvatore took a sip of wine to wash it down. Then another. Suddenly she was taking off her dress. He tipped his head all the way back to drain his crystal goblet. He heard the rustle of taffeta and lace petticoat, as she unpeeled herself like a fruit. Apparently she had her gowns designed these days for speedy and unassisted removal. He sat back in his chair and coughed, one fist to his mouth. “I assume this is a joke?” “Not at all. I’m ready to bargain for your half of the house and this is all I have to do it with.” She unlaced her corset and finally loosened the neckline of her shift, letting it fall to a circle around her feet on the shiny parquet floor. He stared at her body. “We can’t go on like this,” she added, hands on her waist. “So how much of this do you want?” Salvatore’s cock had already lifted and hardened at the sound of that key rattling in the lock, as if it knew what was coming. Now his balls filled and swelled. He ought to shout at her to get dressed and get out. She was just twenty one. He was thirty six. They had nothing between them but this house and a few memories. And an incredible sexual attraction. He gave in.

He couldn’t help himself. He was a man – no better or worse than any other. “Keep your stockings on,” he muttered, liking the way those frivolous, lacy garters framed her womanhood. Her skin had a buttery gleam in the light of the candles and her full breasts moved with every step she took toward her chair. “No,” he barked. “This chair – beside me.” She turned and came over, reaching up to loosen her fair curls and let them fall over her shoulders, down her back. Her mound, he saw with astonishment as she drew close, had no hair whatsoever. “You’re shaved.” “Yes,” she replied swiftly. “How observant, Monsieur.” “Why?” “Alexandre did it yesterday. He likes it that way.” His pulse quickened, his jaw tightened. Naturally she took care to remind him of her lover. He quickly pushed that out of his mind and let his gaze wander over her naked body. Since she was shaved, he could see her private crease and the pink petals. His balls were so tight they hurt. Isabelle sat in the chair he’d indicated and he thought how cool and soft the smooth satin cushion would feel on her bare cunt. His tongue would be considerably hotter when it pressed against her pouty nether lips. Soon. Reaching out with one hand, he cupped her left breast. She’d tormented him with those lovely tits in the past. Tonight he would have them at his mercy, if she thought she could fuck her way into full possession of this house. He’d let her think that. He hadn’t told her how much he wanted yet, had he? Salvatore squeezed and watched her nipple swell, darken. “Are we going to eat?” she demanded coolly, sitting very straight, her knees together. “I’m hungry.” “So am I,” he replied gruffly, moving his hand upward over that erect nipple and letting it tickle his palm. She lifted the silver lid from the nearest tureen and, finding soup, let out a little purr of relief. Grabbing the ladle, she looked at him. “Shall I serve you?” He nodded, still fondling her breast.

Carefully she spooned soup into his bowl and then into her own, while he pinched her nipple hard, dispensing of the last little bit of anger. His lungs were constricted. He wanted out of his own clothes, but he couldn’t rush. This he would relish, every moment. She proceeded to enjoy her soup with a good appetite. Salvatore slid his hand from her breast, down over her belly. Firmly, he eased her thighs apart and let his fingertips drift down over her shaven cunt, felt her flinch a little as if his hands were cold. Her expression remained bland. Salvatore was amused that she tried to act as if he was not touching her intimately. She meant for this to be a business transaction and nothing more. He noted how she sipped her soup delicately; how, as she filled her spoon again, she turned the edge away from her, scooping from the sides of the bowl. Just as she’d been taught. It was as if the Comtess sat there again at the other end of the table, ready to correct her. After the soup she searched among the other platters and found rolled fish fillets, then a thin slice of beef with mushrooms and a wine sauce. She ate everything. He ate nothing, but sat with his hand between her legs, his finger between her nether lips. Blood filled his manhood so that it stood up firm. He could not wait for dessert. Before she could fill her plate with any more food, he stood, clearing the dishes aside with his arms. Then he lifted her onto the polished surface and she lay on her back, her hands over her head, watching him with her bright silver eyes. He moved the candelabra so they would not be knocked over. With trembling hands he unfastened his breeches. She eyed his erection and blinked, just once, very slowly. Her back arched and he looked at her breasts poking upward, the curve of her belly and the dip where treasure lay. Longed-for treasure, that belonged to him, and had been stolen away. “Salvatore,” she whispered. He climbed up onto the table and placed her feet over his shoulders. Her pussy winked at him, all soft and roused, the lips pink as a damask rose. ****

She wanted him so much it felt as if her insides were melting, she mused, sliding her legs further over his shoulders until her bottom rested on his thighs. What was he doing? Why the delay? She squirmed, impatient. Apparently he was perusing the fruit platter. Surely he wasn’t going to make her wait while he ate cherries? He was selecting the fruit with careful, precise fingers. The sticky sweet scent tickled her nostrils. Now he held a bunch of ruby red cherries up for her to see, dangling them by their stalks, just above her vulva. What was he playing at? Just as she was about to complain, he popped one from its stalk and placed it gently between her labia. The fruit was soft, cool, his fingers firm. She gasped as he opened her and pressed two more cherries, one at a time, inside her pussy. She tried to relax and not tense, but the sensation of those firm cherries rubbing inside her narrow valley was too enticing. She wriggled her bottom against his thighs, her breathy sighs oozing out of her, even though she tried to hold them back. He took an orange next and peeled it with those speedy, masterful fingers. Isabelle sincerely hoped he wasn’t going to try fitting that inside her. No. Instead he held it over her sex and squeezed so that juice trickled down onto her labia and dripped down into the crack of her bottom. Sweet orange fragrance filled the air. Salvatore’s fingers smeared the spilled juice all over her mound. It stung a little because she was freshly shaved. She wondered if he was punishing her for that – for letting Alexandre touch her there. But after the sting came the soothing sweep of his tongue as he lapped her mound and nibbled on her skin. The slight pressure of his mouth on her sex, where it housed those three plump cherries, caused her to groan, shifting her hips, touching her breasts, squeezing them, her hands restless, her nipples needy. Next he selected grapes, chilled from the ice house, pushed up into her by his fingers. At three she was filled, her lips struggling to close, and then he slid his hands under her, lifted her pussy to his mouth and, with a slow, hard sucking, took the fruit out of her. First came the touch of his firm lips, then the fierce tugging, then the smooth, cold orbs slipping out of her incredibly roused cunt,

into his mouth. She cried out with the loss of each grape, pressing her shoulders into the table, thrusting her hips at his face, her thighs around his neck. As he ate the last one out of her, sucking on it while it remained lodged in her entrance, she came in a violent rush, her inner walls clenching, spitting the fruit out onto his tongue. She felt the tremors of his wicked laughter pressed into her pussy and then his tongue delved inside for the cherries. Another violent quake rocked her body and she stared up at the plaster cupids on her aunt’s ceiling. Her sight was so blurred that those fat, winged creatures seemed to be swimming above her. Salvatore’s strong tongue lapped up every last drop of orange juice from her slit and where it had dripped into her crack, while she rocked wildly and moaned out his name. He let her arse slide down his torso and back to the table. Through drowsy, dazed eyes she watched him finish undressing, tossing his clothes to the parquet alongside her own and then he covered her without further delay, his huge cock thrusting into her wetness, filling her, stretching her. Grunting he lifted her leg to ensure even deeper penetration and she thought her world had exploded into a thousand pieces. Beneath them the mahogany table protested with a series of creaks and groans, but it was no louder than the two of them as he fucked her with every ounce of his pent up lust. “Isabelle,” he hissed into her ear, the ridges of his chest pushing into her breasts, his groin slapping into her, his great shaft impaling her, hitting her womb with every rough thrust. Occasionally he paused his rhythmic rutting to grind his hips against her with just enough pressure, before resuming that tireless momentum, shaking her to the very teeth. He was fantastic. No wonder the Comtess kept him so tightly reined to her side, she thought. “Come inside me,” she gasped, grabbing his straining buttocks, wishing there were mirrors here, as there were in the salon, so she could see him mounting her like this. He had a beautiful arse and she would love to see those muscles tensing as he pounded away between her stockinged thighs. But he withdrew, one hand holding the root as it throbbed dark purple. He didn’t need to tell her what he wanted. She scrambled up onto her knees and closed her mouth over the crest, sucking greedily until her cheeks ached. He was simply too large to take all the way

down and the best she could do was half, but he was already coming, flooding her throat with his rich, satiny cream. He fell back, resting on his hands, while she licked him clean, cock and balls. Then she sat up again and kissed him on the lips. Grape, cherry and orange juice mingled with his spunk and her sticky honey. “I suppose that’s enough dessert for you,” she whispered. “Everything in moderation.” “Everything except you,” he replied, breathless. She turned over, kneeling, sticking her arse in the air. “Is this what you want, Naughty Salvatore? You always were a tits and arse man.” He laughed softly and grabbed her hips to stop her wiggling. “Oh yes. This delightful little treat is not going cold and empty tonight. But not here. I need to take my time with that and you’ll kill your knees on this table.” “How practical you are.” She rolled her eyes. Climbing down, he swept an arm around her waist and lifted her. She clung to his body like a monkey, her wet pussy pressed to his flank, knowing he would feel every sticky inch of her shaven slit rubbing on him as he moved. He stooped for the key. “I think we need the salon,” he muttered, his cock already thickening again, almost touching her leg where it was wrapped around him. “Hmmm. All those mirrors.” “For once we are of like mind, madam.” He kissed her sweatdamped cheek and whispered in her ear, “I need to watch myself taking you from behind. You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed of this.” She wanted to laugh. No idea? It had been almost four years of longing for them both. Tonight every wicked fantasy would be acted out in that room of mirrors. She would rid herself of this yearning tonight, even if it killed her. **** He wanted her over the arm of the chaise, her bottom in the air, legs parted just enough to show her gleaming folds. She still wore her stockings and garters. For a while he merely gazed at her upheld

arse in that vulnerable position, then he set about moving furniture so that the chaise was reflected in almost every mirrored panel. Her hands pressed flat to the floor, she told him to hurry. “The blood is going to my brain and making me dizzy.” She’d be even dizzier by the time he was done with her. Smirking, he returned to the chaise and stood over her. “Now you’ve been a very bad girl, Isabelle. We have four years of wickedness to punish you for.” He’d imagined doing this ever since his fingertips accidentally touched her pussy during that spanking. He slid two cushions between her knees so she couldn’t close her legs and then he slapped her bottom hard. She gasped, writhing against the rolled arm of the chaise, her long blonde hair falling over her head, the ends almost touching the floor. A second and third slap quickly followed, the sound echoing around the mirrored walls. His cock tensed, bobbing against her trembling thigh. He leaned over her, running a hand along her spine. “Now say you’re sorry for fucking other men before I had you.” “Are you sorry for fucking other women before I had you?” Oh, that deserved a very hard one. Slap! That one would sting. Her cheeks already blossomed a bright pink. He flicked his fingers up her slit and felt the moisture. “Wicked girl.” “Naughty Salvatore.” He licked her blushing bottom and watched the wet mark dry on her hot skin. His cock head swelled and spat a drop of clear liquid. Just what he needed. He gathered the drop on his finger and rubbed it over her puckered anus. “I suppose you’ve had him up here as well,” he muttered. “Perhaps.” She giggled huskily. “Couldn’t even save that for me, eh?” “You didn’t want it.” He shook his head, glancing at their reflection in one of the panels. “I couldn’t have it. Wasn’t permitted.” His fingers slid down to enter her sex, gathering more juice with which to moisten her tight back hole.

“Well now you can have it.” She gasped as he fucked her with his fingers. “As much as you like. In exchange for your half of the house.” He said nothing to that, but left her pussy and began working his wet index finger into her tightly clenched backside. Soon she was too busy trying to catch a breath and she forgot talking. Salvatore knelt behind her on the chaise and again looked over at the mirrors, admiring the view, his finger plugging her back passage. He saw she was watching too, her head lifted, face twisted around to see in the nearest panel. He added a second finger to the first, trying to widen her. For someone who’d been had up there, she was very tight. “I’m going to need something,” he muttered, eyes still pinned to the reflection in the mirror. She raised her hands to unclasp the choker she wore. He’d noticed it earlier and thought how it accentuated her slender, elegant neck. Now he learned it had another purpose. The oval cameo at the center opened up. A convenient hiding place for a creamy salve. “Try this,” she said, passing it to him over her shoulder. Slightly peeved at how well prepared she was for debauchery, he examined the cameo. Next time he saw her wearing this he’d know what she was up to. Time to be annoyed later. His cock was adamant that it know her sweet arse within the next five minutes, or it would shoot the contents of his heavy balls all over that polished, mirrored panel. He used the salve on his fingers and pressed them in and out of her anus. She trembled under his determined fiddling, but her pussy was tearing up with excitement. Positioned behind her, he parted her cheeks with his hands and slowly poked his big, swollen cock at her tiny back entrance which now had salve smeared all over it. He eased in, watching their reflection. She groaned deeply, complaining at his size. He smiled at the mirror and plowed onward, feeling her muscles relax around him, her heat devouring him. Salvatore actually envied his cock in that moment. ****

In the mirror she watched him cover her like a stallion with a mare. He was so large, so dark next to her pale skin and hair. It was awe-inspiring to observe that great big shaft stretching her, disappearing inside her, his hands spread over her buttocks, fingers splayed wide. Her body cramped and she knew she couldn’t take all of him there. She shot him a look and their eyes met in the bright reflection of the mirror. He understood. Carefully he withdrew a little and then pushed forward again. She accepted it, working her muscles, overcoming the burn. From that position he fucked her bottom, satisfying himself with a cock half submerged. Ah, Salvatore. He was the best lover. He knew when to push her and when to retreat. He knew what she needed as no other man ever did. Salvatore the gentleman. Salvatore the stallion.

Part Four Wanton

Chapter )ine “You promised me your half of the house.” He laughed sleepily. “I did no such thing, Isabelle.” “Lumina!” “Change your name all you like, my darling, you will always be Isabelle to me.” They were sprawled naked in her bed. She’d taken over her aunt’s old bedchamber, clearing out most of the ugly, ostentatious furniture and adding vases filled with flowers. In the early morning, at this time of year, the sun rose in hazy pink layers over the Paris rooftops and slid through the tall, narrow windows to paint the room’s interior with a delicate water color wash. Everything looked special and different as she lay there, dreamily surveying the chamber. It looked as she felt. Refreshened, renewed. She should have been sore after the night they’d just spent, but she was remarkably relaxed in his arms. He’d just called her “my darling”. She sincerely hoped he wasn’t about to get possessive. Leaning her chin on his chest, tracing patterns in the dark hair with her fingertip, she decided to test him. “I suppose you want to marry me now.” He was half upright against a pillow, watching her through his thick, black eyelashes. “Do you want to get married?” “Do you?” she hedged, anxious that he might – that his primand-properness might make it necessary. Abruptly his lips parted in a wheezy chuckle. “My darling, you’ll be bored with me in four years.” She sat up on her knees, blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders and breasts. “Why do you say that?”

“Because then I’ll be forty and you’ll be merely five and twenty. You have so much of life still to discover. It would do neither of us any favors to force a commitment now.” “Oh.” Although she’d hoped he would say that, her shoulders still sank. “You’re sure?” He raised one hand to stroke her hair back over one shoulder, his fingers lingering on her cheek. “When you’re thirty, if you want marriage, we’ll discuss this again. Until then, you need to explore.” She loved him so deeply in that moment; she felt tears in her lashes. He was so good, so sensible. There would never be another man quite like Salvatore. “Will you be my tutor again?” He grinned slowly. “Of course I will. We’re going to have many, many adventures together. I want you to experience everything before you decide to commit yourself to me.” She took a breath to steady her excitement. “So what happens with the house?” Head on one side, he considered her face, and then slid his hand around to the nape of her neck. “Kiss me, Isabelle.” Sliding back over his body, she complied with that simple request. “The house is yours,” he whispered against her lips. “But where will you go?” “Oh, I’m staying here.” He kissed the tip of her nose, his hands sliding down her back. “You need me here.” “Yes.” She pouted, relieved. “I do. I need someone to handle my affairs.” “Hmmm. Well, I’m always happy to handle anything you need.” Isabelle felt his grip tighten on her bare bottom. “Whenever and wherever you need it.” “And make sure I never over-indulge,” she whispered throatily. “Except with me.” With one swift move he rolled her over onto her back.

**** That evening he took her to the opera. “I thought you hated the opera,” she exclaimed.

He didn’t answer, merely smiled and opened the door of her aunt’s box. Alexandre Deschamps was waiting there for them. Her mouth fell open. The Chevalier was all charm. “You look especially vibrant this evening, Lumina. There is new color in your face.” He playfully scolded her. “What have you been up to behind my back? And, no doubt, on yours?” He shot Salvatore a wary glance. Isabelle looked up at him, wanting reassurance, slightly confused by this development. “Lesson one,” he whispered, gesturing that she should sit beside the Chevalier. He sat on her other side and held her left hand. He could feel her pulse speeding, could hear her breath coming in little gasps of anticipation. “I’m afraid Madeline could not join is tonight,” the Chevalier said. “Oh?” “She has a new lover.” Isabelle frowned. “Who?” “Guess!” “Who?” she demanded. “Tell me!” But the Chevalier teased her. “Madeline’s new lover is no stranger to you or I.” “Deschamps! If you don’t…” “La Lionne.” Isabelle caught her breath in audible astonishment and then laughed. “It seems you gave her a taste for the fairer sex and since she couldn’t have you all to herself…” “Nonsense. I expect La Lionne stole her away from us out of spite. She has never forgiven me for seducing you under her nose, or you for throwing her over.” He laid a hand on her right knee. “No matter. We’ll manage without her tonight.” Salvatore looked at the other man and felt his lust for Isabelle. It was strong, heady, but not as deep as his own. Suddenly Isabelle squeezed his hand and he realized she was looking at him, brows arched, eyes curious, as if to ask why he had brought her other lover

there that night. She still didn’t understand how this was going to work. He leaned closer and whispered in her ear, “The opera will not long hold our interest. Will you?” She pursed her lips, her fingers still entwined with his. “I am your tutor, Isabelle,” he added. “In everything now. Just as you wanted.” Slowly she nodded, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shining. She was breathing so hard her lovely breasts almost popped out of their lace. **** When Salvatore told her to let the Chevalier suckle her right breast, she did so as if in a trance, slipping her shoulder down, loosening the ribbons that tied her shepherdess-style bodice. Alexandre, not having the slightest hesitation, immediately put his hot mouth over her nipple and his hand up her skirt. Salvatore touched her chin and moved her face so he could kiss her. “Are you ready to learn, my darling?” he whispered. Alexandre’s long fingers toyed with her labia where she was already slick with wanting. She parted her thighs for him and kissed Salvatore back hungrily, thrusting her tongue into his mouth. “Yes,” she gasped as their lips parted. “Teach me everything, Naughty Salvatore.” She knew they were in full view of several pairs of opera glasses. She could see the gleam of light bouncing off them as they turned in their direction, but while she should have been ashamed, she was only more eager. Deschamps was now laving both her nipples and her skirt and petticoat was up around her waist while both men touched her intimately, parting her labia, slipping fingers inside her, seeking her little nub of wanton bliss and taking turns working it almost casually with the pads of their fingers. “Salvatore,” she gasped. “Other people are watching.” She thought perhaps he didn’t know; he was usually so proper in public.

“Yes,” he muttered, his breath dampening the side of her neck, “I believe the entertainment on stage pales in comparison to the show we’re putting on.” Deschamps finally lifted his mouth from her tits and laughed at that. “Let’s give them their money’s worth.” She put her hand over Salvatore’s lap and felt that huge shaft, hard as a marble statue. “My darling, will you please take out that lovely cock of yours and give it to me…?” On her other side, Alexandre Deschamps was unfastening his own breeches, raring to go further with the performance. **** Salvatore watched her sink to her knees on the floor of the box and take the other man’s swelling penis in her mouth. His own organ jerked and twitched. His hands tightened around the arms of his chair. Again he looked out into the theatre. In the semi-darkness he picked out a few sparkles of jewelry and the occasional flash of an opera glass raised. With one hand he touched his manhood through his breeches, amazed at how hard it was already, how full. He slid his hand inside his clothing and gripped the hot flesh. Isabelle was sucking hard on the Chevalier’s long rod, sliding her lips up and down with a steady motion, her cheeks hollow, her eyes half-closed. Salvatore shifted to the edge of his chair and reached over to move her falling curls aside, getting a clearer view. His balls felt like lead weights and seed already tickled up his shaft, pushed out with every surreptitious tug he gave it with his free hand. Alexandre moaned, pushing his hips forward. “I don’t want to come yet. Suck Monsieur Genovese for a while. Looks like your tutor could use it.” With a pop his slick organ emerged from her mouth and she turned on her knees to look at Salvatore. Her eyes gleamed lustily, shining like pure silver. She didn’t have to ask him twice. He shifted on the seat, pulling his breeches down. His pulse was galloping; his manhood stretching tall now that it was freed. Behind her, temporarily collapsed in a chair, Alexandre Deschamps exclaimed in amazement, “Good God, Monsieur, that’s a cock and a half.”

Between his knees, Isabelle sputtered with laughter, grabbing hold of Salvatore’s equipment. “I bet everyone tells you that.” He too laughed a little, relaxing his shoulders. It was indeed, far from the first time he’d heard astonishment at the size of his organ. “Can you get that all in?” Deschamps muttered, moving closer to watch, casually rubbing his own ruddy member. The woman between Salvatore’s thighs did her best, swallowing a good portion of his erection until he felt her throat constrict and knew she’d almost choked in her eagerness to eat every inch. She didn’t give up easily, little minx. Now she tried again, her throat softening as she tugged more of him down. He spread his legs wider, his breathing heavy. Up and down she went, his cock pushing in and out, throbbing and dark. She suckled him expertly with her satiny mouth, swirling her tongue over his bulging crest and teasing out the drops of dew. Meanwhile Deschamps lowered to the floor behind her, hitched up her skirts and, watching her manage Salvatore’s length, he slid his own engorged prick into her cunt from behind. **** Apparently Alexandre could not get over the sheer size of Salvatore’s manhood. He kept marveling over it, just as Etienne, her young husband, once did. Isabelle was amused. She would not be surprised to learn that Alexandre had enjoyed a few men in his day, but she very much doubted Salvatore had ever tried the “other side”. Still, perhaps one day he might be tempted, she thought, looking up to see his gaze wandering over Alexandre’s splendid form. You never know. Tutor could one day become pupil. And he’d promised her they would try everything together. Her pussy clenched wetly around the Chevalier’s shaft and a shudder rippled through her at the thought of seeing the two gorgeous male specimens fuck one another. Hmmm. She sincerely hoped she was there if it happened. Like Alexandre, Salvatore did not want to spend in her mouth, although she knew, from the wildness in his dark eyes, that he was very close. He pulled out of her mouth and insisted on having her pussy.

Luckily the two men did not fight over it. They might never be close friends, but they could be civil while they shared her. The slight tremor of tension actually made it all that much more alluring. She was glad she didn’t have to share either of them with Madeline this evening. She wanted them both – and their full attention. Alexandre made way for Salvatore’s cock to slide between her labia. He returned his own sticky shaft to her mouth for a brief moment, before reaching for his discarded jacket and taking a small bottle of oil from the inner pocket. Behind her, Salvatore pumped his cock in and out, slow and hard, his hips smacking into her thighs, his hands spreading her arse cheeks. “Bring some of that over here,” she heard him grunt to Alexandre and then she felt the two of them filling her anus with that oil, rubbing it around her rim, squeezing their fingers inside her bottom. At one point she knew they both had a finger inside her. Salvatore’s fucking almost stopped, but his cock remained, buried to its thick hilt, while the two men fingered her anus, stretching it out. The pressure was almost too much and her muscles tightened around that big piece of meat filling her pussy. At the same time she must almost have snapped their fingers off in her arse hole, for they both cursed, softly laughing. “You go in there,” she heard Salvatore. “Yours isn’t so wide. Mine’s too large. ” Vanity! She mused. He would remind her it was a sin. “I’ll take the pussy,” he added, reaching under her to pinch her nipples between his hard fingers. She realized then that they meant to share her at the same time. Sparks of wanton delight shot from those teased nipples into her belly and then her groin. She pushed back instinctively, her bottom pressing into his groin, excitement shuddering through her bones. He withdrew from her just long enough to return to his seat, draw a footstool close and then beckon her up onto his lap, holding his cock by the root until she was settled over it, her legs astride his hips. Inch by inch she lowered onto his staff. Just before she got all the way down she felt Alexandre’s cock head prodding at her arse. He must have been kneeling on the footstool between Salvatore’s legs. Salvatore held her arse cheeks and parted them wide for her other lover.

Isabelle began to cry out, but stifled it; they already had more than enough eyes riveted on them. Oil dripped from her arse, slipped down her stretched labia and must have fallen in little drops to Salvatore’s stiff balls. She heard his breath grow harsher and he shuddered each time he felt another trickle. Alexandre plowed onward, easing between her cheeks, grabbing her tits to steady himself. She held her breath and then hissed out a long, low exhale through her teeth as he reamed her backside, giving a final savage push into that impossible narrow passage. “Oh, she feels that,” Salvatore cooed over her shoulder as she flinched and gasped. He kissed her cheek and licked the edge of her ear with his warm tongue. “I feel it too, my darling,” he whispered. “We’re both inside you now. I can feel his cock rubbing against mine.” She cried out in pleasure, trying to work herself on them both, but Salvatore held her waist and urged her to let them take over. They took turns being in control. First Salvatore thrust with his hips, pushing up into her pussy, making her bounce in his lap, his balls slapping up at her, while Alexandre held her hair gathered in one hand and let her arse ride his cock. Then Alexandre took over the powerful thrusting and Salvatore suckled her tits, pausing occasionally to tell her how much he enjoyed the feel of her hot cunt massaging his length from sac to crown. He’d never felt such a luxurious pussy, he told her, his voice gruff with passion. He’d never wanted to fill one so badly; never wanted to fuck so hard and so long in his life. When she climaxed it was explosive. She melted on them, crumpling in their arms, her body completely theirs – a captive impaled. Finally, they matched their thrusting, no more taking turns, and when they both shot their seed, Isabelle thought dreamily that she could never know anything better than this. Lumina the wanton had found the ultimate playmates. How could anything ever outdo this? It simply wouldn’t. ****

She was wrong of course. In fact it was actually only the beginning. Soon Alexandre would move on to other lovers in other cities, knowing perhaps that Salvatore was out to win her heart and he could not compete. But for Lumina and her tutor there were many lessons still to come. That very night, leaving the opera house with her escorts, she caught the eye of a certain arrogant, rough-edged naval Captain who would soon pursue her as eagerly as he sailed after the enemy at sea. And for Lumina, who had thought, just a half hour before, that nothing could ever get any better, life was about to get considerably…wetter.

Epilogue Paris 1788 It grew late. The light from outside had almost faded and shadows crept in, a draft threatening the tottering candle flames. Carine had cleared away her bath and her young companion was gone, taking his well-earned silver coins with him. Now Lumina sat by her window and pondered the next part of her memoirs. At her request, the violinist began another tune. Bach. Ah yes, she always did love a little Bach, especially when she was on her back. And here came Salvatore, just in time. He moved across the chamber, dropping his robe to the floor and striding naked the last few steps to her side. “The errand boy was good, eh?” he asked softly, stooping to kiss her hair. “He is a fast pupil.” “Like you.” “With skills like those he can go far in Paris.” Smiling she reached for her quill. “Come to bed,” he urged. “I want your skills now.” “In a moment. I have another chapter to write.” He slid his hands around her from behind and cupped her breasts. “Let me help you write it.” Ah. How could she resist…His fingers squeezed her nipples, pulling on them lightly. “Do you remember the Captain?” she asked. “How could I forget the Captain?” She stood so he could sit on the chair and then she took to his lap, lowering herself slowly onto his prick. “Now. Where was I?” she murmured, dipping her quill in the ink again. Salvatore moved her up and down his staff, fucking her in tempo with the violin music, his hands clamped around her waist. “You were about to say you’re ready to marry me,” he grunted. She spread her legs wider, shivering in agonizing, distracting delight as he plowed her with his tremendous shaft. Yes he’d been a

good, patient lover and shown her all those adventures he once promised. Was still showing her. One never stopped learning. Again she glanced down at her smudged paper. There were plenty more tales to tell of Lumina, for those with the desire to read them. She should probably add a warning - not for the faint of heart. She reached for another sheet and began to write again, spilling a blot of ink from her nib, just as the man she loved, the man who gave her the world, spilled his own inside her.

The End

Other Books by Georgia Fox: The Conquerors Series The Ever Knight The Virgin Proxy The Craftsman

Evernight Publishing www.evernightpublishing.com