The Countess Misbehaves

by Nan Ryan

  “Yes, it will, chérie.” He smiled seductively and predicted, “Perhaps sooner than you think.”

  Fifteen

  “They’ll see us,” she warned, anxiously.

  “Let them,” he said, unconcerned.

  She gazed at him, openmouthed, as he moved steadily closer, unmindful of the crowds of people gathering around, peering at him, watching.

  He was naked and obviously unashamed. She gazed in awe upon the beauty of his lean, brown body, a body more perfect than any she had ever seen. The curious crowd, some wearing colorful Mardi Gras masks, some not, oohed and ahhed as they stared at him.

  There was an evil splendor about him that was irresistible. Women swooned and a few fainted at the sight of him in his stark naked beauty.

  Madeleine’s eyes clung to him as he approached. He was surely the most wicked man she’d even known, but he was also the most exciting. She wished the voyeurs would magically disappear so that she could go to him, run her hands over the flesh of his beautiful body. Let her eager fingers explore the hard-muscled arms and long, lean legs. She could almost feel the smoothness of his deeply clefted back and tight buttocks. How she longed to entwine her fingers in the dense, dark hair covering his broad chest.

  But no one left.

  Others came.

  More and more people eagerly crowded around to gaze upon the naked Adonis who was in her bedroom. She didn’t know how they had gotten there. She didn’t know how he had gotten there. He had simply appeared and with him came the crowd and she wondered if he was Armand de Chevalier or if he were actually Lucifer. No doubt Lucifer himself was handsome, attractive and daring.

  That was it. He was Lucifer and he knew that she hadn’t the will to resist his vitality, his beauty, his fierce animal appeal.

  He reached the bed and she saw that her faded blue garter encircled his dark upper arm, so perhaps he wasn’t Lucifer after all, but Armand. She knew in the next moment that he was Lucifer when he coolly commanded her to take off her nightgown.

  “No!” she argued, wanting to disrobe and be in his arms, but mindful of the prying eyes. “All these people.”

  “Forget them,” he said in a low, commanding voice. “If they want to watch, let them.”

  He was evil.

  He was the devil.

  And yet, the prospect of making love with him while others watched was incredibly tempting. She glanced past him across the room and spotted a stern, disapproving Lord Enfield in the sea of curious faces. She was horrified and immediately remorseful.

  But then her naked master stepped between her and the crowd and Lord Enfield was instantly for gotten. There was no one but him, no one but this dark, sensuous devil-man.

  He was magnificent. Tall and lean and tanned. His broad, symmetrical chest was covered with an appealing pattern of coal-black hair that narrowed to a thick line going down his flat belly and blossoming again at his groin where his awesome, fully formed erection, thick and long and hard, sprang proudly from the crisp black curls.

  The sight of him standing there in all his naked glory made her shiver with a mixture of fear and desire. He snapped his fingers and she rose to her knees on the bed. Anxiously, lest he tear it from her, she lifted the nightgown over her head and tossed it to him.

  He held it to his chest for a long moment while he looked at her. Under his intense gaze her nipples hardened and her belly jerked spasmodically. She knelt there on the mattress waiting for his next command.

  She shivered when he raised the nightgown to his handsome face, closed his darkly lashed eyes, and inhaled deeply, his broad chest expanding as he drank in the subtle feminine fragrance that clung to the gossamer garment.

  His eyes opened and they gleamed with fierce animal passion. Her heart began to pound and she was both afraid and impatient. He tossed the gown aside, stepped closer to the bed, took hold of her bare shoulders, bent his head and kissed her forcefully, thrusting his tongue deep into her mouth.

  She was vaguely aware of the burst of applause from the crowd.

  He tore his burning lips from hers, put his hands behind her knees, and toppled her over onto her back. His lean fingers still gripping the backs of her knees, he drew her to the edge of the mattress, urged her legs widely apart and stepped between.

  Cheers of approval rose from the excited crowd when he leaned over, put one hand on the mattress beside her head, rested his weight on his stiffened arm, took his hard, heavy flesh in his hand and placed the tip inside her.

  “No, no!” She heard a lone voice desperately shouting for them to stop. The voice of a distraught Lord Enfield. “She’s mine, not yours! Let her go! Let her go!”

  Poised above her, Armand or Lucifer or whoever it was so deliciously seducing her, smiled down at her and said, “Tell him. Tell him you belong to me, not him.”

  She hesitated, so he swiftly thrust his hot throbbing flesh deeply into her. Lips parted, eyes wide, she stared up at her dark, demon lover and felt her body begin to eagerly grip and hold and squeeze him.

  “I belong to you,” she said to her dark lover. Then speaking more loudly, she shouted, “I belong to the Creole. I’m his to do with as he pleases.”

  “No, Lady Madeleine, no!” wailed Lord Enfield. “Where’s your sense of decency?” Soundly hissed and restrained by the crowd, his protests fell on deaf ears.

  Madeleine clasped Armand’s upper arms so tightly her nails drew blood. She murmured his name again and again and bucked wildly against him and behaved the total wanton, much to the delight of the crowd. She realized that she was not the least bit ashamed and it made her wonder if it was she, not he, who was the devil incarnate. Perhaps she was a succubus—the demon of the old witch stories who assumed female form to lie with men as they slept—and him not know it.

  “Armand,” she said, “you know who I am, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” he assured her. “You’re mine, Madeleine. You belong to me, now and forever.”

  She sighed. She wasn’t sure which one of them was the imp from Hades and she really didn’t care. The only thing she was sure of was that the two of them were making hot demon love before an audience of masked men and women and it was exciting beyond belief.

  They purposely kept each other on the very verge of fulfillment, not allowing full release. They played to their appreciative fans. They changed positions often and languidly performed the most intimate of acts in full view of the gasping onlookers, smiling with shared satisfaction when some the more timid spectators registered shock and disbelief at their sexual calisthenics.

  As imaginative and uninhibited as he, she abruptly raised herself off him, where she’d been seated astride, got out of bed, and scampered around to one of the tall, carved posts at the foot of the four-poster. She wrapped her arms around the heavy carved post and gave a triumphant laugh when he followed, just as she’d known he would.

  She felt his hands skim over her back, down her sides, to her hips. He leaned his face up beside hers and said, “Stand on tiptoe and spread your legs a little.”

  She quickly obeyed. He moved closer, bent his knees and thrust into her from behind. They made lusty love standing there with her clinging tightly to the bedpost and he pounding into her, his hands on her hips, guiding her, controlling her, conquering her.

  Whistles erupted from the onlookers and the applause became deafening. She looked over her shoulder at the stirred-up crowd and suspected that some of the eager voyeurs were experiencing their own orgasms from merely watching the two of them make love.

  She wanted to climax, too.

  She couldn’t wait much longer. She was so hot and excited she felt as if she were dangerously close to hysteria. She made a moaning sound in the back of her throat and he stopped pumping into her. She pulled away, ducked under his arm, and got back into bed. She stretched out on her back with her head on the pillow and sighed with happiness when he joined her there.

  She looked up into his eyes and said, “Give it to me now.”
/>   “Soon,” he said. “Very soon.”

  “Now, right now. Take me all the way. I’m hot and hurting. Make me climax. Please, Armand, please.”

  “Yes,” he said, but even as he spoke he mysteriously began to float away from her. While she stared in horror and anxiously reached for him, he dissipated into the thin air before her very eyes, as if he were just an illusion.

  “Please, Armand, please,” Madeleine was murmuring as she abruptly awakened from the erotic dream, her head tossing about on the pillow, her heart racing. “Please, Armand, please.”

  “Please…please…” Her eyes opened and she looked anxiously around, half expecting to see him there.

  Her nightgown was damp with perspiration and her breath was short and raspy. She was almost painfully aroused from the disturbingly indecent dream. She lunged up into a sitting position and hugged herself, trembling with fear and desire.

  Hot shame burned her cheeks because even now, wide-awake, she yearned for the touch of the dark, dangerous man who had been in her dream.

  “No!” she said aloud. “I don’t want you, Armand, I don’t, I don’t!”

  Restless, worried, she got out of bed, crossed to the streetside double doors. She pushed them open, stepped out onto the gallery and drew a deep refreshing breath of the heavy night air.

  She stood there trembling with emotion until finally her blood began to cool. Her pulse began to slow. There was nothing to worry about. She’d had a dream. No, a nightmare. She’d had a terrible nightmare and in the morning she wouldn’t even remember it. That’s the way bad dreams were. Vivid upon awakening, then quickly fading.

  Soon forgotten.

  Unfortunately, Madeleine’s disturbing dream did not dim and pale with the morning light. Upon awakening, she could recall every intimate detail of the carnal dream with vivid, face-reddening clarity.

  And the unsettling recollection continued to plague her throughout the day. She felt guilty and upset and yes, aroused.

  When Lord Enfield arrived at eight that evening, Madeleine anxiously called out to Avalina, “I’ll get it!”

  She dashed to the front door and when her fiancé stepped into the foyer, she impulsively threw her arms around his neck and said, “Kiss me, Desmond!”

  Taken aback, he said, “Dear, is something wrong?”

  “No, no, nothing’s wrong. Kiss me, please.” When he still hesitated, she said impatiently, “Uncle Colfax isn’t home. Avalina’s in the kitchen. Montro’s down in the courtyard. No one will see us. Kiss me.”

  He smiled, framed her upturned face in his hands, leaned down and kissed her.

  “There,” he said, when he took his lips from hers after a brief, less than passionate kiss, “satisfied?”

  “Yes,” she lied, feeling far from satisfied, but blaming herself, not him.

  As usual he was the consummate gentleman while she was less of a lady than he deserved.

  Sixteen

  December came to the Crescent City and with it contagious holiday merriment. The lampposts bordering the narrow streets in the Quarter were gaily festooned with holly and red ribbons. Wreaths of fragrant green cedar graced the front doors of homes. Tall pine trees, embellished with a myriad of fancy decorations, stood majestically in the drawing rooms of the city’s mansions.

  Cheerful warming fires blazed in the grates of marble fireplaces all over town and heavenly scents wafted into the streets from kitchens where cooks were busy baking holiday treats.

  Smiling shoppers in woolens and furs swept in and out of the many shops in the Quarter, searching for just the right gifts for those on their Christmas lists. And when they bumped into a friend or neighbor, the first question either asked was, “You’ll be at the bazaar, won’t you?”

  Creoles loved social affairs of any and all kinds. Picnics. Soirees. Balls. Dinner parties. Horse races. Wine suppers. Any excuse to get together and drink and eat and enjoy themselves.

  So the holiday season in New Orleans was one long gala celebration, topped only by the unrestrained merriment of the Mardi Gras festival.

  The lighthearted mood of the city had rubbed off on Madeleine and, on a cold, but crisp December day with a bright Louisiana sun shining down, she decided to go Christmas shopping. She asked Avalina to join her, but Avalina politely declined. She didn’t like cold weather. She would stay home and make pralines for Saturday’s bazaar.

  With the ever watchful Montro at her side, Madeleine set out to accomplish some serious Christmas shopping. Against his will, she bullied him into going inside the shops with her, urged him to help her pick out gifts. She was amazed by his impeccable taste and insight. She would hold up a sweater or a muffler with her Uncle Colfax in mind and Montro would shake his big head. He had, obviously, closely observed the kind of clothing Colfax Sumner preferred. He also knew the type of delicate little trinkets Avalina favored.

  Glad she had brought him along, Madeleine laughed and joked with him as they went from one shop to another. After a couple of hours of intense shopping, Madeleine had bought so many gifts Montro was loaded down with her packages.

  She looked up at him and asked, “Are those things too heavy? I promised Avalina we’d go by the French Market and pick her up some cinnamon and cloves.”

  Montro smiled. “You’re forgetting, Countess, I was the circus strong man. I could carry you and Avalina and all these packages from here to Lake Ponchartrain without tiring.”

  “I forgot,” she said with a laugh.

  The two strolled unhurriedly toward the riverfront in the strong winter sunlight. The levee was lined with vessels of all sizes, shapes and colors. Steam packets, oceangoing ships, flatboats, keel-boats, and small river craft were crowded together at the wooden wharf. Strong-backed laborers shouted to each other as they unloaded exotic fabrics, tobacco, hemp, salted meats, kegs of pork, barrels full of pickled foods, rum and coffee.

  A normal day in one of the world’s busiest ports.

  Madeleine and Montro soon reached the bustling French Market and Madeleine pointed to a small outdoor table and suggested he sit and enjoy a hot cup of café au lait while she shopped.

  “You won’t get out my sight?” he asked, unsure.

  She exhaled in mild irritation. “I’ll be right here in the market at one of the booths. If I step out of your sight, it won’t be for a minute or two, okay?”

  “I guess,” he said, skeptical, and sat down on a delicate iron lace chair before a small café table, dwarfing both. He realized he looked foolish sitting there, so he favored Madeleine with a knowing wink. She laughed, patted him on the shoulder, and turned away.

  Madeleine walked among the busy booths. Wrinkling her regal nose, she passed hurriedly by the stalls filled with wiggling crawfish and crabs and a variety of silver-skinned fish shining in the sun. She knew the spices were located at the far south end of the market so she headed in that direction.

  But as she passed stands filled with fruits and vegetables, a pyramid of pomegranates caught her eye. She paused, smiled, and ventured closer. She stood there examining the fruit for a long moment before finally reaching out and taking one.

  “That one’s not ripe,” came a low, familiar voice from very near and Madeleine dropped the pomegranate as if it were hot.

  She whirled around to find Armand de Chevalier standing dangerously close, smiling down at her. It was the first time she’d seen him since she’d had the disturbing dream and she felt her face grow instantly hot.

  She quickly turned back to the stack of pomegranates and said, “If I want your opinion, Mr. de Chevalier, I will ask for it.”

  “Just trying to be helpful.”

  He pointed out a pomegranate that was fully ripened. But she was no longer interested in the fruit. She just wanted to get away from him. It wasn’t that easy.

  She gave him a weak, obligatory smile and said dismissively, “Nice to see you, Mr. de Chevalier, but I was on my way to the spices so…”

  “I’ll go with you,” he said w
ith a grin. Then casually asked, “You ready for Saturday’s big holiday bazaar?”

  “Not particularly, but I’m sure you are,” she said, giving him a wilting look. “You Creoles seem to care for nothing but your own pleasure.”

  “Guilty as charged,” he said, unperturbed. “It’s been said that a Creole gentleman likes his liquor, his food, his races and his women.” He cocked his dark head to one side and added, “Not necessarily in that order, at least not for me.”

  “I really don’t care in what order you list your hedonistic diversions, de Chevalier,” she haughtily informed him.

  “Maddie, don’t you think you should call me Armand, our relationship being what it is?”

  She exploded in anger. “We have no relationship, Creole!”

  People turnedto stare. “Better lower your voice or everyone will know about us,” Armand warned, took her arm and propelled her down the alley of booths.

  “There is no us,” Madeleine said through gritted teeth.

  Ignoring her outburst, Armand let his fingers slide down her arm to enclose her small hand and said, “It’s such a beautiful day. Let’s slip over to the St. Louis Hotel and have an absinthe.”

  She snatched her hand from his. “I’m going nowhere with you, now or ever.”

  “Why?” he looked puzzled. “You afraid to join me for a harmless little cordial? Afraid I’ll try to make…”

  “I have told you before, I am afraid of nothing. Now if you’ll kindly excuse me…” She quickened her steps. Armand followed, easily catching up with her.

  She shook her head and said sarcastically, “Tell me, de Chevalier, is pursuing me your main goal in life?”

  “Oui, c’est ça,” he said, the deep, low timbre of his voice strangely compelling. “Yes it is, Maddie. My only goal. I want you.” His eyes darkened and a muscle danced in his lean jaw when he added, unsmiling, “And I am going to have you.”

  “Will you be quiet!” she snapped, looking anxiously around to see if anyone had heard. But her heart fluttered erratically at the straightforward confession which both frightened and flattered her.