Lifting her hands, he slipped them inside the opened front of his cassock, and Etienne heard the pounding of his own heart in his ears as Isabelle slipped the black garment from the young man's shoulders.
Etienne stealthily closed the door behind him, thinking belatedly, how would Charbeau know he was inside? But if all transpired in its normal course as appeared likely from the events taking place before his eyes, in a few minutes more, he'd make his presence known, open the door, ring for the servants, and then sit down on one of Isabelle's cushioned rococo fauteuils and calmly wait until a witness appeared.
"Will you make me do penance for this sin, Roger, darling?" Isabelle whispered. "I know lust is sinful. What penance will you have me do?" She had stripped his cassock away and he wore only black silk underwear, monogrammed with his family crest at his thigh. He had not yet apparently, the Duc dryly observed, cast off all the luxuries of the world. Or its decadence… he reflected, as Isabelle's small hands stroked the curve of the youthful clergyman's shoulders.
"First you must undress for me, my child," the young man said, his voice mock gruff, his cadence that of the confessional. "Cast your clothing away so I may see you as God intended."
"Naked, Your Worship?" Isabelle whispered, a sultry resonance to her voice.
"As Magdalene was before her Lord."
"Are you my Lord, Your Holiness?"
"In all things, my dear."
The young priest's erection lifted the soft black silk of his underwear into peaked prominence, an attraction Isabelle couldn't resist. She paused in the process of untying the ribbons of her pale blue mousseline-de-soie reception dress to unbutton the waistband of his undergarment so his arousal was free.
"I like to see it," she murmured, "lift its impatient head." She stroked the rampant crest of his erection and the young priest shut his eyes momentarily against his shuddering desire.
"No more," he said short seconds later, having composed himself, his hand deliberately setting Isabelle's stroking fingers aside, "until you expose your nakedness to me."
"Must I?" she said in feigned apprehension, even as her fin-gers resumed undoing the bows holding her flowing silk gown together.
How much had he paid for that reception gown? the Duc wondered, the magnificence of its fabric and lacework stunning tribute to Doucet's sense of luxury. Isabelle's "at home" gown, loose-fitting and worn without the discomfort of corsets and stays, incorporated dozens of yards of euchre lace and embroidered diaphanous mousseline. He would have to stop and order some as beautiful for Daisy before he left tomorrow.
Isabelle's gown slid to the carpet in a soft whisper of silk a moment later, and the Duc saw his wife's body for the first time in nearly two decades. Isabelle had always prided herself on maintaining her weight by playing tennis every day, and it showed. She'd changed very little.
Standing now before the fair-haired priest, her blonde hair loose on her shoulders, her back to the door, she was waiting apparently for the next procedure in a game seemingly familiar to its players.
"Have you been good, my dear, and not committed any sins?"
"No, Your Worship."
"You have sinned?"
"I have lusted, Your Worship."
"You must be punished, my dear, you realize."
"I know."
"Put your hands behind your back and bend forward, my dear," the young man intoned with mock sternness, "so I can administer justice."
She did so willingly, and the priest gazed at her for some moments as she bowed before him, her breasts suspended within reach. Leaning forward leisurely, he grasped them both in his hands, pulling her closer until her nipples, squeezed into prominence by the pressure of his fingers, were within inches of his mouth.
"I'm doing this for your own good, you know," he murmured, seeming to wait for an answer.
"Yes, sir," Isabelle whispered on cue.
And he took one jewel-hard nipple into his mouth and suckled it with such force, the Duc heard Isabelle gasp loudly enough to carry the distance to his position by the door. Despite the priest's roughness, which he democratically portioned out to each breast, Isabelle seemed to be enjoying the sensations, for her hips began moving in a rhythm of arousal.
After some time, the young man asked, "Are you cleansed of your lustful thoughts now, my dear?"
"Not completely, Your Holiness."
"Let me see." He released her breasts, leaving behind vivid red fingermarks where he'd savagely grasped her flesh, and his hands moved to the juncture of her thighs. Without comment or hesitation or preliminaries, he roughly slid two fingers deep inside Isabelle. Isabelle moaned in luxurious response, her hips moving to capture the full extent of the young man's manipulation. How far should he let them go? the Duc wondered, and then decided it would be useful for legal reasons to have the young man's sperm on Isabelle's thighs.
He would wait for their divine climax… unless, of course, this game was devised for saintly penitents who stopped just short of consummation—for conscience's sake. Since he had no religious neurosis or perversions to call on for counsel or guidance…
He would have to wait and see.
Did Isabelle reach orgasm? he wondered.
She did, he saw a moment later, as she sensationally expired from the priest's harsh manipulation. She fell in a delicate swoon, her head in the young priest's lap.
He could immediately see where the diversion was leading next and he hoped Charbeau was taking his time getting back to Montrose, or the staff was going to be sent out soon in search of him. They wouldn't dare come into this room, though, unless invited, so he was safe. But the alarm would be sounded in the rest of the hotel.
Perhaps that would be an asset after all. A full complement of servants in the corridors ready for his call would be useful.
The young man initiated the next activity in their divine drama of carnal transgression. Lifting Isabelle's head from his lap, he bent to kiss her gently on the forehead, his tenderness startling contrast to his former domination. "You have made progress, my dear, in controlling your lustful thoughts. You didn't cry out at your climax. I commend your restraint." He kissed her again, his fingers holding her chin tilted upward so their eyes met, their lips joining this time in a long heated caress.
"Thank you, Your Worship," Isabelle murmured, when he freed her from his grasp. "Will I be rewarded now for my restraint?" Kneeling at his feet, she arched her back so her breasts jutted upward, offering herself to him.
"Naughty girl," he chastised, moving his hands from the curve of her shoulders to her upthrust breasts. "Are you trying to tempt me into your sinful ways?" Taking her nipples between his thumb and forefinger he squeezed and lifted, forcing her to rise higher until their faces were almost touching. "Are you?" He squeezed harder.
"No, I would never try to tempt you, Your Worship," she murmured, smothering a small moan, her mouth almost pressed to his. "I'm your handmaiden only…" she whispered, "to serve you in all things."
"Will you bathe me?" He held her still in his steely grasp, forcing her breasts prominently high.
She nodded.
"And bring me my food?"
"Yes, my lord."
"And bear me children?"
"Yes," she whispered.
Good God… Etienne thought.
"And bring me pleasure?"
"Truly Your Holiness, I live to serve you."
"We'll see," he said, as if in grudging reluctance he might allow her that office. He released her nipples, leaving her kneeling before him, waiting for his next command, docile and subdued. Taking his erection in his hands, he stroked it as Isabelle avidly watched, bringing its rigid length to a full turgid arousal.
"Have you been applying yourself to your handmaiden lessons?" he asked, languidly stroking his erection.
"Yes, absolutely, sir."
"Do you think you've reached a level of performance I would find satisfactory?" He circled the shiny red crest of his tumescent manhood with a slender
finger while he watched her eager gaze.
"I've been most diligent in my studies, Your Worship," she breathed, her rapt eyes focused on the casual stroking of his fingers.
"Very well, we'll allow you a small compensation for your studious activities. Pleasure me," he said in a deliberate, commanding tone, "with your sinful mouth."
And Etienne watched with a curious detachment as his wife leaned over and drew the young pale-haired priest's aroused manhood into her mouth with an avid enthusiasm and skill and competence that did indeed indicate some lessons well learned. She sucked and licked and nibbled on the engorged and gleaming wet erection at some length while the priest's slender hands squeezed and fondled Isabelle's breasts in absentminded unconcern. Di-vinely motivated or not, it was obvious before too long the young man was reaching his peak and even spiritual discipline wasn't going to stop his orgasm. "On the couch," the priest curtly ordered a few short moments later, as if he were a general and not a clergyman, and Isabelle jumped to obey, lying open for him, guiding his rampant erection into her, like a dutiful handmaiden, clasping him in her arms and moaning softly as he drove into her with a frenzied violence.
The fair-haired man groaned softly in only seconds more, collapsing on the twenty-seventh Duchesse de Vec as though she were a scullery maid.
In a way this odd arrangement made Isabelle more human, Etienne reflected. He'd wondered all these years what she'd done with her life. But now he'd seen…
And no one could accuse him any longer of being the only libertine de Vec.
He was genuinely smiling when he opened the door to the hallway and then stepped from behind the screen.
"Good afternoon," he said, mildly surveying the astonished young priest lying on top of his wife. "I don't believe we've met. I'm de Vec. And that, I believe, is my wife warming your cock."
"Get out!" Isabelle screamed, an unholy rage glaring from her eyes.
"My, my, such a tone for a handmaiden of the Lord. I'm shocked." Etienne calmly settled his large frame into one of Isabelle's pastel and gilt chairs. "Had I known how pious inspiration stimulated you, darling, I would have embraced religion years ago. A truly awesome performance. And heated from my vantage point. You have a bit of sweat on your upper lip, darling."
"I'll have you thrown out," Isabelle snarled, attempting to move the body of the stupefied young man from atop her.
"By this slender young man? Really?" Etienne's smile was angelic, his breadth of shoulder twice that of the pale priest's. "Ah, there you are, Charbeau," he said to the footman entering the room, satisfaction evident in his voice. "Would you say I've found my wife in an um indelicate situation?"
"Yes, sir, Your Grace. My word on it in court."
"Get off me, Roger!" Isabelle exploded, shoving the startled young man onto the floor. "Who are you?" she shouted at Char-beau, arrogant even in her denouement. She stood before him naked, putting on her lace robe without a thought for his presence.
"You work here? Who hired you? I'll have their heads! You're dismissed. Get out!"
He had to give her points for noblesse. She had neither humility nor remorse, only this melodramatic rage. "It's a little late for theatrics, Isabelle," the Duc quietly said, "although," he added with a wicked smile, "you have a wonderful flair for acting. I never realized you could be so submissive." His dark brows rose in compliment. "I'm truly amazed."
"Roger, find your damn clothes and get out of here!" Isabelle commanded, she the general now, their roles reversed.
A more familiar posture for the Duc to comprehend. "Get his name," Etienne said to Charbeau as he watched the man struggle into his long cassock while he was moving toward the door, his crested underwear abandoned on Isabelle's couch.
"Yes, sir."
By this time, several servants had converged in the hall outside, standing well back from the open door, fearful of approaching too closely with the Duchesse's voice raised to that familiar pitch.
The Duc smiled at them all and waved a greeting before he closed the door behind the retreating figures of the priest and Charbeau.
"I have the legal right to shoot you and your lover dead," he pleasantly said, turning back to Isabelle. "You're aware of that, I presume, since you've been so dedicated to the infinite details of divorce these past months. Unfortunately, you don't have the same option with me. Unfair, I know, but men, after all, devise these laws so it's to be expected." His voice was softly amused, his green eyes touched with a sardonic neutrality. While he understood the injustice of the law, he'd suffered, too, under the injustice of his brother-in-law's patronage. Life wasn't always fair.
"So—are we even now?"
"I hate you!"
"Somehow I already knew that," he said coolly. "What I'd like to know is whether we can now proceed with this divorce like reasonable adults or whether you wish to be brought into court to recount the events I just witnessed?"
"I'll say you lied."
"Charbeau is a bailiff."
"Charles can have him dismissed."
"This isn't the first time, Isabelle, you've amused yourself with these… advocates of God on earth, only the first time I've seen you. Bourges has several other incidents on file concerning you and your pretty young priests that only require time to fully develop as potent cases against you. The Pope isn't going to receive you anymore if this all becomes public. Think of the waste for all those lace mantillas you have that Flemish village produce for you each year."
"Divorce cases are sealed."
His smile was brutal. "You know how gossip is…damaging even without corroboration. How do they put those tantalizing tidbits in The Herald or Le Figaro… Duchesse X was seen being spiritually invigorated by Monseigneur Z, secretary to an important Archbishop at the Minister of Justice's reception last June. You're right. Nobody would know it was you."
"Charles can censor those papers."
"Don't count on it. Was Baptiste the first of your priestly lovers?" he asked, the black disgruntled looks he'd received years ago from the Montigny family cure finally explained.
"I won't discuss Baptiste with you!"
"Are the twins mine?" he asked in passing, out of a morbid curiosity only, because, as he recalled, the Montigny cure was slender with light brown hair and his children favored the de Vec size and coloring. Even Jolie was tall for a woman.
"Of course!"
"Don't act so offended, Isabelle. You could have been fucking him too. Although what's the polite period of time for you convent-bred ladies—a virgin at marriage or at least the look of it. I was never quite sure. Did you bring him to your bed once you knew you were pregnant with the required heir?"
"You disgust me!"
"Pardon me for speaking plainly. I forget how damned refined you are. When you fuck priests, does it obliterate the pungent odor of sweaty bodies… and illicit sin?"
"Baptiste always said you were an animal! How all the girls were grabbing you at the May Day in our village at Poisse. And you teasing them back like some peasant. You had hands like a peasant, too, Baptiste said, too large, like your body. Maybe governesses like loutish men—"
The Duc's eyes opened fractionally at the citation about Ursalina.
"He told me about your pretty little governess who taught you more than French literature!"
"Like your abbe, you mean. With hands like these, Isabelle, I'm surprised you consented to marry me. You shouldn't have lowered yourself. So many other families were angling for the de Vec fortune at the time, I wouldn't have been devastated. You should have run off with your parish priest."
"He was penniless."
"Ah…" the Duc softly sighed, everything suddenly… infintely clear. He was the husband who made the Montignys so much richer, while the abbe was not only already wed to the Church, but worse—he was poor.
Oddly, he felt relieved to know.
Over the years, he'd brushed off the inadequacies of his marriage, but Isabelle's indifference had left some scars on his youthful psyche. Ti
me had exonerated the taint of personal blame when so many females found him tantalizing, but he'd never forgotten Isabelle's cold repudiation once she was the Duchesse de Vec. He'd always questioned whether the fault lay with him.
"It was never very pleasant, was it?" Etienne said in a low quiet voice, gazing at the woman he'd considered his wife for so long, overcome with the small ruin of their lives.
"Good Lord, Etienne," Isabelle said in impatient exasperation, "you always had that romantic streak. Romance has nothing to do with marriage. We lead lives like everyone else, like our parents did, and their parents."
"What about happiness?"
"Your newest bitch-in-heat can give you that. She's remarkably dark, by the way… like a blackamoor."
So much for the finer points of happiness as a philosophy, Etienne realized. "Nothing's as black as your damned heart, Isabelle," he said, a great wave of loathing and weariness overcoming him, reminding him of the utter lack of feeling in his wife for anyone but herself. "If I hear another word about Daisy, I guarantee you, I'll see that every last person in Paris has a description of your interesting display of religious eroticism. And while I've never been formally introduced to your dominant partner, I recognized the embroidered crest on his underwear," he said, glancing at the black silk left behind. "I don't think the Duc de Nantes will appreciate you corrupting his darling son. He has influence with the Pope, I understand. Maybe he could have you excommunicated or your hypocritical cousin the Archbishop. Think about that for a minute or so while you ponder your decision on our divorce. I'm in a hurry though, so be quick."
"Do I have a choice?"
"It depends on your threshold of humiliation and my vindictive tendencies. You've put me through hell, Isabelle, these last few months."
"I don't particularly care."
"That's honest at least. Shall we have our lawyers begin some preliminary negotiations… in say—an hour?"
"Impossible!"
"What's impossible?" he said menacingly.
She had the good sense to say, "The time… an hour's impossible."
"Maybe one of your spiritual advisors could contrive a miracle then, because I want Letheve at Bourges's office in one hour. I'm leaving for America tomorrow."
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