Literary Love
Page 58
Pan Zador has one other novel published under the Crimson Romance imprint — Act of Love is a story set in the present day world of theatre, where, she is happy to say, costumes and underwear are removed far more easily than in Bathsheba Everdene’s day.
A Room with a View
The Wild and Wanton Edition
Coco Rousseau and E.M. Forster
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2013 by Coco Rousseau and E. M. Forster
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 10: 1-4405-7036-1
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7036-0
eISBN 10: 1-4405-7037-X
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7037-7
Cover art © istock.com/Munic, istock.com/Tramont_ana, istock.com/Yuri
Dedicated to
My Secret Admirer
He tells me the view is endless …
Je t’adore, mon chéri.
Je t’aimerai pour toujours!
Coco Rousseau
Contents
Dedication
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PART ONE
Chapter I: The Bertolini
Chapter II: In Santa Croce with No Baedeker
Chapter III: Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”
Chapter IV: Fourth Chapter
Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing
Chapter VI: The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson, Mr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them.
Chapter VII: They Return
PART TWO
Chapter VIII: Medieval
Chapter IX: Lucy As a Work of Art
Chapter X: Cecil as a Humourist
Chapter XI: In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat
Chapter XII: Twelfth Chapter
Chapter XIII: How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome
Chapter XIV: How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely
Chapter XV: The Disaster Within
Chapter XVI: Lying to George
Chapter XVII: Lying to Cecil
Chapter XVIII: Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants
Chapter XIX: Lying to Mr. Emerson
Chapter XX: The End of the Middle Ages
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Coco Rousseau lives in Paris, France. When not partaking of nightlife and fashionable parties, she spends her days strolling through museums, drinking cappuccino in outdoor cafes, and writing romance novels in her penthouse apartment on Avenue des Champs-Élysées. A young widow, her husband left her his entire fortune and beloved Porcelaine dog named Grizou Belle. She and Grizou Belle have been spotted dining together at Bistrot Paul Bert or Le Meurice.
Coco’s inspiration for the adaption of A Room with a View comes from her love of storytelling. To Coco, every story is a love story, some more passionate than others. E.M Forster’s A Room with a View is a beautiful love story that lacks only passionate love scenes to bring it to life. Now with Coco’s adaptation, it’s complete.
Au Revoir … until we meet again.
Coco
PART ONE
Chapter I: The Bertolini
“The Signora had no business to do it,” said Miss Bartlett, “no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!”
“And a Cockney, besides!” said Lucy to her cousin, Miss Bartlett, who had been further saddened by the Signora’s unexpected accent. “It might be London,” Lucy continued. Then she looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.), that was the only other decoration of the wall; and she might have remained saddened had her eyes not swept past an older gentleman and come to rest upon the dashingly handsome face of a young man. She studied the lines of his face, absorbing all of his features at once. There was a softness to his fair complexion and cerulean eyes, yet the man in him was strong and exuded all that was masculine, all that she so longed to know.
Lucy’s bosom swelled, her heart began to flutter, and her breath hastened. She was utterly mesmerized, unable to break her gaze, though she lingered a measure too long because the young man suddenly met her stare
Bursting from within, Lucy’s heart pulsed against its cage: a cage that she had never once been allowed to escape.
The couple stared longingly into each other’s eyes as though they shared a secret: one of intimacy, one that might have revealed they had been lovers from the birth of time. Despite her attempt to stay calm, she felt her cheeks flush with heat and her pulse quicken. When a fork clinked loudly against the older man’s plate, Lucy quickly cast her eyes down and toward her own plate. Searching for her breath, she could hardly believe her boldness, a brazenness that had sprung from hidden depths inside her that she had not even known existed. How could she have permitted herself to be partner to this surreptitious exchange with a stranger?
Was she to blame for these strange new feelings that were beginning to stir deep within her — feelings that glided like lightning from the tips of her bosoms through her loins and down to the very ends of her toes.
How could she feel such yearning desire to be in the arms of a man she had never once laid eyes upon before this day in her life? She felt as though she was possessed by some inexplicable and captivating allure. She questioned whether she would be able to eat another bite much less converse with the others while they took their evening meal.
She could not stop herself. Her imagination sprang forth and began to roam through the wilds of her mind. The handsome young man lying next to her; her body cradled in his. Their breath as one. Their hands freely exploring. Her legs slowly unfolding to allow his caressing hand to know her intimate flesh.
“Ah.” The very thought of his touch befell Lucy with such an intense sensation that a surge of lust shot through her loins. Try as she might, she could not calm her nerves. She felt the urge to run.
All aflutter, she placed a hand on her Cousin Charlotte’s lap. “I must fetch my handkerchief from the room, I will return shortly,” Lucy whispered.
“My dear Lucia, can it not wait?” Miss Bartlett said in an attempt to suppress her young cousin.
“No, I am quite sorry. Pardon me. I won’t be long.”
Lucy quickly slipped away from her chaperon and hurried from the dining room hall. As she rounded the corner, she hurried to stairs, which led to the sleeping quarters upstairs. The clock in the hallway struck; the surprise of it almost shattered her nerves. Her head spinning, Lucy hastened to an unexpected stop and braced herself against the wall. Closing her eyes, she took a moment to catch her breath as she listened to the clock wend its way through its chords.
“Is it possible to be lovestruck?” she thought. “Hit by a bolt of lightning clapping the earth?”
Lucy felt an overwhelming urge to be taken, to be ravaged, to be made love to in the most intimate and devouring of manners. Although what did she know of these matters? She knew nothing of such delicacies; these affairs were not to be spoken of till the bedroom door closed on one’s wedding night; though, the primal urge could not be denied.
“What’s come over me?” she thought. “
Perhaps it’s just fatigue.” Lucy brought her hands to her raised bosom. “That must be it, only tiredness from travel.” She drew in a long savoring breath. “To be sure, that must be it, nothing more.”
The clock reached its final stanza and the only sound that remained was the faint echoes of the bells. Breathing more steadily, Lucy opened her eyes and leaned over to straighten her skirts. She would forego the handkerchief and return to the dining room instead.
Only as she turned to go, the very gentleman who had stolen her breath completely away was standing right there, in front of her, unnaturally close, in this lone hallway. It was just the two of them. Man and woman. He was so close.
Could it be a dream? Did her eyes deceive her?
It could not be. No, it could not. She felt the heat radiating from his body and pouring into her soul.
The air in the hallway instantly drained.
Frightened and filled with insatiable desire, Lucy gasped, trying desperately to draw in a breath, trying to scream, although the presence of this man had shaken her to down to her innermost core, stealing not only her breath but also her words.
Surely, his intentions were not …
Without uttering a word, without asking for permission, he grasped her arms and held her firm. He stared deeply into her eyes. Still, he spoke not a word, although his labored breath was hot against hers.
Braced against the wall, she could not escape. There was nowhere to go. Her heart beat uncontrollably. Inside she ached, her legs weakened. And then he took his liberty. He leaned closer and before she could form a word, her face was in his hands. His strong, warm hands, holding her ever so gently. He paused for a moment to study her face, and then softly touched his lips against hers.
Lucy was unable to resist. Never before kissed, she relinquished every bit of control to this man. With his tongue, he parted her lips to slip inside and find her tongue. Soft and delicate, he began sliding his tongue against hers in a rhythm that played like a sonata.
As if tasting honey for the first time in his life, he kissed her ever so gently till the beast in him emerged unfettered. All at once, he closed the distance between them till he pressed himself against her skirts. There was no mistaking his intention. He kissed her harder. More wildly. Passionately. She could not have stopped him had she wanted to — and she did not want him to stop.
His hands released from her face and slid over the fabric of her dress toward her bosom, where he grasped the fullness of each breast in his hands. He found the aroused tips of her bosom pressing against the cloth and began to circle them with his fingertips.
Through their kisses, Lucy surrendered a light sigh. His touch was so pleasureful, she began to purr until the purr became a moan. A moan filled with such indulgence that it begged for him to lift her skirts. If only his hands would find her intimate flesh. Oh, the pleasure she had longed for — the desire to be caressed, the need to be released. Oh my love, don’t stop.
He lifted his lips from hers and began kissing the line of her jaw, moving ever so slowly toward her neck. Unable to speak, she could only gasp with that unspeakable desire. Not asking, he slipped his fingers through her blouse, but just as he was about to clasp the buds of her bosoms, footsteps pattered across the wooden floors downstairs and toward the staircase.
Charlotte!
The young man straightened, and then whispered into Lucy’s ear, “Please do not think ill of me, Your beauty drew me to you, my darling.”
The stranger drew back, parted himself from her, and rushed toward the stairs.
Bewildered, Lucy raced to her room, and before she closed her door, she heard the voice of Charlotte speaking to the Signora.
Safe inside the sleeping quarters, Lucy hurried to settle herself. She raced to her looking glass mirror and saw that her face was flushed a crimson red. Reaching quickly for her powder brush, she began painting her face.
There was a rap on the door.
Lucy was straightening her hair just as the door burst open..
“Are you quite all right, my dear, Lucia?” Miss Bartlett inquired of her young cousin.
“Of course. Shall we go back down?”
Without waiting for a reply, Lucy hurried past Miss Bartlett, and before long, the two were once again situated at the dining room table with all of its members assembled exactly as they had left them, including the handsome young man who had so intimately descended upon Lucy in that upper hallway only moments ago. Had the two of them been left there alone for a moment longer, pray tell what would have become of her chaste virtue?
Lucy was a shambles, confused, and filled with unspeakable thoughts. How would he dare? Should she feel shame? She glimpsed at the young man, but what she saw astonished her; he appeared exactly as she had left him when he was seated at the table — untouched.
“Lucia,” said Miss Bartlett. “Do eat.”
Sweeping her eyes past the young man, Lucy forced herself to speak pleasantly to her cousin. “Charlotte,” she said, “don’t you feel, too, that we might be in London?? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one’s being so tired.”
“This meat has surely been used for soup,” said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork.
“I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!”
“Any nook does for me,” Miss Bartlett continued; “but it does seem hard that you shouldn’t have a view.”
Lucy felt that she had been selfish. “Charlotte, you mustn’t spoil me: of course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front — ”
“You must have it,” said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy’s mother — a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion.
“No, no. You must have it.”
“I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy.”
“She would never forgive me.”
The ladies’ voices grew animated, and — if the sad truth be owned — a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them — one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad — leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said:
“I have a view, I have a view.”
Miss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that they would “do” till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of senility. What exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. He was probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into the swim. So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and then said: “A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a view is!”
“This is my son,” said the old man; “his name’s George. He has a view too.”
“Ah,” said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who was about to speak.
“Ah, the name. He has a name,” Lucy thought. “One wouldn’t simply be a handsome young man who took liberties to kiss a complete stranger; he must of course have a name: George. Her Dear George.”
For a better definition, Lucy considered George at length. He was not only a handsome young man who sat contentedly, appearing quite untouched as though it were perfectly natural to go about seducing another’s affections without speaking a word. He was genuinely the most desirable man she had ever set eyes upon in her life.
The kiss — the very kiss — they shared just moments ago thrilled Lucy so that her toes still tingled. She knew she had to restrain her desire, but it was only heightened.
; “What I mean,” the older man continued, “is that you can have our rooms, and we’ll have yours. We’ll change.”
The better class of tourist was shocked at this, and sympathized with the newcomers. Miss Bartlett, in reply, opened her mouth as little as possible, and said “Thank you very much indeed; that is out of the question.”
Lucy wriggled her toes at the very thought of lying in the same bed in which George had slept.
“Why?” said the old man, with both fists on the table.
“Because it is quite out of the question, thank you,” replied Miss Bartlett.
“You see, we don’t like to take — ” began Lucy. Her cousin again repressed her.
“But why?” he persisted. “Women like looking at a view; men don’t.” And he thumped with his fists like a naughty child, and turned to his son, saying, “George, persuade them!”
“It’s so obvious they should have the rooms,” said the son. “There’s nothing else to say … ”
Though calm on the outside, George did not look at Lucy for fear that his desires would be laid upon the table for all to inspect. His hands moistened at the thought of touching her bare breasts, separated only by the thin cloth of her dress. He had been so close to claiming his prize, so close to making her his own. His fingers hungered at the thought of finding the tips of her bare breasts, the very act which had been denied.
George’s heart began to pound within the confines of his chest. The young woman had bedazzled him like no other. Her beauty had allured him, compelled him to act upon impulse. He wanted her. The touch of her soft lips against his, to feel her, to know her quiet sighs, to see her blissful expression.