The hell he would. A girl like Joséphine deserved a competent lover, not a fumbling boy. No stablehand could appreciate those pillowy breasts, plump thighs...
An idea, born from the lascivious beast of his mind, sprung to the forefront of his thoughts. He had promised Henrí that he would teach Joséphine the skills she would need to impress Prince Philipe. It wouldn’t be breaking the letter of their agreement, though perhaps it did bruise the spirit.
“Not a stableboy,” he said slowly. “Someone who understands the kind of woman that Philipe is drawn to. Someone who has seen him giving and receiving pleasure, and who has heard tales of his exploits in graphic detail.”
“Is that so?” Madame Brujon lifted an eyebrow like an executioner raising the axe. “And I suppose you know just the man for the job?”
Julien did, and though his conscience would likely war with him, he could not wait to take Joséphine under his tutelage.
Chapter Four
Though she’d slept miserably on the ride to Julien’s home, Joséphine could not force herself to sleep during daylight hours. Just as she had managed to doze off, the horrible housekeeper intruded into the room and dusted more noisily than Joséphine thought possible for such a quiet task. After that, sleep seemed hopeless.
When the sun was sinking in the sky above the beautiful, tree-lined avenue which Joséphine spied from her window, the housekeeper returned to dump an armful of fabrics onto the bed. Not fabrics, Joséphine realized, her heart pounding. Dresses. Beautiful dresses, all in the latest fashion. She pawed through the pile eagerly, knowing all the while that she looked like a pig digging up a truffle.
“Find one that isn’t too fancy. This isn’t the place for frills and bows. Save that nonsense for court.” With that, the old housekeeper flounced from the room as though the task she’d just finished had been wholly unnecessary and completely humiliating.
She probably knows all about my family, Joséphine thought with a stab of shame. Then, she forced it aside. Poverty or riches, she was still Henrí Thévenet’s daughter. She was still of a station far above some cranky housekeeper.
For dinner, she selected a lovely dress. Not too frilly—the old woman hadn’t needed to instruct her on how to dress appropriately for a country house!—but not as plain as a day dress. The pink silk rustled as she slipped it over her head. Though her stepsisters had servants to help them dress every day, Joséphine had managed quite well on her own, as she did now. With no brush or tongs to curl her hair, she settled for a simple braid that hung down her back. Rather like a princess from a story, she thought with satisfaction as she viewed her reflection in the tall looking glass. The dress fit a bit tight, and the neck scooped a bit low for someone with as generous a bosom as she possessed, but she could not deny that the color flattered and she looked far better in silk than in plain cotton lawn that was wearing through at the elbows.
The housekeeper announced dinner informally—a rap at the door and curt shout of “food’s done!”—and Joséphine found her way to the great hall, where a long dining table was set with a sumptuous banquet. Her stomach rumbled loudly at the sight and scent of all the food. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was.
At the head of the table, Julien stood, offering her a chair to his right. “I thought Madame Brujon would have brought you down, herself.”
“I found my own way,” she said brightly, determined that she would not say anything ungracious to her host during her entire stay. “Thank you for the dresses.”
He helped her push her chair in, then sat in his own. “You look lovely. I’m glad I could provide them. A seamstress will arrive tomorrow morning to help with the fit.”
She flushed, both pleased that he found her lovely and ashamed that he had noticed that her not-slender physique strained the seams. “Thank you. I will try not to eat very much. I don’t usually, I mean, but I will try to be…smaller.”
“Nonsense,” he said, reaching for a delicious-looking savory tart overflowing with cream and sliced mushrooms. He dropped it neatly onto her plate. “The prince prefers a nice, plump girl to a skinny one.”
“He does?” It was hard to imagine that any man would desire her. At least, that was what her stepsisters had told her constantly.
Julien nodded as though this fascinating bit of trivia was common knowledge. “Of course he does. I do. Our tastes are so similar that we’ve occasionally butted heads over a prospective conquest.”
“That is…very frank talk for a dinner conversation,” she admonished quietly. Why on earth would he tell her such a thing? Unless his plan was to seduce her, as she had hoped--no, suspected!--all along?
He motioned to the food on the table. “Please, help yourself.”
She looked around for some servants, like the ones who served Papa and her stepmother and stepsisters at dinner. She ate in the kitchen, owing to the fact that her stepmother had bought one too few dining chairs and did not wish to have a mismatched set at her table. There were no servants present, not even the old housekeeper. “Pardon me for questioning you after you’ve been so kind to me, Julien, but aren’t I supposed to be learning how to conduct myself at court? Shouldn’t we be served, rather than serving ourselves? And should we not talk of more--delicate things?”
He laughed at that. “I forget that you have never been to court. There is very little delicate talk when you gather men and women who spend their days doing nothing but gambling and dancing and fucking.”
She gasped at the shocking word, then composed herself when an apology did not appear to be forthcoming. “But surely there are some manners.”
“Madame Brujon is an excellent tutor where manners are concerned,” he began. “She will instruct you on these things during the day, while I am hunting or reading or otherwise occupied.”
That was some relief. Joséphine could hardly believe that she would learn any manners from this man. What on earth had her father been thinking, sending her along with him? Furthermore, she could not understand how her sweet, gentle father had ever maintained an acquaintance with someone so crude. She cut into the tart on her plate and took a dainty bite.
Julien continued, “And during the evenings, you will have dinner with me and I will instruct you in all the carnal matters you must know about in order to please his highness the prince.”
She choked noisily on the bite she had taken. Julien sprang from his chair to slap her on the back, and the chewed up bit of pastry flew from her mouth in a horribly undignified fashion. She covered it with her napkin, her face burning with shame and lack of air.
“I am used to a somewhat more enthusiastic response,” he quipped, settling back into his seat.
Gulping in great lungfuls of air, she snapped, “I am sure you are. From ladies of much lesser virtue!”
“Virtue has very little to do with it,” he said, completely unaffected by her insult. “Doesn’t it seem silly to you, to put such value upon ignorance?”
“I am not ignorant. I know what occurs between a man and woman in their marriage bed.” Her entire head must now resemble a poppy blossom, round and bright red. Never in all her life would she have thought to have such a conversation with a man.
Julien shrugged while cutting a thick slice of venison from the roast. “You know the mechanics. Every woman of an age to bleed knows the mechanics. To impress the prince, you will need a more specialized knowledge.”
“You don’t mean to imply that I will…that we…” Now, another part of her grew warm, despite her every good intention to remain outraged at this indecency. “Am I going to bed with you?”
“Yes, eventually,” he said casually, taking a bite. “Is that distasteful to you?”
Distasteful? She grew wet between her legs just imagining a kiss from him. Yes, he was older than her, but a horridly wanton part of her went weak just imagining all of his experience, how he would make her feel. Her breath quickened and her breasts strained against the tight bodice, swelling further over the top of the f
abric. She could not trust herself to speak, but averted her gaze from his and shook her head.
“Then I don’t see how this would not work to your benefit. You will have a very skilled instructor and you will learn how to beguile the prince. If you’re a good enough student, he might marry you. He might make you the royal mistress. Either way, you would be provided for far more capably than any prospect your father might have been able to wrangle for you.” Julien took a sip from his glass, then, as an afterthought, asked, “Wine?”
She lifted her glass and let him pour her some from the crystal decanter on the table. Though it was bad manners to do so, she gulped it down as quickly as she could. She needed something to steady her nerves. “So that I am fully aware of what I am agreeing to…you propose that you should teach me how to…make love? So that when we go to court I might…seduce the prince?”
Julien nodded “Of course, you have every right to refuse me. You will still learn all you need to interact capably at court, and I will lend every one of my advantages to you in helping you secure a fine husband.”
“But not a prince,” she said, adding his unspoken warning for him.
“The prince is a man very much like me. He is not interested in having a wife or a mistress who does not know how to please him, or how to please herself.” And he left it at that, waiting for her to answer.
Her head swam with confusion and doubt. Could she let him ruin her? Her body was completely willing, and a large part of her mind, as well. But she must remember to think logically about this. Her stepsisters would have been in his lap in the carriage, but not her. She was good. She was virtuous. Even if her thoughts weren’t always so. “Perhaps we can come to a slightly different arrangement?”
“What would you propose?” he asked, lifting his fork for another bite.
She took a deep breath. “I know that there are other…things. Besides a man putting his…into…well, there are just other things. Perhaps you could teach me those, without completing the act.”
The corner of his mouth twitched as though he were trying not to smile. He chewed and swallowed the bite he had taken, paused thoughtfully, then said, “Yes, I suppose I could.”
Without finishing the food on his plate, he stood. She wondered if he would leave now, if it had been a test to see if she were pure enough for his friend, the prince, and she had failed. But he came to kneel beside her chair, leaning close enough that his lips grazed her ear when he asked, “So, have we come to an agreement, then?”
She trembled, but her limbs seemed frozen. She wanted to say something, but could not find her voice. He lifted his hand and trailed his fingers across the tops of her breasts, the touch so light she barely felt it. The crackling of the fire in the hearth competed with her ragged breathing, the only two sounds in the room struggling for dominance. Finally, she managed to nod and squeak, “Yes,” and he turned her face to his with two fingers under her chin.
“Excellent,” he said, brushing his wine-spiced mouth across hers briefly. Then, he stood and returned to his chair. “We will begin tonight. I will come to your room after Madame Brujon helps you to bed. You should expect me.”
She nodded again, unable to do anything else. Tonight? She could not help watching his hands as he cut up his meat, lifted his glass. She practically forgot to eat her own dinner, though food was the farthest thought from her mind.
Tonight, she would be seduced—at least, almost seduced—by Julien Auvrey.
Chapter Five
After barely touching her dinner and consuming far too much wine, Joséphine was glad for Madame Brujon’s assistance in getting undressed for bed. The housekeeper had brought her a robe of a guazey material that would not properly conceal anything, with ribbons all down the front to close it.
“As if closing it would make it any better,” Jospehine had mumbled.
The housekeeper had only responded with a harumph, as though she heartily disapproved the proceedings, and left her.
Now, Joséphine rested in the big bed, her mind tortured by her fevered imaginings. What if he saw her without her corset holding her in and decided that she was far too fat to interest him? What if she did something wrong, said something wrong?
What if she did something right? What if she had no desire to stop him from lying between her legs and doing only what should be done within the bonds of marriage?
The door handle rattled softly, and that small sound was enough to stop her heart. Her eyes grew wide, and she clutched her gauzy robe closed tighter at her throat. The door swung open and in strode Julien. In the light of candlestick he carried—and in light of what they were about to embark on—his features seemed sharper, his presence larger. He fixed her with a critical eye for the briefest glance before he turned and exited once more. His sharp “No!” was muffled by the door as it closed.
Confusion and shame drove her from the bed. What on earth had she done wrong already? And how could he be so callous about it? He knew she was but a maiden. Where was his compassion?
She reached the door just as it opened again, but it did not stay open long. He couldn’t have seen more than her little toe around the corner of the door when he slammed it again with another “No!”
Tears of anger sprang to her eyes. “What have I done wrong?”
If he’d had a heart, he would have opened the door, taken her into his arms, and kissed away her doubts. But he had none, for he told her, “You’ve already lost my interest.”
A soft gasp escaped her. How dare he! He’d seemed interested enough at the dinner table. Her traitorous body flushed with the memory of his hand stroking over her bare collarbones, his lips making promises of pleasure against her ear. Now, his desire for her had waned? She could not believe it.
“Are you ready to try again?” he asked, sounding almost bored.
Not a soul could blame her if she waited sweetly beside the door and let her fist fly when it opened.
“Remember, you are not here to please me, but to learn to please the Prince. Do you think he will be interested in a girl who lies passive in bed, waiting for him to come to her?” His voice held no hostility or mocking, only the slightest impatience of a teacher struggling to impart a difficult lesson to his student.
She sighed. “Wait one moment, please.”
Her hands shaking, she smoothed the coverlet on the bed and climbed up to lie carefully in the center. With held breath, she pulled the first ribbon of her robe and parted the fabric, displaying just as much decollete as her dinner dress had. She considered her legs, lying straight and close as two effigies on a sepulcher, and she frowned. It would be lewd to splay them open. She twisted her hips so that her knees fell to the side, parting by a small, natural increment. So pleased was she by the result, she loosened the lowest tie and pushed her robe apart to frame her legs.
The door handle rattled once more, and she took a deep breath. The illusion she had created suddenly seemed ridiculous, amateurish. She pressed a hand to her chest to try and calm herself, and her fingers brushed the spot where Julien had touched her skin. She shuddered at the memory, letting her hand come to rest, fingers idly stroking the smooth, hot flesh there.
“Much better,” Julien purred, and Joséphine’s eyes flew open. She hadn’t heard him enter the room. She hadn’t even realized she’d closed her eyes, drifting back to that moment when he had dipped his head and pressed his soft, warm lips to her breast. Now, he’d walked in to find her careful pose loose-limbed, her lip caught between her teeth as her fingers played idly with her breast above the lace-trimmed edge of her robe.
“Th-thank you,” she stammered, quickly covering her legs with the filmy robe.
A smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “You were doing so well.”
“This is all so new to me.” She dipped her head. “You’ll forgive me if I do not grasp all the intricacies right away.”
“There will be nothing to forgive. But I do expect you to uphold your end of our bargain. You wished to learn, s
o you must be willing to accept instruction.” He set the candlestick on the little table beside the bed, then seated himself in the chair beside it. “Now, come and undress me.”
Her mouth went dry. “I do not think—”
“I did not ask you to. I asked that you come and undress me.” He leaned on one arm, his critical gaze sweeping over her. “Without that silly night gown.”
She swallowed the fear that balled up in her throat and slipped from the bed, her hand clutched protectively on the robe. Perhaps he would not notice if she left it on, if she didn’t falter in her steps toward him.
“Joséphine,” he admonished softly, never taking his eyes from her.
She stopped, her fingers flexing on the knotted ribbon she clutched. She had anticipated that some degree of nakedness would be required for their lessons, but she hadn’t imagined it would be so soon. Or so plainly stated. “I thought you might…rip my clothes off in passion.”
“Why?” He arched an eyebrow and loosened his cravat with one finger. “What would you do to make me so overcome with passion that I tore your nightgown from your body?”
“What would I do?” Wasn’t that the natural state of a man? Constantly enflamed by the passions repressed for the benefit of polite society? It’s what all the romantic novels she’d read claimed.
She watched his finger tugging at the silk around his neck, and a wicked picture sprang to her mind. He tasked her with making a bold move, so a bold move he would get. As he watched, amusement lighting his eyes, she stepped slowly toward him, idly playing with the ribbon that held the robe closed over her breasts. The garment felt like armor, though it was so sheer he could no doubt see her nipples, tight with anxious desire, standing out against the fabric. She let her hands drop as she came so close to him that their knees bumped. He looked up, silently daring her to make her next gambit, and before she could let herself think a second thought, climbed onto the chair, straddled his lap and grasped the cravat still tied around his neck. Her breath quickened, and to her satisfaction, so did his. She jerked him forward, so that their lips almost touched, and let him feel her breath against his mouth, as he had done to her during dinner.
Glass Slipper Page 3
