It had the most powerful pull on him.
It was so potent, no one, not even the newest, most coveted courtesan in Paris, no matter how charming or beautiful, would be able to obliterate it.
*****
Isabelle crossed the grand entrance of the Comtesse de Grandville’s hôtel with the elegant, unhurried strides she’d perfected. Her dear friend Nicole was by her side as the stout majordomo led the way.
Be calm…
Anyone observing Isabelle—or rather Juliette Carre—would never know that the confident smile she wore belied the disquiet churning in her belly. The din from the masque—its chatter and music—emanated from behind the tall white-and-gold double doors at the far end of the vast vestibule.
Resonating around her.
Growing louder and louder the closer they got to the comtesse’s grand salon.
Isabelle was grateful to have Nicole with her. Her mere presence gave her the boost of confidence she needed to get through yet another event as Juliette. This persona she’d adopted was still so new to her. Only a few months old.
And there was no room for error.
This was her only means to survive. And after all she’d been through, she was most assuredly a survivor.
Discreetly, Isabelle smoothed the skirts of her costly gown, then checked her dark blue demi-mask with white plumes, making certain it was securely in place. Your appearance is fine. She stilled her fidgety fingers immediately.
Be calm.
She’d had the same knots in her stomach the last time she’d selected a new lover.
Thanks to Nicole’s tutelage, there were several prospects to choose from. Isabelle had been lavished with expensive gifts and extravagant sums from a number of powerful men. After much thought and discussion with Nicole, Isabelle had made her choice—the Duc de Vannod. He’d petitioned her with a generous sum of money and a magnificent silver-and-diamond pin. He was attractive. Widowed.
And tonight, she was going to inform him that he was the one she’d selected.
She took in a quiet breath and firmly tamped down her nervousness.
Pleasing Vannod both in and out of the boudoir—and ultimately leaving him wanting more, weeks from now when she’d end the affair—was imperative if male interest in her was to continue to grow. And grow it must. Though, there was just one problem.
She was a complete fraud.
Behind the façade of Juliette Carre was merely a woman who’d been raised around her father’s acting troupe and knew how to put on a convincing performance. A woman who’d utilized the education her father had provided his daughters—an education far superior to what most highborn women received. At each salon Juliette Carre attended, she’d charmed and heightened her appeal, as she was able to discuss novels and the arts and debate topics of interest with deftness. Able to read, write, and speak Italian, thanks to the Italian actors she’d been raised around. Juliette Carre was always poised, witty, graceful—attributes men with prominence found attractive.
It didn’t hurt that Juliette Carre was from a long line of courtesans, her mother having once been a popular Venetian courtesan. That was the story she weaved, the tall tale she’d told everyone who asked about Juliette’s past.
As to Juliette’s sexual experience, it wasn’t nearly as vast as everyone thought.
Not even close.
The number of men she’d ever had sexually was the grand sum of…two.
One was the sweet and gentle Marquis de Cambry, whom she’d selected—thanks to Nicole’s help once again—upon Juliette’s debut in Paris. And the other wasn’t much of a man at all. Roch had been nothing but a scoundrel of the highest order, preying on her vulnerability, taking full advantage of her dire circumstances and her naïveté.
But she was no longer naïve.
She was practical, realistic. And determined.
“Everything is going to be perfect tonight, my darling. You’ll see,” Nicole reassured, affectionately looping her arm with hers.
Clearly, her dear friend sensed her agitation.
As she glanced at the beautiful fifty-six-year-old woman beside her, Isabelle’s smile turned genuine and warm. Full of affection. Years ago, when her father’s theater had been the center of society, she’d been completely awestruck each time the stunning woman with the sumptuous gowns, lush blonde curls, and glittery jewelry attended her father’s comedies. Nicole captivated everyone, both men and women, then and now. Though her hair color had changed slightly, Nicole was just as striking, fascinating, and engaging as ever. And just as sought after by men, who still vied for her attention and craved the company of the renowned former courtesan and respected writer. Nicole’s intellect and extraordinary talent for penning poetry had garnered the admiration of the intellectual and social elite. As such, she was invited to all the finest salons in Paris, where lords and ladies, and the literati came together, regardless of social rank, to discuss and debate literature and language, art, politics, and philosophy.
Nicole was an inspiration to her.
In fact, to all woman with few choices.
Thirty-seven years ago, Nicole de Grammont had arrived in Paris with little money, her parents, low-ranking nobles, recently deceased. Yet, despite her diminished circumstances and the limited future she faced, Nicole quickly rose in popularity, gained the acceptance of the aristocracy, becoming the most adored courtesan the city had ever seen. She was so revered that a number of men came forward following the birth of each of her two children to claim the babes as theirs and amply providing for them. Genuinely kind and savvy, Nicole had amassed a fortune over time. And with the aid of her besotted benefactors, she even managed to secure respectable marriages for both her son and daughter.
If Nicole could elevate her children in society and give them a life free from poverty, Isabelle could do the same for her son Gabriel.
And she would.
Nothing would stop her.
“I know it will. Thanks to you.” How could she ever repay Nicole’s generosity and kindness? How could she ever thank her enough for all she’d done, beginning the night Isabelle had arrived on her doorstep, not knowing where else to turn, with no funds. And a hungry young child. It was Nicole who’d placed a roof over Isabelle’s head and that of her eight-year-old little boy. It was Nicole who’d, albeit reluctantly, schooled Isabelle in her role as a courtesan and gained her admittance to the most prestigious salons in the city. It was Nicole who’d sponsored her writing, allowing Isabelle the creative outlet—a place to escape into the novels she wrote and published anonymously—a series that had become astoundingly popular about the lives and loves of two princess sisters who met and eventually married two princes.
Only in her books and with her son did she let down her guard.
Only in the pages of her novels did she experience the love she’d once dreamed about with the only man she’d ever dreamed of.
The most beautiful man she’d ever beheld. Then and since.
Only on the pages of her novels was she reunited with her beloved Sabine.
The stunning news she’d learned months ago from Nicole still had her reeling. How incredible was it that her beautiful twin sister had actually married the man she’d always dreamed of? Jules de Moutier. God, how she missed her every single day. The news of Sabine’s marriage to Jules had elated her. And left her with a sense of longing, on so many levels. She and Sabine had been inseparable. They’d shared secrets. And dreams. Despite their differences in personality, no two sisters had ever been closer. Isabelle had been far more impetuous and adventurous than her levelheaded twin, coaxing her twin into mischief multiple times, sneaking about their father’s theater without his knowledge, spying on the patrons.
Spying on the gorgeous Moutier brothers.
Yet Sabine would hardly recognize her now.
There was very little left of the Isabelle her sister once knew.
And she had no one to blame but herself.
Isabelle swallowed hard ag
ainst the knot that had formed in her throat. This was no time to allow emotions to overtake her. She’d made it her practice to limit her thoughts of her sister. It was far too heart wrenching to think of her. For nine pain-soaked years, she’d been without her other half. Hadn’t hugged her. Laughed with her. Isabelle hadn’t even been there to see her wed. To see her joy. Did Sabine have a child of her own now? For years, Isabelle had been isolated, unable to let anyone know she was still alive. Not after Leon de Vittry had attempted to kill her. He was mad and vicious. He would have surely finished what he’d started, not to mention murder everyone she loved, if he’d learned she’d survived the fire.
But Vittry was dead now. So was Roch. And Sabine was impossible to reach while she lived on an unknown island in the West Indies with her husband.
Nicole affectionately squeezed her arm. “Vannod is an excellent choice. You’ve done so well since you’ve arrived in Paris.” Her smile was always infectious.
“Thank you, Nicole. I’m so very pleased you think so.”
Isabelle might have done everything wrong.
But Juliette was doing everything right.
The sheer number of men she had vying for her was the indisputable proof. So was the small wealth she’d already accumulated. From now on, she, and she alone, would manage her finances, have dominion over her funds and control of her future. She was well on her way to rebuilding some semblance of a life for her and her son. She’d managed to keep everyone safe. Her family. Her child. Herself. Even when mere months ago, she and Gabriel had been suddenly tossed out onto the streets from their home—Roch’s home. Her options were bleak and narrow. Suitable employment at a château was scarce, and even more so with a child in tow. Lord knows she’d tried. No one had wanted her.
They’d all turned her away.
Moreover, the pittance they would pay would never safeguard Gabriel from the poverty she’d known after her family had lost everything during the Fronde. It was her life’s mission for her son to be spared what she’d been through.
Nicole dipped her head and said in her ear, “I think you’ll find your arrangement with Vannod to be mutually pleasing.” Another touching attempt to ease her nerves.
Though she doubted her words, nonetheless, she responded politely. “I’m sure you’re right.”
Nicole made it no secret that she enjoyed sex and believed every woman should. Isabelle didn’t have quite the same enthusiasm for it. The virginal curiosity she’d once had about the intimate act between men and women was long gone. Her sexual experiences in no way resembled the passionate encounters she’d witnessed between couples in the dark corners of her father’s theater and the alley outside. Yet, she’d learned how to put on a passionate performance nonetheless when needed.
And she did it by closing her eyes and conjuring up thoughts of the most beautiful man she’d ever seen—Luc de Moutier.
Though her romantic girlhood notions of him were dead, Luc still served a purpose in her life. Each time she surrendered to an encounter, she imagined that it was Luc’s hands and mouth on her body.
It made it easier.
And she would allow Luc into every intimate act she’d have with Vannod as well. Whatever it took, however long it took to give Gabriel the life he deserved.
They reached the doors to the grand salon.
Isabelle squared her shoulders and brightened her smile. She was ready.
“Now remember, my darling, do not announce your choice until the end of the masque,” Nicole said. “Let them continue to dance and prance about you until the end of the evening. The harder they have to work, the more they will want you.”
The doors swung open. A crush of people was suddenly before her. The salon was full to capacity, the men and women in the center dancing the final steps to the menuet.
A fresh wave of nervousness crested over her. Those nine words that would sometimes assail her rose up in her chest, straight from the heart. “This wasn’t what my life was supposed to be…” She swallowed them down before they could escape her lips and quashed the urge to flee back home.
Enough. You can do this. You shall do this, she assured herself. The duc will be well pleased and brag to all his friends. She’d be fine. Gabriel would be fine.
And tonight, everything was going to go as planned.
Chapter Two
…I almost touched him!
My Fair Prince was at the theater again tonight. (I have decided to name Luc as such after Sabine told me she has dubbed her beloved the Dark Prince.) I convinced Sabine to sneak into the audience with me. I stood so close to where my Fair Prince sat. But, alas, I lost my courage to reach out and touch the fabric of his doublet as I’d planned. I know one day I will touch him. And he will touch me.
And it will be beyond my wildest imaginings…
There she was again.
Luc caught another glimpse of the woman with the luscious dark locks. He was at the Comtesse de Grandville’s masque, immersed in the crowd that lined the perimeter of the grand salon—several rows deep. She was at the center of the room with the others who danced the allemande, moving in perfect unison to the violins and harpsichords.
He’d been bored. Frustrated. In his absence, he’d forgotten just how tedious most of his peers were. He’d never been as well liked or as well regarded as his brother Jules. The few men who’d recognized him tonight had already distanced themselves. Clearly, it wasn’t going to be easy to convince everyone that his lengthy, humbling exile and his service in the King’s navy had changed him.
For the better.
Had curbed his temperament.
The seething rage that had once pounded in his veins, always goading him to find a male counterpart to unleash it on, no longer plagued him.
He’d been debating over the last several minutes whether he should leave early from the masque and start afresh at the next social gathering.
That was until he saw the dark-haired beauty in the deep blue gown.
And her bedazzling smile.
Until he noticed the most adorable little dimple at the corner of her mouth that adorned that smile.
Dieu. A mere flash of her fine profile, demi-mask and all, and he was captivated by her. Who was she? Which aristocratic family did she belong to? If any.
Luc pressed forward through the throng, several strong perfumes assailing his nose along the way, until at last he reached the edge of the dance floor.
At last, an unhindered view.
Normally in social settings, he kept his back to the wall, a longtime habit that made him feel more relaxed, but he was drawn to the beauty with the dark blue demi-mask and white plumes. She placed her palm against her dance partner’s raised hand and turned in a circle in time with the music and dancers around her.
Besotting yet another male in the room.
Her mask unfortunately hid half her face, but not that captivating smile. It graced the sweetest mouth he’d ever seen. She had the most perfect lips. Just the right fullness to drive a man wild.
A man could spend hours in oral worship of that lush mouth.
Riveted, Luc watched each elegant turn and movement she made. With his thoughts so disordered by Isabelle, he knew full well that it was her coloring that had initially drawn his gaze to her. Particularly her dark hair and the fineness of her features. Though there were others with dark hair in the room, this woman resembled just what he’d imagined Isabelle to look like. He couldn’t help but notice her mouthwatering curves accentuated so delectably by her gown. And the top curves of those gorgeous breasts presently visible above her décolletage. She was flushed from the dance, her skin a pretty pink. Looking so silky soft.
His blood warmed. There was something about seeing a woman flush with pleasure that undid him.
Every time.
He fucked hard. Loved to make a woman come hard. He sought out women who matched his intensity in the boudoir. The rush it gave him to rock a woman’s body with powerful orgasms was the sweetest, headie
st aphrodisiac. He left them sated, languid, their skin flushed pink from the pleasure he took from their bodies. And the pleasure he gave in return.
Merde. Luc could feel his cock hardening by the moment. Easy, now…
The last thing he needed was a stiff prick. He wasn’t here to bed anyone. He was on a mission—to begin reclaiming his place in society. And find a bride. Yet, as she danced past again, her beautiful dark cascading curls flouncing over her shoulders with the movement of her body, Luc’s urge to ingratiate himself with the pompous asses in the room completely dissolved.
She was by far the most interesting person here. And he was going to learn exactly who she was.
His mysterious beauty circled her partner once more.
Then caught his gaze.
Abruptly, she stopped, surprising him. Her raised hand, pressed against her partner’s palm, dropped slightly, and he could have sworn that her eyes widened within her mask. Yet she composed herself quickly, brightening her smile for her dance partner, and continued on with the allemande.
What the hell was that about? Did she know him?
He was now more intrigued than ever.
A hand suddenly clasped his shoulder. He snapped his head around and managed to quash the urge to knock the hand away in the nick of time—a purely visceral impulse to being touched, especially anywhere near his back.
Especially by a man.
Christ. It was Marc, and he was sporting his usual genial grin from behind the gray mask he wore. “How goes it, my friend?”
Marc’s hand on his shoulder was a heavy, uncomfortable weight. And despite the layers of clothing Luc had on, it was singeing his skin. That familiar, unwanted anger began bubbling in his blood. Luc turned his body to face the only male friend he had in the room, a purposeful move that caused Marc’s hand to slide away naturally.
The relief was instant, rushing through Luc, washing away the tension in his muscles, the anger receding the moment the touch was gone.
Three Reckless Wishes (Fiery Tales Book 10) Page 2
