The Lovely Duckling (Fiery Tales Book 8)

by Lila DiPasqua

  “If passion is what you want, then that is exactly what you shall have, ma chère,” Pauline said. “Besides, marriage is highly overrated. Trust me, I should know. I was married to the Comte de Saint-Arnaud. A lover is much more preferable than a husband. You can easily change a lover.”

  Marthe’s head shot up. “Have you no decency?”

  “Oh, hush, Marthe.” Pauline walked up to Emilie and pulled her away from her older cousin. “You are going to enjoy yourself this week.”

  “But—But—what if they recognize her?” Marthe asked. “You know what they did years ago—”

  “No one will recognize me,” Emilie cut her off abruptly, not wanting to remember that night. Or talk about it. She knew Marthe meant well. Unlike her husband, the Marquis de Sere, who had been more interested in Emilie’s inheritance than in her, Marthe was genuinely concerned for her welfare. “After such a lengthy absence, no one will think for a moment that I’d be in attendance. Besides, everyone wears masks at all times and even costumes. Isn’t that so?” she asked Pauline. Her layered mode of dress wouldn’t look odd here.

  “Yes. The ladies especially. They make every effort to maintain their anonymity—with both elaborate masks and outfits. I find men don’t make as much of an effort to conceal their identities, but they, too, wear the required mask. And no one, absolutely no one, is permitted to unmask anyone here. However, if during a carnal encounter, in a private setting, one chooses to reveal oneself, then that is between the lovers at play.”

  Marthe slapped her hands over her ears. “I can’t listen to this.”

  Pauline’s smile broadened at Marthe’s discomfort. “There are plenty of men here to choose from, Emilie. Many of them were not there that horrible night.”

  Pauline’s response made Emilie’s heart flutter. There was a very special man somewhere in the Comtesse’s home, one who wasn’t part of that incident a decade ago.

  Vincent d’Alumbert.

  He’d mentioned in his letter that he, too, would be in attendance at the masquerade. She’d only ever seen him once, a long, long time ago. She was so eager to see him again and in person. More than she could ever admit. Probably more than she should.

  But she couldn’t help having tender feelings for him. He and his letters were a source of joy. She felt so very close to him, having forged a connection with him she’d never had with anyone else. There was nothing she couldn’t ask him. Or tell him. And she’d divulged plenty.

  Given what she was attempting to do—indulge in debauchery—it settled her nerves just knowing he’d be present. On hand to offer advice if she needed it.

  Pauline donned her silver-colored demi-mask with white plumes, then approached and placed her hands on Emilie’s shoulders. Looking her firmly in the eye, she asked, “Are you absolutely certain you want to do this?”

  Emilie tamped down her fears and self-doubt and steeled her courage. “Yes.” Just once she wanted to be desired. For the next few days, she was going to step into the world of make-believe. With the aid of her masks, be transformed into someone else. For the first time ever, she wasn’t going to be looked at as a misfit. Or damaged. She wouldn’t be Emilie Embers. Or Singed de Sarron. Or equally as detestable, The Ugly Little Duckling—cruel names she’d endured all her life.

  She deserved to be wanted. Kissed. Touched. Held. Every woman did, no matter her plight.

  “Very well. Then let us begin.” Pauline took Emilie’s demi-mask of gold and red from her hand and tied it in place. “There’s no time like the present.” Looping her arm with Emilie’s once again, she led her to the door. “You don’t have to worry about approaching the men. They’ll no doubt approach you.”

  Chapter Two

  The Comtesse opened the library door.

  Sounds of chatter and gaiety rushed up to Emilie. Her pulse quickened. In the tapestry-lined hallway, groupings of people were clustered about, the throng in attendance having swelled into the corridor.

  Be brave now. You are going to do this.

  Nothing was going to ruin this for her. Certainly not the people who’d ruined what was to be a special night ten years ago. This time would be different. She’d made certain of it. She’d taken every precaution. Thought the plan through, contemplating every foreseeable scenario.

  She had a strong feeling this was going to be a week she’d never forget.

  The crowd shifted. A couple across the hallway caught Emilie’s attention. A gentleman in a bright yellow justacorps had a woman pinned against the wall as she willingly, eagerly participated in a heated, most ravenous kiss. So engrossed in each other, they were completely unaware of anything else. Or anyone else.

  Imagine having a man that hungry for you, Emilie … The wistful thought echoed in the empty chambers inside her heart.

  She’d spent too many nights lying in her empty bed picturing it … wondering what it would be like with a very specific, potently appealing man.

  But that man was a dear friend. And he’d never think of her in that way or desire her like that.

  “Madame … Mademoiselle …” A male voice interrupted her thoughts. She dragged her gaze away from the lovers to the gentleman standing before her.

  Her breath lodged in her throat. Though he wore a demi-mask, she recognized his tall, sculpted form immediately. And especially those vivid blue eyes … A distinct d’Alumbert family trait.

  “Good afternoon.” His voice was smooth, rich, masculine, as he addressed both her and her aunt with a slight bow. “Would you care to join me for a walk?” He held out his hand to Emilie.

  “Wait!” Marthe’s protest came from inside the library. Her rapid footsteps quickly approaching were met with the slam of the library door as Pauline swung her foot back and kicked it shut behind her. Closing Marthe inside the room.

  “Of course she’d like to join you,” Pauline said and gave Emilie a slight shove in the man’s direction.

  The next thing she knew, Emilie’s hand was tucked into his arm, and he was leading her down the hallway. She was swallowed into the crowd. Her mind raced. She had no idea where they were going. But one thing was certain—this was one of the Duc de Vernant’s twin sons.

  But which one? They were identical.

  She’d told Vincent in her letter she’d have on a yellow silk cloak. In all likelihood this was him, but she couldn’t blurt out his name. Worse, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t her dear friend. Every fiber of her being screamed, “It’s Joseph!” She began to quiver and quake, her ire mountaining by the moment as the very memory she’d fought for years to forget materialized in her mind. Joseph’s vibrant blue eyes mocking her. His cruel laughter as he joined in with the others that horrid night echoed in her ears. The lash of their malicious tongues had cut deep.

  And still stung after all this time no matter how hard she’d tried to forget it.

  She loathed everything about the older twin.

  A self-indulgent roué. Coldhearted. Arrogant and callous to the core. There was nothing appealing about Joseph d’Alumbert. He bore none of the fine qualities Vincent had. The mere thought of Joseph touching her filled her with rage. With outrage. With stomach-churning revulsion.

  They’d reached the grand staircase, and he was beginning to lead her up the stairs. She’d gone no farther than the second step when she yanked her hand away as if it burned, surprising him with her action.

  “I know it’s against the rules, but I’ll need your name before we proceed,” she said, amazed her voice didn’t quiver, alerting him to her discomposure. If this was Joseph, she’d feign a malady and remove herself from his distasteful presence. Posthaste.

  He glanced past her and scanned the crowded vestibule, then returned his gaze to hers. A slow grin formed on his far-too-attractive mouth and he leaned in. “It is against the rules,” he said softly in her ear. “And it is me, Vincent.”

  Joseph pulled back and was immediately bedazzled by the sheer radiance of Emilie’s smile. Beguiling green eye
s—a combination of innocent sensuality—stared back at him through her mask, mirroring her content. He felt his insides melt.

  “I was wrong …” she said, more to herself than him. Then a sound of jubilation squeaked out her throat. She threw her arms around him, her soft body colliding against his, taking him off guard. With a grunt, he grabbed her waist and caught his balance just in time to keep them from tumbling down the stairs; his experienced hands instantly noted a delectable female shape.

  “I’m so delighted it’s you, Vincent,” she said in his ear, seemingly unconcerned by their near fall. The soft scent of lavender emanated from her skin and tantalized his senses. She pulled away. “Come. I have something to show you.” Grabbing hold of his hand, she raced up the stairs.

  Accustomed to others ceding authority to him, Joseph found himself the one being led up the grand staircase. Dieu, not your usual greeting. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, amused by her antics despite himself. She was as delightfully unconventional in person as she was in her letters. This was, after all, “Vincent” and Emilie’s first real meeting.

  This was also Joseph and Emilie’s first real meeting.

  There hadn’t been a real meeting ten years ago. Just a horrible fiasco.

  Her warm hand securely holding his, she briskly walked ahead of him down the upstairs corridor, the shapeless cloak enveloping her form ruffling with each rapid step she took.

  He shouldn’t be here with her. He shouldn’t have attended the Comtesse’s masquerade because of her. Most assuredly, he should have ceased his letters long ago. And he was bent on believing it was nothing more than guilt that motivated the heightened attention he gave her.

  Looking back every so often, she flashed him a smile. His groin tightened. This was the closest he’d been to her in a decade, and her mouth grabbed his focus each time she glanced his way. Dieu. There was no denying it. She had a pretty mouth. So lush. So perfect. The kind of mouth that could give a man hours of carnal pleasure.

  Emilie reached her door and pulled him inside her private rooms.

  It was late afternoon and the sun shone from the tall windows in the antechamber, giving the motifs adorning the walls of white and gold a warm glow.

  “I’m so pleased you found me.” She stopped in the middle of the antechamber, and released his hand. Oddly, he had the urge to grab hold of it again. “I’ve only just arrived and I was hoping I’d see you sooner rather than later. I’m glad I mentioned I’d be wearing a yellow cloak in my letter. Clearly it made it easy for you to find me.”

  Yellow cloak? He’d forgotten. He’d been too stunned by her plan to remember the details of her intended wardrobe.

  With her usual smile on her distracting mouth, she pulled off her mask, tossing it onto a nearby settee, then her wig.

  A mass of flaxen-colored curls tumbled out, looking so soft he wanted to reach out and play with a silky lock. Joseph drank in her visage. It was less girlish, more womanly now. Big fathomless green eyes. Hair as pale as moonlight. She was nothing short of ravishing.

  With the face of an angel.

  Taking hold of both his hands, she gave them an affectionate squeeze.

  “Your turn,” she said. “Remove your mask, Vincent.”

  His brows shot up in surprise. That sounded a lot like a command, not something he would have responded to favorably had someone else dared. But no one else but this unique woman would dare to make demands of any of Richard d’Alumbert, Duc de Vernant’s sons. One of the most powerful men in the realm.

  For the life of him, Joseph had no idea why he found her nonconforming ways so charming.

  But he did. A lot.

  Was this forwardness simply the way she was? Or perhaps she’d been secluded for so long that she wasn’t accustomed to the usual rules of etiquette.

  Joseph pulled off his mask, tossed it carelessly at the settee, and returned her smile.

  Instantly, Emilie’s smile dissolved. She took a step back.

  Her reaction astonished him. “Emilie?”

  Her smile returned. Not as bright. Nor as natural. “I’m sorry … it’s just that …” She shook her head and waved off the rest of her sentence.

  He frowned. “It’s just what?” he pressed.

  “It’s nothing really. It’s just … well, when you removed your mask, it felt as though I was staring at Joseph.”

  Merde.

  “I know that’s silly. You’re identical …”

  Not identical. Not in her eyes. In her eyes, Joseph was loathsome. He didn’t know which bothered him more, that she despised him—when he’d never cared a whit what anyone thought. Or that deep down inside, he couldn’t fault her for the way she felt.

  At some point during the last year he’d connected with her, when he’d normally maintained a comfortable level of detachment in all his dealings with women. This was yet another example of how far he’d let matters veer off course with this particular female.

  Something he needed to rectify where she was concerned.

  He was too uncomfortably aware of her. Too in tune with her emotions for his liking.

  He wanted to snap the disconcerting connection.

  “Actually, I’m far better looking than my brother,” he jested, trying to leaven the moment and take the stricken look from her face.

  Much to his delight, it worked. She burst into a laugh. A delicate sound he found appealing. “Well, now that we’ve established that, I have something I want you to see.” She walked over to the writing desk.

  He followed her, and tried to ignore her arousing scent.

  “I asked my maid to unpack my books first,” she said. “I wanted to show you a very special volume.” Emilie leaned forward, searching through the books that were piled on the desk. Her cloak gaped open. Joseph got an instant view. Just above the décolletage of her gown he saw the top curves of her breasts. The sweetest most tempting tits. And even more surprising, the expanse of lovely—unmarred—skin.

  Lavender-scented skin.

  His cock stiffened. Joseph yanked his gaze to the stacks of books on the desk, in need of a distraction. He’d be damned if he was going to think about what else he’d find appealing under all those clothes. He’d thought about her body too many times, her scars be damned, especially on those nights when her innocent—yet so stirringly sensual—letters had him on fire. Asking him unabashed questions about sex. Confiding in him how and where she wanted to be touched. Taken.

  There was no way he would allow her to torment him any more than she already was.

  “Really. And what volume might that be?” he asked. A discussion about books was good. A neutral subject. One that wouldn’t drive him to distraction.

  “Ah, here it is.” Picking up a book, she opened it and held up an illustration for him to see.

  Before him was a graphic depiction of a naked woman bent over the edge of a bed while a man took her from behind.

  Jésus-Christ.

  “It’s an erotic text,” she announced.

  No argument there. His eager prick gave a hungry throb in full agreement, as it now strained harder against the inside of his breeches.

  She placed the book down on the desk, open to the inciting illustration. “I didn’t realize there were so many positions to do this in.” Her delicate brow furrowed. “I don’t care for this one.” She flipped a few pages forward. “I like pages five to twelve.” Slowly she turned the pages, showing him her “favorites.”

  Heated illustration.

  After heated illustration.

  No doubt about it. Emilie would surely derive a measure of satisfaction if she knew the amount of torture she was presently inflicting on Joseph.

  “Oh, and I like this one,” she said, tapping the page. “This one” was a woman being taken while standing. Her back was against the wall as her lover drove his cock into her core. “Have you done this one, Vincent?”

  All right. Enough was enough. Joseph closed the book, shutting out the stimulating imag
es. The ones racing through his brain were another matter. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “I’m not going to answer that.” Thanks to his preoccupation with Emilie, he hadn’t had sex in just over three months—if you added the days it took to arrive at the Comtesse’s country estate and last night’s baffling eve of abstinence. He was ready to climb out of his skin. The last thing he was going to do at the moment was engage in a sexual conversation with her. Not when images of Emilie’s breasts and the damned depiction of the couple fucking against the wall were running rampant in his head. Only he was picturing taking this highly inquisitive virgin just the way she wanted. By God, he had the most powerful urge to sink his length into her, wondering just how tight her untried passage would be.

  Her moss green eyes widened. “Oh? Why not? You’ve always answered my sexual questions before.”

  True. But that was through their correspondence. And not when she was standing in front of him looking like a sweet temptress, smelling better than any woman had a right to. His fingers itched to fist that silky blond hair, tilt her head back, and feast on that luscious mouth.

  He was changing the subject.

  “Why are you showing me this volume, Emilie?” There had to be a reason, other than to drive him mad.

  Her smile returned to her comely face. “Because I know you have misgivings about my plans here. And as much as I appreciate your concern, I have the matter well in hand. As you can see, I’ve studied everything thoroughly. I am well prepared.”

  “Well prepared? You’re contemplating having sex. Not going into battle, ma belle.”

  Emilie froze, his words unbalancing her.

  Surely she hadn’t heard correctly. Had he just called her … my beauty? No one had ever called her that. In fact, they’d called her just the opposite.

  What could he possibly see that was beautiful?

  There hadn’t been a day in her life she’d felt pretty, much less beautiful … well, maybe just one time. One night. But it had turned from a dream to a nightmare.