Titles by Lila DiPasqua
(Fiery Tales Series)
AWAKENED BY A KISS
THE PRINCESS IN HIS BED
A MIDNIGHT DANCE
UNDONE
Praise for:
A MIDNIGHT DANCE
"Fun, spicy . . . Sure to delight!" — Jennifer Ashley, New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author
"Wickedly passionate . . . [A] sensual treat!" — Sylvia Day, national bestselling author
"Jules de Moutier is the prince charming all women dream of!" — Fresh Fiction
THE PRINCESS IN HIS BED
“Hot enough to warm the coldest winter night.” – Publishers Weekly
“I recommend this to all adult fairytale lovers. – 5 RIBBONS! Romance Junkies
“Strong-minded heroines you can relate to, breathtaking carnally gifted male leads…DiPasqua crafts a sexy collection that readers will love.” – Fresh Fiction
AWAKENED BY A KISS
“Lushly erotic . . . Sophisticated, sensuous, and deeply romantic. If you love historical romance, this is an author to watch!" — Elizabeth Hoyt, New York Times bestselling author
“The most luscious, sexy take on classic fairy tales I’ve ever read!” — Cheryl Holt, New York Times bestselling author
“I highly recommend "Awakened by a Kiss"!” — Night Owl Romance Reviews— TOP PICK!!
TABLE OF CONTENTS
A Historical Tidbit
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
Author's Note
Glossary
Dedication
Get The Scoop
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, business establishments, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Lila DiPasqua
Cover art and design by Kim Killion, Hot Damn Designs
Copyedited by Linda Ingmanson
Formatted by Jessica Lewis, Author’s Life Saver
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission of the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
ISBN: 978-0-9880350-1-0 (trade pbk.)
ISBN: 978-0-9880350-0-3 (e-book)
Acknowledgement
A special thanks goes out to Carolyn Williams, Donna Jeffrey, Franca Pelaccia, Vickie Marise, Mary Barone, Kelly Mueller, Janice Leyh, and Elise Rome. You each made this book wonderful in your own special ways. Finally, my thanks to Count Patrice de Vogüé, owner of Vaux-le-Vicomte, who personally took the time to answer my research questions about his beautiful 17th c. château.
Dedication
Please see the back of the book once you finish it! This important dedication contains a SPOILER.
A Historical Tidbit
The court of Louis XIV was as decadent as it was opulent. It was a time of high culture and corruption. Of elegance and excesses. The pursuit of sinful pleasures was a pastime. Sex, an art form. Louis was a lusty king. He and his courtiers were connoisseurs of the carnal arts.
It was during this wicked time period that Charles Perrault, the creator of The Tales of Mother Goose, first began writing down fairy tales—the folklore that had been passed on verbally for generations. It wasn’t long before fairy tales became a highly fashionable topic of discussion in the renowned salons of Paris.
Female authors also tried their hand at this wonderful new genre. It was Charlotte-Rose de Claumont de La Force’s 17th century fairy tale, Persinette, that would later inspire the Brothers Grimm to write Rapunzel.
Perhaps, just perhaps Mademoiselle de La Force was inspired by hearing stories about characters such as these…
Happy Reading!
Lila
Once upon a time, there was a woman who was shut away in a tower.
It was said she’d been there for years. Rumored to be a prisoner of her
own making. No one knew much about the mysterious beauty. Or the
secrets she guarded. It was certain she’d live out her days cloistered. Yet
one day, out of the forest, they say her prince appeared. One look at the
lovely enchantress, and he was enthralled. Upon hearing her ethereal
voice, he was undone… What happened next, you ask? Well, he scaled
the tower and rescued the beauty, of course…
Was that the end? No, my dearlings, that was only the beginning.
And what was to follow was the stuff of fairy tales…
Chapter One
1660
Just before midnight…
Sexual excess was known to alleviate tension. An evening of unbridled lust had a soothing effect on the mind as well as the body. But as Simon Boulenger struggled to maintain his grip on the window ledge—sharp stone cutting into his fingers—he felt anything but relaxed.
Muscles in his upper body corded as he scraped his boots against the stone wall, searching for a foothold. The full moon’s silvery light illuminated his predicament.
His feet were too far from the ground below to simply let go and drop.
He grabbed hold of the closest tree branch. Satisfied with its sturdiness, he began his descent, branches and leaves brushing and scraping him along the way until he reached the lowest limb and dropped to the ground.
Definitely too bright a night for an amorous encounter with the beautiful wife of a high-ranking politician of the Republic of Genoa.
Brushing the dirt off his shirt, he slipped into the shadows where the stable boy waited with Simon’s horse.
He’d paid the grimy mite to give a warning of two quick whistles at his mistress’s window should Marco de Franco return inconveniently early, which he had. Simon’s circumspection was born of necessity. Though the Republic of Genoa was a good distance from Spain, he always took precautions. The Genoese’s loyalties were with the Spanish. And there were those who would pay handsomely for the capture of the man the Spanish called El Demonio Negro—the Black Demon.
The boy handed him the reins.
“Bravo. Grazie,” he said, as fluent in the language as any Italian in his employ.
Dropping more coins into the boy’s dirty hand, he rode off, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. If Marco de Franco were to learn that his lovely wife had spent the last few hours in the throes of passion with the son of a French peasant, it would send the pompous fool reeling. It wasn’t that de Franco cared if Francesca entertained lovers, for he was preoccupied with the pursuit of power and his own extensive extramarital affairs. But to learn she’d engaged in a carnal encounter with a lowly commoner would be too much for his arrogant sensibilities to digest.
/> As he negotiated the next bend in the road, Simon caught sight of his carriage in the distance. Moonlight glinted off its roof. His men were there waiting for him, just as he’d ordered. He slowed his horse, his smile disappearing.
The brief sojourn in the Republic of Genoa was over.
Time to face France.
And what awaited him there was far more perilous than a nocturnal liaison with a highborn lady.
He drew in a fortifying breath, and let it out slowly, mindful that he was still too far from his two men for them to notice.
After many months at sea, he’d returned to France three weeks ago to pay the Crown’s share of his recent captured prizes from Spanish ships—never imagining what he’d find. Now those images haunted him. Guilt and anger were a constant clash inside him. And assuaging his torment with women and drink in Genoa had proven futile.
Reaching the carriage, Simon dismounted.
Paul took the reins from him. “Good evening, Captain,” the young man said.
There was nothing bloody well good about this evening any longer. “Let us be on our way,” he ordered, though it was the very last thing he wanted.
Inside the moving carriage, Simon’s mood only darkened by the moment. Merde… They’d dangled his dream in front of him.
Then betrayed him.
He’d come a long way from the orphan rescued from starvation in the streets of a French fishing village. He was now the commander of a fleet of privateer ships for France, dressed and spoke like an aristocrat, and was at last wealthy.
But he was still not a noble. Or an official officer in the King’s Navy.
His lifelong dream to elevate himself from his station of birth and obtain a respectable place in society was dead.
As dead as Thomas…
Tightening his jaw, he glanced out the window and watched as the darkened trees threaded past. He’d been a colossal fool. And now he was caught in a treacherous trap. How the hell was he to get out of this? He wanted out. He had to get out. But how do you stop dancing with the devil once you’ve sold him your soul?
The carriage stopped dead with a sharp lurch, Simon’s shoulder bumping against the window frame. Instinctively, his hand shot to the hilt of his sword.
He jumped from its plush interior, sword drawn, battle-ready.
“I’m sorry, Captain.” Paul leaped down. “It is one of the wheels. We will fix it quickly, sir, and be on our way.” The young man raced around to the other side of the carriage to join the driver and the broken wheel.
The delay grated on Simon’s already thin patience, his frustration churning inside him.
Before he could utter the profanity burning up his throat, a blow to his chest shot the air from his lungs and knocked him off his feet. The back of his head slammed against the ground, dazing him. He squeezed his eyes shut. His sword, still clutched in his hand, lay with him on the packed dirt.
As he drew air back into his lungs, awareness seeped into his senses. There was a body on top of him. Not just any body, but a soft one, with ripe breasts pressed to his chest—the unmistakable body of a full-grown woman.
She gasped near his ear and struggled to an upright position. He could feel the firmness of her thighs on either side of his hips, her hands shoving at his chest, and her lower body squirming against his groin.
Steadying himself against the pain at the back of his skull, he opened his eyes. She stilled. Her gray garb and shoulder-length headdress covered her entirely, leaving her face her only visible feature.
And it was exquisite.
The moon’s silver light caressed her soft-looking skin, but it was her eyes that drew him. Although the night forbade him the ability to detect their true color, they were light, bright, and spectacular to behold. Her dark brows were delicately arched. Her cheekbones beautifully pronounced. And her mouth—Dieu. A hot current rushed through his veins as he stared at that lush mouth. Just the right fullness.
The kind of mouth sure to offer a man untold carnal bliss.
Her lips were parted. The sound of her quickened breaths burned in his ears. Inflaming him further.
Every bedazzling detail of her face and the erotic press of her lower body against his own seared into his senses.
Transfixed, he sat up slowly, his cock straining against his breeches. The heated reaction she effortlessly elicited from him was astounding. So was being suddenly knocked off his feet by a beautiful woman in an unattractive garb in the middle of the night.
Her eyes widened. She squirmed again and made to flee. The friction shot a bolt of sensations along his prick that reverberated all the way up his spine. He gripped her arms, stilling her, barely catching the groan that surged up his throat.
“Let go!” she demanded, threads of panic and anger in her tone.
He didn’t want her to leave so soon, but he didn’t wish to scare her, and so he slackened his grasp, knowing full well she was going to bolt.
Shoving hard at his chest, she bounded to her feet.
“Wait! What is your name?” The words tumbled from his mouth. But she ran through an open iron gate and disappeared behind a stone wall.
Reeling, Simon rose and walked to the gate, ignoring the astonished looks of his men who he noticed were now standing near the horses. He’d no idea how much they’d witnessed. Nor did he care.
Paul rushed toward him. “Captain? Is everything all right?”
Simon scanned the shadowy grounds for any sign of her. “Yes.” No. She’d vanished. Yet she’d left him burning.
Utterly seduced.
He could see little. The umbrage of the trees hid much from view. What lunacy was this? How could such a bizarre encounter have stirred his blood this way?
Studying the stone barrier that ran parallel to the road as far as he could see, he wondered why she’d been out all alone at this hour of the night, and what such a captivating woman was doing hidden behind such a formidable wall.
“It is a convent, sir.”
He turned to Paul. “Pardon?”
“A convent.” He picked up Simon’s sword and brought it to him. “The wheel can be fixed easily. We’ll be on our way shortly.”
The carriage was the furthest thing from his mind as he stood at the threshold of the convent grounds, scanning all visible windows and openings of the stony structure.
Ah, hell. He sheathed his sword. “Wait here.”
*****
Heart pounding, Angelica pushed open the wooden door she’d left unlocked and rushed inside. With fumbling fingers, she secured the latch, then raced down the dimly lit corridors, causing each torchère she passed to flicker and dance.
Reaching the chapel, she halted abruptly.
It was empty.
She offered an instant prayer of thanks.
Not only had she made it back in time for the Third Vigil, but she’d escaped whatever might have befallen her at the hands of the man she’d just encountered outside.
The hour was late. The road was deserted. And men who wandered about at this time of night were best avoided.
Racing to return to the convent before she was expected in the chapel, she’d emerged from the thicket and hadn’t seen the stranger, shrouded in shadow, until it was too late. She felt as though she’d collided with the stone wall that surrounded the convent instead of a man. Her chest still hurt.
She couldn’t afford to be as careless as she’d been this night. She was always guarded. Always careful. Rarely did she leave the convent. For years, she’d embraced a cloistered existence in exchange for security.
However, tonight, unable to turn her back on a family in need, she’d let her conscience win out over her caution.
And run right into danger.
She placed her hand over her agitated heart, willing it to calm. She was safe now.
In a decade, he had still not found her. Nor would he ever.
As long as she remained within these protective walls, she was safe.
*****
&nbs
p; Simon entered the convent through a partially open window.
Stealthily, he made his way down long corridors, each identical with torchères that offered little light and less warmth. There was no sign of life in the dismal labyrinth.
Turning another corner, he heard a faint noise in the distance.
A voice? No. It’s singing. And it was incredibly beautiful. Compelling.
He moved toward it, then paused before a set of ornately carved wooden doors and listened. The singing had stopped.
He pulled open a door wide enough to spy a woman, standing all alone, her back to him, wearing the same gray garb as the moonlit angel he’d met outside.
Was it her?
The chapel was rich with mosaics adorning the walls and floor—a sharp contrast to the austere corridors outside. He slipped inside, finding himself in the shadows of the back corner.
Then it happened. A soft, haunting melody came from the woman, slowly rising, the crescendo building until it filled the chapel, her magnificent voice hitting him full measure with its power and enchantment. A performance unlike any he’d ever witnessed. For a moment, he was lost in it, all that had been weighing on his conscience and soul receding.
The chapel doors slammed open, startling him.
An older woman stood in the entrance, her expression grim. She marched toward the one whose voice had enthralled him.
His gaze shot back to the songbird. She’d turned to face the intruder.
Good Lord, it was her—the beauty in the moonlight. As breathtaking as he’d first thought her to be.
“Well, this is a surprise,” the old nun said, her tone caustic. “You are actually early for the Hours for once.”
“Indeed, I am, Madre.” The beauty’s silky voice rippled through him.
“I’m glad you heeded my words. I’ll not tolerate you dashing in at the last moment any longer. Now, go take your place. The others will be here shortly.”
“As you will,” she responded, her manner regardful.
“Wait.” The Mother Superior pulled a twig from the younger woman’s garment. “What is this on your clothes?”
Undone Page 1
