Three Reckless Wishes

by Lila DiPasqua

  And he had no idea what to do with them.

  Or how to tame this interest he had in Juliette.

  All he knew for certain was that he wanted more of her. Dieu, he wanted to take her to his private rooms and have his fill of her. After just two carnal encounters, he had a fear deep down inside he’d never had before. That he might not ever get enough of her.

  She, and not Isabelle, had taken over his thoughts and erotic dreams.

  He greeted the ladies, followed by the men in the group, before turning his full attention to Juliette, ignoring the icy reception he got from his male peers.

  “We’re discussing various Italian poets. Do you read Italian poetry?” Juliette asked him. Her genial regard of him immediately caused the palpable tension in the group to diminish. Though the men were still glaring at him with disdain, the women’s expressions were of curiosity at his response to Juliette’s query.

  He positioned himself near friendly faces, standing between the Comtesse de Gigot and her daughter, Béatrix.

  “I’ve read some.” It was an understatement. His education had been his childhood escape. Something he deeply treasured. His time with books—as many as he could devour—and with his tutor, the kindly Monsieur Henri, were the happiest moments of his boyhood. Rebuilding the costly libraries in his châteaus that were plundered while in the Crown’s possession had been a priority during the renovations. Though most things confiscated had been returned, he estimated he was still missing at least eight hundred volumes. And that pained him.

  “Italian poetry?” Vannod scoffed. “A barbarian like you?” He practically spit the words at him.

  Luc knew he was referring to his former habit of engaging in fisticuffs and duels. His time privateering probably fit into that category in Vannod’s opinion as well. He could have congratulated Vannod for demonstrating a rare instance of courage—since Vannod bloody well knew he’d dueled over lesser offenses and that his skill with weapons far exceeded Vannod’s—a man who’d never once sullied his lily-white hands in the service of his country. But instead, he chose more gracious words. “Yes, even a barbarian like me has been known to enjoy a sonnet or two.”

  “Do tell, which Italian poets have you read?” the Comtesse de Gigot asked, the older woman looking up at him genuinely curious.

  “Well, let me see. There’s one that stands out to me. A poetess named Isabelle,” he said, smiling at Juliette. Oddly, he thought he saw her flinch. “Or rather Isabella di Morra,” Luc pronounced in Italian. “To be more accurate.”

  “Oh!” The comtesse clapped her hands with excitement. “I have read her work! Such a tragic figure. And such scandal, if what her brothers accused her of was true. Have you read any of her sonnets, Monsieur le Duc?” she asked Vannod.

  Luc felt a measure of satisfaction at the renewed glare he got from Vannod. Here the poor duc was trying so hard to impress Juliette—his sac likely blue by now as he still waited on her. And Luc knew the answer, given the look in Vannod’s eyes, before he was forced to admit to it.

  “No,” Vannod said, quietly miffed.

  “What about you, Madame Carre?” the comtesse asked. “I know her work was popular in Venice. Since you’re from there, have you had occasion to read her sonnets?”

  Merde. He’d forgotten that part. He too had heard about the late poetess’s popularity in Venice. Though Luc was more than a little skeptical of Juliette’s Venetian origins, he would never have purposely placed her in jeopardy of having any deceptions come to light.

  Especially before this lot.

  “Yes. I’ve read her work.” Juliette’s friendly smile faded slightly. “It’s somber and rather heartbreaking.”

  Luc was impressed. She did know of the poetess and was familiar with her sonnets. Just when he was beginning to believe she might not be from Venice at all… The mystery of the woman before him only continued to grow and puzzle him.

  “I gather you don’t care for her sonnets, then?” he couldn’t help but ask, genuinely interested in Juliette’s opinion.

  “It isn’t that I don’t care for them. I think she was extraordinarily talented. I’m happy her sonnets didn’t die with her. But it’s hard on the heart to read them. There’s a great deal of sadness and feelings of isolation in them.”

  Those were the very reasons he’d identified with the sonnets—so different from the writings of another woman named Isabelle. One who was in no way morose. Whose journals came to life. Written in a distinct, engaging style he’d come to adore, it depicted a woman full of passion and wit. Bright, brave, astute, and compassionate. A positive force he’d have loved to have known in his life.

  And likely the reason he was so drawn to Juliette, who had the same qualities.

  “Tragic? Scandal? How was Isabella di Morra tragic and scandalous?” The questions came from the comtesse’s daughter, Béatrix.

  “She was the daughter of a baron, I believe,” Luc responded. “Her father abandoned his children, and her cruel brothers kept her mostly isolated in a castle where she wrote. Her only friends were a neighboring couple—a handsome former soldier and poet named Diego and his wife. When her brothers suspected Isabella of an affair with Diego, they murdered their sister, her tutor, and later Diego too.”

  The comtesse nodded. “Yes. That’s right.”

  “Oh my… How sad and scandalous.” That came from Béatrix. The other men, Vannod, and the buffoon brothers looked annoyed and bored. Clearly, intellectual gatherings such as these were something they considered tedious. He suspected Juliette was their only motivation for being in attendance.

  And she was the only one whose reaction Luc cared about.

  He met her gaze. In those big beautiful dark eyes, a smile shone back at him that matched the one on her lips. She seemed pleased, and delighted that he knew the story behind the poetess.

  “And you, sir, what do you think of Isabella di Morra’s work?” she asked him. “Do you care for it?”

  “I do. I think there’s a little bit of Isabella di Morra in all of us.”

  Her smile didn’t slip, but there was a brief flash of sadness in her eyes before she gave him a small nod, telling him she very much liked and agreed with his response. Dieu, his affinity for this woman was far deeper than any other he’d ever bedded. For her sake, and hers alone, he’d just admitted to having similar emotions to the Italian poetess. Something he’d never have done for anyone before. The way she was looking at him with appreciation and pleasure left him feeling as if warm, sweet nectar had just melted over his insides.

  “Not me,” Frédéric said, his obnoxious voice piercing the moment. “I can achieve gaiety easily with but some good wine and the company of a beautiful woman.” He smiled at Juliette. She didn’t even glance his way. Her gaze was still affixed to Luc.

  And it made him happy.

  “If you like stories with damsels and castles, Monsieur de Fontenay, you really should read The Princesses’ Adventures, if you haven’t already,” the comtesse said. “Everyone is talking about them and wondering who the brilliant author is behind the anonymous volumes. The third novel is due out very soon, I suspect. I cannot wait to see what the sisters will do with their princes next.”

  Reluctantly, Luc dragged his gaze away from Juliette. “Princesses’ Adventures with sisters?”

  “Yes. Have you read them?” the older woman asked.

  “No. I haven’t.”

  “Well, you should. The princesses are twins and get into quite the intrigue and trouble just to win the hearts of their princes.”

  That sounded so very much like the books Isabelle mentioned in her journals. The plot was identical. His interest was piqued. “Do you have a copy of the first volume, Comtesse?”

  “I do.” Juliette spoke up. “I’d be delighted to lend it to you.”

  Chapter Ten

  Luc slammed the door shut to Isabelle’s private rooms.

  A half smile tilted his mouth.

  She knew what was coming, and the
re wasn’t a fiber in her being that could muster the will to stop it. The aching need had been building at the salon and as they made their way to her rooms.

  Only this time, it included a longing in her heart, so similar to the way she’d felt all those years ago.

  When she couldn’t allow him to matter that way to her again.

  Realistically, any permanent romantic relationship between them was laughable, whether she divulged her secrets or not. She wasn’t her sister. She’d chosen a different path. Let’s face it. You are hardly marriage material for a man in the aristocracy. Not even the most celebrated courtesan of all, Nicole, had managed to do for herself what she was able to accomplish for her children—marry into nobility. And just when Isabelle was beginning to think she had an understanding of this aristo, he unbalanced her yet again. It took a certain depth and sensitivity to appreciate the heartbreaking words of the late Italian poetess Isabella di Morra.

  It took someone who’d known pain.

  It wrenched her heart to think of what he might have suffered at the hands of his father. She wanted the pain erased. His and hers.

  Even if it was for but a brief interlude.

  The fire this man ignited made the entire world melt away.

  He hoisted her up off her feet, bracketing her legs around his hips, and shoved her up against the wall. “Beautiful Juliette, you need to be fucked…by me. You need my cock,” he murmured against her neck before pressing his lips to it.

  There were so many reasons she should simply hand him a copy of her first The Princesses’ Adventures volume as she’d promised and stop this amorous encounter. Pain-soaked discussions needed to be had. But as his mouth trailed across her skin, sending ripples of pleasure shimmering down her neck and through her system, she shoved away all reason. For now.

  Instead, her response to his blunt comments was to arch into the hard bulge in his breeches pressing so deliciously against her sex. He rolled his hips, plying her clit with the most perfect stroke. Her gasp mingled with his groan.

  She fisted the shoulders of his doublet.

  Any final thoughts of resisting dissolved into the ether.

  She’d read once that strength came from knowing one’s weakness. And hers was Luc de Moutier. He always had been. He didn’t know how many times thoughts of him had bolstered her—during those dark days with Roch, isolated and afraid, with a young child.

  Her Fair Prince…

  She wanted—needed—him. With shocking desperation.

  She kissed a path up his neck and drew on his warm skin. His low groan was a heady rush.

  “Not here. On your bed,” she heard him say as he pulled her away from the wall and walked toward her bedchamber, her body wrapped around him. Pressed snugly against his solid shaft, each stride he took caused a scintillating friction against her already soaked sex. By the time he’d reached the foot of her bed, she was starting to squirm.

  He dropped her onto it. She landed on her bottom with a small bounce, her heart now thudding harder in her chest.

  Anticipation roared through her senses.

  Riveted, she watched him strip off his doublet and drop it to the floor, his smoldering eyes wreaking havoc on her. He untied his cravat next and tossed that on the bed beside her.

  The one article of clothing that was weighted with sexual suggestion. And a multitude of questions.

  Opening his breeches, he pulled out his shirttails and discarded his shirt onto the floor in one fluid motion of utter mouthwatering masculine grace.

  He wrapped his hand around his erection protruding from his breeches and squeezed. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

  Oh, she had some definite inkling.

  Especially if it was anything resembling the carnal chaos rioting inside her.

  That cravat on the bed was tempting her sorely—the pull growing stronger with each sexual encounter they shared. Luc had been affecting her most of her life. And she needed to touch him. Needed for him to accept—no, want—her touch.

  She rose from the bed and took his hand. “Allow me.” There was curiosity in his beautiful light green eyes as he let her turn him around and seat him on the edge of the bed. She lowered herself onto her knees and pulled off one boot, followed by the other. She sat back on her heels to admire the man before her.

  Far more exquisite than any statue or painting of any Greek god she’d ever seen.

  She couldn’t fathom what she’d done so right in life—when she’d chosen all the wrong paths, made all the wrong wishes—to deserve these experiences with this man. The very man of so many long-held dreams.

  Regardless of what the future had in store, she had this moment.

  Right now.

  A rare chance for her to make some exquisite memories to help squeeze out all the bad ones that replayed in her mind again and again. It had been years now since the silence stopped being quiet.

  He watched her intently for her next move. She didn’t hesitate. Reaching out with both hands, she placed them against his solid chest. His skin was warm, inviting. And she could feel the quickened beats of his heart, racing her own. She grazed her hands downward, relishing every delicious dip and ripple of his abdomen, his muscles flexing and tightening under her fingertips. She wasn’t sure if he’d stop her at any moment, more than a little surprised and elated over the fact that she was touching him at all.

  And for the first time ever.

  Perhaps she was mistaken about him in this? Perhaps Delphine was wrong about the stories of his childhood too? And that thought elated her further still.

  Reaching his generous sex, she wrapped her fingers around its base, then stroked him to the tip and back down. Briefly, he closed his eyes, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. Oral pleasure was something Roch had demanded often. Until this day, this moment, she’d considered the act distasteful, had hated every minute she’d been made to gratify Roch this way. But with Luc, it was different.

  She wanted him in her mouth.

  She wanted to taste him. To be the one bestowing pleasure the way he’d bestowed it on her with mind-melting skill.

  Ignoring the soft feelings clustering in her chest, she dipped her head and swirled her tongue slowly around the crest of his cock. At his low groan, moisture pooled between her legs.

  His fingers tangled in her hair. Fearing he’d stop her, she plunged him deeply into her mouth and began strong, slow sucks, her tongue stroking the sensitive underside of his prick with each plunge and drag. To her delight, it drove him to distraction. His head fell back, and he hissed out an expletive between clenched teeth. Being in command of his pleasure was a heady rush. She kept to a steady pace, savoring him. Sucking him. Teasing him with her tongue. Relishing the low groan that rumbled from his chest.

  Without missing a stroke, she slipped an arm around his waist, pressing her palm and splaying her fingers against his strong back.

  Suddenly, she was staring at him at arm’s length—no longer touching him at all. It took three beats of her rapid heart to realize he’d yanked her away, his grip firmly on her shoulders.

  Her eyes widened in surprise. Clearly she’d been mistaken in her perception that things were going well. “I’m sorry. I’ve done something to displease you.”

  He dragged in a ragged breath, then expelled it slowly. “No.” He cupped her face and pulled her near until his forehead touched hers. “You haven’t done a thing to displease me. You are incredible. More than any man deserves. Including me.” His soft voice, his tender words, all wrapped around her heart and squeezed. “Dieu, I need to be inside you,” he whispered, then trailed his mouth along her jaw to her earlobe and gave it a sensuous bite.

  Her sex clenched hungrily.

  He reached beside him and picked up his cravat, his other hand still cradling her face. “I want you to trust me. Allow me, Juliette…” She knew exactly what he was asking of her.

  She shook her head. “I want to be able to touch you.” Voicing her own wants during sex
was still so new. And she liked it. He was the first man with whom she’d felt able to do so. She’d stopped acting like a courtesan with him practically from the start. Truth be told, she’d stopped acting like a courtesan—period. He was the only lover she wanted at the moment. An arrangement based on mutual desire. Without financial transaction. And though she hadn’t lost sight of her responsibilities of providing for her son, she had to see this matter between them through.

  Because she wanted—no, deserved—to experience more of the way he made her feel.

  Because there might be the chance, no matter how small, to see Sabine again.

  A small smile formed on his lips. “You have touched me—more than you know.”

  Again she was aflood with emotion. And it frightened her. She couldn’t allow it to lower her defenses. No matter how he affected her, she’d remain in control of those emotions.

  She pulled back, out of his hold on her cheek. Needing some distance. Needing to reassert control over her heart—even if that meant sabotaging this glorious moment. “You want to bind me and take me, but this…” She pulled the cravat from his hand. “This isn’t just a sex game to you, is it?” His body changed immediately. Every beautiful muscle before her tightened. And the softness that was in his eyes clouded.

  She didn’t let that stop her. “Perhaps it’s a way of maintaining a level of detachment. It’s a way to keep anyone from touching you during carnal encounters—both physically and emotionally, isn’t it?”

  He shot to his feet with a curse, making her jerk back in surprise. He stood several feet away from her now, his hands on his hips, head down as he stared at the floor. Isabelle rose and braced herself, unsure what was about to happen next. Was that infamous temper of his about to make its appearance at last? It was best she saw it now, in its full glory, when she could summon protection. Where she could get to safety. Before she’d even attempt to convince him to take her to her sister, she needed to know what she and Gabriel could face trapped on a ship with him for months.