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Contents
Daisy Miller
Far from the Madding Crowd
A Room with a View
The Age of Innocence Vol. 1
The Age of Innocence Vol. 2
The Count of Monte Cristo Vol. 1
The Count of Monte Cristo Vol. 2
The Count of Monte Cristo Vol. 3
The Count of Monte Cristo Vol. 4
The Count of Monte Cristo Vol. 5
Crimson Sneak Peek
Daisy Miller
The Wild and Wanton Edition
Gabrielle Vigot and Henry James
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2013 by Gabriel Vigot and Henry James
ISBN 10: 1-4405-6860-X
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6860-2
eISBN 10: 1-4405-6861-8
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6861-9
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com; istockphoto.com/Forest Woodward
I dedicate this salacious novella to sexy mama Marti-Kini, Matt, and my lovely, supportive friends and family.
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Foreword
PART I
PART II
Acknowledgments
Thanks are in order to everyone who gave me guidance and a chance at Crimson Romance, particularly Jess Verdi, Jennifer Lawler, Tara Gelsomino, Julie Sturgeon, and Beth Gunn.
Foreword
Bonjour, treasured readers!
I’m author Gabrielle Vigot, and I’ve just completed my first project for Crimson Romance, a Wild and Wanton edition of Henry James’s Daisy Miller. I thank you sublimely for purchasing this sexed-up novella. As you may know, Wild and Wanton editions are written based on the classic novels you cherish. But then the authors go all wild n’ wanton on the original prose — and what you end up with is the story of the original characters with subplots and sexy new scenes of them doing what you always secretly wanted them to do — having wild and crazy sex with each other.
You see, in the 1800s, authors simply didn’t write about their treasured characters making love under the stars, or getting hot and heavy in the castles they visited. And their petticoats most certainly didn’t slip off in the hands of handsome strangers before marriage. Yet these are all things that could have happened, and are often implied, within the original story arcs.
I chose Daisy Miller as my Wild and Wanton story because of the sexual tension between the two main characters, Daisy and Winterbourne. Throughout the book, Winterbourne tries to rein her in and tries to convince her to behave better than a “little American flirt,” but as Daisy points out numerous times, she has “never allowed a gentleman to dictate” to her, or to “interfere with anything” she does. She flirts with various gentlemen, to the outrage of the high-society vacationers she longs to join. It’s a novella about the stifling social mores of the late 1800s, a wild and wanton young woman, and the man who busies himself with the delectable chore of trying to rein her in.
PART I
At the little town of Vevey, in Switzerland, there is a particularly comfortable hotel. There are, indeed, many hotels, for the entertainment of tourists is the business of the place, which, as many travelers will remember, is seated upon the edge of a remarkably blue lake — a lake that it behooves every tourist to visit. The shore of the lake presents an unbroken array of establishments of this order, of every category, from the “grand hotel” of the newest fashion, with a chalk-white front, a hundred balconies, and a dozen flags flying from its roof, to the little Swiss pension of an elder day, with its name inscribed in German-looking lettering upon a pink or yellow wall and an awkward summerhouse in the angle of the garden.
One of the hotels at Vevey, however, is famous, even classical, being distinguished from many of its upstart neighbors by an air both of luxury and of maturity. In this region, in the month of June, American travelers are extremely numerous; it may be said, indeed, that Vevey assumes at this period some of the characteristics of an American watering place. There are sights and sounds which evoke a vision, an echo, of Newport and Saratoga. There is a flitting hither and thither of “stylish” young girls, a rustling of muslin flounces, a rattle of dance music in the morning hours, a sound of high-pitched voices at all times.
You receive an impression of these things at the excellent inn of the “Trois Couronnes” and are transported in fancy to the Ocean House or to Congress Hall. But at the “Trois Couronnes,” it must be added, there are other features that are much at variance with these suggestions: neat German waiters, who look like secretaries of legation; Russian princesses sitting in the garden; little Polish boys walking about held by the hand, with their governors; a view of the sunny crest of the Dent du Midi and the picturesque towers of the Castle of Chillon.
I hardly know whether it was the analogies or the differences that were uppermost in the mind of a young American, who, two or three years ago, sat in the garden of the “Trois Couronnes,” looking about him, rather idly, at some of the graceful objects I have mentioned. It was a beautiful summer morning, and in whatever fashion the young American looked at things, they must have seemed to him charming. He had come from Geneva the day before by the little steamer, to see his aunt, who was staying at the hotel — Geneva having been for a long time his place of residence. But his aunt had a headache — his aunt had almost always a headache — and now she was shut up in her room, smelling camphor, so that he was at liberty to wander about. He was some seven-and-twenty years of age; when his friends spoke of him, they usually said that he was at Geneva “studying.”
When his enemies spoke of him, they said — but, after all, he had no enemies; he was an extremely amiable fellow, and universally liked. What I should say is, simply, that when certain persons spoke of him they affirmed that the reason of his spending so much time at Geneva was that he was extremely devoted to a lady who lived there — a foreign lady — a person older than himself. Very few Americans — indeed, I think none — had ever seen this lady, about whom there were some singular stories. But Winterbourne had an old attachment for the little metropolis of Calvinism; he had been put to school there as a boy, and he had afterward gone to college there — circumstances which had led to his forming a great many youthful friendships. Many of these he had kept, and they were a source of great satisfaction to him.
After knocking at his aunt’s door and learning that she was indisposed, he had taken a walk about the town, and then he had come in to his breakfast. He had now finished his breakfast; but he was drinking a small cup of coffee, which had been served to him on a little table in the garden by one of the waiters who looked like an attaché . At last he finished his coffee and lit a cigarette. Presently a small boy came walking along the path — an urchin of nine or ten. The child, who was diminutive for his years, had an aged expression of countenance, a pale complexion, and sharp little features. He was dressed in knickerbockers, with red stockings, which displayed his poor little spindle-shanks; he also wore a brilliant red cravat. He carried in his hand a long a
lpenstock, the sharp point of which he thrust into everything that he approached — the flowerbeds, the garden benches, the trains of the ladies’ dresses. In front of Winterbourne he paused, looking at him with a pair of bright, penetrating little eyes.
“Will you give me a lump of sugar?” he asked in a sharp, hard little voice — a voice immature and yet, somehow, not young.
Winterbourne glanced at the small table near him, on which his coffee service rested, and saw that several morsels of sugar remained. “Yes, you may take one,” he answered; “but I don’t think sugar is good for little boys.”
This little boy stepped forward and carefully selected three of the coveted fragments, two of which he buried in the pocket of his knickerbockers, depositing the other as promptly in another place. He poked his alpenstock, lance-fashion, into Winterbourne’s bench and tried to crack the lump of sugar with his teeth.
“Oh, blazes; it’s har-r-d!” he exclaimed, pronouncing the adjective in a peculiar manner.
Winterbourne had immediately perceived that he might have the honor of claiming him as a fellow countryman. “Take care you don’t hurt your teeth,” he said, paternally.
“I haven’t got any teeth to hurt. They have all come out. I have only got seven teeth. My mother counted them last night, and one came out right afterward. She said she’d slap me if any more came out. I can’t help it. It’s this old Europe. It’s the climate that makes them come out. In America they didn’t come out. It’s these hotels.”
Winterbourne was much amused. “If you eat three lumps of sugar, your mother will certainly slap you,” he said.
“She’s got to give me some candy, then,” rejoined his young interlocutor. “I can’t get any candy here — any American candy. American candy’s the best candy.”
“And are American little boys the best little boys?” asked Winterbourne.
“I don’t know. I’m an American boy,” said the child.
“I see you are one of the best!” laughed Winterbourne.
“Are you an American man?” pursued this vivacious infant. And then, on Winterbourne’s affirmative reply — “American men are the best,” he declared.
His companion thanked him for the compliment, and the child, who had now got astride of his alpenstock, stood looking about him, while he attacked a second lump of sugar. Winterbourne wondered if he himself had been like this in his infancy, for he had been brought to Europe at about this age.
“Here comes my sister!” cried the child in a moment. “She’s an American girl.”
Winterbourne looked along the path and saw a beautiful young lady advancing. “American girls are the best girls,” he said cheerfully to his young companion.
“My sister ain’t the best!” the child declared. “She’s always blowing at me.”
“I imagine that is your fault, not hers,” said Winterbourne. The young lady meanwhile had drawn near. She was dressed in white muslin, with a hundred frills and flounces, and knots of pale-colored ribbon. She was bareheaded, but she balanced in her hand a large parasol, with a deep border of embroidery; and she was strikingly, admirably pretty. “How pretty they are!” thought Winterbourne, straightening himself in his seat, as if he were prepared to rise.
The young lady paused in front of his bench, near the parapet of the garden, which overlooked the lake. The little boy had now converted his alpenstock into a vaulting pole, by the aid of which he was springing about in the gravel and kicking it up not a little.
“Randolph,” said the young lady, “what are you doing?”
“I’m going up the Alps,” replied Randolph. “This is the way!” And he gave another little jump, scattering the pebbles about Winterbourne’s ears.
“That’s the way they come down,” said Winterbourne.
“He’s an American man!” cried Randolph, in his little hard voice.
The young lady gave no heed to this announcement, but looked straight at her brother. “Well, I guess you had better be quiet,” she simply observed.
It seemed to Winterbourne that he had been in a manner presented. He got up and stepped slowly toward the young girl, throwing away his cigarette. “This little boy and I have made acquaintance,” he said, with great civility. In Geneva, as he had been perfectly aware, a young man was not at liberty to speak to a young unmarried lady except under certain rarely occurring conditions; but here at Vevey, what conditions could be better than these? — a pretty American girl coming and standing in front of you in a garden. This pretty American girl, however, on hearing Winterbourne’s observation, simply glanced at him; she then turned her head and looked over the parapet, at the lake and the opposite mountains. The garden’s red and white roses were quite alike to the lakeside varietals with their intoxicating perfumes, and he noticed the scent wafting from the girl was dissimilar, but invited his curiosity all the more.
He wasn’t a stray hound! — he admonished himself. But as he was at his best a civilized young man, Winterbourne allowed himself simple pleasures and thus immediately let his thoughts wander. Firstly, what would he imagine lay beneath those flounces and folds of her country dress?
He mustn’t let himself go that far. She was the picture of youth. Yet just as her now darker, now vulnerable eyes steadily locked with his for the first time, he saw a flicker of what she would look like in her private bath, in whichever one of the European hotels her mother might have taken her on vacation. The girl would have disrobed quietly, for him achingly:
The dying soap sheen on her naked back, a smirk as she let her hair down, her hungering body unaware that she was but a figment. Her small, upward breasts with the rivulets from her bathing sponge pulsing in her shiver from the open window.
Her heart beating as she favored her inner thigh with her fingers, as lush and heartbreaking as last evening’s fuchsia peonies back in the reality of their current hotel — but he must have stopped himself a dozen times from fancies such as those in the minutes he gazed about the view with her.
He then dared a glance, and upon meeting her questioning eyes after she kept Randolph from his alpenstock yet again, he continued to hold her in his reverie and discarded a few minutes as he peered into the lake. She wasn’t interested much in chatter, he supposed, as she was turning away often.
And yes, again there was her age. A nineteen-year-old American! And upon chatting, like the others, she might well be too garrulous for her own good. Yet — probably closer to Randolph’s maturity than his own, there was no harm in letting her linger in his imagination. These thoughts were more to his liking than made him comfortable in polite daydreaming:
Her now sweet eyes above the flushed and excitable neck, goose pimples on their waiting arms, her lips would draw his eyes to them just as the perspiring lake would. She’d slither under the water with the pale shapes of her body elongated, he would watch her and her nakedness would draw no blush from him.
She’d stand back at this other hotel, perhaps in Italy, naked at the bureau. Her even complexion would show itself completely and finally, her sex peeking from behind her hands as she covered it, shyly, and between fine legs, tanned gradually from midsummer days of skirt-hiking with the other American girls when they thought they were alone. Her curled lips again, parting in a now mischievous grin — she would make for a singular soubrette! — making him want to roughly clench her bottom in his awkward hands and squeeze her engorging sex until she cried out. He wanted more than that: He wanted to claim her little body on his own and press upon it and make his way into it, thrusting himself upon and into her until she half-fainted with pleasure, until her intentions to deny him changed and her desire gave into the hot, petulant shoving of his prick under the soft hairs of her pubis, into her waiting quim.
But of course, he wouldn’t daydream and torture himself more, being that he was in a game of cat and mouse with his own lovely meditations. He was smiling like a loon, and abruptly excused himself to walk around the corner and wipe it off. Winterbourne returned to the girl, st
epping lightly.
He wondered whether he had gone too far, but he decided that he must advance farther, rather than retreat. While he was thinking of something else to say, the young lady turned to the little boy again.
“I should like to know where you got that pole,” she said.
“I bought it,” responded Randolph.
“You don’t mean to say you’re going to take it to Italy?”
“Yes, I am going to take it to Italy,” the child declared.
The young girl glanced over the front of her dress and smoothed out a knot or two of ribbon. Then she rested her eyes upon the prospect again. “Well, I guess you had better leave it somewhere,” she said after a moment.
“Are you going to Italy?” Winterbourne inquired in a tone of great respect.
The young lady glanced at him again. “Yes, sir,” she replied. And she said nothing more.
“Are you — a — going over the Simplon?” Winterbourne pursued, a little embarrassed.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I suppose it’s some mountain. Randolph, what mountain are we going over?”
“Going where?” the child demanded.
“To Italy,” Winterbourne explained.
“I don’t know,” said Randolph. “I don’t want to go to Italy. I want to go to America.”
“Oh, Italy is a beautiful place!” rejoined the young man.
“Can you get candy there?” Randolph loudly inquired.
“I hope not,” said his sister. “I guess you have had enough candy, and mother thinks so too.”
“I haven’t had any for ever so long — for a hundred weeks!” cried the boy, still jumping about.
The young lady inspected her flounces and smoothed her ribbons again; and Winterbourne presently risked an observation upon the beauty of the view. He was ceasing to be embarrassed, for he had begun to perceive that she was not in the least embarrassed herself. There had not been the slightest alteration in her charming complexion; she was evidently neither offended nor flattered. If she looked another way when he spoke to her, and seemed not particularly to hear him, this was simply her habit, her manner. Yet, as he talked a little more and pointed out some of the objects of interest in the view, with which she appeared quite unacquainted, she gradually gave him more of the benefit of her glance; and then he saw that this glance was perfectly direct and unshrinking. It was not, however, what would have been called an immodest glance, for the young girl’s eyes were singularly honest and fresh. They were wonderfully pretty eyes; and, indeed, Winterbourne had not seen for a long time anything prettier than his fair countrywoman’s various features — her complexion, her nose, her ears, her teeth.
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