by Renee Rose
“Certainly, monsieur,” he said. “How many rooms do you require?”
“Two, please.”
He gave the cost per night, week, and month. “How long will the lady be staying?”
“I am not certain. We will start with a fortnight.”
“Very well. I will have someone take your trunks to your rooms,” he said, looking past them.
“We have no luggage. In fact, we will be looking for your recommendation for a dress-maker and a tailor.”
The man’s face turned sympathetic. “You are one of many who left France in a hurry,” he said.
He felt Corinne relax behind him, as if the knowledge that there were others like her possibly in that hotel was a comfort.
“Can you help us in another regard?”
“I hope so. What is it?”
“Where might we sell an expensive piece of jewelry?”
The hotelier was shrewd, seeming to understand that two people who showed up without luggage might need to sell their jewelry immediately. “There are jewelers. Or you might try private sale.” He met Jean-Claude’s eye. “There is a broker who specializes in the immediate sale of fine jewelry for those who must liquidate in a hurry. Would you like me to send for him?”
“I suppose he pays a lowered rate for the convenience.”
The hotelier nodded. “He does. But it is fair enough. Similar to what you might make after a jeweler has taken his share from a consignment sale.”
“Send for him, please.”
The man nodded and handed him a slip of paper. “Here are the names of a few dressmakers and tailors that should suit your needs. The porter will show you to your rooms. They are adjacent. Does that suit you?”
“It does, thank you.”
Jean-Claude played the gentleman perfectly and remembered to allow her to lead up the stairs, opening her door and asking if she needed anything before he went to his room. As soon as she heard him dismiss the porter, she burst out of her room and opened his door without knocking, slipping inside and shutting the door.
He looked stern. “There is not much point to separate rooms if you are going to enter mine as if you belonged here.”
She ignored his remark, walking to his side and standing on her tiptoes to kiss him.
“What was that for?” he asked.
“I honestly cannot imagine what I would have done if I had arrived here on my own. Thank you. I am so glad you accompanied me.”
“You would have managed it,” he said, his darkened blue eyes raking down her body. But he pulled away, leading her to the door. “It is unseemly for you to be in my room, Corinne. Your reputation is as important a commodity as your jewels right now. I cannot be your paramour any longer.”
Though she understood his logic, the edict still hurt. Turning away before he could see her wound, she left the room.
Chapter Six
The broker called the following morning. They were having coffee outside in a garden area when he arrived.
“Monsieur Armand?” He was a small man, fast-talking, with small eyes that darted around.
“Yes,” Jean-Claude said, standing and shaking the man’s hand.
“I am Antoine Besnard.”
Corinne stood, looking uncertain.
“May I present Mademoiselle de Gramont, the owner of the ring I wish to sell.”
He gave a low bow. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, mademoiselle.”
The three settled into chairs at the table. “May I see the ring?” Besnard asked, wasting no time. He pulled out an eyeglass, examining every angle of the ring. “I will ask twenty-five thousand francs for it. I will get between fifteen and twenty. Your portion will be two-thirds of the final price I secure.”
“How long will it take to sell?” he asked.
“One day. Maybe two.”
“Where will you offer it?”
Besnard smirked. “If I told you that, you would not require my services, would you? It is my connections that earn my portion. Connections, which, I would have to guess as newcomers, you lack.”
Jean-Claude nodded.
“I will give the lady’s name everywhere I call. She will receive invitations and notes of welcome from her peers. My service will be well worth the cost.”
Jean-Claude glanced at Corinne, who nodded in assent. “We accept your terms,” he said.
The man stood and smiled. “I will return as soon as I have your money.”
“Do you think he will?” Corinne asked when he departed.
“Yes, I do, but I suppose there is a chance we just lost a very valuable ring.”
But it seemed Besnard spoke the truth because Corinne received two invitations to call before the day’s end, and by the following morning, they were fifteen thousand francs richer.
“Besnard?” Corinne said, when he stood to leave.
“Yes?”
“Do you deal exclusively in jewels?”
He gave a greedy smile. “No, I complete all kinds of transactions. What do you have to sell?”
“Monsieur Armand is an accomplished silversmith,” she declared.
Besnard turned his gaze on him with a mild interest. “Oh? What do you have to show me?”
“Unfortunately, I have nothing with me to sell,” he admitted.
“Can you get him a commission?”
“Without having seen his work?” He shook his head. “No, I will not vouch for work I have not seen. I have a reputation in this town.”
“I have seen his work and it is brilliant!” she exclaimed fervently.
“Forgive me, but I cannot take your word in the matter, mademoiselle. When you have something to show me, I will be happy to look at it. Au revoir.”
“Thank you for the attempt, Corinne.”
“Can you make something to show him?”
“I will need my own place, with a forge, and materials—pewter and silver and a great many tools.”
“Well, we have money now.”
“Yes. Are you sure you are willing to use it for this?” he asked, uncomfortable with accepting her wealth as his gain. It damaged his pride to have his lady provide for him rather than the other way around.
She frowned. “Is this not our plan?”
“Yes, yes it is,” he said hastily, giving himself a mental shake.
“Then let us go shopping!” she exclaimed with a wide grin. “I am in need of dresses, and you must see a tailor.”
As much as he wanted to accompany her on the errands, propriety prohibited it. He hired a carriage for her and set off on foot for the tailor.
That evening, Corinne knocked on his door, entering without waiting for him to answer. She wore a new gown, entirely different from the fashion she had worn on the ship. Gone were the large hoops under an expanse of skirt. This dress had a plunging neckline, a perfect frame for her ripe bosom, and the skirts hung in a straight line from where it was cinched just under her breasts. It had a classic, almost Greek look to it. She carried supplies for shaving—a razor, soap, and leather strap.
Noticing his attention, she gave a little twirl. “Do you like it? It is the fashion of the revolution. The aristocrats and peasants shall dress alike.” She was back in her element—the lovely courtesan ready to dance at a ball.
“I’m not sure I’ve seen a peasant in a dress like that,” he said drily, ignoring the straining of his cock. He could not have her—not until he became a gentleman and married her properly.
She lifted her eyes as if to gauge whether his comment held rebuke, and he smiled to soften it. “You look charming,” he said.
She blushed and hid it by walking to the dressing table where she laid the shaving supplies and waved imperially. “Shave your face and I will cut your hair. That is the new fashion, as well.”
“Corinne, you cannot cut my hair, and you cannot be in my room.” He walked to where she had set the supplies and picked up the razor strap, slapping it into his palm. “If you enter again, I shall be forced to teach you a
lesson you will not enjoy.”
She jumped, then looked angry. “Cretin,” she huffed, flouncing to the door. He chuckled as she left.
* * *
That evening, an invitation to visit Madame Montpelier on the following day at her plantation manor arrived. She had heard of Madame Montpelier, who seemed to be the reigning queen of society in La Nouvelle-Orléans, as well as one of the wealthiest.
In the morning, she readied with care, arranging her hair in a cascade of ringlets in the back and dressing in a new gown of sheer embroidered India muslin over a new chemise. She ate a light breakfast with Jean-Claude and put on a warm cloak to go in the carriage Madame Montpelier had considerately sent to fetch her to the plantation.
She was shown into a tearoom where she met her hostess, a charming lady at least ten years her senior as well as a half-dozen other society ladies. She saw her mother’s sapphire ring glittering on her hostess’s finger, but the lady was tactful enough to say nothing when she caught her staring. Halfway through tea, she began to understand the nature of her invitation.
“Mademoiselle de Gramont, tell us how you escaped France,” a Mademoiselle Delacour demanded.
The other ladies leaned forward with avid interest. Well, if they wanted entertainment, she would provide it. With every flair of drama, she gave them a toe-curling rendition of her story, changing Jean-Claude’s status to silversmith and omitting the story of her saving him as a child. She made him a gallant hero, escorting her to safety, insisting on seeing her all the way to La Nouvelle-Orléans at the cost of giving up his very successful business in Gramont.
“And so now,” she concluded, “I am in his debt and anxious to help him reestablish his business here. I give him my highest recommendation if you have need of any silver.”
“Yes, certainly. I will inform my husband,” Madame Montpelier promised, and the rest of the ladies agreed.
“But what of your parents, have you heard?”
She shook her head. “No. I know nothing.”
“Oh darling, I thought you knew. The Duc and Duchesse of Gramont died on the scaffold of the guillotine,” Madame Montpelier said gently.
* * *
Corinne did not return to the hotel that evening, and Jean-Claude found himself anxious over her safety, though he knew she had probably been invited to stay the night. In fact, if things went well, she could be invited to stay indefinitely, giving her access to the social events, balls, and parties.
The idea should make him happy, but instead he wondered how she would feel to be back amongst her social class. How would he compare to the gentlemen with whom she would be surrounded? Would her desire for him fade?
When she did not return the following day, he decided it was time to move onto his own path, calling Besnard to sell a few jewels and beginning to scout for an appropriate location to house his workshop.
He shaved and cut his hair as Corinne requested and found lower-priced lodging more suitable for a silversmith. He left a message for Corinne with the hotel clerk before he departed.
By the end of the week, he had secured a workshop and purchased the pewter and silver to begin his work. Still, he had not heard from Corinne.
He walked back to his lodging, his mind absorbed with the details of what more he required to begin work.
“Monsieur Armand, a lady awaits you in your room.”
His eyebrows shot up. “A lady?”
The clerk looked embarrassed. “Forgive me, I let her in. She said you expected her, and I did not wish to make her wait down here.” Clearly, the man assumed she was his lover, visiting him for an illicit affair.
Damn her! Risking her reputation because she did not believe rules applied to her!
He took the steps two at a time, throwing open the door to find her lying on his bed, stark naked.
Closing the door behind him before anyone saw the sight greeting him, he gaped. She had taken her hair down and it fanned over her shoulders like a mantle of dark mahogany silk.
“Are you mad?” he demanded, ignoring the insistent bulge of his cock against his trousers.
She swallowed, looking taken aback at his anger. “No.”
“Corinne, you cannot risk your reputation by coming to me as a paramour,” he insisted, more to the part of himself that raged at him to tear off his clothes and leap upon her.
She leaned up on her elbows, the ripe apples of her breasts bouncing with the movement.
He stifled a groan.
“Just once. I am moving to the Montpelier’s manor. I told the maid who accompanied me I had a headache and wanted to lie in my room for the afternoon. Just this one time before we part.”
He could not resist her, but he could not allow her disobedience to go unpunished either. He walked to the dressing table and picked up the razor strap. She watched him approach, viewing the strap warily.
“I specifically told you not to enter my room again.”
“Oui, monsieur,” she murmured, her eyes round.
“There is a price for disobedience.”
He rolled her to her belly and lifted the strap overhead.
She tensed every muscle, her buttocks clenching, her back muscles standing out in wiry cords.
He brought the strap down across her beautiful moons, leaving a red line as proof of its bite. Again and again he strapped her, listening to her cries, watching the way she jerked away instinctually, then resumed position, offering her bottom up for his punishment. He striped down her cheeks to her thighs then back up and tossed the strap on the bed.
Rolling her to her back, he pounced, bruising her lips with a crushing kiss, dragging his open lips down the side of her neck, suckling her breast. She made tiny cries of pleasure, her fingers wrapping in his hair, her nails digging into his shoulders.
“You are killing me, Corinne. Do you know that?” he rasped. “You’re killing me.”
* * *
He rolled her back over and spanked her with his hand, a relief after the burn of his strap. “I am trying to keep my hands off you,” he said, increasing the intensity of his spanks. “But you make it impossible. Showing up in my room with your hair down and your clothes off was unsporting. As if I had any chance of refusing you.”
He stopped spanking and wrapped his fingers in her hair, pulling back to lift her face from the bed. “Do not do it again,” he said.
She could not answer.
“I mean it, Corinne,” he said, a serious edge in his tone. “Do not do it again.”
He held her head up until she answered, “Oui, monsieur. I understand you.”
Releasing her head, he stroked her, his large palm traveling up and down her back, around her tingling bottom, over her thighs. When his fingers slid between her legs, she arched to meet them. He stroked them over her slick sex, then shocked her by pressing his thumb over her anus.
She attempted to twist out of his grasp, but he slapped the back of her thigh. “I will take you this time, Corinne. But I will take you here.”
His words fanned the flames of passion already burning, but she resisted, squeezing her cheeks together and listing to one side.
Jean-Claude withdrew his hand and she relaxed, thinking he had given up. A moment later, the searing pain of leather across her buttocks made her gasp. He whipped her, each stripe making her gasp anew at the fire it left on her tender flesh.
Perversely, part of her welcomed it—not just the pain, but Jean-Claude’s infliction of it. So different from the time he strapped her on the ship and she cursed him in furious defiance. Now she craved his lash, eager to offer herself wholly to him, no matter what he asked of her. She was frightened—she did not understand just what Jean-Claude intended or required of her, did not know how far he would take her punishment, yet she trusted him.
He stopped the whipping at ten strokes, slid two fingers into her sex without preamble, and pressed his thumb against her anus. Before she drew in a breath, he breached her back hole, his thumb penetrating at the same instant
his fingers filled her sex. The sensations overwhelmed her and she clawed the bedspread, her toes curling as her lover brought her to a level of terrifying need.
He stopped before she reached climax, though, climbing off the bed. She heard the rustle of clothing and turned to watch him undress, his masculine body powerful in its grace. He crawled up behind her, sliding his hand under her hips to find her dripping sex with his fingers. He drew lazy circles around her pleasure center, distracting her from the pressure of his cock against her anus.
She gave a whimper of protest when the stretching burned, and he withdrew, moistening the head of his cock with saliva before trying again. This time he breached her hole.
She squeezed her eyes shut, the burning of her stretched orifice causing her to grit her teeth even as the feel of him moving inside her brought her to the edge of ecstasy. His fingers between her legs began to dance, distracting her from the pain and driving her pleasure to a razor edge of desperation. And yet, it was impossible to climax until he finished—she could not clench her muscles as he moved within her without risking pain.
“S’il te plaît, s’il te plaît, s’il te plaît…” she begged.
“Mon dieu, yes!” he shouted, stilling inside her, his fingers rubbing her stiffened nub as she sobbed to climax.
He held her in his arms for a long time, his breath warm on her neck, his firm body as familiar as if he had been her lover for years and not just a few weeks. She found the words “I love you,” floating to her lips, but she bit them back. Instead, she said, “My parents are dead.”
He rolled her to face him. “I am so sorry, Corinne.”
“You are not surprised.”
“No, love,” he said with sympathy. “I feared it. They were sympathizers with the king. I doubted they could escape the guillotine.”
She had cried at Madame Montpelier’s. She had not meant to make a spectacle of herself, but they seemed to crave it, pressing handkerchiefs into her hand and patting her with sympathetic clucks.