Worse, she was actually … bored.
This experience was of the blandest sort.
What was she doing wrong? He was handsome, or at least he appeared to be from what she could see of his face that wasn’t covered with his demi-mask. There was nothing unpleasant about him. Not his smell or his taste. What was amiss here? Where was the heat? The exhilaration?
“Ah, there you are,” Emilie heard just before a strong arm slid in between her and the man kissing her, and pulled her back, breaking their contact.
She jerked her head up and was surprised to find herself staring at Vincent, his arm still across her chest, holding her shoulder. He wore his mask, and the same attire he had on earlier. She knew it was him. He gripped her elbow. “Come with me.”
“Just a moment, monsieur! Where do you think you’re going with her?” her flavorless lover protested.
Vincent turned back around and shoved his mask off his face, a scowl etched across his handsome features.
“Oh, it’s you, Valle … Joseph …” The gentleman’s anger was immediately mollified.
“It’s Vincent, you fool. The lady is coming with me. Any objections?” The question was weighty with authority, his elevated rank hanging in the air between the men. It was clear what was truly being asked: “Do you dare object?”
Her anonymous kisser glanced at her, his expression looking remarkably like regret and then said a soft, “No.”
With that, Vincent took her hand and stalked toward the château with her in tow, the tiny stones on the path crunching beneath her feet.
She was all but running to keep up, her free hand holding her cloak closed so it wouldn’t fly open.
His comportment irked her. “Vincent, just what do you think you’re doing?”
He didn’t respond and kept on walking.
“Vincent, you just bullied that man.” It bothered her to see it. He’d swooped in, without excuses or apologies. A display that was more in keeping with Joseph’s character and not the Vincent she’d come to know. “Your conduct was rather poor, don’t you think?”
Still no answer. Her ire spiked. She’d no idea what had gotten into him.
“Just because you’re the son of the Duc de Vernant doesn’t mean you’re above reproach.”
“You’re wrong there. I’m afraid it does.” His answer annoyed her further, as did the fact that he was affecting her. The simple touch of his hand was sending tiny tingles reverberating up her arm to her breasts. Hardening her nipples. She’d spend long minutes kissing her masked gentleman with no reaction. Not a spark of heat. Yet some simple handholding with this man, and her body was aquiver.
It was exasperating. Vincent was a friend, albeit an annoying one at the moment. She didn’t delude herself into believing he’d ever desire her. “I don’t care a whit who your father is, you’re not above reproach with me.”
“Believe me, I’m very much aware of that.”
His response surprised her. “Vincent, where are we going? What is all this about? I was in the middle of an amorous encounter when you so rudely interrupted.” All right, perhaps she was a tad grateful that he’d put an end to the dull experience, but he didn’t need to know that. What he needed to know was that she wouldn’t tolerate any high-handedness from him.
“You were in the middle of an encounter, chère. It was hardly amorous. You looked ready to fall asleep. Trust me, I did you a favor.”
Before she could offer up a hot retort, they entered the château’s great room. There was a crush of people now. People who’d clearly consumed more drink, the laughter louder and the throng rowdier than before. Bawdy behavior was more evident and widespread. The light fondling she’d seen earlier around the table had been replaced by open groping. There were more than a few open bodices. Bare breasts. Open breeches. And in a few instances, open coupling.
Emilie was dragged past a giggling woman sitting on her lover’s lap. Her masked man nibbled at the grapes nestled between her amble breasts, making her squirm and squeal with delight. Vincent continued through the crowd, maneuvering her out of the Grand Salon, through the grand vestibule, up the staircase, and down the corridor straight to her private rooms.
When she was finally standing in her antechamber, she pulled off her mask and wig and demanded, “Tell me what we’re doing here.”
“You’re leaving. Now. This night.” He tore off his mask and tossed it carelessly to the floor. “Where are your trunks?” Vincent turned and marched into her bedchambers.
She chased him in. “What do you mean, I’m leaving tonight? Why on earth would I do that?”
“I’ll get someone to help you pack. Better yet, I’ll help.” He strode to the armoire and threw open the doors. “Dieu, you have a lot of clothes … Are there more in the cabinet?”
He, a d’Alumbert, privileged and pampered, was going to help her pack? Tackle the task of a servant?
“Vincent, what has gotten into you? Have you lost your mind?”
“I’ve ask myself that question many times since your recent arrival.” He raked a hand though his dark hair. “Emilie, you can’t stay. You must leave. The sooner the better.”
She frowned. “Why?”
“Because this plan of yours isn’t going to work.”
“Really?” Emilie tilted her head to one side. “And why not?”
Joseph noted the stubborn look in her eyes. One that told him she wasn’t about to leave without a good reason. Think of one.
“Fine. You force me to tell you,” he said.
“Tell me what?”
“Joseph wants you.” That wasn’t a lie. Though he wished it was. “I can’t keep him away.” That wasn’t a lie either. He couldn’t seem to stay away from her no matter how he tried. And he couldn’t keep Vincent away from her either.
His easy-mannered twin, who’d always done as Joseph asked, picked a fine time to be unyielding.
Her lips twitched as though she were holding back a smile. “That’s it? That is the reason I must flee in the middle of the night?” She approached, the smile on her beautiful face growing larger with each step she took. “That’s why you interrupted me in such haste?” She stopped before him. Lavender swirled around him, stirring his senses.
His blood warmed. “Ah … yes.”
She gave him a radiant smile. “Vincent, you’re a dear!” She threw herself against him, her arms entwining his neck.
Desire hit him in a hot wave on contact. His cock thickened as he took in the warm press of her body down the length of his and her silky flaxen hair against his cheek.
“I’m so moved by your concern. You’re a wonderful, wonderful friend.” She tightened her arms around him and snuggled in closer, inadvertently rubbing his engorged prick with her belly. Dieu …
He didn’t deserve the praise and he certainly couldn’t take the physical contact, given his current celibate state.
Gently, Joseph pushed her away. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he held her at arm’s length and dipped his head, bringing him eyelevel to her. Big beautiful green eyes started back at him, drawing him in. Just as distracting was that perfect pink mouth. Seeing another man sampling her drove him half insane. He was starved for that mouth. Ludicrous as it was, he wanted it all to himself when he’d never cared much about exclusivity before. Thoughts of sliding his cock between those lush lips flitted through his mind. “So you see now why you must leave,” he forced out, ignoring the mental images. “It’s quite impossible to keep Joseph from you. He’s told me he’ll approach you tomorrow. And we both know how much you don’t want that. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“Wonderful. Then it’s settled. You’re leaving. Let’s pack.” Joseph released her shoulders and walked toward the cabinet where he was sure to find more of her wardrobe, then thought better of it. He’d no idea how to pack. And no interest in learning. Joseph turned back around to face her. “Better yet, I’ll go see to your carriage and I’ll have your personal effects packed and s
ent to you.” Resting his hands on his hips, he smiled, feeling at ease for the first time since he’d arrived at the Comtesse’s château, despite his stiff prick.
“I’m not leaving.”
His smile died. As did his easy feeling.
“What do you mean, you’re not leaving?” That stubborn look was back, her expression serious and uncompromising.
“I may not want Joseph to approach me. But I won’t leave because of him.”
Merde. “Emilie, we’re talking about Joseph. Remember, horrible, terrible Joseph? You don’t want him anywhere near you. You’ve said so. It’s best you leave.”
“Actually, since you put it that way, I’ve changed my mind.”
His smile returned. “Excellent!”
“I want Joseph to approach me.”
His smiled died again. Jésus-Christ. There had to be something wrong with his hearing. “You want Joseph to approach you?” he repeated, incredulous.
“I do. In fact, I welcome his advances. I’ll even encourage them. Then I’ll do something he deserves. I’ll rebuff him. He has it coming, don’t you think?”
Joseph blinked. Speechless. Emilie de Sarron was torturing him.
On every level imaginable.
She smiled. “Heir to the Duc de Vernant, the mighty Joseph d’Alumbert, Marquis de Valle, contemptible and vile, whom society bends to, and placates at every turn … He has never been refused anything. Nor has he ever had a woman turn him down. I think I’ll enjoy doing just that—refusing him. Turning him away.”
Joseph rubbed his forehead, trying to knead away the dull ache that had just developed. Yet the discomfort was small in comparison to his throbbing cock. He couldn’t believe it, but he was hard for a woman who’d just called him contemptible and vile. To his face.
Having mastered the art of seduction long ago, he’d fucked his way through the French court, and yet this one sexual novice had utterly seduced him—with the strokes of her quill, no less. A woman who didn’t dress provocatively and had injuries to her body. And nothing—absolutely nothing—seemed to diminish his desire for her. His fever continued to mount to the point where it was influencing his behavior. His actions idiotic. Because no matter how hard he tried to ignore it or silence it, his every rakish instinct told him that a sexual experience with this unique woman would be nothing short of pure ecstasy. Clearly some otherworld forces were at play. How else could he explain being so ridiculously spellbound? Someone somewhere was making certain he was going to pay for all his misdeeds. Every one of them. This night. At the hand of this woman.
What poetic justice.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Emilie, don’t toy with Joseph, or any man here. No man likes a cock tease. By your attendance at the masquerade, it is assumed you are willing to be taken. Playing the coquette here, with no intention of surrendering sexually, is most unwise. With anyone.”
“Rape isn’t permitted, if that’s what you’re suggesting,” she countered.
“What I’m suggesting is that a man may not think you are seriously objecting if you lead him down the path too far. In a setting such as this, people play a variety of sex games and roles.”
She was silent, and he could tell she was carefully considering his words. “I won’t seek out Joseph, but if he approaches me, he will be played upon, and in the end, if he refuses to take no for an answer, he will be cast out of the masquerade. This is, after all, my aunt’s home.”
Joseph wanted to tell her that her aunt would never—could never—shut her doors to any member of the house of Alumbert, but he kept silent.
“As for the other men here, I don’t intend to withhold myself. I want to surrender sexually, as long as they are not Joseph’s friends. You don’t understand, Vincent. I need this. I want a lover. I want to touch and be touched. To know the physical bliss that you and others have known.”
“What if in the throes of passion, he tries to remove all your clothing?”
She tensed. An emotion he couldn’t decipher crossed her features. Damn it. The words had tumbled from his mouth. He hadn’t meant to voice them, but the gnawing fear wouldn’t relent.
“That isn’t your concern,” she responded tightly. “I’m staying. I’m proceeding as planned and that is final.”
She turned on her heel, picked up her mask and wig, and headed for the door.
Joseph held back the profanities he wanted to bellow out of sheer frustration. Between his brother, Emilie, and this disastrous situation he’d created, he was sure to lose his mind.
Emilie was heading back out there, looking for a lover. Not a single man here deserved her. Least of all him. Joseph was the last person she’d want to touch her. To take her innocence. But when she placed a hand on the door handle, he shouted:
“I’ll be your lover.”
Her hand on the door handle, Emilie stared back at him. She didn’t move. Nor say a word. Her sweet lips slightly parted, she looked frozen in shock.
He shouldn’t have said he’d bed her. But he wouldn’t take it back. There were numerous reasons why having her was wrong. And just as many reasons why this felt so right.
Maybe if he showed her just how desirable she really was, it would make amends for his transgressions against her. He hated it that she’d hidden herself away for years. That she hid inside all those layers of clothes. And most especially that she believed she couldn’t stir a man’s blood unless she masked that angelic face and her identity.
He wanted to prove her wrong.
By no means was he being selfless here. Selfishly, he wanted to be the one to touch her and be touched by her. To take this passionate, headstrong—untaught—female and initiate her into the sexual pleasures she so adamantly wanted to experience. By God, he wanted to fuck her so badly, it made his body ache and the crest of his cock wet with pre-come.
As it was, his sac was drawn up painfully tight. He was ready to explode.
He was going to have her. Tonight. Now. And satisfy both their needs.
And once he did, this incessant carnal craving for her, this vexing captivation would end. No?
Chapter Four
He jests, Emilie told herself, her heart pounding hard. Scrutinizing his face, she looked for any sign that would confirm it.
His sensuous blue eyes gazed back at her, unflinching. Try as she might, she couldn’t find any insincerity in his expression. Nothing that belied his words.
Dear God, he actually looked serious. He couldn’t be. Why would he be?
“Why … ?” The word rushed out of her lungs on a breath, unable to muster more.
His brow furrowed. “Why what, chère?”
“Why would you want to be my lover?” The man could have any woman he wanted. With prominence, power, and fine looks, the d’Alumbert brothers were never short on female attention. They had their choice of mistresses. All of whom were beautiful and flawless.
She was neither.
The corner of his mouth lifted with a slight smile. He approached, all male grace and masculine beauty, and stopped before her. Her heart thundered so hard now, he was certain to hear it.
Vincent took her hand and, to her utter astonishment, lifted it to his mouth and pressed his lips to the sensitive spot on the inside of her wrist. A thrill shot up her arm. She felt a quickening in her belly.
He brought her hand to the bulge in his breeches and stroked her palm over his thick length. So large and solid. A feral need throbbed through her core and weakened her knees. “This is what you do to me, Emilie. You stiffen my cock anytime I’m near you. Anytime I think of you. Anytime I read one of your letters where you tell me, bold as can be, your sexual fantasies. I want you.”
She was trembling all over, when she’d never trembled for anyone. This couldn’t be real. It had to be a dream. One she’d had of him more times than she’d care to count.
He leaned in, his lips grazing across her cheek to stop at her ear. “There isn’t a man here who knows you better than I do. I k
now what you want. How you want it. I can satisfy all your desires.” Her breaths were ragged. Her head was spinning and her knees almost gave out when he whispered, “I’ll take you in every one of your favorite positions—pages five to twelve of your erotic book. Then I’ll take you in some of my favorite ways. You’ll enjoy every moment. All you have to do is say yes, ma belle.”
At his endearment, she jumped back, bumping against the wall. My beauty … Tears welled in her eyes. She blinked them back, embarrassed by them. She didn’t allow herself to cry. Not for years. And never in front of others.
She reeled, trying to make sense of it all.
My beauty … It was the second time he’d said it, and with the same level of sincerity. How could he mean it?
“You … You want … me?” It seemed too incredible to conceive, despite the physical proof of his desire.
His half smile returned. “We both do.”
“Both?”
“My prick and I.” He crossed his arms, his smile broadening. “We are in complete accord on the matter. We both want me to bed you.”
Oh God. Beautiful Vincent d’Alumbert desired her.
No man had ever desired her. Or ever would. Or so she’d come to believe after years of mean-spirited commentary and a night of abject humiliation where future suitors had indicated their scorn.
He took a step toward her. “Emilie …”
“I don’t understand … You say you want me … but you know I have s—”
“Such a beautiful face?” he injected. “I know. You’re rather breathtaking.”
Breathtaking? She shook her head. “That’s not what I was going to say. I have bur—”
“Breasts.” He pressed his palms against the wall on either side of her head, hemming her in. “Very nice breasts, actually. I got a glimpse of them when your cloak opened.”
He did? Nice breasts? “No … That’s not it at all. What I’m trying to say … I have …” She forced the bitter words off her tongue. “Burns. And scars. I have scars and burns.” At the moment, she hated them more than ever.
He leaned in, his mouth so close to her own, making her lips warm and tingle. “I’m still hard for you. I still want you.”
The Lovely Duckling (Fiery Tales Book 8) Page 4