James realized. He stared at it, trying to figure out what a humidor full of cigars was doing in the house of a woman who lived alone.
“When was the last time you had a good cigar?”
He glanced up. Coco Wild was settled back into her chair, a gracious smile on her face. “I can’t remember,” he said. “Before Africa.”
She tilted her head sideways, the faintest movement, indicating the humidor. “Go ahead, if you wish.”
More for something to do than anything else, James leaned forward and opened the crystal box.
He took a cigar. It was fresh; it rolled smoothly without a crackle of sound. Then, as he closed the lid again, he felt the tobacco ease from his fingers.
Mrs. Wild took possession of his cigar. She clipped the end with a silver cigar snip, then offered back the roll of tobacco. Taking it, James frowned, then was further undone when she leaned forward to look at him through a two-inch flame that rose from a large silver lighter, a raven with its beak on fire. The lighter was heavy; it took both her hands.
Cigar in his teeth, James leaned forward. The blunt tip of the tobacco in the flame, he drew in short, strong puffs. It lit evenly, the luxurious smoke filling his nose and mouth. He closed his eyes as he let the smoke drift up his face, smelling it, feeling it, tasting it as he leaned back into an overstuffed sofa.
He drew smoke in again and blew out, narrowing one eye to watch this accommodating woman. The lovely Mrs. Wild relaxed back into her chair, leaning in a manner that was coming to be characteristic in James’s mind: slightly askew—canted sideways, one elbow raised, bent to rest atop the low chair back. She leaned thus, her head tilted to level her regard, relaxed, attentive.
James closed his lips round the cigar and drew smoke into his mouth as he stared. His heart skipped a beat, then thudded into a hard rhythm against the wall of his chest. She was. She really was one. She was telling him so. A demi-mondaine . A courtesan with a reputation beyond repair, beyond his social affiliations. A grande cocotte . Or whatever one called a woman who became wealthy and powerful off rich men’s sexual desires. It seemed so plausible all at once. Not in all the stereotypical ways he’d dreamed, yet in a real, earthly way it could be true, absolutely true.
He turned the whole story over in his mind a moment, that she might have been a bedfellow to ministers and diplomats, even the Bishop of Swansbridge. Incredible to contemplate. And a French prince as well as an English one. He was helpless against his own imagination: All at once, this tiny, well-dressed woman seemed the wickedest, naughtiest piece of femininity he had heretofore ever contemplated.
He wished he could say he was offended or repelled. In fact, he was so entranced he embarrassed himself.
Oh, to think. The lovely, laughing woman from last night, a woman of doubtful virtue. No, if rumor were right: of no virtue. Perfect. The exact amount of virtue in a woman he wanted.
As the idea settled into his brain, it became charming, somehow. No virtue whatsoever. Yet allowed, cultured, and entertaining. So perfectly polite and sociable. For one silly moment, he thought, why couldn’t all the ladies in London be like this. Without any virtue at all. Rather like the men. Onlysofter and layered in ruffles and silk, with their feminine points of view. But without their feminine ignorance—schooled ignorance—or worse, schooled disgust. Everyone would dance and talk and laugh, then go off somewhere private afterward and copulate like rabbits, rather like the Wakua after a nice feast. And all would be very happy and unconcerned about propriety, because this would be propriety—
He didn’t know what to say, how to phrase what was in his mind: obviously she didn’t need money. She didn’t desire a social entrée. Then what was it she wanted? What was the price now of “the highest priced female seven years ago on the Paris
“When was the last time you had a good cigar?”
He glanced up. Coco Wild was settled back into her chair, a gracious smile on her face. “I can’t remember,” he said. “Before Africa.”
She tilted her head sideways, the faintest movement, indicating the humidor. “Go ahead, if you wish.”
More for something to do than anything else, James leaned forward and opened the crystal box.
He took a cigar. It was fresh; it rolled smoothly without a crackle of sound. Then, as he closed the lid again, he felt the tobacco ease from his fingers.
Mrs. Wild took possession of his cigar. She clipped the end with a silver cigar snip, then offered back the roll of tobacco. Taking it, James frowned, then was further undone when she leaned forward to look at him through a two-inch flame that rose from a large silver lighter, a raven with its beak on fire. The lighter was heavy; it took both her hands.
Cigar in his teeth, James leaned forward. The blunt tip of the tobacco in the flame, he drew in short, strong puffs. It lit evenly, the luxurious smoke filling his nose and mouth. He closed his eyes as he let the smoke drift up his face, smelling it, feeling it, tasting it as he leaned back into an overstuffed sofa.
He drew smoke in again and blew out, narrowing one eye to watch this accommodating woman. The lovely Mrs. Wild relaxed back into her chair, leaning in a manner that was coming to be characteristic in James’s mind: slightly askew—canted sideways, one elbow raised, bent to rest atop the low chair back. She leaned thus, her head tilted to level her regard, relaxed, attentive.
James closed his lips round the cigar and drew smoke into his mouth as he stared. His heart skipped a beat, then thudded into a hard rhythm against the wall of his chest. She was. She really was one. She was telling him so. A demi-mondaine . A courtesan with a reputation beyond repair, beyond his social affiliations. A grande cocotte . Or whatever one called a woman who became wealthy and powerful off rich men’s sexual desires. It seemed so plausible all at once. Not in all the stereotypical ways he’d dreamed, yet in a real, earthly way it could be true, absolutely true.
He turned the whole story over in his mind a moment, that she might have been a bedfellow to ministers and diplomats, even the Bishop of Swansbridge. Incredible to contemplate. And a French prince as well as an English one. He was helpless against his own imagination: All at once, this tiny, well-dressed woman seemed the wickedest, naughtiest piece of femininity he had heretofore ever contemplated.
He wished he could say he was offended or repelled. In fact, he was so entranced he embarrassed himself.
Oh, to think. The lovely, laughing woman from last night, a woman of doubtful virtue. No, if rumor were right: of no virtue. Perfect. The exact amount of virtue in a woman he wanted.
As the idea settled into his brain, it became charming, somehow. No virtue whatsoever. Yet allowed, cultured, and entertaining. So perfectly polite and sociable. For one silly moment, he thought, why couldn’t all the ladies in London be like this. Without any virtue at all. Rather like the men. Onlysofter and layered in ruffles and silk, with their feminine points of view. But without their feminine ignorance—schooled ignorance—or worse, schooled disgust. Everyone would dance and talk and laugh, then go off somewhere private afterward and copulate like rabbits, rather like the Wakua after a nice feast. And all would be very happy and unconcerned about propriety, because this would be propriety—
He didn’t know what to say, how to phrase what was in his mind: obviously she didn’t need money. She didn’t desire a social entrée. Then what was it she wanted? What was the price now of “the highest priced female seven years ago on the Paris
Similar Books
