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Authors: Bertrice Small
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title will not go to waste."
"His family survived then," Marguerite said inquisitively.
"César's father saw the handwriting on the wall. He got his family, his servants, and his wealth out of France before the Terror," Renée replied. "He had a younger brother who had already gone to the Louisiana territories, somewhere near New Orleans." Renée turned to Clarice. "Alter the waist," she said. Then she advised her niece, "Get some rest, Marguerite. Tonight will be a very exciting evening for you, I promise."
The younger woman bit her lip briefly, and then she asked, "Am I to . . . I mean tonight. . . if he asks . . . with him?"
"Only if you want to, chérie," Renée said with a smile, "but you really need only be decorative. César will not force the issue. But if not tonight, then one night very soon he will persuade you on your back, Marguerite. I promise you, chérie , after the first two or three men, it is very easy."
"I hope so," Marguerite said softly, but Renée was already gone out the door, her little heels clicking down the stairs.
Chapter Three
Marguerite sat at the walnut pianoforte in the gold and white salon, her slender fingers, sheathed in the lavender kid of her gloves, slipping easily across the black ebony and white ivory keys of the instrument. She played softly, her cornflower blue eyes every now and then looking up to sweep about the room. The gentlemen there tonight all wore the formal black evening attire made popular several years before by the Prince Regent of England. She could see that they were curious. Some nodded imperceptibly in her direction, and one or two of them sent a small smile her way. Marguerite didn't know if she should smile back, or even acknowledge them. Sit and play , her aunt had instructed her, and she did, her beautiful face an imperious mask to the men who studied it for a hint of just what kind of woman she was.
And nothing was as she had imagined it. She might have been in any aristocratic salon in Paris, or London for that matter. The voices in the room were low, and well modulated. Some gentlemen played whist at a beautiful little mahogany card table that had been brought out for them by a footman. Others sat with the three women, laughing and chatting. Marguerite played on. Now and again Josie or Leonie would depart the salon with a gentleman. And when they eventually reentered the chamber once again, it was discreetly, without fuss. If she had not known what the women were doing when they left, it would have all been quite ordinary.
But she did know what they were doing. Her aunt had been quite frank in disparaging her conjugal life with Charles. Renée had inferred that Marguerite had no idea what was really involved in making love with a man. Well, what else could there be but lying on her back with her eyes closed while her breasts were fumbled, and then to be penetrated by a cock? Seeing all this elegance and exaggerated refinement, Marguerite began to believe that her aunt was just painting a picture for her clients of something that did not really exist.
"Bonsoir , Mademoiselle Marguerite," a deep voice said, jerking her from her thoughts. "I am César d'Aubert." He leaned against the pianoforte lazily, his dark eyes plunging impudently into her shadowed cleavage.
Marguerite looked up, her cheeks burning to her mortification, but her voice was strong. "Bonsoir, Monsieur le Duc," she replied.
"May I sit next to you, mademoiselle?" he asked politely.
"What if I said non, Monsieur le Duc?" she responded pertly, although she hardly felt bold.
"Then I should not sit," he murmured suavely. "If you prefer to inhabit the bench by yourself, mademoiselle , I am content to stand here admiring your beautiful breasts. I saw them last night while you slept. They are even lovelier than your aunt's bosom."
"Monsieur le Duc!" Marguerite didn't know whether to be angry or not. Despite appearances, this was not a respectable house.
"Eventually, my dear, I am going to
"His family survived then," Marguerite said inquisitively.
"César's father saw the handwriting on the wall. He got his family, his servants, and his wealth out of France before the Terror," Renée replied. "He had a younger brother who had already gone to the Louisiana territories, somewhere near New Orleans." Renée turned to Clarice. "Alter the waist," she said. Then she advised her niece, "Get some rest, Marguerite. Tonight will be a very exciting evening for you, I promise."
The younger woman bit her lip briefly, and then she asked, "Am I to . . . I mean tonight. . . if he asks . . . with him?"
"Only if you want to, chérie," Renée said with a smile, "but you really need only be decorative. César will not force the issue. But if not tonight, then one night very soon he will persuade you on your back, Marguerite. I promise you, chérie , after the first two or three men, it is very easy."
"I hope so," Marguerite said softly, but Renée was already gone out the door, her little heels clicking down the stairs.
Chapter Three
Marguerite sat at the walnut pianoforte in the gold and white salon, her slender fingers, sheathed in the lavender kid of her gloves, slipping easily across the black ebony and white ivory keys of the instrument. She played softly, her cornflower blue eyes every now and then looking up to sweep about the room. The gentlemen there tonight all wore the formal black evening attire made popular several years before by the Prince Regent of England. She could see that they were curious. Some nodded imperceptibly in her direction, and one or two of them sent a small smile her way. Marguerite didn't know if she should smile back, or even acknowledge them. Sit and play , her aunt had instructed her, and she did, her beautiful face an imperious mask to the men who studied it for a hint of just what kind of woman she was.
And nothing was as she had imagined it. She might have been in any aristocratic salon in Paris, or London for that matter. The voices in the room were low, and well modulated. Some gentlemen played whist at a beautiful little mahogany card table that had been brought out for them by a footman. Others sat with the three women, laughing and chatting. Marguerite played on. Now and again Josie or Leonie would depart the salon with a gentleman. And when they eventually reentered the chamber once again, it was discreetly, without fuss. If she had not known what the women were doing when they left, it would have all been quite ordinary.
But she did know what they were doing. Her aunt had been quite frank in disparaging her conjugal life with Charles. Renée had inferred that Marguerite had no idea what was really involved in making love with a man. Well, what else could there be but lying on her back with her eyes closed while her breasts were fumbled, and then to be penetrated by a cock? Seeing all this elegance and exaggerated refinement, Marguerite began to believe that her aunt was just painting a picture for her clients of something that did not really exist.
"Bonsoir , Mademoiselle Marguerite," a deep voice said, jerking her from her thoughts. "I am César d'Aubert." He leaned against the pianoforte lazily, his dark eyes plunging impudently into her shadowed cleavage.
Marguerite looked up, her cheeks burning to her mortification, but her voice was strong. "Bonsoir, Monsieur le Duc," she replied.
"May I sit next to you, mademoiselle?" he asked politely.
"What if I said non, Monsieur le Duc?" she responded pertly, although she hardly felt bold.
"Then I should not sit," he murmured suavely. "If you prefer to inhabit the bench by yourself, mademoiselle , I am content to stand here admiring your beautiful breasts. I saw them last night while you slept. They are even lovelier than your aunt's bosom."
"Monsieur le Duc!" Marguerite didn't know whether to be angry or not. Despite appearances, this was not a respectable house.
"Eventually, my dear, I am going to
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