see the flush on his cheeks. “Not until you ask me for it. Not until you beg for it.”
“That is worse,” I said.
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” He smiled at me cheerfully, as though I were a child who had been clever. “You are going to anticipate everything. And you are going to tell me everything.”
“No,” I said. But I did not move. I wanted him to come close again.
“You are going to describe to me every minute sensation that you feel. You are going to tell me exactly how and where you’re becoming aroused. You are going to tell me exactly what filthy thoughts are passing through your mind. And you are going to ask me to do unspeakable things to you, only you are going to speak every word in the crudest possible language. And then, only then, will I do it.”
“I do not . . .” I said.
He crossed behind me again, his hip barely brushing mine, but it felt like thunder. He leaned close to my ear. “And when you come, I am going to feel every last shudder, and you are going to tell me exactly what you feel.”
“I have never . . . with anyone else . . .” I stammered. I leaned back, and his lips almost brushed my shoulder.
Victor laughed softly. “Only alone?”
I nodded. My breasts were tight, and a wetness was starting between my thighs. My eyes were sparking with tears.
He lifted one stray piece of hair away from my neck. “You see? That wasn’t so hard. Your first confession.”
I almost sobbed.
He stepped away. “You will dine with me tonight in my quarters. It does not matter what you wear. At eight o’clock. In the meantime, I will have my servant show you to a room where you can be comfortable.” Moreau crossed to the desk, picking up papers. “I will see you later.”
I nodded. I must pull myself together. I must.
He raised his voice and called for a servant. “Madame St. Elme will be staying. Please put her in the Blue Room and bring her whatever she requires.” He nodded at me. “Your servant, Madame.”
I followed the man quickly. I was shaking as though I had just faced the most grueling fencing match of my life. At least I also scored a point, I thought. As he crossed to the desk, I had seen the bulge in his trousers, uncomfortable if he intended to wait several hours to satiate it. But then, perhaps denial was something he found stimulating.
Moreau
T he Blue Room was a pretty bedchamber at the back of the house Moreau was using for quarters. It was hung with light-blue silk and matching curtains. There was a four-poster with a cream quilt and duvet and blue brocade bolsters, a matching brocade chair, and a bench upholstered in light-blue slipper satin. A wardrobe held the few clothes from my saddlebags. A door gave onto a small, irregularly shaped dressing room with necessary pot, basin, and washing things, all made of plain white china.
It was all perfectly respectable and in good taste. I had half-expected manacles hanging from the ceiling. Or at least silk ropes twined around the posts of the bed.
Had expected or had hoped? That thought rushed to my mind unbidden. Moreau, damn him.
I drew the curtains and lit the candles. The room glowed with a soft light. I opened the wardrobe and shook out my one dress. It was sadly wrinkled. Hopefully the rest of my clothes would be here in the next day or two. The gown was rose pink, with a modest square neckline and a belted waist, the newest English style. It did look nice. I let it air out while I washed up and did my hair. Which did not take two hours.
I heard voices distantly in the house, the sounds of servants, I supposed. I was not locked in. I could have left at any moment. Instead, I prowled around the room, picking up things.
The table held two books and a pamphlet: The Indelicate Debaucheries of a Crowned Head, Being the Excesses of the Late Marie Antoinette . I flipped it open, then closed it at once. Then I opened it again. The engraving purported to show the Princess de Lamballe kneeling in front
“That is worse,” I said.
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” He smiled at me cheerfully, as though I were a child who had been clever. “You are going to anticipate everything. And you are going to tell me everything.”
“No,” I said. But I did not move. I wanted him to come close again.
“You are going to describe to me every minute sensation that you feel. You are going to tell me exactly how and where you’re becoming aroused. You are going to tell me exactly what filthy thoughts are passing through your mind. And you are going to ask me to do unspeakable things to you, only you are going to speak every word in the crudest possible language. And then, only then, will I do it.”
“I do not . . .” I said.
He crossed behind me again, his hip barely brushing mine, but it felt like thunder. He leaned close to my ear. “And when you come, I am going to feel every last shudder, and you are going to tell me exactly what you feel.”
“I have never . . . with anyone else . . .” I stammered. I leaned back, and his lips almost brushed my shoulder.
Victor laughed softly. “Only alone?”
I nodded. My breasts were tight, and a wetness was starting between my thighs. My eyes were sparking with tears.
He lifted one stray piece of hair away from my neck. “You see? That wasn’t so hard. Your first confession.”
I almost sobbed.
He stepped away. “You will dine with me tonight in my quarters. It does not matter what you wear. At eight o’clock. In the meantime, I will have my servant show you to a room where you can be comfortable.” Moreau crossed to the desk, picking up papers. “I will see you later.”
I nodded. I must pull myself together. I must.
He raised his voice and called for a servant. “Madame St. Elme will be staying. Please put her in the Blue Room and bring her whatever she requires.” He nodded at me. “Your servant, Madame.”
I followed the man quickly. I was shaking as though I had just faced the most grueling fencing match of my life. At least I also scored a point, I thought. As he crossed to the desk, I had seen the bulge in his trousers, uncomfortable if he intended to wait several hours to satiate it. But then, perhaps denial was something he found stimulating.
Moreau
T he Blue Room was a pretty bedchamber at the back of the house Moreau was using for quarters. It was hung with light-blue silk and matching curtains. There was a four-poster with a cream quilt and duvet and blue brocade bolsters, a matching brocade chair, and a bench upholstered in light-blue slipper satin. A wardrobe held the few clothes from my saddlebags. A door gave onto a small, irregularly shaped dressing room with necessary pot, basin, and washing things, all made of plain white china.
It was all perfectly respectable and in good taste. I had half-expected manacles hanging from the ceiling. Or at least silk ropes twined around the posts of the bed.
Had expected or had hoped? That thought rushed to my mind unbidden. Moreau, damn him.
I drew the curtains and lit the candles. The room glowed with a soft light. I opened the wardrobe and shook out my one dress. It was sadly wrinkled. Hopefully the rest of my clothes would be here in the next day or two. The gown was rose pink, with a modest square neckline and a belted waist, the newest English style. It did look nice. I let it air out while I washed up and did my hair. Which did not take two hours.
I heard voices distantly in the house, the sounds of servants, I supposed. I was not locked in. I could have left at any moment. Instead, I prowled around the room, picking up things.
The table held two books and a pamphlet: The Indelicate Debaucheries of a Crowned Head, Being the Excesses of the Late Marie Antoinette . I flipped it open, then closed it at once. Then I opened it again. The engraving purported to show the Princess de Lamballe kneeling in front
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