The Princess and the Diamonds Page 10

  A promise Mathias sealed with a searing kiss.

  Historical Tidbit

  Believe it or not, the ban on the game of Basset was real. King Louis XIV had a problem on his hands. Gaming tables had become very popular during his reign. Too many noble families were being ruined. In 1691, Louis XIV banned the game. I’ve taken artistic license in this story and moved the ban a few years earlier to 1687.

  The character of Renault de Sard in this story (and in The Marquis’s New Clothes) is based entirely on the first Lieutenant General of Police of Paris, Gabriel Nicolas de la Reynie. The office was inaugurated in 1667. Long before London’s Bow Street Runners (formed in 1749), seventeenth century Paris had a police force whose job it was to protect the public. Good thing. Murders happened in Paris daily. Reynie’s advanced views of law enforcement helped establish the foundation of modern policing.

  So, why have I set the Fiery Tales series during the reign of King Louis XIV of France? Well, the glittering court of Louis XIV wasn’t just salacious and elegant. This was the very time period that the father of fairy tales, Charles Perrault—author of The Tales of Mother Goose—wrote stories that have delighted generations: Sleeping Beauty, Little Red Riding Hood, Puss in Boots, Bluebeard and the ever popular Cinderella, to name a few.

  I hope you enjoyed your time in the opulent world when fairy tales were born. Please see the end for a delicious excerpt of yet another Fiery Tale!

  Happy reading!

  Lila

  Glossary

  Antechamber—The sitting room in a lord’s or lady’s private apartments (chambers).

  Basset—A card game banned by the King and played by the wealthy. It brought about the ruin of many people of quality.

  Caleçons—Drawers/underwear.

  Chambers—Another word for private apartments. A lord or lady’s chambers consisted of a bedroom, a sitting room, a bathroom, and a cabinet (office) Some chambers were bigger and more elaborate than others. Some cabinets were so large, they were used for private meetings.

  Chère—Dear one. A term of endearment for a woman (cher for a man).

  Chérie—Darling or cherished one. A term of endearment for a woman (chéri for a man).

  Couch—A term in the card game Basset. It’s the first bet placed on any given card. Once a player wins his or her couch, they can either accept payment or let their money lie and go for a greater stakes, like a sept-et-le-va—seven times the original bet.

  Dieu—God.

  Justacorps—A man’s fitted knee-length coat, worn over his vest and breeches.

  Hôtel/Château—A mansion located in the city. Members of the upper class and the wealthy bourgeois (middle class) often had a hôtel in Paris in addition to a palatial country estate (château).

  Lettre de Cachet—Orders/letters of confinement—without trial—signed by the King with the royal seal (cachet).

  Ma belle—My beauty. Endearment for a woman.

  Merde—Shit.

  Salle—Room.

  Salle de Bain—Bathroom. A small room located in one’s private apartments in either a château or hôtel. The room usually had a fireplace, a tub, and a toilet (that looked like a chair with a chamber pot). The room was small on purpose so that the fire from the fireplace would keep the space warm while one bathed.

  Read an Excerpt of

  Three Reckless Wishes

  Inspired by Charles Perrault’s classic fairy tale, “Three Wishes”, an erotically charged historical romance in the acclaimed Fiery Tales Series…A scorching tale of redemption and undeniable desire…

  Luc de Moutier, Marquis of Fontenay, is haunted by the writings of a dead woman. He is the subject of her romantic interest. Obsessed with her journal, he can’t stop thinking about the sweetly sensual words of the late Isabelle Laurent. Though he’d never noticed her watching him from afar, he now compares every woman to the innocent enchantress who invades his thoughts and most luscious dreams . . .

  A Guarded Secret…

  The old Isabelle is dead. Sought after by the most powerful men in the realm, Isabelle has her choice of wealthy lovers. Her only goals are to provide for her young son, and to maintain the ruse of her demise. Three reckless wishes led her down the path she now walks. And there is no turning back. She allows her heart’s yearnings to show only on the pages of her anonymously published books. Charming and witty, she dons her social mask each day, her performance unshakable until the very man of her long-held private dreams walks into her life—and shakes the foundations of her carefully crafted world.

  An Unexpected Ecstasy…

  When Luc meets the beautiful courtesan, she captures his fascination. He’s determined to know the woman behind the facade. To deliciously decimate her defenses, show her his true passion and the depths of his desire—one exquisite carnal encounter at a time… But soon he discovers books written in a style all too familiar to him . . . and a passion as perilous as it is perfect.

  Chapter One

  Paris, 1661

  . . . There are times I have dreamed of it. I am naked in his embrace. His hand moves down my body, warm fingers grazing lightly across my skin. The sensation is so sublime, I cannot contain my sound of bliss. I arch to him, hungry for more.

  He alone ignites this fire inside me, one I cannot extinguish. Anymore than I can stop these vivid dreams—so shamelessly unbridled. Nor can I quash the feelings he stirs within my heart.

  Oh, how I long for his heart, his smile. His arms around me. I want to know the feel of his skin, the taste of his kiss.

  I want to indulge in all the carnal delights he favors.

  I want to surrender to his every wicked desire.

  Down to my very marrow, I feel there is a connection between us. One destined in the stars. If he would simply notice me, touch me, he would feel it, too . . .

  Marc d’Emery, Marquis de Vigneau, slammed the journal shut. “Merde. I can’t read anymore, Luc. I’m at a full cock-stand and we’re just minutes from my sister’s hôtel.” He tossed the journal across the moving carriage to the empty spot next to Luc de Moutier, Marquis de Fontenay. “I’ll admit it. That’s stirring stuff—and I can understand the appeal of her writing—but the last woman you should be thinking about is a dead one.”

  Luc tightened his jaw as he stared out the window. A blur of gray townhomes and indistinguishable people threaded past as dusk descended. He agreed. He should have ceased his fascination with the journal, and more importantly, with the author of the evocative writing long ago.

  In the almost two years since Sabine, his brother’s new wife, had given Luc the journal, he’d read it so many times, he had the blasted thing memorized. He couldn’t seem to put it away and forget about it. Forget about her.

  Isabelle Laurent.

  Sabine’s deceased twin.

  He was the subject of Isabelle’s writings. The object of her desire, and affection. It completely staggered him that these passionate posts had been written by a female completely untried and unschooled in the carnal arts. And just as astonishing was the affinity she’d had for him.

  One he’d known absolutely nothing about.

  He hadn’t even known Isabelle existed until Sabine had entered his brother Jules’s life and Luc learned all about his sister-in-law’s only sibling. Jésus-Christ, the late famous playwright, Paul Laurent, had been Sabine’s and Isabelle’s father. Luc had attended Paul Laurent’s theater more times than he could count. He hadn’t even been aware that the man had daughters at all—despite having spoken to him countless times.

  And not once—not one bloody time—while Isabelle had watched him from the side of the stage with such adoration and tender desire, recording every little tidbit she observed about him, had he noticed her.

  Not a single sighting. Not even a glimpse.

  All the while she’d duly noted what he wore. Which of her father’s plays he appeared to like. Which parts made him laugh.

  Deriving such astute deductions about his personal tastes.
<
br />   Deriving such astute deductions about far more—things the rest of the world didn’t see about him.

  The more he’d learned about her from her journal, the more he wanted to know her and was amazed how akin her own personal tastes were to his. On so many subjects.

  For a woman he’d never met, he knew her better than any female who had ever entered his life. For a woman who’d never once spoken to him, she knew him better than anyone else ever had.

  How absurd is that?

  She came to life on the pages of her journal. And he couldn’t help but wonder, more times than he could count, about the sound of her voice, or her laugh. The feel of her skin.

  Her taste.

  All the things he’d never know about her were tormenting him.

  Isabelle Laurent and her enthralling journal, documenting the last year of Isabelle’s life, had him completely beguiled.

  And utterly burning.

  Just having the thing near him tightened his groin and warmed his blood. He didn't have to look down at the brown leather-bound volume on the seat next to him to know it was there. He sensed it. Was all too aware of it. And her. She was in his thoughts constantly.

  It was completely illogical, but he actually mourned the loss of her. The loss of ever getting to know her.

  Worst of all, his fascination with Isabelle Laurent hadn’t diminished over time. It had only strengthened. He wanted a dead woman.

  Dieu, he had no bloody idea how to alter this lamentable state. How the hell did he get her out of his system?

  He had a vague description of her: dark hair and eyes—a sharp contrast to her twin sister’s fair coloring. In his mind’s eye he’d formed a mental image of Isabelle Laurent—and that very same dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty was making appearances in every one of his erotic dreams. Passages from her journal playing out in the most vivid, mind-melting detail.

  Each time he’d wake up alone, his cock stiff as a spike, the pressure in his sac immense. Ravenous for her.

  For a woman he couldn’t ever have.

  One who’d been dead for six years and who was haunting him in the most maddening ways.

  If he’d caught her watching him—just once—he might not be so tormented with what ifs. If she hadn’t perished at the hands of a madman who was now thankfully dead and gone, she’d still be here.

  Leon de Vittry had left so much devastation in his wake. A sickening number of innocent women he’d murdered had been discovered at the bottom of his privy, the natural smells having masked the stench of death. He may have spared Isabelle that particular indignity when he murdered her. But her fiery death at the hands of that fucking monster had been no less horrific.

  It had taken five long years to learn that de Vittry had murdered Isabelle. And to prove de Vittry had had a hand in the conspiracy against Luc's family that ultimately led not only to the false treason charges laid against his father Charles de Moutier.

  But to his execution as a traitor to the Crown, as well.

  The irony was committing treason had been about the only sin not on Luc’s father’s lengthy list of transgressions.

  The only accusation he hadn’t deserved.

  And he didn’t shed a single tear over his father’s death—or rather the devil—as he’d often called him in the quiet of his mind since boyhood. He hated his piece of merde father. Charles de Moutier had caused more than his own share of human suffering and deserved punishment he got. There was no doubt in Luc’s mind that at this very moment he was standing right next to de Vittry—burning in hell.

  After all he’d been through with his father and family’s disgrace, his life had finally been set right. He and Jules had regained favor with the King. Reclaimed their family's vast fortune that had been confiscated. And cleared their sullied name as enemies of the Crown. During their miserable exile from Paris, when polite society had turned its back on them, when he and Jules had been stripped of everything including their dignity, nobility—and for a time their freedom during their own arrests—Luc had not only longed to reform the Moutiers’ ruined reputation, but to take it to new heights of power and prestige.

  To that end, he knew he should find a wife with exalted bloodlines and vast wealth. A union that would enhance his family’s esteem and already laden coffers.

  The problem was, he just couldn’t stop comparing each suitable choice to Isabelle—when it shouldn’t matter that the women didn’t have the same wit, intellect and natural sensuality as the deceased dark-haired beauty dominating his mind day and night.

  “Are you absolutely certain you never saw Isabelle at Laurent’s theater?” Mentally, Luc cringed. The question had fallen out of his mouth, uncensored. Damn it. Just let this go. His words sounded pathetic even in his own ears. It was laced with desperation. A desperation to learn more—anything more—about the elusive and far too captivating Isabelle Laurent.

  He’d spent his entire life maintaining a certain level of detachment—from everyone. He liked women. The women who’d graced his life had been his greatest source of joy. He loved discovering all the interesting little quirks and habits that made each one unique. And then there were those delicious sweet spots on their body, the ones that made them moan for him.

  He adored discovering those even more.

  He never deceived women. Never made promises he would not keep, and always made it clear that his interest was in a carnal connection—unbridled mutual pleasure.

  Without emotional entanglement.

  He was most at ease when he controlled his world. Soft feelings made him shirk away. A long time ago, he’d learned to keep a tight rein on his emotions at all times.

  Or else…

  What Isabelle had done to him, the tender feelings her writings had inspired, was beyond unsettling. And he was too damned seasoned to be this unraveled by the mere words of an ingénue.

  Smiling good-naturedly, Marc shook his head, the shade of his dark, curly hair likely to have been very similar to Isabelle’s own locks. “Luc, I’m beginning to worry about you. This obsession you have with this dead woman isn’t at all healthy. Why don’t you focus on, say…a live one? They’re much easier to bed.”

  Luc sighed, frustrated. “I know it’s been years since the theater closed and the playwright passed away, but surely someone caught a glimpse of her? A young dark-haired woman who perhaps resembled Laurent a little?” He had no idea if she’d resembled her father at all. Paul Laurent’s prestigious theater had been highly popular among the upper class before the civil unrest—the Fronde—when all of Paris went mad. And Luc’s world collapsed around him.

  Marc shrugged. “And what if they did? What difference does it make?”

  He wished he knew the answer to that. He had no idea why learning more about this deceased young woman should matter at all.

  Marc leaned in and rested his elbows on his thighs, his smile returning. “You know what you need?

  To stop thinking about Isabelle Laurent . . . “What?”

  “To commence negotiations with the Duc d’Allain for a marriage contract between you and his daughter Sophie—”

  Luc groaned. “Good Lord. No, not her. Unless she has changed since my exile, the woman speaks incessantly. There’s only so much inane conversation a man can tolerate about her shoes.”

  Marc chuckled. “Aside from her somewhat wanting conversational skills, she is a beauty. Claiming your conjugal rights won’t be much of a hardship.” He grinned.

  “Unless she’s still taking about her footwear while I’m fucking her.”

  That garnered a bark of laughter from his friend. “All right. Forget the Duc d’Allain’s daughter,” Marc said, still softly chuckling. “What you need, my friend, is to enjoy yourself tonight. This masque is a perfect place for you to reenter society. You can mingle about with anonymity, reacquaint yourself with old friends, and perhaps make some new ones.”

  He didn’t have any old friends.

  The few Luc had once trusted turned their ba
cks, distancing themselves from him as soon as they’d arrested Charles for treason. Though the King's pardon had come almost two years ago, Luc had stayed away from Paris. Spending every moment seeing to the extensive restorations his properties desperately needed after years of abandonment and neglect while in the Crown’s possession.

  He'd refused to reenter society until everything was perfect.

  He had to show them that despite his banishment from Paris, and his imprisonment before that, he had not broken. He’d not only restored his chateaus, he’d brought them beyond their former glory.

  Better still, he’d destroyed and removed anything that reminded him of Charles from his childhood homes.

  “What new friends are there to make?” he asked. No doubt there would be some who'd still be leery of socializing with a man whose family had been labeled traitors to king and country.

  His former short temper with the male aristocracy, and his quickness to duel, had never made him overly popular among the men in his class.

  His popularity had come from the finer sex. With whom he’s always felt the most at ease.

  “Well, Juliette Carre comes to mind. She is one woman you need to meet.”

  Luc crossed his arms casually. “Oh? Why do I need to meet Juliette Carre?”

  “Because she doesn’t talk incessantly about footwear. In fact, she has everyone in Paris completely charmed. And she’s a courtesan,” Marc added.

  Luc lifted a brow. Marc was well aware he’d sworn off his old ways. His days as an unrepentant libertine, bedding beauties around the realm, were over. He wanted nothing to detract him from his plans. Or the new image he wanted to forge.

  Merde. He was distracted enough by Isabelle Laurent and her bewitching journal.

  “Now wait.” Marc held up his hand. “I know your ‘plan’ and what you’re thinking. Allow me to explain the benefit here. Though there are plenty of courtesans around, this one is different. In truth, rather exceptional—a vision, with a polished wit to match. Luc, you’ve got to see her. When she enters the room, she is utterly enthralling. Every man of consequence is vying for her. And she is very selective. Any man who beds her has the immediate respect and regard of every male in the realm. A definite boon for you should she favor you. I heard that the Duc de Savard gave her a significant sum—without ever bedding her—just to be considered as her next choice. And two weeks ago, the Marquis de Renier and the Comte de Northy practically came to a duel over the Comte’s refusal to relinquish his seat beside her to the Marquis, despite being outranked socially. After everything that’s happened, if you really want to make a grand impression, bed Juliette Carre.” Marc’s usual smile returned. “She’s one woman who won’t bore you. She’ll be here tonight. If there’s anyone who can make you forget all about Isabelle Laurent, the beautiful and captivating Juliette most certainly can.”