The Lady & The Panther~Chapter 11~A Visit from M. Brouchard NC-17
OK, not so long between postings this time. In our last chapter, after visiting with Renaud and getting his payment for the partial sale of his king’s ransom of jewels, Guy decides to have a special necklace and earrings made for Lizzie.
He also learns more about his past, about a mysterious young woman named Celestine who gave birth in a little French village more than 30 years ago and then disappeared-Guy’s mother, it would seem. And we have a flashback to the day he is abruptly turned out of his school.
Guy has a dream involving Tante Louise, Antoinette and an erotic encounter with Lizzie. He decides to write a friend to ask for advice . . . we open Chapter 11 with Guy reading the return letter. No copyright infringement intended; the characters and story are mine (although our hero just might be a descendant of another sexy Guy). All rights reserved. Rated NC-17 for some explicit sexual content. Comments always welcome!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Chapter 11~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~Mon cher Guy,
But of course, you must come and see me whilst you are so very close to my home. It has been-how long?-at least five years since our last meeting. Old friends should not let so much time slip by, mon coeur.
I am intrigued, I must confess. Is it a matter of the heart you wish to discuss with your ‘Toinette? If so, I feel most privileged to be your choice. I hope I can provide you with wise counsel.
Of course, I am now a respectable married lady, as you know. Wonders indeed never cease.
The vicomte will be away visiting the country estate for a few days, so there is no need to worry about explaining to him why such a handsome, gallant young man is paying his lady wife a visit.
I am certain you are even more magnifique than ever, my dear boy. Some of us only improve with age; alas, it cannot be said for all of us. C’est la vie.
I shall eagerly await your visit, ‘Monsieur Brouchard.’
(Do you ever get all these secret identities confused, I wonder?)
Ever yours,
‘Toinette
Toinette’s letter brought me smiles each time I re-read it. I could easily imagine a plump finger absently twisting one of those honey curls as she dipped her quill in the violet-coloured ink used to write her letter.
“My little charmer,” I murmured before taking another bite of Renaud’s excellent brioche. I had stopped by the bakery to enjoy a quick breakfast before making my way to Faubourg Saint Germain where Antoinette now lived.
We were sitting in the back of the shop, Renaud taking a rest from his labours whilst his apprentices busied themselves with their morning duties. The delicious aroma of the baked goods once again assaulted my senses and I could not resist it.
I thought of the sweet scent of violets that I indentified with Antoinette, and of her delightful laugh. Of the kindness she showed to me when my world was falling apart.
“It will be good to see her again, Renaud.”
“She will certainly be pleased at the sight of you, mon vieux,” Renaud said as he looked me up and down and raised a cup of ale in mock salute to me.
My appearance was indeed quite different from the burly, bearded fellow who had arrived on Renaud’s doorstep a few days earlier.
Padding, false whiskers, unfashionable garments and bandy legs were all gone. In their place was an au courant gentleman with a silver grey brocade waistcoat and a royal blue frockcoat embroidered in silver thread, snug pearl grey breeches, immaculate white linen and a pair of high black boots so beautifully polished one could use them as a mirror.
(Whilst my calves have been said to truly grace a pair of stockings, I cannot resist a handsome pair of boots.)
A white powdered wig in the latest style sat atop my head, a velvet patch graced a spot to the right of my mouth, and a quizzing glass, all the new rage amongst the ton in those days, was suspended from my neck (which was covered in an immaculate white stock, naturally).
I swallowed the last morsel of brioche, smirked and gave a nod of my head as I raised my quizzing glass to my eye and peered at Renaud.
“The peacock has returned,” I drawled with a mocking grin.
“M. Brouchard at your service.”
Clapping a handsome new tricorn to my bewigged head, I picked up my ebony walking stick with a flourish and rose to my feet.
“Merci beaucoup, Renaud. I bid you adieu on this fair morning.”
“Give my regards to the lovely ‘Toinette-or, should I say, the Vicomtesse de la Mare?”
“Indeed. Why do you think I am so elegantly attired, Renaud? Antoinette and I have both risen in the world-in our own ways.”
With a wink, I strolled out of the bakery and sought a fiacre for hire.
*~*~*~*
“Oh, my lady, what a beauty yew will be . . .” Amelia breathed as she finished buttoning the bodice of my dressmaker’s latest creation for me.
I studied my reflection in the looking-glass in my bed chamber. I had to agree: if it did not make me a beauty, the costume certainly suited me astonishingly well.
The deep rose satin taffeta of the bodice and skirt were complemented by the pale pink and green-striped satin of the quilted petticoat displayed by the skirt’s front opening. An elegant embroidered green satin stomacher-its colour a perfect match for my eyes-adorned the front of the costume.
The gown's colour brought roses to my cheeks even without the aid of a hare’s-foot and rouge pot; the low cut of the bodice displayed the generous ivory swell of my breasts, and the stomacher’s cut emphasized my slender waist to great advantage.
I lifted one arm to admire the frothy engageantes tacked to the snug-fitting elbow-length sleeves-“the finest of French lace,” Amelia had exclaimed, marvelling at the quality of the fabric.
“It does look well on me, does it not? Josette has done wonderful work.”
“Yew have been lookin’ better the last few days, my lady-ever since yew got Panther’s letter. Yew’d lost a bit o’ yer spark and now yew have it back.” Amelia gave a happy little sigh.
“Won’t it be luvely for him to see yew so beautifully turned out . . . although ‘tis a shame this fine gown will be hidden beneath the domino.”
Her grey eyes took on a sly twinkle as she gave a bird-like tilt of her dark head. “I suppose he will take a peek or two beneath it, what do yew reckon?”
As I pondered how I should have my hair dressed for the gala occasion, I bit my lip and tried not to smile at Amelia’s words.
“My dear Amelia, you and your flights of fancy. Remember, we still have not received his response, Amelia. Our lovely Panther may not be able to attend the grand masquerade . . .”
I shrugged my shoulders, taking a certain pleasure in what that shrug did for my décolletage. I rather thought Guy would take pleasure in it, too. Oh, Guy . . .
~In the press of masked figures dancing, flirting and drinking, I see him coming towards me. A tall, commanding figure in a swirling black domino, aquiline features hidden beneath a velvet mask, raven locks powdered and bound in a queue.
Admiring glances are cast his way as he passes. Ladies, moistening their lips, wave their fans in a coquettish manner.
But he only has eyes for me.
That deep, honeyed voice silkily caresses my ears as he takes my hand in his. Those long, elegant fingers lift that hand to his mouth, soft lips brushing against my skin as his lapis eyes meet mine. I feel myself melting from the intensity of that smouldering gaze . . .~
“What do you think, my lady? About his costume?”
I realised Amelia, now holding out my elegant mask of emerald green velvet trimmed in gold thread and seed pearls, was looking at me with a most quizzical expression.
Taking the handle, I held the mask over my face and studied the effect in the looking-glass.
“Oh-Guy’s costume . . . I-had not actually thought of it, Amelia,” I said with a nonchalance that fooled neither of us. I quickly added: “We certainly do not want anyone to recognise Panther, do we?-in particular, Lord Montrose.”
“Indeed not, my lady. Panther’s awfully clever, so I am certain he’ll have a surprise in store for us all.” She paused. “Wish I could be there to see it, my lady.” Amelia’s voice took on a wistful air.
I knew how much childlike delight she took in my stories about the balls, parties and other society events attended by the ton.
I lowered the mask and smiled at Amelia.
“I shall be certain to pay close attention to everything, my dear Amelia, and report back to you-the costumes, the music, the décor, the food--”
I paused and raised the mask again with a dramatic flourish. “The intrigue. And, of course, the Panther, assuming he is present.”
Amelia’s eyes brightened and she gave a decided nod as she picked up a casque of jewelry from my dressing table. “That would be grand, my lady-and I am certain he will be there and think you the--luveliest lady in the room!”
She presented the casque to me. “Which pieces shall you wear that night?”
“Ah-those pearls, perhaps?” Amelia drew out the strand I pointed to and I held them up to my throat, studying my reflection once more.
~Which jewels would Guy like to see me wearing?~
My lips twisted and I shook my head, closing my eyes for a moment.
“Are you well, my lady?” I heard Amelia’s anxious voice.
I opened my eyes and smiled reassuringly down into hers.
“Indeed, Amelia-I am very well, indeed.”
~As well as a giddy, lovesick creature can be, I suppose~
But how could I not be in such a state? After all, I did claim a portion of his heart now . . .
*~*~*~*~*
I arrived at Antoinette’s maison in good time. A tall, severe-looking female dressed in black answered my rap at the door.
Upon presenting my card to this formidable creature, she fixed me with an obsidian eye, thin bloodless lips pursed tightly.
~From what crypt had they unearthed this one?~
I could not resist lifting my quizzing glass to my eye to study her.
Apparently she found me acceptable. With an incline of her head and what might be interpreted as a smile, she ushered me into the large foyer.
“I am Madame Souskaya, the housekeeper. May I take your stick, Monsieur Brouchard? Madame has been expecting you. If you will wait here, Ayia, her maid, will escort you to the music conservatory.”
Her accent was Eastern European, the voice surprisingly high- pitched, almost girlish, in sharp contrast with her grim exterior.
Tucking my hat beneath my arm, I handed over my walking stick. Giving the housekeeper a small, preemptory nod, I retrieved a jeweled and enameled snuffbox from my pocket and took a pinch for each nostril.
She once again gave me something vaguely resembling a smile before disappearing in a whisper of rustled petticoats. Moments later, a slender, graceful figure clad in sober grey approached.
Her attire, its starkness relieved by white lace around its modest neckline, was much less colourful than I recalled.
Her expression remained just as impassive, however. Face unlined, elaborate coiled braids of hair as black as ever, Ayia still looked as if she could have been anywhere between 20 and 50.
After bobbing a quick curtsy, Ayia motioned for me to follow her. We passed through several spacious public rooms, most elegantly and expensively furnished.
Finally, Ayia and I arrived at a set of double doors which she opened to reveal a chamber of particularly graceful proportions. Its numerous tall windows, their ivory shantung curtains looped back, allowed the room, with its pale blue walls, to be bathed in light.
An elegant harpsichord, the instrument’s body painted with pastoral scenes, sat upon an elaborately carved and gilded wood base in the centre of the room. A large harp and embroidered bench sat nearby. Against one wall was a cherry-cased clavichord, a handsome antique by the looks of it.
“You are a beautiful old thing,” I murmured to myself, walking over to run my fingers down the keys.
“Ah, yes, the clavichord is somewhat old-fashioned these days. It does not have the volume of the harpsichord, but oh, how-expressif--and graceful it sounds, n’est-ce pas, ‘Monsieur Brouchard?’”
I turned and looked into Antoinette’s amused lavender-blue eyes.
“’Toinette.” I strode over to take both her hands in mine and pressed a tender kiss to her cheek.
There was far more powder and rouge there than I recalled from the old days, and I thought I detected a few silver threads amongst the dark honey curls.
‘Toinette had grown almost stout with the years; my hands could no longer span her waist in the pale blue silk gown she wore.
Still, those eyes sparkled, and that voice, that laugh, were as soft and pleasing and musical as ever.
And she still smelled of violets.
I thought her quite beautiful, and told her so.
She stepped back, her hands still in mine, shaking her head.
“You are much too kind, mon coeur. I am becoming a grey-haired, fat old woman.” She shrugged and gave me an impish smile. “Eh bien, at least the fat smooths out the wrinkles. Now, let me look at you properly.”
Studying me from the top of my wig to the tips of my boots, she gave a sigh of seeming satisfaction and nodded, her honey curls bouncing.
“Just as I thought-you are more magnificent than ever. Quite the aristocrat, you are. You have indeed grown into that nose, did I not tell you it would be so?” She gave me a mischievous smile before shaking her head and wagging a finger at me.
“But I should not tell you these things. It will not help your modesty, mon coeur.”
I gave her a wry smile and raised a brow. “Always one to put me in my place, ‘Toinette.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Is your hair still as plentiful, mon coeur? I cannot see it beneath that fine wig.”
I laughed and lifted the wig a little. “See for yourself. It is all still there.”
She clapped her hands together. “Ah, bon. I always took such pleasure in those lovely raven locks of yours . . . alas, Armand is nearly as bald as an egg. But a lovely man.”
“I am certain he is.” I took her hands again and gave them a squeeze. “Your hands are cold, Antoinette. Are you well?”
Slipping her hands free of mine with a soft laugh, she shrugged off my concerns with a familiar insouciance.
“Have you not heard--cold hands, warm heart, mon coeur?
Or is it old hands?”
“Toinette, you are hardly old,” I protested. ‘Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety.’ A perfect description of you.”
Her lips twisted as she gazed almost sheepishly up at me through her lashes. “Merci. But--I truly am not as young as I used to be. I told you I was five-and-twenty when we met.” She rose up on tiptoes to whisper in my ear.
“Actuellement, I was near to 30. You are not the only one to wrestle with vanity, mon coeur . . . I did not want to feel as if I were your maman.”
I looked at her with surprise. “You little minx,” I growled, tapping her playfully on the nose, trying not to laugh.
I did not succeed. Soon both of us were laughing merrily. It felt like the old days.
“I would never have guessed it to be so, ‘Toinette. And I never thought of you in a motherly way, let me assure you.”
I pressed a kiss to her forehead and stroked her cheek, smiling into her eyes. “It is so very good to see you again, Toinette. No matter what your age, truly, you will never be old to me . . .”
“Ah, your langue d’argent is still in fine form, Guy.” She linked her arm in mine.
“Shall we take a turn around le jardin? I think a bit of fresh air and sunshine is in order . . . and then some refreshments . . . and much, much conversation.”
“Delighted to do so, madame. Or should I say, vicomtesse . . .”
She chuckled to herself.
“Sometimes, I do feel like a child, playing pretend. Eh bien, I know it was most, how do you say-providential--to have found Armand after my baron passed away. I do enjoy being able to play the Lady Bountiful to those less fortunate. The giving of alms brings a certain satisfaction.”
She smiled up at me. “Do you know, I once played Lady Bountiful in the Farquhar play? I hope I am better at the real thing than I ever was on stage . . .”
“You always had a generous heart, ‘Toinette. No-one can fault you for that.”
I paused. “And-are you happy?” I said softly.
“I have a comfortable, secure life, mon coeur. I have no complaints.”
Ah, not exactly an answer to my question. But there was something in her manner that made me hesitant to pursue the matter any further.
Opening the double doors at the rear of the house, ‘Toinette gestured for me to follow her. “And here we are, our garden. Not nearly so large as the one on the country estate, but I enjoy it. It brings me--peace.”
We stepped out on a marble-tiled stone terrace in the rear of the house to admire the intricate shaping of the evergreen topiary and the cheerful colours of the spring blooms. A small bulb fountain in the garden’s centre provided the gentle, soothing sound of falling water.
“It is lovely, Toinette. The garden, your home . . .”
Patting her arm, I leaned down to share a conspiratorial whisper. “I must ask--where in the world did you find the terrifying Madame Souskaya? For a moment, I thought Mrs. Stockbridge from the days with my London tutors had come back to haunt me . . .” We strolled arm in arm through the garden.
“Ah, yes, the fierce Madame Souskaya. She has been with Armand’s family for years. Very efficient and quite a dear, once you know how to deal with her.”
Antoinette waved her hand as if dismissing the subject and fixed me with a determined eye.
“Now, you must tell me of this lady, Guy.”
I crinkled my brow and assumed an innocent air. “Did I say anything about a particular lady in my letter? I do not recall doing so.”
She smiled and gave me a sidelong glance as she motioned towards a garden bench. “Mon coeur, you did not have to. And it is she you have come here to discuss, is it not?”
I shook my head. “Woman, I sometimes suspect you are a witch.” I expelled a breath. “Very well. Where shall I begin?”
A soft peal of laughter sounded as she sat down and patted the seat beside her.
“Why, at the beginning, of course . . .”
*~*~*~*
It has been a fortnight since I left my school. Thanks to Antoinette’s encouragement, I now at least have my clothing, books and a little money. I know it will not last long.
I have heard nothing from Monsieur Clarke, or from the mysterious Monsieur, for that matter.
Antoinette has kept me there in her house, hidden from the baron when he makes his weekly visits. She has done her best to entertain and counsel me and keep my belly full.
I am always hungry.
I am also jealous of the baron, of every minute he spends in her presence. It vexes me deeply to know it is his money that provides my lover with her comfortable life.
I wish I could give her those things.
~Fool. As if you have anything to offer. You have no family, it seems. No home. No property. No money. You are-nobody~
Why should some who are weak and foolish and dissolute have so much, and others, who are intelligent and strong and resourceful, have so little?
Life is so very unfair.
Still, I thank fortune Antoinette’s baron chooses to pay only one visit each week to his mistress. I cannot understand why he does not choose to spend every night with her. Aristocrats are such fools sometimes.
As for me, I find much solace in Antoinette’s bed, in her soft, pliant body, so fragrant and delicious. Solace in those ripe lips and full breasts with their rosy peaks; in the curve of her hips and rounded buttocks. Solace in those milky white thighs, the tangle of tight golden curls between them. In how wonderful it feels to be inside her.
Solace in how wonderful it feels to give her pleasure, and to take it.
Still, I chafe at my circumstances, impatient to redress the grievances I hold against-ah, but I am not completely sure towards whom I should vent my righteous indignation.
I only know I want to gain some sort of revenge.
“Tante Louise said I was different from the other children. That I was meant for some special destiny. It cannot be this. Dismissed from my school with no explanation. If only I had some idea of what has happened . . .”
The servants have placed Antoinette’s big metal bath-big enough for two--in front of a cozy fire in her bedchamber. I am washing her back with a large sponge, making slow, lazy circles across her wet skin as I mull over my circumstances.
“And perhaps you will be able to learn more, mon coeur, but you know that so much of your past has been kept secret from you all your life. It may not be so easy to discover more. Perhaps it is best if you start anew. As I did when I came to Paris. The little nobody from Berry . . . now mistress to a baron. Not so bad an accomplishment, eh?”
Without turning her head to look at me, she raises a hand, palm upturned. “Now, give me the sponge and I will wash your front and then your hair. That mop is getting quite unmanageable, mon coeur.”
Antoinette tends to give me orders, albeit gently, from time to time. I grin to myself.
If I am master nowhere else, I will be here, in this moment.
“No, I shall wash your front, ‘Toinette.” I release the sponge and reach both hands around to cup her breasts, leaning forward to nuzzle and kiss her neck, bared by the curls twisted and pinned atop her head. I caress her nipples with the pads of my thumbs, feeling them stand at attention beneath my fingers.
I pull Antoinette back against me, between my thighs, squeezing her lower body even as I continue to knead her breasts. I press the hard length of my sex into the cleft of her buttocks and hear her gasp with pleasure.
I whisper in her ear. “Tell me now, my sweet Antoinette, do you not like the way I wash-your-front?”
“Mais oui, mon coeur,” she breathed, arching her back as I thrust against her, my shaft sliding betwixt her cleft.
“I want to come inside you, Antoinette. I want to look into your eyes-when you come. I like that. Turn around . . .”
The water splashes as my mermaid turns to face me, lips parted in expectation, eyes darkening in anticipation. Straddling my body, she takes me inside, slowly sinking down, inch by inch . . .
One of her hands claims a slippery grip on my shoulder whilst the other clutches my wild tangle of hair as she moves atop me. I bury my face between her breasts, kissing and laving the tender, wet flesh, sucking her rosy nipples as I wrap my arms possessively around her body.
In those moments she is mine alone.
We move in tandem, slowly at first, and then faster and faster, water churning and splashing as I thrust up into her, into those warm, welcoming folds.
“Do you like--this, Antoinette? And this?” I say with ragged breath as I also slide a finger inside her, seeking that swollen bud, teasing it.
“Oui. Oui, mon coeur,” she gasps. Her eyes close and then flutter open again, her face flushed and exultant. “So-close.”
“Moi aussi.” I swirl my fingertip around her bud, knowing she aches for release. I seek release, too, and my thrusts become feverish, frenzied, our bodies slapping together, the water splashing, our moans and sighs mingling, growing louder.
I feel her body began to convulse, her cunny clenching my cock as she writhes and shudders atop me. I look into her eyes, so dark now, and I smile as I begin to move much more slowly inside her, still hard and unspent.
Cupping the back of her head with my hand, I hungrily press her lips to mine, building up speed again, hard, furious thrusts . . .
And when I spill my seed inside my lover, I am not a nameless outcast boy, but a man to be reckoned with.
It is a thought that gives me comfort.
Afterwards, she calls for more hot water and washes my tangled mane, bestowing tender kisses and caresses and murmuring sweet endearments with the greatest of gentleness.
For a little while, the anger and humiliation fade into the background of my life.
But as she has told me time and again, it-we-cannot last.
And I value her honesty, even when it nearly breaks my heart.
*~*~*~*
“Do you love her, Guy?”
Sitting there in that garden in Paris, I had shared the story of Lady Montrose and the Panther with Antoinette. She had listened patiently, intently. And now she was asking the questions I had been asking of myself.
I gave her a lop-sided smile. “I believe you once counseled me to never fall in love, ‘Toinette.”
She shook her head. “Mais non, mon coeur. I advised you to never fall in love with ME. That is not the same thing. You and I could have no future together.”
I gave a quick bark of laughter.
“And Lizzie and I do? She is a true lady who is married to a lord, a marriage that frees her family from impoverishment, but also imprisons her in a loveless marriage to a, a-stupid lout who does not appreciate her. And I, if you have forgotten, am a criminal with a price on my head.”
“You’ve had dalliances with titled ladies before, have you not, Guy? So tell me--why is this liaison, this woman, so different?” She raised a fair brow, a smile tugging at the corner of her rouged mouth. “Other than the fact she attempted to kill her own husband.”
I expelled a breath.
“Because-she IS different. Lizzie isn’t-jaded and spoiled, some flibbertigibbet looking for some new--sensation in her privileged life. She is loving and warm, passionate, intelligent and she’s-good to her maid.”
I snorted as I crossed my arms over my chest. “And--if I had been the woman married to that-horse’s arse of a man, I would have tried to shoot him as well.”
She patted my shoulder.
“I always knew you were gallant, but did not realise that you were so concerned with the welfare of servants, dearest Guy.” ‘Toinette said with a hint of laughter in her voice.
She quickly sobered, moving her hand down to gently squeeze my arm.
“Mon coeur, I think that you are not so bad a man as you would have us think. You are not bloodthirsty. And if your Lizzie is all that you say she is, I think she must also recognise the goodness in you, the true gentilhomme that you are.”
I gave a little groan and rubbed my forehead. “‘Toinette, I still do not know the true circumstances of my parentage. Possibly some aristocrat’s bastard, possibly not. What-do I have to offer her?”
I felt Antoinette’s fingers touch my cheek and turned my head to look into her lovely blue-violet eyes. I saw so much gentleness there I had a strange desire to cry, and found myself blinking hard.
“You never answered my question, Guy. Do you love her?”
Swallowing, I nodded. “I-I do. I have not told her exactly yet, but-she knows she is special to me.”
“Then you have answered your own question. What do you have to offer her? Your heart. The heart of a clever, brave, passionate, resourceful, good man. I think your Lizzie could do far worse, Guy. And it sounds as if she needs you as much as you do her.”
She stroked my cheek. “Love will find a way, mon coeur.”
I gave ‘Toinette a half-smile and raised her hand to my mouth to kiss it. “I didn’t know you were such a romantic. I take it--we have your blessing, then?”
“Is that what you came here for, mon coeur? My blessing?”
“In a way, yes. And-because it has been too long since I saw you. As you said, old friends should not stay apart for so long a time . . .”
I leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek.
“I wish Lizzie could meet you. I think you two would like each other . . .”
She smiled. “I am certain we would. You have most excellent taste in the female company you choose.”
I raise a single mocking brow. “Ah, but did I choose you--or did you choose me, ‘Toinette? As I recall, it was you who seduced me.”
A soft peal of laughter as she patted my leg. “We must give some credit to the late, lamented Antigone for bringing us together, I suppose. I rather think we chose each other, mon coeur.”
Antoinette rose to her feet and gestured in the direction of the house. “And now, shall we retire to the drawing room and enjoy tea? Do you still enjoy it with plenty of cream and sugar?”
“I do indeed.” I linked arms with her once more as we strolled back inside.
~Perhaps, it is the same with Lizzie and me. We have chosen each other. Can love find a way?~
I was more eager than ever to see her again.
I did not know, however, the obstacles that would stand in the path on my way back to her . . .
He also learns more about his past, about a mysterious young woman named Celestine who gave birth in a little French village more than 30 years ago and then disappeared-Guy’s mother, it would seem. And we have a flashback to the day he is abruptly turned out of his school.
Guy has a dream involving Tante Louise, Antoinette and an erotic encounter with Lizzie. He decides to write a friend to ask for advice . . . we open Chapter 11 with Guy reading the return letter. No copyright infringement intended; the characters and story are mine (although our hero just might be a descendant of another sexy Guy). All rights reserved. Rated NC-17 for some explicit sexual content. Comments always welcome!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Chapter 11~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~Mon cher Guy,
But of course, you must come and see me whilst you are so very close to my home. It has been-how long?-at least five years since our last meeting. Old friends should not let so much time slip by, mon coeur.
I am intrigued, I must confess. Is it a matter of the heart you wish to discuss with your ‘Toinette? If so, I feel most privileged to be your choice. I hope I can provide you with wise counsel.
Of course, I am now a respectable married lady, as you know. Wonders indeed never cease.
The vicomte will be away visiting the country estate for a few days, so there is no need to worry about explaining to him why such a handsome, gallant young man is paying his lady wife a visit.
I am certain you are even more magnifique than ever, my dear boy. Some of us only improve with age; alas, it cannot be said for all of us. C’est la vie.
I shall eagerly await your visit, ‘Monsieur Brouchard.’
(Do you ever get all these secret identities confused, I wonder?)
Ever yours,
‘Toinette
Toinette’s letter brought me smiles each time I re-read it. I could easily imagine a plump finger absently twisting one of those honey curls as she dipped her quill in the violet-coloured ink used to write her letter.
“My little charmer,” I murmured before taking another bite of Renaud’s excellent brioche. I had stopped by the bakery to enjoy a quick breakfast before making my way to Faubourg Saint Germain where Antoinette now lived.
We were sitting in the back of the shop, Renaud taking a rest from his labours whilst his apprentices busied themselves with their morning duties. The delicious aroma of the baked goods once again assaulted my senses and I could not resist it.
I thought of the sweet scent of violets that I indentified with Antoinette, and of her delightful laugh. Of the kindness she showed to me when my world was falling apart.
“It will be good to see her again, Renaud.”
“She will certainly be pleased at the sight of you, mon vieux,” Renaud said as he looked me up and down and raised a cup of ale in mock salute to me.
My appearance was indeed quite different from the burly, bearded fellow who had arrived on Renaud’s doorstep a few days earlier.
Padding, false whiskers, unfashionable garments and bandy legs were all gone. In their place was an au courant gentleman with a silver grey brocade waistcoat and a royal blue frockcoat embroidered in silver thread, snug pearl grey breeches, immaculate white linen and a pair of high black boots so beautifully polished one could use them as a mirror.
(Whilst my calves have been said to truly grace a pair of stockings, I cannot resist a handsome pair of boots.)
A white powdered wig in the latest style sat atop my head, a velvet patch graced a spot to the right of my mouth, and a quizzing glass, all the new rage amongst the ton in those days, was suspended from my neck (which was covered in an immaculate white stock, naturally).
I swallowed the last morsel of brioche, smirked and gave a nod of my head as I raised my quizzing glass to my eye and peered at Renaud.
“The peacock has returned,” I drawled with a mocking grin.
“M. Brouchard at your service.”
Clapping a handsome new tricorn to my bewigged head, I picked up my ebony walking stick with a flourish and rose to my feet.
“Merci beaucoup, Renaud. I bid you adieu on this fair morning.”
“Give my regards to the lovely ‘Toinette-or, should I say, the Vicomtesse de la Mare?”
“Indeed. Why do you think I am so elegantly attired, Renaud? Antoinette and I have both risen in the world-in our own ways.”
With a wink, I strolled out of the bakery and sought a fiacre for hire.
*~*~*~*
“Oh, my lady, what a beauty yew will be . . .” Amelia breathed as she finished buttoning the bodice of my dressmaker’s latest creation for me.
I studied my reflection in the looking-glass in my bed chamber. I had to agree: if it did not make me a beauty, the costume certainly suited me astonishingly well.
The deep rose satin taffeta of the bodice and skirt were complemented by the pale pink and green-striped satin of the quilted petticoat displayed by the skirt’s front opening. An elegant embroidered green satin stomacher-its colour a perfect match for my eyes-adorned the front of the costume.
The gown's colour brought roses to my cheeks even without the aid of a hare’s-foot and rouge pot; the low cut of the bodice displayed the generous ivory swell of my breasts, and the stomacher’s cut emphasized my slender waist to great advantage.
I lifted one arm to admire the frothy engageantes tacked to the snug-fitting elbow-length sleeves-“the finest of French lace,” Amelia had exclaimed, marvelling at the quality of the fabric.
“It does look well on me, does it not? Josette has done wonderful work.”
“Yew have been lookin’ better the last few days, my lady-ever since yew got Panther’s letter. Yew’d lost a bit o’ yer spark and now yew have it back.” Amelia gave a happy little sigh.
“Won’t it be luvely for him to see yew so beautifully turned out . . . although ‘tis a shame this fine gown will be hidden beneath the domino.”
Her grey eyes took on a sly twinkle as she gave a bird-like tilt of her dark head. “I suppose he will take a peek or two beneath it, what do yew reckon?”
As I pondered how I should have my hair dressed for the gala occasion, I bit my lip and tried not to smile at Amelia’s words.
“My dear Amelia, you and your flights of fancy. Remember, we still have not received his response, Amelia. Our lovely Panther may not be able to attend the grand masquerade . . .”
I shrugged my shoulders, taking a certain pleasure in what that shrug did for my décolletage. I rather thought Guy would take pleasure in it, too. Oh, Guy . . .
~In the press of masked figures dancing, flirting and drinking, I see him coming towards me. A tall, commanding figure in a swirling black domino, aquiline features hidden beneath a velvet mask, raven locks powdered and bound in a queue.
Admiring glances are cast his way as he passes. Ladies, moistening their lips, wave their fans in a coquettish manner.
But he only has eyes for me.
That deep, honeyed voice silkily caresses my ears as he takes my hand in his. Those long, elegant fingers lift that hand to his mouth, soft lips brushing against my skin as his lapis eyes meet mine. I feel myself melting from the intensity of that smouldering gaze . . .~
“What do you think, my lady? About his costume?”
I realised Amelia, now holding out my elegant mask of emerald green velvet trimmed in gold thread and seed pearls, was looking at me with a most quizzical expression.
Taking the handle, I held the mask over my face and studied the effect in the looking-glass.
“Oh-Guy’s costume . . . I-had not actually thought of it, Amelia,” I said with a nonchalance that fooled neither of us. I quickly added: “We certainly do not want anyone to recognise Panther, do we?-in particular, Lord Montrose.”
“Indeed not, my lady. Panther’s awfully clever, so I am certain he’ll have a surprise in store for us all.” She paused. “Wish I could be there to see it, my lady.” Amelia’s voice took on a wistful air.
I knew how much childlike delight she took in my stories about the balls, parties and other society events attended by the ton.
I lowered the mask and smiled at Amelia.
“I shall be certain to pay close attention to everything, my dear Amelia, and report back to you-the costumes, the music, the décor, the food--”
I paused and raised the mask again with a dramatic flourish. “The intrigue. And, of course, the Panther, assuming he is present.”
Amelia’s eyes brightened and she gave a decided nod as she picked up a casque of jewelry from my dressing table. “That would be grand, my lady-and I am certain he will be there and think you the--luveliest lady in the room!”
She presented the casque to me. “Which pieces shall you wear that night?”
“Ah-those pearls, perhaps?” Amelia drew out the strand I pointed to and I held them up to my throat, studying my reflection once more.
~Which jewels would Guy like to see me wearing?~
My lips twisted and I shook my head, closing my eyes for a moment.
“Are you well, my lady?” I heard Amelia’s anxious voice.
I opened my eyes and smiled reassuringly down into hers.
“Indeed, Amelia-I am very well, indeed.”
~As well as a giddy, lovesick creature can be, I suppose~
But how could I not be in such a state? After all, I did claim a portion of his heart now . . .
*~*~*~*~*
I arrived at Antoinette’s maison in good time. A tall, severe-looking female dressed in black answered my rap at the door.
Upon presenting my card to this formidable creature, she fixed me with an obsidian eye, thin bloodless lips pursed tightly.
~From what crypt had they unearthed this one?~
I could not resist lifting my quizzing glass to my eye to study her.
Apparently she found me acceptable. With an incline of her head and what might be interpreted as a smile, she ushered me into the large foyer.
“I am Madame Souskaya, the housekeeper. May I take your stick, Monsieur Brouchard? Madame has been expecting you. If you will wait here, Ayia, her maid, will escort you to the music conservatory.”
Her accent was Eastern European, the voice surprisingly high- pitched, almost girlish, in sharp contrast with her grim exterior.
Tucking my hat beneath my arm, I handed over my walking stick. Giving the housekeeper a small, preemptory nod, I retrieved a jeweled and enameled snuffbox from my pocket and took a pinch for each nostril.
She once again gave me something vaguely resembling a smile before disappearing in a whisper of rustled petticoats. Moments later, a slender, graceful figure clad in sober grey approached.
Her attire, its starkness relieved by white lace around its modest neckline, was much less colourful than I recalled.
Her expression remained just as impassive, however. Face unlined, elaborate coiled braids of hair as black as ever, Ayia still looked as if she could have been anywhere between 20 and 50.
After bobbing a quick curtsy, Ayia motioned for me to follow her. We passed through several spacious public rooms, most elegantly and expensively furnished.
Finally, Ayia and I arrived at a set of double doors which she opened to reveal a chamber of particularly graceful proportions. Its numerous tall windows, their ivory shantung curtains looped back, allowed the room, with its pale blue walls, to be bathed in light.
An elegant harpsichord, the instrument’s body painted with pastoral scenes, sat upon an elaborately carved and gilded wood base in the centre of the room. A large harp and embroidered bench sat nearby. Against one wall was a cherry-cased clavichord, a handsome antique by the looks of it.
“You are a beautiful old thing,” I murmured to myself, walking over to run my fingers down the keys.
“Ah, yes, the clavichord is somewhat old-fashioned these days. It does not have the volume of the harpsichord, but oh, how-expressif--and graceful it sounds, n’est-ce pas, ‘Monsieur Brouchard?’”
I turned and looked into Antoinette’s amused lavender-blue eyes.
“’Toinette.” I strode over to take both her hands in mine and pressed a tender kiss to her cheek.
There was far more powder and rouge there than I recalled from the old days, and I thought I detected a few silver threads amongst the dark honey curls.
‘Toinette had grown almost stout with the years; my hands could no longer span her waist in the pale blue silk gown she wore.
Still, those eyes sparkled, and that voice, that laugh, were as soft and pleasing and musical as ever.
And she still smelled of violets.
I thought her quite beautiful, and told her so.
She stepped back, her hands still in mine, shaking her head.
“You are much too kind, mon coeur. I am becoming a grey-haired, fat old woman.” She shrugged and gave me an impish smile. “Eh bien, at least the fat smooths out the wrinkles. Now, let me look at you properly.”
Studying me from the top of my wig to the tips of my boots, she gave a sigh of seeming satisfaction and nodded, her honey curls bouncing.
“Just as I thought-you are more magnificent than ever. Quite the aristocrat, you are. You have indeed grown into that nose, did I not tell you it would be so?” She gave me a mischievous smile before shaking her head and wagging a finger at me.
“But I should not tell you these things. It will not help your modesty, mon coeur.”
I gave her a wry smile and raised a brow. “Always one to put me in my place, ‘Toinette.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Is your hair still as plentiful, mon coeur? I cannot see it beneath that fine wig.”
I laughed and lifted the wig a little. “See for yourself. It is all still there.”
She clapped her hands together. “Ah, bon. I always took such pleasure in those lovely raven locks of yours . . . alas, Armand is nearly as bald as an egg. But a lovely man.”
“I am certain he is.” I took her hands again and gave them a squeeze. “Your hands are cold, Antoinette. Are you well?”
Slipping her hands free of mine with a soft laugh, she shrugged off my concerns with a familiar insouciance.
“Have you not heard--cold hands, warm heart, mon coeur?
Or is it old hands?”
“Toinette, you are hardly old,” I protested. ‘Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety.’ A perfect description of you.”
Her lips twisted as she gazed almost sheepishly up at me through her lashes. “Merci. But--I truly am not as young as I used to be. I told you I was five-and-twenty when we met.” She rose up on tiptoes to whisper in my ear.
“Actuellement, I was near to 30. You are not the only one to wrestle with vanity, mon coeur . . . I did not want to feel as if I were your maman.”
I looked at her with surprise. “You little minx,” I growled, tapping her playfully on the nose, trying not to laugh.
I did not succeed. Soon both of us were laughing merrily. It felt like the old days.
“I would never have guessed it to be so, ‘Toinette. And I never thought of you in a motherly way, let me assure you.”
I pressed a kiss to her forehead and stroked her cheek, smiling into her eyes. “It is so very good to see you again, Toinette. No matter what your age, truly, you will never be old to me . . .”
“Ah, your langue d’argent is still in fine form, Guy.” She linked her arm in mine.
“Shall we take a turn around le jardin? I think a bit of fresh air and sunshine is in order . . . and then some refreshments . . . and much, much conversation.”
“Delighted to do so, madame. Or should I say, vicomtesse . . .”
She chuckled to herself.
“Sometimes, I do feel like a child, playing pretend. Eh bien, I know it was most, how do you say-providential--to have found Armand after my baron passed away. I do enjoy being able to play the Lady Bountiful to those less fortunate. The giving of alms brings a certain satisfaction.”
She smiled up at me. “Do you know, I once played Lady Bountiful in the Farquhar play? I hope I am better at the real thing than I ever was on stage . . .”
“You always had a generous heart, ‘Toinette. No-one can fault you for that.”
I paused. “And-are you happy?” I said softly.
“I have a comfortable, secure life, mon coeur. I have no complaints.”
Ah, not exactly an answer to my question. But there was something in her manner that made me hesitant to pursue the matter any further.
Opening the double doors at the rear of the house, ‘Toinette gestured for me to follow her. “And here we are, our garden. Not nearly so large as the one on the country estate, but I enjoy it. It brings me--peace.”
We stepped out on a marble-tiled stone terrace in the rear of the house to admire the intricate shaping of the evergreen topiary and the cheerful colours of the spring blooms. A small bulb fountain in the garden’s centre provided the gentle, soothing sound of falling water.
“It is lovely, Toinette. The garden, your home . . .”
Patting her arm, I leaned down to share a conspiratorial whisper. “I must ask--where in the world did you find the terrifying Madame Souskaya? For a moment, I thought Mrs. Stockbridge from the days with my London tutors had come back to haunt me . . .” We strolled arm in arm through the garden.
“Ah, yes, the fierce Madame Souskaya. She has been with Armand’s family for years. Very efficient and quite a dear, once you know how to deal with her.”
Antoinette waved her hand as if dismissing the subject and fixed me with a determined eye.
“Now, you must tell me of this lady, Guy.”
I crinkled my brow and assumed an innocent air. “Did I say anything about a particular lady in my letter? I do not recall doing so.”
She smiled and gave me a sidelong glance as she motioned towards a garden bench. “Mon coeur, you did not have to. And it is she you have come here to discuss, is it not?”
I shook my head. “Woman, I sometimes suspect you are a witch.” I expelled a breath. “Very well. Where shall I begin?”
A soft peal of laughter sounded as she sat down and patted the seat beside her.
“Why, at the beginning, of course . . .”
*~*~*~*
It has been a fortnight since I left my school. Thanks to Antoinette’s encouragement, I now at least have my clothing, books and a little money. I know it will not last long.
I have heard nothing from Monsieur Clarke, or from the mysterious Monsieur, for that matter.
Antoinette has kept me there in her house, hidden from the baron when he makes his weekly visits. She has done her best to entertain and counsel me and keep my belly full.
I am always hungry.
I am also jealous of the baron, of every minute he spends in her presence. It vexes me deeply to know it is his money that provides my lover with her comfortable life.
I wish I could give her those things.
~Fool. As if you have anything to offer. You have no family, it seems. No home. No property. No money. You are-nobody~
Why should some who are weak and foolish and dissolute have so much, and others, who are intelligent and strong and resourceful, have so little?
Life is so very unfair.
Still, I thank fortune Antoinette’s baron chooses to pay only one visit each week to his mistress. I cannot understand why he does not choose to spend every night with her. Aristocrats are such fools sometimes.
As for me, I find much solace in Antoinette’s bed, in her soft, pliant body, so fragrant and delicious. Solace in those ripe lips and full breasts with their rosy peaks; in the curve of her hips and rounded buttocks. Solace in those milky white thighs, the tangle of tight golden curls between them. In how wonderful it feels to be inside her.
Solace in how wonderful it feels to give her pleasure, and to take it.
Still, I chafe at my circumstances, impatient to redress the grievances I hold against-ah, but I am not completely sure towards whom I should vent my righteous indignation.
I only know I want to gain some sort of revenge.
“Tante Louise said I was different from the other children. That I was meant for some special destiny. It cannot be this. Dismissed from my school with no explanation. If only I had some idea of what has happened . . .”
The servants have placed Antoinette’s big metal bath-big enough for two--in front of a cozy fire in her bedchamber. I am washing her back with a large sponge, making slow, lazy circles across her wet skin as I mull over my circumstances.
“And perhaps you will be able to learn more, mon coeur, but you know that so much of your past has been kept secret from you all your life. It may not be so easy to discover more. Perhaps it is best if you start anew. As I did when I came to Paris. The little nobody from Berry . . . now mistress to a baron. Not so bad an accomplishment, eh?”
Without turning her head to look at me, she raises a hand, palm upturned. “Now, give me the sponge and I will wash your front and then your hair. That mop is getting quite unmanageable, mon coeur.”
Antoinette tends to give me orders, albeit gently, from time to time. I grin to myself.
If I am master nowhere else, I will be here, in this moment.
“No, I shall wash your front, ‘Toinette.” I release the sponge and reach both hands around to cup her breasts, leaning forward to nuzzle and kiss her neck, bared by the curls twisted and pinned atop her head. I caress her nipples with the pads of my thumbs, feeling them stand at attention beneath my fingers.
I pull Antoinette back against me, between my thighs, squeezing her lower body even as I continue to knead her breasts. I press the hard length of my sex into the cleft of her buttocks and hear her gasp with pleasure.
I whisper in her ear. “Tell me now, my sweet Antoinette, do you not like the way I wash-your-front?”
“Mais oui, mon coeur,” she breathed, arching her back as I thrust against her, my shaft sliding betwixt her cleft.
“I want to come inside you, Antoinette. I want to look into your eyes-when you come. I like that. Turn around . . .”
The water splashes as my mermaid turns to face me, lips parted in expectation, eyes darkening in anticipation. Straddling my body, she takes me inside, slowly sinking down, inch by inch . . .
One of her hands claims a slippery grip on my shoulder whilst the other clutches my wild tangle of hair as she moves atop me. I bury my face between her breasts, kissing and laving the tender, wet flesh, sucking her rosy nipples as I wrap my arms possessively around her body.
In those moments she is mine alone.
We move in tandem, slowly at first, and then faster and faster, water churning and splashing as I thrust up into her, into those warm, welcoming folds.
“Do you like--this, Antoinette? And this?” I say with ragged breath as I also slide a finger inside her, seeking that swollen bud, teasing it.
“Oui. Oui, mon coeur,” she gasps. Her eyes close and then flutter open again, her face flushed and exultant. “So-close.”
“Moi aussi.” I swirl my fingertip around her bud, knowing she aches for release. I seek release, too, and my thrusts become feverish, frenzied, our bodies slapping together, the water splashing, our moans and sighs mingling, growing louder.
I feel her body began to convulse, her cunny clenching my cock as she writhes and shudders atop me. I look into her eyes, so dark now, and I smile as I begin to move much more slowly inside her, still hard and unspent.
Cupping the back of her head with my hand, I hungrily press her lips to mine, building up speed again, hard, furious thrusts . . .
And when I spill my seed inside my lover, I am not a nameless outcast boy, but a man to be reckoned with.
It is a thought that gives me comfort.
Afterwards, she calls for more hot water and washes my tangled mane, bestowing tender kisses and caresses and murmuring sweet endearments with the greatest of gentleness.
For a little while, the anger and humiliation fade into the background of my life.
But as she has told me time and again, it-we-cannot last.
And I value her honesty, even when it nearly breaks my heart.
*~*~*~*
“Do you love her, Guy?”
Sitting there in that garden in Paris, I had shared the story of Lady Montrose and the Panther with Antoinette. She had listened patiently, intently. And now she was asking the questions I had been asking of myself.
I gave her a lop-sided smile. “I believe you once counseled me to never fall in love, ‘Toinette.”
She shook her head. “Mais non, mon coeur. I advised you to never fall in love with ME. That is not the same thing. You and I could have no future together.”
I gave a quick bark of laughter.
“And Lizzie and I do? She is a true lady who is married to a lord, a marriage that frees her family from impoverishment, but also imprisons her in a loveless marriage to a, a-stupid lout who does not appreciate her. And I, if you have forgotten, am a criminal with a price on my head.”
“You’ve had dalliances with titled ladies before, have you not, Guy? So tell me--why is this liaison, this woman, so different?” She raised a fair brow, a smile tugging at the corner of her rouged mouth. “Other than the fact she attempted to kill her own husband.”
I expelled a breath.
“Because-she IS different. Lizzie isn’t-jaded and spoiled, some flibbertigibbet looking for some new--sensation in her privileged life. She is loving and warm, passionate, intelligent and she’s-good to her maid.”
I snorted as I crossed my arms over my chest. “And--if I had been the woman married to that-horse’s arse of a man, I would have tried to shoot him as well.”
She patted my shoulder.
“I always knew you were gallant, but did not realise that you were so concerned with the welfare of servants, dearest Guy.” ‘Toinette said with a hint of laughter in her voice.
She quickly sobered, moving her hand down to gently squeeze my arm.
“Mon coeur, I think that you are not so bad a man as you would have us think. You are not bloodthirsty. And if your Lizzie is all that you say she is, I think she must also recognise the goodness in you, the true gentilhomme that you are.”
I gave a little groan and rubbed my forehead. “‘Toinette, I still do not know the true circumstances of my parentage. Possibly some aristocrat’s bastard, possibly not. What-do I have to offer her?”
I felt Antoinette’s fingers touch my cheek and turned my head to look into her lovely blue-violet eyes. I saw so much gentleness there I had a strange desire to cry, and found myself blinking hard.
“You never answered my question, Guy. Do you love her?”
Swallowing, I nodded. “I-I do. I have not told her exactly yet, but-she knows she is special to me.”
“Then you have answered your own question. What do you have to offer her? Your heart. The heart of a clever, brave, passionate, resourceful, good man. I think your Lizzie could do far worse, Guy. And it sounds as if she needs you as much as you do her.”
She stroked my cheek. “Love will find a way, mon coeur.”
I gave ‘Toinette a half-smile and raised her hand to my mouth to kiss it. “I didn’t know you were such a romantic. I take it--we have your blessing, then?”
“Is that what you came here for, mon coeur? My blessing?”
“In a way, yes. And-because it has been too long since I saw you. As you said, old friends should not stay apart for so long a time . . .”
I leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek.
“I wish Lizzie could meet you. I think you two would like each other . . .”
She smiled. “I am certain we would. You have most excellent taste in the female company you choose.”
I raise a single mocking brow. “Ah, but did I choose you--or did you choose me, ‘Toinette? As I recall, it was you who seduced me.”
A soft peal of laughter as she patted my leg. “We must give some credit to the late, lamented Antigone for bringing us together, I suppose. I rather think we chose each other, mon coeur.”
Antoinette rose to her feet and gestured in the direction of the house. “And now, shall we retire to the drawing room and enjoy tea? Do you still enjoy it with plenty of cream and sugar?”
“I do indeed.” I linked arms with her once more as we strolled back inside.
~Perhaps, it is the same with Lizzie and me. We have chosen each other. Can love find a way?~
I was more eager than ever to see her again.
I did not know, however, the obstacles that would stand in the path on my way back to her . . .