Forged by Love: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 4 by Lynne Connolly Read Free Book Online

bedroom. They helped her into it, smoothing the fabric carefully into place, and Virginie watched them turn her into a vision. More of a vision.
    It was difficult to have any degree of modesty when her other self was the goddess of beauty and love. Would she have been like this had she grown up as a mortal? Her mother was not so lovely. She hadn’t seen her in years.
    Once she’d been close to her mother, clung to her when times were bad and danced with her when they were good. An aeon ago.
    She touched the silver rose Lord Valsgarth had given her last night. A petal had bent from her rough treatment of the gift. Guilt suffused her when she recalled the way she’d treated him, but she pushed the emotion aside. It had no place in her perfect world.
    However, she did lift the blossom from the crystal vase she’d placed it in and gently stroked the bent petal back into position, restoring the perfection. A bump nudged her fingers. It wasn’t perfect, then. She grazed her finger over the smooth imperfection, then once more before turning the flower to examine it. A thorn prodded her, but although they adorned the stem, they were not sharp. He’d blunted the edges and tips.
    He’d created a drop of dew on the petal. Maybe it was a raindrop, but the polished, tear-shaped bead was meant to be there, too delicately positioned to be accidental.
    A poignant note struck deep inside her, discordance breaking into her spell. Unhappiness reminded her of its presence.
    It had no place in her, but the crack remained, a tiny hairline fracture in her perfect world. She replaced the rose in its vase.
    The attendants pinned, laced and tucked the gown so it delineated the curve of her waist, the swell of her bosom and flowed over her hoops in graceful folds to her feet. She turned slowly, her skirts swishing. Virginie stood still while her maid fastened a frill of lace around her throat and a collar of pearls over that, then clasped a matching bracelet of pearls around her wrist. Her earrings were from the Clermont-Ferand collection. She had left most of it behind when her husband had died. He’d bought her enough of her own for her not to miss them. But she was fond of the pearls and the current incumbent of the title had allowed her to use them. They wouldn’t have suited him, she thought with a wry grin. Her fan was lace to match the frills at her throat, bosom and elbows.
    Virginie rarely tired of fine clothes and jewels. Tonight she reflected that she’d like a weekend in the country, to dress in something far less elaborate and spend the days in idleness.
    The notion was passing, replaced by the headier heated excitement when she recalled she’d see Marcus again tonight. As if she had not seen him for a month or more, her senses yearned for his touch, his kisses. And she was never satisfied. Night after night, the hunger grew worse as they fed their mutual madness.
    What did she care about the other people who caught their backwash and fell into each other’s arms? Everyone should have a taste of the fever of love, of passion and attraction, unbearable and beautiful. She and Marcus were doing them a favour.
    She donned a hat, a pair of gloves and the lightest of cloaks.
    Tiring of the women’s fussing, she shook them off and stalked from the room. Tonight they would dazzle at a society ball. Marcus would meet her there, and they would dance the night away before returning home.
    She moderated her pace to a ladylike gentle step and managed to reach the hall with only the bare minimum of attention. Only a dozen or so people stopped to stare at her. She’d always considered staring a vulgar practice, so she ignored them. She made her way to the front door, not moderating her speed. The man standing by it would open it in time for her to step through.
    Outside she paused while her maid caught up with her and then graciously accepted her footman’s assistance into the gilded carriage that stood waiting.
    The coachman knew his