Louisa Rawlings by Stolen Spring Read Free Book Online

heard that Madame de Montespan, when she’d been the king’s official mistress, had lost—and won back—in the space of one evening, 160,000 louis d’or.  
    “Come,” said Arsène. He led her to one of the rooms where baskets and silver bowls of food were laid out, fruit and sweetmeats and cheese, wine and cakes. He pressed the refreshments on her, refilling her glass again and again, until she felt the wine beginning to go to her head. When she insisted that she had had quite enough, he took her off to dance, taking the occasion of the stately minuet to hold her hand more tightly than was necessary. He sat beside her at supper, at some tables removed from the king’s table. During the fish course he put his hand on her knee; she was too comfortable, too flattered by his attentions, to scold him. She let his fingers stay.  
    And perhaps she’d had too much to drink, she thought, as he escorted her down the corridors to her room. How difficult it was to focus her eyes!  
    As they passed the open door of a dim antechamber, he stopped, pulled her into the room, crushed her in his arms. “Marie-Rouge,” he breathed, and took her mouth with his. His kiss was sweet, and the wine had dulled her wits. She pressed up against him, enjoying his mouth, the feel of his hard body against hers. Languidly she draped her arms about his neck, returning his kiss. His lips were hot, his tongue invading her mouth to taste her sweetness. She shivered with pleasure. At last he lifted his head, the sound of his voice rasping in his throat.  
    “Goddess,” he said. “Sweet, sweet lady. You must know I worship you. Grant me, I beg of you, the last favors! I know you want me. Your eyes have told me so all the night. Your hand in mine as we danced, your yielding warmth. And now your mouth tells me so. Come to my bed, as you’ve come to my arms, all soft surrender.”  
    The shock of his words cleared her brain. Dear God, she hadn’t meant for this to happen! But how was she to extricate herself? She smiled tenderly up at him, playing for time. They were in a remote part of the château; it was late; no one seemed to be around. And she knew so little about him. If she refused, what would prevent him from flying into a rage, taking her against her will, here and now? Perhaps he wasn’t that kind of man, but she wasn’t willing to chance it. And she couldn’t shield herself with claims of virtue. He hadn’t believed her this afternoon; now, in the throes of his passion, he certainly wouldn’t! Guile, not outrage, was her only salvation. She laughed softly and disengaged herself from his arms. “You quite take my breath away, Arsène. But I’m so weary tonight, and the wine has made me giddy. I should not be a fitting lover. Mon Dieu! I fear I should fall asleep in your arms! Scarcely a satisfying conquest, I should think. Let me sleep tonight. I beg you.” She moved toward the safety of the corridor, where voices sounded from a distance.  
    “No,” he growled.  
    She smiled her most beguiling smile. “Yes. You’ve already taken the kiss that was not to be yours until tomorrow! And now you sue me for the last favors? For shame. For shame. I will not be hurried, monsieur!” The voices were coming closer; she felt more bold. “I’m quite put out with you, now I come to think of it!”  
    He sighed. “Even when you scold me, I adore you.”  
    She held out her hand. “You may kiss my fingers. But I shan’t allow you to accompany me further.”  
    “Mademoiselle.” He kissed her hand with reverence, and stood aside as she moved toward the staircase.  
    Thanks be to God! she thought. How foolish of her to have allowed it to happen! Well, she would make it quite clear to him in the morning that she’d no longer tolerate such behavior. She hurried to her room—noting that Tintin still hadn’t returned to his—undressed quickly, and fell into bed. The wine had done its work. She was asleep the moment her head