Invitation to Ruin (4 page)

“What is it you want, Beatrice?”

“A proper good-bye, that is all.”

“How can you do that to Maria?” He was
earnest in his question and it made me laugh in his face. A flash
of anger lit his gaze, narrowing the pupils to black points that
threatened to tear out my heart.

Good, I wanted him angry. It made him hard,
as much as he might wish to deny it. So it had been between us for
so long, my fighting him, rubbing against him, exposing some bit of
forbidden flesh. He could not know me without being the stern
enforcer of Mother’s petty punishments. And now he had so much to
punish me for and I intended to give him even more!

“I owe Maria no duty of kindness!” I spat the
words in his face and he raised his hand to me for an instant
before slamming his fist against his thigh.

“Is it my fault?” No longer looking at me, he
stared at the floor and numbly shook his head. He glanced up,
remembering that I was there, and shook his head again. “You have
wantonly tempted me for so long.”

“Pity you did not take me sooner…before
marrying that cow.” I thrust my breasts out, my chin following suit
as I dared him to raise his hand again.

My words shocked him, apparently filling him
with horror that I should have suggested so early a taking. And
then some false chivalry over Maria’s honor fell across him like a
black veil and he grabbed me by the throat. “That you, a whore,
should talk about her—”

“Your whore,” I reminded him and stroked at
the hands that threatened to squeeze the life out of me. “And what
is she anyway? Is it her wifely duty that keeps her at your side
still? Or, like me, does she want you to fill her with your cock,
to fuck her with it, to let her take it into her mouth and
suck—”

He backhanded me and I fell across the bed.
On hands and knees, I crawled across the mattress, playing the
naked, disheveled penitent. I stopped a hand’s width from him, not
looking up at him, my gaze centered on the outline of his cock
pressing against his pants. My tongue slipped out to wet my lips.
“You are so hard,” I observed.

My breasts, ripe with need, brushed against
my arm and the sensitive nipples stung as if I’d drawn a blade
across them. “I need you, Louis,” I begged, sincere at last. “This
last time before I lose you forever.”

“No!” He grabbed two handfuls of hair and
pulled me against him, hugging my face against his erect manhood.
“Why do you say that?”

So he wanted me to stay! But would he admit
as much?

“When I return…” I started, looking up and
faltering as I saw the truth scratched across his features.

“I will still be your mother’s coachman…and
Maria’s husband.”

I rose up, pushing angrily at him. “I will be
mistress here, soon,” I warned. “Do you think that old woman, with
her headaches and her vapors and all her hateful misery will ruin
my life for much longer?”

I shook my head, my hair whipping once around
my shoulders. “No, this will be my house! And you…” I slammed my
fist against his chest, my voice breaking. “You already are
mine!”

“Yes, Beatrice.” He pulled me to him, hiding
his face against my hair, rubbing his cheek against the satiny
strands.

“Then show me!” I reached for his belt, tore
at his pants to free his erection. So thick, wanting my touch,
wanting me to taste it. My mouth descended, swooping down all at
once, feeling the head stretch my lips and press against the back
of my throat. I bobbed along the shaft’s length, sucking, licking,
my hands workings the heavy sacs below, gently squeezing them until
he put a hand on each side of my head and began to fuck my mouth. I
let him control me like that, fondling his balls with one hand
while I reached between my legs to pull at my clit.

“Blessed Beatrice,” he cried out, his skin
along his cock rippling with the first of his cum. “Keep sucking,
keep sucking.”

He bucked inside my mouth a few more times
before withdrawing and collapsing along the length of the bed. He
was panting, his body weakened from the past few weeks of fucking
and fighting. Whereas I had only grown stronger. I scrambled to the
head of the bed, turning quickly, one leg arcing over his head as I
planted my pussy against his mouth.

Louis didn’t protest, only stopped his
breathing for one surprised moment before he began laving the walls
of my pussy. My whole body was alive with the sensation of his
tongue stroking my labia before plunging into me. I wiggled against
his face, his chin biting into the hard bone that ran beneath my
clit.

The mirror was up against the wall and I
watched myself squirming against his mouth. I cupped my breasts,
fondled them as I began to bounce up and down. He stuck a finger
inside my pussy and I cried out, my body hovering at the edge of
climax. I grabbed his other hand and guided it to my bottom,
forcing his index finger apart from its brothers. He licked the
length of his finger and then swirled it in the thick juice that
coated my pussy before ramming it into the tight hole that winked
above.

My lust-filled scream pierced the morning
quiet, but he kept driving his fingers into me, licking my pussy
with long strokes, while he finger fucked both of my holes. I came
then, a shuddering climax that thundered through my body and left
me quivering above his still feasting mouth.

Louis pushed me forward onto my hands and
knees and dipped his cock into my wet slit until it was heavy with
my cream. Then he grabbed my bottom, his thumbs parting the cheeks.
I felt the heavy tip of his cock wedge against the small opening to
my bottom. Another wave of anticipation washed over me and I moaned
my encouragement.

How can I explain what it felt like as he
plundered that tight hole? Was there pain? Yes. But it only
quadrupled my pleasure, my protesting muscles gripping his cock
tighter still. His thickness filled me beyond the narrow borders of
that other channel, seeming to fill my pussy with his manhood as if
each stroke was inside its wet, grasping depths. The pressure on my
clit was stacked so high I thought urine would spill from me before
I came. Everything tried to pull him deeper into me. Every muscle
rejoiced as he put his first tender, exploratory thrusts aside and
began to drive hard inside me. I was moaning…crying…tearing at my
hair…my face flat against the mattress as I screamed my pleasure
into it until, with a bone-deep grunt, we climaxed together.

There was nothing for me to do then but get
dressed and pack my luggage. Already, the livery bells were
jingling outside, announcing the coach’s arrival. He carried the
trunks outside while I bound my hair and walked down the hall to
Mother’s room. There was the polite knock, the polite good-bye, the
polite assurances that I would write her once a week even though
she would never write a return letter. It was not my custom to
approach her bed, but I did this time, nurturing with each step
closer some perverse hope that she would smell Louis on me and that
the shock might stop her heart. I had told him that I would do as
much, but the blank mask had already fallen back across his face
and he no more than shrugged before taking the next bag down.

So here I sit, journal in hand, the spot
between my legs—that delicious area that I can only think of now as
my pussy—still moist, still hungry. And I wonder, would the
coachman notice a little more sway to the trap? Would he hear an
escaped moan over the clatter of the horses’ hooves? And if he did,
what would he do?

Interpreter’s note: This is the last entry
in Beatrice’s diary. What we know of her fate is revealed only
through the letters and journals of the other young women sheltered
at the Sacred Heart.

GABRIELLE

Transmitted May 1, 1787, from Candacis
Vremont to her publisher, and cousin, Philipe.

Dearest Cousin,

I received your letter today. How can it be
that so few words can bring such profit?! You did not supplement
it, did you? Promise me you did not!

I know I should not be thrilled at the sum;
the image of poor Maria’s face haunts me now. My enrichment has
come at the cost of her pain (although she is rather accustomed to
such things, it seems).

You said the public clamors for another
entry! How I wish I could be standing alongside the vendors as they
distribute them or disguise myself as a man and sell them on the
streets myself. The thrill it would bring to watch their greedy
fingers pull the pages apart in their eagerness to read my words!
There was, so the gossip goes, a copy smuggled into the convent and
now the rumors fly. How many Sacred Hearts, the girls wonder, can
there be in France? Is the convent in Beatrice’s story truthfully
named or merely modeled after that most famous school? Is there
such a girl as fatherless Beatrice here and, if so, where was she
in March? It pains me that I have not seen the copy, although it
is, perhaps, for the best. I am thought so innocent of potential
wrongdoing in this matter that several of the girls here have
pulled me into their confidences that they might mine me—much as
they would a servant—for information as to Beatrice’s identity and
that of the author!

You will, perhaps, recognize the young woman
in this installment, the end result so widely reported.

As ever,

Candacis

GABRIELLE

April 10, 1787

Sebastian! The very name makes my chest swell
with love and a most immodest passion. It seems miraculous that I
may soon be in a position to tell him as much. And the bringer of
this miracle? That is another miracle in and of itself. Long have I
chronicled my attempts to win over Veronique as a friend so that I
might gain some access to her cousin. And, while her family is,
indeed, quite anciently titled, you would think I was a commoner
grabbing at her skirts on the street! But, no more. She has finally
accepted me into her confidences and I her. When she learned of my
unrequited love for her cousin, Sebastian L’Aigle, she, of all
people, agreed that we would make an excellent match. And now, in a
few days, she has promised to present me to him at the
masquerade.

And I without a costume! No time to write
more. I must prepare!

April 13, 1787

Be still my heart! How things move so quickly
when in love. Sebastian, through Veronique, has agreed to a private
audience during the masquerade. I am near faint at the prospect
that we will be able to discuss our mutual feelings. Yes, mutual!
He has confessed as much to Veronique. It seems impossible that I
wondered a mere week ago if I might ever capture more than his
casual notice. Now, it is not a child’s query to wonder whether
marriage is far off.

His secret gifts this week are enough to
convince me his interest is not some shallow flirtation. The gilded
masks and gold laced gowns and gloves, fine flame red wigs (the
color not so far off from my own) so that Veronique and I may pass
as twins at the masquerade. Their cost is a small fortune.

And the intrigue—so much more thrilling than
what passes for formal wooing among our class. My heart (and more!)
flutters at the suspense surrounding our first meeting—so masterful
his courtship.

Father, of course, will be easy to convince
and pleased, no doubt. But I do worry as to Marquis L’Aigle.
Ambroise is such a rough brute compared to Sebastian, despite
father and son being near mirrors of one another in physique and
coloring. But then, Sebastian is the stone lovingly polished by his
blessed mother (may she rest in peace). A world of polishing would
still find Ambroise jagged and tearing at the hands of the
lapidarian. And yet, such men may be easily manipulated by a
woman’s soft manners. At least, somber bore that he is, I will not
have to worry about Ambroise remarrying and producing a rival
heir!

April 15, 1787

It is the morning after the masquerade and my
body is sore. Not from dancing or perching at the edge of some
ancient dame’s seat while I pretended to be enthralled with some
cruel story of her maid having burnt a stocking and the beating
that followed. No, not from anything so mundane am I sore, but from
an evening of thorough lovemaking! Yes, I confess as much, here, in
secret.

I arrived at the masquerade in the company of
Veronique and her parents. Quickly, Veronique made her way to the
masked Sebastian to identify him to me as such. He looked my way
once, across the room, while they talked, but then he disappeared!
I felt as if I would die there on the floor. But then Veronique,
after many more minutes of talking with some of the assembled
lords, made her way back to me, detailing where and when I should
find Sebastian waiting for me. The soul of discretion, he feared
harm to my reputation should anyone realize we had arranged a
private conversation.

How long the evening dragged—how many lesser
men bruised my feet as I danced with them. With each new partner, I
longed to see before me one dressed in the dark blue velvet and
feathered half-mask Sebastian wore, to have a supple blue leather
glove take my hand. Ah, did he have another dance in mind so early,
or did the evening’s forced separation make him long for my touch
as it made me long for his?

It was after ten when I made my way to the
appointed private drawing room. Some unused suite. No fire blazed
despite the room’s chill. Not even a candle was lit. Instead, he
stood by the window’s open curtains waiting for me. With a soft
whisper, he bid me lock the door and sit on the couch. I trembled
as I obeyed.

When I was seated, he moved across the room
and sat down on the far end of the couch. My heart cried foul! I
wanted him closer. I raised my hands to my mask, but he halted
me.

“None know what face lies behind that mask
tonight, do they, dearest Gabrielle?” he asked.

He still whispered and I squirmed in my seat,
desperate for the sound of his light tenor. “No, all night
Veronique and I refused to reveal ourselves—so too her parents,” I
assured him. My low tones matched his, but I wondered at the
necessity. Surely we were far enough from the party that we could
abandon our hushed tones.