Master: An Erotic Novel of the Count of Monte Cristo (16 page)

A faint pink tinged her cheeks as she ducked her head. “You always say that.”

“You always are, but even more so today. Tell me, how are you? How is your grandfather?”

“I am fine, and so is
Grandpère
. I will tell you more about what he has done in a moment . . . but first, Maximilien, tell me about you. How have you been?”

“Missing you, of course. As always.” His fingers curled through a lower hole of the gate, and to his delight, she shifted so that she might touch them. Warmth spread through his body— a pleasant shock—and he gently stroked the undersides of her fingers, enjoying the feel of her flesh. “As for what to tell . . . well, I have met the celebrated Count of Monte Cristo.”

“You have? I have as well. He came to our house to call on Papa, after Papa called on him. There was an incident with a pair of wild horses—they belonged to the Danglarses—and they nearly ran away with Heloise, my stepmother. Somehow, the count’s manservant was able to stop those wild horses and save Heloise and her son, right in front of the count’s home. So, of course, Papa called on him to thank him. And the count returned the favor.”

“He is a wonderful man, is he not?” asked Maximilien fervently. “I have had the pleasure of dining with him several times, and on other occasions we have ridden together about the city.”

Valentine hesitated; he felt it in her fingers. “He intimidated me, Maximilien. He wasn’t frightening or rude—no, he was the epitome of grace and all that is polite, but he had this cold expression on his face. An intensity that made me nervous.”

Maximilien tightened his grip around her fingertips. “He is not like that to me. He is warm and friendly, and I like him very much. I would count him as one of my greatest friends, and if I were ever to be in trouble, I would go to him for help. He has indeed offered to help me.” He shifted so that he could look through the gate holes and catch her eye. “I have considered asking him for his advice in regards to our situation.”

Valentine’s eyes widened, and her lips trembled in a soft smile. “You would trust him that much, then, that he might help us find a way to be together?”

“If anyone can help, it would be the count. I am sure of it. He is wickedly intelligent and immensely wealthy, and he does everything with such ease and skill. The man has power beyond belief, much of which I think comes from his own self-assurance. He does not care what others think of him, and so they cannot help but admire him. He could find a way to help us.”

Now he saw Valentine’s thick dark lashes drop, covering sky blue eyes. “Perhaps we might need his assistance.”

Maximilien’s chest felt tight, and he scrabbled at the gate with his other hand, wanting to touch her but unable to do so. His fingers thrust through as long and straight as they could, brushing the rough lace that trimmed the back of her gown. “What is it?”

“Papa wishes me to marry Franz d’Epinay, the friend of your acquaintance Albert de Morcerf. He is insistent.”

The band around his chest tightened further. “No, Valentine!”

“But
Grandpère
Noirtier, whom you know loves me above all, knows that I don’t wish the match. Though he is old and feeble, he has more power than my father. And he has called for the lawyers and has had me disowned from his will, which will leave me with a much smaller dowry. I believe he intends to make me undesirable to d’Epinay so that he will deny the betrothal.”

“But . . . your
grandpère
cannot move or speak. How could he make his wishes known?”

Valentine, whom Maximilien knew loved her
grandpère
nearly as much as she loved him, smiled at her would-be lover. “But
Grandpère
can speak with his eyes, my love. He blinks once for yes and twice for no, and as such, we have a whole manner of communicating.” Her smile faded. “But my papa is still insistent that I marry Monsieur d’Epinay, and although my
grandpère
’s disowning me has struck a great blow to my dowry, it may not keep the monsieur from agreeing to a betrothal.”

Maximilien felt a great wave of relief. “So there has been no contract, no formal agreement yet. That is good. Let us wait and see, and in the meantime, I will try to find a way for us to be together. You know I love you more than life, Valentine.”

Heedless of the garden path stretching behind her, she’d turned to fully face him at the gate, and curled her own fingers through two different diamond holes. He brushed a gentle kiss over her delicate knuckles, and then followed it with little ones on each fingertip.

“How I wish I could touch you, my love,” he said, resting his forehead against the gate, pressing his eyes to the openings there. A chill iron slat pressed into his nose, and he was close enough to see the fine hairs that grew along the edge of her temples, melding into thicker, darker honey-colored tresses.

She brought her head to the gate so that they were eye to eye, but she was also far enough away that he could focus on the parts of her face that he could see: pink lips, a smooth white forehead, two brilliant blue eyes, the point of her chin, the sweep of blond hair away from the tops of her temples.

“As do I,” she murmured.

He ducked his head, breaking their gazes, but moving closer to her fingers, which still curled through the hole. Instead of merely kissing them this time, he gently took one of them into his mouth. Valentine’s quiet gasp sent a shriek of desire shooting through him, and Maximilien closed his eyes as he slid her finger deeply into his mouth. She tasted sweet, of course, for it was Valentine.

He took each finger into his mouth in turn, sliding them in and out gently and slowly. Her fingers unbent, relaxed, sagged. He could hear, over the chattering of a nearby squirrel, the increase in her breathing. By angling carefully, he was able to keep her forefinger in his mouth, yet see through the small openings in the gate that her eyes had drifted closed, and her lips were gently parted. A rosy flush colored her cheeks, and with another adjustment, he was able to see the rise and fall of her chest. And he sucked and stroked, his lips full and his tongue sliding around her trembling fingers, over the sensitive fold of skin between them. His teeth nibbled faintly at their tips, clicking quietly against her nails, all the while his own need for her building into an incessant pounding as his hands clutched the gate.

At last, he pulled away, his cock pushing against the confines of his trousers, his own breathing faster than it should have been.

“Valentine,” he sighed. His forehead slammed gently against the metal bars that bit into his palms.

“Maximilien,” she sighed in return. The fingers from both of her hands—one set moist, the other dry—poked through the openings as if to grab at him. He couldn’t help it. He brushed his face against them, and he felt the beauty of her fingertips smooth over a small area of his cheek. The only part she could touch.

“When will I be able to kiss you, Valentine?” he asked, knowing that his voice was heavy with want and agony. “Touch you?”

“Oh, Maximilien,” she said, and then he saw her mouth against one of the openings. “Kiss me now. Please.”

She didn’t need to make the suggestion twice. He moved flush against the gate so quickly it jolted on its hinges and the chains clinked. Maximilien pushed up against it and so did she . . . and they touched each other, piecemeal, where parts of their bodies pressed through. His fingers touched the upper part of her arms, then moved to another opening and brushed her waist and the impossibly wide skirts there. Her hands thrust into the openings—they were almost small enough to fit her fist completely through the holes. And below . . . her little shoes peeked under the edge of the gate brushing between his.

He fitted his lips to hers, framed by the diamond opening, pushing them as far through as he could. The sharp edge of the slats cut into the flesh around his mouth, but the discomfort was wiped away by Valentine.

Her lips were sweet and soft and just as delicious as he’d imagined. He did nothing more than press his mouth to hers at first, but that wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. He pressed harder, and heard the clink of the chains around the gate again, and felt her mouth open slightly. Slipping his tongue through, Maximilien jammed his fingers through the openings on either side as far as he could, struggling to touch her cheeks, to pull her face closer.

Her lips parted wider, and their tongues slipped and slid around each other as an iron grid kept them from delving deeply and thoroughly. Her skin was soft as silk, and he even managed to capture a lock of hair for a moment, twisting it between his fingers.

At last, Maximilien pulled away, his cock raging between him and the welcome pressure of the gate. He was breathing heavily, and Valentine’s gasps matched his.

“Soon, my love,” she said. “Oh, soon, Maximilien . . .”

“I won’t let anyone else have you,” he promised. “Wait for me.”

“Yes . . . yes. I love you.”

“I love you, Valentine.”

“In two days,” she said. “Let us meet again in two days.”

“Only death would keep me away,” he vowed. He allowed himself one last thrust of fingers through the gate to brush her mouth and cheek, and then he took himself off.

SIX

"The Count of Monte Cristo,” announced Francois, the Morcerfs’ butler.

Mercédès looked up at the tall, elegant man who had just crossed the threshold of her home, and now stood at the entrance to the parlor where all of the dinner guests had gathered.

The count was the last to arrive, and he cut a striking figure with his broad shoulders and erect posture. Although he wasn’t the tallest man there, his presence seemed to make him that much more imposing.

“Good evening, Your Excellency,” Mercédès said as he approached. She raised her gloved hand and looked him steadily in the eye—familiar eyes. Oh, God, they were so familiar to her . . . yet they were cool and empty. Polite.

“And to you, madam,” he replied, raising her hand to his lips and pressing a deliberate kiss there. She felt it through her gloves. “You look incredibly well.”

And then she saw the faintest flicker of . . . something . . . as he cast his gaze over her, then seemed to pull it away and onto Fernand, who stood next to her.

Mercédès had of course dressed in her finest and most flattering for the occasion, and she’d made certain Charlotte’s handiwork was more impeccable than usual. It had been two weeks since Edmond—Monte Cristo—had visited their home, and this was the first time she’d seen him since. She’d heard about him and his activities through conversations with Albert, but there had been no occasion in which their paths had crossed again.

At first, after he’d left her house, Mercédès hadn’t known what to do: how to act, what to think and feel, how to proceed. This was the man she loved—the one she’d never stopped loving and grieving for. And here he was, suddenly, after twenty-four years. With a different name, and cold, blank eyes.

He’d saved her son’s life.

Had he known Albert was the son of his lover?

Why was he pretending not to know her—did he truly not know her? How could he not, when she’d recognized him instantly?

Perhaps it was amnesia, she realized. Perhaps he really didn’t know it was she.

And perhaps that was just as well. For what could she do?

She was married—albeit unhappily. She had a son, a home, a life. She couldn’t be with Edmond the way she’d want to. The way she’d promised and intended.

Would she want to?

Ah. But there was no doubt. Of course she would. She’d never stopped loving him.

She turned to look into the parlor, where Albert had just taken Monte Cristo and was offering him a drink. Yes, there was no doubt where her heart still lay. It pounded harshly in her chest, beneath the lemon-yellow gown. It broke when she looked at that strong profile, that handsome, familiar—yet unfamiliar—one. The pain in her chest was palpable, an actual squeezing and tightness of her heart and lungs.

Edmond.

Returned at last, yet still so far away.

“Mercédès.”

The soft murmur, the gentle tug at her elbow, brought her back to the present. To the trap and the puzzle that was her life. It was Georges, of course, ever-present, and now at her elbow.

Mercédès pushed her anguish and confusion away and looked at him, leaning absently into his offered arm, relishing the support. God knew how badly she needed it. “Good evening, Georges,” she said, forcing herself to look away from the figure that commanded her attention.

He smiled at her, his eyes soft like that of the pup Albert had raised when he was young. “You look ravishing tonight,” he said, his voice low. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you look so well, Mercédès. I thought my heart would fill to bursting when I saw you.”

He was sincere, and what woman would not thrill to such words—even if they were from an earnest, open man such as he. Mercédès smiled at him, turning resolutely from the tall, dark person in the parlor behind her. “Perhaps you will be my dinner partner this evening?” she asked. “I have already planned it so,” she lied, knowing she would have to change the seating arrangements before they entered the dining room.

She wouldn’t be able to eat a morsel if she were sitting next to Edmond.

Monte Cristo politely declined Albert’s offer of a drink, and instead took the opportunity to mingle with the other guests at the Morcerf home. The Danglarses and the Villeforts were present, as well as a dozen others. He knew many of them, having been out and about at dinners and the theater and even one ball in the last two weeks.

He himself had just returned from hosting a dinner party at his new home in Auteuil, at which he’d entertained the Danglars family along with the Villeforts and several others. That had gone very well, and had left the Baroness Danglars and Monsieur Villefort—who had been secret lovers many years ago whilst he was married to his first wife—more than a little nervous.