The General's Mistress (17 page)

T
he next morning I went to Thérèse’s house just at dawn and was admitted as usual. I wore my riding costume, gray doeskin trousers and a blue coat with silver buttons, a perfect lace-trimmed cravat.

“Madame is still in her boudoir,” I was informed.

“I will go up,” I said airily. After all, I usually did. I opened her door and went in.

Thérèse was not only in her boudoir, she was sound asleep
in her bed, which was gilt and carved with cherubs. She slept on her side, her long golden hair spread across the pillow behind her, and the sheet draped loosely over her. It was a warm summer morning. She was wearing nothing beneath the sheet. I sat down on the edge of the bed.

Thérèse stretched. “Ida?” she murmured.

The stretch exposed one perfect white breast, the areola of her nipple pink against her pale skin. Her arm extended behind her head, and the lines of her flesh were lovely indeed.

I bent and took her nipple in my mouth. It tasted of warmth and salt.

She squeaked.

I took my hand, still attired in Charles’s dove-gray riding glove, and put it lightly over her mouth. “Don’t scream,” I said in Charles’s best cultured voice. “Women who admit just anyone to their bedchambers are inviting trouble.”

Her eyes widened. With my other hand I brushed the sheet back, baring her in all her glory, rounded thighs milky against the sheets.

“Charming, I confess,” I said, raking her up and down with my eyes.

She bit down on her lips, her eyes bright.

I bent and kissed her breast again, gathering it in my hand a bit roughly, kneading it and pressing her hard nipple.

Thérèse made a long, low noise in her throat.

“You mustn’t scream,” I said, “if I take my hand away. You wouldn’t want your servants to come rushing in here and see you like this, now, would you?”

She shook her head, and I could see the hungry smile, the faint flutter at her throat.

“Be silent,” I said, “or you will be sorry.” I opened her legs with my gloved hand. Her hair was brown, giving the lie to her
golden tresses above. The seam of my suede glove brushed against the inside of her thigh, and her hips lifted off the bed. I took my hand from her mouth and pressed it against her stomach, right above the mountain of Venus, pressing down with the heel of my hand against the womb inside. Of course she rocked her hips upward, parting them slightly, a deep exhalation coming from her.

I laughed low in my throat. Her lips were pink and full, growing distended with blood. I ran my gloved hand along them.

Her back arched.

“Not a sound,” I said. “Not a sound from you. Or I will make you very, very sorry.”

Thérèse bit down on her lip.

“Charming,” I said. My gloved hand toyed with her pearl. It was quite large and I felt it swelling under my attention. My other hand still pressed down, catching her in the unbearable place between.

It was hard to keep my voice conversational. I could feel the inseam of my trousers very sharply of a sudden, rubbing in a sensitive spot. Charles had more self-discipline than Ida, however. “Turn over,” I said.

She made a small whimpering noise.

“Turn over,” I said more insistently. “Do you think you can flaunt your charms as you do and not pay the price? On your hands and knees.”

She turned stiffly, for I did not remove my fingers from that intimate place. Her ass was rounded and pale, and as she sank onto her knees I could see every part. I ran my hand down her back to the top of the cleft, and she arched her back, moaning. I had counted on this. With my forefingers still on her pearl, I thrust my gloved thumb inside her.

She moaned.

I took my other hand and slapped her hard across the bottom. “Did I not tell you to be quiet?”

She whimpered, and I took that as an invitation. My hand came down upon her again hard, twice, three times. Each time she moved. Each time my thumb thrust into her propelled by her own motion, the seam of my glove caressing her pearl.

I struck her again. I could see the red marks of my hand on her white skin.

Her whole body lifted and she gave a vast shudder. I felt her spasm around my thumb, the embrace of that intimate part giving against me. And then she collapsed into the bedsheets.

My body was throbbing. I could not let go. I could see my gray gloves damp from her body.

Thérèse rolled over, and her eyes were like a cat’s. “Ummm, I had no idea,” she purred, “that taunting such a handsome young gentleman was so dangerous.”

“It is, hussy,” I said. “I hope that I have taught you a proper lesson.” My voice was shaking.

“You have,” she said. “But perhaps you can make it more clear by requiring me to pleasure you.”

I undid my trousers as though I were a man, unbuttoning the sides and pulling them down to expose enough. I knelt over her face. “Do it, then,” I said. “You have a tongue, bitch.”

Thérèse laughed.

Games of Passion

O
ver the next seven or eight weeks, I saw quite a lot of Thérèse, but we didn’t honestly talk very much. Two or three times a week I would come by her house early in the morning and awaken her while the room was still cool and light. It was not a surprise after that first time, but she never failed to respond as though it were—the careless woman of fashion who had provoked a man she should not have, who had played with fire one time too many. She never seemed to tire of Charles’s dandy manners and lethal smile. Then we would breakfast and sometimes go for a ride, though in the heat of August we gave up on the riding. She would go about her extensive toilette, and I would go home before it was too hot.

Of course I was now invited to all her dinners and entertainments, but I saw little of her there—the hostess cannot spend a great deal of time with any guest. I spent my evenings in repartee and cards, winning money off gentlemen who thought a lady must be a dunce and whom décolletage robbed of their wits. I did not play for much money. The pleasure was in winning hand after hand off young men who should know better.

Gossip spreads fast. The third week in September I was at a party, playing cards and listening with half an ear to things around me, when I caught Moreau’s name in passing. Two gentlemen at a nearby table were talking about him. I glanced about unobtrusively. One was a civilian, the other in uniform, though I did not recognize him.

“. . . will be dismissed any day now. I’ve seen the orders myself.”

The civilian shrugged. “Moreau took Stuttgart and then gave it back, what do you expect?”

“Moreau retreated because Archduke Charles was breathing down his neck. What was he supposed to do? Take Stuttgart with him?” the officer countered.

“He’s mediocre and he can’t bring off a decisive battle. It’s time he stepped down and someone more aggressive had the command. Someone who will carry the battle to the Austrians, not just run round and round over the same territory for years on end.” The civilian got up from the card table. “I’m for the necessary. Back in a bit.”

I watched him go. Moreau would be dismissed. . . .

I did not even have time to write him. The next day I had a note from Victor that was both brief and to the point.

My dear,

I am arriving in Paris within a day or two. Please make certain that my house is in order and that my staff is prepared for my arrival.

Victor

I
went to his house immediately and began ordering his staff around. They were, naturally, thrown into utter confusion by his return a full two months early. The floors were unpolished, the covers had to be removed from the furniture in the public rooms downstairs, and all the decoration needed dusting. The silver was in want of polishing and the windows on the second floor needed washing. Before it was finished, Victor arrived.

I heard his carriage pulling up at the door just at dusk, and I
ran down the stairs and out to greet him, my hair still tied under a scarf that I had worn to keep the dirt off while the footmen were cleaning the hall chandelier.

Victor got out and looked at me quizzically. “My dear, what are you doing here?”

“Cleaning your house,” I said. He looked very tired and he was rumpled from the road.

“Yourself?”

“Of course not,” I said. “But I came to make certain that it was done well and in a timely fashion. I did not want you to come home to a cold house.”

“I doubt it would be cold,” he said. It was, in fact, a very warm day at the end of September, and felt more like August.

“Figuratively,” I said. “But I did not know you would be here tonight or I would have ordered the cook to prepare. Would you prefer to go out?”

Victor shook his head and walked up the steps to me. The sun had just set and the sky had turned a deep and exotic blue. “And face society tonight? I suppose it will be no better another day. All Paris knows that I have been relieved of my command by now, I suppose.”

I took his arm. “And no doubt they are incensed by such unfairness! You have done the unlikely on the Rhine, and it is no credit to anyone to expect you to do the impossible! I am wild with fury at this slight to you, Victor! To imagine that there is anyone who could possibly do better . . .”

“I am glad you think so, my dear. But you are no expert on military matters, as you well know. And the mob loves to blame someone. Today I am the goat. Tomorrow it will be another. What goes up comes down.”

I leaned against his shoulder there on the street. “Victor, come with me. Your house is in disorder, and there is no supper.
Let us go somewhere and dine, and then you can return to the comfort of my house for the evening and give your servants time to finish.”

“If it would not trouble you, perhaps we could just dine at your house.”

I nodded. “As warm as it is, a cold collation in the garden might be the most pleasant thing.”

A
n hour later, the stars were appearing. We ate under the trees in my garden, moths flying at and bouncing off the paper lanterns in the tree above. There was cool white wine and pâté de campagne, olives and watercress and a little salad, cheese and bread and lovely fresh pears and a delicious crème de marrons. The night was quiet. The sounds of insects were louder than those of distant streets. The stars came out bright in a flawless sky.

It was idyllic enough to relax anyone but Victor. He picked at his food and said little. His shoulders were tense, and even a second glass of wine did not seem to change him. I chattered on about this and that. I did not bring up Thérèse. Whatever he had said or not, my raw anger at him had long since evaporated. Whether he had confided in Thérèse or had tried to discourage her, he had acted out of jealousy, I felt sure. And that I could not blame him for.

At last he put his empty glass on the table and looked at me. “And what was it about Thérèse? Did you sleep with her?”

“I did,” I said lightly. “Any number of times. It was very amusing.”

“Was it?” His voice was dry.

“She prefers me in men’s clothes,” I said. “Which is interesting, to be sure. But I do not trust her.”

“That is wise,” Victor said. He poured himself a third glass. “I don’t trust her either. And I mistrust her with you even more.”

“I can handle Thérèse,” I said. “In fact, I’ve been handling her with a firm hand, so to speak.”

Victor raised an eyebrow. “And do you find that to your taste?”

I shrugged, coloring a little. “I enjoyed it. But nothing more. How were your women over the summer?”

He laughed. “I enjoyed it. Nothing more.” Victor reached across the table and took my hand. “You are exquisite. And I have always been afraid that you would notice it.”

“And yet you have given me into the very society that you know presents temptation to me,” I said. “Victor, I don’t understand. You could have sent me to a country house to live in quiet, or at least not given me the means to meet potential rivals.”

“And I could chain you as well,” he said. “But it would not serve my purpose. If I kept you solely because you could not leave, what would that say? If you answered to my hand only because there were no others who would have you, how should I take pleasure in that? I do not need to chain you. If passion is not chain enough, there is none that would do.” He turned my hand so that mine rested on his, and he caressed my palm, sliding his fingers between my own. The mere touch of a hand should not feel so carnal, as though he had caressed flesh much more tender than this.