could practically see her mind working as she balanced her options. The truth, or an elaborate fantasy? He waited patiently, entirely at ease.
“My first lover was my sister’s music teacher,” she said after a moment. “We were still living in Faubourg Saint-Martin—my mother had several generous friends and we were…happy. He was my age, seventeen, and quite beautiful, with long blond hair and blue eyes and the most gentle touch. He loved me,” she said simply.
“And what was this paragon’s name?”
“Pascal de Florent,” she said without hesitation, and for a moment he almost believed her.
“Move over.”
She glared at him. “Why?”
“Because you’re going to tell me all about this and I want to be comfortable. This chaise is big enough for the two of us, unless you’d rather we retire to the bed. No? Then move over.”
She hesitated, but clearly he’d managed to still her fears. She moved over, and he slid up beside her.
“Ouch!” she said. “Do you have to wear so many blasted jewels?”
“Of course not, my dove.” He unfastened the diamond-studded buttons of his coat and pulled it off. He’d chosen one of his less severely tailored coats for the evening, wanting to be certain he could divest himself of it without help. He dumped it on the floor, smiling faintly as he thought of what his valet might say.
He leaned back again, very close to her. “Shall we continue?” he said.
She turned to look at him. Even in the candlelight he could see her quite clearly, the gold flecks in her rebellious brown eyes. He wondered if they ever softened.
She leaned back beside him, their shoulders touching. She tried to move away, but there was no place for her to go. “Well, then there was one of my mother’s young admirers…”
“Not so fast, my precious. You’re telling me a story. The adventures of an impure maid. I want to hear about it. Did you fall in love with the music teacher?”
“Of…of course.” She paused. “He was beautiful and he was very kind.”
Not the words to describe a lover, he thought. “So. Tell me about it. Where did you manage your assignations?”
This should be fairly easy for her. He had no doubt the music teacher had existed, that he was beautiful and very kind. No doubt that she’d spent hours fantasizing about him. No doubt that he’d never touched her.
“My bedroom at first. He would sneak in there after he finished with his lessons.”
“How did it feel, precious? Did it hurt?”
She turned and gave him a look of real dislike. “Of course it did. But that doesn’t matter when true love exists.”
“Of course not,” he said soothingly. “So he deflowered you on your bed, and it was tender and beautiful. And painful. How many times did you do it?”
Her brow was wrinkled. “Once.”
“Once the first time, or only once with the music teacher?”
He could practically feel her annoyance. Unfortunately her body was pressed up against his, and no matter how she tried to keep her distance the warmth of his leg against hers, the feel of his body next to hers, even through the many layers of petticoats and cloth, was loosening some of her tension.
“Many, many times,” she said between gritted teeth. “We did it in my bedroom, in the music room, in…”
“Where in the music room?”
She looked at him with real dislike. “Underneath the pianoforte. On top of the pianoforte. Unfortunately Nanny Maude caught us, and my mother dismissed the piano teacher, and I never saw him again.”
“Very tragic,” he murmured. “But I’m encouraged by your inventiveness. Who came next?”
“There was an actor at the Comédie-Française. His name was Pierre duClos and he was quite beautiful—with dark hair and an angelic smile.”
He was enjoying himself immensely. Scheherazade was doing an excellent job with her stories. Which were just that—stories. “Apparently you favor beautiful men. How fortunate for me.”
She looked at him. “You don’t suffer from an excess of self-doubt, do you?”
“Why should I? It’s a waste of time. You and I both know I’m exquisite.” He flicked his flowing lace cuff. “My valet puts a great deal of effort into making me look glorious—it would distress him greatly if he somehow had failed. Perhaps I should get rid of him.”
“He hasn’t failed,” Elinor said in a disgruntled voice. “You’re very beautiful. So much so that you put everyone around you to shame, like a strutting peacock surrounded by little brown hens.”
“Do you see yourself as a little brown hen, my sweet?”