Lovely

Prologue

They call me Lovely.

The reflection that studies me tells me otherwise. In the cold, pale lemon light of a December morning, I appear haggard, drawn. Sooty circles lie beneath my eyes, and my skin looks bloodless and dull.

I am twenty-one years old, yet I feel forty.

It does not matter to them, however. My body is young and supple. And by the time I am finished with rouge and kohl, I, too, can pass for any one of the virginal ingénues flouncing about the city.

Lovely, Mademoiselle, they whisper in my ear.

But I know I am not.

Chapter One

Paris, 1900

Mam’selle Angelique?

The one who stands nervously at the door to my chamber is, I am certain, close to my age—perhaps only slightly older. His long fingers clutch and curl awkwardly at the brim of his hat, and I cannot help but be amused. It is impossible for him to be a virgin, not in a city where men are wont to plunge their cocks into nearly anything that will move, so this is either his first dalliance outside of marriage, or his first time with someone like me. Perhaps both.

I smile and pat the empty part of the settee next to me, forever the coquette.

"Oui, Monsieur. Please, won’t you join me?"

A sharp, wordless nod and this dark-haired boy-man closes the door behind him, crosses to me and carefully folds his tall length to sit upon the burgundy velvet. He lays his hat carefully on the seat beside him, and clasps his palms together. His hands seem strong and capable, and his fingers are long.

There is a long moment, difficult for him, I suppose, where I patiently watch and wait. It is necessary for me to gain whatever knowledge I can, to be able to judge precisely what I am to do. It is an art, this learning moment, and I long ago discovered it was in my best interest to listen to my instincts. They usually do not fail me.

He is handsome, this man-child. Clean-shaven, with a strong jaw and full mouth. Dark, unruly curls play atop his head and down his neck, and his expressive, guileless eyes are the same hue. The scent of wealth is on him, from his fine wool suit and clean shirtfront to his shiny black shoes. Whatever else I may say about him, he is well-bred. He does not immediately paw at me like some beast in heat, though perhaps that means nothing—others whom I thought to be men of dignity and honor would have barely heard the click of the door before their trousers were around their ankles and I was on my knees.

It seems I shall need to take charge this evening, but I do not mind. He is not the first to require it, and he shall certainly not be the last. Besides, his air of innocence intrigues me.

Monsieur? I ask. What is your name? What may I call you?

A flicker of a glance in my direction, and the flash of a shy, beautiful smile. Alexandre.

His voice is rich and pleasant; it sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. I smile at him. Well, Alexandre. What shall we do tonight? I am at your service in whichever way you prefer.

He does not immediately answer. But I can see by the clenching of his jaw and the rapid drumming of his fingertips atop his thigh that his skittishness has reappeared, and I must alter my strategy.

We can do nothing more than talk, if that is what you wish.

He turns slightly to look at me once again, and his eyes express relief. "Merci, Mam’selle," he says, quietly. Again, he will not hold my gaze, but with a short, deep breath, begins to speak.

You must forgive me, Mam’selle. I have never sought company in this form, and I find myself somewhat unnerved. A brief look of panic crosses his face and his voice becomes apologetic. I do not mean to imply—

I cannot help but give a quiet laugh. His naïveté is refreshing. "Cher Alexandre, do not be embarrassed. I cannot be offended. We both know my purpose here. I provide companionship and comfort to those who cannot find it elsewhere. What form that comfort takes varies from gentleman to gentleman."

Alexandre exhales audibly. Your reputation does not do you justice, Mam’selle. My inquiries led me to you, and I find you do not disappoint. He takes my hand in both of his, and presses a lingering kiss to the back of my hand. My skin tingles where his lips have touched me, and the sensation is a surprise. For a moment, I am rendered speechless.