Tantalized and Tickled

By Jennie L. Morris

From International Bestselling Author Jennie L. Morris.

 

France, 1720

 

Among the lavish court of the young King Louis XV, members of the elite play games of delightful debauchery in the shadows. Marquis Eloy de Harelle survives on the libertine-lifestyle of his brethren.

 

Destitute, Lucrèce Beaurin turns to her godmother for assistance, the Dowager Marquise de Harelle. Far from her small country life, Lucrèce finds Paris a formidable den of heathens.

 

A ruinous secret: the Harelle's are on the brink of financial collapse. Eloy takes on Lucrèce as his protégé, hoping she captures a rich suitor. The beguiling woman flourishes under his tutelage, winning over the court with a lover's touch.

 

Jealousy and greed are perilous foes, because who could ever truly love a libertine?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennie L. Morris
• Release date: Sep 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393123095

Book preview

Chapter 1

Paris, France - 1720

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Soft, muffled sounds of expensive silk against skin filled the perfumed air. Candles flickered, beaded lines of wax dripped down the silver candlesticks. His current patroness lay naked on the bed, blindfolded, a swatch of red brocade covering her narrow hips. Her curled brunette hair spread on the pillows. She panted with excitement.

If Eloy cared to listen outside the recessed alcove, the clamors of various couplings surrounded them. A master at his craft, he concentration on this demoiselle and her needs. In breeches and stockings, he removed his shirt. This wasn’t for his pleasure, but a professional engagement, handled between a discreet third party.

Close to her ear, he whispered, Are you ready, madame?

"Oui, she breathed. I beg you, Le Loup, you break me."

This was what he needed to hear from his patrons. Prepare yourself, madame. He went to the precipice of the alcove, drew back the heavy curtain, and ushered in the woman’s husband.

Francis du Bouëxic, comte de Motte, discarded his clothes and climbed into the bed. A retired admiral with the navy, he doubled his wife in years. Balding, with knotty, pale legs, and a round belly, Eloy understood the spouses’ predicament. Comte de Motte cared for his attractive young wife. Seeking association with Eloy had the potential for dire repercussions, especially for persons of reputation.

By the rules, Francis remained silent, laying on his back. Eloy’s collaborator performed the mundane task of laying out the procedure to his clients beforehand. From the table, Eloy grabbed a strip of black silk and then tied it over the man’s eyes.

Vision betrays us, Eloy asserted. His fingers brushed along the contours of his wizened face, feeling the roughness of new whiskers. The thin skin clung to the bone beneath.

With a soft touch of his hand, Eloy continued lower, caressing the man’s hairy chest. Francis inhaled, shivering. In turn, his wife’s chest rose and fell with a quickened pace. Using skills garnered from countless encounters, Eloy couldn’t remember them all, he brought the pair to the edge by slight displays of encouragement.

Eloy read the signs. He knew when to advance and when to retreat. When to prolong the play or stay his movement. They were ready. A slight woman, he grabbed the Madame du Bouëxic’s hips and pulled her astride her husband. The sensual connection made, Eloy stepped back and left the lovers.

Weaving through the curtained beds, bodies obscured by hanging layers of gauze, Eloy donned his white linen shirt and tucked it at the waist. On a chair outside, he’d grabbed his dark burgundy waistcoat and justaucorps. At the late hour, with plans to retire, he chose not to replace the ridiculous powdered wig.

Duc de Baie’s Paris residence was spacious enough to house the entire French monarchy. Newly built, Château du Ciel was a paradise for Baie’s debauchery and libertine lifestyle. As the owner’s long-time acquaintance, Eloy received special treatment. Giving a small stipend for his board helped procure the choice rooms.

Small flames burned in the marbled fireplace, casting yellow and orange into the darkened bedroom. He used the candlestick he carried to light a silver candelabra on a marble-topped table. The lit à la polonaise, a luxurious canopied bed, called to him.

"You left. Not having a pleasant time, mon friar? Theo waited in the doorway, disheveled, carrying a crystal wine glass. His tall, athletic friend smiled. The busty young filly give you trouble?"

You read me well, Eloy replied to the Lord of the Manor. Why are you here? The three women in your bed leave you unsatisfied?

Theo laughed, sauntering in the room. You’re in a mood tonight. He claimed a blue tufted chair by the fireplace. Sit, shall we discuss?

Friends since childhood, Eloy tolerated Theo’s intrusive personality. Eloy was not a jealous man, and for good reasons, he stopped comparing himself to Theo’s good fortune two decades ago. Wealthy, born with vast resources, he owned land and titles far across France. Also, he was attractive. Women and men flocked to his side, hoping for a moment of recognition.

Rich in reputation, Eloy’s talents gave people a reason to overlook his shortcomings. Less than average height, somewhat skinny, with dark hair and a strong jawline, he fell away from the ideal view of masculinity. He overheard the hushed conversations, his family’s crest suited his visage and lineage: Le Loup, the wolf, hungry scavengers clawing their way up from obscurity to join the delights of closeness to privilege.

Eloy sat and extended his legs closer to the flames. I’m tired, Theo. It’s time for me to return home. Winter is here, one snow, and I’ll be hostage to your depravity.

You, Theo stated, holding up his wine glass, "are hilarious. We can walk to your maison in hours. We are neighbors."

On good horses, perhaps, he replied in a flat note. My mother needs me. I must go.

The man tilted his head. Dying again, is she? A shame, she’s been dying for ten years. I do hope, for all our sakes, she isn’t wrong this time. I’ve ordered mourning clothes for eight or nine occasions. How long will you be away? I need you here.

You’ve no need of me. Thirty or forty guests will hold your attention for a little while, at least.

No, I need you. Theo leaned forward, rolling the glass between his hands. She wants another child.

Weight fell on Eloy’s shoulders. You’ve four legitimate children. I’ve lost track of the bastards, he paused, seeing his friend’s sour expression. "A credit to you and your lovely wife for caring for all your children. But, I do believe you understand the mechanics of the deed."

"Mon friar, I’m too drunk to beg. Bianca is of a set mind."

Groaning, Eloy rubbed his hands together. A month? Can you spare a month? Then, I’ll return, and we can try to commence with the delicate matter.

Theo nodded. She’ll agree to it, I’ll make certain.

The crackling, spitting fire grew louder in the room as the men’s conversation died. Side-by-side, they stared into the flames, each seeing different fae dance and consume the dry logs. Thoughts rushed through Eloy’s head like a spring downpour, washing away all traces of sleep.

Why? Eloy turned in the chair. You’ve three healthy sons. Why risk another birth? Your legacy is secure. Bianca fulfilled her part of the bargain, I’d say.

An answer was long in coming. Theo removed his askew wig and tossed it to the carpet. She wants another girl—a daughter she can mold into a little doll. You remember Bianca last year when my mother assumed Claudette’s guardianship? Three months, the physician forced food down her throat. If I deny her this request, she may harm herself.

Go back to your guests, Theo. I’ll speak to your wife in the morning. Eloy stood and stretched. For you, I’ll do anything.

Alone in the family’s private chapel, praying for the souls of the damned and lost, Eloy found Bianca. Devout in her religion, she believed, and in her certainty, he found a sort of grace. She wore a soft mauve manteau and petticoat, a rosary in her clasped hands, head bent in prayer. The sheer material of her head-dress shielded half her marred complexion.

Are you waiting for an invitation, Eloy? She glanced back at him, her shiny gray eyes alight. Join me. When was the last time you spoke with God?

He knelt beside her at Theo’s prie-dieu. The embroidered cushion cradled his knees. I cannot recall. My father’s burial, but the conversation was not one to share with a lady.

No? Her infamous coy grin splayed across her lips. I’ll not change my mind.

Leaning back on his heels, Eloy crossed himself. We spoke. The choice is between you and Theo. You’re still young and in good health. A child is a blessing, or so I’ve been told.

You’ll do it then? she asked with hope.

"Oui. He reached for her hand. My mother is ill again. When I get her settled, we can try. You remember what to do? What foods to eat? Consult with the physician and