Free Amour: Historical Romance (Passion and Glory Book 1) by Samantha Kaye Page B

sound of love itself, all the emotion mingled and jumbled together, but never was there even the faintest trace of farewell or confusion. She would, she must see him again. For now that she knew what it was to be truly kissed, she ached for the feeling of his lips on hers, filling her heart with the magic of love. 
    Sérolène spun on her heels, hurrying toward her bedroom. Sleep tonight would be impossible. She knew it with certainty. Her legs quavered as she ran, weakened by the force of her rapture, but her heart trembled even more. She felt light and unbearably happy. From this day forward the world and everything in it, would never again be the same.

Sins of the Past
    Charlotte Marie du Plessis, Comtesse de Talonge, glided across the polished wooden floors like a shark circling for prey. The fin of her torso cut easily through the often treacherous social waters of her salon and the dozens of guest who currently occupied it. Like any predator, she instilled a mixture of fear and awe among those nearby. The comtesse had a reputation for devouring the pretenses of fools, high and low. Those most apt to be consumed by her appetite, were alert to her presence and fled toward the safety of the group whenever she approached. Others with cravings for social sport merely watched as she went past, eager to feed on any leavings, should the comtesse choose to snack on a buffoon or two for amusement.
    But at the moment, the shark wasn’t hungry. Her salon was full as it always was when she held court in person, but her thoughts were preoccupied more with those who hadn’t come than those who had. As she made her way through the crowded anterooms of her lavishly decorated plantation estate, she bestowed a graceful nod of acknowledgement toward a few special guests. A mark of particular favor.
    There were many newcomers to her salon, but this had been by her own design. Too many of the same old faces and things became tiresome. Living on an island could be quite stifling if one didn’t know how to freshen things up from time to time. But there was also the risk that the balance between dignity and drunkenness might swing too far in either direction. That is why she was circling her waters. To make sure that the temperature was just right.
    The comtesse’s wake was full of appreciative looks. The attention was pleasing, almost as much as having a house full of important guests, though she was long accustomed to being gawked at. On occasion she paused to allow her hand to be kissed by an admirer, of which there were also many, a good portion of whom were artists, or at least claimed to be. Artists amused the comtesse, they knew a good party when they found one, especially the writers. And if they couldn’t find a good party, they made one of their own. She made sure her salon never lacked for them.
    The comtesse wore her thick golden tresses up and pulled back in a tight series of interlocking loops, accentuating the prominence of a face which had attracted the attention of painters and poets since her debut in society nearly two decades ago. The archetype of Venus, at least in so far as most Frenchmen envisioned the fabled goddess of love, the comtesse had wide sensuous eyes, light in color, and a delicate nose which gave prominence to a small but perfectly formed mouth ringed by a pair of full, red lips, always slightly open in a perpetual pout. Her cheeks were naturally rouged, and even with makeup, this coloring shone through, promulgating an air of nascent sexuality which captivated the admirers of the many portraits in which her image had been used as the model.
    Adding to her charm, was the impeccable way in which she blended both elegance and individuality in her manner of dress. She never wore stripes of any kind nor fabrics patterned with more than just simple embroidery. She took primary colors as her foundation, and used jackets, stomachers, scarfs and other accessories to add a touch of daring or splash to her