Free The Count of Monte Cristo (The Wild and Wanton Edition) by Monica Corwin Page B

Saint Louis, now rose and proposed the health of King Louis XVIII. It was the Marquis de Saint-Meran. This toast, recalling at once the patient exile of Hartwell and the peace-loving King of France, excited universal enthusiasm; glasses were elevated in the air a l’Anglais, and the ladies, snatching their bouquets from their fair bosoms, strewed the table with their floral treasures. In a word, an almost poetical fervor prevailed.
    “Ah,” said the Marquise de Saint-Meran, a woman with a stern, forbidding eye, though still noble and distinguished in appearance, despite her fifty years — “ah, these revolutionists, who have driven us from those very possessions they afterwards purchased for a mere trifle during the Reign of Terror, would be compelled to own, were they here, that all true devotion was on our side, since we were content to follow the fortunes of a falling monarch, while they, on the contrary, made their fortune by worshipping the rising sun; yes, yes, they could not help admitting that the king, for whom we sacrificed rank, wealth, and station was truly our ‘Louis the well-beloved,’ while their wretched usurper his been, and ever will be, to them their evil genius, their ‘Napoleon the accursed.’ Am I not right, Villefort?”
    Villefort had no ear for the evening’s conversation, his attention attuned to his betrothed and her hand beneath the crisp tablecloth. Her smooth white fingers undid his breeches and nothing on Earth could have drawn his attention away from her movements. The conversation continued around them as she took his flaccid member in hand while he stifled an inhale, almost giving the game away. She worked him slow and steady, allowing him time to grow rigid, the blood pounding in his ears as slid her hand in sharp vertical motions. The dinner party swirled around them, and this was the perfect way to celebrate his betrothal to one of the most beautiful and innocent maids at the height of social standing.
    “Are you enjoying the celebration?” Renee whispered for him alone, careful to keep the deep timbre of her voice low; a breathy tingle perfused each word she spoke against his neck.
    “My lady, I do believe it is one of the best soirees I have had the pleasure of attending.” He smirked at her, allowing her to see the jest, but she punished him, dragging her hand back up and down the length of him again. A hiss escaped his closed lips but glancing around proved no one noticed what the young Renee did beneath the table. He reached down and gently untangled her clutch.
    Villefort refastened his pants and Renee re-donned her dinner glove under the cover of the tablecloth.
    “Mademoiselle, might I have the pleasure of speaking to you alone?” Villefort asked, somewhat loud, drawing the table’s attention.
    “Of course, Monsieur.” Renee bowed her head in acquiescence, then smiled and nodded assurances at her mother and father before quietly following Villefort out the nearest door. He seized her just as the clock ticked like a cannon blast in complete silence. His hands lifted her skirts and found her seeping center in only moments. This was how it had always been between them, since the first time her quiet grin ensnared him and then the first night she snuck to an alcove to lie in his arms.
    “Why, Mademoiselle, I do believe I might help you with your little problem.” Villefort rubbed his thumb across her pearl, her skirts wrinkling, crushed between him and the door.
    “Monsieur, please, I beg you, ease me.”
    “Oh, my love, I will, once you prove to me how much you want it.” With those words, Villefort released Renee and pushed her hard to her knees. As she bent down she made quick work of the elbow length gloves encasing her slender arms. Under usual circumstances she might have removed her gloves in an almost sensual fashion and Villefort would have enjoyed watching her careful movements. Having been in this position many times before, Renee knew exactly what he