Master: An Erotic Novel of the Count of Monte Cristo (5 page)

Mercédès cried out, shocked at the intense slam of pleasure . . . and then he pulled back, then filled her, then back, and in and out and in and out until it burst and she shuddered, crying out again, biting her hand to keep from calling the name on her lips.

Edmond
.

He arched into her one last time, and with a sharp, pained cry came pouring into her, pulsing inside for a long moment. Sinbad’s hands had moved to the sides of her torso, and he bent over her, head sagging, hair hanging in long, messy strands on either side of his face as he breathed in and out as if he’d just run up a hill.

Mercédès lay there, slowly coming back to herself. The rolls of pleasure ebbed away slowly. He pulled himself away and scooted off the bed to stand.

She realized he wasn’t looking down at her; instead, he was looking out the window. His profile, shadowed but vaguely visible, reminded her sharply, painfully of Edmond: his nose was long and straight just as Edmond’s . . . but his chin jutted with the thick beard, and his hair hung down in stringy waves where Edmond’s had always been shorter and brushed back over his ears and forehead. As wiry as he was, this man was still broader and more solid than her love had been.

The reminder of Edmond brought Mercédès back to her reality: not just to the end of the pleasure, but to her life. And what she’d just done. She rolled to the side of the bed, gathering her clothing to her body. There was no way she could dress herself . . . and would this silent, strange man help her?

Would he even let her go?

Yet her quim continued to throb pleasingly between her thighs, and she felt an unfamiliar looseness to her limbs. Her body, at least, was satisfied.

As she stood, he moved behind her, silently, helping her dress slowly and clumsily. But his hands were warm and still raised shivers over the back of her shoulders, and Mercédès wondered again at what she’d done. Yet she did not regret it. Not really. Not the pleasure she’d received, nor the chance to forget today and remember her youth.

There seemed to be no reason for words.

Sinbad finished the last button, and made no protest when Mercédès started toward the door, back out to the room with the mantel, hurrying suddenly to get away, to get back to the small inn where she had let a room. Where she would be safe from Sinbad the Sailor and the memories and emotions and wanton pleasure he evoked in her.

For the second time on that long, eventful day, she walked out the front door of this little house in Allées de Milhein and hurried down its short, uneven walkway.

She didn’t look back.

If she had, Mercédès would perhaps have seen the bearded Sinbad following silently behind her, staying to the shadows until she safely opened the front door of a small public inn.

His fingers still trembled, his body still hummed. The corners of his eyes were wet, but his mouth was hard.

“And now . . . farewell, goodness, humanity, gratitude, nostalgia,” he murmured, watching her as she disappeared into the inn. “Farewell, those gentle feelings of the heart. Now let the avenging God make way for me to punish those who have wronged me.”

TWO

One evening in late November of 1839, a splendid fête was in progress at the grand residence of the Comte and Comtesse de Morcerf. The four-story mansion at number 27 rue du Helder was filled nearly to bursting with the cream of Paris’ societal crop.

Lights sparkled from every one of the sixty windows that faced the carriages lined up along the rue, and the shapes of ladies in bright gowns and the gentlemen in long-tailed redingotes mingled behind the uncurtained windows. It was too chilly to have all of them opened, but several had been lifted to allow a cool breeze to filter in, and the noise of the party to filter out. Music from a full orchestra, along with bursts of gaiety and conversation, wafted louder every time the door was opened to admit a new guest.

Mercédès hadn’t had a moment to catch her breath since early that morning. Even so, she wouldn’t have dreamed of slipping away from her son’s bon voyage party if she’d not been cornered by the handsome Comte de Salvieux near one of the doorways to the ballroom.

“Mercédès,
mon amour
, I have been trying to get you alone all evening,” Georges murmured, planting his hand firmly at the back of her slender waist. “If I didn’t know better, I would believe you were avoiding me.” Skillfully, he guided her out of the packed room, and around a small bust of Julius Caesar that stood in the hall. His familiarity with the Morcerf residence aided him in hurrying her into one of the only empty chambers: that of the comte’s library.

She freed herself, smoothing the elbow-length glove he’d mussed, and looked at him. She’d hoped to avoid this conversation tonight, for she had so many other things on her mind. But apparently Georges was not to be avoided, though, God help her, she’d done her best.

But before she could speak, he stepped closer to her again, gathering her up against him to press sensual kisses into the curve of her neck and shoulder. “It has been too long,
mon amour
,” he murmured against her skin. The soft rasp of his side-burn brushed her cheek, and his tongue flickered out for a quick swipe into the swirl of her ear. When he took her earlobe into his mouth, the chunky emerald there clicked against his teeth.

“Georges,” she murmured, successfully keeping the annoyance from her voice, keeping it smooth and low, “I must get back to the guests.”

“But I have not seen you for three weeks,” he said, looking at her with a masculine pout on his sensual lips. Those very same lips had been the ones to attract her several months ago, but now she could easily dismiss the man’s charms. “I have had only that very expensive daguerrotype of you walking along the Rive Gauche to keep me company.”

He was young and energetic—a decade younger than her forty years—and most definitely handsome. Georges was also more than capable between the sheets, and in the carriage, and even in the moist grass of the summer gardens at Chevaulx, much to the detriment of her favorite lavender day dress. But Mercédès was no longer interested.

That was, alas, how it always happened for her. She would keep herself aloof and private for months, often years, ignoring the flirtations and courtship offered by men she came in contact with. She’d make her stark loneliness a firm shield to keep the interested men—and her emotions—at bay. But at last, the need for affection and love would overcome her resistance, and she’d succumb to the need to be touched, and loved, and cared for. Thus she would try again to find what she’d had with Edmond and, fleetingly, with the sailor Sinbad . . . that awakening, that brief but emotional connection that had left her trembling for hours afterward and that still laced her dreams ten years later.

“I will not see my son for more than six months,” Mercédès told Georges, stepping back, extricating herself from his firm grip. “And so I do not wish to be drawn from his side any more than I must this evening. He leaves tomorrow.”

“But, Mercédès, I have missed you so,” Georges said, reaching for her hand again.

She neatly avoided him by lifting her hand to pat at the intricate figure eight of hair at the back of her head.

“Georges,” she said, looking at him seriously, “I must be truthful and tell you that it is time for our attachment to end.” It was, for she hadn’t found what she’d craved, and their intimacies had become awkward and meaningless to her. She’d begun the
affaire
hoping . . . but in the end, it was nothing but emptiness and disappointment.

“End? No, you cannot mean that!” This time, she wasn’t fast enough, and he was successful in capturing her hand. He pulled her toward him, but she resisted, giving him a clearly annoyed look with raised brows—similar to one she’d give her son just before a reprimand.

Dear Albert! She couldn’t believe he would be gone for at least six months, traveling throughout Switzerland and Italy. He was twenty-two years old now, a handsome young man of whom she was inordinately proud. Her only child. How she’d dreaded this day.

How she would miss him.

And what would happen after he was gone?

The old nausea twisted her stomach as she remembered the contemplative way her husband, Fernand, had been looking at her these past few days.

But she would not think about that now.

“Now, Georges, please,” she said in the motherly tone she could adapt when it pleased her. There were benefits to being a lady of a certain age, and Mercédès had learned how to use them as needed. She could be gay and flirtatious, appearing as fresh and lovely as a young debutante, or she could cock a maternal eyebrow and adopt a sterner attitude when the situation warranted. As this one did.

“Please don’t mean it,” Georges said. He looked completely undone, and Mercédès felt a twinge of guilt. “Please, Mercédès . . . I cannot live without you. I love you.”

Before she could reply, the door of the library opened.

“Ah, Mercédès,” said her husband as he came in. His sharp dark eyes showed no surprise at finding her in here, away from the festivities and with another—younger—man, who had somehow grabbed her hand yet again. “And Comte de Salieux.”

Georges released her and blanched with guilt. He had no idea that Fernand cared little for his wife’s extramarital activities—a fact that Mercédès had used to her benefit in more than one instance.

No, it wasn’t Fernand’s discovery of them that concerned her. Rather, it was the speculative expression in his eyes that made her lungs feel as though they’d frozen.

“Monsieur le Comte,” she greeted him formally. Despite the fact that her heart was now ramming in her chest and her palms had become damp under the fine cotton of her gloves, she remained cool and poised. “I was just about to return to the party. If you’ll excuse me . . .”

“Of course. I merely came to inform you that Baron Danglars is here with his daughter, Eugénie, and that, as it’s my intent—” At this he paused and looked pointedly at Georges, who’d begun to edge toward the door, the bewildered look still on his face.

Whether that shocked look was due to Mercédès’ dissolution of their
affaire
or the appearance of her husband, she wasn’t sure.

“Perhaps you wish to find something to drink, Salieux,” Fernand said pointedly. Georges left the room with a flap of his coattails, and the de Morcerfs were alone as their son’s farewell party raged beyond the closed door.

Mercédès looked at the man she’d married eighteen months after Dantès had been taken off to prison. She hadn’t wanted to marry him, but she’d had no choice. Even on her wedding day, she’d been sure her broken heart would cause her death, just as a damaged one had surely brought
Père
Dantès to his grave. After eighteen months of being badgered and cajoled by her distant cousin, she had agreed to marry him—not because she’d wanted to, but because she’d had no one and no resources, and had found herself in an impossible situation. Dantès was never coming back, his father was dead, and it had become clear that Villefort would do nothing to help her.

Fernand had been an attractive man, with the same Catalan looks as her own: golden skin, dark hair, and dark eyes. Part of the reason she’d turned to him was because it was expected that Catalans would marry among themselves. It was their culture.

But he had been pleading with her to marry him even while Edmond was alive; while Edmond was at sea on his last voyage, Fernand had come to her every day, trying to convince her to accept his suit. But she had loved only Edmond.

I will love him until the day I die
.

She’d told Fernand that every day, yet still he asked. And then when the most horrible thing had happened—when Edmond had been arrested during their betrothal dinner—Fernand had remained quiet.

But then, months later, he asked again, and she refused him. And then he went off into the army, and when he came back, Edmond had been gone for a year, and
Père
Dantès had died only a month earlier, himself certain that Edmond was dead. Over the past eighteen months, she’d gone to Villefort so many times, begging for information, for any news, desperate for anything he could tell her.

When Fernand returned from the army, a hero for his work in Janina, he asked her again to marry him. And that time, she’d had no choice but to agree. Even when she told him the truth, and the reason for her acquiescence, his determination to marry her had not faltered. As she was to realize later, after some months of marriage, it suited his purposes to be married to a beautiful woman, thus proclaiming his virility for all to see.

So, despite the hollowness of her heart, the grief, and the knowledge that she would never love Fernand, she married him, determined to be a good wife to her cousin even if she could not love him. She owed it to him.

If only she’d known his true intentions then, and the real reason he wanted to marry her.

She and Fernand had been husband and wife for more than twenty-two years. Longer than Edmond had been alive.

Mercédès realized with a start that Fernand was looking at her, and that he’d blocked the door with his arm. “What is it?” she asked, keeping her voice steady.

“Am I to assume that Salieux is your current paramour?” he asked. His lips were tight under the dark mustache he’d taken to growing once he acquired his title. It was kept clipped short so that the hairs were sharp and bristly, and scraped sharply across one’s skin. A great number of white hairs were beginning to thrust up from beneath the black ones. “I can fully appreciate your attraction. He is quite a robust, well-turned-out young man.”

She refused to reply to his taunt. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have been detained long enough.”

“Mercédès,” he said. He didn’t move, and she could not pass by with his arm blocking the way. “You will be your charming, lovely self to Baron Danglars this evening. In whatever capacity is necessary.” His dark eyes, which had long ago seemed so soft and gentle, shone hard and inflexible. “I desire a match between Albert and Eugénie, and I require that you do your part to ensure it.”