Master: An Erotic Novel of the Count of Monte Cristo (6 page)

Lips tight, stomach swirling, Mercédès gave him a short, sharp nod. “You can be assured that I will be hospitable and pleasant to Monsieur Danglars, but I will not suffer his clumsy hands on me.”

She’d known of Danglars since he had sailed on the
Pharaon
with Edmond. He’d been the ship’s purser, and Edmond the first mate, during a voyage in which the captain had taken ill and died. It had been Edmond’s skill and diplomacy in sailing the ship back to Marseille that had earned him Monsieur Morrel’s admiration—and had caused him to be named the new captain of the vessel.

Since Edmond had told her about Danglars’ anger and jealousy over his promotion, Mercédès had been wary of the man before she even met him. Later, after she married Fernand, she realized that the two men had become known to each other in their business dealings. Still, the man’s greasy demeanor, and his hands—which had grown pudgy, along with the rest of him—with their short-clipped nails and soft white skin, made her queasy when she thought of them touching her.

He’d tried. Oh, he’d tried. And Fernand—

“You’ll do as I say, Mercédès,” her husband said. “Or you will regret it.” With one last meaningful look at her, he moved away so that she could exit the room.

She hurried past him, noticing that he was still close enough that her full, dome-shaped skirt and heavy crinolines brushed against his trousers.

“Mercédès,” Fernand said just as she entered the hall, “now that Albert is leaving, I will be returning to your bed. Tomorrow. Be prepared to welcome me.”

She froze, her hand on the doorjamb. Her heart gave a nasty dip and she turned back, wondering if her face looked as pale as it felt. “If that is your wish, then of course, husband. As long as you come alone.”

His lips narrowed, along with his eyes. “You’re no longer in a position to be making demands, Mercédès. Albert is leaving, and you have no more leverage. Now go be nice to Danglars and ensure that this marriage is to take place, and perhaps I’ll consider your request.”

“It isn’t a request,” she said, her heart pounding. “It’s a requirement.”

She would have darted away then, but he grabbed her arm and yanked her back into the library. The door slammed behind them, and Mercédès found herself being shoved against it. One of Fernand’s hands cupped her throat, holding her there, and the other one circled one of her wrists.

“What ever happened to the quiet, unassuming,
desperate
orphan girl I married?” he asked, his voice deceptively sweet. His hand wasn’t close enough around her throat to cut off her breathing, or to leave marks—he wasn’t that stupid—but just enough to remind her of his strength . . . and the power he had over her.

“You were so biddable those first years of our marriage. You understood our agreement, and held up your end of the bargain so well. And then you got it in your head to run away from me. As if I wouldn’t have been able to find you—Marseille was the first and only place I looked.”

“I’ll run farther the next time,” she said, refusing to let her lips tremble.

“You dare not, Mercédès. Just as you learned before, you know now: You cannot get away from me, and you cannot have a life without your son. Just because Albert is leaving doesn’t mean I can’t prevent you from seeing him. I’ve left you alone—nearly alone—for these last ten years—relegated to merely showing you off on my arm as my beautiful, accomplished, distinguished wife. But now that Albert is leaving, I will return to your bed. And you will welcome me . . . in whatever fashion I require.” He shifted the weight of his hand so that the palm pressed into the top of her chest, heavy and threatening. She coughed softly under the pressure. “Perhaps, since you are so attached to the comte, I will ask Salieux to join us.”

Then, with a great heave, he shoved her to the side. She stumbled into a chair, losing one of her beaded mule slippers in the process. By the time she righted herself, Fernand was gone.

He’d left the library door open.

Mercédès smoothed shaking gloved hands down the front of her spun-gold taffeta skirt, then gingerly felt at the back of her head to see if her hair was still intact. A bit looser than when Charlotte had finished with it, the twisted mass was still pinned in place. The two locks that came from the front of her center-parted style had been drawn back in gentle swoops over each ear, and they too remained tucked into the complicated chignon.

She took a deep breath, refusing to let the tremors continue to shake her fingers, and tears to gather in her eyes. She couldn’t let Albert see her like this.

One more night, and he would be gone.

And she would be alone with his father.

Fernand followed through on his threat to come to her chamber the next night.

Mercédès was exhausted from the party of the night before, and the emotion of saying farewell to her son earlier that day.

She had just been divested of her gown, crinolines, corset, and chemise, and had been dressed in a warm flannel night rail. Her maid was brushing her long dark hair.

“Charlotte, you are dismissed,” said her husband as he came in the door.

The maid took one look at the set expression on the comte’s face and, glancing at Mercédès, gave a quick curtsy and left the room.

Her mistress couldn’t blame her: the comte hadn’t darkened her door for nearly a decade—since Albert had become old enough to realize what was going on in the house—and Charlotte had only been with her for five years.

“Fernand,” she said by way of greeting. It was neither welcoming nor frigid. It was a statement. After all, he was her husband. He had every right to come to her bed whenever he wished.

Mercédès was not foolish enough to attempt to deny him. During the early part of their marriage, she’d tried to love him— or, at least, to pretend that she didn’t wish he was Edmond, to hide the tears that came after they copulated, to allow her body to try to respond to his. But she couldn’t fully let herself go, and that was, ultimately, what caused his anger . . . and then the humiliations and torments that followed.

Fernand was jealous of Edmond. He always had been, and always would be—despite the fact that Edmond had been dead for more than twenty years.

“You can take that off,” he said now, walking over to the bed, pulling off his own nightshirt as he did so.

This, she could do. This was simple. Hundreds, thousands of other wives had done so, did so, every night.

Mercédès unfastened the six cloth-covered buttons that marched down the front of her pleated nightgown, and pulled it over her head. She glanced at herself in the mirror as she made her way to the bed, where Fernand lay, naked and waiting.

Her skin was still golden, and mostly firm, except for the angry red lines from the bones of the corset that still marked her skin ten minutes after it had been removed. Her breasts had lowered a bit over the years, but they had become fuller after her pregnancies—four of which had ended in early miscarriage— and even more generous in these last five years, when her curves everywhere had become more pronounced. Her waist was much slimmer when tamed by the corset, of course, yet there was still a definite hourglass shape to her figure, and her belly made a gentle curve. But Mercédès knew that she was still a beautiful, desirable woman.

Standing in front of the bed, she divided her waist-length hair into two parts and tied it together at her nape, then again, and again, before pinning it into a makeshift knot at the back of her head, aware of how her breasts lifted tantalizingly when she raised her arms.

Fernand’s eyes were flat as he watched her, and his cock lay like a large white worm, curled into the dark hair that spread between his legs. It didn’t look as though it was ready to rise to the occasion.

Mercédès lowered herself onto the blanket next to him, and closed her eyes as he reached for her. Any vestige of affection she might have had for him had evaporated long ago, when he’d turned ugly and humiliating in their chamber. Now she merely lay there and let him do as he wished.

Or tried to do.

Her nipples reacted partly to his ministrations, and partly to the chill in the room—tightening, pointing—but when his mouth closed over one of them, and he began to suck loudly and avidly, she felt hardly any response twinge down in her belly. She made a soft moan, however, knowing that men appreciated that, and drew herself up to touch his cock. It had made a bit of an effort to come to life, but there was still much further to go. Perhaps if she took it into her mouth, it would hurry things on a bit.

But even after she closed her lips around it, and worked up and down over its head, letting her saliva lubricate the flimsy length, it was still loose and soft. His fingers dug into the tender skin of her back, as though to encourage her, but even her soft moans and teasing tongue made little difference.

It was the same story as before.

During the first months of their marriage, Fernand had been only a bit more easily aroused. It wasn’t until a few months after Albert was born, and Fernand returned to her chamber, that she realized why mating with him was so difficult.

He preferred men.

Though he’d wooed and married a beautiful, desirable woman in order to display her as a symbol of his masculinity, and in an attempt to banish his homosexual tendencies, it hadn’t worked as well as he’d obviously hoped it would.

Mercédès wouldn’t have cared so much about his preferences—after all, she’d agreed to marry him although she loved another—if it hadn’t been for the humiliations that ensued: when he could not find satisfaction with her, he brought others to their bed, most usually men—but sometimes a second woman would help provide enough stimulation for him.

The memories of those nights of twining bodies, limbs everywhere and grasping hands, too many mouths and the sight of Fernand bowing over the back of some other man, while Mercédès remained within his easy reach, had been burned into her brain. The shame of having to disrobe in front of another man—or woman—to be fondled and kissed and touched by her husband, or whomever else he invited. The gasps and deep groans, the slip and slide, the questing fingers and the demanding mouths . . . she preferred not to think about those dark nights, the way they’d made her feel, the humiliation of being beneath or next to two grunting men, or being entwined with another woman while her husband labored above her, in her. The way her body often responded to unsolicited stimulation, becoming aroused and titillated.

Even now she gave a shudder and tasted grease in the back of her throat.

And on those nights when Fernand didn’t have a willing addition to their bed, and he was unable to find his release . . . his hand or fist would fly, his roughness would send her sprawling onto the bed or, worse, the floor.

A night like that had sent her running the next morning to Marseille those ten long years ago. But fear that he’d keep Albert from her had brought her back home.

After another night like that, a year after she’d returned to Paris, Albert had begun to ask questions his father didn’t want to answer. Questions that had given Mercédès nearly nine years of peace from her husband’s whims.

And tonight, the night after Albert had left, when Fernand found himself in the same frustrating position, he could not contain his anger and humiliation.

He raised his hand to strike Mercédès once—only once. But this time she was ready for him. She had a gun in her hand, procured from under the mattress. “I will be leaving in the morning for Marseille, for Julie is ready for her confinement. I shan’t return until Albert is home. Now leave my chamber.”

He did, dangling white worm and all.

And the next morning, once again, she left the house on rue du Helder. But this time, it was not a frightened flight. It was a calculated plan.

She’d decided long ago that she would never beg or plead again.

Mercédès visited with Julie Morrel and her husband, Emmanuel, when she arrived in Marseille.

“Will you stay away from him this time?” Julie asked her. Her belly was so round that it protruded higher than the walnut table next to her.

“Until Albert returns,” Mercédès told her truthfully. “There is no telling what Fernand will say to Albert if I’m not there when he comes back. And while our son is home, he won’t bother me.” She didn’t know why her husband had been motivated to come back to her bed, but whatever the reason, it appeared that his tastes had not changed over the years he’d stayed away.

How foolish of him to put himself in such a humiliating position again.

“And when Albert marries Mademoiselle Danglars? What will you do then?”

Mercédès shuddered. “I don’t want him to marry Eugénie Danglars. There is something about the girl that puts me off, let alone that her father himself makes me ill. I don’t believe Albert wants to marry her either.”

“My brother, Maximilien, has returned from the army, just in time for the birth of his fifth niece or nephew,” Julie told her, obviously attempting to change the subject to something more pleasant. “He is a captain now, and quite a hero, having saved the life of a nobleman while he was in Constantinople.”

“Just like his father,” replied Mercédès with a smile. “Doing good for others.”

“And Lord Wilmore and Sinbad the Sailor,” Julie added, glancing at the red velvet purse that sat in a small glass case on the fireplace mantel of her home. “I only wish I knew how to reach them, to thank them yet again for saving my father. We have never had any correspondence from either of them these last ten years.”

Mercédès felt a little shiver. She had visited Marseille several times during the last decade and had spent an inordinate amount of time near the wharf. But she’d never seen the tall, bearded, exotic sailor again.

She’d been so foolish—she could have gotten with child; she could have been carried off and raped or beaten and left to die, or even killed outright. Yet Sinbad had given her a gift by bringing back long-submerged emotions and sensations.