Bastien
Authors: Alianne Donnelly
Tags: #the beast, #beauty and the beast, #Bastien, #alianne donnelly
By Alianne Donnelly
Copyright 2012 Alianne Donnelly
Editor: Victoria Miller
Smashwords Edition
License Notes
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This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
My earliest memory is of my nurse dipping a curtsy and calling me “my Lord Bastien.” It was on the day of my fourth birthday, the day my parents’ bodies were brought in from the cold.
That year the winter was so frigid the gardeners couldn’t break ground to bury them. My noble parents were laid on a slab of stone in the ice room, side by side as though asleep, to wait for spring.
Frost preserved them quite well for a while. I would go to them each day to wish them a good morning and pretend they answered the same. “Good morning, Bastien. Another day has dawned. Another day in which you are Lord of all you see.” When the thaw came, they were gone. Only an engraved stone marker remained deep in the garden, set so far back I could not see it from my room.
I am Lord Bastien Sauvage III, Duke of Colline, second cousin to King Arnaud. A prince of this kingdom. It’s a delicious mouthful. So am I. My castle stands proud near the village of Fauve, surrounded by forests and fields. Game is plentiful here and the earth fertile. None in my demesne go hungry, least of all me.
Tonight I stare out into the velvet black, watching the moon make its way across the sky. It is summer, the feeble breeze bringing with it more warmth than cold, even far up in my tower chambers. Though my hunger was assuaged, I am still restless and loath to return to my bed and the female reclined on it.
She is fair and delightfully lusty, a quality which I cherish and enjoy above all else in a woman, more even than her name—which for the life of me I cannot remember. Some Countess or another... they all blur together after a while. I remember a touch, a gasp, a blush, the bite of nails in my shoulder, the shocked cry of unexpected pleasure. These are things to savor. Names change. Memories... ah, memories are what I live for.
I trace the gilded title of the book beneath my hand and smile. Yes, memories make such delightful companions.
“Come to bed,” the female mewls as though I am a servant to do her bidding.
“No,” I say. She is a leech. If I come near enough to touch, she will latch on to any part of me she can reach and cling like second skin. I hoped the binds would dissuade her. Instead, the moment I released her I found myself smothered by quivering arms and ample bosoms. She nearly broke my neck. I am not keen on repeating the experience.
“But I want you to.”
“Yes, and were I a better man that would mean something to me. Alas, I am not.”
She makes another mewling sound. “But Bastien... don’t you love your Christine anymore?”
A stronger puff of air brings with it a hint of pine trees. I inhale deeply of the mysterious scent of silence and turn to the mirror to see my own mocking smirk. “I never claimed to love you at all.”
Christine giggles and a scowl replaces my smirk. “Play your games, my love, but we both know that before the night is through, you will be back in my arms, thrusting that glorious, hard cock between my thighs.” She slides off the bed and comes to me, snaking her pale arms around my bare waist. Her hands splay over my stomach as she catches my eye in the mirror and smiles.
“And we will both adore it.”
We make a stunning portrait in the mirror’s frame—she, a soft, pliant beauty with hair the color of sable, and I, the golden god. Christine, I remember now, is a conquest if ever there was one. Daughter of a well-to-do man, betrothed to a well-to-do noble; she used to be a pious, virtuous woman. Now her greedy fingers slip down over the hard ridges of my abdomen to curl around my rising cock. Her generous breasts are pressed into my back and she writhes against me, so eager to seduce though her skill is sadly lacking. No doubt I will find her already wet and aching for me.
I have well and truly corrupted her. I could not be more proud. She sees my smile and returns it. “Shall we?” she asks boldly, but her eyes betray uncertainty.
Well, we can’t have that, can we? I drag her hands away before she chokes the life out of my most favorite body part and turn to capture her mouth. She moans eagerly, looping her arms around my neck to hoist herself up.
I have different plans. I ravish her mouth, savoring the way her breath catches. Women always interpret these kisses as proof of a man’s hunger for them, body and soul. Christine is no different. It works to my advantage—the easier to get under her skirts. In truth, I only want her to stop pestering me with her nonsense. Her mouth is much better suited for other purposes. She is gasping for breath as I back her out to the balcony. The swell of her backside touches the cold stone balustrade, and she emits a squeak that makes me smile against her lips.
I break our kiss long enough for her to look behind her at the vast, dark night and back at me. Her eyes are wide—with wonder or fear, I cannot tell. Nor do I care. “Turn around,” I say.
Christine licks her lips and hesitates, but she does as she’s told. I taught her to trust in that which only I can give her. I lean her over the balustrade. It’s wide enough to support her, the edge just brushing the underside of her breasts. I nudge her legs apart and press into her, palming her curves for leverage. I take her slowly at first, to give her a moment to appreciate the breathless thrill of vertigo. But soon I am thrusting hard and deep, and she’s screaming her pleasure into the dawn as her body squeezes me tight as a fist.
I take her until she is too weak to move; bring her pleasure so intense it doesn’t stop even when I have. She comes apart in my arms as I carry her back inside, and again as I dress her in one of my robes. She cannot keep her feet under her on the way down the staircase. Her smile is blissful and utterly oblivious. I place her gently on the plush seat of my carriage, and her nails curl into my arm as another climax shudders through her. She is still coming when I kiss her good-bye, and when her eyes once more open half mast, she looks at me as though I am an angel flown down from the heavens.
I close and latch the black lacquered door painted with my golden crest and tell my driver to deposit her home. He doesn’t look me in the eye when he answers, “Yes, my Lord Bastien.” He knows better than to protest my wishes. He will drive the lovely Christine to her father’s estate and deliver her, still quivering in my robe, directly into his arms.
Chapter Two
A week has gone by and no one has appeared on my doorstep to challenge me. I take it as a sign Christine’s family has decided to bear their humiliation in private to preserve the marriage contract. A shame, really. A proper duel would go a long way to relieving this wretched ennui.
It’s at times like these I miss the court. There, at least, the air was fragrant with intrigue and politics. I could walk into a room and have every set of eyes turn my way. I had only to smile and a wave of hissing whispers passed through the crowd. It’s a mark of a true spy when he can be recognized as one and manage to glean scandalous secrets out of everyone regardless.
Perhaps I should send a missive to Arnaud. Of course, he won’t allow me anywhere near his court again without a very public apology, and that I will never do. It’s not my fault the courtiers made a confessionary of me for the pleasure of my bed. If they did not want their secrets revealed, they shouldn’t have whispered them in my ear.
I sigh with only the slightest of regrets as I stand before a bookcase in my library, a glass of wine in one hand and Madame Bordeaux’s book in the other, wondering where to catalog her chronicles. The volume deserves a place of honor, if for no other reason than it being dedicated to me. And the fact that I feature rather prominently between its pages. The lady, of course, had impeccable manners and didn’t name any of her lovers. Nevertheless, she did personally deliver an autographed copy of her book to each of us as a memento of our time together.
My dedication reads,
To my Lord Bastien, with fond memories of the nights we spent
together and covetous wishes for more.
A fond smile brings something akin to warmth to the barren cockles of my unused heart at the teasing reminder of her graceful
coup de grâce
.
I remember the night I met the lovely Madame. I was drunk on a new shipment of the smoothest Bordeaux I’ve ever tasted and on the prowl for an able bodied companion to share it with. I stepped rather precariously into the establishment, proclaiming myself to be High King Cocksworth the Ravisher and demanding a virgin to be sacrificed on my majestic blow horn. The scene was later described to me in great detail by several of the helpful lads who attempted to remove me from the building.
“Stop!” a commanding and distinctly female voice cried. I looked up, blinked past the blur of inebriation to behold an angel in a silk gown of such deep red it was nearly black. She glided down the staircase and dismissed my manhandlers with nothing more than a regal nod. “Come with me,” she said, and like a lost pup I followed her obediently back to her chamber.
She introduced herself as the Madame and refused to give her real name. I’ll freely admit I was not at my sharpest that night, but I found myself intrigued by the lady. Every attempt at learning her true identity was met with craft and wit and for an hour at least we engaged in a bout of verbal fencing I’ve never experienced before or since. Coy is not a word to describe her. She was masterful, yes. Charming beyond measure, enticing and earthy, but never coy. Men loved her because she loved them, it was as simple as that.
On that night, with a half empty bottle of spirits in my hand and much more of it in my belly, I named her Madame Bordeaux. Her laugh was a delightfully gutsy, artless sound that invited me to join her, unlike the tittering of overbred young maidens.
I like to think it was a stroke of destiny that hers was the brothel I stumbled into that night.
Her tutelage proved to be most... enlightening. Madame Bordeaux took great pride in her work.
The art of pleasure was her passion and in that quest, nothing was too sacred, nothing was forbidden. We found in each other a counterpart most willing to dive into anything head first or arse backward and jointly devoted two blissful years to the study of the limits of human pleasure.
Then she kindly and with infinite grace broke off our relationship, and we went our separate ways.
If pressed, I would say I miss her.
I set my glass on the floor and pull several tomes from the shelf closest to eye level, tossing them carelessly to the ground. When half of it is clear, I separate the remainder of the books and push them to either edge. Madame Bordeaux’s volume takes its rightful place in the center, with the cover facing outward.
I trace the gilded lettering. Selfish bitch. She was the picture of pleasance the day she delivered her gift. She offered smiles and platitudes, politely declining my invitation to tea, supper, or sex. The woman presented me with the book, kissed my cheek and got back into her carriage, waving good-bye as it rolled away.
Two weeks later a nameless child messenger informed me the Madame had succumbed to consumption. She never said a word, not one indication she might be in need of assistance. If nothing else, I could have made her final days the most beautiful of her life. But in all our time together, she never asked for anything. And I never did offer. Ours was a simple relationship, based on our mutual respect for each other’s remove. Our shared interest in sex and easy conversation was, in fact, all we ever shared of ourselves.
After five years I still wonder whether the reason she never told me about her illness was because she expected me to turn her away. The thought has me reaching for my glass once more.
