Little Red Writing
Read an Excerpt of Bewitching in Boots
“Evocative, erotic. . . [A] sensual treat!”
—
Sylvia Day
,
#1
New York Times
bestselling author
“Hot enough to warm the coldest winter night.”
—
Publishers Weekly
“Sophisticated and deeply romantic.”
—
Elizabeth Hoyt
,
New York Times
bestselling author
“Sure to delight!”
—
Jennifer Ashley
,
New York Times
bestselling author
“The most luscious, sexy take on classic fairy tales I’ve ever read!”
—
Cheryl Holt
,
New York Times
bestselling author
“Sets the classic fairy tale(s) ablaze!”
—
Anna Campbell
,
bestselling, award-winning author
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, business establishments, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010, 2015 by Lila DiPasqua
Excerpt from
Bewitching in Boots
, by Lila DiPasqua copyright © Lila DiPasqua
Cover Design by Carrie Divine/Seductive Designs
Photography of Couple by Period Images;
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All Rights Reserved.
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PRINTING HISTORY
First Edition: From
Awakened by a Kiss
, Berkley Sensation/Penguin Group (USA) Inc.—August 2010
Second Edition: Lila DiPasqua—December 2015
ISBN: 978-0-9880350-9-6 (trade pbk)
ISBN: 978-0-9880350-8-9 (e-book)
To Lynda Simmons and Margie Lawson. Two brilliant women who taught me so much.
And to Karen Brown who, years ago, generously opened her home to a group of writers every week for several months. Those classes started me down this path. I miss those evenings and our groups!
Moral of the Story of Little Red Riding Hood:
“One sees here that young children,
Especially pretty girls,
Who’re bred as pure as pearls,
Should question words addressed by men.
Or they may serve one day as feast
For a wolf or other beast.
I say a wolf since not all are wild
Or are indeed the same in kind.
For some are winning and have sharp minds,
Some are loud, smooth or mild.
Others appear plain kind or unriled.
They follow young ladies wherever they go,
Right into the halls of their very own homes.
Alas, for those girls who’ve refused the truth:
The sweetest tongue has the sharpest tooth.”
Charles Perrault (1628–1703)
France 1685
“Who is
he
?” Just as the question tumbled from Anne’s mouth, the man in the light gray justacorps disappeared into the crowd. Again.
Her sister Henriette glanced over her shoulder. As usual, the Comtesse de Cottineau’s Saturday Salon was filled to overflowing. Though their patroness had been called away due to a family emergency, she’d insisted that Anne and her sisters carry on with the popular weekly event in her absence. Aristos and literati who frequented her home had been admitted and were presently milling about.
Henriette turned back. “Who?”
Who indeed.
Anne was the last person to be taken in by a handsome face, but she couldn’t stop herself from trying to locate the man with the disarming gray eyes. Smoky eyes that had locked with hers for several seconds and quickened her pulse. A stunning reaction on her part. Unprecedented, actually. Twice he’d drawn her attention out of the masses straight to him by doing nothing more than directing his smoldering gaze her way. Once, even when she was engaged in a fascinating discussion about Spanish literature with the Marquis de Musis. Both times the beautiful dark-haired stranger had been at a distance in a different part of the Great Room, but she felt the heat of his regard long before she spotted him.
Maddeningly, he kept vanishing into the sea of faces.
Dragging her gaze back to Henriette, Anne noticed her sister’s curious expression.
“A gentleman,” Anne responded. “I’ve never seen him before. We should welcome him, but I seem to have lost him in the crowd.” She felt foolish. Stepping into the Comtesse’s shoes and acting as hostess to her elite guests was daunting. Unnerving. Her jangled nerves were likely the reason for her peculiar reaction. Statesmen, lords and ladies were in attendance along with some of the most respected scholars, writers and dramatists.
Social biases set aside while under the Comtesse’s roof, they gathered together each week to debate and discuss language and literature, history and philosophy.
It was thrilling. A place of enlightenment. A great honor to be in among such distinguished company. Such brilliant minds. To be part of Madame de Cottineau’s Salon—one of the city’s most prestigious. Born into minor nobility, with little by way of social influence and finances, Anne and her two sisters would not have been welcome had the Comtesse not taken an interest in their humble writings and agreed to sponsor their works.
But today’s Saturday Salon was different. And it wasn’t simply because the Comtesse was missing. Or that Anne and her sisters, Henriette and Camille, were hostesses.
It was because of a single man. A most unsettling, mysterious gentleman.
Anne and her sisters owed much to Madame de Cottineau. Making her guests feel welcome while she was away was the least they could do for her. Yet the gentleman with the disquieting gray eyes was making the task even more challenging for Anne. She should have greeted him the moment she saw him, but the impact he’d had on her unbalanced her. She lost her nerve to approach him, when courage was never something she lacked.
Henriette’s gaze swept the room. “What does he look like?”
His face appeared in her mind’s eye. Anne felt her cheeks warm. Dear God, she was
blushing
. And if that wasn’t embarrassing enough, she was at a complete loss for words. She was a writer, and yet she couldn’t conjure a phrase to adequately describe the sheer male perfection she’d seen. Not without sounding as awestruck as she felt. Like some smitten ingénue.
“Madame de Pierpont?” Upon hearing someone call Henriette’s name, Anne was yanked from her thoughts. The Comtesse d’Azan approached and looped arms with Henriette. “Excuse me for interrupting, but the Baron de Lenoncourt has brought up the subject of the Latin classics. Come join in the discussion. You have such an interesting take on the topic.”
Henriette glanced at Anne.
“Oh, you must come, too, Mademoiselle de Vignon,” Comtesse d’Azan said to Anne. “You are the only one who can keep the Baron focused on one topic at a time.” Softly, she laughed.
Anne smiled at the gracious comment and was about to respond when something, or rather someone, caught her eye. Over the Comtesse’s shoulder, there at the back of the room, was the mysterious man.
His eyes captured hers and held her riveted, the corner of his mouth lifting into a sensual smile. Her stomach fluttered wildly. The crowd shifted and he disappeared from her seeking sight, instantly snapping the spell he’d cast. Anne tamped down her ire.
Enough was enough
.
It galled her that she was behaving so foolishly. She knew better. She knew the damage an attractive man could cause a woman’s mind, heart and spirit.
“Madame, I would love to join you,” Anne said, grasping her skirts. “But first, there is a matter I must attend to. Please excuse me.” Anne turned into the throng and made her way toward the back corner where she’d last seen the enigmatic stranger.
A smile firmly in place, she moved through the crowd, exchanging brief pleasantries along the way, behaving as any cordial hostess should. Just as soon as she located the man with the silvery eyes, she intended to extend him every courtesy. She’d welcome him to the Comtesse de Cottineau’s home. And respond to him no differently than to any other guest present.
So why were her insides still quivering?
*****
“She approaches. What do you think, Nicolas, is she the one?” Thomas, Comte de Gamory, asked near Nicolas’s ear.
Nicolas de Savignac studied the woman in the blue gown as she made her way through the mass.
Anne de Vignon. The middle sister.
He’d overheard one of the guests point her out. Thanks to the sheer numbers in the room, he could easily hide in plain sight and observe her and her two siblings. Allowing them to see him only when he wished it.
Anne’s bright red curls lightly swept her bare shoulders each time she turned her head to acknowledge one of the guests. The color of her hair was extraordinary. He was gripped by a powerful urge to run his fingers through the fiery-colored locks.
She wasn’t at all what he’d expected a spinster poetess to look like. He was expecting someone rather plain. This woman was ravishing. The extent of her allure, a surprise. As was the bolt of heat that shot through his veins and tightened his groin the moment their gazes met.
He didn’t like surprises.
He was still reeling over the fact that their investigation had led him to
this
hôtel, of all places. To the home of one of his very own relatives.
Discreetly, Anne glanced here and there. It was obvious to him, if no one else, that she was hunting for him. What she didn’t know was that he was the one doing the hunting. That he was relentless in his pursuits, cunning enough to earn the nickname
le Loup
—the Wolf.
And he was here to catch his prey.
“
Nicolas?
”
He pulled his gaze from the redheaded beauty back to Thomas. His friend was frowning. It took some getting used to, seeing him out of his Musketeer uniform and in formal attire. Or in being out of uniform himself. But to walk in wearing the distinct blue tabard would have alerted everyone, especially the sisters in question, that he and Thomas were part of the King’s elite private Guard. Newly promoted, Nicolas intended to prove to his King, his Captain, and the rest of the men that he deserved the honored position. That he could be as good a Musketeer, if not better, than his late legendary brother, David—Musketeer extraordinaire. Nicolas had, after all, easily beaten out other highly qualified noblemen for one of the coveted few spots. On his own. By
his
skill.
His
abilities. Just as he expected to. Once he set his mind on attaining a goal, he was unstoppable. And nothing was going to keep him from successfully completing this mission—a mission His Majesty wanted kept most quiet and accomplished posthaste.
“Well?” Thomas asked. “What do you think? Is it her or one of her other two sisters?”
Nicolas gazed once again at his object of interest. Anne had stopped and was speaking to a group of ladies.
“I don’t know.”
Merde
. How he wished he did. From the information he’d gathered, Anne de Vignon was the author of two volumes of poetry. He’d read them both. He’d read all the books the three sisters had written. Each woman had a distinct writing style—dark, romantic, humorous—and yet, he still wasn’t certain who wielded the poisonous pen.
