Undone

TABLE OF CONTENTS

A Historical Tidbit

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Epilogue

Author's Note

Glossary

Dedication

Get The Scoop

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 © 2012 by Lila DiPasqua

Cover art and design by Kim Killion, Hot Damn Designs

Copyedited by Linda Ingmanson

Formatted by Jessica Lewis, Author’s Life Saver

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission of the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

ISBN: 978-0-9880350-1-0 (trade pbk.) 

ISBN: 978-0-9880350-0-3 (e-book)

Acknowledgement

A special thanks goes out to Carolyn Williams, Donna Jeffrey, Franca Pelaccia, Vickie Marise, Mary Barone, Kelly Mueller, Janice Leyh, and Elise Rome. You each made this book wonderful in your own special ways. Finally, my thanks to Count Patrice de Vogüé, owner of Vaux-le-Vicomte, who personally took the time to answer my research questions about his beautiful 17
^th
c. château.

Dedication

Please see the back of the book once you finish it!  This important dedication contains a
SPOILER
.

A Historical Tidbit

The court of Louis XIV was as decadent as it was opulent. It was a time of high culture and corruption. Of elegance and excesses. The pursuit of sinful pleasures was a pastime. Sex, an art form. Louis was a lusty king. He and his courtiers were connoisseurs of the carnal arts.

It was during this wicked time period that Charles Perrault, the creator of
The Tales of Mother Goose
, first began writing down fairy tales—the folklore that had been passed on verbally for generations. It wasn’t long before fairy tales became a highly fashionable topic of discussion in the renowned salons of Paris.

Female authors also tried their hand at this wonderful new genre. It was Charlotte-Rose de Claumont de La Force’s 17
^th
century fairy tale,
Persinette
, that would later inspire the Brothers Grimm to write
Rapunzel
.

Perhaps, just perhaps Mademoiselle de La Force was inspired by hearing stories about characters such as these…

Happy Reading!

Lila

Once upon a time, there was a woman who was shut away in a tower.

It was said she’d been there for years. Rumored to be a prisoner of her

own making. No one knew much about the mysterious beauty. Or the

secrets she guarded. It was certain she’d live out her days cloistered. Yet

one day, out of the forest, they say her prince appeared. One look at the

lovely enchantress, and he was enthralled. Upon hearing her ethereal

voice, he was undone… What happened next, you ask? Well, he scaled

the tower and rescued the beauty, of course…

Was that the end? No, my dearlings, that was only the beginning.

  And what was to follow was the stuff of fairy tales…

Chapter One

1660

Just before midnight…

Sexual excess was known to alleviate tension. An evening of unbridled lust had a soothing effect on the mind as well as the body. But as Simon Boulenger struggled to maintain his grip on the window ledge—sharp stone cutting into his fingers—he felt anything but relaxed.

Muscles in his upper body corded as he scraped his boots against the stone wall, searching for a foothold. The full moon’s silvery light illuminated his predicament.

His feet were too far from the ground below to simply let go and drop.

He grabbed hold of the closest tree branch. Satisfied with its sturdiness, he began his descent, branches and leaves brushing and scraping him along the way until he reached the lowest limb and dropped to the ground.

Definitely too bright a night for an amorous encounter with the beautiful wife of a high-ranking politician of the Republic of Genoa.

Brushing the dirt off his shirt, he slipped into the shadows where the stable boy waited with Simon’s horse.

He’d paid the grimy mite to give a warning of two quick whistles at his mistress’s window should Marco de Franco return inconveniently early, which he had. Simon’s circumspection was born of necessity. Though the Republic of Genoa was a good distance from Spain, he always took precautions. The Genoese’s loyalties were with the Spanish. And there were those who would pay handsomely for the capture of the man the Spanish called
El Demonio Negro
—the Black Demon.

The boy handed him the reins.

“
Bravo. Grazie
,” he said, as fluent in the language as any Italian in his employ.

Dropping more coins into the boy’s dirty hand, he rode off, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. If Marco de Franco were to learn that his lovely wife had spent the last few hours in the throes of passion with the son of a French peasant, it would send the pompous fool reeling. It wasn’t that de Franco cared if Francesca entertained lovers, for he was preoccupied with the pursuit of power and his own extensive extramarital affairs. But to learn she’d engaged in a carnal encounter with a lowly commoner would be too much for his arrogant sensibilities to digest.

As he negotiated the next bend in the road, Simon caught sight of his carriage in the distance. Moonlight glinted off its roof. His men were there waiting for him, just as he’d ordered. He slowed his horse, his smile disappearing.

The brief sojourn in the Republic of Genoa was over.

Time to face France.

And what awaited him there was far more perilous than a nocturnal liaison with a highborn lady.

He drew in a fortifying breath, and let it out slowly, mindful that he was still too far from his two men for them to notice.

After many months at sea, he’d returned to France three weeks ago to pay the Crown’s share of his recent captured prizes from Spanish ships—never imagining what he’d find. Now those images haunted him. Guilt and anger were a constant clash inside him. And assuaging his torment with women and drink in Genoa had proven futile.

Reaching the carriage, Simon dismounted.

Paul took the reins from him. “Good evening, Captain,” the young man said.

There was nothing bloody well good about this evening any longer. “Let us be on our way,” he ordered, though it was the very last thing he wanted.

Inside the moving carriage, Simon’s mood only darkened by the moment.
Merde
… They’d dangled his dream in front of him.

Then betrayed him.

He’d come a long way from the orphan rescued from starvation in the streets of a French fishing village. He was now the commander of a fleet of privateer ships for France, dressed and spoke like an aristocrat, and was at last wealthy.

But he was still not a noble. Or an official officer in the King’s Navy.

His lifelong dream to elevate himself from his station of birth and obtain a respectable place in society was dead.

As dead as Thomas…