level of Wexford’s grand residence.
The Promised Land
, he thought, anticipation tightening his gut. The maid dropped a curtsy and flashed a knowing grin before a closed door on the long corridor, then bustled away.
His hand actually trembled when he reached for the knob. It was still a minor miracle to him that a woman like Blanche
gave
him so much of her time. Since he didn’t have the coin to shower her with jewels as her other patrons had, he was determined to hold her interest by other means. He fingered the little Faunus in his pocket.
He hoped she’d find it clever instead of grotesque.
In the dim room lit by only a few tapers, Blanche was waiting for him. She lounged on the fainting couch, dressed in the most becoming dishabille. A beribboned camisole displayed her creamy décolletage.
Without nipples showing this time
, he realized with disappointment. But Lucian decided in the next breath that it was good for a man to have a challenge.
He made a jaunty leg to her.
A lacy
casaque
flowed from her white shoulders to her hips. She seemed to have left of her hoops, for her longskirt completely covered her feet. No stolen glimpse of an ankle here, but he was more disappointed that she yet wore a wig and mask. However, when she extended her hand to him, he forgave her everything.
“Oh, Blanche, the day seemed so long,” he said as he dropped a kiss on her knuckles, taking in her exotic jasmine scent clear down to his toes.
“Did it?” she replied in French. “And I feared the hunting of treasure would be so fully engaging, you would forget all about your promise to visit me.”
“Nothing could keep me from your side.” He knew she understood English, but she seemed intent on holding their discourse in his third language. It had been years since he’d dreamed in Italian, his mother tongue, but he feared his schoolboy French wasn’t up to the task of dazzling this bird of paradise. But with any luck at all, they’d be communicating without need of words in no time.
Perhaps the French, like the mask and wig, was part of her allure. An air of mystery swirled about the woman like her expensive perfume. Lucian’s pulse quickened.
“You did not find that which you seek?” she asked.
“No, not today.” He suddenly remembered the goat-god in his pocket. “But we did find this. I promised you some naughty Roman art. I hope it pleases you.”
She accepted his gift with a smile. “Pan, is it not?”
“Pan to the Greeks, Faunus to the Romans,” Lucian explained, “but by either name, he’s a randy little fellow.”
“He is…gifted, no?” she said with a tinkling laugh as she drew a coy fingertip along Faunus’s erection from its base to the broken tip.
Lucian swelled to rival the little horned god, imagining that same teasing stroke on his own skin. Lord, he’d never thought to envy a chunk of fired clay.
“Yet not without faw,” she observed, circling the broken tip of the statuette’s phallus.
He swallowed hard, willing his voice to sound even. “It’s rare to find a bit of antiquity that isn’t a bit flawed.”
“Or a person either.”
“I think I found one.” He leaned toward her. “You.”
She laughed. “Perfection is not one of my gifts.”
“I believe it is,” he said. “And though I confess to extreme curiosity over your hidden gifts, I find the ones I can see nearly perfect.”
“Only ‘nearly’?” She swept her feet to the floor and patted the spot beside her on the couch.
“One thing would improve upon your perfection.” He settled beside her without further coaxing. “Having you in my arms.”
“Clever boy,” she purred as she set the figurine of the goat-god on her silk-covered side table. “And yet, a woman should be wary of climbing to such a high pedestal as perfection. It seems a long way to fall.”
“I’d catch you.”
Her little tongue darted out and swept her bottom lip. His belly tightened in response.
“I believe you would,”
The Promised Land
, he thought, anticipation tightening his gut. The maid dropped a curtsy and flashed a knowing grin before a closed door on the long corridor, then bustled away.
His hand actually trembled when he reached for the knob. It was still a minor miracle to him that a woman like Blanche
gave
him so much of her time. Since he didn’t have the coin to shower her with jewels as her other patrons had, he was determined to hold her interest by other means. He fingered the little Faunus in his pocket.
He hoped she’d find it clever instead of grotesque.
In the dim room lit by only a few tapers, Blanche was waiting for him. She lounged on the fainting couch, dressed in the most becoming dishabille. A beribboned camisole displayed her creamy décolletage.
Without nipples showing this time
, he realized with disappointment. But Lucian decided in the next breath that it was good for a man to have a challenge.
He made a jaunty leg to her.
A lacy
casaque
flowed from her white shoulders to her hips. She seemed to have left of her hoops, for her longskirt completely covered her feet. No stolen glimpse of an ankle here, but he was more disappointed that she yet wore a wig and mask. However, when she extended her hand to him, he forgave her everything.
“Oh, Blanche, the day seemed so long,” he said as he dropped a kiss on her knuckles, taking in her exotic jasmine scent clear down to his toes.
“Did it?” she replied in French. “And I feared the hunting of treasure would be so fully engaging, you would forget all about your promise to visit me.”
“Nothing could keep me from your side.” He knew she understood English, but she seemed intent on holding their discourse in his third language. It had been years since he’d dreamed in Italian, his mother tongue, but he feared his schoolboy French wasn’t up to the task of dazzling this bird of paradise. But with any luck at all, they’d be communicating without need of words in no time.
Perhaps the French, like the mask and wig, was part of her allure. An air of mystery swirled about the woman like her expensive perfume. Lucian’s pulse quickened.
“You did not find that which you seek?” she asked.
“No, not today.” He suddenly remembered the goat-god in his pocket. “But we did find this. I promised you some naughty Roman art. I hope it pleases you.”
She accepted his gift with a smile. “Pan, is it not?”
“Pan to the Greeks, Faunus to the Romans,” Lucian explained, “but by either name, he’s a randy little fellow.”
“He is…gifted, no?” she said with a tinkling laugh as she drew a coy fingertip along Faunus’s erection from its base to the broken tip.
Lucian swelled to rival the little horned god, imagining that same teasing stroke on his own skin. Lord, he’d never thought to envy a chunk of fired clay.
“Yet not without faw,” she observed, circling the broken tip of the statuette’s phallus.
He swallowed hard, willing his voice to sound even. “It’s rare to find a bit of antiquity that isn’t a bit flawed.”
“Or a person either.”
“I think I found one.” He leaned toward her. “You.”
She laughed. “Perfection is not one of my gifts.”
“I believe it is,” he said. “And though I confess to extreme curiosity over your hidden gifts, I find the ones I can see nearly perfect.”
“Only ‘nearly’?” She swept her feet to the floor and patted the spot beside her on the couch.
“One thing would improve upon your perfection.” He settled beside her without further coaxing. “Having you in my arms.”
“Clever boy,” she purred as she set the figurine of the goat-god on her silk-covered side table. “And yet, a woman should be wary of climbing to such a high pedestal as perfection. It seems a long way to fall.”
“I’d catch you.”
Her little tongue darted out and swept her bottom lip. His belly tightened in response.
“I believe you would,”
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