The Libertine
[Translated from French] (psst, looking to skip to the smut? Start at chapter 10)
VOLUME 1: PARIS
'Every breath he released seemed to summon the flesh, the delicate movements of his fingers tracing a forbidden promise.'
When he entered the salon of the Princesse de Menil, every woman held her breath. His satin-shod feet made the marble ring delicately beneath his steps, his arms moved toward his audience with measured slowness, his fingers curling back imperceptibly, almost maliciously, as he began a bow.
His powdered hair fell gracefully upon his nape, held by a black ribbon; his garnet red brocade, perfectly fitted, followed his gesture imperceptibly, the precious lace of his sleeves grazing his fine hands. His bow carried a contained strength, a movement almost abrupt and yet fluid, a beginning cut abruptly short, the shadow of a temptation. His neck straightened first, his brows arching surreptitiously, then came his smile, tempting, diabolical. His eyes fixed themselves upon Isabelle, intense, mocking, inquisitorial.
Valmont.
Isabelle knew the man by reputation, but never had she had occasion to behold in person the one whose presence every salon vied for. Freshly out of the convent, she maintained a facade of perfect innocence, blushing at any mention of love or scandal, showering her protectresses with caresses.
But, in secret, she had cultivated a libertine soul nourished on licentious works pilfered here and there: without having yet compromised herself, she stood ready to open herself to unknown pleasures, resolved never to depend upon a man. Her deep blue eyes rose slowly toward the newcomer, the trace of a barely contained smile forming upon her lips. She surreptitiously adjusted her long copper curls and reminded herself to lower her eyes and blush when Valmont set his gaze upon her.
Was he staring at her? Was he admiring her slender waist, and her attire so artless it verged on provocative? Isabelle lifted her eyes from the floor to offer an innocent smile to her aunt. The latter gave a small laugh, no doubt imagining that her poor niece was embarrassed by the sight of the libertine she dared not look upon.
But, from the corner of her eye, Isabelle was scrupulously appraising Valmont. The verdict was beyond dispute: his reputation was justified. A shiver ran through her when he elegantly divested himself of his coat, with a gesture imperceptibly too slow.
Every breath he released seemed to summon the flesh, the delicate movements of his fingers tracing a forbidden promise. Isabelle felt a tension building in the salon: breaths had grown shorter, necklines cut daringly lower.
Not without malice, she threw a shawl over her shoulders, concealing her own neckline. Valmont was now making his way toward the ladies, some of whom looked positively on the point of swooning. Isabelle collected herself, despite her erratic pulse, and reminded herself of the role she was playing.
Valmont made it a point of honor to kiss the hand of each one, and Isabelle awaited her turn with a pounding heart. When at last he reached her, she had no choice but to meet his gaze, if only briefly. She had time to glimpse a predatory smile upon his lips.
That simple smile confirmed the predictions she had formed before their meeting: Valmont was already relishing in advance a conquest he imagined would be child’s play, and was gloating at the thought of seeing her innocence corrupted.
“Mademoiselle.” In contrast to his sensual smile, his body grew more rigid as he bent to barely brush her hand, feigning respect toward the ingenue. Isabelle seethed inwardly but managed to remain stoic.
“Monsieur,” she replied in a soft, constrained voice, readjusting her shawl to convince Valmont of her modesty. His smile widened and the libertine’s mischievous gaze shifted to her neighbor.
The conversation had been forced; Valmont was restraining himself, continuing his pretense of respecting Isabelle’s innocent ears. She had kept her gaze lowered, or turned toward her aunt, taking no part in the conversation.
Finally, the vicomte was informed that his quarters were ready to receive him. Isabelle sensed it was time to set her plan in motion.
As everyone rose, Isabelle gave a small exclamation and pointed to the ribbons Madame Danceny had been amusing herself displaying to the company, declaring that she truly could not determine which color suited her complexion best. “Madame,” she said in a clear voice, “how your ribbons have become entangled! Allow me to set them in order; I shall amuse myself sorting them by color.”
Permission was immediately granted and, as Isabelle had foreseen, Valmont instantly offered his help with the delicate operation. Isabelle’s aunt looked vexed, but could not protest. One by one, the ladies left the salon.
Isabelle now waited for the vicomte to make his approach, and there indeed he was, making his way toward her with a slow, measured step. She quickly turned her back to him and began sorting the ribbons. She heard him stop behind her, so close that she could feel his breath upon her nape. Suddenly, she felt her shawl slip from her shoulders and land on the floor.
“It seems to me, mademoiselle,” murmured Valmont, “that your shawl has had the misfortune of slipping from your shoulders.”
Isabelle turned around with assurance.
She fixed her eyes upon those of the vicomte and leaned negligently against the armoire upon which she had sorted the ribbons. “Well, monsieur,” she replied in a honeyed voice, sharply at odds with the one she had assumed before, “what are you waiting for? Pick it up.”
Isabelle noted with satisfaction the flicker of surprise that crossed Valmont’s face. However, he was not thrown off for long and bent down gracefully to take up the shawl, which he then placed upon her shoulders, his hands lingering upon her skin longer than the gesture required. “It seems positively criminal to conceal shoulders as... elegant as these,” he said with a pointed look.
Isabelle stepped back gently, freeing herself from his hold. “There is certainly one thing you do not conceal, monsieur, and that is your intentions,” she replied. She wore an amused smile. “I have been warned against you, Monsieur de Valmont. I have heard tell of... your exploits.” Valmont’s manner changed. His interest was piqued, his gaze grew intense and inquisitorial.
He drew close to her once more, brushing one of her curls. “And even then, you probably know only half of it, mademoiselle. However, I suppose you would not wish to hear the rest.” His predatory smile reappeared as he played with her curl, his hand drifting steadily toward her bodice.
This time Isabelle pulled away vigorously, took a few steps toward the door, then turned abruptly. “Suppose again, monsieur.” She made as if to turn away, then revealed one of her hands, closed around a letter skillfully purloined moments before.
She added: “Oh... I do hope this was not important.” Twirling the letter between her fingers, she hastened to leave the salon, her heart pounding but triumphant.
