Lyon. Elizabeth Amber
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on the main floor of the townhouse. Only snatches of conversation, music from the harpist, and tinkling laughter reached them here so they didn’t hear his introduction. Two dozen other gentlemen had already gathered in the salon before him, and a dozen more would likely come before the evening was done.
Agnes, Gina, Fleur, and the other girls circulated among them, all brightly gowned coquettes who knew how to flirt, flatter, and fornicate. M. Valmont always sent them down first to work the group and build anticipation in preparation for her entrance. They were the appetizers, he liked to say. And she, the main course.
In moments Juliette and Valmont would join the assemblage and she would hold court under his keen supervision. But for now, they lingered here to discuss the patrons with a frankness that would have been impossible in a more public venue.
“I’d hoped he might come. But I dared not expect him,” Valmont continued as the new arrival made his way into the room.
“Who is he?” Juliette enquired, carefully concealing any sign of recognition. When her companion didn’t reply, she glanced his way and saw he was so fixated on his surveillance of the man that he hadn’t even heard her.
In the center of the room below, the giant paused to contemplate the bubbling of the marble absinthe fountain. Valmont had installed it when they’d arrived in Paris a year ago and it had become a popular feature of these gatherings. Since the blight had devastated vineyards throughout Europe over the last decade, wine was in short supply. As a result, its cost had risen and this had ignited great interest in the less expensive absinthe as a substitute.
When Fleur approached the new guest with an offer of refreshment, he allowed her to divert him toward the wine cart. Though she was but sixteen and was fairly new to the household, Valmont had recently decided to involve her in the business rather than keep her to the kitchen, much to Juliette’s dismay. However, delighted with her new finery and increased income, Fleur had taken to the work of pleasuring men with surprising ease.
The man smiled indulgently down at Fleur as she filled his glass and chattered away. Grinning, she linked a hand through his arm and proceeded to flirt in her usual engaging manner, doing her best to attract him before one of the others did.
In profile, his features were strong—a granite jaw, straight brow, and prominent, well-shaped nose. These were only slightly tempered by sensual lips, cheekbones flushed with good health, and glorious disorderly hair of many shimmering golden shades that hung almost to the line of his jaw.
Juliette willed him to glance her way, so she might furtively study his face full on, but he didn’t.
“Who is he?” she asked again.
Valmont twitched at the question and she realized he’d completely forgotten her presence until she’d spoken.
“Lord Lyon Satyr.” He tapped the fingertips of both hands together under his chin in tiny soundless claps. He sounded almost giddy.
“Lyon.” Turning back to the screen, Juliette tasted the name, exploring its shape and texture in her mouth and testing its flavor on her tongue. It suited him.
Valmont returned to his study as well. “Is the name familiar to you?”
He was testing her. The purpose for which they met here prior to these Thursday night soirées was to allow him to school her on the backgrounds of his guests. He made it his business to know every detail of their circumstances and fortunes. Operating on motives unknown to her, he was always ready with instruction regarding whom to flirt with and what information to elicit. It was usually left to her to determine the manner best calculated to achieve his goals.
Juliette’s brow knit. “An Italian with his surname came to Paris several months ago, did he not? A vintner from Tuscany?”
Beside her, Valmont nodded, pleased she’d remembered. “A cold fish, that one—Raine Satyr, the middle son of three. Unfortunately he departed Paris before he could be reeled in.” He gestured toward the room below. “This one tonight is the youngest of the brothers at twenty-six years. There is another in Tuscany—the eldest of them, who has recently wed. After years of fucking anything that moves, all three have recently confounded the gossips by commencing bride searches.”
She soaked up this news of him and wanted more. “Are they attractive prospects?”
“Exceedingly. Among them, they own vast holdings—estates, an immense flourishing vineyard, and coffers overflowing with inherited riches.”
“Their vineyards still flourish?” Juliette asked, glancing at him in surprise. “Untouched by the phylloxera?”
Valmont’s expression twisted with bitterness. “Oui. Though it’s beyond anyone’s understanding why that should be so. And it’s certainly beyond all fairness.”
In the salon, Fleur had been supplanted on the newcomer’s arm by the more aggressive Gina, who was giving him a tour of Valmont’s art collection. The hoard of busts, statues, oils, and watercolors was but a small fraction of what his family had once owned. However, it and the rest of the items in the other rooms here were all he’d been able to abscond with before his Burgundy château had been recently claimed by taxmen.
Juliette had been there to watch his once-affluent father’s vast winemaking enterprises in Burgundy felled by the phylloxera over the years. It had been among the first of the many to succumb to the ravages of the aphid-like pest, which had gone on to decimate many of Europe’s vineyards.
His father had killed himself over the debacle. This townhouse, the smallest property of the many his family had once owned, was now all Valmont possessed of his father’s legacy. And he’d filled it with prostitutes to provide his income.
She could almost pity him because of the reversal of fortune the pest had wrought in his family and in his life. Almost. But not quite.
As he escorted Gina, Satyr’s panther gait was masculine, easy, and loose-limbed. It reminded her of how she’d seen him in the park, moving on that other woman. Of how she’d felt him moving inside her. Goosebumps rose on her arms.
If he was indeed the same man as the one she’d seen earlier tonight at Pont Neuf, he’d changed his clothing in the last hour. Wool trousers dyed the color of mustard seed faithfully molded his derriere with each shift of his hips or step of his booted feet. These were paired with a natural linen cambric shirt and a casual jacket of drab olive. It was an attractive look on him, but so profoundly démodé that it could never have been considered modish in the first place by anyone of society.
Nevertheless, she saw how Agnes and the others eyed him. Against a backdrop of dandified peacocks, he stood out as a brawny, earthy animal in his prime. One who chose his own path and was confident enough not to bow too deeply to the whims of style.
For a man so large, he moved with sleek grace. But even as she made this observation, he contradicted it. She gasped as his elbow caught on the outstretched bow of a statue, sending it rocking. It was a sculpture of Diana, Roman goddess of the hunt, a favorite subject of Valmont’s.
Large pawlike hands caught at the wobbling goddess. An awkward juggling act ensued in which he fondled various portions of her anatomy before ultimately rescuing her from peril and returning her safely to her pedestal.
The attention of everyone in the room now on him, the giant rolled his shoulders and heaved a great sigh as though accustomed to causing such calamities in salons. His words didn’t reach their hiding place, but whatever he said sent laughter rippling over the room.
“A man who can laugh at himself—a rare animal,” murmured Juliette.
“Buffoon,” Valmont muttered. “He’ll pay for that if it’s damaged. Among other things.”
Juliette turned her head in time to surprise a vengeful expression on his face. “What do you mean?”
Avoiding a direct reply, he eyed her thoughtfully. “You will favor him tonight. All those years you lived on the fringes of my family’s vineyard should be to your advantage in snaring