Below is an excerpt from historical romance Dangerous Desire by Emmanuelle de Maupassant.

Cecile lit her candle. She might read again, but none of her books were likely to deter the dreams of which she was fearful.

Besides which, Lucrezia was asleep. To keep the wick burning would surely rouse her.

What then?

Cecile might venture to the kitchen, where jugs of fresh milk sat on the cool pantry shelf, alongside a possible remnant of Magdalena’s peach tart.

Donning her dressing gown, she passed through the great hall, the clock chiming the half hour past midnight. The doors to the ballroom were flung wide, revealing its floor of gleaming black marble.

The room was still, but the echoes of the past seemed to call. She imagined herself in a gown of billowing purple, dancing across that dark-water surface.

Though she stood in shadow, as the clouds parted, the moon’s pale crescent shone through the windows, illuminating the end of the room. The far door opened, and a tall figure entered, his hand clasped firmly about another’s arm.

Cecile did not yet know the name of every maid in the castello. It was served by many silent feet and nimble hands, but Vittoria had the charge of Cecile’s wardrobe. It was she who laundered and pressed the delicate muslins and silks worn by the elegant ladies of the household. It was she who heated water for Cecile’s bath, and placed a warming pan in the bed.

Blowing out her candle, Cecile crouched at the edge of the doorframe. Though she understood little Italian, it was obvious to her that Vittoria was being admonished. The conte spoke with a hard edge not previously revealed in Cecile’s presence.

The girl was sobbing. Imploring, struggling, she fell against a table. A vase toppled from its placement, smashing upon the floor.

Cecile leant forward, hardly caring now if she was seen. No servant should be disciplined by force, no matter their misdemeanour. Lorenzo’s behaviour was unpardonable.

However, just as swiftly, the commotion ceased. Vittoria was not prostrate upon the floor, picking up pieces of broken glass. Instead, to Cecile’s astonishment, Vittoria’s face was upturned to her master. His hands clasped first about her waist, then moved lower, caressing her behind. Vittoria’s arms reached brazenly around the conte’s neck, drawing down his mouth to meet hers.

Cecile was unable to look away.

Whatever argument there had been was clearly mended, and whatever relationship existed between the two, it was far beyond her comprehension.

As she watched, the conte dropped to his knees, reaching beneath Vittoria’s skirts.

He was drawing down her bloomers!

She was stepping out of them.

The conte brought forward a seat from the wall and then Vittoria did the strangest thing. She placed herself over his lap, face down, and remained quite still as he pulled up the layers of fabric—baring her legs, and then the orbs of her buttocks.

Raising his hand, the conte brought it down with unforeseen force upon one cheek.

Cecile’s conscience insisted that she intervene. No one should endure such humiliation and ill-treatment. But, as a further smack reached its target, and another, Vittoria’s cries spoke not of pain but of some other need, some desire which Cecile half recognized: beseeching not for punishment to end but for something else to begin.

The conte continued the ruthless dispatch of his hand and Vittoria’s pleading grew fainter, as if in acceptance of whatever her master should choose to deliver upon her.

Cecile was transfixed, her mind telling her that she should depart—that the scene unfolding was not for her eyes. Her body, meanwhile, refused to obey.

All grew quiet again, but for Vittoria’s soft moans. The conte’s hand was no longer raised in savagery, but moved between the cheeks he’d so harshly assaulted, his voice murmuring in measured tones.

Lightheaded, Cecile resolved that she must return to her room; to remain would be unconscionable. Unsteadily, she rose from her crouching position, and cast one final glance at the dissolute scene.

The conte was no longer looking at the ample bottom provided for his amusement, but to the opposite end of the ballroom. To Cecile’s dread dismay, he smiled.

How long had he known she was there?

dangerous desire historical romance emmanuelle de maupassant

Dangerous Desire is available here.

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