Belle Morte Bites (Belle Morte 4.3)

The Darkest Hour: Part One

Paris, 1780

Edmond Dantès leaned against the wood-panelled wall and watched his guests dance. The air was rich with music and laughter, but Edmond felt like there was a shield between him and the frivolity, and behind that shield, there was just . . . nothing.

After Ysanne and Artus had left Barfleur, Edmond had realised that he didn't want to die, but at the same time he wasn't sure what he was living for. A few years later, he'd gone to war again, and it had been awful, but at least he had a purpose.

Then the war had ended, and he'd felt like he'd been cut adrift, once again struggling not to drown.

Eventually he'd returned to Paris, bought his way into the nobility, invested heavily in the stock exchange, and the return had made him richer than he'd ever been. Maybe he should have been proud of himself, but he just felt hollow, like someone had cracked him open and scraped out everything that mattered.

Once he'd attended elaborate balls and parties with François.

Now he threw his own.

Edmond's eyes roved over the gallery, the largest room in the house. He didn't even know half the people here, but over the years he'd lived in Paris, he'd become renowned for his parties. He didn't much care who turned up, as long as the room was full.

A young woman caught his eye. Her silk gown was cut low, displaying the swell of her breasts, and an inviting smile played on her red-painted lips.

She was beautiful, he couldn't deny it, but he felt nothing.

Still, he beckoned her over, and she eagerly came.

"This is your house, yes? I've heard all about you," she said, her smile deepening.

Edmond was sure she had. It had become known that his parties didn't much concern themselves with rules of propriety and etiquette. Here, wine flowed and there was an ever-present sense of sexual eagerness, a place where people could explore and indulge without fear of damaging their reputations.

"What have you heard?" he said

She giggled a little. "That you've taken half the women of Paris into your bed.

Something of an exaggeration, Edmond thought, although it was true that his bed was rarely empty these days.

"What else?" he said.

She leaned in, lowering her voice to a scandalised whisper. "There are rumours that . . . orgies take place here, and not always between men and women. I've heard that here men can lie with other men, and women with women."

"Do you think that's true?" Edmond asked.

"I don't know."

Edmond lowered his head until his lips brushed her ear, and a little shiver rolled through her. "It is true," he whispered.

He couldn't care less about other people's sexual preferences or proclivities. Anyone who came to his parties could fuck to their hearts' content, as long as everyone involved did so consensually. Sometimes he joined in the orgies. Sometimes he didn't.

"My parents say you're a scoundrel. They told me I should never have come here," the girl confessed, pressing her hand to her chest.

Edmond's eyes dipped down, to the tempting line of her cleavage. Her heartbeat raced.

"Come with me," he said.

She didn't need further persuading.