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“Go!” She shooed Antonio to his side of the floor, as she nodded at the two gentlemen at the red door. “I will not leave this place without at least one scandalous anecdote for the carriage ride home.”
“I have no doubt you will...” Antonio began, but she was already on the prowl.
“I’ll see you at midnight,” she whispered over her shoulder before setting off.
Manuela’s French had never been as good as she’d liked, and she wasn’t quite sure what the guards told her about la dixième porte before she was allowed in the ladies’ quarters. In any case, she set off down the long hallway, her pulse fluttering in her throat. It was a long, wide passage lined with sconces that kept the space illuminated enough not to trip on anything but not so much one could clearly see the faces of those passing by. Unless you were close enough to kiss, which was a very promising sign as far as Manuela was concerned. She supposed the most valuable attribute of any establishment offering the services Le Bureau boasted would be its ability to guarantee discretion.
It wasn’t that Manuela was a complete ingenue. After her time at her Swiss finishing school ended, she’d managed to persuade her parents to allow her to remain in Paris for three glorious months studying at an arts seminary. While she was there, she’d heard rumors from other girls of places that catered exclusively to women looking for the company of other women. She would have probably mustered up the courage to venture to la Butte perched above the city where these establishments existed, had her time in Europe not been cut short.
Unfortunately, ten years later, the sum of her experiences with other women amounted to a few stolen kisses with Catalina Montero, the daughter of one of her father’s business associates. Though things with them had ended abruptly—and disastrously—the questions she’d held so deeply buried about herself, about her nature, had been answered with the blare of a thousand trumpets with each heated kiss, each secret look, each furtive touch with Catalina. After, when she’d been told that acting on any urges of that nature would irreparably tarnish her soul, Manuela refused to believe it. How could something that felt so essential, that made her feel so gloriously alive, be wrong? She’d come back to Paris to find that feeling again, to at least temporarily revive those slumbering pieces of herself one last time.
As she reached one of the open doors, Manuela swept aside her musings about the dismal past—and future—and focused on the much more promising present. She stopped when she heard music spilling out of one of the rooms in the corridor. “Finally,” she thought as she took a hesitant step toward the threshold, unsure of whether she was allowed inside.
It was a large room, and around it milled about a dozen women. Four were dancing in front of a string quartet set up in a corner. Women dancing together was not exactly scandalous, but these were not the demure ballroom-dancing lessons Manuela had taken at her finishing school. Not with the way these women were tangled in each other. Not with their bodies so close they seemed fused together. And their faces, hungry expressions, lust blazing in their eyes. It made her feel like an intruder; it made her ache.
A plump redhead who was much shorter than her partner had to bend her head far back to gaze upon her lover. She had her eyes wide open, beaming as the other woman curled a lock of fiery hair around her fingers. The gesture, their private, tender smiles unfurled a pang of longing Manuela hadn’t felt in years. As she watched them move around the room, arms wrapped around each other, she wondered if these women had fiancés or husbands in some faraway place to go back to or if this truly was their life. If they came here whenever they pleased to dance cheek to cheek and kiss and touch.
“Mademoiselle, this is a private party.”
She’d been so enthralled in watching the dancers the gentle rebuke caught her completely by surprise.
“Pardon,” she apologized breathlessly, her heart leaping up her throat, as the woman politely—but firmly—closed the door in her face. “Well, that wasn’t very nice,” she muttered to herself as she started down the hallway again. She wished she’d asked Antonio more about how these rooms worked. He’d said she could go into the ones that were open, but clearly that wasn’t true of all of them. Aurora would say it was just like her to go barreling in without considering what lay ahead.
In this moment, what lay ahead were additional closed doors. All but one, at the very end of the hall. She noticed the number above the double doors was ten.
La dixième porte.
It was the only room the guards had mentioned, and now she wondered if they’d been advising it was the only room available to her. She supposed someone would let her know if she was not allowed, as they’d done in the previous one. She told herself she’d be careful as she stepped inside, but instantly became much too preoccupied with the room’s decor and art to care much about permissions.
The room was quite large, and it was clearly for entertaining. There were a couple of sitting areas at both ends of the space and more settees and chaises placed in corners and along the walls. There was also a large sideboard which at the moment was empty but she assumed would be used to serve food and wine.
The decoration was not exactly masculine, but it was very dapper. The colors surprised her. The walls were a tea-rose pink with black accents, and the upholstery was of black velvet. She took in the bountiful flower arrangements around the room. Sprays of pink and black gladioli. It was a blend of the feminine and masculine Manuela found very intriguing. She also appreciated the departure from the ostentatious gilt and fringe which was the current preferred style in Paris. It was understated, and yet everything was indisputably sumptuous and expensive.
Whoever owned this room had no need to overtly display their wealth. One of the skills one gained after being raised in affluence only to lose it in adulthood was the ability to note when you arrived at a place where wealth was merely incidental.
The mistress of this place—another assumption based on this being the area reserved for ladies—had to be an art lover, judging by what was hanging on the walls. Manuela strolled around the periphery, sticking her nose right up to the pieces. There were at least a dozen different paintings, one more exquisite than the next. The styles differed, as did the sizes, but the theme was singular: women loving women. It was deliciously illicit to see this much carnal feminine pleasure. What kind of person,what kind of woman, was free enough to display her preferences so brazenly?
“One who probably knows all the secret places I am desperate to discover.” She needed to stop talking to herself out loud, but there was too much happening inside her to not voice some of it! After circling the room she finally tipped her head up and had to clamp a hand over her mouth to keep from squealing.
“Oh my.” She whispered reverently as she took in the magnificent ceiling. First there was the chandelier. Oval shaped at the base, with a black lacquer stem inlaid with mother-of-pearl flower petals. She counted sixteen large glass spheres jutting from gilded arms. It was impressive in size and craftsmanship, but what made her stumble was the fresco rendered all around it. The pastoral scene brought to mind Botticelli’sPrimaverawith its dark background and vivid flora. But in this garden the graces were not whispering secrets to each other, they were making love. There were no absent looks to be found in their angelic countenances. Instead there was palpable carnality to the scene that stole her breath.
Manuela’s eyes went back and forth over the figures on the ceiling. She caught sight of fingers digging into flesh, hands straining to touch a lush hip or arched back. Two of the graces had their mouths fused together while the third knelt before them in offering. The composition of it was vivid and languid...achingly sensual. Gooseflesh bloomed on her skin as she moved farther into the center of the room, needing a closer look.
She was transfixed in particular by the pair depicted at the very edge of the fresco. One was brown-skinned and lying on a rug, her back propped by pillows as she looked down at her lover who was suckling one of her breasts with aching tenderness. The sight of the two women in such an intimate embrace shook Manuela. She’d seen art with a sensual tone to it, of course—she’d secretly even tried her hand at some erotic art. But frescoes of this scale were typically done by men, andthiscould’ve only been done by a woman, of that Manuela was certain.
There was something about a man’s perception of feminine beauty that always felt to her a bit warped, misunderstood. Manuela seldom encountered any true vulnerability in the lovely faces of the models. It seemed to her the scope of a man’s gaze when it came to femininity was limited to that of the mother or the vixen. A woman could only be truly good if she was devoid of any sensuality, and if it was present in her, then it had to be taken—and afterward, succinctly punished. She’d always wondered if that was why the Madonna was such a compelling subject for men, because they could envision her beyond a thing to possess. That a woman’s body could only truly be sacred when it served as a vessel. This painting subverted the very notion of that. For this artist the female form was made for pleasure.
She wondered if there was a signature somewhere but was too far away to tell.
“There must be something I can use to give me a boost,” she muttered to herself as she scanned the room’s opulent furnishings. Finally on the far side, below a particularly lusty rendering of Artemis and Callisto, she spotted a black velvet footstool and ran to fetch it. Her slippers made her slide ominously on the gleaming parquet floor, and it occurred to her that perhaps climbing onto the sleek surface of the sideboard with her shoes on might not be advisable. It was true that the sensible thing would be not to climb on it at all, but she could be sensible when she when was back in Venezuela.
“It will just be a quick look,” she promised herself as she slid out of her velvet slippers, perfectly aware she was wasting precious depravity-seeking time, but she was only human. Who could resist taking a better look at such beauty? Manuela could never pass up the chance to feast her eyes on art that truly moved her. Some had a hard time stopping when it came to wine or chocolate. Just one sip or one bite was never enough when it came to things that were so pleasurable to consume. For Manuela, art was intoxicating.
With urgency she tossed her silk stockings beside the discarded shoes. The constriction of her corset proved to be a challenge when climbing the sideboard, but she persevered. The fresco was still about five feet above her head, but from her perch she had a perfect view of the pair lying on the rug. Her eyes kept coming back to the pained ecstasy on the face of the dark-skinned woman as her lover kissed her breasts. Her lids heavy with lust, hands clutching the pillows for purchase. She was absolutely riveted by the idea of being touched where anyone could see. The prospect of a lover who would never deny her a caress, would never hide their passion was no more than a silly dream, but that was what art did: it made fantasies tangible, painted the picture of your deepest desires.
“The Cisse-Kellys said we should expect amenities for the exposition, but this is excessive even for them.”
The sultry voice coming from below—which sounded mildly amused, thank goodness—almost caused Manuela to stumble right off the sideboard.
