Invitation to Ruin Read online

  INVITATION TO RUIN

  Included content © Copyright 2006 in Sacred Heart Diaries by Ann Vremont

  This edition © Copyright 2009 Ann Vremont

  Smashwords edition

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  Cover art © 2009 Ann Vremont

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  About An Invitation to Ruin

  An Invitation to Ruin is a modern translation of Rococo diaries and letters previously released as part of the Sacred Heart Diaries collection, comprised of the letters and journals of France’s well-born daughters in the final days of the Ancien Regime. The material, gathered by Candacis Vremont, exposes readers to the hidden desires of the time - a willful noblewoman and her mother’s groom, a virgin and her masked lover, a brazen temptress playing the repentant sinner, a betrayal come full circle and forbidden love.

  For more titles in the Rococo Diaries series, visit http://www.annvremont.com.

  Introduction

  Born in France in 1768, Candacis Vremont had a difficult childhood. Her mother died shortly after giving birth to Candacis. Sixteen years later, her father took his life after bankrupting his estate. It was then that Candacis was sent to a small convent in the countryside. As the populace of France became more hostile to the French aristocracy, Candacis found herself surrounded by other young noblewomen sent to the convent by their parents to ensure their safety. Having lived an isolated life of titled poverty, Candacis was fascinated and appalled by the whispered stories of these privileged young women. In the spring of 1787, as France's troubles were worsening, Candacis wrote to her cousin, Philipe, with an unusual proposition. The letter is translated, below, from the original French.

  Dearest Cousin,

  I read with joy the success of your new publishing venture. You are truly a self-made man—your father, like mine, having left you to survive on your own wits. And how you flourish!

  Despite knowing that you are a successful businessman, I have trouble accepting the allowance you have sent. Here, at the Sacred Heart, I have grown accustomed to earning my way. The sisters insist on it for all their charity cases. That is why, dear Philipe, I have a proposition for you. Enclosed is Beatrice. a literary pilfering from a diary carelessly left among bed linens I was collecting. If you think it suitable—publish it.

  The content might startle you, but please, Philipe, do not judge me too harshly for writing such a story. I am still the same chaste creature who worshipped you as a small child, dogging your every footstep whenever our fathers visited one another. But the things that I see and hear at the Sacred Heart! Truly, the French people are right—the aristocracy has become too self indulgent, too sensual, too deluded to recognize its own hypocrisy.

  Oh, Philipe, you would not believe your senses to see the passions that find their fruition among the young women at the Sacred Heart. I have heard their whispered confessions, seen the pages of their diaries and smuggled love letters. Whether their escapades are wrong—I do not judge. Perhaps all God's creatures are entitled to such pleasures. I only wish to tell their story, to provide an inside glimpse at the so-called nobility that seeks to hold its common citizens to a higher standard than it holds itself.

  As ever,

  Candacis

  BEATRICE

  March 12, 1787

  Home two days and the count stands at one cup, three bowls and a serving plate smashed, but not a one of them in Mother’s presence. Maria keeps her silence. How I hate the two of them!

  March 13, 1787

  I spilled tea on Mother's favorite white lace tablecloth this afternoon but Mdm. Bilodeaux was taking lunch with us and the ever efficient Maria had the stain removed before Mother could remember to punish me. How Maria conspires against me!

  March 15, 1787

  I started my nervous, tearful confession to Mother this morning—the kind that always sets her head to aching—but before I could tell her I had lost my sapphire and diamond brooch, Maria placed it alongside my plate. How could she have found my hiding spot? I wish that I could send her away. But then I would lose him.

  March 18, 1787

  Finally! After services, Mother sent Maria to deliver a dinner invitation to Mdm. “Bilodeaux” (she of the famous lost love letters). I had to serve our tea again and in the fine porcelain pot Mother purchased from Monsieur Henri. Oh, the worry in Maria's eyes as she dragged her cheap wool cloak onto her shoulders and headed into the rain! She is in the kitchen now, sobbing as she cooks tonight's dinner. She knows. She must know! His scent covers me, the swing of my skirts send it swirling around me as I move through the house in a triumphant daze. The slightest shift of my gown causes ripples of pleasure that threaten to drive me into a maddened ecstasy as it brushes against my swollen and bruised flesh.

  How long I desired this day, I cannot remember. Certainly not the first time Mother ordered Louis to take me into the pantry and punish me for having forgotten my parasol at church. What was I then? Twelve, almost thirteen? Father had been in his grave two months, no more.

  I was furious and crushed that time, too angry to realize that he was trying to be gentle. Later, I would learn the force that he was capable of. But that first time, I fought in earnest.

  Did it take months or years for my struggling to change? How long before, instead of fighting to be free from his blows, my exertions were aimed at pressing against him as hard as I could, rubbing myself against his thick muscles in mock fight, forcing him to encircle my upper body with one arm while I ground against him with each blow?

  Fifteen perhaps? My form as filled out as it is now so that I was no longer a girl, older already than the Queen when she married.

  And the thrill of the first time I felt him harden against me. “Soon, soon,” I had prayed as a delicious wetness spread between my legs. But he’d pushed me away. And then she came. First, into the house as a serving maid, then between us as his wife. Only loathing and a fearful longing filled his face when he looked at me after that. Still, I would have him. She would not separate us. And today, I have made him mine.

  I was sitting on the stool next to the pantry when he came home. Mother was upstairs, her rage at my clumsiness spiking through her head and sending her to her room with another one of her headaches. Maria was still out. Just me and him. Pieces of the broken pottery rested in my lap as I sat, eyes downcast, waiting for him to say something. But he remained silent, only the light twitching of his thigh muscles showing his agitation, his anger. Embarrassed, wanting him, I felt my cheeks flush.

  Grabbing me by the elbow, he jerked me to my feet. The larger shards of porcelain broke when they hit the ground and I stood there, mute, staring at them. Tears of frustration caused my vision to blur. Would he refuse? Mother would fire him. She would find another groom and send him away. He had threatened me with that the last time she had sent him to punish me. Pleadi
ng with me then to stop provoking her, his voice had alternated between hot passion and cold fury as I denied any willful wrongdoing.

  Now he stood silent, waiting. Why? I felt my body begin to sway. More tears welled up. “Louis?”

  “Enough, Beatrice!” He pulled me into the pantry, his free hand slamming the door behind us and reaching for the wooden board in one fluid motion.

  A crate rested against the opposite wall and he dragged me towards it as I reached for the door, moaning in protest. “No, Louis.”

  I could feel the heat building between my legs as he positioned my body over his legs. I tried to back up, but he used the paddle to block me. I pushed forward, the move pulling my bodice tight against my chest. The lace rubbed against my hardened nipples as my breasts threatened to escape. The rough scratch of cloth lace on my skin was a delicious torture and I strained forward, grinding my hips into him. “Please, Louis, do not do this,” I cried, tears already spilling down my cheeks as I turned to look up at him.

  He pressed between my shoulder blades, forcing my head past the plane of his legs. My hips rose to meet the paddle as it bore down. “No,” I gasped, sliding forward over his thighs until he had to bring one arm underneath me to hold me still. I could feel the dig of his fingers into my shoulder, the press of one half of his chest against my shoulder blade.

  The board fell again and I clenched my thighs, the inner muscles pulling tight and sending a wave of heat to flush my entire body. The hits became more frequent, my body falling into a rising rhythm of contractions.

  “Stop. Louis. Do not. Stop.” I was on fire. I had lost count of how many times he had hit me. Far more than he ever had, but I still felt no release, just a building wetness as I ground against him. “No, Louis,” I pleaded with him, my voice filled with true hysteria. “Do not do this.”

  He raised my skirt, finding this time no underskirts. I gasped in real shock as the cool air hit my skin. The smell of my excitement filled the small room and I heard him groan as he brought the board down onto my bare flesh, my innermost recesses exposed to his view at last. All pretense flew from me. Legs parting, I collapsed against him, trembling in anticipation of the next blow.

  Louis jumped to his feet, sending me sprawling across the pantry floor. Anger flooded into me as I stood up. He was still holding the board, his fist clenched around its slim handle. Lips slightly parted, he struggled for breath while he stared wildly at me. I took a step toward him and he grabbed me, spinning me around and pushing me against the pantry door. I started to speak, but he shoved the board's handle between my teeth as if he were inserting a bit into one of Mother's horses.

  With his other hand, he raised my skirt again, forcing my legs apart with his feet. Cold air rushed up, licking at my heated thighs, cooling the swollen folds of my lower lips. His thumbs, rough with calluses, parted the fleshy barrier and he thrust into me, flattening my body against the door. I cried out once in surprise against the board’s handle as his swollen manhood broke the fragile layer of tissue that had so long separated us. Another stroke out, slower, seemingly longer than his intrusive thrust, erased the pain. I pushed against him, followed the thick retreat of his manhood, hungry for more, and he rammed back into me.

  The door rattled on its hinges as he pumped my body, filling me with his thick shaft again and again, the tip almost leaving my body with each stroke, battering the already swollen flesh at the entrance to my womanhood. My nipples grew impossibly hard, aching for his rough touch as he slammed into me.

  “Mine,” I moaned against the handle, a hot tingle fanning out across my body as I began to shudder with the thrill of his touch. He pressed his face into my hair, murmuring my name over and over as triumph and his seed surged into me, our bodies locked in a deep grind as a final wave of ecstasy washed over us.

  He couldn’t know what I was saying behind the makeshift bit. It was enough that I knew.

  “Mine at last.”

  March 19, 1787

  That so much pleasure could be mine so suddenly! And at the expense and pain of that cow wife of his, no less. I had her draw a bath for me before dinner although I was loath to lose the smell of him from my skin. She came into my room, carrying the water, her face puffy from the tears she had cried. I stripped in front of her as she filled the wash tub as I always did. This time, I ran my hands over my bruised body, stopping to examine each thumb print he had left upon me. The smell of our lust still hung ripe in the air around me and I passed near her, giving her the last scent of her husband’s perfume that she would ever have. I know I should have felt some pity, shame even, as she started to cry anew. But I couldn’t. She was the usurper! I had only claimed what was always mine, what never should have been lost to station or wealth.

  I made her stay as I stepped into the water, reading clearly that she wanted to flee. I ordered her to wash my back. Let her touch me, I thought. Let her touch the flesh that he has touched, that still burns hot with the memory of him! And, meek cow that she is, she did.

  She took the cloth lightly to my back and I turned to look at her, grabbing my breasts as I did so. “My breasts are so swollen, Maria,” I said. “Why is that?” She only shook her head and stared down into the shallow water of the tub as her hands mindlessly moved over my back and arms.

  I rolled my shoulders, trying to shrug the tension from them. “Everything is so tight today,” I continued. “I do not understand.”

  She sobbed then and I could only imagine how she would have cried had she been on the other side of the door as Louis rode my body. How, hearing the banging and moaning, she might have opened the door. The idea of her watching brought my nipples to a peak and I leaned back against her touch, letting her see my excitement. Her attempt to avoid my gaze was miscalculated, taking her eyes to the very center of the issue!

  Spreading my legs, I took the washcloth from her and wiped between my lower lips, letting my hand linger there, the strip of cloth providing no barrier to the pressure of my touch over that sensitive dangle of flesh that had throbbed with the molten pulse of the very earth with Louis inside me.

  “I m-must s-set the t-table!” she stuttered and backed away from the tub. She stumbled from the room, her gaze frozen on me as my hands moved on to explore my thighs, the soft swell of my stomach and then my heavy breasts with nipples that had beaded a dark salmon.

  “By all means, Maria,” I said, cooing at her like the doves she watched outside the kitchen window. “I am unusually hungry tonight.”

  Ah, but the hunger had nothing to do with food. I wanted Louis again. I couldn’t wait. I wanted to see the passion in his face this time, not feel it from behind! And so I finished my bath and floated around the room, dressing myself, mismatching buttons because my fingers trembled with need—the need to be touched and to touch him, to wrap my hands around the marvelous circumference of his manhood, knowing that its swollen state was my doing…and Maria’s undoing.

  At the dinner table, I was of no use in conversation…of no use at all. Maria hovered like a hawk, trying no doubt to avoid Mother sending me to Louis for another punishment. Poor thing, she didn’t understand. The pretense was no longer needed. I could call to him directly, express my need to humble my body before him without the sham of disobedience. How could she not know that I only had to arch my back and spread my legs and he would answer in turn? Thrust for thrust!

  Dinner was with Mdm. “Bilodeaux” in attendance. I suffered her in good humor, silently musing over the brief notoriety she had gained two seasons ago with a few misplaced love letters to a much younger cavalier.

  When dessert was at last cleared from the table, I made my apologies and returned to my room, leaving Mother and Mdm. Bilodeaux to their prayer books. Locking my door, I stripped and crawled onto the bed, rolled on it, stretching my limbs this way and that, imagining Louis on top of me. Catching sight of my body in the cheval mirror, I jumped up and dragged it to the foot of my bed. Returning to the mattress, I rested on my knees and leaned back,
examining the upward push of my breasts and the way my nipples stiffened with excitement.

  My examination continued downward, and I parted my lower lips, letting my fingers play over the button of flesh at the top. I pulled and stroked at it until the light cream that dampened the folds of my womanhood thickened and coated my fingers. Gently, I probed at the opening, tried to gauge how many of my slick fingers were needed to equal his rod. Surely, the head had been bigger than all five of my fingertips pressed together.

  I moaned at the thought, startling myself and releasing a flood of worry that Mother might be out in the hall, however unlikely. No, if Our Lady of Letters had departed, Mother would already be in her chambers on the opposite side of the floor. Not once that I can remember has she entered my room since father died.

  Sweet isolation! Once I had hated it, now it served a purpose. Quickly I tossed a light robe around myself. The sheer lace and chiffon were meant to cover more substantial cloth and I could see my body, every curve, every inch of impassioned flesh, through the fabric. Opening my door, I poked just my head into the hall outside. The way to the servants’ stairs was clear and I dashed down the hall to them—going up, not down.

  At the top landing of the stairs, I opened the small window that looks onto the back courtyard. I could see that the lanterns were still lit in the stable despite the late hour. Was he avoiding Maria? Drinking? He did so, I knew, after my punishments. Was he doing so again?

  From further down the stairwell, I could hear the sound of Maria doing the dishes and cleaning up the rest of the kitchen. It was a muted, somber sound, and the plain, black livery mother demanded the servants wear since father’s passing took on a new meaning in my imagination. I could see Maria in my mind’s eye, clothed in the color of death—the death of her marriage, of his tolerance, of my tolerance, of her presence, of the barrier between us that she had been...but no longer would be.