Whispers of the Flesh
Chapter One
October 1829
"You want him," Elic murmured into Lili's ear.
Lili, lounging next to him on a damask and gilt chaise in le Salon Ambre, lifted her after-dinner brandy to her lips with a silky smile that was answer enough. "Shh. He'll hear."
Elic glanced across the candlelit room at the object of their attention, a grave young Englishman with large, watchful eyes. At the moment, he was rhapsodizing in his native tongue about the "rich volcanic soil" of Vallee de la Grotte Cachee while Archer listened raptly and Inigo, ever the peacock in a green and gold brocade waistcoat, his mop of black curls riotously unbound, stifled a yawn.
"I say, Beckett," Elic interjected when their visitor paused to take a breath. "Do you have any French?"
Beckett blinked at Elic, took a puff of his cigar, and said, "I confess, I never read it in school."
"How very curious," Lili said in that velvety, exotically accented voice that still, after all these years, sent a hot shiver of ...
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