Invitation to Ruin

INVITATION TO RUIN

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

This edition © Copyright 2009 Ann Vremont

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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. Pleading
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.