It's Book Release Day!
Read an excerpt of Love and the Downfall of Society.
Hi, friends. I am very excited to share an excerpt of my new historical romance novel, Love and the Downfall of Society. So far the early reviews have been positive, and I’m so thrilled that people are reading it. The book is on sale now in paperback everywhere books are sold and as an ebook on Amazon, including in Kindle Unlimited.
Enjoy!
Chapter One
Paris, May 1901
After slipping out of the house under the guise of a respectable invitation, Charlotte followed her four giggling housemates down the back steps and along the garden path toward the gate. One by one, as they passed through, the women removed their conservatively cut jackets and stashed them between the iron fence and the lilac bush. As Charlotte placed her coverup under its boughs, the soft petals brushed against the bare skin between her glove and the cap sleeve of her borrowed dress. The air felt cool and electric on her exposed décolletage. It was elegant mauve velvet with a touch of black lace trim, and she’d never worn a dress cut so low. But she’d been in the city for four days, she was going out with her new housemates to her first café concert, and it was time to start dressing like the locals.
From the street, the house stood dark except for Madame’s rooms and the staff quarters on the top floor. The thrilling promise of Paris nightlife barely muffled the reality that they’d lied to Madame Tremblay about where they were going.
“Will Madame be mad if she finds out we’re not really going to a dinner party?” Charlotte asked. The pension on Rue de Fortuny was a place for respectable, professional women—a point that Madame had emphasized many times since Charlotte wrote to her about getting a room.
“She’ll never know,” said Nadine, her brown eyes shining confidently. She was an understudy actress at the Comédie-Française and had lived at the pension for the longest. Although they’d so far not gotten past the introductory details of their lives in the few days Charlotte had been in the city, it was clear that, as far as the ladies of the house were concerned, Nadine was kind of the mother hen who lounged about in flowing tea dresses and silky wrappers. Though now it was clear to Charlotte that perhaps Nadine was more like an auntie hen with a mischievous streak. And, with her feathery hat and stunning dress, she knew how to be seen as well as relax around the house.
“Or she’ll pretend not to,” said Vanessa, tucking an errant blond curl back into her updo without slowing her walk. She worked in the office of one of the big newspapers and was the only housemate who hadn’t come to Charlotte’s door to introduce herself the day she moved in. “As long as none of us brings home a man.”
“I’ll bet my can-can shoes that she’s had too much whiskey to notice,” said Diane.
“Don’t dare, you cow. Those can-can shoes are mine, and you know it,” Catherine, Diane’s sister shot back. They were Americans who’d come to Paris for a vacation and defied their parents by staying and getting jobs. Their French was decent enough underneath the unmistakable accent, and judging from their finery, they were clearly from a wealthy family. However, they completely lacked the pretension and snobby polish that Charlotte was used to encountering in French wealthy people. Charlotte’s English was also decent, though she’d gotten quite lost observing a heated argument over a hairbrush yesterday afternoon where the sisters both slipped into their native tongue. By dinner, they were best friends again.
Once they reached the avenue, Nadine expertly drew a cab from the evening traffic to their service with a little wave and firm stomp of her boot.
“Boulevard de Clichy,” Nadine said as they stepped into the fiacre. “The Cabaret des Quat’z’Arts, s’il vous plaît.”
The cab was barely big enough for all five of them. Crammed inside, the women laughed and talked about people and places that sounded so glamorous.
For years, back at home in Vernon, Charlotte had dreamed of living in the city, dreamed of being a writer, and now she was doing it. Everyone at home, including herself, was shocked when payment arrived from the paper for the story she’d sent on a whim. Her father eyed the check suspiciously and sent a telegram to the newspaper editor demanding to know if it was real. He’d received one back, confirming that, yes, they wanted to publish her little story. Charlotte’s mother spent the rest of the day kneeling in church. They were more shocked when, days later, an editor from another paper, called La Fronde, wrote to see if she’d be interested in writing something for them, something long enough to serialize. The publisher had read her story, everyone in Paris had, it seemed. And the city was abuzz with a discourse on not only the contents but about the mysterious provincial woman writer. La Fronde believed Charlotte would be the next literary sensation, and the publisher—a woman—wanted to get her under contract.
Charlotte gave half of the money to her parents, bought a one-way train ticket and suitcase, paid for two months’ lodging at the house on Rue de Fortuny, and had enough left to live on if she was thrifty. Now her home in Vernon felt like a million miles and a lifetime away, which was a thrilling sensation.
Charlotte had started writing as soon as she arrived, determined to sell something else so she could stay in the city. The only reason she’d agreed to come out tonight was that the first installment of her story had just run in La Fronde that day. She was celebrating, and she wanted to get to know her housemates. Getting there on her own hard work, experiencing this city, knowing these women—Charlotte was becoming the person she most wanted to be. She knew, jammed into that carriage with her housemates, that Paris would make her even if it wouldn’t keep her. And she desperately wished that it would.
When the fiacre came to a stop, Charlotte emerged with the other women onto the bustling street. She waited while Nadine paid the driver.
“Apologies, mademoiselles. I would have gotten you closer to the sidewalk, but…” The driver tipped his head toward a shiny carriage that had blocked a large section of the road.
“Isn’t it always the fancy ones,” Nadine said.
Charlotte thanked him as he pulled off. Then she and Nadine skirted around the ornate carriage to get to the sidewalk. The door of the luxurious ride was emblazoned with some aristocratic family crest, which made it stand out even more in the humble, working-class traffic that surrounded its gilded edges.
“Is this a fancy place?” Charlotte asked.
“Not at all, but it’s great fun. Even the fancy people can’t resist the temptations of Montmartre.”
Her own success, small as it was, demonstrated that the high society people were at least interested in proletarian life. Still, mingling among them in a place her housemates had promised would debauch her provincial sensibilities was a surprise. “Will they have a special box where they can look down on all of us?”
“Ha!” Nadine laughed. “No. They’ll be so close you can touch them.”
Nadine took Charlotte’s hand and pulled her onto the sidewalk. Around them, couples walked with their arms linked and groups of men called to groups of women, everyone on their way to dinner or dancing. On either side of the wide avenue, the apartments rose above the storefronts. Music seeped from the clubs and the street lamps sparkled. Nadine linked one of Charlotte’s arms in hers, while Diane linked the other, and their little group made their way inside the crowded, smoky café.
A brass chandelier hung in the center of the room. The walls were crammed with assorted drawings and paintings. They found a table along the wall under a bronze statue of a goddess-like figure and ordered champagne from a passing waiter. He was wearing more makeup than most women there and winked at Charlotte before hurrying away.
“Your mouth is hanging open,” Vanessa said.
“I’ve never seen anything quite like this before.”
“They don’t have cabarets in Normandy?” Nadine asked. She’d been born in Paris and boasted about the fact that she’d never made it much further north than the edge of Montmartre.
“If they do, I surely wouldn’t know,” said Charlotte. “But they can’t possibly be anything as interesting as this.”
On a small stage at the far back of the room, a woman dressed in a man’s suit was reciting what seemed to be a dramatic monologue about meeting a beloved’s parents and then having a change of heart. The waiter returned with five flutes of bubbly, golden liquid. Charlotte sipped and took in the crowd, which indeed was an eclectic mix, even for Paris.
Women in towering, ornate hats, low-cut dresses, and necks full of jewels hung on the arms of men in fine suits. Seeing them, she remembered how her housemates had described the place to her earlier that day: gentlemen brought their mistresses here, but not their wives. But there were also mixed groups of working-class people and those dressed with an artistic flair who could be painters or musicians or writers, like herself. Then her gaze fell on a man dressed in evening attire watching her from across the smoky room. When their eyes met, he looked away for a second, like she’d caught him. Then he looked back at her and raised an eyebrow.
He had dark hair and a neat mustache that she recognized immediately. Yesterday morning she’d collided with this same man coming out of a flower shop on Rue St. Dominique with a handful of tulips. She’d glimpsed the tower while she was walking, turned for a better look, and bumped into him like a foolish tourist. He’d put a hand on her elbow to steady her, and he’d watched her intently with a curious heat while she apologized all over herself. This had to be the same man sitting across the room from her now. He smiled mischievously, pinning her with his lusty eyes. Then he winked at her and turned his attention to the man sitting next to him.
Charlotte gasped and turned back to her housemates. She rubbed her fingers along the stem of her champagne flute and tried to fight back her growing smile. He’d truly winked at her. What a delight, even if she wasn’t interested. Her cheeks, flushed already from the head, reddened. She did not give in to the temptation to look in the gentleman’s direction again. The women ordered another round of champagne. They gave up their table to two smartly dressed couples. Then they ventured into other rooms in the cavernous club, where Nadine promised there would be more entertainment. The crowd was growing, and as they pushed into it to get closer to the stage. The group was only just ahead of Charlotte when someone in the crush of people bumped into her from behind. Charlotte paused to keep from spilling her drink, but her friends kept moving.
Lifting onto her tiptoes, she spotted the feather on Nadine’s elaborate blue hat and the red of Catherine’s dress. She was about to press on to rejoin them when, as if out of nowhere, he was there. The gentleman who’d been watching her, the gentleman with the tulips, was next to her, smiling with that quirked brow again.
He dropped his gaze and took her in.
“You look lovely,” he said as if he knew her.
She laughed and playfully made a show of considering him as well. He was trim but sturdy and broad at the same time, standing two or three inches taller than Charlotte. His suit fit well and appeared to be of the finest quality. The rose on his lapel had only just begun to wilt. “You too, monsieur.”
He smiled and nodded toward the stage, where a nun marionette was scolding a child marionette. “What do you think of the show?”
“I’m afraid I’ve missed most of the context, but the spectacle is brilliant.”
“What’s your name?”
She hesitated for a moment. She didn’t know this man and wasn’t exactly sure she needed to be meeting men at all. But he was so compelling. She extended her hand. “Charlotte Devereaux. And yours?”
“Antoine de Larminet.” He took her gloved hand, kissed it, and then held it and watched her for a long moment before releasing it. His dark eyes gleamed with interest.
“I would ask if you come here often, but you seem to be everywhere lately.”
“I was thinking the same thing.” Her skin prickled with delight in this handsome stranger’s presence. “This is my first time here.”
“You were carrying a book the other day.”
“I was. How interesting that you remember.”
“Well, it’s not every day that such a beautiful creature bumps into me.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
He smiled and a lovely flash of white appeared under his dark mustache. “I was in a hurry, but later I remembered you and wished I’d asked you about it. The book, I mean.”
“Claudine in Paris by Willy. Have you read it?”
“I haven’t.”
Around them, the crowd burst into laughter. She could still see her friends a few paces ahead, but no longer felt the urge to hurry and join them. She sipped her champagne, letting the bubbles burst in her mouth before swallowing it.
“I saw it in a shop window and couldn’t resist,” she said when the noise died down. “I read the first installment working behind the register at my parents’ bookshop. It was so difficult to put down that I gave a man the wrong change.”
He ducked his head closer to hers while she spoke, so close she could smell the rose on his lapel. His mustache was trimmed in a thick, neat line over his mouth. For a flicker of a second, Charlotte imagined it brushing along her skin. A man came through the crowd, trying to get past them, and Antoine put a protective hand on her arm so they didn’t get separated. The feel of his gloved hand sent a pleasant jolt through Charlotte’s middle.
“And where is your parents’ bookshop?”
“Vernon.”
“Vernon?”
“Yes, it’s in Normandy. I’ve only just arrived in Paris a few days ago.”
He seemed to reappraise her. Did she look provincial? Could he see that her dress was borrowed and any sophistication faked? “Ah, well, welcome.”
“Thank you.”
“Will you stay for long?”
She thought about her room at the house and her meager funds and the promising draft she’d finished that afternoon. “I’d like to.”
“Then we must stop meeting at random and do so intentionally.” Antoine’s gaze was like a thorough caress.
“Must we?”
“Mustn’t we?”
She eyed him suspiciously. She’d always been pretty and even back at home, men often flirted. She was used to dodging advances, but something about his felt stickier, almost dangerous. The last thing she needed to find in her first days in Paris was a man this adept at flirtation. “Will you bring me tulips?”
He raised his brow. “Those were for my mother, to clarify. But yes. Absolutely.”
“Well, they were very pretty. But, if you don’t mind, I’ll rejoin my friends now.”
“Of course. Though, before you go…” He lifted the rose from his lapel and placed it in her hand. “On behalf of Paris, which is surely more wonderful with you in it.”
She thanked him and brought it to her nose because she couldn’t help herself. The flower was silvery white and smelled divine. Then her eyes met his.
“Tell me where I can write to you, Charlotte.”
Saying yes to this charmer would have been easy. Meeting him twice in two days almost made it feel like fate. But no matter how tempting, she should decline his offer. She needed to work, and a man would only add to the city’s countless distractions. Before she could stop herself, she said, “I don’t think you should.”
His face fell. “Why not?”
“Because…” She wanted to tell him that she wasn’t interested but couldn’t quite make the words. She shrugged. “Because I’m not a great writer.”
With that, she slipped away and didn’t stop until she was by Catherine’s side. The crowd erupted in another laugh at the scene on the stage, where the nun puppet was now scolding a Marie Antoinette puppet. Catherine smiled and winked at her. Charlotte had only been separated from them for a few minutes. She fingered his rose and ducked her head a little to smell it again, like it was a secret just for her. When she looked up, Nadine was watching her.
“Pretty,” she said, eyebrows raised curiously. “Where did you find that?”
“Oh, some flirt gave it to me off his lapel.” She dismissed her housemates’ questioning looks, even as they oohed and ahhed. But her body still buzzed from the encounter. He could be anyone, though his impeccable dress suggested wealth. She twirled the blunt stem in her fingers, then she tucked the rose in the neckline of her dress and finished her champagne. Wondering if Antoine was still watching her from somewhere in the room, she ventured a look around. But he was gone.
If you want to find out what happens next, you can get a copy of Love and the Downfall of Society at your favorite bookstore, read it in Kindle Unlimited, or request a copy at your local library.
Thank you for reading!
Melinda