The Velvet Hours Read Online Free PDF Page A

underestimated her eye for detail. Her desire to do more for herself than just dance and sing.
    She had never been one for gossip or mindless conversation, preferring instead to observe. So she studied the other women as though they were their own form of education. When she was alone in the changing room, she secretly examined the labels of their clothes to discover the names of the dress shops they preferred. She took note of their festive colored corsets, the ones they wore beneath their silk dressing gowns, with the flashes of color peeking out like an invitation. She learned what exotic blooms impressed them, and what flowers were left behind.
    During her first months at Les Ambassadeurs, she had not yet learned how to fully exploit her charms. She sang with her eyes straight ahead, focusing on the back door of the theater, and never played the coquette. And so evening after evening, not a single bouquet arrived for Marthe. It wasn’t until one of the other dancers felt pity toward her, that she was given some advice that would change her fate.
    â€œWhen you sing, search for a single pair of eyes in which to anchor yourself. So that the man believes you’re singing only to him.”
    The girl came closer to Marthe. “And don’t forget, sometimes the most sensual part of the body is the part they never anticipated seeing.”
    So the next performance, Marthe took those words to heart. She searched the audience for a pair of eyes that burned the brightest, finding a pair that belonged to a slender, handsome man in a dinner jacket, sitting at one of the tables closest to the stage. She took note of how his eyes lit up at the sight of her, and she immediately latched on to his gaze, directing the words of the song solely to him. When her sleeve slipped off her shoulder, revealing a globe of white polished skin, she could feel his eyes hard upon her. He smiled, even after the lights had dimmed.
    *   *   *
    Charles came to watch her every Wednesday, each time sending her orchids, and always taking the seat closest to the stage. She would anticipate the arrival of his carriage outside the theater. The swing of the black lacquered door, the quick grasp of his hand pulling her inside. She memorized the scent of the leather seats, a blend of sandalwood and hide, powerful and immediate. The Oriental perfume of his tobacco that floated in blue clouds from his pipe. She knew the sound of her skirt as it rustled under his searching hands. She knew the taste of his tongue as it touched her own.
    For nearly six months, they used his carriage for their private nest, as his driver expertly led the horses through the quieter streets of Paris.
    There was much one could do within the confines of polished wood and glass. She became an expert in acrobatics. Arching her back against the corner of the damask-lined walls, lifting her legs at half angles. Offering herself to him underneath the layers of her dress.
    Her wardrobe was now an array of colorful silks and expensive laces. She made sure she wore his gifts—the gown from the Callot Soeurs and the black garter from the most expensive lingerie shop in Paris—both for his pleasure and for her own. Every Wednesday, she waited with anticipation until the curtain fell and she could be in his arms again, with the carriage wheels rolling beneath them and the moonlight highlighting those warm, white places of hers that he skillfully managed to expose.
    *   *   *
    The trip to Venice was the first time he had seen her completely naked. Her body released from her corsetry, her limbs finally free to move and stretch unhindered by the confines of his coach. He had gone to the bath while she lay in the bed. She waited for himwithout a peignoir, without even the flimsiest material between the linens and her skin. This time there would be no garter, ribbons, or lace. The surprise would be the lack of any veil; her body completely bare.
    He