With Violets Read Online Free PDF Page A

revel in being able to gaze at him freely, unself-consciously, and it dawns on me that it is his unpretentious freedom that draws me to him. His ability to just be.
    He is taking a stand against the status quo by painting what
    he must. In turn, he suffered a brutal beating when the Salon shut him out. It is that rebel quality coming from someone

    who, for all appearances, resembles the perfect gentleman that I find rare and endearing.
    And I must admit very, very seductive.
    Yes. Très seduisant. Extremely seductive. Ahhh, to be so liberated to even utter such a forbidden word as seduisant .
    “You are awfully quiet, Mademoiselle.” His eyes are a soft caress. “I hope tonight’s conversation has not offended you.”
    “Monsieur Manet, I am not easily shocked. I should think art a most inappropriate profession for someone with a delicate sensibility.”
    “Très bon.” He leans closer, resting his chin on his palm. His elbow touches my dessertspoon, sending it askew. I want to straighten it, set it back in its place, but I do not.
    He reaches over and teases the silver handle with a mani-cured finger, leaving it out of line. Then starts to say something, but stops.
    “Comment?” I sip my wine, watching him over the rim.
    He hesitates. I can see the great wheels turning in his mind as his gaze drops to my lips. What I imagine him thinking frightens me. I drop my gaze and it lands where his shirtsleeve pulls from his wrist. I glimpse the hair on his forearm, curly and golden downy in the candlelight; the subtle masculine line where the hair stops and the skin grows pale and smooth. I want to touch him there. To judge for myself if, as promised, the texture of hair and skin hold the very essence of all things male.
    I should not notice such things, in his wife’s home, at his wife’s table.
    But it is not his wife’s home. Nor her table.
    Even so, he remains a married man. Unattainable.
    Forbidden.

    The trill of Maman’s laughter slices the air. She is captivated by Eugène’s conversation, and I glance back to Édouard and find him still watching me.
    “Do tell me what thoughts go through your mind to provoke such a look.” His voice is honey, tempting me to taste that for which I should not hunger.
    I toy with the idea of actually speaking my thoughts. Right there with everyone around us, I want to offer a coy smile and stroke his naked wrist and tell him that was what brings such a look to my face.
    I lean in a bit.
    “Perhaps . . .” I bite my lip. “Perhaps I shall tell you sometime. Once we know each other better.”
    Warmed by the wine and soothed by the faint sound of the falling rain outside, a breathless sense of pleasure spreads through me.
    “Then I hope we shall know each other better,” he says. “Very soon.”
    He smiles, and I am moved by the same force that coaxes the earth around the sun. Although, I do not know who is rotating around whom. We seem to f loat up and out of the room, away from the party and pointless polite conversation. Again, I am gripped by the overwhelming need to touch him, to press my hands to his cheeks, to let his warmth course through me.
    He refills my wine goblet with Bordeaux from the decanter on the table, then raises his glass to mine in a toast. The crisp ping of crystal sounds a personal symphony. For an instant I feel unsteady, as if I am gazing through the cheval glass at the male image of myself. It is nonsense, but somehow in that instant, I know him intimately. Deeper than the cutting rubbish published by critics. Beyond the surface glances to a pure dimen-sion devoid of space or time.

    “Just ask her, Édouard.” A deep voice from the opposite end of the table slices through our private universe.
    I feel myself freefalling and crash-landing in the midst of the silent room where all heads are turned toward us.
    It is Stevens who speaks. He gulps the last of his wine, then wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “The poor fellow has been in misery for days