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“By that fellow the Marquis de Sade?” Isabella inquired.
Devon waved the book. “The very one.”
“How scandalous!”
“Perhaps we ought to take turns reading from it. Miss Sherwood, would you do us the honor of being first?”
He handed her the book, which she opened to an engraving of a young woman, scantily dressed, between a naked man and a woman who seemed bent on ill will. Deana frowned at the title page. Her French was very poor. She would be hard pressed to read even the shortest passage.
“This is highly inappropriate,” Rockwell said.
“Inappropriate?” Devon echoed. “There could be no setting more appropriate than the Chateau Follet. You are aware of Monsieur Follet’s association with de Sade?”
“The work of de Sade is not suited for the present company.”
Isabella, amused by Rockwell’s seriousness added, “La! Pray tell you have not become a prudish old woman, Halsten?”
“I am sure Miss Sherwood has never read the work of de Sade. Are you not the least bit interested, Miss Sherwood?” asked Devon.
Deana looked down at the book and admitted, despite the solemn look from Rockwell, “A little.”
“I have not read from him either,” Isabella said.
“There! We ought not deprive these ladies,” Devon declared.
Rockwell took the book away from Deana. “There are descriptions in here of a graphic nature and obscenities most foul—”
“The same are conducted within the very walls of Chateau Follet. I think you have been absent from the East Wing for too long. What is the harm in a little literary titillation?”
“You may find the rape and torture of a girl but twelve years of age titillating, but I do not.”
“Ah! You know the story! Do you dare admit you have read it?”
“I have read it in its entirety. De Sade’s intent to provoke and revolt is accomplished to great effect.”
“I refuse to believe you found no erotic qualities to the work.”
“Lord Devon, there is a great difference between a woman who takes pleasure in punishment and one, Justine, who is subjected to the most extreme mistreatments against her will.”
“It is merely a work of fiction.”
“Come, Halsten, we are not children,” Isabella said.
“Perhaps we can discuss the merits of the novel after reading from it.”
“The two of you may do so,” Rockwell replied, “but Miss Sherwood and I will
not be joining. If naughty literature is what you seek, I would sooner read from Fanny Hill.”
“I have that as well.” Devon pulled out another book. “Miss Sherwood, I insist you be the first reader.”
Fortunately the book was written by an Englishman, John Cleland. Deana glanced at Rockwell, who seemed to relent.
“Open the book to any page,” Devon instructed before laying himself down, his head in Isabella’s lap.
Rockwell’s face darkened. Deana opened the book. Perhaps the reading would distract him from his jealousy.
“’The young gentleman, by Phoebe's guess, was about two and twenty; tall and well limbed. His body was finely formed and of a most vigorous make, square-shouldered, and broad-chested: his face was not remarkable in any way, but for a nose inclining to the Roman, eyes large, black, and sparkling, and a ruddiness in his cheeks that was the more a grace, for his complexion was of the brownest, not of that dusky dun colour which excludes the idea of freshness, but of that clear, olive gloss which, glowing with life, dazzles perhaps less than fairness, and yet pleases more, when it pleases at all. His hair, being too short to tie, fell no lower than his neck, in short easy curls; and he had a few sprigs about his paps, that garnished his chest in a style of strength and manliness.’”
