He knew from experience that the weight of corset, chemise, as many as four crinolines, along with underskirt and overdress was significant, and he wondered how she felt to go from the light, clinging attire that she wore while fighting to such restrictive, heavy ones. He also contemplated the pleasure of peeling away her clothing, one layer at a time, like those curious paper boxes from China that nested one inside the other. Each one revealed a new delight and design just as did the layers of a woman’s clothing.
“Please, sit,” Giordan said, realizing he’d allowed his thoughts to go wayward. He gestured with his glass of brandy to encompass the chamber’s hospitality, and one of the footmen poured a glass for Moldavi.
It was decorated in a relatively restrained style in comparison to that of other wealthy French residences—including Versailles. Giordan preferred the spare, simple elegance of the early Greeks and Romans over pastel colors and gilt. Thus, the furnishings were solid, yet inviting and comfortable, with cushions and pillows arranged freely. Large paintings hung on the otherwise bare white walls, except for one corner where a small collection of framed etchings of Parisian streets clustered. He kept them there to remind himself from whence he’d come.
“I am gratified that you saw fit to accept my invitation,” Giordan added, sipping from the glass.
“I accept very few,” Moldavi said as if bestowing some great favor. “But I am most interested in continuing our discussion begun last fortnight. And I have come to understand that one does not wish to miss a party given by Monsieur Cale.” His lips moved in a brief smile. As if to punctuate his reference to joviality, a burst of laughter erupted from the public parlor below.