Seven Secrets of Seduction (11 page)

Miranda blushed, mortification sifting beneath her skin at the mention even if he had no notion of what the pages truly contained.

“And especially watch for
The Bengal.
” Her uncle returned to his active ledgers, adding and subtracting numbers, muttering beneath his breath.

“Yes, Miranda,” Georgette said sternly, waving her to stand. “An awful shame to let that copy slip from your uncle.”

Miranda was reasonably sure that Georgette had never even heard of the rare book. She sighed and resolutely stood.

“I'll just take Miranda up for a chat. I'm positive she will be right as rain to continue,” Georgette said, bidding Miranda's uncle a good afternoon. He waved absently, head still buried.

“Well?” Georgette demanded, when they reached Miranda's room.

Miranda touched one glove clinging to the rack where they
should
have been drying. She needed to wash them but had gotten the basin full, then stared at it, gloves raised above the water. The basin still stood full, cold and untouched in the corner.

Like some silly schoolgirl. One in need of a strong rap to the knuckles.

She collapsed onto the top blanket on her bed, faded
roses intertwined with thorns depicted within. “I'm cataloging Lord Downing's library. Alone.”

Georgette blinked, as if she hadn't truly believed it, then a slow smile worked along her mouth. “Oh, Miranda.”

“Don't start, Georgette. Uncle thinks it is completely reasonable.”

“Why shouldn't he? You're in a house full of servants. People just like you. You don't see any of the maids rolling up fierce that they are alone with the master? You don't see their beaus or husbands dueling the lords, do you? That's because there is an order to things, a structure. You are fitting perfectly into that order by helping the viscount with his moldy books.”

Miranda wasn't sure that made her feel any better. In fact, she felt a mite more depressed.

“It is up to you to bend this to your will. This is the opportunity of a lifetime.” Georgette's eyes turned dreamy. “To be Mrs. Q.”

“Georgette—”

“You've always been fascinated by him, do not lie.”

“I'm fascinated by a lot of people in the society pages. Like reading about characters in a story. They aren't
real
.”

“They are real enough.” Georgette's brows rose. “Or else you wouldn't be whining so.”

Miranda sighed. “I am whining, aren't I.”

Georgette patted her hand. “There, there. I like it when you whine. Makes me feel like the wise one for once.”

Miranda smiled at her friend and squeezed her fingers.

“Now tell me what the real trouble is. Not this silly thought of being alone with him.”

“It's not silly.”

Georgette patted her hand again. “I've already successfully argued on how silly it is. I won.”

“Just because it is not
remarkable
does not mean that being alone with him is not a problem.” She picked at the coverlet. She couldn't tell Georgette about the challenge. Her friend would clamp onto the information and never let it go. She settled on something simpler, yet still accurate. “He confuses me.”

Georgette's wistful smile returned. “How lovely.”

Miranda shook her head. “You are more hopeless than I.”

“I'm a romantic, dear. You are far too practical. And that this man confuses you is the best thing I've heard in years.”

Miranda flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. “Lovely.”

The bed depressed as her friend sat. “And if he has gotten to you in this way, it also means that he is interested in you.”

There were fourteen bumps on her ceiling. If one connected them, it looked like a box opening and something wicked streaming out. “Interested in driving me batty. That's all.”

“I saw you two interact. I saw him nearly
eating
you up. You can't convince me otherwise.”

That she was interested in being the meal was part of the problem. And even though she shared most things with Georgette, and her friend would positively love to hear of it, she couldn't admit her thoughts and feelings aloud. It would make them tangible. Force her to act upon them.

Georgette flopped on her side next to her. “What you need is something else to occupy your thoughts
before you do something mad and refuse to return to his delicious lair.” She tapped her fingers against her upper lip. “Write to one of your correspondents. You always get energized by such, Lord help you. Oh, ask about the sequel to
Seven Secrets
so I can be the first one with the news at the Mortons' this time.”

The ceiling bumps also could form a face with a perfect O of embarrassment about the mouth. “Eleutherios hasn't responded to my last letter, and it has been days now.”

“So?” Georgette shrugged her left shoulder. “Write him again. If he doesn't respond, what have you lost?”

“But—”

“This is part of your problem, Miranda.” Georgette gazed down at her. “You are too caught up in the order of things. You need to do as you please.”

Everyone was always trying to convince her to do as she pleased these days. It almost made her want to hunker down further into her studies and cross her arms in defiance.

“I will do so when I get—”

“When you get another few crowns, another few years, another travel book, another excuse.”

Miranda crossed her arms and studied the ceiling with more concentration. “There is nothing wrong with being prepared.”

“Using preparation as an excuse not to take a leap
is
wrong.”

No answers appeared above. “I'm being safe. Secure.”

“You are being featherbrained.”

She looked over at her friend's frustrated features, a mirror of her own. “It is featherbrained to roam the
Continent alone with naught but my meager clothes and funds.”

“Oh, pish. You have enough to hire someone to accompany you. Mrs. Fritz would go.”

Miranda thought of the elderly woman who boarded with them. “But…”

“Exactly. You will think of some other excuse to resist.”

Miranda tightened her arms.

“Ugh.” Georgette pushed back up to a sitting position and grabbed for her bonnet. “I can't talk to you right now. I'm emerald with the worst envy and crimson with anger at the opportunity you might let slip. This would be good for you. Downing is notorious.”

Miranda shook a finger at her in triumph. “Exactly why I should stay away.”

Georgette shook a finger back. “Exactly why you
shouldn't
.”

 

Miranda contemplated Georgette's words later as she looked at her pen and the blank piece of paper in front of her, squared on her scarred little lap desk.

She touched the short note from Eleutherios that had accompanied the book. The spidery letters sloped and narrowly curved. She traced a letter absently with her finger.

Mr. Pitts would be snorting at the salutation of
Mistress Chase,
his fingers assuredly curled around a
hot cup of black coffee. He despised everything about the author's tendency for flowery speech in his text. What was interesting was that the note was almost terse. If not for the expensive and sought-for gift enclosed, she might not have dared reply.

And twice without a response? She chewed her lip. Georgette was right, though—if nothing else, the decision was taking her mind away from the viscount.

She smoothed the paper on her desk, squaring it again, feeling the creases beneath the bare fingers of her left hand. She fiddled with her pen before dipping it.

She curled her letters of salutation, then paused on the downstroke of her comma, lifting her pen before too much ink puddled on the page. She started a new line.

She looked at the page and fiddled with her pen nib. She could strike it out. Start afresh. She pressed her pen to the start of the sentence, then lifted it. No. It was inconsequential.

So inconsequential that the encounter had only shaken her world and left her reeling since.

She belligerently set her pen down again, determined to wipe away thoughts of the viscount.

No that was unkind. And quite the opposite of not thinking of him. She crossed it out.

She considered crossing that off as well. It seemed her mind was of one track. She tapped the end of the pen against her lip before deciding to leave it. It
was
a valid explanation. Besides, it served the viscount right for monopolizing her thoughts and dragging her emotions to and fro.

Miranda waxed poetic for a few paragraphs, then finished with a note that she did not expect a reply, she simply felt the need to thank him again. She signed with a swirl of letters and sealed the note, carefully placing it near her door to mail.

Next was a return note to Mr. Pitts. She could tell him all about the viscount. He would probably enjoy the man's dislike of Eleutherios. But there was something that told her he would instantly dislike Lord Downing too, so she kept the viscount's title out but filled the page with the encounter.

Mr. Pitts was sometimes a disagreeable sort. He had been from his first note to the
Daily Mill
vilify
ing Eleutherios. The viscount had merely dismissive words for the author. He had nothing on the vitriol Mr. Pitts could spew. It was as if Mr. Pitts knew the author directly and despised him.

She had written a piece to the paper in response, arguing on the author's behalf. Crotchety, sarcastic man had written to her directly to confront her on her opinion. Few days had gone by where she hadn't exchanged correspondence with him since. And never once had he taken affront to her gender upon discovering it. He could be quite charming when he chose, no matter what Georgette said.

Beneath all of his dark, droll words, she thought he secretly enjoyed their friendly, and at times combative, correspondence just as much as she did.

She fondly signed the note.

He'd probably tell her to throw the scandalous illumination into the sea. He'd been irritated about the Gothic from Eleutherios. Told her in no uncertain terms what he'd thought of the bare note and the gift from the “muttonhead.” That he was inconsiderate or had some nefarious ulterior motive and wasn't to be trusted.

But she could no more throw away one temptation over another. Was it more dangerous to take the gift you knew or the gift you didn't?

She touched the cover of the Gothic that she had been given ahead of everyone else in London and tried not to think of temptation, dark men, and charming lords.

Dreams kept one alive. Even the foolish dreams of a working girl. They had kept her going through one devastation after another.

She touched the threadbare palms of her gloves.

Was it naïve to believe a dream wouldn't be punctured? Or did it make one stronger to keep dreaming?

H
e found dreams useless. Maximilian Landry, Viscount Downing, pushed the dips of his specially tailored glove between the fingers on his left hand. Action was undeniably more effective. Naïveté in all forms abhorrent.

Dreams had never gained him a thing. The whims of others were resistant to one's dreams. But action and manipulation were undeniable. Seduction the darkest and lightest tactic.

It was just like him to find someone so opposite to him interesting. And enticing. Miranda Chase was all about reaction and observation. About watching and not participating. About helping instead of grabbing what she desired.

He was going to change all of that.

He had long ago decided he wanted Miranda Chase, no matter what she thought of their having just met. Yes, he wanted Miranda Chase. And he always got what he wanted.

He lifted his finest sword and slowly smiled.

Mr. Pitts to Miranda Chase

 

W
armth from the sun's rays heated her skin, echoing her increasingly heated thoughts as she walked toward the grand house five days later.

If she had thought the viscount would play fair with their challenge, she had been deluding herself. He took every opportunity to point out the scandalous, to shock her, to touch her.

Innocent touches. Small brushes. Casual meetings of flesh, the heat of his fingers tangible on her skin before the tips brushed, the tingle of cool air on a warmed surface making her shiver as soon as the pad would lift. Drawing her toward him like a hand rippling through water and setting a leaf skimming on a wave. As if his skin had set a hook directly into hers, pulling her ever closer.

On Wednesday, armed with a copy of Eleutherios's opus, she had gamely sought to point out everything in the garden that might open one's eyes in wonder. The butterflies, the ruffled edges of a breeze, the peeking gaze of a rabbit. And then she wasn't sure how it happened, but suddenly she was gazing at each vegetable, each plant, and instead of pointing out their vibrant life and determined roots, she was seeing a ripening female, a developed male. The roundness of the tomatoes, the shape of a cabbage and how the leaves nestled around the center, the hang of a cucumber. The tip of a breast or the curled edge of a snuggled core. And, of course…

She had stuttered something in reply to his casually delivered comments. His carefully crafted words and light touches as he outlined each edible object in a very apparent way.

His lips had pulled into the most sensual grin she had ever seen. Enough to set her heart racing and her body firing.

Tomatoes might as well have been rubbed against her cheeks. It would have saved her pumping blood the trouble. She had promised never to allow him the upper hand again.

On Thursday, she had made him sit in a cafe in Piccadilly to observe the crowds. Even dressed less formally, he had stood out in the melee. No one had spared a glance for her, but he could do nothing to mask the inherent power and the blatant masculinity that oozed from him.

But he had ignored the women casting covert or open glances. All of his attention had been on her. Drowning her in his Stygian gaze. His fingers had lightly brushed her elbow, reaching to lift his drink.

She had repeated her promise to herself.

On Friday, she had argued with him about crime and punishment as they walked to Newgate. They had peered at the stark exterior. The way the facade hunched in on itself in some areas and stood proud and tall in others.

And he had simply said, a serious note to his voice, “Never laying eyes upon you again would be the keenest punishment someone could inflict upon me.” His eyes had held hers. Unreadable, intriguing, mercurial. And she could almost believe he meant it from the tone of his voice, the intensity of his gaze, the way his body leaned into hers.

The promise became her mantra.

On Saturday, they had strolled to the park and watched the waterfowl. She'd finally shut him up with a hand to his lips. The soft, hot skin beneath her gloved palms. And then she hadn't been able to think of anything but how the moist heat might feel against her bare skin. The soft skin of her wrists rather than the chapped pads of her fingers. She'd dropped her hands abruptly at the thought and swore to lock herself in the library that afternoon and all the afternoons thereafter. Promises and challenges be damned.

He had followed her to the library, steadying her on the ladder, his shoulder brushing her thigh.

Promises? She had found herself later that night touching the door of the armoire in her room, wondering at the pages hidden inside. At the images in her head now overlaid with visions of the viscount above her, touching her, his lips doing the sinful things at which he kept hinting.

Promises of his own.

She felt barely in possession of her own sensibilities.
Her internal voice was growing dimmer and dimmer. The lure of the illicit manuscript and its master growing stronger. Urging her to follow the siren's call.
Come. Open me. Find the answers to what you've always wondered.

Miranda walked the pavement, the dwindling restraint she claimed sinking into the temptation that seemed ever present in the viscount's vicinity. It was simply amazing that she had refrained from flinging herself in his general direction. She knew she was being seduced. She
knew
it. And yet the call,
come to me, open me up,
was a flame to her moth. And he was Prometheus, keeper of the fire.

Every day she found herself anticipating his appearance in the library doorway even more. And she was ten kinds of fool, for one of these days he wasn't going to show. And one of these days he would have his fill and never appear again.

She shook her head. Stupid moth. Stupid flame.

Two women walking toward her had their heads together, furiously whispering, eyes furtively rising to the left. One blushed violently and ducked her head. Miranda's brows knit, and she turned right onto the walk, then stopped dead.

The gorgeous statue of warmed alabaster clothed in black rose from his seated, lounging position on the stone steps, looking for all that he had been waiting just for her. A cloth bundle was held in his right hand.

“My lord,” she somehow managed to stutter.

“Miss Chase.”

She clutched her gloved hands to each other, rubbing the cheap shields together. “Hoping to catch a glimpse of the sun?”

“Waiting for her lovely rays to peek through the
clouds,” he said agreeably. He didn't glance up toward the sky, he just continued to look at her. Her face heated under his gaze, assuredly rosy red.

His lips curved. “Ah, there it is.” He languidly took the last step.

Moth. Flame. Danger.

She attempted to skirt past him and enter the house, trying to disregard what the thump of her heart told her to do instead.

He touched her arm, freezing her in place, her foot upon the first stone step.

“Come.” He slid his free hand down her arm and took her fingers in his, lifting them.

Her body froze, any lingering resolve tipped to shatter if it fell. She stared straight ahead. “But I don't want to be late.”

Mrs. Humphries would hold it against her, and she'd been trying to worm her way into the woman's good graces when the viscount wasn't present. When she needed to think other thoughts.

“I have already informed the household that you are joining me. They are shelving the piles you sorted earlier and will begin uncrating the volumes that are in the carriage house.”

More
books? She met his eyes. “But—”

“I pointed to the specific piles. This will save you three days' worth of lugging printed bricks. Besides.” He smiled lazily, far too close to her. “I'm the boss.”

“But—”

“And I need an escort.”

She stared at him. An escort? Her hand shivered in his.

“I'm desirous of your company.”

She continued to stare.

His lips pulled into a smile, a teasing lift at the edges. “I need you to purchase some books for me.”

A request that was perfectly within the parameters of her hired position. Hard to refuse, as such.

Not that she
would
refuse.

“Very well.” She tugged her hand from his and smoothed her two-seasons-out-of-fashion pelisse. “What store are we visiting?”

He motioned for her to walk with him, the parcel still in his hand. “Not a store.”

She attempted to keep her gaze on the pedestrians passing by. The curious eyes focused on the man beside her. She was used to being in Georgette's shadow, but this man cast an even wider field. “Oh? Then a warehouse?” His title would likely open quite a few doors on Paternoster Row.

“No, to Lady Banning's.”

She stumbled. He put out a hand to steady her. Not in her field of comfort nor expertise—either his action or their destination. She tried to remove her arm before his touch could unhinge her even more—the tingles never truly seeming to dissipate. She didn't bother with a “pardon me” or even an “I must have misunderstood.”

“I'm not dressed for such a destination.”

“We will stop by the modiste then and acquire something suitable for you.” A grand carriage pulled in front of them. The stately matched horses stood at attention, perfectly poised.

The coachman posed on top of the box as a liveried boy smartly opened the door with a flourish. Miranda stared at the boy as he lifted a hand to assist her inside.

She'd woken up this morning. Dressed and chatted
with Mrs. Fritz, who cooked for them in exchange for her board. Cleaned the downstairs floors. Taken care of a few things in the store. Walked the few miles to Mayfair. And somewhere between turning up the walk to the viscount's manor and approaching the front door, she'd fallen back to sleep. Again.

Just like every day since she'd met him really.

“Giles,” the viscount said toward the coachman. “We will be making a stop at Madame—”

“No, no,” she said hastily.

“Ga—”

“Might I speak with you a moment?” One brow lifted as she touched his sleeve and tugged him to the side. “What are you doing?” she whispered harshly.

“Offering to take you to the modiste.”

She glared up at him. “Are you serious about going to Lady Banning's?”

“The last I checked.”

“We can walk there.”

“How do you know where she lives?”

“Lady Banning lives around the corner.”

“Do you follow her, hiding in the bushes?”

Miranda looked down her nose. “Everyone knows where Lady Banning lives.”

“She will be delighted to be so notorious. Please tell me that I measure up. Did you know where I lived?”

She colored. “Don't be silly.”

He smiled slowly. “I'm flattered.”

“Don't be. I mistook you for your butler, if you'll remember.”

“I am still smarting from it too.” He had obviously never found anything but amusement in the gaffe.

“It is a game to know the addresses of the Quality. Not a novelty at all.” She had never put much stock in
the games people sometimes played over a pint, but she had witnessed them on more than one occasion.

“Do I get extra sips for being a king among rogues?”

“Sorry, but I had never heard much about you.” She clasped her hands together.

“I'm wounded. Mortally.” His eyes never left hers as he rubbed a finger across his lower lip.

They both knew that she had. That she possibly was even
intrigued
by him before, not that she'd admit as much now.

“We can walk,” she said, trying to get back to the crux of the problem. By design, she had made each of their daily outings within walking distance. Only Newgate had stretched the boundaries, but she'd used the excuse of the walk as part of the “teaching.”

“Walk? Never. Not when I can arrive in style.”

She stared at him as he motioned to the dark carriage with its drawn shades, urging her forward.

“I'm not riding in that thing.”

“I just had it deloused. I promise there are no fleas remaining with a sweet tooth for shopgirls.”

She glared at him. “Well, at least you've decided to stop seducing me.”

He raised a brow. “Seduce you? What are you thinking, Miss Chase?”

She didn't reply, and he motioned for her to get in the belly of the deadly beast.

She looked at the carriage. Even with the cattle standing perfectly at attention, the entire contraption unnerved her. Horses could be spooked. They could bolt, gallop on a mad spree, destroying everything in their path and everyone within the coffin they were pulling.

No need to get in it if she didn't have to.

“I'll meet you there.”

“Can't, I'm afraid. We have to make another stop first.”

“Where?”

“You are quite autocratic today. Questioning your employer.”

“You aren't my employer. My uncle is. I'm simply doing him a favor by dealing with you.” And earning a nice percentage, she internally allowed. But no matter how grand and lovely the carriage probably was on the inside, she wouldn't get in that thing in order to travel a few blocks.

His fingers touched her chin, igniting the heat within her that he seemed to call forth at will. “I promise the ride is smooth. I won't let you fall.”

She looked into his eyes. Flame. Moth. Danger.

A simple carriage ride. She nodded tightly, stepping away. The boy near the door offered his hand, and she took a deep breath. She would simply think happy thoughts. She took the boy's hand and ascended.

Her foot was already inside when she heard the viscount's voice.

“To Madame G—”

“I'd rather not,” she said as quickly as she could, turning, realizing too late where the other stop would be. Georgette would curse her to the fifth level of hell if she ever found out that she'd turned down a new dress from whatever modiste they might have visited. But dressed as she was, Miranda would never be noticed at the countess's house except as the worker she was. Embarrassment over her clothing was misplaced and, frankly, asinine.

And the thought that he might buy her clothing
made her head spin in mad ways, and she needed to maintain her equilibrium.

She glanced to the side to see the coachman look to the viscount.

“Perhaps later then.” The viscount smiled lazily again, then motioned her the rest of the way inside.

Obtaining books. That was all.

The interior looked different than her most radical imaginings. She had craned and peered into more than one grand carriage from afar and had always fancied the insides contained glorious tuffets and yards of gold alchemically turned into silk. But the viscount's was quite plain. The requisite black and grays she already associated with him. Muted silver and gold accents. Hardly a sultan's paradise.