Seven Secrets of Seduction (12 page)

Then again, very little lived up to her imaginings, which was why she tried not to constrain anything to them.

Except Eleutherios. She had a certain image of him. And Mr. Pitts.

She had expected a multitude of shiny objects and expensive contraptions would keep her mind off the fact that they were moving in an enclosed space. She eyed the opposite window. Perhaps she could casually open the shade before he entered without drawing attention to the action.

Her rear touched the seat, and the fabric molded around her, pulling her into a velvety embrace, surrounding her. It gripped and pulled, unaccountably relaxing her, draining the tension from her limbs. She paused a moment, completely sated, then touched the top of the padded bench. The soft, luxurious fabric caressed her hand, inviting her to keep it there, whispering of the glories that would be hers if she did. She didn't
know what type of cushion it was, but it was worth a small kingdom.

Probably cost that too.

She looked around the interior with a new, appreciative eye. Not splashy or showy, but sumptuous. Decadent in all the right ways. She had never felt such luxury. Picked out for the way it surrounded and enveloped, made one feel relaxed and open.

She had peered into the interior of an earl's carriage once. It had been gilded and ostentatious from her distance. He and his beautiful countess had looked like the perfect lovely pair except for the stiff way they'd sat. The cold, detached expressions on their faces. She reexamined the memory, slotting this new information into place. Choices based on the external versus the internal.

But the viscount had not made the external choice. In this instance, at least.

The stunning thought must have shown on her face because the viscount raised a brow. “Something amiss?”

He reclined in the seat across from her, one leg extended, almost brushing the outside of hers, the mysterious bundle resting next to him.

“Just surprised. I'd expected something…different.”

“Fingers swirling beneath the surface. It is what is underneath that matters, no? What the material is made of?”

He looked as if he were having a terrific joke at her expense, and at the same time that intense, too-watchful gaze that occasionally graced his face was in evidence once more.

“I suppose this is where I say, touché.” It should
have been a disgruntled statement, but she couldn't work up the feeling over the fast beat of her heart, or through the low whisper of her voice.

“Do not fret, Miss Chase.” His knee casually brushed hers as he settled back farther. “I'll not rib you for it…much.”

She continued to stroke the bench, almost unconsciously. It made her feel like she was in a grand sitting room instead of within a death trap. And all of a sudden there were equally dangerous thoughts running through her mind that she needed to tamp down.

“Why are you taking me to Lady Banning's?” She was glad the question emerged in a more casual tone than she'd thought herself capable. She tried to focus on their destination. The countess was the preeminent member of the literary elite in London. It was said that she had a copy of every book ever printed. Even a secret second copy of
Beowulf
—one in finer condition than the museum's.

And the woman, a countess in her own right, was said to be rigid about who entered her private sanctuary.

If Miranda had been told their destination by anyone else, she'd know they were poking fun. But the viscount seemed to mean more of the things he said than he was likely to admit.

Her hands tightened as the coachman called out, and the vehicle shifted. The viscount casually leaned over and lifted the shades, allowing the bright light to filter in and drown the shadows. She relaxed slightly as the carriage began to move.

“Why am I taking you? To acquire some books, as I said.”

The horses pulled into a steadier gait. Worth every penny for the way they seamlessly moved. None of
the starting and jerking that she'd expected even in an expensive rig.

She clasped her fingers. “You are as well versed as I about literature, my lord. You have proven that.”

“Just because I know Rousseau from Homer does not mean I can adequately make the correct choice of purchase.”

But he knew far more than that. She sat back, trying to relax and enjoy the way the carriage rocked like a cradle pushed by a loving hand. Much nicer than the jostling of a rickety hack over cobblestones—which she sometimes had to take, white-knuckled and nauseous.

Still…accidents could happen to the wealthy too.

She concentrated on him, and his eyes never left hers as he rubbed a finger across the knee of his trousers in time with the rocking.

She needed to get over her negative associations with traveling if she ever truly wanted to grab her dream and continue her family's aborted goal to tour the Continent. Nice short stops in a comfortable space might just be what she needed. This wasn't so bad, all things considered.

She wondered what renting a rig like this might cost. If the coachman took pennies or pounds. Probably pure silver nuggets.

The carriage slowed, and Miranda's nerves jumped again. They truly were stopping at Lady Banning's then. She touched the soft fabric. “What do I do while you are speaking to the countess or whomever?”

She wasn't his servant. But she certainly wasn't a member of society. She could pretend around the viscount, but stepping a foot into another part of the realm was like waking from a dream to find all one's covers and nightwear on the floor.

She was completely out of her element. Should she act like a lady's maid or a feminine valet? Both images might have caused her to chuckle in another situation, but at the moment she felt a little more like casting up her contents.

“‘Whomever' is quite vague,” he said.

And she was a female. The viscount decidedly was not.

“Whomever you speak with in that house will be above my station, so it is not actually vague.”

She couldn't contain a relieved breath as the door opened, and she exited the contraption.

“Ah. But station is quite like the fingers in the pool, is it not? A small stirring uncovers far more about one's character.”

She glared as he exited behind her. A governess then, with a charge in need of a swat. No. Even the image of the viscount turned over her knee didn't make her laugh. This was going to be terrible.

“What do I do while you are entertaining?”

“Join in the conversation?”

“Are you mad?”

“Not at the moment. I feel quite calm.”

“In the mind!”

“That either.”

“You are finding amusement then.” She touched a patch in her skirt. “You…you aren't going to introduce me to anyone, correct?”

“Of course not. A lowly shopgirl like you? Never.”

She couldn't discern from his flippant tone as to whether he was joking or not. She found herself unaccountably disgruntled again. Which was absurd. He was making her bold with his flirting.

As they walked through the entrance hall, every
thing in her imaginings proved true. Lady Banning's house was downright intimidating. Even the servants swaggered. The viscount's servants were upright and efficient, but they seemed a much happier bunch. These servants might as well have had horse dung permanently embedded in the collars of their livery for the way their noses pinched and rose.

There were numerous people loitering in the entrance, more than she'd anticipated. Almost as if it were a coffeehouse, and people congregated there to speak.

The viscount pointed to a blissfully empty corner of the columned room, and she automatically positioned herself behind the farthest column as soon as they reached it. It was a great place to observe first, act second. The viscount's mouth curved as he took in her position and opened to make an assuredly slicing comment.

A woman in bold peacock blue sashayed up and touched the viscount's sleeve, halting his comment. A fleeting butterfly touch that went with her airy plumes and fluttering lashes. “Downing. It has been nearly a sennight since I've seen you.”

“Lady Hucknun, a pleasure.” He bowed over her hand, and Miranda watched as his fingers slipped over hers. A public display, and nothing beyond the pale. It just seemed that his every action held a certain seductive bent.

Miranda stood still in her partially hidden position. Lady Hucknun's eyes moved over Miranda, dismissing her as quickly as a butterfly touching, then fluttering off.

She tapped the viscount with her fan. “Naughty man, depriving us of your company.”

“I endlessly require chastening.”

“That you do.” Her look was sly.

A man stepped to the viscount's other side, just far
enough so that she had to peek around to see him. “Downing.”

“Colin.”

Silence descended on the group—awkward to someone as out of her element as Miranda was. She thought maybe she could even slip away in the heavy fog.

The woman looked back and forth between the men with speculative eyes. The gleam that sometimes gathered in Georgette's eyes when a bit of gossip was about to form sprung in hers. The viscount seemed unconcerned. The Colin fellow fidgeted, then stared pointedly at the lady.

Her lips moued. “Later then, my lord.”

The viscount tipped his head and looked back at Colin as the woman sashayed away.

Colin's eyes didn't even touch on Miranda, half-hidden behind the column. She supposed even at a glance she looked like one of the dozen other personal servants milling about, waiting for instructions. Colin wasted little time, the other woman barely out of earshot. “The marchioness has been asking for you.”

“Has she?” The viscount seemed relaxed, but Miranda saw his fingers tighten around the handle of his walking stick.

“She requires your assistance.”

“What a surprise.”

“Mother constantly aims to do so,” Colin said bitterly.

Miranda's eyes shifted abruptly back to the man. Mother? Colin must be his Christian name. Georgette would know right off where he fell in the order. Miranda took in his appearance. Blue eyes and sandy brown hair.

But then she looked closer. The clothing was similar.
As if the one was trying to imitate the other, however unconsciously. It was obvious who was whom in that matter as the viscount owned the way he stood and the way the fabric draped over him. His clothing was an accent to him versus the way Colin's clothing was almost wearing him.

Colin had the uncomfortable, rough edges of a sculpture being molded and shaped still, showing promise but incomplete. He was perhaps twenty or twenty-one.

“Don't we all?” The viscount's words were careless, but there was a hard edge to the syllables. “There is so little these days to amuse.”

“Some of us manage reasonable, scholarly lives and have no need to be splattered all over the gossip pages.”

“Ah, the voice of ever-epic reason. Given to you by the inimitable deans in their vast wisdom.” The viscount snapped his fingers, swirled them, and continued his studied nonchalance. “I lament what will happen when you matriculate and experience life on your own.”

Colin's eyes narrowed. “Drinking already, I see, Downing?”

“What care have you, Colin? Go back to your correspondence and literary pursuits.” The last was said in a dark tone.

“Our plight concerns me. The family name.”

The viscount watched him without saying a word.

Colin pursed his lips. “My morality and ethics teacher said that we are on a downward spiral.”

“He sounds like a boor.”

“He's brilliant,” Colin said harshly.

“And what do you wish me to do about this sad spiral?”

“It is your responsibility to solve it.”

“It is?” The viscount's brow raised.

Colin's hands fisted. “You are the heir.”

“And?”

“You need to rein Mother in.”

“I am the heir. Which means it
isn't
my job to rein her in. Nor withdraw her funds. It is our father's.”

Colin gave an ugly little laugh. “Amusing.”

“Is it?” Downing took his drink from a quick servant. “I seem to recall seeing him still breathing just the other week. He could speak to her of it if it bothers him.”

“He cares for nothing except his own amusements. We could all perish, and he wouldn't look up from the pair of legs he is currently between.”

Miranda tried to keep her color from blazing too warm. The rose would surely show against the stark white Corinthian columns behind her.

The viscount sipped the golden liquid. “Quite possibly.”

“And?”

The viscount raised a brow in response.

“What will you do with Mother?” his brother demanded.

“What do you want me to do with her? Beat her?”

Colin's lips pulled together. “Tell her to stop. It is beyond embarrassing. The looks everyone gives me at Oxford.”

“Be a man, Colin. Give them right back.”

“Have you heard the rumors?” he demanded.

“Gossip groveling, Colin? Tut. I thought such things beneath you.” Miranda would have thought the viscount unaffected by the whole conversation if not for the fingers of his hand, hands she always noticed, gripping the glass. “I don't see you getting wroth with Father
when he is on the front lines of the scandal sheets.”

Colin's fists clenched. “I don't find his actions much more palatable.”

“‘Much more.' Exactly.”

Colin didn't seem happy with the comment. “It is worse for her.”

“Undoubtedly.”

Miranda wondered if Colin understood that the viscount's words contained double meanings. She felt oddly pleased with Downing.

“You coddle her,” Colin said.

“Do I?”

The man's face grew beet red. “Conrad thinks you will salvage the family name. I don't share his optimism. I want to know what you intend to do.”