Seven Secrets of Seduction (14 page)

She snorted. A very genteel, lofty snort. “How I'd like to see it, Downing. Do leave a card when it occurs.”

He bowed. “Of course.”

“I've heard rumors that you are looking for more…permanence.”

“Rumors often reflect the wishes of others.”

“And yet once in a while they prove true.”

“Respectability has never suited me.”

The countess sniffed. “As if you could be respectable. I said ‘permanence.' An entirely different meaning.”

“And yet they are similar in many minds.”

The countess surveyed him. “Are they similar in yours, is the question. I'm inclined to lend the rumors some credence in this instance. There is something different about you, Downing, these last few months.”

“I confess to letting my hair grow a mite too long. I shall beat my valet posthaste.”

“Hmph.” Her eyes narrowed. “And yet…yes, I do wonder.” She abruptly turned to Miranda. “Good afternoon to you, Miss Chase. It has been a most interesting one so far.”

Miranda bowed low. “Good afternoon, my lady. It was a pleasure.”

“Oh, I expect our paths will cross again. Do stop by the salon next week, with or without Downing.” She said it as if she hadn't just issued one of the most coveted invitations in London. She turned to the viscount. “Downing.”

The viscount bowed again, but more stiffly.

Miranda walked from the house in a trance. She didn't remember getting into the carriage. “Actual foul papers. Original writings for
The Twelfth Night
…” she murmured as they softly rocked. “How on earth did she obtain them?”

“The countess is quite adept at procuring what she wants.”

“I'm surprised she agreed to the trade.” She shook her head. To find notes for the plays, or any of Shakespeare's other works, was very rare, almost mythical. The foul papers or notes inevitably slipped into vaults—snapped up before reaching the public.

“There was never a doubt.” He lazily tapped a finger on the seat. “The countess is mad for illuminations. I save them especially for her. She'll trade near anything for them. This trade required three of them, this one being the final tome, but it was well worth it.”

Miranda's heart stopped beating for a second. The countess had mentioned fourteenth-century scandalous texts—which in retrospect, and without her overrid
ing embarrassment coloring her hearing, pointed to a preference for that fare. And if Miranda weren't mistaken, that was what she had been secretly,
studiously
, paging through again the night before at home. “I…I must return your illumination.”

He raised a brow. “Why ever would you do that?”

“I should never have taken it anyway.” What had she been thinking? She hadn't. Just like she often stopped breathing when he was around. The illumination was doubly valuable if he could use it to trade with the countess. “It is too valuable.”

“Nonsense.”

“Hardly nonsense,” she argued.

“I wouldn't have given it to you if I'd needed to keep it.”

“But—”

“You are obviously enjoying it.” His eyes sifted over her. “I hope you are enjoying it at least. I want you to have it.”

A buzzing began just beneath her thoughts, under her skin.

“Just as I want you to accompany me to the gardens.”

“Oh?”
To put into practice the illuminated illustrations, to answer the siren's call, to feel truly alive.

“A reward to you for returning my books to me last week.” His lazy speech was in direct opposition to the increased buzzing, the feelings and desires sifting beneath the surface.

She strove to answer as lightly. “You deliberately avoided taking the books. I could do nothing but return them.”

One long finger wove a slow pattern on his knee. “Then for putting together my library.”

“You are paying me.”

“Then for brightening my day.” He smiled. Slowly. Fully. Her heart skipped a beat. Silly, dangerous thoughts and feelings. “Say you will go.” His voice was low and whiskey-laced.

She couldn't go. It was madness.

Her mother's ghost would forever haunt her, the academy would bar her from ever entering again. Georgette would kill her for refusing. Her uncle wouldn't notice either way.

Mr. Pitts's scathing voice echoed in her mind—
decide for yourself.

She was going to say no. Tell him that she wasn't interested. Not in attending a lavish dinner at Vauxhall—as assuredly the viscount would provide. Not in attending a masquerade where she could be anyone she wished amidst the thousands of fairy lamps and the fireworks.

Not in going with the viscount—the most interesting man she'd ever met who didn't reside somewhere behind a pen. A husky siren who promised to teach her things she'd never dreamed.

“Very well,” she heard her voice say, far away, almost out of her control.

He leaned back against the seat with a satisfied smile. “Excellent.”

They stopped a few seconds later. She was still trying to process that she'd said yes. And meant it.

She realized they should have stopped long before now. That she had been so absorbed with the aftermath of their visit, with the man in front of her, with her
thoughts, that she hadn't even paid attention to the ride. To the carriage and death trap. “Where are we?”

“At the dressmaker. You need something to wear tonight.”

“I only just agreed to…” She let the rest of the sentence trail, the flood of feeling tightening. “I suppose I am as easily predictable as the next woman.”

He tilted his head. “Not predictable.”

“Well, you certainly guessed correctly that I would agree to attend.”

“I was hoping.” A sly twist of his lips caused her to bite her own. The carriage door opened.

She stared at him and tried to be light over the conflicting feelings within. She
desired
this. And if she chose this path, she
must
guard her heart. “I thought you said you had a domino?”

“A domino wraps the package. You need a dress beneath.”

“I don't require a dress.” There was something irreversible about his buying her clothing. She could borrow a gown from Georgette.

“You want to bare all beneath? I find that to be an acceptable plan.”

“No! That—I—”

“I don't think it wise to go without the domino as well, Miss Chase,” he said, raising a haughty brow. “Really. I thought you a more discreet sort.”

She crossed her arms, pinching her lips together. A slight cough on the other side of the door made her realize they had been sitting inside alone for too long an
appropriate
time in an unmoving vehicle. Her eyes went wide wondering what the boy outside the carriage was thinking.

“Miss Chase is trying to decide whether to run about stark naked, Benjamin,” the viscount called out. “One more moment.”

“Very good, my lord.” There wasn't even a pause in the reply.

She popped from the carriage as fast as she could. “I am not. Don't—I—”

“Smart choice, miss,” Benjamin said, nodding.

She stared at the boy for a moment, and the light in his eyes made her sigh and respond in kind.

“Incorrigible. Both of you.”

“Thank you, miss.” The young groom puffed out his chest, pleased to be lumped into a category with the viscount.

She shook her head. The viscount gestured toward the shop, and she automatically ascended the walk. She tried to concentrate on the path and keep her nerve instead of looking at the shop's large windows. A beautifully tailored gown was strategically positioned behind the panes, draped and flowing. Of the highest fashion. Glittering accents sparkled through the tulle of the skirt, wrapping around and out through the train.

“The Countess Drayton wore that gown to the King's ball.”

“What are we
doing
here?” She could barely get the words out as her feet automatically took her up the pavers. She was a haze of nerves, and felt adrift on the breeze, floating toward the door. “Unwise,” she said beneath her breath.

His walking stick tapped a rhythm on the stones. “You keep saying that. Why don't you let go and embrace doing things that aren't wise?”

“I seem to have a bad case of embracing them around you,” she muttered. “The mere definition of the word should be explanation in and of itself.”

“I am happy to see you embracing anything of mine.” The side of his mouth quirked as he walked. An appealing curve that begged for a finger to trace the lines and share in the humor.

“I'm not going to let you seduce me,” she blurted out.

“Not much of a seduction if you simply let me.” He opened the door. “I was rather hoping that you would choose to seduce me instead.”

She stood on the threshold, one foot half-lifted, as she stared into his eyes, which were more serious than she could credit.

She stepped over the edge.

Secret #4: Never lose control…

 

…
He could feel her fingers on his skin, beneath his shirt, as she blushed and touched the fabric Madame Galland draped over her hands, her fingers slipping over it in a caress that he could feel to his toes. He couldn't hear what she said from his comfortable seat in the private waiting area, but he could imagine her soft voice, the way she uttered each descriptive syllable with a reverence that would match the longing in her eyes.

The modiste looked toward him, nonchalantly, and he gestured with two fingers. She nodded, the entire communication taking less than a second and going completely unnoticed as Miranda's eyes were on the fabric, her lower lip curled under her top teeth, an assuredly apologetic negative on her tongue.

Madame Galland simply nodded to her and handed her another sumptuous fabric. The action was repeated until Max tilted his head. The modiste ushered Miranda toward the dressing area, unfortunately outside his viewing radius. He would have loved to see her undress
ing within his regard. To see the scarlet bloom on her cheeks and the tremors jump beneath her skin.

She emerged reluctantly in a finished piece that would require only slight alterations, the modiste shooing her out before the tall mirrors, which were conveniently in his sight.

The fabric gripped her in all the appropriate places, highlighting her curves and brightening her skin. Revealing a tantalizing hint of undergarments and flesh in the open seams that would cinch and clutch her once sewn but gaped and concealed as she shifted before the looking glass.

It took a few dress changes before she began to relax and enjoy herself, seeming to forget he was there except for the telltale sign of her fingers tucking the hair behind her left ear in lingering shyness and the way her eyes would dart in his direction when she thought he wasn't looking.

He smiled. Things were progressing apace.

He shouldn't be surprised. After all, aside from his family concerns, he always got what he wanted.

But he couldn't even explain it to himself, this need to have her. To break her. To shape her. To remold her.

To keep her exactly as she was and shield her from people just like himself.

It was the knife-edge that had been teetering for weeks. He'd had to take action. Couldn't wait any longer. He'd nearly jumped the starting gun. More than once.

He had to thank her innocence that she hadn't noticed—hadn't seemed one whit suspicious. And why would she be? It was ludicrous. The whole situation was.

And so unlike him. He valued internal control above
all else. The one property that seemed ever elusive in his family. People who gave in to their base feelings were weak. Easily led by their emotions. That someone had tweaked his own was unnerving.

It made him uneasy. And he didn't like that at all.

So here he was, action in motion, sidetracked; watching her wide eyes and shy smile as she nodded tentatively to whatever the modiste was saying. He was determined to get his fill, remake her into the confident, vivacious woman she could be, then resume his normal life, free from her invisible grip.

Easy enough. He had conquered harder challenges. Family financial declines, scandal upon family scandal, turning the family reputation into a legend, cleaning up after his parents.

Not murdering anyone related by blood.

And Miranda Chase provided plenty of material for him to work with. She was a passionate woman beneath her real innocence.

But something about her made him think odd and dangerous thoughts. Thoughts of veering from his path of destruction. Heading off the gossips with firm respectability. Discontinuing the cycle of pain.

Could it be that the destruction of a relationship wasn't the foregone conclusion he'd always thought it to be? That emotions didn't weaken the structure?

Something about her continued to itch under his skin, causing his blood to flow faster. An unidentified element that was just outside of his control.

He shook away the thought. Some lingering piece of the game, assuredly.

But he couldn't shake the fallible feeling.

Secret #4 (cont.):…and never let another pull your strings without your consent. Own your own thoughts, know your confidence, and she will fall at your feet.

 

M
iranda found her way to the library in a haze. The viscount had needed to be dropped at an appointment, but he had kept her in the carriage until he exited. Teasing her in his dark way, making her forget her surroundings, her heart lurching in something far from fear.

He had signaled to the coachman. A twist of his fingers. A casual mention of pulling a cord if she wanted to stop—and how there were plenty of fine stops on the way, and didn't she want to stretch her feet? Then he had exited. And the driver had taken a long, scenic drive of London on the return. A slow ride in the expensive conveyance. Stopping occasionally, never once responding in anything other than a friendly manner when she'd pulled the cord and leapt out.

The viscount could have seen her tightened fingers—he was remarkably perceptive—and deduced her fear at the beginning of the ride. But that she wished for a longer journey? That short jaunts mingled with quick stops might help her in some way?

Dangerous man.

She heard sounds from down the hall. Curiosity dispelled some of the haze. She had been working mostly on her own, for each time the viscount appeared, any servants assisting her would mysteriously disappear. So she was expecting to see one or two servants unloading crates. She stepped into the doorway and froze.

He didn't just have a few servants helping. He had an army.

She stepped inside to help, but was immediately surrounded by women. “Oh, Miss Chase, there you are. This way.” One of them pointed back to the door, then spoke to a woman who had entered behind Miranda. “Galina, you were supposed to show her to the room right away.”

“She came in the back door.” The pretty servant gave her a formal stare. Cold. “Again.”

Miranda had told Benjamin and Giles to take her right into the carriage house. She had wanted to see the other coffins—
carriages
—and the horses. She had even stroked one on the nose. She had felt eminently better than she had in a long time. A weight lifted from her shoulders.

“My apologies. I asked Giles if I could see the horses, and it seemed impractical to walk around to the front.”

Their stares ranged from hostile to surprised at her usage of the driver's name. Miranda vaguely wondered
again about the other visitors,
other women
, who had visited the house on a rotating basis.

“It is no trouble, Miss Chase,” one of the maids reassured her with a kind smile.

“Please call me Miranda.”

The woman nodded. “Of course, Miss Chase.”

Miranda sighed.

“If you could come with us, we can begin.”

Miranda blinked at the women surrounding her. “Begin? But the room is coming along splendidly. You've done a fine job. Thank you so much for your help.”

A flash of irritation passed through Galina's eyes before the coldness resumed. “So we can begin preparing you.”

“Preparing me? Is there a flood imminent?” Miranda attempted a joke, but when the pretty maid's eyes narrowed, she lost her already wobbly smile. “Preparing for what?”

“For your engagement tonight.”

Miranda stared at her. She had just arrived back from the modiste. How would the staff even know? Well, she supposed it had taken over an hour with all of her stops. But still…preparing?

“Will it be that dire? Do I need to practice my lines?” The maid didn't seem to appreciate any attempts at humor. Miranda shifted uncomfortably.

“Please, Miss Chase, follow us.” The kinder maid once again motioned toward the door.

Miranda followed them down the hall, a short trip, to a large guest room. It was a lovely, styled room, but impersonal. Likely one of a dozen extra rooms. Miranda shook her head. And it would cost more than she had to furnish a corner of the room alone—this indistinct paradise.

“This is to be your room while you are here.”

Miranda started. “My room? I am not staying.”

“To use as you please. If you require a respite, you may retire here.” The maid broadly gestured around the room. There was a large bed with dozens of pillows piled on top. A curling armed bench sat at the foot. A dressing table and chair stood along the wall. A reading chair sat in the far corner beside a personal table and ottoman. Everything was expensive, but uniform. She was reminded a bit of the viscount's Red Room, with its stark, indecipherable style.

And then her attention focused on a small spinning globe next to the window nook. A place to dream and gaze. The globe was smaller than the countess's, which sought to fill the center space of the countess's room, but this one looked equally magnificent. Her hand itched to trace the gilded meridians.

One tiny bit of personality—one just for her—in this otherwise-impersonal room.

How…how would he know? They had only just been to Lady Banning's.

“I am here to work,” she said in a near whisper, not knowing how to respond.

Galina sent her a disbelieving look, then opened the large wooden armoire. Hanging inside was a diaphanous gown of sea-sprayed white, green, and blue. The white accents were crested waves of a sea that was neither calm nor storm-tossed. Somewhere in flux. In transition from one state to the other.

Miranda reached out a finger to touch the gown, then drew it back.

“Your gown, Miss Chase.”

“Mine?” It was hard to vocalize. She was to wear this?

She let her finger complete its journey, touching the fabric, running her finger along the edge of a wave and down to the waterfall beneath. “It's beautiful.”

She hadn't tried this dress on. Hadn't seen it in the shop at all.

“Yes, Miss Chase.” Galina's response was perfunctory and automatic, but there was a negative thread lacing it. Miranda looked to her but was met with a perfectly blank face. No hint of jealousy or irritation on display. Still…

“Thank you, Miss Lence, for helping me. I daresay I am out of my element here.”

She thanked her fortune that something had made her ask the full name of this maid in particular when she'd begun her quest to learn them all.

The maid stared at her for a hard second, then something loosened. Something small, but there all the same. She waved a hand toward the chair. “Sit please, and we will begin.”

Miranda followed the instruction blindly, her hand dropping from the dress in an almost apologetic manner—the gown seemed almost alive.

Another maid entered, an older woman higher in the chain of command. They undressed her to her undergarments and gloves and began dressing her hair, arguing with each other over the best style. Miranda was trying to wrap her mind around the fact that she was being pawed over—she was used to getting ready as quickly as possible with the help of whoever was on hand, returning the favor just as quickly.

Behind her, the kind, youngest maid picked her hair up on each side, looking at it in the cheval glass of the dressing table. “I saw Lady Jersey wearing it like this in Berkeley Square.”

“During the day, girl. We need an evening look,” the older woman said.

“But Lady J—”

“Is old,” Galina said bitingly. “Now, Caroline Lamb, on the other hand—”

The older maid gasped. “Bite your tongue.”

“No.” Galina narrowed her eyes. “She was the height of fashion and her hair when arranged just so…” A wistful look passed over her more taciturn features. The young maid looked intrigued, but the older woman was having none of it.

“I say we need a classic look.”

“And I say that we do something to highlight the gown.” The last bit was on the pugilistic side.

The younger maid looked between the two combatants with wide eyes. “Galina, you usually don't care—”

“She can carry off the style. It is a cross between innocence and maturity. She can choose which to display.” The maid's eyes met hers in the mirror. “I want to see what she looks like.”

“I'm sure Miss Chase will look lovely in any style,” the older woman said diplomatically. Miranda shifted nervously. Mrs. Fritz was able to stick a few pins in her hair, when needed. And Georgette had made valiant attempts at styles, though her friend made a much better model than hairdresser. “Lovely” was not usually a description that she would make of any of her previous hairstyles. Adequate usually, perhaps even pretty on occasion if she was feeling especially good.

“You are being difficult, Galina, and as I am the head of this floor—”

“Fine.” The maid's face went flat again. “Do as you wish.”

The woman nodded firmly, and they began to arrange her hair in a classic upsweep with tendrils hanging down. It was flattering to her face, and Miranda felt a thread of excitement as she gazed at her reflection. She
felt
pretty. And she was going to wear the dress in the armoire? Her excitement increased three notches.

The older maid nodded. Galina's face displayed nothing.

“We are ahead of schedule.” The older woman brushed her hands against each other. “But let us get her dressed so we can see if alterations are needed.”

Miranda was quite used to clips and pins. The only pieces that needed to fit precisely were her undergarments. The rest were easily taken care of by a quick pin or tuck.

“It won't require alterations.” Galina looked as if she very nearly was going to cross her arms.

“Girl, you are becoming a trial.”

Galina's lips pinched together, and she said nothing. She picked up the gloves that fell over an accessories hanger to the side. She held her hand out imperiously for Miranda's. Miranda pretended she misunderstood and tried to take the gloves from her.

The maid's eyes tightened, but she released the gloves as if she didn't care. Miranda placed them in her lap and pulled her worn gloves off. Her hands touched the air, and she tried as quickly as she could to pull the left glove on.

She fumbled, and a quick look showed the maid watching her.

Galina examined Miranda's bare hands for a second, then gave her an unreadable look. Miranda tried not to hide her hands, though they twitched toward her lap, the urge great. The maid's hands were probably
equally worn beneath her own gloves, but in other ways. Water and soap, scrubbing damage. Sewing pricks or tired, stretched skin.

Or maybe they were buttery soft, the pampered feel of an upstairs servant who had to touch the master or mistress of the house with bare fingers sometimes. The coarse touch of a lowly worker not good enough for the newbornlike skin of the Quality.

She gripped the silk glove in her right hand, her roughened fingers sullying the material.

Why had she ever agreed to go to dinner with the viscount? To go anywhere with him? Ludicrous. The whole idea was like something out of a story, but instead of living in Olympus, she would be turned into a tree or deer in the end. A punishment sent down by a pagan god of old for daring to consort with the king of them all.

The maid's eyes narrowed further, and her lips pursed. She reached forward and tugged the glove from her hand, then pulled it over Miranda's fingers. Not roughly, but not gently either. As if she were fighting her natural inclination one way or the other.

Miranda didn't get a chance to contemplate Galina's behavior further as the other two maids were lifting the gown and urging her into it. Fitting it around her, fastening, and smoothing it.

She could see the middle of the dress in the table looking glass. She wondered what it would look like in a full-length mirror. This dress that she had never tried on. That had somehow been put together in under an hour. She couldn't wrap her mind around it.

And it fit. Amazingly well. As if made just for her. Only two pins were needed, and even those she would have done without if there hadn't been three maids intent on making the dress into a glove.

And the gloves themselves…sumptuous. So fine against her skin. Superficially covering up her inadequacies. Making her almost seem like she belonged in the strange other world the viscount inhabited.

The older maid nodded decisively. “Very good. You look beautiful, Miss Chase.”

The younger maid enthusiastically agreed. Galina concurred in a less effusive manner with a tilt of her head, but there was still something in her eyes.

The older maid picked up a navy domino, which looked new as well. They tied the wrap in place, the hood hanging down her back, framing her hair and face. Making her into someone completely foreign and new. The last piece was a mask, which they didn't secure, simply handing it to her. Feathered and blue—a royal blue deeper than the shade in her gown and lighter than the domino, a shade that accented both and transformed her into something exotic.

The domino wasn't a piece that had been waiting in the viscount's clutches then. These pieces were a deliberate set. And created uniquely for her, if the fit was anything to go by.

That he had prevaricated was minute compared to the question of why he had done any of these things in the first place. Boredom? The chase? But what chase was there when she folded immediately? Starry-eyed and excited. One hand on the gossip sheet that he always graced.

“Come, Miss Chase, we are to escort you to the Red Room.”

She followed, servants in the corridors stopping and staring. Her anxiety increased.

The Red Room was just as she remembered it. Cold and dark. Just that one hint of something more. There
were only two lamps lit. A large one by the entrance, standing no more than two feet from her, highlighted the doorway and anyone standing there in white gold. A much smaller, more intimate one perched on the desk. The golden candlelight cast dark and golden shades onto the viscount's stunning face. A sea of black separated the two of them.

He was seated at the desk, leaning back, his left fingers playing with a quill pen, twirling it absently, then switching to his right. He looked up, and the pen whirled off its axis.