Seven Secrets of Seduction (25 page)

He returned her bright smile, and she retrieved a metaphorical hook from her arsenal. “I must thank you again for the books,” she said. “Both of them.”

His smile slipped for a second, but then came back in full force. “You are welcome, dear lady. I'm glad you enjoyed them.”

“I didn't ask you on paper…but, but how did you know to send them?”

He coughed and examined her more fully. “Discerning man, aren't I?”

“Yes, you have true talent.”

Eleutherios did. Only Mr. Pitts might be able to challenge him with a pen—both brilliant in different ways.

“I am grateful to hear 'tis so. I try to be the best at everything.” He put a hand against the wall, leaning toward it in what could only be deemed a seductive manner.

It was difficult to hide her grin. The man in front of her seemed like a good sort. A puppy wanting to practice his wiles on the debutantes. She wondered if he had concocted this scheme just so he could do so.

She actually thought it quite industrious that someone had taken on the secretive author's identity. Would the real author finally reveal himself?

“I would be delighted to show you how much,” he said.

“Oh, fabulous. Perhaps now is a good time?”

He blinked at her unexpected response, one hand on the wall, the other at his pocket. “I'll—I'll have to fit you in, of course. Many demands on my time. Especially tonight.” His hand snuck into the fabric pocket.

“Of course.”

There was something about the man in front of her. Something close to what she had expected. His looks fit—the flowing brown locks and kind eyes. She hadn't expected quite that much mischievousness though. There was something sober about Eleutherios beneath the flowery words.

The thoughtful, keenly sensitive notes contained just a hint of darkness.

“Right.” She smiled. “Well, your last note was truly lovely. The way you spoke of the wind on a crisp autumn's day.”

He smiled back charmingly. “Thank you, dear lady.”

“I was serious when I said that you should write a book of sonnets. You might rival the bard himself.”

He tipped his head. “I do have a talent for the pen.”

Eleutherios was practically humble in his letters. As if he were unused to sharing himself. She might have expected him to be exactly as the man standing in front of her based on the superficial aspects of his book, but his correspondence had shown someone entirely different and deeper.

“You do. I hope that you will continue with your new works.”

“Oh, working on a sequel, didn't you know?” He lifted her hand again. “The sixth secret is to keep one's eyes focused. And I'm a master at that.”

Her mouth quirked, and it took all of her effort to keep the edges down. Truly she was glad that Eleutherios wasn't in front of her. Nor Mr. Pitts. This was far more fun, and she had entirely unrealistic expectations of the other men. Frankly, her expectations were unfair. But she never needed to reconcile them because she could continue to live the fantasy.

“Yes, you are. Perhaps—”

A cool, firm hand wrapped around their attached hands and all of a sudden her gloves were touching nothing but air and the fake Eleutherios was stretching his at his side, as if stung.

“I don't believe we've yet
met.
” The viscount's eyes were cold as he surveyed the boyish man who suddenly looked much more foppish in the presence of Downing's stark, perfectly worn attire and complete aura of hard power.

The boy shifted on his feet, something close to terror in his eyes.

Miranda stepped into the fray, something about the boy calling forth her protective instincts. “Viscount Downing, this is Eleutherios. The author. A charming lad.”

The other man regained himself quickly, the rakish gleam back in place—quite like the marquess's puckish-ness actually. “At your service, my lord.” He extended his hand.

Downing didn't even look at the digits, his gloved hand played with a watch at his pocket. “The author of
The Seven Secrets of Seduction
?” Feigned interest wasn't enough to fool either of them. “In our humble presence?”

“I would never presume to humble anyone,” the boy said in the most humble way she'd been privy to since their conversation had begun. He shifted on his
feet. “The lady was merely interested in…my works and writings.”

The viscount's eyes pinched and he looked almost violent for a second before he turned coolly dismissive once more, much as he had at Vauxhall or Lady Banning's when confronted by something irritating.

“Is that so?”

“Yes. But do excuse me for a moment. I seem to recall an urgent appointment.” The fake Eleutherios moved quickly down the hall. Faster than she'd seen a man with that high a cravat travel before.

“I think you frightened him away,” she mused, conflicted. She had enjoyed the boy. And she'd barely set her hook to have some benign fun. And even though he looked only a few years younger than she, he also looked like he could use a motherly hug.

The viscount shrugged, eyes dark. He smiled, every fiber of it more seductive than anything the boy could have claimed. There was an edge to the smile though.

“Did you want him to stay? Doesn't even have the sense to play the muttonhead of
his
writings. Rattle-pate glory hound.”

Something twinged in her mind, but the look in his eyes distracted her. “I did wish to speak with him. Though he isn't—”

She suddenly found herself tugged forcefully forward. The viscount spun her, and she heard the clack of a door engaging its lock.

“And what would you say?” He pressed her front forward against the wall of some room off to the side of the hall, the gilt edge of something assuredly expensive pressing into her palm as the warmth of him pressed against her back. She moved her hands to either side of what seemed to be a painting.

“I—I—” her voice hitched as he did something with the edges of his thumbs, pressing them up under her bodice. “I simply would thank him.” The oil would surely melt beneath her heated exhalations. Melt the posed expression on the portrait, turning it into something wild and unknown.

“For what? A tawdry book?”

“His lovely words.”

“Words aren't lovely.” His lips pressed against her throat. “Actions are.”

Her head tilted back. “His actions then too.”

“You will forget all about him.”

She gasped as his palms curled around the front of her dress and cupped her breasts.

“Did you hear me, Miranda?”

His fingers moved, setting off a thousand sensations. “We were just speaking.”

“That wasn't your author.”

His fingers drew up her skirt, bunching the material as they drew higher. As they curled around her through the layers. She might as well have been bare beneath his hands. Clay waiting to be molded beneath skilled fingers.

“How do you know?”

“C—” His voice abruptly cut off, and his lips clamped around the vein in her neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His fingers pulled against the core of her, a long press of exquisite force that lit everything in her as they circled, dipped in, and pulled again. She crushed her palms against the wall and arched back.

“The boy barely knows how to use his overabundance of libido yet.”

His other arm reached around her waist and played with the edge of her low bodice, the delicate, scalloped
edges giving easy way to the questing fingers dipping beneath.

She could feel him behind her, pressed against her. Ready. Ready at any moment to toss up her skirts and mark her as his.

He abruptly turned her and pulled her against him. His head buried into her throat. To the crook between her neck and shoulder, his breathing heavy. He gripped her hips and turned her, swinging her toward the settee. Depositing her on the plush cushion with urgency.

“You acquiesced earlier, but I'll ask again. Will you let me have you, Miranda?”

He crouched on the floor between her knees, her legs spread to the sides, one edge of her gown bunched up around her thigh. Like the pages of a book, opened and splayed. Waiting to be read or written upon. Branded with ink and purpose.

He pushed a hand slowly beneath the covered layer, up her other leg, and around her thigh.

“I-yes,” she whispered.

He leaned forward and upward, his lips curling around the soft flesh behind the lobe of her ear. “I won't let you regret it,” he whispered. His fingers gripped her thighs, the balls of his feet pushing him toward her. Each fraction of space his hands moved increased her heart rate.

She shivered at the feel of him, so close, nearly nestled against her. Opening her farther. She leaned her head against the back cushion of the settee, exposing her neck to his meticulous onslaught, feeling his shiver beneath her frank acceptance.

She touched his cheek, softly pulling him back to meet her eyes. “Nor I you.”

One corner of his mouth tugged. “Never.” His lips
hovered above hers, even crouched on the floor as he was, and the lovely feminine power washed over her that he was finally matching her emotion, breathing as if he'd run to Marathon. “I'd apologize for where we are, but I've been waiting to taste you for so long that I have forgotten the taste of honey and the sweet nectar of the finest wine. Neither of which tastes half as good as you do.”

He took a long sip. Heat stole over every fiber of her being.

“Lady Banning was incorrect,” she said when she could speak once more, gripping the unraveled edge of the cravat at his throat. “You have a honeyed tongue. Not one of silver.”

“That I can speak at all is a miracle.” His hand stroked up her leg, over her stockings and to the ties. “By rights I should be stumbling with a tongue tied worse than my neckcloth at present.”

“You seek to amuse.” The man had the whole of London's female population at his feet.

He slipped a tie free, and her heart picked up another beat, in time with the faster reel playing through the wall.

“Amusement is what I have sought in the past. Alas that now I can't claim its arms. It is far easier on the heart.”

Another tie pulled, the silk manacles slipping free. He rolled the stockings under his fingertips, curling them over and back, rubbing silk against silk, the sound of it barely evident with the cello rumbling beyond, but there, heard in the acute sensitivity of her heightened senses. Instead of dulling them, the onslaught had just brightened everything to white-hot.

There was a courage, a power in not looking away.
In meeting his eyes, watching as he undressed her piece by piece.

“I had planned to wait until we returned to the house, but—”

She touched his lips, warm and still so near to hers. The heat was running just beneath her skin, treading impatiently at the promise of a final release. “I don't want to wait. This is perfect. Serenaded by violins?” The soft strains of the orchestra sifted through the adjoining wall. “I never expected to hear the actual music of the angels.” The lights from the patio filtered through the shadows of the half-pulled draperies. “Besides, this is far more private.”

His brows pulled together. “We are in the middle of a ball, and I can scarcely keep myself from pawing your dress like a schoolboy on his first outing.” He deftly freed her of her undergarments, marking his claim false.

Of course he wouldn't even think of the servants in his own house. They were like the furniture to him. Always there, even more accommodating than a leather ottoman as he didn't need to step around them, they simply melted to the side as he passed. She opened her mouth to say so, but he finished slipping her undergarments down and placed an openmouthed kiss on the inside of her knee, and the words escaped without sound.

She could feel him smile against her skin, confirmed when he glanced up, the fringe of his hair falling across his brow.

“I've been waiting to taste you in many ways.”

She couldn't credit that her heart could beat any more quickly, but it gamely gave a try.

“Did you read the illumination, Miranda?” His
thumb touched her, rubbing lightly, just a slip of his smooth pad against the warmest part of her. “Or better yet, did you look at the pictures and imagine the words describing the acts for yourself?”

“Yes.”

“So honest. It's intoxicating.” He placed another kiss, one inch higher. “Almost as intoxicating as the pure taste of you. As the way you live in the moment yet dream of the future.”

Another kiss, a gentle pressure on her other thigh spreading her farther, his thumb gliding over her once more.

“Do you know what I'm going to do to you, Miranda?”

Her tongue darted out, tasting him on her lips. “Yes. Page seven.”

He smiled. It was a full, real smile, masculine and lovely. “Lovely page seven. Do tell me if you will mark it as a winner afterward, will you?”

He placed a kiss on the inside of her inner thigh. So close to his thumb, which was stroking a soft rhythm to the harmony's line.

“I promise to critique it fairly, my lord,” she breathed, as the kisses grew ever closer, ever deeper. As his hands lifted the fallen edges of her bunched dress and shift, drawing them back, pushing, his fingers lighting her bare skin to fire.

“Oh, I'm hoping that you will be less than objective.”

His mouth finally reached her, and she forgot how to breathe. His hands pulled along her belly, then around her hips and under her. Lifting her, the back of her head hitting the padding behind, the shadows of the gilded ceiling swimming above her view.

Lifting her, teasing her, tasting her. Making anything in any illicit tome pale in comparison to the way her body responded—movement, not static pictures on a page—to grip with her fingers, to breathe in quick gasps of sound, to squirm closer.

And then he devoured her. The intensity of it made her grasp the first thing with which she came into contact that her fingers could wrap around, writhing beneath him, arching back, a litany of sounds falling from her lips.