Seven Secrets of Seduction (30 page)

She twisted and arched under his ministrations. “You don't have a passion already?”

“Nothing on a par with my want of you.”

His words shivered over her skin, but his continued evasion fueled her words.

“Your brother. There was a look about him.”

“Why are you speaking of my brother?” He nipped her ear, and his fingers twisted. She gasped.

“Perhaps your brother is Eleutherios.” She could hardly form a thought as his actions overpowered her reason. She gripped on to the edges of her plan, to the words, trying to withstand the onslaught. “In disguise.”

He stilled. “What?” There was a dangerous under-current to the viscount's undertone.

“Your brother. Yes, of course.” She wanted to move, to touch him and never stop. “There
was
a look about him. It could be him.”

The viscount pulled back, his eyes obsidian. “Ridiculous.”

“Why? It could be.” She stretched, wanting, but unwilling, to beg him to continue. Wanting to push him beyond. “Imagine it. Your brother with all of that passion and wit. Hiding behind his stubborn mockery.”

“What are you on about?”

“I can't decide if it is more dashing or completely unsavory, him hiding like that.”

“
What?
”

“Dashing to be a masked man.” She ran a finger down his chest in a manner that was meant to seem absent, but was decidedly planned. “But I'd feel quite betrayed to discover that Eleutherios was someone I had already met.
Imagine
the betrayal. I might never speak to him again.”

She allowed her hand to drop farther down, beneath the surface. Any reluctance to do such things had long since disappeared in her discovery of his many masks, all of them swirling around her.

The viscount stared at her. A man in lesser control might have been gaping a bit at the jaw.

She resisted the urge to raise a fist in triumph.

She squeezed, then released him, the long length of him begging her to continue, to make
him
beg. But she kept her arms and hands behind her, propping her up on the bottom of the pool. “Or I would start a torrid affair with him.”

“A what?” The words were clipped.

“A torrid affair. The man writes so beautifully.” She shrugged, half-amused at her gall and half-determined to give him a dose of his own medicine. “Of course, I am in a torrid affair with you instead. And quite enjoying it. But—”

His hand slipped into her nape and tilted her head back. “You are not starting a torrid affair with anyone but me.” His eyes were fierce.

She couldn't help the satisfied smile that curved her lips. Like her own unwillingness to connect that he was all three men, it was only his unwillingness to realize that she would still want him in all of his incarnations, to admit to someone that he
was
all of those men, with all of those feelings, that made him refuse to see that she already knew.

“You are the only one I want to be torrid with.” She couldn't stop the sincerity from leaking in, the words from forming even though she wanted to poke further. To make him jealous of himself, perhaps.

“Am I?” His lips whispered over her neck and down her chest. “I will make sure you always believe that.”

And then he was doing mad things to her. Things that there were no pages for. For such feelings couldn't be captured in a rote manual. It was quite a bit later, wrapped together on the shore, that she thought continuing to make him wroth with her over this farce held more than a bit of puckish charm.

 

Miranda lounged in the library the next morning, devouring a lovely tome on Paris that she hadn't encountered before. The viscount lay on the settee, his feet propped up on the arm, his sleeves rolled up and shirt partially unbuttoned. He looked perfectly rumpled and delicious, and she occasionally found herself staring at him over the top of the book.

A whisper of sound preceded a cleared throat. “I'm sorry to disturb you, your lordship, but there are guests demanding to see you,” the housekeeper said from the doorway. She cast a quick glance at Miranda before looking back to the viscount. “I've put them on the garden terrace. Your valet is waiting with garments.”

Miranda looked curiously at the viscount, still splayed across the furniture, but the muscles of his arms were suddenly taut. He tilted his head as he pushed himself out of his relaxed pose, and the servant bowed and disappeared back through the door.

The viscount leaned over and planted a quick,
strong kiss on her lips. “Don't move. I'll be back in an hour.”

She stretched as he strode out, then lazily rose and walked around the room. Should she set the room to chaos? Or simply wait for something else to present itself for retribution? The side of her mouth quirked. She touched some newspapers on a stand, then ran her fingers over a globe. Movement outside attracted her attention to the window, and she peered through as the viscount emerged from the house, formally dressed once more. He firmly walked toward two men in the garden enclosure.

An older man, wealthy from his dress, shook the viscount's hand and introduced a younger man wearing spectacles. The younger man bowed slightly in deference, but it was apparent from his demeanor that he was excited about something. He looked like an eager new businessman. Like the fresh ones down on the row, with their shiny new satchels and starry-eyed determination. Fresh from school or an apprenticeship. The barristers, accountants, stewards, publishers.

Publishers?

She leaned forward for a closer look. Their lips were moving, but she couldn't hear a thing through the glass. The older man did look like the head of the
Times
though, whom she had seen barreling through a crowd, yelling orders and expecting them to be completed by the men who were hurrying to keep up, taking notes, and clearing a path.

Brilliant. Harsh. Wealthy. Ambitious. Though there was an edge to the man. As if he had something great to lose but was trying to appear as if the opposite were true. Eleutherios's new book?

The viscount motioned to chairs situated in the shade around a comfortable table. She cocked her head, then looked back to the room she was in. Everything was more comfortable and plush here in this house, not ornate, yet not severe like in London. Someone else's decorating sense? Was it the starkness that defined him or the sensuality threaded beneath?

She shivered as the viscount jabbed a finger on the arm of his chair, and the other two nodded along, almost unwillingly. In complete command, his siren call just under the surface, straining to be free, pulling to him all those in his path.

The man was like a walking addiction.

The younger man's head bobbed more quickly, and he pulled out a sheaf of papers. He pointed to something on the page and looked over his spectacles. The viscount's eyes narrowed.

She tried to make out anything on their lips. Something about the book, maybe? Or deadline? An admission of his authorship?

She couldn't make out a thing, and the glass was too thick.

But they were just near enough the house…she touched the window and looked around. She tried to act casual, not furtive. The window inched up beneath her eavesdropping fingertips.

A bit of a breeze would be nice. Just a bit. She was sure that any servant entering the room would feel the same way.

The window casing creaked. She twisted, back splayed against the wall, the drapes pulling against her elbows. She waited a moment, then peeked around
the corner. The men continued to talk. She strained to hear, hunching down and peering through the opening she had made.

“Downing, about time you came to the table.”

The viscount tilted his head. “Are you sure? You seem beyond eager to see the papers signed, even following me here.” There was a dangerous thread beneath the words.

“There are arrangements to hammer out. You will be free to do as you please as long as the main points of the contract are followed.”

“Like a tethered goat. With the way you are speaking of personal conduct we might as well be making funeral arrangements instead of a contract.”

“Hardly.” The older man gave him a look. “If you are determined to scrub your name, it is but a formality. And I've seen your determination to do so. It is the only reason we are at the table.”

Scrub his name? Was he going to publish under a new pseudonym? Perhaps he really would realize the book of sonnets she had been encouraging in her letters. A smile lifted her lips.

The viscount's mouth twisted in a parody of the same. “Is it? Not the money, then?”

The older man's eyes tightened. “Everyone benefits from the arrangement.”

Assuredly. The publisher must be making a pretty penny off him already. A book of his sonnets would be a strong seller. She knew it. All of the ladies who swooned already would need a double dose of smelling salts.

The older man continued. “Boone is here to make sure that everyone's needs are met.” He waved a hand at the younger man. “And that assurances are written and contracted.”

The viscount's brow lifted cynically. “Assurances?”

“Considering your past, I'll require a few.”

Was he usually late to deadline?

“And that of your family.”

His family?

“Charlotte is a gem. Together you can overcome whatever the rumors bring.”

The viscount laughed unpleasantly. “And if we can't, you will reap additional settlements to pay your debts, hmmm?”

Charlotte? Charlotte Chatsworth? The woman who was rumored to be linked to the viscount?

Oh.
Oh.

She slid down the wall, the breeze from the open window stroking her hair.

It was true then, what they said. No good ever came of eavesdropping.

 

Max walked back into the house, conflicting feelings running through him. Satisfaction, determination. Anger. At his father? At Chatsworth? At himself?

Chatsworth hadn't needed him to give up a mistress. Chatsworth had scoffed at the notion. Of course, with his long-standing mistress, Chatsworth would be a hypocrite otherwise. Mistresses—normal mistresses—were completely in keeping with the way things worked. Keeping his mistress within her bounds and out of Charlotte's way was, of course, necessary. No keeping Miranda in the house with him and exiling Charlotte to the country.

His father hadn't been able to do that with his mother either. A daughter of a duke couldn't be hidden away.

As long as his mistress was kept within her “bounds,”
then it wouldn't matter. The problem with his mother and father was that they had never adhered to any bounds. If they'd just kept to the normal channels, they'd have been unremarkable in the social whirl.

But, no, his father loved the younger ladies. And not the younger ladies of the demimonde, where he could have dabbled freely. He liked the younger ladies of the ton. The unmarried or newly married ones. Any woman who presented a challenge. A conquest. A seduction. The call of Juliet to Romeo in some repeated doomed tale of “true love.” And his mother had decided within her broken heart to affect the same on the young men.

No, he wouldn't make Charlotte Chatsworth watch him with a thousand other women. Nor would he seduce her. Nor make her love him as his father had done to his mother. He'd make it very plain that he had a mistress. Very plain that their marriage was only a business transaction. That she would be free to have her own quiet affairs once the legitimacy of children was established.

A sad thing that she would be required to wait and not he, but such was nature. Once she was pregnant, she would be able to have an affair again. Only the few months around the actual conception would require her abstinence. Some men were mad for pregnant women.

It was all…cold. Quite cold. But Charlotte Chatsworth had never struck him as a particularly romantic girl. It was one of the reasons he had spoken to her of marriage. She was business-minded like her father. Smart. Focused. Strong. She wished to run an empire and would make a fabulous Marchioness of Werston someday. She would make the name shine.

He thought they would get on quite fine, in an
analytical way. But there had never been any thought to something romantic between them. Marriage and love did not go together. In any way, shape, or form. It should be a pure business transaction.

He could love Miranda though.

He walked to the library to find her, but found the room empty.

A paper slipped from a side table. He leaned down to pick it up and a breeze from the cracked open window ruffled his hair. He absently leaned over to close the pane, then stopped still, looking at the view.

How could he have been so stupid?

He strode upstairs to find her room empty as well. His housekeeper greeted him at the foot of the stairs as he hurried down.

“Where is Miss Chase?”

She shook her head. “I'm sorry, my lord. She left.”

Element #2 continued: If something should go wrong with the initial plan, step back and reformulate. Never undertake a new tack precipitously. This is a sign the cards have turned against you and are in your opponent's favor.

The Eight Elements of Enchantment

(work in progress)

 

“G
et the carriage ready. I'll be leaving for London,” he said over his shoulder to his valet as he quickly strode through his sitting room. He could hardly think clearly. He just had to find her.

“So soon?”

He froze, his fingers upon the tops of his trousers. “I was told you had left.”

She came into view, lovely flowing hair and simple lilac dress, her brow knit. “Yes. I went to the stream. To think.”

She was near enough that he could touch her. Had been afraid that he'd never get the chance to again. He couldn't resist the powerful urge and stroked her cheek, feeling the softness, the strength.

He thought quite possibly she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. He didn't care who wanted to debate it. “I thought you had left.”

“Why?”

Because I saw the open window. Because you heard. Because I'm an ass who cannot offer you everything you deserve.

“Because…” he said a little lamely.

She touched the back of his hand at her cheek, her eyes far too knowing. “Are we to leave then?”

“Do you wish to leave?” Every muscle in his body strained in wait for her response.

Five beats of his heart passed before she answered. “No.”

The response was quiet, but firm.

Relief, swift and sure, rocked through him. Followed by a bit of unease. Had she not heard them?

Her head tilted. “Yes, I heard.”

He stared at her. She smiled, a pull of curved lips. “For once I have made you speechless. Swapped our roles. It is quite satisfying to know what you are thinking for once.”

“Then you know—”

“That you are to be betrothed? That you have started thinking that perhaps becoming respectable will be a better alternative to merely covering up the sins of your parents with your own?”

He stared at her. “You are a dangerous woman.”

“Then we are even, for I have long thought you a dangerous man.”

He looked away, then back to her. “So, you don't care?”

“Care?” She said it lightly, but her eyes were serious,
watchful. “I'm not sure that is the correct question. What did you expect my reaction to be?”

“I wasn't sure.”

She pulled his hand down, twining it with her own. “I admit to surprise. But then—” Her head dipped, hiding her face. “But then, it is not such a surprise.”

“You will stay with me then?” There were a thousand different meanings in that one question.

“Stay with you? I think I am far too entangled to find an end to the snare should I wish to flee.”

She lifted her head. “But I must admit to ignorance and seek your guidance,” she said calmly, softly. “We are going back to London, to your house, at the end of this trip. What is the next move one makes?”

He stared at her.

“I suppose one attends the opera. Dresses well and submits to the scrutiny?” She spread her hands along her dress. “I doubt I will make a very stunning companion, but
Don Giovanni
is playing, and I have always wished to see it.”

He'd been steadily chipping away, working toward this moment, and she was just offering? Giving in to being his mistress?

He brushed her cheek, the soft skin smooth beneath his knuckles. Then walked to the window, staring through the pane. Out into the yard where he'd been sitting such a short time ago.

He had thought that this would be the crowning achievement. That once she declared herself his mistress, everything in his world would slot into place. That it would confirm that no one was above temptation. That this was the normal sway of things and couldn't be helped. For if innocent, optimistic Miranda Chase was able to be corrupted, then no
one could resist. Everything in his world would be a fait accompli.

Why, then, did he feel as if everything were turned on end instead? That her acceptance of it meant only that she cared more for him than for some outward rule of respectability, more for him than for society's strictures, more for him than for simple pride.

But why would she care for him in such a way? She didn't know who he really was. That he haunted her in every guise. Needing to be near her. Some crazed stalker in the shadows. That he wanted her to love everything about him.

“Maxim,” she said softly.

He froze, then turned. It was the first time she had used his name without prompting.

Her soft eyes watched him. “Speak to me.”

He walked back to her, lured there despite any misgiving. Wanting to be near her. Always.

 

She watched him as he drew nearer. She wished she knew what he was thinking.

He touched her right hand, smoothing his fingers over her glove. “You are wearing your armor.”

She tried to tug her hand away, but he kept it captured in his. “Silk can hardly be a good shield,” she said.

“No? It is a barrier. I can hardly touch you through them.”

“You have touched me in far more intimate places.”

“Mmmm. Intimate for most people, but mayhap not your most intimate place.” He ran his finger down the material.

She tried to remove her hands again, more casually. “I hardly think hands are an intimate place.”

He held fast. “But the definition invokes your most private feeling, your deepest nature.”

“My mother used to say that a proper lady was never without her gloves.” The dual nature of the comment was not lost on her.

“Even the most straitlaced of ladies sometimes goes without.” His fingers pulled along hers, from the crevices to the tips. He gripped the edge of one and pulled, the material stretching on her fingertip the barest bit. He touched the next one and pulled, that one stretching as well. Her heart picked up speed as she watched his motions, felt the pull.

“Don't you have business to attend to?”

Betrothal documents to sign? Wedding plans to make?

He lifted her chin, making her meet his eyes. “I am attending to the most important business.”

Another finger stretched. Three pulls of fabric gripping with relentless need to the tips, the gloves molded to her in the best of shields. Expensive, fine.

“I want to lay you completely bare, Miranda.”

“Have you not already?” Her voice nearly shook. The whisper of it vibrating her throat.

He cocked his head but said nothing. His eyes tightened before his expression smoothed, hiding his true response to the question. He pulled the silk over her smallest finger, his warm, strong fingers sure around the slim digit. No hesitation in the motion. Stripping her bare indeed.

He pulled the fabric slowly toward him, revealing more with each inch. The soft skin above her elbow. The sensitive areas under her wrist. The snow of the glove hesitated at the heel of her palm, and she drew in a breath. Let him find what he would. She tried to
look away as the fabric continued its descent, but she couldn't.

Morbid fascination froze her. What might he do when he saw them in dry, full light? Not in the water of a pool, nor the darkness of a chamber. Examining the roughened edges of her heel, the chap that began up the side of her thumb and continued into the broken nail beds, the ink stains. Clean hands, but irreparably blemished. Nothing like the beautiful skin Georgette maintained.

She closed her eyes, unwilling to see his expression as he turned her hands in his strong, warm palms.

“I would bathe them in milk, if you wanted. If you wished to heal them. Or simply clasp them to me as they are, because they are part of you.”

Her eyes shot open and her throat closed. It was hard to swallow over the sudden rush of emotion. “Oh?”

If only she could be wittier, come up with something snappy and wise. But she was just Miranda. And Miranda Chase said things like “Oh?” in the face of comments that puddled her into a soppy mess.

He brought her forefinger to his mouth. “Yes.” His lips closed over the tip, pulling it in, the point of his tongue swirling around her flesh.

His mouth slowly released the tip, and his fingers wrapped around the nape of her neck, pulling her closer. “Yes,” he whispered against her lips.

“Your lips are the most delicious treat I've ever tasted. And I would still love them were they chapped and dry. Still drink from them like the finest crystal because they would give me the essence of you.”

She had always assumed that she would experience the thrill of passionate love through a written text. Internally and with great joy. Perhaps a softer kind
of love with a husband. The kind of love her parents had enjoyed—soft words and respect—her mother's strict decorum keeping them respectfully apart in the physical sense, at least in any way outside of a closed door.

He lowered her to his bed, watching her, his eyes dark and promising. Branding her with some bit of leftover fervency from when he'd thought her gone.

Here was a man who challenged her in all ways. Who thrilled her intellectually on paper, who captivated her with his words, who physically flooded her senses. Who was every man that she had desired on any level she could comprehend.

His fingers, smooth and strong, hooked beneath her knee and drew a slow path to her center, circling the indentation there.

She was laid bare. Not just in the physical sense as he slowly stripped each piece of clothing from her, smoothing his hands along her skin, kissing each curve, but naked in truth. Belonging to him, even if he didn't know it fully yet.

Her eyes lit upon the ceiling, the moldings, simpler here than in the London house but still expensive, tasteful, cupids leaping and frolicking, shooting the unwary. The gilded edge apparent on every surface of his life.

His mouth moved over her, and her lips parted on a breath, back straining in an arch.

A sweep of his mouth, his tongue. She could hardly think. Could hardly breathe. The breath left in her lungs panting out between her lips.

It was her move. To stay with him. To be his mistress. A step up for a woman like her. Georgette would be
over the moon for her. He'd shower her with gifts.
Gifts she didn't need.
And take her to places she had always dreamed of visiting.
With the ones she loved.

Fingers on her thighs, gripping her backside. Setting claim to her skin.

But being a mistress didn't preclude her from loving him. It didn't preclude
him
from loving
her
, though she had no notion if he felt such strong feelings for her. But he felt something. She'd never be in this position if she didn't know that much.

Lips kissing her stomach, the undersides of her breasts. Her fingers automatically threading through his hair. Strong thighs clasped between her knees.

She wanted him. At the moment she'd take him however she could have him, and she'd think of the future later.

She touched his arm, strong, long, and beautiful. His fingers capable of such beauty of words and such dismissive coldness.

She pushed him to his side, wanting to touch him in the same way. Wanting to pull every reaction from him. Groans and passion-hooded eyes. To make it so that he could only think of her in this moment, this scene. Here, he was hers.

She could kiss inside his elbows and stroke along his ribs. She could nip his throat and wrap around his warmth. Long, slow strokes, then shorter ones at the tip. Listening to him breathe like she had. Make sounds like she did. Give in to everything she was.

And then she was on her back again, cupids hazy in her view, dark, chiseled, lovely features inches from hers. And he was within her, completing her. The dark sword of Mr. Pitts, the soft feathers of Eleutherios, the
powerful stride of the viscount, the seductive pleasure of Maxim.

Truly, she simply loved everything about him.

The rush of emotion filled her. And she uttered three little words. Words that she couldn't take back, even should she choose to do so. Words from her heart. Lost and bare, given to him to crush, to keep safe.

A vow.

His eyes pinned her—disbelieving, desiring, hungry—and long, deep strokes pushed her over the edge, arching into him, and repeating the vow over and over again.

 

She put her cheek upon the palm of her bare hand, her knees bent, toes in the air, the silken sheets curving around and under her. The air was full of languid entreaty and relaxing embraces. The invitation in the sheets to roll about in the silken embrace. To while away the hours of the day.

His fingers traced imaginary lines on her back. The fingers of his left hand. She didn't think he realized it in the laziness of the moment.

“I could write all over you. Mark you with ink that claims you as mine.”

She pulled her hand along the valleys of the silk folds, toes kissing in the air, embracing together. “And then I'd be nearly unrecognizable, stained and Stygian.”

His finger drew something in the center of her back. “I'd recognize you.
Always.
”

And she could almost imagine as she looked over her shoulder and into the reflection of the glass that it had been a heart there in the center of the design.