Seven Secrets of Seduction (31 page)

From the desk of Miranda Chase

 

T
he carriage rocked slowly as they made their way to the opera house. Max wondered at the change that had taken place in a few short weeks. Her fingers no longer gripped the seat cushion. The lines around her eyes no longer grew pinched and creased. She didn't keep her weight distributed, body spread to dive from the carriage or cover her head in case some disaster befell her.

She seemed to be able to overcome whatever she wanted to as soon as she put her mind to it. He envied the ability, even as getting her to take those first tentative steps was what had prompted many of his plans in the first place.

That and the insatiable need to be near her, to speak with her, to have her smile at him.

She smiled at him now. A steady, determined smile.

She loved him.

Thinking it made everything inside him clench. He couldn't even chastise himself for the weakness of it, like the emotion brimming from the sonnets he loved, for the feeling was too all-encompassing. It tore and bit and ached.

They entered the opera house, and the whispers of the crowd turned in their direction. He had used the machine of whispered lips too many times not to pay partial attention to what was being said.

The princess unmasked. Not Russian, then the talk after the Hannings' was true. English. Who is she?

Normally he would turn it in his favor. But tonight, tonight was different. The gossip touched him in an uncomfortable way. The stage not set by his design, nor in a reaction to his parents. For once, he was in the thrall and pull of someone else. Pulled along by Miranda, befuddled by her acceptance. Stumbling along, feigning confidence by escorting her here.

Attending the opera had been somewhere in his initial grand plan. Having her as an active part of his life, should all the things he hoped to have with her bear true. And they had borne more fruit than he could have ever wished.

She loved him.

Now that he was here, though, he didn't like the way the men were watching her. Weighing her as they walked past. Taking bets on when he would tire of her. Of when they could lay their own claim. Men who wouldn't have taken notice of her on the street. Who had no care of the beauty and depth inside of
her. Her light, her intelligence, her warmth. Who were simply seeing her as his conquest, something new and interesting, another player to be debauched.

And why wouldn't they? That is all he'd ever given to this stage. Never seeking anything more.

More whispers followed them as they ascended the stairs to his box.

Look at the way Downing touches her.

Has he finally taken a mistress?

Who is she?

Did you see her necklace?

Miranda looked beautiful. Delicious. Far superior to the necklace he had given her. The one she had stared at for a long time in the mirror after he'd clasped it around her neck.

She had sat so still, he had thought for a moment she had turned to stone. But something had loosened in her again now. Sitting gracefully and leaning forward in her seat, gazing down at the stage to the preentertainment taking place. Forgetting her discomfort at being stared at. Or maybe just accepting it.

She loved him.
She'd said it.

And wasn't this life a good one, the one he would give her? Freedom and independence. The ability to move on should he prove less than ideal. He looked at the women in the boxes around them. Some laughing gaily, some boldly showing their skills. A few loftily gazing, looking for new protection. Many more avidly searching for the same.

A coiled knot formed in his gut as one woman's eyes surreptitiously searched the faces around her, a feigned laugh upon her lips. The look was repeated on the carefully constructed features of the others as well. The knot tightened, cutting.

There was a sort of tension to the scene that he'd never paid attention to before, never cared to see previously. Even the women who appeared to be having a grand time had a look about them. Trying to please and entice their partners. Both predator and prey. As if it were…paid work, and they simply doing their job, trying to retain their positions.

And wasn't that truly the case?

Mistresses, with their freedom and passion, were also constrained by the same. Their security and protection dependent on their benefactors. Independent and dependent within the same space.

A sliver of the knot shredded and splintered, stuck in his midsection. But Miranda would never need to worry about that. For he never intended to let her go.

The splinter grew, heedless of any rational thoughts.

He could keep her at his country estate. In his town house. Protect her from the looks. Protect himself from his violent reaction to them. Protect her from any needless insecurities.

She would probably acquiesce to staying in the background—
she loved him.

The knotted rope, now burning, twisted inside him.

Words freely given. The same declarations that shredded his stomach to ribbons and ripped through his shields—great holes of leaking emotion.

Miranda was so easily able to love and give of herself. She had struck up friendships with his servants, even the crusty, grumpy ones. She didn't hold on to bitterness and triumphed over fear. She was the type of person who would always find a new friend or engender a confidence.

All in all, he was fairly certain that his need of her likely exceeded her need of him.

The thought made him still.

She was a vibrant woman. Bursting with passion beneath a gentle, understated exterior. It had been part of the initial draw. Wanting to release that passion, to see what she'd do with it. To see what he could teach her and learn—
take
—from her in return. To have her look at him in the manner that she spoke of, and to, his paper personas.

His eyes latched onto movement at the door as Chatsworth entered the box. Fury replaced the stark terror that had suddenly gripped him. He should have told the hall staff that they did not want to be disturbed.

Messerden clumsily stumbled in after. The notorious gossip, always wanting to discover any and all information first. Max had used him well over the years to turn the gossip how he wanted. Undoubtedly, he was here in hopes of receiving a priceless tale.

Chatsworth made himself comfortable, and Messerden spread himself into a chair, nearly missing the seat as he was so busy staring at the back of Miranda's head. Obviously trying to determine who she was, as he had every time he'd crossed her path. Trying to fit her into a slot of the gossip he was formulating.

Miranda. Sweet Miranda.

Chatsworth followed Max's eyes, then turned to him. “Settling down in truth, Downing?” he said knowingly. A constant mistress to have alongside a constant wife. Chatsworth had had one for years.

“Chatsworth.” He nodded coolly.

He saw Miranda stiffen, her eyes continuing to watch the festivities below.

“Gads, man, you could have let me know earlier.” Messerden turned to Max as well. “Means I've lost eighty pounds on you.”

“I'm sure your pockets can afford it.” He had taken Messerden for a hundred times that amount over all the years they'd known each other.

“Still wish you had told me earlier though.” Messerden eyed Miranda over his red nose. “Could have made a pretty penny. Thought this one would be your usual fare—seduced and dumped.”

Max had never liked the man less.

Chatsworth smirked. “Downing is turning over a new leaf.”

Messerden's eyes narrowed, then he smiled slyly. “And how is your lovely daughter, Chatsworth?”

“She is well. The perfect girl. Had to leave the Peckhurst rout earlier due to a slight headache, but she should be right as sunshine come the morning. Ready to sparkle, as usual.”

Messerden turned back to regard Miranda, his gaze crafty and fixed. Max didn't like it in the least. Even in his cups, Messerden could be counted upon to be perceptive at awkward times. Max had needed to funnel the man's interest more times than he could count.

And right now he looked like he was beginning all sorts of new bets. How long Miranda would last. When she might meet Charlotte. What the first awkward meeting might entail.

The bets would be on the books as soon as Messerden reached White's. Max barely restrained his itching fingers from wrapping around the man's neck. It would be a relief to the roiling emotions within him. Tossing the man over the balcony. Maybe with Chatsworth along for the ride to the orchestra below.

Or he could simply hide Miranda. Save her from the speculation and gossip.

Tuck her away after he'd rejoiced in seeing her bloom.
Something inside of him died at the thought.

He'd make sure they never met—Charlotte and Miranda. He'd make sure Miranda wouldn't wilt beneath a torrent of petty gossip.

And he'd find a way to make sure she needed him as fiercely as he needed her.

He turned to start weaving a spell around Messerden. He'd not let those bets reach the books.

Perhaps then he could loosen the unbreakable knots within.

 

Miranda tried not to listen to what the men were saying. The preperformances on the stage were almost at a close, and she cast about for something else to focus upon. She glanced at the boxes around them, blushing a bit as she spied a man and woman engaged in something that should have been a little more, well,
private.

She turned her eyes to look at the boxes across from them instead. At least from this distance she could pretend that someone had dropped something to the floor and was merely taking a long time in picking it up.

A flash of blue had her looking back to a figure sitting alone in a box. In the shadows, a heavy cloak was pulled up and over the figure's head. A woman with a regal set to her shoulders. Even the way she hugged the shadows couldn't hide her poise.

The woman's eyes met hers across the space. Her head tilted.

Miranda's world drew to a momentary stop. The last person that Miranda expected to see at a night when the innocent were occupied elsewhere and the
naughty were making their rounds was sitting in the shadows across from her, hood pulled over her hair, mask in place. Unrecognizable unless one accepted the possibility that anyone might attend. Unless one had been thinking of the person mere moments before the glance.

Charlotte Chatsworth was not so ill after all. Nor did she seem to follow blindly along as her father had implied.

Miranda stared at her, and Charlotte stared back. The main entertainment began, a woman singing of doomed love and dastardly deeds. The viscount, Messerden, and Chatsworth began speaking in low voices so as not to upset anyone around them—though many in the crowd and surrounding boxes were socializing as well.

During the entire first act Miranda barely took her eyes away from the figure across from her. The woman's eyes seemed to be connected to hers as well. Every so often Miranda would look at the viscount. At Max. Would shakily try to return his smile—his smile more intense than it had been before—and not shiver beneath his fingertips. His reassuring hands.

The curtain finally drew closed, indicating a break before the second act. The woman across from her tilted her head in question, then rose and walked to the door behind her. Her hand touched the curtain, and she looked over her shoulder to Miranda before ducking through.

Miranda excused herself as well. The viscount, still in conversation with Chatsworth and Messerden, cast a questioning look her way. He would stop conversing and accompany her, should she wish it. She could see it in his eyes. That he would leave his future father-in-law and come with her.

Her throat tightened.

But he would not leave the path they were destined to travel.

She forced a smile and shook her head at him, then slipped through their door, heading for the retiring area.

There were a number of women chatting inside, some masked and some not, but Miranda's eyes sought only one. The woman sat with her back to the door, a padded chair next to her for someone wishing to sit and relax for a moment.

Miranda slipped into the chair and stared straight ahead, into the curved mirror, into the shadowed eyes of the woman next to her.

She was beautiful, in both visible features and poise. She veritably screamed wealth and accomplishment. Her elegant royal blue hood put the outrageous costumes of the others to shame. As if she didn't need to dress or hide herself at all. She was Charlotte Chatsworth, darling of society, diamond of the first water.

But the deep hood still served to hide her well. For even she could not get away unblemished if she were found here.

“Good evening,” Charlotte said eventually, her tone low and somewhat musical.

“Good evening,” Miranda returned the greeting, the abyss of the unknown opening around them.

Miranda felt like a pale bit of paste pretending to be a jewel. She looked down at her gown. The glorious satin. No. She lifted her head. Even the most expensively dressed women wore paste. Paste could be lovely. And touchable. Something that could be enjoyed with more freedom than the heavy choker of sapphires and diamonds that sat upon Charlotte
Chatsworth's neck, visible just above the throat of her cloak.

Or the outrageously expensive piece that graced Miranda's own. She, a piece of paste wearing a diamond.

Charlotte must not have returned home after the Peckhurst rout. She must have come here instead, choker still heavy about her throat.

She looked up from Charlotte's neck to see the girl watching her.

“Your necklace is beautiful,” Miranda said softly.