Silk Is For Seduction (2 page)

Chapter Two

ITALIAN OPERA, PLACE DES ITALIENS. The lovers of the Italian language and music will here be delighted by singers of the most eminent talents, as its name indicates; this theatre is devoted exclusively to the performance of Italian comic operas; it is supported by Government, and is attached to the grand French opera. The performances take place on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays.

Francis Coghlan,

A Guide to France, Explaining Every Form

and Expense from London to Paris,
1830

Paris, Italian Opera

14 April 1835

C
levedon tried to ignore her.

The striking brunette had made sure she’d attract attention. She’d appeared with her actress friend in the box opposite his at the last possible moment.

Her timing was inconvenient.

He had promised to write Clara a detailed description of tonight’s performance of
The Barber of Seville
. He knew Clara longed to visit Paris, though she made do with his letters. In a month or so he’d return to London and resume the life he’d abandoned. He’d made up his mind, for Clara’s sake, to be good. He wouldn’t be the kind of husband and father his own father had been. After they were wed, he would take her abroad. For now they corresponded, as they’d been doing from the time she could hold a pen.

For the present, however, he intended to make the most of every minute of these last weeks of freedom. Thus, the letter to Clara wasn’t his only business for the night.

He’d come in pursuit of Madame St. Pierre, who sat in a nearby box with her friends, occasionally casting not-unfriendly glances his way. He’d wagered Gaspard Aronduille two hundred pounds that Madame would invite him to her post-opera soirée whence Clevedon fully expected to make his way to her bed.

But the mysterious brunette . . .

Every man in the opera house was aware of her.

None of them was paying the slightest attention to the opera.

French audiences, unlike the English or Italians, attended performances in respectful silence. But his companions were whispering frantically, demanding to know who she was, “that magnificent creature” sitting with the actress Sylvie Fontenay.

He glanced at Madame St. Pierre, then across the opera house at the brunette.

Shortly thereafter, while his friends continued to speculate and argue, the Duke of Clevedon left his seat and went out.

“T
hat was quick work,” Sylvie murmured behind her fan.

“Reconnaissance pays,” Marcelline said. She’d spent a week learning the Duke of Clevedon’s habits and haunts. Invisible to him and everyone else, though she stood in plain sight, she’d followed him about Paris, day and night.

Like the rest of her misbegotten family, she could make herself noticed or not noticed.

Tonight she’d stepped out of the background. Tonight every eye in the theater was on her. This was unfortunate for the performers, but they had not earned her sympathy. Unlike her, they had not put forth their best effort. Rosina was wobbling on the high notes, and Figaro lacked joie de vivre.

“He wastes not a moment,” said Sylvie, her gaze ostensibly upon the doings on stage. “He wants an introduction, so what does he do? Straight he goes to the box of Paris’s greatest gossips, my old friend the Comte d’Orefeur and his mistress, Madame Ironde. That, my dear, is an expert hunter of women.”

Marcelline was well aware of this. His grace was not only an expert seducer but one of refined taste. He did not chase every attractive woman who crossed his path. He did not slink into brothels—even the finest—as so many visiting foreigners did. He didn’t run after maids and milliners. For all his wild reputation, he was not a typical libertine. He hunted only Paris’s greatest aristocratic beauties and the crème de la crème of the demimonde.

While this meant her virtue—such as it was—was safe from him, it did present the challenge of keeping his attention long enough for her purposes. And so her heart beat faster, the way it did when she watched the roulette wheel go round. This time, though, the stakes were much higher than mere money. The outcome of this game would determine her family’s future.

Outwardly, she was calm and confident. “How much will you wager that he and monsieur le comte enter this box at precisely the moment the interval begins?” she said.

“I know better than to wager with you,” said Sylvie.

T
he instant the interval began—and before the other audience members had risen from their seats—Clevedon entered Mademoiselle Fontenay’s opera box with the Comte d’Orefeur.

The first thing he saw was the rear view of the brunette: smooth shoulders and back exposed a fraction of an inch beyond what most Parisian women dared, and the skin, pure cream. Disorderly dark curls dangled enticingly against the nape of her neck.

He looked at her neck and forgot about Clara and Madame St. Pierre and every other woman in the world.

A lifetime seemed to pass before he was standing in front of her, looking down into brilliant dark eyes, where laughter glinted . . . looking down at the ripe curve of her mouth, laughter, again, lurking at its corners. Then she moved a little, and it was only a little—the slightest shift of her shoulders—but she did it in the way of a lover turning in bed, or so his body believed, his groin tightening.

The light caught her hair and gilded her skin and danced in those laughing eyes. His gaze drifted lower, to the silken swell of her breasts . . . the sleek curve to her waist . . .

He was vaguely aware of the people about him talking, but he couldn’t concentrate on anyone else. Her voice was low, a contralto shaded with a slight huskiness.

Her name, he learned, was Noirot.

Fitting.

Having said to Mademoiselle Fontenay all that good manners required, he turned to the woman who’d disrupted the opera house. Heart racing, he bent over her gloved hand.

“Madame Noirot,”
he said.
“Enchanté.”
He touched his lips to the soft kid. A light but exotic scent swam into his nostrils. Jasmine?

He lifted his head and met a gaze as deep as midnight. For a long, pulsing moment, their gazes held.

Then she waved her fan at the empty seat nearby. “It’s uncomfortable to converse with my head tipped back, your grace,” she said.

“Forgive me.” He sat. “How rude of me to loom over you in that way. But the view from above was . . .”

He trailed off as it belatedly dawned on him: She’d spoken in English, in the accents of his own class, no less. He’d answered automatically, taught from childhood to show his conversational partner the courtesy of responding in the latter’s language.

“But this is diabolical,” he said. “I should have wagered anything that you were French.” French, and a commoner. She had to be. He’d heard her speak to Orefeur in flawless Parisian French, superior to Clevedon’s, certainly. The accent was refined, but her friend—forty if she was a day—was an actress. Ladies of the upper ranks did not consort with actresses. He’d assumed she was an actress or courtesan.

Yet if he closed his eyes, he’d swear he conversed at present with an English aristocrat.

“You’d wager
anything
?” she said. Her dark gaze lifted to his head and slid down slowly, leaving a heat trail in its wake, and coming to rest at his neckcloth. “That pretty pin, for instance?”

The scent and the voice and the body were slowing his brain. “A wager?” he said blankly.

“Or we could discuss the merits of the present Figaro, or debate whether Rosina ought properly to be a contralto or a mezzo-soprano,” she said. “But I think you were not paying attention to the opera.” She plied her fan slowly. “Why should I think that, I wonder?”

He collected his wits. “What I don’t understand,” he said, “is how anyone could pay attention to the opera when you were in the place.”

“They’re French,” she said. “They take art seriously.”

“And you’re not French?”

She smiled. “That’s the question, it seems.”

“French,” he said. “You’re a brilliant mimic, but you’re French.”

“You’re so sure,” she said.

“I’m merely a thickheaded Englishman, I know,” he said. “But even I can tell French and English women apart. One might dress an Englishwoman in French fashion from head to toe and she’ll still look English. You . . .”

He trailed off, letting his gaze skim over her. Only consider her hair. It was as stylish as the precise coifs of other Frenchwomen . . . yet, no, not the same. Hers was more . . . something. It was as though she’d flung out of bed and thrown herself together in a hurry. Yet she wasn’t disheveled. She was . . . different.

“You’re French, through and through,” he said. “If I’m wrong, the stickpin is yours.”

“And if you’re right?” she said.

He thought quickly. “If I’m right, you’ll do me the honor of riding with me in the Bois de Boulogne tomorrow,” he said.

“That’s all?” she said, in French this time.

“It’s a great deal to me.”

She rose abruptly in a rustle of silk. Surprised—
again
—he was slow coming to his feet.

“I need air,” she said. “It grows warm in here.”

He opened the door to the corridor and she swept past him. He followed her out, his pulse racing.

M
arcelline had seen him countless times, from as little as a few yards away. She’d observed a handsome, expensively elegant English aristocrat.

At close quarters . . .

She was still reeling.

The body first. She’d surreptitiously studied that while he made polite chitchat with Sylvie. The splendid physique was not, as she’d assumed, created or even assisted by fine tailoring, though the tailoring was exquisite. His broad shoulders were not padded, and his tapering torso wasn’t cinched in by anything but muscle.

Muscle everywhere—the arms, the long legs. And no tailor could create the lithe power emanating from that tall frame.

It’s hot in here
, was her first coherent thought.

Then he was standing in front of her, bending over her hand, and the place grew hotter still.

She was aware of his hair, black curls gleaming like silk and artfully tousled.

He lifted his head.

She saw a mouth that should have been a woman’s, so full and sensuous it was. But it was pure male, purely carnal.

An instant later she was looking up into eyes of a rare color—a green like jade—while a low masculine voice caressed her ear and seemed to be caressing parts of her not publicly visible.

Good grief.

She walked quickly as they left the box, thinking quickly, too, as she went. She was aware of the clusters of opera-goers in the corridor making way for her. That amused her, even while she pondered the unexpected problem walking alongside.

She’d known the Duke of Clevedon was a handful.

She’d vastly underestimated.

Still, she was a Noirot, and the risks only excited her.

She came to rest at last in a quieter part of the corridor, near a window. For a time, she gazed out of the window. It showed her only her own reflection: a magnificently dressed, alluring woman, a walking advertisement for what would one day—soon, with a little help from him—be London’s foremost dressmaking establishment. Once they had the Duchess of Clevedon, royal patronage was sure to follow: the moon and the stars, almost within her grasp.

“I hope you’re not unwell, madame,” he said in his English-accented French.

“No, but it occurs to me that I’ve been absurd,” she said. “What a ridiculous wager it is!”

He smiled. “You’re not backing down? Is riding with me in the Bois de Boulogne so dreadful a fate?”

It was a boyish smile, and he spoke with a self-deprecating charm that must have slain the morals of hundreds of women.

She said, “As I see it, either way I win. No matter how I look at it, this wager is silly. Only think, when I tell you whether you’re right or wrong, how will you know I’m telling the truth?”

“Did you think I’d demand your passport?” he said.

“Were you planning to take my word for it?” she said.

“Of course.”

“That may be gallant or it may be naïve,” she said. “I can’t decide which.”

“You won’t lie to me,” he said.

Had her sisters been present, they would have fallen down laughing.

“That’s an exceptionally fine diamond,” she said. “If you think a woman wouldn’t lie to have it, you’re catastrophically innocent.”

The arresting green gaze searched her face. In English he said, “I was wrong, completely wrong. I see it now. You’re English.”