Vexing The Viscount (10 page)

Without his conscious volition, he walked toward her. In the sparse amount of Celtic he’d gleaned from his dealings in the market, he told her to show him her finger. With care, he plucked out the stinger, still pulsing its venom into her reddened and swelling skin. He pursed his lips and blew softly on the spot.

“Better?” he asked.

Her smile washed over him like a breaker.

And he knew in an instant: he was a drowned man who just hadn’t quit struggling yet. It was said to be not at all an unpleasant end once a man gave up.

Best to let the deep claim him.

Daisy raced up the long curving staircase, lifting her skirts and taking the stairs two at a time. Even before she reached the safety of her suite, she was unbuttoning her muslin overdress and calling out for Nanette to come quickly.

She didn’t know how long she had till Lucian turned up on her great-aunt’s doorstep with that lewd little Faunus figurine in his hand and lust in his heart, hoping to see Blanche. But she’d bet her best frock she didn’t have a quarter hour to spare.

“Oh, no, ma de moiselle, if you wish to present yourself as a woman of pleasure, you simply cannot rush your toilette. It is not
done
,” Nanette complained as she oversaw the hastily prepared bath.

“He’ll be here any moment, I know it,” Daisy said from behind the dressing screen where she plopped down on a stool to yank of her stockings. They were a muddy mess, but it had been worth it to see the pleasure in Lucian’s eyes when she showed him the reference she’d found to Caius Meritus.

Besides, she’d sacrifice any number of stockings to pry him away from the likes of Clarinda Brumley.

But she hadn’t been able to rest on her laurels in the cozy little study. Her simple muslin dress had barely dried before the small fire when Lucian began to let her know—tactfully,
of course—that he had a previous engagement for which he had to prepare.

He didn’t drop any names, but she knew he was thinking of his kissing lessons with Blanche La Tour.

With her!

She was pleased he seemed eager to see her as Blanche, yet it meant he rushed her out the door as herself.

She couldn’t quite decide how she felt about that.

“Oh, no.” She sneaked a peek behind the thick damask curtains down to the street below. The house holders in the neighborhood were setting out their required lanterns in the growing dark, and Lucian was climbing down from the barouche with the Montford crest emblazoned on the side. “He’s here.”

“Ah, but it does no harm to a man to make him wait,” Nanette said with a sly wink. The French lady’s maid had been with her great-aunt for years, all through Isabella’s scandalous and celebrated career as a courtesan. “In fact, whenever madame entertained a lover, she had a hard-and-fast rule that her gentleman must wait at least twenty minutes for her appearance, even if she had been awaiting his arrival for hours.”

“On the theory that hunger is the best sauce?” Daisy guessed.

“
Oui
, mam’selle, you have it.
Exactement.
The appetite is increased with the waiting. It is how the game of love is played,
n’est-ce pas?
”

It seemed a little underhanded. Daisy preferred things more straightforward, but she couldn’t quibble, since she was already engaged in a pretty flagrant deception herself. Still, playing Blanche was the most fun she’d had in years.

Wicked fun, she admitted, but fun nonetheless. An adventure worthy of the name.

Daisy sighed with pleasure as she sank into the warm hip bath and let Nanette scrub her back. Her belly growled
softly, a reminder that she’d had only tea and biscuits since breakfast.

“Speaking of hunger, could we have a light supper served in…Jupiter! I don’t even know where I’m to entertain him,” Daisy said as she lathered her washing cloth with fragrant castile soap Aunt Isabella had had made especially. Even though soap carried a heavy tax, it was always plentiful in the Wexford household.

“But of course,” Nanette said, “a courtesan always entertains a gentleman in her boudoir.”

That made Daisy drop the washing cloth. She had to go searching for it by feel along the bottom of the copper tub. “I can’t—”

“Of course not,” Nanette said. “If you brought the gentleman to this room, he would immediately suspect something was amiss. A courtesan’s chamber is arranged for entertainment. You have no couch, no chairs, no table for the cards, if he should wish to play.”

Daisy didn’t think Lucian had whist on his mind.

“Wipe the smirk from your face,
cherie
,” Nanette advised. “I know you youngsters are taught that men are ravening beasts to be feared and avoided lest they throw themselves upon you at the least provocation, but it is not always so. Sometimes a man just wants a woman’s company—a little tête-à-tête, a little harmless play. Perhaps the play ends up in bed, but even for the real woman of pleasure, such is not always the case.”

“Really?” Daisy assumed men visited their mistresses solely for sexual gratification. Strangely enough, the idea that there might be a relationship aside from the bed seemed an even deeper slight to their wives.

“
Bien sûr.
A wife, she will prattle on about the house hold and the babies, always the problems and cares. But a light-o’-love, she talks about the man himself, his hopes, his dreams. Madame always said her gentlemen valued her
friendship as much as her bed. But since your play is
not
to end in the bed, Madame has allowed me to set up the guest suite across the hall as the room of Blanche La Tour, ready for entertaining,” Nanette said. “It never pays to do things by half measures, Madame always says.”

“I suppose that will do.” Daisy gnawed her lip thoughtfully. “I trust you, of course, Nanette, but I wonder if the other servants will spread tales of this little exploit of mine.”

“Rest your mind, mam’selle. Jerome and I have been with Madame most of our lives. We never carry tales, and believe me, we would have plenty to carry should we wish it. But we owe Madame our living. How could we betray her? Lord Wexford’s people, they feel the same. This house, she has many secrets, but she keeps them all, no?”

Daisy certainly hoped so. If word of this little farce ever came to light, she’d be ruined. Not that she minded so much for herself. Being unconventional had always appealed to her, even if it meant public censure.

But her family would be hurt, and there was her younger sister Lily to consider. It would be another couple years before she’d come out, and it wouldn’t do to have a cloud of taint hovering over her because of Daisy’s ill-advised romps. For fear of that, Daisy decided she’d end her association with Lucian as Blanche after to night.

Then maybe he wouldn’t be so hasty about showing her the door as herself.

“However”—the maid interrupted her thoughts, cocking a delicate brow at her as she helped Daisy rise from the water and towel of —“Madame wished me to remind you that you made her a certain promise.”

“To guard my purity,” Daisy recited. “Have no worries on that score. Lord Rutland is only expecting kissing lessons from his paramour this evening.”

“Ah! But kisses quickly lead to other things,” Nanette
said. “And kisses do not willingly confine themselves to the lips.”

Daisy hadn’t considered that. There were any number of places on her person that might enjoy the brush of Lucian’s mouth. Clearly she hadn’t read far enough in Blanche’s journal. Several of the naughty Roman images rose up to taunt her imagination.

But this was just a play. Daisy might flirt with passion, but she had no intention of succumbing to it. She was in perfect control.

“Well, tell Isabella not to be concerned,” Daisy said. “As you so wisely observed, this is how the game is played.”

“The game of love, mam’selle,” Nanette said with hooded eyes. “And sometimes the rules for that game sprout the wings and make to fly away. Come,
cherie
. I shall do your rice powder before you dress.”

Lucian slapped his gloves against his thigh for the umpteenth time. What the devil was keeping her?

He didn’t expect the earl or his wife to trouble themselves with him, but Blanche should have more consideration than to keep him cooling his heels in the Wexford parlor so long. He’d been working like a ditchdigger all day, except for when his father had him playing at gold digger with the Brumleys, and yet he managed to arrive on time, as promised.

He set the little Faunus statuette on Lady Wexford’s Louis Quatorze side table. It mocked him with a leering grin.

“For one glimpse behind her mask, you’d wait too, old son,” he grumbled to the goat-god.

His one regret in hurrying over here, he realized with surprise, was hustling Daisy Drake out of the study like an unwelcome guest. She’d proven her worth today by finding that little tidbit about Meritus. And her questions about the
motive for the ancient robbery had set his thoughts racing in a new direction. Perhaps there was more to Daisy Drake than his experience with her pike hand proved.

Of course, as long as his father was on the rampage against her family, it wouldn’t do for Lucian to try to find out. He was beginning to seriously worry for his sire. Sometimes, late at night, he’d wake and hear his father, drunk and loud in the study below his bedchamber. He wondered if a physician’s leeches or purges would drain the venom from his father’s soul.

Finally, the little French maid came to collect him, and he pocketed the Faunus statue. To his delight, instead of being escorted into some other parlor, he was led up the curving staircase to the second level of Wexford’s grand residence.

The Promised Land
, he thought, anticipation tightening his gut. The maid dropped a curtsy and flashed a knowing grin before a closed door on the long corridor, then bustled away.

His hand actually trembled when he reached for the knob. It was still a minor miracle to him that a woman like Blanche
gave
him so much of her time. Since he didn’t have the coin to shower her with jewels as her other patrons had, he was determined to hold her interest by other means. He fingered the little Faunus in his pocket.

He hoped she’d find it clever instead of grotesque.

In the dim room lit by only a few tapers, Blanche was waiting for him. She lounged on the fainting couch, dressed in the most becoming dishabille. A beribboned camisole displayed her creamy décolletage.

Without nipples showing this time
, he realized with disappointment. But Lucian decided in the next breath that it was good for a man to have a challenge.

He made a jaunty leg to her.

A lacy
casaque
flowed from her white shoulders to her hips. She seemed to have left of her hoops, for her long
skirt completely covered her feet. No stolen glimpse of an ankle here, but he was more disappointed that she yet wore a wig and mask. However, when she extended her hand to him, he forgave her everything.

“Oh, Blanche, the day seemed so long,” he said as he dropped a kiss on her knuckles, taking in her exotic jasmine scent clear down to his toes.

“Did it?” she replied in French. “And I feared the hunting of treasure would be so fully engaging, you would forget all about your promise to visit me.”

“Nothing could keep me from your side.” He knew she understood English, but she seemed intent on holding their discourse in his third language. It had been years since he’d dreamed in Italian, his mother tongue, but he feared his schoolboy French wasn’t up to the task of dazzling this bird of paradise. But with any luck at all, they’d be communicating without need of words in no time.

Perhaps the French, like the mask and wig, was part of her allure. An air of mystery swirled about the woman like her expensive perfume. Lucian’s pulse quickened.

“You did not find that which you seek?” she asked.

“No, not today.” He suddenly remembered the goat-god in his pocket. “But we did find this. I promised you some naughty Roman art. I hope it pleases you.”

She accepted his gift with a smile. “Pan, is it not?”

“Pan to the Greeks, Faunus to the Romans,” Lucian explained, “but by either name, he’s a randy little fellow.”

“He is…gifted, no?” she said with a tinkling laugh as she drew a coy fingertip along Faunus’s erection from its base to the broken tip.

Lucian swelled to rival the little horned god, imagining that same teasing stroke on his own skin. Lord, he’d never thought to envy a chunk of fired clay.

“Yet not without faw,” she observed, circling the broken tip of the statuette’s phallus.

He swallowed hard, willing his voice to sound even. “It’s rare to find a bit of antiquity that isn’t a bit flawed.”

“Or a person either.”

“I think I found one.” He leaned toward her. “You.”

She laughed. “Perfection is not one of my gifts.”

“I believe it is,” he said. “And though I confess to extreme curiosity over your hidden gifts, I find the ones I can see nearly perfect.”

“Only ‘nearly’?” She swept her feet to the floor and patted the spot beside her on the couch.

“One thing would improve upon your perfection.” He settled beside her without further coaxing. “Having you in my arms.”

“Clever boy,” she purred as she set the figurine of the goat-god on her silk-covered side table. “And yet, a woman should be wary of climbing to such a high pedestal as perfection. It seems a long way to fall.”

“I’d catch you.”

Her little tongue darted out and swept her bottom lip. His belly tightened in response.

“I believe you would,” she said. “Let us make a test, shall we?”

And she slid her hands around him beneath his frock coat, sidling close. She tipped her head back. Behind her mask, her eyes, whose color he still could not determine for the dimness of the room, fluttered closed.

His mouth descended on hers by finger widths, as though he were an unworthy pilgrim approaching a shrine. When he finally covered her softness, pleasure washed over him like a warm flood. He gave himself to the wave without a second thought.