Seven Secrets of Seduction (13 page)

“I plan to purchase a book, perhaps stop by the club and gamble away a bit of the money left in my pockets, then drunkenly retire with a scantily clad woman.”

The last was said with a slight, nearly unnoticeable tilt toward her, and it was as if scalding tea had been poured over her head and left to drip down and coat her limbs.

Colin didn't seem to notice, too coiled to catch any nuances.

“And Mother?”

“Why don't you speak to her if you are so anxious.”

Colin's lips tightened in a line so thin all color disappeared. “As if she'd care. You are her firstborn. Her favorite. From her favorite tree.”

There was a derisive twist to the words.

“We all have our burdens to bear. Now, if you are through?”

“Why do I even bother speaking to you? You are just as flawed as they are. As tainted.”

The viscount smiled pleasantly, saying nothing.

“The family name is being
ruined
.”

“You do realize you are discussing this out in the open, don't you? Adding to the family drama? Aren't you concerned with who might overhear? Or are you too
busy
when you come to my house to talk of it then?”

Colin blanched, then scoffed. “There is no one here to overhear.”

“Let me introduce you to Miss Chase.” The viscount stepped back and waved a hand to her. “New to the house.”

Colin seemed beyond embarrassed at finally spying her, but then anger appeared to override the emotion. “Your servants overhear worse every day in your household anyway,” he muttered.

“I do hope Miss Chase has formed the correct opinion from what she's overheard me say.” Downing's eyes turned languid, and Miranda's face flamed.

His brother's expression grew suddenly dark, and there was a fear there that was strange and unexpected. “You are dallying with your staff now? I thought you had your limits.”

The viscount's expression turned deadly. “You overstep yourself.”

Colin backed up a pace, face blanching of color. “You can't dally with the staff.” The words spilled from his lips. “At least if you were respectable, if you turned the marquess and marchioness respectable, the rest of us could rest upon the goodwill of society should our pockets go to let.”

“Do you plan to take up the cloth? Regain our respectability through prayer and sermon? Or to take up trade and refill our rumored empty coffers? Sell your melancholy memoirs?”

Colin's face grew redder still. Huh. She had thought that awful shade was hers alone. The strange thing was the sliver of desperation beneath his anger.

“No? Then simply be blind to it like Conrad and the ladies. Buy your expensive clothing and attend your favorite events. Go to your balls and think nothing of where the money is coming from or going to. Think nothing of the gossip rags.” The viscount sipped his drink. “Woo whom you will and don't take your feelings of shame over it out on the rest of us.”

Colin didn't respond. In fact, he looked like he had been stabbed in the gut.

“You are full of your school's
goodwill,
Colin, and unable to reconcile your own confusion with that of the way of the world.” The viscount leaned toward his brother, dark intentions in his posture. “And if you say aught to Mother in a negative manner because of it, you will answer to me. Good day.”

The viscount strode away, long legs eating up the distance to cross the room, and she hurried to follow.

“The countess should appear soon,” he said over his shoulder, as she tried to keep pace. “We can appreciate the paintings here in the corner until she does. Better company that way.”

She glanced back to the other man, taking in his hair, skin tone, and eye color as he stared hollowly after the viscount. “You are brothers?”

“Strange, is it not?”

“Well, you are both a bit intense,” she admitted.

He glanced at her as they walked, slowing his pace a bit, his expression clearly amused. “Intense, am I?”

“Yes.” There was nothing risked by admitting the obvious.

“Never thought Colin and I had much in common
apart from blood, however much of it he wants to claim.” The last was said with a decided snipe.

She dearly wished to ask questions but didn't dare. It was none of her business and beyond good manners. But everyone knew of the marchioness and her exploits. The woman who permanently resided in the scandal sheets as Lady W. Who had a string of liaisons as long as a continuous thread on the largest loom. Only eclipsed by her husband and oldest son.

The father's, the mother's, the son's. The scandals always followed a pattern. If the marchioness performed an outrage, it was almost certain that the viscount would eclipse it in some way.

The pattern was noticeable if one paid attention over time and followed the flow of the gossip surrounding Downing. If one looked between the inked lines to see the strange and complicated picture.

Miranda coughed into her glove. She was sure everyone paid that type of attention, not just her.

The viscount's scandals, while particularly succulent at the outset, eventually turned out
mostly
well. Though there were a few that had been utter disasters. But for the most part, heavy, scandalous bets became new fortunes. Ghastly trade endeavors produced obscene riches. Rakish conquests turned into speedy, happy weddings—other people's weddings. It was almost as if his scandals were designed and planned, when one thought on it.

But the brother's talk about finances…perhaps there was something hidden beneath the print.

“Colin is taken with sentiment,” the viscount said, examining a magnificent portrait. “Overly reliant on other people's opinions. And on emotion, not unlike our mother, though he'd be horrified to have it pointed
out.” He tilted his head, a tight smile about his lips. “I will do so the very next time I speak with him.”

“Are you…are you sure we should be purchasing books?” She said it all in a rush, horrified that the words were spilling from her lips even as they did. Impugning a gentleman's honor…questioning the gossip…he'd probably turn her right out.

Instead, he looked more amused. “I think I can afford the expense. And you. At least for the moment.” He took a drink from his glass. “Besides, you know we live to rack up as much credit as the bankers can extend.”

It was a practice that was very common for her to see in the bookstore, but it was completely foreign to her own way of life. “But eventually it catches up.”

“Will you take me in if it does?” He leaned toward her, his elbow brushing her arm, hovering just above her breast—one sliver of air away if she as much as breathed. “I could be your kept man. Slave to your desires.”

His lips curved as her cheeks heated.

“All it would take is one tiny concession on your part. Give me that concession, Miranda. Surrender to it.”

The spell curled around her, demanding an answer.

Demanding capitulation.

The crowd around her melted away as she prepared to give it.

Mr. Pitts to Miranda Chase

 

A
woman with powdered hair ornately and elaborately styled walked through the door, breaking the atmosphere of the room and Miranda's own trance. The answer to the question submerged back into the ever-present tension between them.

The woman was obviously the most important person in the room. In the house. It didn't take the jewels dripping from her neck, strung through her hair, or covering her gloved hands and wrists to determine such. It was the way she walked. The way she stopped, stood, and waited for the perfect moment. Holding herself there a beat too long, making Miranda want to shift. A few of the others in the room gave in and moved in the space of awkward awareness.

Then the woman moved her hand, commanding notice. Successfully gaining the attention of the entire gathering without saying a word. Miranda was impressed. Georgette would likely trade in her interest in Mrs. Q—shove her into the Thames—if she ever met Lady Banning and had a chance to study her.

The woman surveyed the crowd and walked straight toward the viscount. Conversation recommenced, more muted though than before.

“Lord Downing.”

“Lady Banning.” He bowed over her hand. One white eyebrow rose at how close he came. “Still able to bring everyone to heel. Still as beautiful as the day of your comeout.”

“Still the silver tongue, Downing. Your father wouldn't even remember my comeout. And you weren't even a thought in his sapless head when I made mine.”

“But I am sure that his thoughts would have been full of me after he saw you.”

The countess gave him a frosty glance, but there was amusement at the edges. “Did I call your tongue silver? Do not overstep yourself, viscount.”

“I'd never dare, countess. Not unless it was a step toward you.”

“Still as knavish as ever.”

“Still as sharp as the most razor-edged of blades.”

The countess gave her intricately coiffed hair a pat. “Always. Now, what have we here.” Sharp icy blue eyes swung Miranda's way, pinning her. Everyone else in the house had glanced right over her, but not this woman. The ruler of them all.

“This is merely Miss Miranda Chase, countess.” The edge of his mouth curled, a tendril lifting in the breeze. “A lowly shopgirl.”

“Mmmm. As if you would bring someone lowly to me, Downing.” The countess walked around her, examining her. “Where are you from, girl?”

“Leicestershire, my lady. Then Main Street Books and Printers on Bond.”

The countess tilted her head, just a small movement beneath her mountain of hair and ornament. “A small shop, but with a good reputation.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Miranda tried not to stumble over her words.

The countess perused her for another second, then turned to the viscount. “Well then, Downing. What do you have for me to sniff my nose at today?”

“A twelfth-century illumination.” He untucked an edge of the cloth bundle. The gilt edges caught the light before he pulled the covering back over it.

The countess's face showed nothing, and neither did her posture. “I have many illuminations, Downing.”

“But you haven't seen this one, countess.”

She examined him, a look that would make most grown men cower. The viscount maintained his indolent pose under her regard. It was just respectful enough not to be insolent. The countess looked at Miranda speculatively. “To the judgment room then in ten minutes, shall we? I have to deal with this rabble first.”

Miranda trailed behind as they walked, feeling like a puppy caught in her own leash. The two separated, the countess turning into the middle of the room and its inhabitants. Downing going toward a hall, his steps slowing to a crawl, forcing her to catch up.

She'd rather have stayed behind him, but every time she slowed, he did as well. Soon they'd be inching forward on their toes, odd ducks waddling in a desert. She gave in and increased her pace, pulling alongside him.

They entered a magnificent room full of odd and eclectic items and gadgets. A spinning globe stood in the center, and the viscount spun it as he passed. The glitter of the gold meridians was mesmerizing. She couldn't help stopping and observing it. She touched it with one finger, then withdrew her finger just as quickly. She glanced up to see the viscount watching her.

“I'm sorry, I just—”

“Sorry about what? Touching the countess's cheap globe?”

Her chin dropped an inch, and her finger rose again to touch the wonder. “It isn't cheap.”

The viscount's brow rose challengingly, but she could see the satisfied edge to his smile. She narrowed her eyes. “What game do you play?”

“Me? Oh, but to which one do you refer?”

She shook her head and looked at the globe, giving it a gentle spin. “It's lovely.” Her finger absently traced the lines of the Continent, touching Italy, pulling back to rest upon France.

“Have you ever visited?”

“What?” She looked up, then down again. She hastily picked up her finger. “Oh, no. When would I?”

“Your uncle doesn't do trade in Paris?”

“Sometimes. But couriers travel between.”

“You should go.” He leaned against the marble stand of an ancient display, a priceless Greek bust peering down imperiously.

She gave a humorless laugh. “You sound like Georgette.”

“Your friend?”

Georgette would be beyond pleased that he knew
her name. Might just push
Miranda
into the Thames and take her place as threatened.

“Yes, she is always telling me to leave my silly thoughts behind and go.” She grimaced, thinking about Mr. Pitts. “Everyone is always telling me to leave and see the world.”

He pushed away from the stand and took her hand, pulling his fingers along her cut-rate glove. “I'll take you.”

She laughed, the pitch a little too high. “I think you might grow bored, my lord, before we even catch sight of the sea.”

“You think I can't roam a museum without dissolving into ennui?”

“Not bored by that.” Though she couldn't see him studying a piece of art for hours. Not with the way his hands constantly moved or his expression changed with the shadows. Not with how he took every quiet opportunity to further the challenge between them.

“I don't believe you. You think I can't appreciate simple beauty.”

She looked around the room, at the expensive décor and intricate pieces. “In my experience, the Quality tend to like more complicated things.”

“You've been reading the gossip columns far too long.”

“And you've been gracing them for far longer, I think. In increasingly complicated schemes.”

“I'm pleased you've been paying attention.” He smiled lazily. “But it proves another point—that you read the gossip columns rather than experience such things yourself.”

“Living the life written within would hardly suit me.”

“Mmmm.” His head tilted. “Have dinner with me.”

She froze. “Pardon me?”

“Vauxhall.”

“Vauxhall.”

His mouth quirked. “Gardens.”

“Vauxhall Gardens.”

“You've heard of them then.” The edges of his mouth curved fully as she responded to the teasing with a glare. “Dinner.”

“I don't think that wise,” she somehow managed to answer, if faintly.

“Who said anything about being wise? Really, Miranda, I thought you knew me better than that by now.”

She didn't know which was the more perilous—that she thought she might know something about the enigmatic man in front of her or that she was as much in the dark as the rest of London.

He smiled slowly. “There is a masked party there tonight. Everyone will be costumed. And it just so happens that I have a domino that will perfectly suit you.”

“That is absurd.”

He lifted a brow. “Many people have extras in case someone should visit.”

“Not that. Well, yes, that too. But the other. The reference to suiting me. The offer.”

“You want me to rephrase it?”

“I am scarcely your usual company.” She tried to tug her hand away. “I'm hardly versed in dinner conversation appropriate to the type of dinner you'd have at Vauxhall.”

“I like your conversation the way it is. I choose my own company.” His fingers stayed curled around hers, and he tapped her wrist with one long, extended finger. “And I choose you.”

“I—”

“Much merrymaking and unwise actions will ensue.”

“I—”

“You will be surprised what a little costume can do for overcoming your shyness.”

“I'm not shy,” she said without thinking.

He lazily smiled, and his smallest finger moved, grazing the edge of her palm. “Excellent then.”

“I haven't consented to anything.” Her voice went a little high.

“Would you like me to help with that? To choose for you? You just needing to follow and be free?”

There was something very uncomfortable about the sentiment and the way he said it. As if he knew her mind.

Before she could answer, Lady Banning strode back into the room. Miranda tugged her hand free of the viscount's. He seemed willing to keep it indefinitely otherwise. She colored, but Lady Banning gave only the barest hint of a reaction that she had seen any of it.

“Up to your tricks, Downing? Or do you really have something worth viewing?” The countess held out her hand.

The viscount tipped the bundle so the book fell into her palm. Lady Banning showed the first hint of emotion as her fingers hurried to steady the book.

She gave the viscount a frosty glare. He looked innocently back.

“One of these days you are going to test me beyond repair, Downing.”

“Never. You find me too amusing.”

She gave him another frosty stare, then looked to the book. “It's adequate.”

He lazily leaned against the marble stand once more and twirled a hand. “Barely acceptable.”

“I highly dislike you, Downing.”

“Alas, I live for your favor.”

The countess spared a glance for Miranda. “Girl, I hope you know what you are getting yourself into with this one.”

Miranda's eyes widened like the rabbit she often felt akin to in the viscount's presence.

The countess's eyes narrowed and turned back to the viscount. “Downing.” There was a warning in the word.

For the first time during the conversation, the viscount's posture changed from the lazy regard he had maintained throughout. A minute tightening, but present nevertheless.

Lady Banning stared at him for another second, then looked back to the book. “Tell me of it, then.”

The viscount's body returned to its former liquid ease. “It's a book.”

“You try my patience, Downing, and I have little of it to spare.” Lady Banning turned to her. “Miss Chase. What can you tell me of this tome? I assume Downing has brought you here to verify the provenance in the absence of his good manners.”

Miranda gingerly took the illumination in her gloved hands and studied it. “The paper is correct. The writing seems appropriate for the twelfth century.”

She delicately turned the pages. “The illustrations
are of the right variety. The condition is excellent.”

It was a remarkable thing. Though she felt awkward skimming sections hailing the glory of chastity after devouring the illicit tome hidden in her room.

“It's not a fourteenth-century scandal, but still admirable.” The countess pursed her lips.

Miranda tried not to turn bright red. Had the countess read her mind?

“Admirable,” the viscount said in the lazy tone he had uttered
acceptable
previously.

The countess gave him a sharp look. “Very well, Downing. The girl has just confirmed what I already knew. As did you. What do you want?”

“You know what I want.”

Her lips pinched together, and she stood silent for a second. Then she snapped her fingers, and a servant smoothly dislodged from his position by the door and presented himself in the center of the room.

“Fetch the parcel.”

The servant nodded and slipped away, obviously already knowing where to go and what his mistress was referring to.

The servant reappeared with a bundle. The countess snapped her fingers toward the viscount. The servant held the bundle forward with both hands extended.

Downing took it, a faint smile touching his lips before he unwrapped the sturdy cloth binding similar to the one in which his illumination had been stored. John Fennery would be pleased that his newly created preservation cloths were seeing such diligent use by the wealthy of the land.

There was a folio inside, not the book she had expected.

She looked over, her curiosity overcoming her man
ners. It looked like the quill drippings of a quick hand scribbling a draft. She squinted her eyes and made out a few names and notes. Viola. Sebastian. Orsino.

She blinked and leaned toward him. There were a number of sentences crossed out. Others penned over them, under them, to the side.

“Is that…?” She let her words trail.

“Merely a few scribbles.” The viscount tucked the pages back into the folio.

“A good head on her shoulders. And better in all ways than your usual fare.” The countess gazed at her, eyes narrowed, then turned her head to stare at the viscount. “How did you find her?”

“I diligently searched beneath a stack of books.”

“Mmmmm. And here I thought you barely knew how to read, Downing. Though I suppose you could have just pushed them to the side in your haste to find a new skirt.”

“I'm gutted, countess.”