Seven Secrets of Seduction (16 page)

“Asking you.”

“I've only seen it happen in a handful of cases, and those too unique to replicate.” He looked away, too casually. “Most
love matches
are actually untamed desire not allowed to run its course.”

“That is cynical of you.” And yet, with parents such as his…

“Realistic.”

She watched him. The too-casual set of his shoulders. The way he moved the grape between his fingers in a decidedly idle motion. “You say it as if it irritates you that it is so.”

“Irritates me?” He raised his infernal brow again. “I hardly think you aware of the normal sway of my thoughts, Miranda.” He echoed her previous words to him.

She colored. “Perhaps not. But for all of your apparent cynicism, you at times have a most gilded tongue. Even Lady Banning remarked upon it.”

She tried to back away from the edge of the knife that was the topic of his parentage.

“A gilded tongue can be had on the most crafty of serpents.”

“I meant it in the lyrical sense.”

A number of emotions crossed his face in quick succession. Such a change from his normally sultry
or indecipherable features that she nearly missed them in her surprise.

Irritation, amusement, desire. Desire? But then he always had that in his arsenal.

His lips tightened, then parted, and she tensed. Would he agree or draw sword?

“Downing. What a surprise.” A man entered their box on slightly tipsy feet, a mask dangling perilously on his nose, the curve of a loosened knot making a noose on the side of his head.

“Messerden. What a lack thereof.” The viscount's eyes grew icy.

Messerden clapped a hand against his thigh and rubbed the edge of his forefinger against the tip of his drink-reddened nose. “Thought you could hide?”

“If I did, it would be in vain now, wouldn't it?”

The man turned to her, frankly appraising her. “Mrs. Collins? Lady Tenwitty? Is that you, Marie?”

She opened her mouth to respond, but the viscount tossed the fruit toward an empty bowl with a small ping. “What do you want, Messerden?”

The man cheerfully accepted the snub to his question, as if it were not unusual. “Wondering where you've been the past week. Betting has been hot at the club.”

“Has it?” the viscount said coolly. “I don't recall hiding. I saw you stumbling your way through a waltz at the Pemberleys' two nights ago.”

The man waved his hand and sat in a chair that magically appeared. “Everyone was there. I meant at White's or Newmarket. Or the Merrick brothers' new little hell down east. Can't believe you haven't been yet. And then for you to show up here with the gossip churning over the possibility of a duel on top
of the other bits. Well, you do know how to make an entrance.”

Miranda grew increasingly uncomfortable. She wondered if there was something in Messerden's personality or in the amount of drink he had consumed that made him unaware of the forbidding look and tenor of the conversation with the man he was trying to verbally engage.

“I was unaware that my presence necessitated such discourse.”

“Gads, man. She's got both of them in a box on the other side.” Messerden motioned right, swaying as he went off-balance. “Can't tell if they are going to take a turn with her in the bushes or kill each other first.”

“Sometimes the world is better off if one always defaults to option number two.” The viscount picked up another grape, his posture too idle once more.

“Is Werston making nice with Tarking?” Messerden said in reference to the viscount's father and his latest scandal. “Been missing for a month. Both of them.”

“Is that so?”

“Rumor floating that you were going to marry Tarking's chit. Make the sprog legitimate to the line. Keep it in the family even if it's the marquess's.”

The viscount raised a brow and said nothing.

Messerden stared over his red nose and through bleary eyes as if the viscount would reveal the information if he but concentrated hard enough. The silence stretched. Miranda wished she were somewhere else. Reading about gossip was much easier on the nerves than watching it take place.

Messerden cracked first. “Everyone has been wondering what you'd do this time in response, and you go and do nothing.”

“I will have to extend my apologies for damming the entertainment.”

Ah. The root of his disingenuous apologies was starting to take shape. She tilted her head.

The motion must have been just enough to call attention, because suddenly Messerden blinked at her and leaned forward. “I say. I don't recognize you at all now that I think on it. A good disguise? Or maybe not. You been hot for something new, Downing? Who is this?”

“A Russian princess,” he said smoothly and without a pause, as if he were speaking the truth. “Here for the festivities. Do keep it to yourself, Messerden.”

“Of course I will.” The man looked affronted. He leaned a bit more forward toward Miranda. “Are you really?”

She looked to the viscount in a panic.

“Doesn't speak a lick of English. Alas.” The viscount popped a grape into his mouth.

“Don't need to do much speaking though, do you, Downing?” The man obviously thought himself highly amusing. He chortled at his own joke. He turned back to her. “What is your name?”

Miranda stared at him.

“I”—he pointed to himself—“am Messerden. You?” He reached out to touch her.

The viscount made a motion, too small for the other man to catch, especially in his inebriated state. Two attendants immediately stepped forward, and one placed himself in the man's path, Messerden's finger hitting the button on his shirt instead of touching Miranda.

“Sir, let us escort you back to your box. There is an excellent bottle waiting for you there. On the house.”

Messerden shook their hands away, needing to stand in the process. “Gads, keep your dirty paws away. Do you know who I am?” He straightened his jacket. “Service here is going straight to the dogs, I tell you.”

The viscount shrugged lightly, almost apologetically. “The Russians are very protective of their princesses.”

Miranda stared at him. His mouth didn't even curve in shared amusement.

“Well, I suppose that could be.” Messerden brushed a hand down his trouser leg. “But they should know who they are handling first. Gads, I'm the grandson of a duke.” He gave the men in the shadows a glare, then turned back to the viscount. “Downing, stop in and have a chat later. Need to know where to place my bets.”

“Place them where you please, Messerden. I can't help you there.”

“Don't be coy, Downing. Of course you can. Bring the princess too. I won't tell a soul.” He crossed his chest and staggered away.

Miranda watched him go, remembering just a moment too late to close her mouth. He stumbled into a couple and gestured animatedly, pointing back at them. The couple craned their necks. Miranda shrunk back into the shadows. The couple simply craned farther.

“It will be all over the grounds within ten minutes,” the viscount said idly, fingering another grape.

“I can't believe you told him that.”

“Why?” He smiled slowly. “You are my princess.”

“Do you have no shame?”

“Me?” He raised a brow, settling back into his chair. “Not a lick last I checked.”

More of the attendees craned their heads for a better view. She tried not to return their frank stares.
This
was why she didn't opt to come and stare. And she promised herself from here on out that nothing Georgette said would make her change her mind to do so.

“Don't pay them any heed, it just makes them more rabid.” There was a bite to his words.

She didn't think it possible not to pay attention though. It was a little like watching the black-and-white pages suddenly turn to color, active and alive. And she in the middle of the print. Twisted in a sinking splotch of ink.

She watched a pair of tightrope walkers tossing pins and a number of acrobats flipping and flying through the air. One pin landed atop a man's head in a balance-defying manner.

“Are you enjoying them?”

The colorful men were mesmerizing with their tricks and served as a distraction. “Yes, they are wonderful.”

He waved the performers on the floor toward their area, signaling a man in the shadows. To pay a tuppence, probably, for the show.

“Straight from Paris. The latest rage. Though much more spectacular when seen in the proper setting.”

They must be part of the Cirque Diamant then. She smiled wistfully. “Someday I shall see them in full then.”

“Someday? Why not tomorrow? They are in town for a few weeks at the Claremont.”

“The papers said the show is sold out through its entire run.”

“Tickets can always be found if one searches the right places.”

“I have to catalog your library tomorrow.”

“And the next day as well. I will hardly let you leave. But at night you are free.” One side of his mouth crooked deliciously. “At least for now.”

She tucked hair behind her ears, coloring. “Perhaps.”

But there was working for her uncle and saving for her grand visit. Something always came up.

“Mmmm. That hardly sounds convincing.” He tapped two fingers together. “I will have to take you to a royal court performance sometime then.”

She stared at him, mind frozen. “Why?”

“Because I wish to.” He smiled lazily. “And as I've said, I do as I wish.”

The players were even more marvelous at closer range. The supporting musicians beat a rhythm as they threw batons and pins, performed flips and death-defying leaps onto one another's shoulders.

She leaned forward, her body feeling the euphony.

“You enjoy the rhythm of the music,” he said.

“I do. And the spectacle. The freedom.”

“You do not feel that freedom yourself?”

“Oh, I have more freedom than most. I do not live in ignorance of such. But still, to do as one pleases.” She waved a hand at him absently. “It must be glorious.”

“Sometimes one appears to have more freedom than one actually possesses. It is easy to see what one wishes to see.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but a sudden clamor of voices had her looking to the side.

The pervasive feeling of not belonging grew stronger as an unmasked woman who could only be the Marchioness of Werston, with features so reminiscent
of her son's, stepped gracefully into their box with a man at her arm.

“Dear! They said that you had arrived and were dining.”

“Mother.”

“And who is this?” She looked Miranda over in a full, curious glance.

He waved a dismissive hand. “What do you need, Mother? Dillingham.” His voice, while warmer when speaking directly to his mother, was veritably chilly when uttering the man's name.

The marchioness leaned against her partner. “Mr. Easton has taken an unfortunate tumble in our dinner box. A bit more than was bargained for. Do fix it for me, Maxim, dear.” She reached over and touched her son's cheek, an emotion showing in the marchioness's eyes that Miranda was surprised to identify.

Everything about his posture tightened, all the way from his thighs lounging out in front of him to the tendons of his neck above his simple, tastefully tied cravat to the suddenly pinched lines around his eyes. He touched his mother's hand against his cheek and pulled it down, his face smoothing back into unreadable, chiseled lines.

“Very well.” He looked off into the distance—and was that self-loathing she saw in his gaze? It was gone quicker than she could confirm. He gave the marchioness's hand a soft pat. “Why don't you return home.”

She sighed. “Put the fun at an end? Very well,” she echoed. “Come, Dilly, onward to other pursuits. You did win this round after all.”

“And I intend to win again, my dear.”

“Directly home, Dillingham.” The viscount's syllables were clipped.

The earl shifted on suddenly uncomfortable feet, his smile slipping. “Right. Evening, Downing.”

His mother stepped from the box, Dillingham hurrying after her.

Silence descended upon the space.

“Your mother is quite…” She searched for the word.

“Frivolous?” His voice was remote.

“I was going to say carefree.”

“A much nicer term.”

“She seems sad.”

His eyes narrowed on her. “What makes you say that?”

She shrugged, uncomfortable. Uncomfortable with all of it. “Something in her eyes. The way she looked at you.”

“Most people find her overly exuberant.”

Miranda said nothing. For what was there to say?
Your mother wears a mask. You obviously know it too judging by your reaction and expression. She appears so often in the scandal sheets, that it is nearly a cry for help.

“Or tawdry.” He smiled without humor. “Irresponsible, scandalous, loose. Many descriptive words. But not sad.”

“I'm sorry.”

He looked away for a second, and she could have sworn that split second of self-loathing was evident once more. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

She started to respond to the strange implication that
he
might, but he glanced back at her, face cleared as though it had never changed. “What other events
or things do you wish you could attend or see, but haven't yet grabbed?”

She startled at the abrupt change of topic, but understood. “You say it as if I have no courage to press forward.”

“Not a lack of courage. Not reaching out and grabbing the things you want is not necessarily indicative of a lack of courage. More perhaps a lack of initiative and impulse.”

“Or a lack of courage.”

“Fine. Or a lack of courage.”

“You are suddenly trying to be conciliatory to me.”