Seven Secrets of Seduction (22 page)

The way he said it made her swallow again. As if he didn't plan to sample her but to make her his entire meal.

“Wear this.”

“Why?” Her voice was a little too high. “Where are we going?”

“It hardly matters, does it?” He tipped his head. “You don't plan to fall to my nefarious tactics.” He leaned toward her. “Consider it an apology, our destination. I promise that I will be a good boy.”

He casually dropped a slim book onto the table. “I lifted this from Colin when he wasn't looking. Perhaps you might enjoy it.”

She stared at the slim book, a compilation of Shakespearean sonnets in lovely, expensively bound leather. “Won't your brother miss it?”

“It was undoubtedly for an assignment. He wouldn't be caught holding a book of sonnets he hadn't written himself.” His lips pulled into a sharp smile. “I'll buy him another should he grouse.” He pulled a finger along the leather. “Come with me, Miranda. Willingly. On your own.”

She pushed at the siren call. Pulled forth every rational thought to which she could lay claim. “I will hardly finish cataloging your library if we go out.”

“Then I suppose I will be able to keep you indefinitely after all.” There was something to his words…she could almost believe him. He walked backward from the room, a lazy regard underpinned by an intensity that stole her breath. “Soon perhaps I will, Miranda.”

Miranda stared after him. Everything in her tangled and confused. She looked down at the gown.

She shouldn't let him toss her to and fro. She should set the gown back in the armoire and calmly walk from the room.

“His lordship has excellent timing. The old bat is busy. I can do you up as I wish.”

Galina must have been waiting on the other side of the door to have appeared so quickly. Waiting, listening for her cue.

Miranda was nonplussed for a second as she again realized that people in the house were likely listening to all of their conversations.

Galina had thawed a bit toward her in the days since Miranda had forced herself upon the staff in the kitchens. But she was still cool, her nature seemingly that way in general.

The maid gestured her to a chair. “Knew that his lordship would return to you. I've been eyeing a few styles just for when he'd do so.”

Miranda blinked, then swallowed. “Oh?”

The maid said nothing, simply pointed to the chair again.

“You listen,” Miranda said softly. “In the halls.”

The maid watched her for a moment. “Yes.” She seemed to consider her words. “Which is why I knew he'd be back for you, unlike any of the others we've had.”

Miranda went scarlet.

The maid's eyes narrowed. “You aren't like any of the others. And they—” She tilted her head. “They were for show.”

She gestured to the chair again, more imperiously. Miranda sat bemusedly, but her attention remained focused on the maid.

“For show?”

“Do not fear that we listen to each licentious gasp to determine such.” There was a hint of a smile about her mouth.

Miranda colored again, still unbelieving that she could do so. But there it was in the cheval glass, rosy splotches on her cheeks.

The maid leaned forward and lifted a brush. “But it is obvious that he's never cared for any of the others. That there is something about you.”

Miranda stared into the mirror without focus. “I am a simple shopgirl.”

“Not so simple now, no?”

“I suppose not,” she said softly, as the maid lifted her hair, examining how it fell.

The path of least resistance in the short term was to remain in the chair, to let the maid dress her and go willingly with the viscount. But it was also fraught with the most long-term risk. For she could simply
return to the library, demand that he leave her alone, and go on her way, mostly unchanged.

Never knowing what lay at the end of the adventure. In his arms. The challenge changing from one of physically or intellectually seducing the other party to becoming part of the fabric of his life—at least for a short time.

Galina smoothly pinned a section of hair. “One becomes used to listening when one is a servant. There is a rhythm to things here. But there has been a different rhythm for the past few weeks. Pauses and footsteps. Boards creaking. Even the muffled sound of shoes on a rug. On edge.” Her smile was darkly self-deprecating. “One becomes used to listening when one is a servant.”

“One becomes used to living in the pages of a book when one is a shopgirl in a bookstore,” Miranda answered lightly.

She could see the maid's pursed lips through the reflection of the mirror. She thought for a moment that the woman wouldn't answer. “You read a lot?” Galina finally asked.

“Yes. It's an escape into another world.” She tried to keep her words light instead of sad, thoughts of her family in her head. “Sometimes that is the best part of a hard day.”

“Not much time to escape when you are a servant.”

“But reason to escape, no?”

The maid tugged her hair a little roughly, then gave a muffled apology, her fingers gentling. “Perhaps.”

She finished dressing Miranda's hair and helped her into the day dress. It was a simple style, but lovely. Lovelier than anything she had worn other than the Vauxhall dress. The maid put on the finishing touches,
pinching here and there, making everything just right. She reminded Miranda of the seamstress, Madame Galland.

“Thank you, Miss Lence.”

The maid said nothing, tying the last bow. She nodded and stepped away to let Miranda pass, then tapped the brush suddenly, examining it, not looking up. “Of course, we do overhear things beyond what our masters might like us to hear. Things that might cause us to extend a wary warning, even in the face of it all.”

Miranda paused and tilted her head in acknowledgment. She knew that any endeavor she undertook with the viscount was fraught with peril of all sorts. The last week had shown her that if nothing else.

She touched the maid's hand. “Thank you.”

The maid looked back, her face carefully blank. “It is silly to extend one's view so high. But…” The woman looked to the side. At the book the viscount had left. His brother's book. “But perhaps we are all hoping that it is not without hope to do so.”

Miranda opened her mouth in surprise, but the maid excused herself and strode from the room, leaving her standing next to the table, dressed in her strange new finery. More conflicted than before.

She lifted the book and was directed by a hall servant back to the library. The viscount was inside, paging through a slim volume. He snapped it shut and stood when she entered. He sauntered toward her, lifting her free hand.

“A rose in winter.”

“It is spring.”

“But it is the winter of my heart.” His lips grazed her wrist.

She removed her hand and smoothed it along the bow of her dress, feeling the beautiful silk of the glove rubbing against the fabric, concentrating on something other than his heated eyes.

She held up the book in her hand. “Does your brother often visit?”

“All of my siblings do. They like to pretend they are checking in on me. But they do so to avoid our parents. Colin likes to come and make life miserable. To visit the staff in the kitchens. I think he is attempting to stage a revolt. Or to conquer his hypocrisy.” The last was said too lightly.

“Oh.”

Perhaps we are all hoping that it is not without hope to do so. To extend one's view so high.

She swallowed and squared her shoulders. “I'd like to organize an outing for your servants.”

He raised a brow at the abrupt change of subject, his narrowed eyes obviously trying to figure out how the topics were related. “An outing?”

“Yes, for your staff. I've heard that the Duke of Brexley holds fantastic parties at Hyde for his town household.” She tried to pretend interest in examining the book. “Lunch perhaps. You could even invite your siblings. Colin. Stave off the revolt.”

“I'm not sure
I'd
want to attend, in that case.”

She lifted her head and met his eyes. “I'd attend.” Her response was twofold.

He didn't speak for a long moment. “Fine. Speak with Mrs. Humphries. Don't be surprised if she thinks you are trying to take her job though.”

“Mrs. Humphries and I have come to an accord.”

His brows rose again. “Do I need to build an ark?”

“You say it as if I am hard to get along with.”

“My housekeeper is unused to…guests like you.”

“Guests that you dress and escort to outrageous places?”

“No. That isn't quite as unusual.”

She felt a little pang of jealousy but stuffed it down. No, this was her adventure, and that was the way she'd treat it. Adventures took place in the here and now. The present. The near future.

“But my guests are usually quite aware of the way things work with me, or with the family member they are associating with, and are not interested in taking up with my staff.”

“You are far above my station. I assume the women you consort with are as well.”

One finger curled under her chin. “Ah, but the reality of that statement is far from true. I sometimes feel you are completely out of my reach.”

She blinked.

His hand slid down her back and urged her toward the door. “I've never been good at knowing my place, however.”

The grand carriage was waiting for them outside. She took a breath and stepped inside. It was easier every time she did. Thoughts of other things collected in her mind.

Someday—someday when she was irritated with him no longer—she would have to thank the viscount for that.

“Where are we going, oh shriveled and wintry one?” she asked as she settled into the plush seat, determined to think of it all as the adventure she had deemed it. To guard herself against what she had been emotionally slipping toward at Vauxhall.

“To see the Cirque Diamant perform. An apology, as I said.”

She stared at him. She had thought about going to a performance after their conversation at Vauxhall. About how she wouldn't step out of her comfort and grasp the ring. But the paper had reported the run as being sold out yet again, so she hadn't even tried to secure a ticket to the pit, where room might be found to squeeze.

“It is the middle of the day.”

“Well spotted.”

She let her slipper hit him in the shin with the rhythm of the carriage. Twice. He grabbed her heel in his hand the third time, his fingers slipping down her ankle.

“What—” She swallowed. “What are you doing?”

“Your leg seems to have a twitch. Let me help you.”

“That's unnecessary,” she said, her voice a little high.

“No? But you are so helpful to me. With my staff. With escorting me to the gardens. Dressing up in this gown that makes you shine in the darkness of the carriage. Brightening up the day like a jewel sparkling in the sun.”

His fingers curved over her heel, the slipper falling from her foot. The feel of his fingers running over her fine stockings was erotic. Like an echo of the crescendo from the gardens.

Her lips parted on a reply, his eyes locked with hers. Trapped. Seeking something as his hands traveled her silk-clad skin.

The carriage stopped, and he slowly reached down and slid her slipper back on her foot. Fitting it over the curves. Perfectly made. Just for her.

“Shining as if a star just for my eyes.”

A knock sounded on the door, but his hand lingered, his posture that of a knight reverently touching his chosen lady, his eyes never leaving hers. He answered the knock and she shakily accepted Benjamin's hand.

The viscount offered his arm and they strode up the walk with purpose, as if they were a respectable couple attending an event. As if he hadn't just turned her world on end again.

Without the lights and orchestra blaring, the theater looked like just another storefront on the street. Bereft of the crowds of people moving and chatting, streaming inside, eager to see a new production or a beloved classic. The riffraff moving downward and the wealthy moving up. The separation like the ancient divide. The common people staring up and watching their betters, the gods and goddesses of old. People who had been born to privilege, mostly, and those few who had worked tooth and nail to get there.

Miranda stared at the empty boxes, the empty orchestra and pit, her feet carrying her into the belly of the theater alongside the viscount.

“Welcome!” A man with colorfully patched trousers strode up the corridor toward them. “Your lordship.” He bowed to the viscount. “And beautiful lady.” He bowed low to her. “Welcome to the show.” He smiled broadly. “Or at least the death-defying acts of practice.”

The man gestured to the orchestra and the boxes above. “Anywhere you'd like to sit, your lordship. We have the King's box spruced and ready. Or the critics' seats in the back.”

A sudden commotion onstage claimed his attention. He clapped his hands together, then cupped them around his mouth. “First stretch is complete. Places
for second rehearsal. Tell Eleanora and Leonardo they are up.”

He turned back to them, his feet already taking him backward down the corridor. “Anywhere you'd like.” He extended his hand. “Please, enjoy.”

He turned and walked briskly to the stage; some of the performers cast curious glances at the two of them, but most of the men and women ignored them and walked to their blocked spots.

“Rehearsal?”

The viscount's eyes glimmered mischievously. “I'm told that rehearsal is even superior to the actual show.” His eyes took her in. “Sometimes practice can be more enjoyable than the main event in that you have to rehearse over and over again until everything is in its perfect slot, its perfect place.”

Her heart picked up unwilling speed.