Seven Secrets of Seduction (24 page)

She narrowed her eyes a bit at the deliberate manipulation yet again. “How may I assist you, your lordship?”

The marquess looked at her, a steady long look, the edges of his eyes crinkled permanently in a charming, rather puckish way. “I know who you are.”

She swallowed. She wasn't quite sure what she had expected him to say, but it had definitely not been that. “Oh?”

His lips briefly lifted. “I was a fourth son, never expecting to inherit. I'd rather have joined the navy. Set to sea.” His puckish smile grew. “Used to spend nights down by the docks. Lovely women there with a keen eye to teaching a man new tricks.”

She blinked.

His eyes sought the entrance again, as if he were waiting for someone. “Good place to pick up contacts. Ones that serve a man well in the future, no matter his status. Or perhaps better for his status.” His eyes slid back to her and held. “Of course, a few loyal servants also help. I make sure to keep an eye on the children. And their…interests. Sometimes their interests surprise even me.”

She smiled tightly. She hadn't sought this man's approval in any way, no matter his power, and didn't feel a need to seek it now.

“Oh, you mistake me. I see it in your expression.” He leaned in. “I make it my concern to read women's expressions too. Only my wife's have ever fooled me. And yours says that you think I view you as a base servant.” He shrugged. “I have never been one to care much for such things. Figured I would marry a girl in some port. Perhaps two or three, one for each frequently scheduled destination.” His eyes almost looked dreamy for a second. “Love lasts so much better with plenty of space and bursts of passion, don't you think? Alas, inheriting put quite a damper on such perfect plans.”

“That is outrageous,” she sputtered.

He smiled, his mercurial eyes changing once more. “Ah, a point in favor of your disguise, should anyone overhear. Mistresses routinely keep a bevy of admirers warming their sheets and accounts. A fallen woman would not be outraged by such. A princess, on the other hand…”

She got her sputtering under control. “Perhaps I'm a fallen princess.”

He just smiled as he examined her. “Perhaps you are falling. Maxim always did have a keen eye.”

She tried not to let the reminder that she was another conquest dampen her mood. Too much.

“Ah, again I see your face. My son is far more constant than I. I do my duty. But Maxim always takes care of things I let wallow. You are hardly something he is picking up to spare a wallow.”

“I see.”

Once again, she decidedly did not.

“Everyone is so concerned with the state of our affairs. Tiresome. I don't know why Maxim would
even listen to some of his siblings' natterings. Being proper is boring.”

Miranda thought of the tight, sad expressions on the face of his wife. Perhaps he couldn't read her right because he didn't wish to see the truth. To see how he truly affected her.

A wave of gossip pierced their space.

“Eleutherios, here?”

The edges of the marquess's lips turned up. Much like his son's. He looked to the entrance, to a brown-haired man there. Miranda couldn't see much more of the man through the crowd. Though she craned her neck in curiosity. She had repeatedly restrained herself from doing so since she'd entered, now all restraint caved at the mention of the author's name.

“Do you fancy the man's writings?” the marquess asked.

Miranda blinked, trying to discern more of the man everyone was trying to see. He suddenly slipped away, into some room off to the right, and the voices dropped to whispers. “I do.”

“Thought the idea of a primer on seduction was silly myself at first. It's more of an innate thing, a gift.” The right side of the marquess's lip curved. “But I've quite changed my mind recently.”

“And?”

“And I thought of coming as the author myself tonight.”

She stared at him, and he laughed.

“Maxim would have sliced me to ribbons though. Probably socially disowned me once and for all.”

She looked at him closely. “Why would you dress as the author?” She tried to wrap her thinking around
the idea that the marquess could
be
Eleutherios and failed.

“Merely as a lark. I have little talent with the pen, I assure you.” He gazed at his son, then back to where the man at the entrance had stood. “But I admire those who do.”

He smiled again. “And I can't help but be enraptured by story. And desirous to stick my untalented pen in places where it doesn't belong to make a tale dance to my bidding.”

She wondered if perhaps madness did run in the family.

The marquess laughed suddenly, a warm sound. “Oh, yes. Stirring the pot is necessary now that I've been reined in for a time.” His eyes danced as he looked at her. “To his benefit, anyway.”

She nodded, agreeing with whatever the madman was saying.

“Giving me an ultimatum. Taking away my search for true love. All of my searches. I think it my duty to point him toward his.”

He looked into the crowd and suddenly cocked his head, a mischievous light brightening his eyes again. “Ah, my Juliet awaits.”

Miranda looked over to see the marchioness separating from the men and staring coldly their way.

The marquess winked at Miranda and lifted her hand. “To the dagger or poison, I go. A pleasure, princess. Until we meet again.”

He deftly stepped toward Miranda, still holding her hand, and she stepped back into the hole he had once more created in the crowd. She felt the familiar presence of a warm back at hers.

The marquess winked again and slipped into the crowd.

The viscount's warm hand steadied her as she turned again into their circle. Two more men had joined the group, arguing about politics, ignoring her for the moment.

The whispers were loud in her ears now that the marquess wasn't distracting her. Her mind had nothing to focus upon other than the frothy words in the crowd's surf.

“The Russian princess.”

“I heard she was the illegitimate daughter of the czar.”

“No, the next in line to the throne.”

“Heard she doesn't speak English.”

“I heard she does but feels we are all beneath her.”

“Look how she stands. Apart from everyone. Even Downing.”

“Holds herself like a queen.”

Miranda tried not to stay as rigid as her body wanted to remain. She was frozen. Her immobility taken as snobbery. Her posture taken as arrogance.

Suddenly the gossip shifted. Looks still sent her way, but also toward the other side of the room. The waves of chin-wagging parting in two directions as if the keel of a heavy boat had sliced through the waters.

Flowing brown hair, ruffled and wavy, bobbed through the crowd. Murmurs seeped through the guests, and more than one woman openly watched the masked man.

“
Eleutherios,
” one woman squealed.

The viscount's hand surreptitiously moved down her spine, and she shivered. She looked up, seeing his black
hair above his black mask. Severe and captivating. He continued to speak with the men, his fingers tickling her back almost absently.

She looked back to the man the whispers were proclaiming as Eleutherios. A woman stepped in his path, the blond ice princess from Vauxhall. She said something, and he smiled, bowing low in a Byronic bend, light tendrils of hair brushing his forehead as he straightened. A hundred sighs echoed through the crowd.

The viscount's fingers caressed her flesh.

The subject matter of their group abruptly changed to mistresses as one of the men said something about the ice blonde. Miranda shifted as more than one eye looked speculatively upon her at the introduction of the topic. The viscount's eyes tightened.

She was having trouble catching her breath all of a sudden. She caught sight of Georgette in the crowd. She needed to escape. Just for a moment. She touched the viscount's hand. “Please pardon me,” she murmured, trying to inject some sort of shadowy accent to the words, dark humor the only thing saving her from uttering a slightly hysterical laugh.

The men nodded, the viscount watching her with his dark eyes, seeing her gaze go to her friend and tipping his head.

She tried not to hurry as she walked to Georgette.

“Mir-Artemis!” Georgette exclaimed, and hooked her arm through hers, starting to steer her back into the fray. “I just met the most fabulous women. Shall I introduce you? I have figured out the best way of pretending to speak Russian. All you have to do is take the first—”

“Perhaps later.” Miranda stopped their forward prog
ress. “I thought I might head for the retiring room.”

Georgette's brows rose. “Very well. I'll go with you.”

But halfway to the room, Georgette stopped in her tracks and pointed a shaky finger. “Miranda!
Mrs. Q.
”

Miranda kept the sigh to herself as her friend stood transfixed by the woman in green descending the stairs, all eyes glued to her. “Go.”

Georgette looked torn, her eyes still on her idol. “But I don't want to leave you.”

“Go. I'll be fine. I'm just going to retire for a few minutes. I'll look for you when I return.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” She gave her a push. “Go.”

Georgette blew her an air kiss. “You are a peach. Ta!”

Miranda shook her head and kept her eyes straight ahead until she entered the blissfully empty room. She leaned against the door and closed her eyes.

She opened them slowly, gazing at her reflection in the wall of mirrors across from her. A woman in a flowing white gown and gilded combs stared back. The silk pooled around her. The gold beads and stitched diamond chips made the woman sparkle.

She allowed a small smile to curve her lips. She
was
sparkling. Galina had ruthlessly made it so. She stepped away from the door and walked to the oval looking glass in front of her. Yes, that was Miranda Chase there behind the mask. But it was the siren touch of Maximilian, Lord Downing, that had lit the spark.

Voices clamored, and the door to the hall opened. Miranda quickly ducked behind a screen, peering through the small crack. Five young women entered the room.

“I heard him say it himself. He is Eleutherios. Imagine
what he looks like beneath the mask. Who do you think he could be?” one woman said to the other as she patted a puff of powder on her forehead.

“Could be almost anyone. Though I'm betting on the third son of the Hannings, since he chose their rout to reveal himself. Been gone to the Continent all this time, didn't you know? Availing himself of all the lucky women in Paris. I do wish he'd visit me and unveil himself fully,” the woman twittered. “I'd let him seduce me right out.”

The woman pulled her dress down while gazing into the mirror, pushing her bosom into better view. Twisting this way and that, trying to make the visible crease more enticing.

Miranda watched and listened as they gossiped about all manner of things. Eleutherios, Downing, the Werstons, even the “Russian princess.” It was beyond exhausting to listen to, until finally they left.

She stepped into the hall before she could become trapped once more, but she wasn't ready to return to the throng. In the retiring room, women might work up the courage to ask her direct questions. Questions that she didn't yet have answers—or a true accent—for.

She decided to admire the magnificent paintings along the wall, closing herself off from anyone traversing the hall. A group of men walked behind her, slowing as they neared. She nervously held herself still and pretended to be absorbed. Let them pass, then she'd find Georgette.

They passed. She shook her head and squared her shoulders, then turned. Only to be greeted by a head of ruffled brown hair mussed by a careless hand.

“You,” she uttered in crisp English, tones taught to her by an exacting teacher since birth. With nary
a Russian syllable in existence. Too shocked to find the man people were claiming as her correspondent suddenly next to her.

He looked her over frankly. “Me. And you? A princess, or so I hear?” There was a mischievous gleam in his eye as he lifted her hand, bringing it to his lips. “Enchanted.”

The man smiled with secret humor. He was almost too young to be called a man, now that she was scrutinizing him closely. More of a mischievous boy on the verge of manhood. A very handsome verge though from the parts she could see.

She tugged her hand back and rocked a bit on her heels. “You find my tongue at a loss, I'm afraid.”

“That will never do. I confess that I didn't know what to expect from the Russian princess that Downing has been squiring around.”

“Oh?” It would be obvious to anyone hearing her that she wasn't Russian. Then again, the viscount had claimed her a Russian princess merely to muck up gossip. Stir up the nest and then, likely if needed, have the revelation that she
wasn't
Russian stir things up even more.

“Yes. I've heard all about you. And I've looked forward to meeting you.” He smiled in a slow, seductive manner, but it had none of the implicit overt force that the viscount projected. For some reason, a picture of an actor treading the stage came to mind. Or of Georgette practicing her wiles in front of a mirror. Or Peter trying to return Georgette's coquettish quips.

Her eyes narrowed, then she smiled brightly, touching his sleeve. “I have looked forward to meeting you too. I frankly never anticipated that I would.”

She had said in her letters to both of her correspon
dents that she was to attend. She'd had no notion that she might finally meet one of them though.

That notion hadn't changed. The man in front of her wasn't the author. She'd believe the viscount was the author, that
Mr. Pitts
was the author, before she'd believe this man was.