Seven Secrets of Seduction (3 page)

“No. Out too late last night. Putting these seduction tactics to use is hard work for the gentleman about town.”

“You could put those tactics to work by sitting at the Serpentine and admiring the view right now in the beautiful downward slope of the sun.”

“Now I know you are not serious. The Serpentine is a flat expanse of boredom. Duck, duck, swan, boat, floating branch.”

She gave him a dark glance. “The Serpentine is lovely. The way the wind glides over the water, ruffling the edges, tickling it.” Why did the people who had time to enjoy such things completely lack the notice or care?

“Mmmmm, tickling is always a good tactic.” He looked over the page. “Perfectly useful information on that point, though the author seems a bit glib, doesn't he?”

“There is nothing about tickling in there!”

“And I suppose you think that ‘baiting your hook'”—he tilted the book upside down toward her and pointed at the words on the page with one perfectly chiseled long finger—“means to find an actual worm and a rod?”

“A baited hook can be the impetus for finding that which will open you to the beauty before you.”

He let the cover close with a thump. “Well, I agree that opening a beauty before me is prime impetus.”

She tried not to blush further. “And the author is not glib.”

“No? He seems awfully suspect to me. Tricking young innocents into thinking that he is talking about the beauty around oneself versus trying to get the beauties around oneself.”

She blinked for a second before his meaning hit, and she felt herself go scarlet.

He tapped the cover in disgust. “I just wonder at the gall of what he will write next.” There was something dark in the statement that she didn't understand.

“I am sure it will be something of epically good sense.”

“Epically.” He lifted a brow at her. “And here I had heard it was just another tawdry sequel,
Eight Elements of Enchantment,
or some such absurdity.”

She straightened. “I have heard nothing of the sort.”

“That alliterations are absurd?”

“That there is a sequel already in the works.” She had been hoping that the author might branch out and write something like
Sonnets for Spring.
Except in his own style.

His eyes were heavy lidded as he surveyed her. “Your beloved Eleutherios hasn't mentioned it?” He smiled. “Imagine that.”

She narrowed her eyes. If there was one thing her flittering uncle had taught her, it was not to turn away a customer who wore a cut of cloth the way this man did, gloves or no gloves. She had never wanted to eject someone from the shop, not even horrible Mr. Oswald, who had poked fun at her reading material. She had been too flustered then to be angry until after he'd gone.

That didn't seem to be a problem with this man. The horridly delicious man had her wrung in internal
knots, but her tongue and emotion seemed quite capable of making themselves known.

“I look forward to anything he writes. I find him enlightening.”

He flicked open the cover of
Seven Secrets
again and flipped a few pages.

“‘When you find the perfect scene, stand back and absorb the details.'” He met her eyes over the edge of the page. “Enlightening,” he said flatly. He looked back down. “‘Don't rush. Don't make the mistake of underestimating the beauty before you. Center on the object of your desire and examine the intricacies. Find the hidden treasure. An ill-fitting key scrapes a rusted lock. Requires force to turn. However, find the perfect set of tines, and the door will fall open practically on its own.'”

“Have you never passed by a portrait only to discover later that careful examination shows something much deeper behind the paint?”

“Like another stray hair from my great aunt's natty spaniel?”

She reached for the book, but he easily moved it out of her reach.

“I wasn't done.”

“I think you have had your laugh, sir.”

“But that was not my intention at all.” The sound of his voice changed, and the rich mocha made the hair on her arms stand on end. He flipped another few pages. “‘The greatest treasure is that of the everyday variety. One when examined more closely reveals something hitherto unknown. Unseen. Untasted.'”

His eyes lifted from the page and traveled over her slowly, the last syllable of “untasted” hanging on his tongue in a nearly tangible caress.

She swallowed.

“‘Let nothing stop you from the experience of tasting the keen pleasure of a new conquest in a mysterious guise. Like the finest wine sipped from the belly of the cask.'”

His eyes raked her slowly, as if she was the receptacle from which he intended to sip.

She swallowed again. When
he
read it, it sounded as if it just might actually
work
as a guide to seduction.

“‘Find it. Embrace it. Breathe it. Never let it go.'” His voice, gravelly and smoky, slipped over her like an enchanted breeze, his eyes, dark and mysterious, held her still. She absently wondered if the heroine in her book actually wanted to escape from that maze after all. “You don't think you could be seduced by such? Flinging your morals to the curb and letting go? This paragon of virtue worming his way under your skirts? Or perhaps someone else doing so, someone more…real?”

And here she had thought she'd simply be finishing her read and tending an empty counter today.

“Sir—” She forced her eyes to drop from his, equal measures of intense discomfort and tight-wound thrill running through her. “Your library shelves?”

He snapped the book shut. “Do you have a copy of
Candide
?” His voice turned from seductive to firmly businesslike.

“Yes.” She paused, a strange impulse gripping her as the thrill still coursed right through her toes. “In the Enlightenment section.” She raised a brow.

“I don't know where that is.” He lazily leaned back, firm tone suddenly forgotten again, and scratched at the cover of the copy of
The Seven Secrets of Seduc
tion
. She slid the copy away before he could destroy the edge.

She pointed. “Back and to the left.”

He simply smiled.

She withheld a groan. The Quality. Menaces, all of them. This one far worse than most. At least most were unaware of her existence even when they spoke directly to her. She slid from her stool and rounded the counter, stepping around the stack of packages awaiting pickup, trying to keep her feet stepping one in front of the other despite how light-headed he made her feel.

She disappeared into the printed stacks and withdrew the book. He was in the same position, half-lounging against the counter, one bare finger tracing a pattern in the scratched and worn wood when she returned.

“Is there anything else?” she asked as she plopped the book in front of him and withdrew the payment ledger. A man like this would undoubtedly want credit.

“Yes, I believe there is a package for me.”

“A package? There is a package for you?” she asked, letting the ledger thump against the counter. “You came here for a package?”

“Yes. Of books.” He smiled pleasantly, but the benign curve of his lips did nothing to hide the twinkle in his eye.

She could see that he was enjoying himself far too much for any of it to be anything other than planned torment on his part. All of this time waiting to ask about an already ordered package.

“Fine.” All reticence had evaporated long before, and her good humor was starting to follow its path. He unnerved her far too much. “Name?”

He handed her a slip that read
Jeffries
in her uncle's scrawl. She had seen the twined brown package earlier.

“Very well, Mr. Jeffries. We have that ready for you.” She waited a beat. “It has been ready for the past ten minutes' of conversation,” she said dryly.

She reached over and lifted the first two packages. No Jeffries. She could have sworn it was the third one down. But perhaps it had been moved. She checked the top two. No. She lifted number three to see the package below. No Jeffries.

“Problem?”

Her brow furrowed. “No, no, one moment.” She checked the next two. No match. “It was just here.” She reread the names on the packages she had lifted. No, they still didn't magically read Jeffries.

“And now?”

Appalling heat started to flame her cheeks. “My apologies, Mr. Jeffries, but it seems as if your package is missing.” Had she just cheekily said it had been ready during their ten-minute conversation only to have it
not be there
? She really needed to reinvest in not speaking. “Let me check the back.”

A strange smile flitted across his face at her use of his name, then was gone. He waved a hand. “No time. I am late.”

She simply stared at him. “Late?” He had claimed nothing but time ten minutes previous.

“Yes, quite late, must go. I'll pick it up tomorrow, then, shall I? With the Voltaire.” He lifted a brow. “Won't go missing too, will it?”

She sputtered. “I assure you that it will not.”

“Very good. Afternoon, Miss—?”

She stared again, feeling as if the deer had been caught by the wolf after all. “Chase?”

He smiled again—the smile that said he had some amusing secret. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

“I believe you are outrageous, sir.”

His forefinger rubbed the edge of the
Seven Secrets,
and his smile grew lazier. “I hope you will discover just how much. Good afternoon, Miss Chase.”

And in one smooth motion, he withdrew his hand from the counter, pivoted, and disappeared through the door.

The bell gave a soft twang as the door clicked back into place as if suspended on a breeze for a moment to prevent it from its usual clang. Suspended like her thoughts and breath.

 

It wasn't until she decided to return the Shakespeare and run the long-unused dust cloth along the shelves that she found the lost package tucked into the spot vacated by
Hamlet
.

She stared at it for a long moment. Then her heart started to race.

From the pen of Miranda Chase

 

M
iranda touched the freshly wrapped package, one book thicker than the day before.

“Two more to wrap,” Peter said, appearing from the rear.

She snapped her fingers back, fiddled with the edge of the ledger, then tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. “Yes,” she said, her laugh a little higher in pitch than usual.

Peter sent her a queer glance, then shrugged. “I'll take care of them. You didn't need to wrap that one.”

She laughed again, the sound like the odd clang of the bell above the door when it got stuck. “It was no trouble.” She put the parcel on the shelf below the counter and tried to put it from her mind as well. Silly to dwell on such thoughts. He'd probably enter
the shop already bored with the odd flirtation of the previous day anyway. Better to move along. “You are well again?”

Peter puffed out his chest. “I'm feeling prime as a pumpkin.”

The bell rang, and Miranda's heart jumped. She swung toward the door, unwillingly.

A grand bonnet of peacock feathers brushed the sides of the doorframe, and Miranda's shoulders loosened. The hat's owner laughed lightly—a flirtatious, well-rehearsed sound—and flipped up her head. Auburn locks fell in perfectly curled ribbons around her face. “Miranda dear.” She held out a hand to her over the counter and squeezed. “Wonderful to see you this fine morning.”

Georgette Monroe didn't wait a beat before executing a perfect quarter turn. “And Mr. Higgins.” She toyed with the strings of her hat, twirling one around a finger, her eyes almost perfecting the mysterious edge she had been diligently practicing. “Such a lovely day.”

Peter stuttered out a greeting, his puffed chest appearing to vibrate from a suddenly quickened heartbeat.

“Georgette,” Miranda warned. It was obvious that her friend was in one of her moods. “I thought you were helping your father this morning?” Georgette often helped to entertain her merchant father's business clients and was quite good at charming them over supper or tea.

Silk-gloved fingers twirled the peacock ribbons. “The investors had coach issues, so we postponed. Daddy told me to go shopping instead. I thought I'd look for new flowers for the trellises. Miranda, wasn't I just commenting the other day that I desperately needed
help in the garden? A man with strong arms and strong thighs who knows how to handle both?”

Peter lost his grip on the counter and bumped the edge ungracefully with his forearm.

Miranda sighed as her friend continued to bat her eyes. “Peter, Miss Monroe and I are going to take tea at the table.” She lifted the small tea service, happy that she had fixed enough for two, just in case, then muttered so that only Georgette could hear her. “Though I think Miss Monroe needs something to cool her down instead.”

Miranda turned back to Peter, raising her voice to a normal level once more. “Will you be able to handle the customers?”

He nodded quickly, and she wondered if she could keep him busy at the counter or in the back while Georgette was in the shop. Her friend's presence directly affected his apoplexy. If he went home sick, she'd have to man the desk again.

She quashed the tempting thought and skirted the counter to steer her friend away. Georgette's fingers wiggled a farewell beneath her nose to the wide-eyed man behind.

Miranda waited until they were in the bowels of the stacks, near the back windows, where a table and chairs were set up, before she furiously whispered, “Georgette, were you…were you
ogling Peter
?”

“One should have the freedom to ogle a solid pair of shoulders.” She shrugged lightly, smiling.

“You are incorrigible,” Miranda chided as she set the service down and pulled out a chair.

A gust of brisk April air curled around the openings in the bookshelf, heralding a new arrival. Miranda's shoulders tensed.

She could hear Peter ask how he could be of assistance. A female voice answered, and Miranda's shoulders loosened. A fraction.

“I am practicing,” Georgette answered, patting her hair.

“On Peter?” She sat in the chair, arranging her calico skirts. “The poor dear will expire. And then you'll be onto the next pair of shiny Hessians you see, and he'll pine irrevocably.”

“Men live to pine—stalwartly and courageously, of course. And perhaps with a secret longing for the beauty in the curve of my neck.”

Miranda gave her a look and poured without splashing a drip.

“You are turning into a grouch, Miranda dear. Your academic repression is starting to crush the spirit I know is there,” Georgette said as she patted her freed hair again and set her ornate bonnet on the seat of a spare chair. “Not a fashionable or flirtatious thought in your head for years. I do despair.”

A tinkle of bells made Miranda's shoulders tighten again.

“Sorry to be late, Mr. Higgins. Billy and I had to make eight stops first,” the regular deliveryman said.

Miranda looked through the side window, foggy around the edges, as Billy, the beleaguered driver of the delivery service, moved the team down the street to wait.

“Lovely shoulders, that Billy, and the way he handles those reins,” Georgette said, winking at Miranda behind her cup. “A lovely chance for flirtation there.”

Miranda smiled, but it was strained as she listened to the quiet settle around the front of the shop while
the two men carted the delivery boxes to the back. She inhaled a deep breath, determined to stop the imaginings Georgette's words stirred of dark shoulders and perfect, bare hands. She shakily sipped her tea and called herself a fool.

The man was hardly likely to appear so early in the day. Secondly, she was foolish to think that he would come again in order to see her. And thirdly, well, all of these jumpy imaginings had her wondering if perhaps she hadn't slightly underestimated what a seductive man could do to one's conduct and nerves.

Thankfully, her friend wasn't paying close attention to her. Georgette was like a beagle on a scent when she smelled secrets. But her head was down as she pulled a folded paper from her bag and lovingly spread it on the table. “Fresh from the presses on Fourth Street.”

“I can't believe you didn't devour it on the spot,” Miranda teased, trying to relax, as she topped off her cup.

“I waited to open it with you, a laborious five blocks. You'd better be good to me, or one of these days I will stop in the teahouse down the street and sneak a peek.”

Georgette reached into her bag again and uncovered a plate, releasing a freshly baked smell of heavenly goodness. The decadent smell mixed with the crisp, newly printed newspaper and the musty books in the back racks. The tightness slowly seeped from Miranda's shoulders.

She relaxed into her chair, turned away from the window, and shut away the sound of the bell above the door. This was normal. Comfortable. And
much too early in the day
to be so nervous. She hadn't realized how greatly unnerved yesterday's visitor had made
her until she'd found herself unable to sleep, unable to stop checking the entrance after they'd opened the shop, unable to calm the beat of her heart.

“Mmmm. I swear I've had to let out my corset over a finger's-breadth in the last two weeks,” Georgette complained. “And you haven't even budged a seam.”

“I don't get heavenly baked goods every morning, noon, and night. Besides, I don't see any of your admirers complaining.”

Georgette smiled and winked. “Perhaps I shall eat another one then, shall I?”

Miranda returned her grin and daintily lifted a prized scone. In another life she would have been strictly told to leave it. She paused, the treat halfway to her mouth, then the image of molten dark chocolate eyes and blooming flowers suddenly came to mind, and she completed the motion, taking too large a bite.

They hunched together over the paper's ornate left column—the best gossip section in town.

“Yes! An update on Mr. C. He is returning to the Continent to study.” Georgette sighed. “Alas. I was so hoping he would stay in London longer this time.”

Miranda shook her head. Mr. C. was a frequent visitor to Georgette's early-morning conversation. “Mr. C. will be studying in Paris. I quite envy him.”

“I wish you would just go to Paris yourself. Go to Dover and book a ticket without a word to anyone who might advise you otherwise. Although Paris
would
be wasted on you.” Georgette gave her a disparaging look. “Moldering in the museums, you'd be, instead of finding the latest fashions to bring back.”

Miranda pinched her and continued consuming the column. A series of the inky letters jarred her. “He said it was so,” she murmured, her fingers running
over the line. “The gossip must have made the rounds yesterday.”

Georgette swatted her hand away to see what held her interest. “A sequel to
The Seven Secrets of Seduction
? Oh, excellent. And you must be thrilled. But why didn't you tell me? I could have been the first one with the news last night at the Mortons'. The author responded to your last letter?”

Miranda felt a blush stealing her cheeks. “He sent a short note yesterday.”

Georgette's perfectly arched auburn brows rose. “I suspect an ‘and' to that statement.”

“And a book.”

“A book? Well, that is rather…boring.” Georgette frowned. “What book?”

Miranda tapped an advertisement for the Gothic's release absently.

“No!” Georgette's eyes widened. “You've looked forward to reading that book for ages. And he found an early copy and sent it to you?”

“I shan't read too much into it.” She shifted. “Perhaps it was simply a whim. Everyone desires a copy.”

“Exactly. No one sends a present like that on a whim.”

“But the note was…terse. I imagined he would continue to be, I don't know, more flowery and”—she waved her hand—“wordy. Maybe a bit idealistic.”

“I've told you this for weeks. A man who writes the way that author does is not the insipid scholar you seem to find attractive otherwise. He's a rake. An out-and-out rogue.”

“He's not.” But Miranda looked at the printing on the page, and muttered, “Though I may be in danger of losing the bet now.”

“Well, he could be appalling, of course. Hook-nosed and lumpy and humpbacked, just like that Mr. Pitts you converse with. You really have appalling taste in correspondence flirtations, Miranda. Though I'd forgive the hooks, lumps, and humps if your author displays the talent his words promise.”

“George!”

“Well! It's true.” Georgette flipped her head, curls bouncing. “Besides, what were you doing betting over him? There might be hope for you yet.”

“Mr. Pitts dislikes Eleutherios. He encouraged me to write the author, then bet that Eleutherios wouldn't respond. But that if he
did
respond, that his comments would disappoint me. As I said, Mr. Pitts dislikes him. Intensely for some reason.”

“Mr. Pitts seems to dislike everything according to you.”

“He has good sense,” she said loyally. “He's just…curmudgeonly at times in expressing it.”

“Well stop paying so much attention to your curmudgeons and start ogling a fine pair of…shoulders. Real
assets,
if you will.”

“George!”

“Do not tell me that you dream of your scholars late at night. I know you do not. You think Thomas Briggs is just as handsome as the rest of us do.”

Miranda thought of the man who occasionally kept the books for the businesses on her uncle's block as a way to offset his esquire training expenses. “Thomas Briggs is a goose.”

“But a handsome one.”

Miranda gave her a look. “He's a prig.”

“Fine, then…” Georgette put her fingers delicately to her pursed pink lips. “Mr. Chapton. Or Lord
Downing.” Georgette shivered. “Delicious. If he does become betrothed to Charlotte Chatsworth, she will be the envy of all of London. Or the pity. One woman will never be able to handle him.”

Miranda's curiosity notched a point of interest. Georgette had been chatting about the viscount ad nauseam since she'd spotted him in the park last week. It was a rare appearance for the notorious man, who seemed to spend the majority of his time in hells and brothels and wicked scandals. Full of life and disregard. Sinfully dashing and mysterious. The perfect silver-tongued villain, come to life.

Miranda had actively wished for once that she had attended a park viewing.

“Mr. Chapton is handsome enough,” Miranda said in response, having seen the fair-haired man about town a few times. Though Mr. Chapton, better known in the column as Mr. C., didn't fill the faceless void of the man she dreamed about. The shadows clinging and not fully revealing him in her dreams.

That she had glimpsed a bit of the man from yesterday on the normally faceless figure during the night had alarmed her more than a bit.

“You are hopeless, Miranda. You need to get out and about a little more, dear. Put a little swagger in that skirt and find a real man,” Georgette said with a relish. “Flesh and blood. Lots of hard, handsome flesh. Spread your wings a little, dear. Start a flirtation.” She tapped the paper. “One not on the other end of a quill.”

Miranda thought of the previous dusk. Hard, handsome flesh would be quite an adequate description. A man like that would put a true stagger in a woman's step.

Georgette gazed off. “I wish that for you. The ad
venture you so wish to have but can't seem to embark upon. But when I am unmarried and with child from chasing men like Mr. Chapton, I will force you to live with me, two old women together, and be happy for it.” Georgette sighed with a rare bit of self-knowledge and turned back to the column.