Seven Secrets of Seduction (9 page)

Though there was something off in the tones of his voice. As if he hadn't been entirely unaffected by what had just occurred. “I'll return at two.”

“What? No,” she said quickly, looking up.

“I insist.” He dragged a finger across the back of the chair as he walked backward toward the door. “I am responsible for the chaos after all.” His lips curved as if there were multiple meanings to his statement. “Until we meet again, Miss Chase.”

He turned and sauntered out, and she was left to stare in his wake, feeling more like she had been sucked down and pummeled by Charybdis rather than dashed against a rock.

Had she truly accepted his mad challenge? And what on earth would she do with it?

She took in the greater mess on the floor that he had created. Swirling in the vortex. And she, floundering without a paddle.

She pulled over a chair, stepped on it, reached up, and shakily pulled the first book off a towering stack. Work. She could work. She'd think about what she had done—and what she would do—later. Later, when the essence of the man wasn't still clinging to the air around her.

Thankfully, the stack stayed soundly in place, even with the jumbled spines jutting this way and that and her suddenly clumsy fingers fumbling the leather. She grabbed the next three volumes as well and stepped down, thanking her long practice with library ladders for not making her already shaky limbs pitch her to the floor in a tangle of skirts.

A French tutorial, a domestic household guide, a Greek classic, and a religious tome stared back at her. How in the world had these books been arranged? She looked around the room. She could almost believe that someone had shuffled them up on purpose.

But that would be silly.

She looked back at her unsteady hands.

Silly.

She shook her head, and her eyes unwillingly sought the clock. It was not yet ten. There were at least three hours to go before she needed to recheck.

She lasted three more trips up the chair before she looked again. Ten fifteen. She'd likely expire before the two o'clock hands wound around for the sheer way her heart was beating. She didn't think it was supposed to be pounding so erratically.

She deliberately turned away from the clock and set the book in her hands down with a thump.

It was a tortuous first thirty minutes, but then the rest of the morning picked up pace as she concentrated on her task. Mrs. Humphries, the housekeeper, brought her a tray of food and politely inquired as to whether Miranda needed assistance. She gratefully accepted, and a few men and women rotated in and out, in shifts, doing as she directed. Watching her when they thought she wasn't looking.

The food was perfect. The spread of fruit, cheese, and bread allowed her to graze while she worked. She heard the empty tray being moved near the door. She looked up to see that the two servants who had been standing near, helping her, had slipped away.

She projected around the stack of books in front of her, “Thank you.”

“Already thanking me, and I just arrived.” The husky voice, once more steady and confident, wrapped around the stack like the fine stockings that clung to the illumination hidden in her armoire. “I could become used to your lips draped around those syllables. Shall we see what else they might beautifully adorn?”

From the pen of Miranda Chase

 

H
er pulse picked up speed when the viscount appeared, freshly changed but still maintaining the same style of stark clothing and insouciant regard. He raised a brow at the books circling her, spread out in all directions. “Alas, I see you have other tasks at hand.”

But all she continued to picture were draping lips and his fingers buried in her unbound hair. She tried to curse the illumination, curse her broken armoire, but the image just overrode everything else in her mind.

She opened her mouth, but nothing emerged for a second. “It will take me more than a few days, my lord.” She looked down, trying to think instead of allowing the spreading wings in her stomach to control her fuzzy thoughts.
Where was everyone?
There had been
people in and out all day. “I hope your pocketbook will survive.”

“I will manage somehow.”

But would she? “I should hope so. As you said, you have created this mess.” She motioned to the books on the floor.

“One of my many talents.” He sank into a chair, long legs crossed before him. “I am at your disposal. Feel free to use me well.” His mouth quirked.

She swallowed, trying to dispel the image of how he could be used according to the text in her armoire—especially splayed back like that.

With all of these images and thoughts, a challenge was hardly even necessary. She needed to get herself together. To not fail all of womankind by simply succumbing like a hapless dove. “That is unnecessary. Your staff is quite helpful. And surely you have some engagement to attend?”

“My staff is suddenly completely occupied. And I cleared my afternoon.” He spread his arms. “Just for you.”

She tried to calm the sudden rush of emotions. Exhilaration, fear.
Of herself.
But then all she needed to do was be patient. He would lose interest soon. It didn't matter that he had expressly given her that illumination. She had read all about him. Knew that he was quick to chase and quicker to find new, more lively game.

As long as she stayed smart, she could have a bit of fun—for when he wasn't fuzzing up her head, she had a feeling the viscount would amuse her greatly. And she could seduce him to the writings of Eleutherios.

She just had to prevent the loss of herself in the process.

“I am going to be busy organizing for the rest of
the afternoon. Perhaps you would like to rethink your challenge and come to your senses tomorrow?” she quipped.

“Oh, this is the clearest my senses have been in a long time, Miranda.” He smirked and slouched farther into the chair. “And there will be no changing my mind.”

“You must be quite bored, your lordship.”

He tilted his head. “I don't think you quite comprehend how much so.”

Well, at least he was honest.

“But then I met you,” he said.

Or not. “I hardly think myself so witty or pretty to have captured the notorious Viscount Downing's attention.”

He smiled. “Then I have all of the advantage, do I not?”

She didn't know how to respond to that.

He motioned for her to continue her task. “When you need help, just say the word.”

She looked at him doubtfully, then bent and lifted the first five books from one of her piles. She trudged over to the set of shelves on the farthest left and laid them on top.

She returned and grabbed the next five, repeating the action.

“A most unique way to organize a library,” he said, lounging back and tapping his chest as he gazed at the haphazard vertical stacking. “Taking the volumes on the floor and putting them in the same position on the shelves. Makes them art then, I suppose.”

She spared him a quick glare as she took another five. “You are wickedly droll, Lord Downing. However do you survive with such wit at your disposal?”

He smiled. “It is most troublesome.”

She began to stack the next shelf and received a mocking whistle in reply.

“Already beginning anew?” he tsked.

She decided to ignore him and continued her trek. Back and forth. Setting up the shelves so that each category would have a space. Just enough to get the books into the right areas, then she could reorganize each section individually. It required more trips this way, doubly so because she was doing it herself, but her mind was better able to progress by having smaller concrete tasks.

It would also allow her to weed out duplicates. She had already found multiple copies of particular titles spread between piles.

She spared a quick glance to see the viscount still sitting in the chair, one leg hooked over the arm, swinging. He looked as if he would be perfectly happy to observe her all afternoon. She wondered what exactly he
did
during the days usually. She had always thought that in between deciding the fate of peons like her and attending galas, the wealthy had to do
something.
She didn't quite have the gall to ask yet. However, she was rapidly working up to it with each new quip from the bowels of his plush chair.

“How exactly are you organizing?” he asked.

“I am organizing by subject according to the breadth of each, then I will go by alphabet.”

“Wise.”

Something about the way he said it made her cross her arms. “You don't agree.”

“I didn't say that.”

“You implied it.”

“By saying it was wise? Doesn't that imply that I approved?”

“It was how you said it.”

“For someone who says she prefers to read books instead of determine the meaning in someone's spoken words, you seem awfully determined to do the latter.”

“For someone who says he has no wish to organize his library, you seem awfully keen to.”

“I'm not.”

She pointedly stared at him, spread out in the chair, verbally nipping at her. The threads of heightened irritation, amusement, and awareness combined once more.

“I never said I didn't want to watch
you
do it.”

“I see.” She didn't see in the slightest.

He tapped the cover of a volume on top of a short stack near him. “Where will you bury this?”

She leaned over to check the title. “All things religious, ecclesiastical, or mystical go to the stacks on the right. It is the largest section in our store, most printed books fall into that category, but I have a feeling from these first stacks that it will be dwarfed by your—or your benefactor's—
taste
for other things. So I will keep it to the right for the moment.”

He kept swinging his infernal leg, a hook of his brow saying more than any words.

She walked over and took the book from him. “I don't buy your line, by the way. I can see you frown or nod approvingly depending on where I put things.”

“Nodding? I haven't moved.”

She waved her hand. “It's in the very air around you.”

“I'm delighted you are paying attention enough to me to notice.”

“Hard not to,” she muttered.

“What was that?”

She cleared her throat. “You are paying me to do a good job, I assume. I am only aiming to please.”

“I'm happy to hear it.” He nearly purred.

She hid behind a nice tall stack until she had reasonable command of her color. She poked her head out.

“You want to be in control of what goes on your shelves, even if you won't admit it. Why bring me inside and let me loose as I please—irritating quips and outrageous challenges from you notwithstanding?”

He cocked his head so it was resting against his shoulder, lazily regarding her. “Because I want to trap you here and it seemed a flawless way to do so.”

She stilled, then wiped her free, sweaty palm against her skirt. “I'd say you've succeeded in your trap.”

Even her uncle would force her to stay, with the promise of the book. She was truly trapped.

She narrowed her eyes. But that was a weak way of thinking. The voice of Mr. Pitts's pen echoed in her head that she shouldn't need an excuse to stay or feel without recourse. She should make the decision herself to flirt with the trap and say to hell with anyone who disagreed.

The viscount watched her as if trying to discern what she was thinking. “What will you do?”

And hadn't she decided to come anyway without speaking with her uncle? Made the decision herself?

She picked up a few volumes in the conduct, deportment, and etiquette stack and walked to the right, putting them on a shelf that would be easy to reach once everything was cleared away but was harder at the moment, surrounded by all the confusion. “I will continue as I have started,” she said without looking at him.

She turned around to see him standing directly
behind her, soundlessly moving, a stack in his hand. “Then so will I.” He held them out to her, and she took them wordlessly. She watched him a moment longer, trying to read whatever was written there in his dark, mysterious eyes.

 

Those eyes haunted her dreams all night long. The shadowy figure of her dreams taking on depth. His motions as he hovered above her, clasped her to him, touched her in all sorts of sinful ways.

And then his lips touched hers with a reverence that caused her to wake. To pant in bed and not return to sleep for a long, long time.

The echo of real lips that promised everything.

 

The next day she was still wondering what she had gotten into, but in a much more intense way. Her blood thrummed. The dreams bleeding into day.

“Molière is hardly a good fit there,” he said, leaning against the wall as she ascended the stepladder. “Closer to Swift.”

She put one hand against the shelf wall to steady herself, the book in her other hand pressed against the edge of the shelf. She pursed her lips down at him.

He smiled lazily. “I'm simply availing you of my knowledge. It's extensive.”

“It's annoying.”

A part of her had long been frozen mute in abject horror that she was speaking to a viscount this way. Her tongue kept forgetting that he was a lord and kept reverting to the ease with which she corresponded. And as he needled her further, something in his eyes seemed all the more satisfied with each exchange.

Georgette would be gleeful.

“I think you just don't like to admit that I am right. It's acceptable to give in to it, Miranda.” His voice took on a deeper tone and curled around the space. “I promise to take good care of everything.”

She jerked at the echo of her dream. At his lips promising that he would take good care of her wants. Her needs. Her desires.

Her everything.

The images from the illumination rose again, and she could nearly feel his fingers caressing her scalp, his lips on hers.

The book buckled against the shelf, and she pitched forward, then overcorrected and lost her footing. She made a mad grab for a piece of protruding wood, but only caught the edges of the spines already placed there. The books teetered on the ledge, then fell as she slipped. She watched them as if they'd somehow fallen into a vat of half-solid lard, sinking slowly through the air above her.

Stupid books. Stupid dreams. Stupid viscount.

Two warm arms caught her and pressed her back into a solid chest. She could feel the heat of his breath in her hair. Feel the strength of his enveloping arms. Hear the thump of her own heartbeat as it echoed the books falling to the ground.

“Vanilla soap?” The husky edge of his voice was ten times more potent at this close range, whispered right below the lobe of her ear. “It suits you deliciously.”

Take a bite. Have a taste. Her neck tilted just an inch in an unconscious invitation.

The heat of him drew closer. His lips brushed the edge of her throat beneath her ear, and she could
feel
his lips curve as a satisfied, husky laugh of a sound tickled and cleared the path.

A connection of lips to skin that would make any imaginings pale. Imaginings that went far deeper than the differences between them socially and financially.

It was hard to think as his mouth stole the very air touching her skin. The difference between a viscount and a girl who worked in a dusty bookshop. Or between a man bent on world domination, one seduction at a time according to the papers, and a woman who couldn't discover the nerve to leave the path of least resistance.

A challenge to see if he could seduce her? It hardly seemed an even minor contest at the moment.

She tried to push away from him, from her own lusty thoughts, and ended up half-turned in his arms. His arms loosened fractionally to let her pull away.

She completed the spin, her breast sliding against the inside of his elbow, crooked perfectly. She panicked again, her jerky motion causing her to slip on one of the fallen volumes. His arms immediately tightened again to save her a second fall.

Unfortunately, he took a step back, and along with her frantic movements, he too slipped on a triangled spine. He swore as he fell back, his arms taking her with him, catching another two stacks with a violent clatter.

She fell atop him with a whoosh of breath, their faces in perfect alignment for a fraction of a second, her legs straddling his, her skirts cloaking the connections beneath from view but not from the skin on the inside of her calves as they hugged his expensive trousers and long, powerful legs. His eyes darkened, his arm tightened.

And he rolled on top of her, the blood pumping in her ears turned into a crashing avalanche of sound.

Something heavy clipped both ankles and her outstretched wrists, pinning her in place, the weight of him on top of her. Everything seemed to jolt and freeze as she could feel every place on her body where his connected, her entire body spread and chained for him.