Seven Secrets of Seduction

by Anne Mallory

  Her uncle’s coveted book. Within her grasp. All she had to do was put herself in harm’s way for a week. A week of long, deliberate caresses and hot, lazy smiles.

  “He gave me an illuminated manuscript.”

  “Eh?”

  She froze, her nail tip half-removed between her teeth. “A simple one, far from valuable,” she said quickly, removing the nail splinter. Stupid. She couldn’t let him become curious enough to look at the actual book.

  She laughed nervously as the images from it—not simple in the least—flashed behind her eyes. “But more importantly, I’m there alone.” Obviously open to rife temptation in the basest of manners too.

  He looked away from the spot on his personal bookshelf in the back office room, where he must already be imagining his promised book carefully nestled. His eyes were blank. Zero comprehension in their depths.

  “Alone with no supervision,” she stressed. Every servant melted into the ether when the viscount came into view, and she had no doubt that it would continue as such. Their disappearances had been entirely too deliberate.

  The blank look continued. “You want supervision? He said he wanted just one worker. And I thought you hated Mr. Briggs working with you on the payment books.” He pointed down.

  “No! Yes! Not that kind of supervision.” She spiraled her hands forward, willing him to understand without explicitly stating anything. “Thomas Briggs is…we don’t work well together. When I say supervision, I mean proper supervision.” Blank. “The viscount lives alone.” Blank. “A bachelor.”

  “Well, can’t blame the man for that.” Her never-married uncle frowned. “I didn’t realize you cared about—”

  “Uncle! It is not proper. I’m not married.” And obviously not as oblivious to temptation as she’d all but crowed about to Mr. Pitts.

  “Course you aren’t. Hope I’d be invited, if you were.”

  She stared at him and drummed her fingers again. The bell jingled.

  “It’s not the thing,” she tried to reiterate, hoping he would get the message and save her from herself. “It’s not proper.”

  “Proper?” His frown became more pronounced. “This isn’t your mother’s academy.”

  No, her mother’s academy would have taken a wooden rod to her backside two days ago. And if they knew her thoughts now, they would lock her in a hole for a week.

  She sighed. “But it is not quite the thing to be alone with a gentleman in his house.”

  “You are working, not gallivanting. Hardly improper.”

  “What’s improper?” Georgette undid her fashionably large bonnet as she sailed into the back, Peter peeking behind her, around the corner of the entrance from the store proper, where he was manning the counter.

  “I am cataloging a library. By myself,” Miranda emphasized in her uncle’s direction.

  Georgette snorted. “Sorting and putting books on a shelf? Really, Miranda, if only it were improper to do such, I’d feel much better about the amount of time you focus on such things.”

  Miranda drummed her fingers against the table harder. “It is impossible to have a reasonable conversation with him.”

  And impossible to ignore him.

  Georgette coughed delicately and gave her a nudge.

  “Not my uncle, Georgette,” she said exasperatedly. She turned back to her uncle. “Impossible, uncle, I tell you.”

  He pushed his completed papers into a messy pile. “What is impossible about it? I don’t see the problem. The viscount is a busy man. He is not going to stop by to converse.”

  And that was just it. Even though they had conversed plenty, conversing did not seem to be particularly high on his list of preferred activities. And nor did her mind exactly shy away from thinking about those other activities when he was near. Which was why she needed to cull the temptation and remove the dessert from the feast. She barely knew what fork to use at such a table.

  And why he would focus those energies on her was completely baffling.

  Georgette’s eyes widened at the word “viscount,” then turned crafty. Miranda looked at her, spirits sinking at the gleam therein.

  “You probably won’t even see him,” her uncle said. “Go, enjoy yourself, and make sure you scoop up every last treasure he lets slip. Like the illumination he gave you, simple as it might be. And you must have wanted it, since you took it.”

  Miranda blushed, mortification sifting beneath her skin at the mention even if he had no notion of what the pages truly contained.

  “And especially watch for The Bengal.” Her uncle returned to his active ledgers, adding and subtracting numbers, muttering beneath his breath.

  “Yes, Miranda,” Georgette said sternly, waving her to stand. “An awful shame to let that copy slip from your uncle.”

  Miranda was reasonably sure that Georgette had never even heard of the rare book. She sighed and resolutely stood.

  “I’ll just take Miranda up for a chat. I’m positive she will be right as rain to continue,” Georgette said, bidding Miranda’s uncle a good afternoon. He waved absently, head still buried.

  “Well?” Georgette demanded, when they reached Miranda’s room.

  Miranda touched one glove clinging to the rack where they should have been drying. She needed to wash them but had gotten the basin full, then stared at it, gloves raised above the water. The basin still stood full, cold and untouched in the corner.

  Like some silly schoolgirl. One in need of a strong rap to the knuckles.

  She collapsed onto the top blanket on her bed, faded roses intertwined with thorns depicted within. “I’m cataloging Lord Downing’s library. Alone.”

  Georgette blinked, as if she hadn’t truly believed it, then a slow smile worked along her mouth. “Oh, Miranda.”

  “Don’t start, Georgette. Uncle thinks it is completely reasonable.”

  “Why shouldn’t he? You’re in a house full of servants. People just like you. You don’t see any of the maids rolling up fierce that they are alone with the master? You don’t see their beaus or husbands dueling the lords, do you? That’s because there is an order to things, a structure. You are fitting perfectly into that order by helping the viscount with his moldy books.”

  Miranda wasn’t sure that made her feel any better. In fact, she felt a mite more depressed.

  “It is up to you to bend this to your will. This is the opportunity of a lifetime.” Georgette’s eyes turned dreamy. “To be Mrs. Q.”

  “Georgette—”

  “You’ve always been fascinated by him, do not lie.”

  “I’m fascinated by a lot of people in the society pages. Like reading about characters in a story. They aren’t real.”

  “They are real enough.” Georgette’s brows rose. “Or else you wouldn’t be whining so.”

  Miranda sighed. “I am whining, aren’t I.”

  Georgette patted her hand. “There, there. I like it when you whine. Makes me feel like the wise one for once.”

  Miranda smiled at her friend and squeezed her fingers.

  “Now tell me what the real trouble is. Not this silly thought of being alone with him.”

  “It’s not silly.”

  Georgette patted her hand again. “I’ve already successfully argued on how silly it is. I won.”

  “Just because it is not remarkable does not mean that being alone with him is not a problem.” She picked at the coverlet. She couldn’t tell Georgette about the challenge. Her friend would clamp onto the information and never let it go. She settled on something simpler, yet still accurate. “He confuses me.”

  Georgette’s wistful smile returned. “How lovely.”

  Miranda shook her head. “You are more hopeless than I.”

  “I’m a romantic, dear. You are far too practical. And that this man confuses you is the best thing I’ve heard in years.”

  Miranda flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. “Lovely.”

  The bed depressed as her friend sat. “And if he has gotten
to you in this way, it also means that he is interested in you.”

  There were fourteen bumps on her ceiling. If one connected them, it looked like a box opening and something wicked streaming out. “Interested in driving me batty. That’s all.”

  “I saw you two interact. I saw him nearly eating you up. You can’t convince me otherwise.”

  That she was interested in being the meal was part of the problem. And even though she shared most things with Georgette, and her friend would positively love to hear of it, she couldn’t admit her thoughts and feelings aloud. It would make them tangible. Force her to act upon them.

  Georgette flopped on her side next to her. “What you need is something else to occupy your thoughts before you do something mad and refuse to return to his delicious lair.” She tapped her fingers against her upper lip. “Write to one of your correspondents. You always get energized by such, Lord help you. Oh, ask about the sequel to Seven Secrets so I can be the first one with the news at the Mortons’ this time.”

  The ceiling bumps also could form a face with a perfect O of embarrassment about the mouth. “Eleutherios hasn’t responded to my last letter, and it has been days now.”

  “So?” Georgette shrugged her left shoulder. “Write him again. If he doesn’t respond, what have you lost?”

  “But—”

  “This is part of your problem, Miranda.” Georgette gazed down at her. “You are too caught up in the order of things. You need to do as you please.”

  Everyone was always trying to convince her to do as she pleased these days. It almost made her want to hunker down further into her studies and cross her arms in defiance.

  “I will do so when I get—”

  “When you get another few crowns, another few years, another travel book, another excuse.”

  Miranda crossed her arms and studied the ceiling with more concentration. “There is nothing wrong with being prepared.”

  “Using preparation as an excuse not to take a leap is wrong.”

  No answers appeared above. “I’m being safe. Secure.”

  “You are being featherbrained.”

  She looked over at her friend’s frustrated features, a mirror of her own. “It is featherbrained to roam the Continent alone with naught but my meager clothes and funds.”

  “Oh, pish. You have enough to hire someone to accompany you. Mrs. Fritz would go.”

  Miranda thought of the elderly woman who boarded with them. “But…”

  “Exactly. You will think of some other excuse to resist.”

  Miranda tightened her arms.

  “Ugh.” Georgette pushed back up to a sitting position and grabbed for her bonnet. “I can’t talk to you right now. I’m emerald with the worst envy and crimson with anger at the opportunity you might let slip. This would be good for you. Downing is notorious.”

  Miranda shook a finger at her in triumph. “Exactly why I should stay away.”

  Georgette shook a finger back. “Exactly why you shouldn’t.”

  Miranda contemplated Georgette’s words later as she looked at her pen and the blank piece of paper in front of her, squared on her scarred little lap desk.

  She touched the short note from Eleutherios that had accompanied the book. The spidery letters sloped and narrowly curved. She traced a letter absently with her finger.

  Dear Mistress Chase,

  Enjoy the enclosed.

  Eleutherios

  Mr. Pitts would be snorting at the salutation of Mistress Chase, his fingers assuredly curled around a hot cup of black coffee. He despised everything about the author’s tendency for flowery speech in his text. What was interesting was that the note was almost terse. If not for the expensive and sought-for gift enclosed, she might not have dared reply.

  And twice without a response? She chewed her lip. Georgette was right, though—if nothing else, the decision was taking her mind away from the viscount.

  She smoothed the paper on her desk, squaring it again, feeling the creases beneath the bare fingers of her left hand. She fiddled with her pen before dipping it.

  She curled her letters of salutation, then paused on the downstroke of her comma, lifting her pen before too much ink puddled on the page. She started a new line.

  I was surprised by the rumors of a sequel to your lovely work, but then this is London, and I should hardly be taken aback by my lack of knowledge in all things social.

  As to where I first heard the rumors about your new work, a most strange encounter was responsible.

  She looked at the page and fiddled with her pen nib. She could strike it out. Start afresh. She pressed her pen to the start of the sentence, then lifted it. No. It was inconsequential.

  So inconsequential that the encounter had only shaken her world and left her reeling since.

  She belligerently set her pen down again, determined to wipe away thoughts of the viscount.

  A most shameless, confusing man—

  No that was unkind. And quite the opposite of not thinking of him. She crossed it out.

  A patron of the store casually mentioned that he had heard you were writing a sequel, and the next day, it was all over town. I do not know how the patron found out before some of the best gossipers in London, but I suppose the social vine works in mysterious ways. Perhaps he even spread the rumor himself.

  She considered crossing that off as well. It seemed her mind was of one track. She tapped the end of the pen against her lip before deciding to leave it. It was a valid explanation. Besides, it served the viscount right for monopolizing her thoughts and dragging her emotions to and fro.

  In more favorable news, I finished the Gothic and must thank you again.

  Miranda waxed poetic for a few paragraphs, then finished with a note that she did not expect a reply, she simply felt the need to thank him again. She signed with a swirl of letters and sealed the note, carefully placing it near her door to mail.

  Next was a return note to Mr. Pitts. She could tell him all about the viscount. He would probably enjoy the man’s dislike of Eleutherios. But there was something that told her he would instantly dislike Lord Downing too, so she kept the viscount’s title out but filled the page with the encounter.

  Mr. Pitts was sometimes a disagreeable sort. He had been from his first note to the Daily Mill vilifying Eleutherios. The viscount had merely dismissive words for the author. He had nothing on the vitriol Mr. Pitts could spew. It was as if Mr. Pitts knew the author directly and despised him.

  She had written a piece to the paper in response, arguing on the author’s behalf. Crotchety, sarcastic man had written to her directly to confront her on her opinion. Few days had gone by where she hadn’t exchanged correspondence with him since. And never once had he taken affront to her gender upon discovering it. He could be quite charming when he chose, no matter what Georgette said.

  Beneath all of his dark, droll words, she thought he secretly enjoyed their friendly, and at times combative, correspondence just as much as she did.

  She fondly signed the note.

  He’d probably tell her to throw the scandalous illumination into the sea. He’d been irritated about the Gothic from Eleutherios. Told her in no uncertain terms what he’d thought of the bare note and the gift from the “muttonhead.” That he was inconsiderate or had some nefarious ulterior motive and wasn’t to be trusted.

  But she could no more throw away one temptation over another. Was it more dangerous to take the gift you knew or the gift you didn’t?

  She touched the cover of the Gothic that she had been given ahead of everyone else in London and tried not to think of temptation, dark men, and charming lords.

  Dreams kept one alive. Even the foolish dreams of a working girl. They had kept her going through one devastation after another.

  She touched the threadbare palms of her gloves.

  Was it naïve to believe a dream wouldn’t be punctured? Or did it make one stronger to keep dreaming?

  Chapter 6

  I most desi
re in life to have an open eye and an open heart. To dream brings both.

  Miranda Chase to Mr. Pitts

  He found dreams useless. Maximilian Landry, Viscount Downing, pushed the dips of his specially tailored glove between the fingers on his left hand. Action was undeniably more effective. Naïveté in all forms abhorrent.

  Dreams had never gained him a thing. The whims of others were resistant to one’s dreams. But action and manipulation were undeniable. Seduction the darkest and lightest tactic.

  It was just like him to find someone so opposite to him interesting. And enticing. Miranda Chase was all about reaction and observation. About watching and not participating. About helping instead of grabbing what she desired.

  He was going to change all of that.

  He had long ago decided he wanted Miranda Chase, no matter what she thought of their having just met. Yes, he wanted Miranda Chase. And he always got what he wanted.

  He lifted his finest sword and slowly smiled.

  Chapter 7

  Dear Chase,

  Men don’t pretend interest in the way you describe. They are either interested or not. However, that has absolutely nothing to do with whether they can be trusted.

  Mr. Pitts to Miranda Chase

  Warmth from the sun’s rays heated her skin, echoing her increasingly heated thoughts as she walked toward the grand house five days later.

  If she had thought the viscount would play fair with their challenge, she had been deluding herself. He took every opportunity to point out the scandalous, to shock her, to touch her.

  Innocent touches. Small brushes. Casual meetings of flesh, the heat of his fingers tangible on her skin before the tips brushed, the tingle of cool air on a warmed surface making her shiver as soon as the pad would lift. Drawing her toward him like a hand rippling through water and setting a leaf skimming on a wave. As if his skin had set a hook directly into hers, pulling her ever closer.