Seven Secrets of Seduction

by Anne Mallory

  “I don’t require a dress.” There was something irreversible about his buying her clothing. She could borrow a gown from Georgette.

  “You want to bare all beneath? I find that to be an acceptable plan.”

  “No! That—I—”

  “I don’t think it wise to go without the domino as well, Miss Chase,” he said, raising a haughty brow. “Really. I thought you a more discreet sort.”

  She crossed her arms, pinching her lips together. A slight cough on the other side of the door made her realize they had been sitting inside alone for too long an appropriate time in an unmoving vehicle. Her eyes went wide wondering what the boy outside the carriage was thinking.

  “Miss Chase is trying to decide whether to run about stark naked, Benjamin,” the viscount called out. “One more moment.”

  “Very good, my lord.” There wasn’t even a pause in the reply.

  She popped from the carriage as fast as she could. “I am not. Don’t—I—”

  “Smart choice, miss,” Benjamin said, nodding.

  She stared at the boy for a moment, and the light in his eyes made her sigh and respond in kind.

  “Incorrigible. Both of you.”

  “Thank you, miss.” The young groom puffed out his chest, pleased to be lumped into a category with the viscount.

  She shook her head. The viscount gestured toward the shop, and she automatically ascended the walk. She tried to concentrate on the path and keep her nerve instead of looking at the shop’s large windows. A beautifully tailored gown was strategically positioned behind the panes, draped and flowing. Of the highest fashion. Glittering accents sparkled through the tulle of the skirt, wrapping around and out through the train.

  “The Countess Drayton wore that gown to the King’s ball.”

  “What are we doing here?” She could barely get the words out as her feet automatically took her up the pavers. She was a haze of nerves, and felt adrift on the breeze, floating toward the door. “Unwise,” she said beneath her breath.

  His walking stick tapped a rhythm on the stones. “You keep saying that. Why don’t you let go and embrace doing things that aren’t wise?”

  “I seem to have a bad case of embracing them around you,” she muttered. “The mere definition of the word should be explanation in and of itself.”

  “I am happy to see you embracing anything of mine.” The side of his mouth quirked as he walked. An appealing curve that begged for a finger to trace the lines and share in the humor.

  “I’m not going to let you seduce me,” she blurted out.

  “Not much of a seduction if you simply let me.” He opened the door. “I was rather hoping that you would choose to seduce me instead.”

  She stood on the threshold, one foot half-lifted, as she stared into his eyes, which were more serious than she could credit.

  She stepped over the edge.

  Chapter 9

  Secret #4: Never lose control…

  …He could feel her fingers on his skin, beneath his shirt, as she blushed and touched the fabric Madame Galland draped over her hands, her fingers slipping over it in a caress that he could feel to his toes. He couldn’t hear what she said from his comfortable seat in the private waiting area, but he could imagine her soft voice, the way she uttered each descriptive syllable with a reverence that would match the longing in her eyes.

  The modiste looked toward him, nonchalantly, and he gestured with two fingers. She nodded, the entire communication taking less than a second and going completely unnoticed as Miranda’s eyes were on the fabric, her lower lip curled under her top teeth, an assuredly apologetic negative on her tongue.

  Madame Galland simply nodded to her and handed her another sumptuous fabric. The action was repeated until Max tilted his head. The modiste ushered Miranda toward the dressing area, unfortunately outside his viewing radius. He would have loved to see her undressing within his regard. To see the scarlet bloom on her cheeks and the tremors jump beneath her skin.

  She emerged reluctantly in a finished piece that would require only slight alterations, the modiste shooing her out before the tall mirrors, which were conveniently in his sight.

  The fabric gripped her in all the appropriate places, highlighting her curves and brightening her skin. Revealing a tantalizing hint of undergarments and flesh in the open seams that would cinch and clutch her once sewn but gaped and concealed as she shifted before the looking glass.

  It took a few dress changes before she began to relax and enjoy herself, seeming to forget he was there except for the telltale sign of her fingers tucking the hair behind her left ear in lingering shyness and the way her eyes would dart in his direction when she thought he wasn’t looking.

  He smiled. Things were progressing apace.

  He shouldn’t be surprised. After all, aside from his family concerns, he always got what he wanted.

  But he couldn’t even explain it to himself, this need to have her. To break her. To shape her. To remold her.

  To keep her exactly as she was and shield her from people just like himself.

  It was the knife-edge that had been teetering for weeks. He’d had to take action. Couldn’t wait any longer. He’d nearly jumped the starting gun. More than once.

  He had to thank her innocence that she hadn’t noticed—hadn’t seemed one whit suspicious. And why would she be? It was ludicrous. The whole situation was.

  And so unlike him. He valued internal control above all else. The one property that seemed ever elusive in his family. People who gave in to their base feelings were weak. Easily led by their emotions. That someone had tweaked his own was unnerving.

  It made him uneasy. And he didn’t like that at all.

  So here he was, action in motion, sidetracked; watching her wide eyes and shy smile as she nodded tentatively to whatever the modiste was saying. He was determined to get his fill, remake her into the confident, vivacious woman she could be, then resume his normal life, free from her invisible grip.

  Easy enough. He had conquered harder challenges. Family financial declines, scandal upon family scandal, turning the family reputation into a legend, cleaning up after his parents.

  Not murdering anyone related by blood.

  And Miranda Chase provided plenty of material for him to work with. She was a passionate woman beneath her real innocence.

  But something about her made him think odd and dangerous thoughts. Thoughts of veering from his path of destruction. Heading off the gossips with firm respectability. Discontinuing the cycle of pain.

  Could it be that the destruction of a relationship wasn’t the foregone conclusion he’d always thought it to be? That emotions didn’t weaken the structure?

  Something about her continued to itch under his skin, causing his blood to flow faster. An unidentified element that was just outside of his control.

  He shook away the thought. Some lingering piece of the game, assuredly.

  But he couldn’t shake the fallible feeling.

  Chapter 10

  Secret #4 (cont.):…and never let another pull your strings without your consent. Own your own thoughts, know your confidence, and she will fall at your feet.

  Miranda found her way to the library in a haze. The viscount had needed to be dropped at an appointment, but he had kept her in the carriage until he exited. Teasing her in his dark way, making her forget her surroundings, her heart lurching in something far from fear.

  He had signaled to the coachman. A twist of his fingers. A casual mention of pulling a cord if she wanted to stop—and how there were plenty of fine stops on the way, and didn’t she want to stretch her feet? Then he had exited. And the driver had taken a long, scenic drive of London on the return. A slow ride in the expensive conveyance. Stopping occasionally, never once responding in anything other than a friendly manner when she’d pulled the cord and leapt out.

  The viscount could have seen her tightened fingers—he was remarkably perceptive—and deduced her fear at the beginning of the r
ide. But that she wished for a longer journey? That short jaunts mingled with quick stops might help her in some way?

  Dangerous man.

  She heard sounds from down the hall. Curiosity dispelled some of the haze. She had been working mostly on her own, for each time the viscount appeared, any servants assisting her would mysteriously disappear. So she was expecting to see one or two servants unloading crates. She stepped into the doorway and froze.

  He didn’t just have a few servants helping. He had an army.

  She stepped inside to help, but was immediately surrounded by women. “Oh, Miss Chase, there you are. This way.” One of them pointed back to the door, then spoke to a woman who had entered behind Miranda. “Galina, you were supposed to show her to the room right away.”

  “She came in the back door.” The pretty servant gave her a formal stare. Cold. “Again.”

  Miranda had told Benjamin and Giles to take her right into the carriage house. She had wanted to see the other coffins—carriages—and the horses. She had even stroked one on the nose. She had felt eminently better than she had in a long time. A weight lifted from her shoulders.

  “My apologies. I asked Giles if I could see the horses, and it seemed impractical to walk around to the front.”

  Their stares ranged from hostile to surprised at her usage of the driver’s name. Miranda vaguely wondered again about the other visitors, other women, who had visited the house on a rotating basis.

  “It is no trouble, Miss Chase,” one of the maids reassured her with a kind smile.

  “Please call me Miranda.”

  The woman nodded. “Of course, Miss Chase.”

  Miranda sighed.

  “If you could come with us, we can begin.”

  Miranda blinked at the women surrounding her. “Begin? But the room is coming along splendidly. You’ve done a fine job. Thank you so much for your help.”

  A flash of irritation passed through Galina’s eyes before the coldness resumed. “So we can begin preparing you.”

  “Preparing me? Is there a flood imminent?” Miranda attempted a joke, but when the pretty maid’s eyes narrowed, she lost her already wobbly smile. “Preparing for what?”

  “For your engagement tonight.”

  Miranda stared at her. She had just arrived back from the modiste. How would the staff even know? Well, she supposed it had taken over an hour with all of her stops. But still…preparing?

  “Will it be that dire? Do I need to practice my lines?” The maid didn’t seem to appreciate any attempts at humor. Miranda shifted uncomfortably.

  “Please, Miss Chase, follow us.” The kinder maid once again motioned toward the door.

  Miranda followed them down the hall, a short trip, to a large guest room. It was a lovely, styled room, but impersonal. Likely one of a dozen extra rooms. Miranda shook her head. And it would cost more than she had to furnish a corner of the room alone—this indistinct paradise.

  “This is to be your room while you are here.”

  Miranda started. “My room? I am not staying.”

  “To use as you please. If you require a respite, you may retire here.” The maid broadly gestured around the room. There was a large bed with dozens of pillows piled on top. A curling armed bench sat at the foot. A dressing table and chair stood along the wall. A reading chair sat in the far corner beside a personal table and ottoman. Everything was expensive, but uniform. She was reminded a bit of the viscount’s Red Room, with its stark, indecipherable style.

  And then her attention focused on a small spinning globe next to the window nook. A place to dream and gaze. The globe was smaller than the countess’s, which sought to fill the center space of the countess’s room, but this one looked equally magnificent. Her hand itched to trace the gilded meridians.

  One tiny bit of personality—one just for her—in this otherwise-impersonal room.

  How…how would he know? They had only just been to Lady Banning’s.

  “I am here to work,” she said in a near whisper, not knowing how to respond.

  Galina sent her a disbelieving look, then opened the large wooden armoire. Hanging inside was a diaphanous gown of sea-sprayed white, green, and blue. The white accents were crested waves of a sea that was neither calm nor storm-tossed. Somewhere in flux. In transition from one state to the other.

  Miranda reached out a finger to touch the gown, then drew it back.

  “Your gown, Miss Chase.”

  “Mine?” It was hard to vocalize. She was to wear this?

  She let her finger complete its journey, touching the fabric, running her finger along the edge of a wave and down to the waterfall beneath. “It’s beautiful.”

  She hadn’t tried this dress on. Hadn’t seen it in the shop at all.

  “Yes, Miss Chase.” Galina’s response was perfunctory and automatic, but there was a negative thread lacing it. Miranda looked to her but was met with a perfectly blank face. No hint of jealousy or irritation on display. Still…

  “Thank you, Miss Lence, for helping me. I daresay I am out of my element here.”

  She thanked her fortune that something had made her ask the full name of this maid in particular when she’d begun her quest to learn them all.

  The maid stared at her for a hard second, then something loosened. Something small, but there all the same. She waved a hand toward the chair. “Sit please, and we will begin.”

  Miranda followed the instruction blindly, her hand dropping from the dress in an almost apologetic manner—the gown seemed almost alive.

  Another maid entered, an older woman higher in the chain of command. They undressed her to her undergarments and gloves and began dressing her hair, arguing with each other over the best style. Miranda was trying to wrap her mind around the fact that she was being pawed over—she was used to getting ready as quickly as possible with the help of whoever was on hand, returning the favor just as quickly.

  Behind her, the kind, youngest maid picked her hair up on each side, looking at it in the cheval glass of the dressing table. “I saw Lady Jersey wearing it like this in Berkeley Square.”

  “During the day, girl. We need an evening look,” the older woman said.

  “But Lady J—”

  “Is old,” Galina said bitingly. “Now, Caroline Lamb, on the other hand—”

  The older maid gasped. “Bite your tongue.”

  “No.” Galina narrowed her eyes. “She was the height of fashion and her hair when arranged just so…” A wistful look passed over her more taciturn features. The young maid looked intrigued, but the older woman was having none of it.

  “I say we need a classic look.”

  “And I say that we do something to highlight the gown.” The last bit was on the pugilistic side.

  The younger maid looked between the two combatants with wide eyes. “Galina, you usually don’t care—”

  “She can carry off the style. It is a cross between innocence and maturity. She can choose which to display.” The maid’s eyes met hers in the mirror. “I want to see what she looks like.”

  “I’m sure Miss Chase will look lovely in any style,” the older woman said diplomatically. Miranda shifted nervously. Mrs. Fritz was able to stick a few pins in her hair, when needed. And Georgette had made valiant attempts at styles, though her friend made a much better model than hairdresser. “Lovely” was not usually a description that she would make of any of her previous hairstyles. Adequate usually, perhaps even pretty on occasion if she was feeling especially good.

  “You are being difficult, Galina, and as I am the head of this floor—”

  “Fine.” The maid’s face went flat again. “Do as you wish.”

  The woman nodded firmly, and they began to arrange her hair in a classic upsweep with tendrils hanging down. It was flattering to her face, and Miranda felt a thread of excitement as she gazed at her reflection. She felt pretty. And she was going to wear the dress in the armoire? Her excitement increased three notches.

  The ol
der maid nodded. Galina’s face displayed nothing.

  “We are ahead of schedule.” The older woman brushed her hands against each other. “But let us get her dressed so we can see if alterations are needed.”

  Miranda was quite used to clips and pins. The only pieces that needed to fit precisely were her undergarments. The rest were easily taken care of by a quick pin or tuck.

  “It won’t require alterations.” Galina looked as if she very nearly was going to cross her arms.

  “Girl, you are becoming a trial.”

  Galina’s lips pinched together, and she said nothing. She picked up the gloves that fell over an accessories hanger to the side. She held her hand out imperiously for Miranda’s. Miranda pretended she misunderstood and tried to take the gloves from her.

  The maid’s eyes tightened, but she released the gloves as if she didn’t care. Miranda placed them in her lap and pulled her worn gloves off. Her hands touched the air, and she tried as quickly as she could to pull the left glove on.

  She fumbled, and a quick look showed the maid watching her.

  Galina examined Miranda’s bare hands for a second, then gave her an unreadable look. Miranda tried not to hide her hands, though they twitched toward her lap, the urge great. The maid’s hands were probably equally worn beneath her own gloves, but in other ways. Water and soap, scrubbing damage. Sewing pricks or tired, stretched skin.

  Or maybe they were buttery soft, the pampered feel of an upstairs servant who had to touch the master or mistress of the house with bare fingers sometimes. The coarse touch of a lowly worker not good enough for the newbornlike skin of the Quality.

  She gripped the silk glove in her right hand, her roughened fingers sullying the material.

  Why had she ever agreed to go to dinner with the viscount? To go anywhere with him? Ludicrous. The whole idea was like something out of a story, but instead of living in Olympus, she would be turned into a tree or deer in the end. A punishment sent down by a pagan god of old for daring to consort with the king of them all.