by Anne Mallory
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 progress. “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 f
rom 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 correspondents 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.
He returned her bright smile, and she retrieved a metaphorical hook from her arsenal. “I must thank you again for the books,” she said. “Both of them.”
His smile slipped for a second, but then came back in full force. “You are welcome, dear lady. I’m glad you enjoyed them.”
“I didn’t ask you on paper…but, but how did you know to send them?”
He coughed and examined her more fully. “Discerning man, aren’t I?”
“Yes, you have true talent.”
Eleutherios did. Only Mr. Pitts might be able to challenge him with a pen—both brilliant in different ways.
“I am grateful to hear ’tis so. I try to be the best at everything.” He put a hand against the wall, leaning toward it in what could only be deemed a seductive manner.
It was difficult to hide her grin. The man in front of her seemed like a good sort. A puppy wanting to practice his wiles on the debutantes. She wondered if he had concocted this scheme just so he could do so.
She actually thought it quite industrious that someone had taken on the secretive author’s identity. Would the real author finally reveal himself?
“I would be delighted to show you how much,” he said.
“Oh, fabulous. Perhaps now is a good time?”
He blinked at her unexpected response, one hand on the wall, the other at his pocket. “I’ll—I’ll have to fit you in, of course. Many demands on my time. Especially tonight.” His hand snuck into the fabric pocket.
“Of course.”
There was something about the man in front of her. Something close to what she had expected. His looks fit—the flowing brown locks and kind eyes. She hadn’t expected quite that much mischievousness though. There was something sober about Eleutherios beneath the flowery words.
The thoughtful, keenly sensitive notes contained just a hint of darkness.
“Right.” She smiled. “Well, your last note was truly lovely. The way you spoke of the wind on a crisp autumn’s day.”
He smiled back charmingly. “Thank you, dear lady.”
“I was serious when I said that you should write a book of sonnets. You might rival the bard himself.”
He tipped his head. “I do have a talent for the pen.”
Eleutherios was practically humble in his letters. As if he were unused to sharing himself. She might have expected him to be exactly as the man standing in front of her based on the superficial aspects of his book, but his correspondence had shown someone entirely different and deeper.
“You do. I hope that you will continue with your new works.”
“Oh, working on a sequel, didn’t you know?” He lifted her hand again. “The sixth secret is to keep one’s eyes focused. And I’m a master at that.”
Her mouth quirked, and it took all of her effort to keep the edges down. Truly she was glad that Eleutherios wasn’t in front of her. Nor Mr. Pitts. This was far more fun, and she had entirely unrealistic expectations of the other men. Frankly, her expectations were unfair. But she never needed to reconcile them because she could continue to live the fantasy.
“Yes, you are. Perhaps—”
A cool, firm hand wrapped around their attached hands and all of a sudden her gloves were touching nothing but air and the fake Eleutherios was stretching his at his side, as if stung.
“I don’t believe we’ve yet met.” The viscount’s eyes were cold as he surveyed the boyish man who suddenly looked much more foppish in the presence of Downing’s stark, perfectly worn attire and complete aura of hard power.
The boy shifted on his feet, something close to terror in his eyes.
Miranda stepped into the fray, something about the boy calling forth her protective instincts. “Viscount Downing, this is Eleutherios. The author. A charming lad.”
The other man regained himself quickly, the rakish gleam back in place—quite like the marquess’s puckish-ness actually. “At your service, my lord.” He extended his hand.
Downing didn’t even look at the digits, his gloved hand played with a watch at his pocket. “The author of The Seven Secrets of Seduction?” Feigned interest wasn’t enough to fool either of them. “In our humble presence?”
“I would never presume to humble anyone,” the boy said in the most humble way she’d been privy to since their conversation had begun. He shifted on his feet. “The lady was merely interested in…my works and writings.”
The viscount’s eyes pinched and he looked almost violent for a second before he turned coolly dismissive once more, much as he had at Vauxhall or Lady Banning’s when confronted by something irritating.
“Is that so?”
“Yes. But do excuse me for a moment. I seem to recall an urgent appointment.” The fake Eleutherios moved quickly down the hall. Faster than she’d seen a man with that high a cravat travel before.
“I think you frightened him away,” she mused, conflicted. She had enjoyed the boy. And she’d barely set her hook to have some benign fun. And even though he looked only a few years younger than she, he also looked like he could use a motherly hug.
The viscount shrugged, eyes dark. He smiled, every fiber of it more seductive than anything the boy could have claimed. There was an edge to the smile though.
“Did you want him to stay? Doesn’t even have the sense to play the muttonhead of his writings. Rattle-pate glory hound.”
Something twinged in her mind, but the look in his eyes distracted her. “I did wish to speak with him. Though he isn’t—”
She suddenly found herself tugged forcefully forward. The viscount spun her, and she heard the clack of a door engaging its lock.
“And what would you say?” He pressed her front forward against the wall of some room off to the side of the hall, the gilt edge of something assuredly expensive pressing into her palm as the warmth of him pressed against her back. She moved her hands to either side of what seemed to be a painting.
“I—I—” her voice hitched as he did something with the edges of his thumbs, pressing them up under her bodice. “I simply would thank him.” The oil would surely melt beneath her heated exhalations. Melt the posed expression on the portrait, turning it into something wild and unknown.
“For what? A tawdry book?”
“His lovely words.”
“Words aren’t lovely.” His lips pressed against her throat. “Actions are.”
Her head tilted back. “His actions then too.”
“You will forget all about him.”
She gasped as his palms curled around the front of her dress and cupped her breasts.
“Did you hear me, Mira
nda?”
His fingers moved, setting off a thousand sensations. “We were just speaking.”
“That wasn’t your author.”
His fingers drew up her skirt, bunching the material as they drew higher. As they curled around her through the layers. She might as well have been bare beneath his hands. Clay waiting to be molded beneath skilled fingers.
“How do you know?”
“C—” His voice abruptly cut off, and his lips clamped around the vein in her neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His fingers pulled against the core of her, a long press of exquisite force that lit everything in her as they circled, dipped in, and pulled again. She crushed her palms against the wall and arched back.
“The boy barely knows how to use his overabundance of libido yet.”
His other arm reached around her waist and played with the edge of her low bodice, the delicate, scalloped edges giving easy way to the questing fingers dipping beneath.
She could feel him behind her, pressed against her. Ready. Ready at any moment to toss up her skirts and mark her as his.
He abruptly turned her and pulled her against him. His head buried into her throat. To the crook between her neck and shoulder, his breathing heavy. He gripped her hips and turned her, swinging her toward the settee. Depositing her on the plush cushion with urgency.
“You acquiesced earlier, but I’ll ask again. Will you let me have you, Miranda?”
He crouched on the floor between her knees, her legs spread to the sides, one edge of her gown bunched up around her thigh. Like the pages of a book, opened and splayed. Waiting to be read or written upon. Branded with ink and purpose.
He pushed a hand slowly beneath the covered layer, up her other leg, and around her thigh.
“I-yes,” she whispered.
He leaned forward and upward, his lips curling around the soft flesh behind the lobe of her ear. “I won’t let you regret it,” he whispered. His fingers gripped her thighs, the balls of his feet pushing him toward her. Each fraction of space his hands moved increased her heart rate.
She shivered at the feel of him, so close, nearly nestled against her. Opening her farther. She leaned her head against the back cushion of the settee, exposing her neck to his meticulous onslaught, feeling his shiver beneath her frank acceptance.