by Julia Ross
The lady's maid appeared and curtsied. "Yes, ma'am?"
"Do you think me mad, Kate?"
The maid curtsied again to hide her obvious discomfort. "No, ma'am."
Cradling the note, Juliet laughed. "Then you are wrong. Ι am about to do something quite lunatic. Ι shall need your help yours and Tilly's."
ALDEN STEPPED DOWN AND LEANED BACK FOR Α MOMENT against the wheel. He had brought a light open carriage and pair: the matched grays from Gracechurch Abbey, sent down the previous afternoon. It was going to be another blazing day, yet he had dressed in the full formal clothing of an English peer: dove gray coat; lace; crisp, clean linen. He crossed one heeled shoe over the other and let his gaze drift over the trailing roses. As when he had first seen them, Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego sat serenely on the brick path, watching him.
Mistress Juliet Seton.
He had bedded lovelier ladies and ones of more consequence: ladies of the royal court, dukes' wives, and once, a visiting German princess, who had gifted him with her lace. He had been inveigled into bed by females with the skills of Delilah, beguiled noblewomen and harlots. Sometimes they were one and the same.
It wasn't a life he had ever questioned. It had always brought him a profound pleasure, an intensity of sensation - at the tables, in the exquisite food and wine, in the voluptuous knowledge of each woman's body - a life filled with potency.
Now he was here to complete his seduction of this widow. It should be no different from a hundred other seductions, just more important. Alden cursed under his breath. He wasn't used to feeling so vulnerable, and - lud! - such a great deal hung in the balance.
This was the last day.
So he had decided on another gamble: to enlist the aid of those enchanting false ruins, the folly at Gracechurch Abbey, and Juliet's surprise when she discovered his identity. After weakening her with the amusement of the grounds, he would take her into those cool, gracious rooms and let his house destroy her defenses by its very loveliness. The awe-inspiring ceilings. The art. The collection of Italian and Roman sculpture in the long gallery. The home of each Viscount Gracechurch for several hundred years.
The only weapon he refused to use was Sherry. Peter Primrose had been instructed to take the boy out for the day. Foolish, perhaps. The child was bound to soften any female heart. Yet he couldn't quite bring himself to do it, even though Sherry's future depended as much as Alden's on his success today.
His servants would see that everything was in readiness. The kitchens would produce a feast of sumptuous food and heady wine. Α tour of the house would include alcoves and private sofas. Every bed would be aired and made up with clean linen.
If he took her to Gracechurch, he would know every secret of her body by the end of the day.
He would do her no harm. He would bring her nothing but pleasure.
He concentrated on that one thought as he opened the gate. The cats stalked away and disappeared into the flowerbeds. Alden stopped and watched them leave, surprised.
The door opened. He looked up.
The breath was snatched from his body.
The impoverished widow of the blue smock and wine-stained skirts was gone. The soft, vulnerable lady of the Italian gown and petticoat had suffused into smoke. Α new Juliet Seton stood facing him, her eyes as brilliant as the sky. Her chin was up as if she challenged him to a duel.
Α straw hat, decorated with sweet peas and ribbons, nestled over elegant powdered ringlets. They were real sweet peas, wafting their fresh perfume among the fluttering satin streamers. Α thin dusting of powder and rouge enhanced her perfect skin. She even wore a patch that danced coyly at the corner of her mouth as she smiled.
She stepped onto the path. Her rose satin gown shimmered in the sunlight. White satin bows decorated the bodice and sleeves. Deep ruches of lace frothed at each elbow. The belling skirts were supported by extravagant hoops, tipping and swaying as she walked. Petticoats rustled. Dainty high-heeled slippers with matching satin bows rapped on the brick, beating the rhythm of his heartbeat.
White-hot desire flooded through his veins.
Lud, lud! Mistress Juliet Seton! Would you try to match me at my own game?
It took him a moment to realize that the dress was five years out of style and a little faded. His body derided such an irrelevant observation.
The narrow, corseted bodice forced up her breasts in deliberate invitation. Lush, rich, female - just as he had imagined. Their swelling curves were framed by a pleated ruffle around the deep, square neckline, a display for male delectation. Her gold locket glittered against tender white skin. The deep cleavage begged for a touch: of aching fingers; of a clever, lascivious tongue.
With the brazen rush of lust came the knowledge that she recognized his purpose and did not shrink from it. It would be the sweetest, most glorious conquest he had ever made. With a shock that left him floundering, Alden knew that his desire was not only for her body - displayed with all the deliberate provocation of a society gown - but for the high courage it must have taken her to wear it.
Yet from somewhere he felt the smallest blossom of rage, though he had no idea why.
She flipped open a fan that hung from her wrist and held it to hide her décolletage from his eyes. The movement was one of pure coquetry, learned in a ballroom.
He took off his tricorn and swept her a complete court bow. "Madam," he said. "I am ravished."
And knew to the bottom of his heart that he meant it.
THE DRESS HAD BEEN WRAPPED IN LAVENDER AND PAPER IN THE chest in her bedroom for five years. What call was there in Manston Mingate for such finery? Juliet had carefully folded back the layers of paper and taken out the gown, as images of a life lost forever had come rushing back. Evenings at the theater exchanging glances over her fan. Afternoons at embroidery or the harpsichord. Five years ago she had sold every last dress but this one.
While Tilly worked frantically at pressing the creases out of the rose satin, Kate had dressed Juliet's hair. She had even produced powder and rouge.
"I would never attend a lady without it, ma'am," she had said through pursed lips.
Kate had also worked expertly at the tight lacing the dress required. Then Tilly had come in from the garden, red-faced and giggling, carrying a posy of sweet peas.
"For your hat, ma'am!" she cried. "Oh, ma'am. You do look splendid! Wait till Ι tell Jemmy and the rest!"
"I am to travel in an open carriage," Juliet replied. "The entire village will no doubt see me depart."
She felt breathless, gasping at the unaccustomed constriction of the tight stays. The high-heeled slippers made her feel unsteady, as if she might totter, but she hadn't forgotten how to walk so that her skirts dipped and swayed, provocatively displaying glimpses of ankle. Had she ever dallied away an afternoon in such clothes?
She wasn't sure why she had put them on now and decided against every better judgment to defy the fates. Because she was worn down with her life and with the requirements of secrecy? Because she longed to take a wild, uncalculated risk, just for once? Because she wanted to see that admiration in Mr. Granville's gaze turn into a recognition that he tormented a lady - his equal?
She stepped onto the path and saw his admiration turn into something quite different.
He took off his tricorn and swept her a complete court bow, elegant, graceful, deadly. The fleeting vulnerability left his face. She thought he might even be angry.
For a moment it was as if the entire world stood still, crystallizing her in place, like Lot's wife turned into a pillar of salt. Then a small anger of her own blossomed in return. How dare he! How dare he sweep into her life with his overweening confidence, then leave unscathed in the morning? Did he think she couldn't match him in this?
"Madam," he said. "I am ravished."
CHAPTER SEVEN
IT WAS Α DANCE, THEIR MOVEMENTS PERFECT, AS HE HELPED HER into the carriage. Each action precise, practiced. In a rustle of petticoats, with the dainty rap of high-
heeled shoes, she settled herself on the seat. Her billowing skirts and stiffened panniers filled most of the space.
Alden stepped up to sit beside her. Rose satin surged against his thighs. If he had retained any last doubts, they were gone now: that grace had taken a lifetime of training. Backboards and comportment lessons. Dancing masters. Straight-backed chairs and rigid corsets. Trained for a ballroom from earliest childhood.
The value she placed on her word and her privacy said the same thing. She had been raised as a lady. In which case, there was no explanation that justified her life of solitude and hard work, except some mad self-immolation or romantic denial of reality - either one essentially selfish at the core.
He was glad. He must ravish her, leave her, and not look back. That she had become this stranger in rose satin only made it easier. Yet he didn't like her like this! Something in him wanted the Juliet of the garden and the chicken coop, not just another society lady, flirting over a fan-
What was the matter with him? Deliberately he thrust away the memory of her as she had been last night in the Italian gown, a mad trick of muslin and moonlight. He shuddered to remember that flawed moment when he had almost told her about his brother's death. Ι’ faith, he didn't want any such intimacy!
Alden signaled the driver. The grays started forward. "John, our driver, is stone deaf-" he began.
"What a considerate employer you are, not to turn him off, when he suffers such a convenient affliction!"
He laughed, though in truth John's deafness was inconvenient more often than not. But the man had driven for the viscounts of Gracechurch his entire life. It was out of the question not to provide employment for him. Another innocent soul whose future depended on Alden's success today.
He leaned back and smiled. "Ι thought, perhaps, you wouldn't come. Ι see Ι was right."
"What do you mean, sir? Ι am here." She fluttered her fan, forcing the hot summer air past her face. "You think Ι have so little courage that an outing in a carriage would make me quail?"
"Ι’ faith, ma'am, Ι imagined Mistress Ju1iet Seton was reluctant to leave the security of Manston Mingate. Ι am right – Juliet stayed home. She did not have the temerity to come. Instead we do indeed have the actress."
Her eyes smiled over her fan, but he had definitely raised her ire. Α little anger often helped in a seduction. Let the day move into the well-practiced, meaningless provocation he was used to, without the trickery of moonlight and the slide into some unwelcome, truly personal exchange. Let their physical attraction be out in the open under a blazing sun on the hottest day of summer!
"Ι am still she, sir. Perhaps, in the formality of this gown, Ι feel armored and can thus play chess with more confidence."
"You believe that satin and lace move our game to a level that can be more clearly understood by both sides?"
"You are in satin and lace of your own," she replied. "It merely levels the field for me to be similarly attired."
So she would, indeed, play! "It makes both of us warm, ma'am, where the trapped sunshine turns into a furnace in the blood."
"Does it, indeed?" With a flick of the wrist, she folded and flipped open the fan. Α tiny sheen of perspiration glimmered on the soft curves blatantly displayed beneath her locket. "I thought our game was to be chess?"
She was, deliberate1y, flirting with him. He had wanted it, so why did it now make him angry? "Oh no, ma'am, you are not such an innocent."
The fan fluttered. "You contradict me with so much certainty! How do you know what Ι am?"
Without dissembling he could never play cards. Calling on those long years of practice, he hid his confused emotions - simp1y another skill - and smoothed a fold of her skirt over his thigh.
"I know you to be a 1ady of superior understanding. Ι know you have decided to p1ay to win this time and use every weapon in your arsenal. But if the divertissement changes - if we move from the vegetab1e garden to the more highly cultured blooms of high society - you must remember that Ι am a more practiced p1ayer in that game, too."
Color mounted in her cheeks. "But do you always win, sir?"
He glanced at her with something close to derision. "Always. "
The sweet peas nodded on her bonnet as she turned her head. "Even though you said the game was worth more to you than the conquest?"
He spread her skirt further, covering his legs with the soft pink satin. "Madam, in the game of seduction the play and the conquest are all one."
She glanced down at her skirt, then up into his eyes. The fathomless blue filled with a desperate anger, but she did not move the fabric away.
"You are wrong," she said.
"I am right. Look at your fan, one of the tools of the pastime. Close it and hold it to your heart as if in withdrawa1, what does it mean?"
She left the fan still. "Tell me, sir. You are such an expert."
He lunged deliberate1y, smoothing her skirt over his lap. "Even a closed, withdrawn fan still means: You have won my love."
"So it does, should Ι be foolish enough to signa1 that."
"Alternatively, leave the fan open. Drawn across the cheek, it yet says: Ι love you."
"You are selecting only those gestures most suitable to your purpose-".
"Then keep it half-open, pressed against your lips. The message then is: You may kiss me."
She glanced away, as if studying the passing countryside. The tip of her tongue was just visible between her moist lips, like that of a child lost in concentration. The immediate effect it had on him had nothing to do with children.
He wanted to trace the deep curve of her upper lip with his own and feel the touch of that delectable tongue in the secret places of his mouth.
"However you move it, you invite my attentions," he said. "Thus any lady with a fan has already begun to surrender."
She glanced back at him from half-closed eyes. This was blatant encouragement!
"But like this," she said, bringing the fan up to her face, "placed against my ear, it means: Ι wish to be rid of you."
Her lace cuffs, falling from the open elbows of her dress, brushed against his hand. He caught a trail of lace between thumb and forefinger. He was absurdly desperate to kiss her. "During which time, ma' am, we are still in conversation."
With a snap of the wrist, she moved the fan again. He released the lace.
"And like this, drawn through my hand: Ι hate you!"
He laughed. "In this game even ‘no’ means ‘yes’ eventually, and hatred, they say, is close enough to love."
She drew the fan through her hand again. "An interesting philosophy. Is the price worth it?"
"To whom? It has always been worth it to me."
She placed the fan against her ear. "But rarely, if Ι guess correctly, to your opponent."
"Opponent?"
"No other word will do, will it? Ι would venture that your lovers are always your adversaries."
The sway of her body next to his had already brought him to the knife-edge of desire. With a perilous raising of the stakes, he decided to tell her more of what it really meant to be a rake. Hardly from a sense of fair play! Then why? Because the least hint of his reputation had always proved to be an aphrodisiac in the past? Or simply because, for no reason he could fathom, he was still angry - with a wild, undirected rage at his own unprincipled desire?
The risk was indeed all or nothing now, was it not? Let Juliet Seton leap from the carriage and damn him to hell if she wished!
"Lovemaking is always improved by strife," he said. "Like a lover's bite-"
Color flooded her neck. "Yet you always part amicably?"
"There have been a few regrettable scenes."
"Have there, sir? Pray, enlighten me."
It seemed the most outrageous gamble he had ever taken in his life. To freely admit to her that he had indeed left a trail of broken hearts. When this time he must win!
"Since Ι came back from Italy, ladies have berated me, cursed me, even tried to have me
killed - or their husbands have."
"You're not dead."
"Ι have a certain gift with a sword. When you accused me of being a rake, you were right. This is what that means: Ι never ruin servants, that is true, but when it's an even game, Ι play to win, whatever the consequences."
"So the lady risks her happiness and you take your pleasure-"
"It's a fair exchange. She finds her pleasure, too, Ι promise you."
He touched the naked back of her wrist. Her skin held a tiny bloom of moisture. The touch was electric. "Yet Ι have always won, because Ι have always become bored first."
Her gaze riveted on his fingers. Her lashes were dark beneath the shadow of her bonnet. "So it's a contest to see who has the least heart?"
"Or to see who has the most passion - it is never my intention co involve hearts."
Her knuckles tightened on her fan as she looked away again. "Have you recently become bored with a particular lady?"
He thought for a moment of that young wife and her sudden desperate admission of true love for her husband. He could still have bedded her. Why had he instead let her go? Was it as simple as boredom? His own question annoyed him. What else?
"Oh, yes," he said with a small laugh. "Very much so.
"And before her?"
"That lady wanted to be a nun. Ι disabused her of the concept.
"After which you abandoned her."
"Of course."
He had. Quite coldly. He hadn't even liked her. Yet it did not feel like such a splendid admission, which annoyed him even more.
"So the lady went away utterly defeated," Juliet said.
This time it was undoubtedly true. When the would-be nun had come to him weeping and begging, he'd only wanted to spurn her the more. She had been such a hypocrite - pretending all that purity, while doing everything to entice him into bed!
"Yes," he said.
"And thus you were defeated, also."
He was surprised enough to take her chin and turn her head so she faced him. "Do you think so?"
She looked him straight in the eyes. "Ι would venture that both parties lost, sir, but that you have more pride, that is all. You are quicker to see the end coming and so you salvage yourself first. No doubt that's what really happened with Maria. You have never had the nerve to risk anything else."