How To Vex A Viscount

by Marlowe Mia

  He turned and began to stride away.

  A frustrated puff of breath escaped her lips. The man had an ego as large as that of the well-endowed proconsul in the mosaic.

  “Then perhaps you could prevail upon ‘Iggy’ to introduce us,” she called after him. “For he and I knew each other well.”

  He halted in midstride and turned back to face her. “Daisy Drake.”

  “Indeed, milord.” She bobbed a curtsy. “I’m gratified to learn that your memory is not as pocked with holes as I feared.”

  He raised a brow. “You can hardly fault me for not immediately connecting a charming young woman with an irritating tomboy.”

  Her chin lifted; she was both mollified by the compliment to her now and incensed by his characterization of her then. “And yet I knew you almost instantly. It’s good to see you looking fit after all these years.”

  “After the way you tried to spit me with a pike at our last meeting, I find your interest in my health less than comforting.” He rubbed the little scar on his chin for emphasis. “Of course, this must have made it easier for you to recognize me.”

  “That was an accident and you know it. If only you’d kept to the way we practiced the fight scene, I wouldn’t have nearly skewered you.”

  Daisy and her sisters produced plays for their own amusement in the same way other families produced mediocre poetry. The theatrical merits of their dramas might have been questionable, but the Drake siblings always managed to have genuine fun.

  And very infrequent bloodletting. Really, Lucian ought to have forgiven her by now.

  “In fact,” Daisy continued, “one might argue that your injury was as much your fault as mine.”

  “One might,” he agreed.

  “Then you’ll accept my offer to become your partner?”

  “With regret, no,” he said stiffly. “Given our history, you’ll understand my reluctance to form another alliance with the house of Drake. It was only the greatest good fortune that kept my head affixed to my shoulders last time. I’m not one to tempt fate.”

  “The decision to become a courtesan is not to be made lightly. A woman must be willing to make her own choices. And pay for them.”

  —the journal of Blanche La Tour

  CHAPTER THREE

  “And then the insufferable prig walked away without so much as a backward glance.” Daisy accepted the eggshell-thin china teacup from her great-aunt Isabella’s be-ringed hand. “He obviously needs the money. Why would he not accept it from me?”

  “Because it was from you.” Isabella Haversham, Lady Wexford, dropped a brown lump of sugar into her own cup and stirred gently. “It’s the way of the world, sweeting. Men are incapable of bending where their pride is concerned.”

  “And they have the gall to claim women are vain,” Daisy fumed. “Just because I gave him a scar on his chin.”

  “Oh, no, Daisy. I’m sure it’s not what you gave him. I suspect it’s more what your uncle wouldn’t give his father.” Isabella took a sip of the aromatic tea and then settled the cup back into its saucer with a barely audible clink. “Lord Montford made no secret of the fact that he felt the South Sea Company would have rallied if your uncle had invested heavily at that juncture.”

  “That’s ridiculous. The enterprise was doomed.”

  Isabella arranged her delicately boned hands on her lap. Faint blue veins laced her pale skin. She was still a striking woman, but time was chipping away at the former courtesan with a relentless vengeance. However, advancing age had made no dent whatsoever in Lady Wexford’s sharp mind.

  “Of course, the South Sea Company was doomed, but if money or love is concerned, when is the human race not ridiculous?” Isabella said, with a shrug that seemed curiously French. “But however misguided, if Lucian is loyal to his father, you shouldn’t hold it against him. I suspect you’d do the same if you perceived a slight to your family.”

  Daisy sighed. “I suppose you’re right. But I so had my heart set on an adventure and finding treasure would be a grand one. Each day is so like another, sometimes I think I’ll burst out of my own skin from sheer boredom.” Her lips curved in calculation. “You know, I just might be able to bear this disappointment if you’d let me come to your soiree this evening.”

  Isabella fixed her bright-eyed gaze on Daisy, considering the matter. “I suspect Jacquelyn would have my head if I did.”

  Jacquelyn was Isabella’s daughter. Even before Daisy’s parents died, Jacquelyn Wren had been the Drake sisters’ fiercely protective governess. Once Mistress Jack married Daisy’s uncle Gabriel, she was no less protective as their aunt. In truth, Daisy thought of Jacquelyn and Gabriel more as her parents than as her aunt and uncle. And even though no actual blood tie bound Daisy to Isabella, Lady Wexford had fallen into the role of doting great-aunt with relish.

  “I’m no longer a child. What I do or don’t do is none of my aunt and uncle’s affair,” Daisy declared. “Besides, I’m of age. And a woman of independent means.”

  “Only thanks to your extremely enlightened aunt and uncle,” Isabella reminded her gently. Even though the family fortune was considerable, her guardians were under no obligation to be so generous to her. The fact that they gave her control of her own funds was a measure of their love and trust.

  “Please, Isabella,” Daisy wheedled, not sounding particularly of age or independent. “I’ve spent time in your salon before.”

  “Ordinarily, I’d agree, but this is no pitched philosophy discussion or poetry reading. I’m giving a masquerade in honour of Geoffrey’s birthday.” Isabella rejected the notion that she should refer to her much younger husband as Wexford. Their marriage was unconventional by all standards. Her mode of addressing him might as well be, too. “When people don masks, they feel free to do things, outrageous things they’d only dream of without the cloak of anonymity. This evening is bound to become . . . complicated.”

  “If by that you mean there will be lovemaking in every curtained alcove, you needn’t worry that you will shock me.” Daisy scented victory and tried to sound worldly enough to have earned it. Isabella’s masquerade would definitely be exciting, and at this point, Daisy longed so for an adventure, she wasn’t about to quibble over what form it took. “Thanks to Mlle La Tour, I know what happens between a man and a woman, probably even better than Hyacinth. And she’s already a mother.”

  “What did you just say?” Isabella was rarely shocked by anything, but she sounded stunned now.

  Daisy’s fingertips flew to her mouth. Reading the courtesan’s memoirs was a secret between her and Nanette. “All right, if you must know, I’ve been invading your library every day for a month. Haven’t you always said a woman shouldn’t be forced to remain in ignorance? Mlle La Tour’s journal has been . . . very educational.”

  Isabella loosed a tinkling laugh. “It is that. Well, I see there’s no point in closing the stable door. It appears the filly has bolted.”

  “Oh, no!” Daisy protested. “I haven’t acted upon any of my knowledge.”

  “I’m gratified to hear it. Not because I think it wrong for a woman to take pleasure, Lord knows, but because I think it might be wrong for you now.” Isabella raised a questioning brow at her. “Your family still hopes you’ll wed. It is inconceivable for a young lady of your birth and generous portion not to be set upon by suitors. No beaux in the offing?”

  “None I care to encourage.” Daisy leaned her cheek on her palm. Her outspokenness discouraged the more desirable gentlemen, while her fortune enticed the worst. “Gallants and dandies, the whole lot. When they look at me, all they see is the pile of doubloons Uncle Gabriel has settled on me. They never seem to see me.”

  “And yet Lucian Beaumont refused your offer of funds,” Isabella mused into her teacup. “I’m beginning to think I should like this young man.”

  “No, you shouldn’t,” Daisy said, wishing she didn’t. Lucian obviously wanted as little to do with her now as he had when he was twelve. “He’s stubbo
rn as a—”

  “A Drake?”

  Daisy rolled her eyes. “Point taken. But you’ve changed the subject. Back to your masquerade. Please, Isabella. Haven’t you ever wanted something . . . anything exciting to happen to you so badly you didn’t care if it was right or wrong? And if something didn’t happen soon, you’d be forced to take drastic measures to affect an adventure, devil take the hinder-most?”

  Isabella eyed her thoughtfully for a moment. “My dear, you sound quite desperate.”

  Daisy hadn’t realized herself how very unsettled she felt until the words slipped from her mouth. Like a fledgling sensing the power of her untested wings, Daisy was dying to take flight.

  “Desperate? Heavens, no.” She forced a laugh. “Just bored to tears. But if I were to attend your masked ball, it might take the edge from my tedium.”

  “If—and mind you, I said if—I thought it advisable for you to come tonight, what sort of costume might you assemble on such short notice?”

  Daisy cast about in her mind. “I once wore a small papier-mâché boat strapped to my hips and a hat like a sail on my head so I could be an English schooner fighting off the Spanish Armada.”

  “If you want men to notice you, and not your fortune, appearing as a warship is not the best idea.” Isabella shook her head. “Besides its being totally impractical on the dance floor, we haven’t time for the papier-mâché to set.”

  “Well, I once wore a suit of mail for another play, but it was deucedly heavy.”

  “Again, the subtext of that costume is excessive defence,” Isabella said. “Perhaps, my dear, the reason men have not seen you is because you’re not ready for them to.”

  Not ready? She was twenty-one, for pity’s sake. When would she be ready?

  “No, I think you’d best not attend this fete.” Isabella shook her head. “This is not a childish play, Daisy. This is an adult masquerade. And the amusements will be correspondingly . . . adult.”

  “I am an adult,” Daisy said flatly. “And it is time I was treated as one. Perhaps I could come disguised as a courtesan. Mlle La Tour herself.” Daisy was pleased by the hard blink of surprise Isabella cast her. “Nanette has shown me your old wardrobe from your days as ‘La Belle Wren,’ and the gowns are still stunning.”

  “My, my, hasn’t Nanette been a busy little bee?”

  “Don’t scold her. It’s my fault. She hasn’t done anything I haven’t asked.” Daisy’s heart raced a bit at the thought of appearing in public as a woman of pleasure. “You might have been a bit smaller than I, but surely there’s a gown in that collection I could squeeze into.”

  “Being a courtesan is far more complicated than squeezing into a revealing gown.” Isabella drummed her fingertips on the arm of her chair.

  “I know.” Daisy warmed to the idea with every breath. “I’d have to charm all the men in the room while making each one feel that he alone held my interest. I’d have to be gay and witty. Be available, yet unattainable.” She winked slyly. “I’d have to be you all over again, Isabella.”

  Her great-aunt smirked, but Daisy could tell she was flattered by the reminder of her glory days.

  “Please,” Daisy said.

  Isabella raised her hands in mock surrender. “Very well. If we are going to do this thing, we’re going to do it right.” She tinkled the little bell on the serving tray, and Nanette appeared in the doorway. “Miss Daisy is attending the ball tonight, Nanette. She will wear the red tulle gown and my best wig.”

  “Oui, madáme.”

  “She is coming as Mademoiselle Blanche La Tour, woman of pleasure, so give her the full regimen of toilette a courtesan must endure,” Isabella said.

  Nanette’s eyes went round, but she merely bobbed her understanding in a shallow curtsy. “I shall prepare the bath tout de suite. This way, s’il vous plaît, mam’selle.”

  Daisy stood to follow the lady’s maid out, but Isabella stopped her with a hand to her forearm.

  “This may be just a game to you, Daisy, but it’s a dangerous one. You wanted men to see you. In this costume, I promise you, they shall,” Isabella warned. “You will feel very powerful tonight. When a woman knows men desire her and she has it within her to please or thwart them with a glance, it can be heady. But there is another power at work.”

  Daisy raised a questioning brow.

  “Desire can overtake a woman as easily as a man. A mask may hide a person’s identity for only a short time,” Isabella said. “In the morning, you’ll wash your face the same as always, and I would have you bright eyed before your looking glass. Therefore, I must have your solemn promise that whatever may happen this night, the dawn will find you in the same state of purity you now enjoy.”

  “I am in perfect control of my own person,” Daisy said, tight-lipped.

  “I’m delighted to hear it. Just make certain you control the men who will seek your attentions.”

  “ ‘Do this. Don’t do this.’ ” She gently pulled away from Isabella. “Honestly, you sound like Aunt Jacquelyn.”

  “Then my daughter is a wise woman,” Isabella said. “I’ll be the first to admit there are pleasures aplenty in a lover’s bed, but there are snares as well. I’d spare you, child. When you do finally go to a man’s bed, I want it to be with your heart’s and mind’s consent, as well as your body’s.”

  Daisy leaned down and pressed a kiss to the older woman’s cheek. “It will be. Thank you, Great-auntie.”

  “How many times have I told you to call me Isabella?” she said with feigned severity. “How shall I maintain the illusion of eternal youth if society is constantly reminded that I’m old enough to have a grown great-niece? Off you go, now.”

  Isabella watched with fondness as her great-niece rounded the corner and disappeared after Nanette. Then she checked her mantel clock. Yes, if Isabella hurried, there was just enough time for her to issue one more invitation for tonight’s masquerade. Her footman would have to hand-deliver it.

  There was always the possibility that the gentleman had a previous engagement, but Isabella would lose nothing in the attempt. Daisy wanted an adventure. This was the best way Isabella could make sure she had one.

  Lady Wexford settled at her escritoire to compose a carefully worded request. Lord Wexford’s birthday masquerade would be lacking if not graced by the noble presence of Lucian Beaumont, Viscount Rutland.

  “Beauty requires a certain homage, a sacrifice, if she is to be coaxed into making an appearance.”

  —the journal of Blanche La Tour

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Are you sure this is the way it’s supposed to be worn?” Daisy eyed herself doubtfully in the long looking glass. The stays built into the red tulle gown cinched her waist so tightly, she could scarcely breathe.

  That wasn’t so bad. She’d been laced snugly before, but this gown also seemed designed to shove her breasts up, presenting them squeezed together like a baby’s behind. Thanks to a hot bath and determined scrubbing, Daisy had succeeded in removing the ink stain, but now her skin was flushed. Not only that, her nipples peeped above the scooped neckline.

  “Bien sûr,” Nanette assured her. “Oh, la! I forgot the rouge.”

  The lady’s maid dipped her thumb in a paint pot, then brushed Daisy’s nipples with the garish colour. Daisy consoled herself that at least they matched the gown now. Nanette spritzed a liberal dose of jasmine perfume over Daisy.

  “There,” Nanette said. “Much better, non?”

  “If you say so.” Daisy coughed at the strong scent. She’d never worn anything heavier than a dash of rose water.

  Daisy slipped on the plumed mask that covered the upper half of her face. The slanted slits tilted her eyes up at the outer corner, making her seem almost feline, despite the feathers. She also wore a top-heavy powdered wig and a black heart-shaped beauty mark affixed near one corner of her mouth. Combined with the mask and the deep décolletage, Daisy stared at a stranger in the mirror.

  An exotic, stunning stranger
. A creature of night and passion and dangerous allure.

  Daisy had never considered herself more than mildly presentable on a good day. The woman in the mirror was decadently gorgeous. “Jupiter!”

  “You are lovely, oui?” Nanette said, obviously pleased with her final product. “The soreness, she is gone?”

  “Mostly.” When Isabella had ordered the full toilette of a courtesan for her, Daisy had no idea that entailed the removal of all the small hairs from her body.

  Even in her most intimate places.

  Nanette’s hot beeswax left her skin smooth and sensitive. When Daisy tottered across the room on the tall Venetian-style platform shoes that added a full six inches to her height, the air moving beneath her voluminous skirt caressed her in unexpected places.

  Strains of the string quartet wafted up to her.

  “It seems the ball has started.” Daisy thanked Nanette for her unflagging efforts and glided to the door, walking in the tall shoes more gracefully with each step. The slight pressure of her own thighs on her freshly denuded sex sent a shimmering tingle through her.

  She recalled Isabella’s warnings. Her body did possess a power of its own.

  “Forewarned is forearmed,” she murmured, determined to ignore the strange warmth in her groin. She drew as deep a breath as her stays allowed and pushed open the door. Thanks to the boning built into the gown, her posture was perfectly erect.

  Now if she could only bolster her confidence to match.

  She wanted an adventure, she reminded herself. Only her own timidity would ruin this one for her. She’d seen other women, perfectly respectable women, sporting a neckline just as low as this one, and without the benefit of being masked. Only last week, Lady Lucinda Throckmorton bared her nipples as part of her décolletage at the opera in a daring froth of Parisian lace. It was unthinkable that a courtesan would do less.