A Dance with Seduction

by Alyssa Alexander

  Vivienne gathered her skirts and set one foot on the carriage step. Then she stilled, turned her head slightly. He couldn’t see her eyes clearly in the dark. They were too far away. But the gold light of the carriage lamp outlined her features.

  It was enough to see her lips curve up.

  She knew he was there.

  Satisfying, that. Very, very satisfying.

  …

  Utensils clinked against dinner plates, competing with slightly drunken laughter. Across the table from Vivienne, Henri was chatting with the pretty mistress of the chancellor of the exchequer. Candlelight spilled over the table, the merry guests, the sparkling jewels and diamonds these lusty men showered on their mistresses.

  It was a strange little tableau. All of these men, these powerful politicians and lords, had wives sitting quietly at home or perhaps attending a ton ball, while their husbands laughed and flirted with kept women.

  It was her world, where she mined the secrets and documents she gave to Henri. Tonight, it did not sit easily on her. She was out of place inside her own skin. Still, she must play her role. If she was quick in obtaining the information Henri asked for, then she might have time to search for Anne.

  For now, her assignment was the diplomat on her left. Vivienne set her chin on her hand and leaned closer to him. His eyes glazed over. But then, her breasts would be nearly falling out of her gown and quite within his view. She smiled at him, slow and seductive. He didn’t notice. He was still looking at her breasts.

  “But what shall London do when you leave for Brussels, my lord?” She set a hand on his arm, squeezed lightly. “The dinner parties shall be boring without you.”

  “Come, my dear.” He set his hand over hers, caressed it. “There are many other men here to entertain you. Shall you really miss me?”

  “But yes. You tell the most amusing stories.” She cocked her head and pouted. “Why Brussels? It is so far away.”

  “Duty, my dear.” He raised his wineglass, as though to toast with her. So she picked up her own glass. The diplomat had drunk at least four glasses already at dinner, and more before. The cheeks beneath his graying whiskers were ruddy.

  She had barely sipped from her glass. Wine made a thief’s hands unsteady. Henri, though, was on his second glass. He would likely not have more. Neither of them could risk overindulgence.

  “Duty is not pleasurable, monsieur.” She set her glass to her lips and smiled at him over the rim. “I much prefer pleasure.”

  “I am certain you do, Mademoiselle La Fleur.” His gaze fell to her mouth and he licked his lips, resembling nothing so much as an aging lion preparing for a tasty meal.

  Down the table, their host—a lord who was not her assignment and thus not of consequence that evening—was nibbling on the neck of a pretty blonde she knew was not his mistress. So. That was how the party would end. Some of these men would take home their own mistresses, some would trade for the night. She had been to such parties before. She had always left with Henri and had not been required to be with a man.

  She glanced at Henri, who was fawning over a dancer from the corps de ballet. She was a brunette Vivienne knew well enough. She was nice, an English girl who would be in need of a new protector soon, as hers was beginning to tire of her. Henri seemed uncommonly interested. She wondered if tonight would be the night he would leave her to her own devices at such a party. Perhaps so, if she did not gain the information he required of her. She had best hurry. She had no desire to be left with any man.

  The host ceased nibbling on his guest long enough to signal that the meal was over. “The ladies may retire to the drawing room. We shall join you shortly, my dears,” he called out.

  The diplomat beside Vivienne stood. It was most fortunate she was quick, as he pulled her chair away from the table without warning. Very impatient, was this diplomat.

  “Do escort me to the drawing room, won’t you, monsieur?” she asked, sliding her arm through his. Her stomach clenched in disgust, but she stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “Your port, it can wait a few moments, no?” It was an invitation, though she was loath to issue it.

  Hidden between their bodies, his fingers rubbed against her stomach. Likely he thought this caress would entice her. It did not. Revulsion rippled beneath her skin.

  The women, a few accompanied by escorts, began to retire to the drawing room, where they would forgo tea in favor of something stronger. Some of the men stayed behind to start their port. Henri was one, though he did slide a look at her and the diplomat as if to say, only a morsel, no more. It was a warning he had issued before to other men who had sought her favors.

  When the men rejoined the women later, there would be more groping of hands and kisses on the sly, until everyone found their partner for night. She had managed it before, and so she did now, when the diplomat pulled her through a dark doorway on their way to the drawing room.

  He pressed up her up against the wall, his hips grinding against hers. Hands squeezed her breasts, and his breath came in short gasps in her ear. Bile rose in her throat, shocking her. She had never enjoyed such groping in dark halls, but never had it made her belly revolt in such a way. It was her work, and often unpleasant. But she was trained for it.

  She forced the nausea away, forced herself to do her job.

  Ignoring the erection pressed against her belly, she tried to giggle. “Sir!”

  He kissed her, tongue thrusting. His sour breath made her want to cough. Enough, she thought, desperate to flee. “Must you go to Brussels? Can you not tell whoever is ordering you that you must stay here?”

  “I cannot.” Harsh breathing, rasping voice. The man was ready to take her here, against the wall, with her protector a few rooms away. “I cannot,” he said again. “It is too important.”

  “Important?” She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed against him. A cold part of her mind said she should kiss him. He wanted her mouth on him in other places, so a kiss might send him into the boughs, but she could not bring herself to do it. Loathing skittered across the surface of her skin, raising the hair. Her stomach roiled and clutched.

  She did not want to kiss him. And he would not be able to talk, at any rate.

  “I knew you were doing something important. An intelligent man like you,” she crooned.

  His hands cupped her bottom, squeezed painfully hard.

  “What could be more important than this?” she murmured against his ear, in the most seductive tone she could manage while trying not to retch.

  “Christ, it’s politics, mademoiselle. Just politics.”

  No more. She could not bear more of this. It was time to end it, whether she gained more information or not. She gripped his shoulders and said, “Politics are not interesting enough for someone like you. It must be more than just politics that would keep you away from all of this.” She shook back curls and raised her shoulders, and knew her nipples were exposed, just a little.

  “Dear God,” he groaned. “If I wasn’t negotiating a munitions trade with Russia, I’d stay here and pay twice what Wycomb pays you.”

  And now she had what Henri wanted.

  Relief spread through her. It did not calm the horrible ache in her chest or the battle of nausea in her stomach. But she was done. She could leave him.

  “I would think you are twice the man, as well.” What an idiote, if he believed women said such things and meant them. “But you are right, he does pay me. I cannot lie with you without his permission, as you know. But perhaps tonight he will allow it.”

  She prayed it never happened.

  “Everyone knows Wycomb keeps you on a short leash.”

  The diplomat’s hands were still kneading her breasts, so she moved away, unable to tolerate any more. But she gave him a fast, bright smile in compensation.

  “I shall see you again, shall I not? When you return from Bru
ssels.”

  He visibly reined himself in, stepping back, though he still reached out to caress her shoulder and run a finger across the top of her bodice. She straightened her gown, gave him another forced giggle, and tried not to flee from this disgusting man and his disgusting hands.

  Minutes later, he was bowing to her at the door of the drawing room. Some of the ladies were there; others were noticeably absent, no doubt waylaid in much the same way she had been.

  Vivienne poured herself a glass of wine and yearned for a tub. Her skin crawled like so many spiders played on her.

  She would do her best not to itch while she waited for Henri to return.

  She wanted to ask for a hip bath. More, she wanted to be submerged in water for a week. But she could not. Mrs. Asher would hear her heating the water and come out to help in her nightgown. She would wake the footman to carry it. Vivienne did not want to wake them.

  Instead, she used the basin and pitcher in her room. The water was frigid, but she needed to be clean. The homespun soap refused to lather, but she scrubbed herself with it regardless. Breasts, neck, arms, legs. Between her legs. Anywhere that could be cleaned and washed, she scrubbed until it was pink. Then the strip of linen to dry her body, the cotton shift to cover herself.

  Her knives were already laid out on the table. One was under her pillow. The pistol was loaded and on the opposite bedside table. This was all routine. Each night. Every night. Whether she stole secrets that day or made love with Maximilian, danced at the opera or revealed her nipples to a diplomat. Just another day. Routine.

  Now she would practice her forms. Her body needed to be stretched. Trained.

  Plié, deep enough so her bottom met her heels. Count two, three, four. Stand again and step into first position, then fifth position.

  Routine.

  The tears gathered behind her eyes, bringing with them a dull, throbbing ache. She did not let them fall. It was a point of pride that she was able to ignore the choking ache in her chest, in her throat.

  Spin, another plié, two, three, four. Arabesque.

  Routine. Again, then again, until she was hollowed out.

  When she was finished, she sat on the edge of the bed to regain her breath. The tear that fell onto her hand came as a shock. It was very round, that teardrop. A second fell. Vivienne swallowed hard.

  She did not cry. Not since the day her mother died. She took what came, bore it, and did what was required of her.

  She did not cry.

  The tears did not stop. She pressed her face into the pillow and thought of Anne. Of fear. Baring her body to a stranger.

  Being alone.

  She did not want to be alone, but the only place she could go was Maximilian’s.

  Such things were not permanent.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “Ah, you’ve arrived!” Prinny gestured wildly for Maximilian to come closer.

  Unfortunately, if he stepped any nearer he was likely to be splashed by whatever beverage had inebriated Prinny. The bloody glass was waving in the air, gold liquid splashing all over the opera box.

  It was a miracle the men around him—politicians and dandies, if Maximilian had any guess—were still dry. In thinking on it, the dancers were likely to get sprayed as well. Prinny’s box was perilously close to the stage.

  “Your Highness.” Maximilian bowed but avoided stepping forward and into the spray of liquor. He only had one coat Daggett considered appropriate for such an occasion, since he’d gotten blood on the last one. His assistant would never forgive him if he ruined this one as well—and good assistants with exceptional filing systems were difficult to find. “I appreciate your invitation this evening.”

  “Nonsense. It wasn’t me who issued the invitation. It was your brother.” The Prince Regent grinned and waved the glass toward the corner of the opera box.

  Anger settled in Maximilian’s belly. Odd that anger could feel icy. Turning toward the corner Prinny had gestured to, Maximilian found the figure he’d missed upon entering the box.

  “Highchester.” Maximilian ground the word out in the most polite tone he could manage.

  “Max.” His brother would be characterized as elegant in his evening wear, Maximilian was sure. He rarely looked anything else, so the ladies said. Dark jacket, a crisp white cravat, a striped waistcoat Maximilian would never have worn. Too bad Highchester’s nasty grin ruined the effect. It was the grin he used when he believed he had the upper hand.

  “An opera dancer, Max?” Prinny waggled his brows in that ridiculous way a roué did when he thought he was being amusing. “Your brother was vexingly silent on her identity, but I’m most curious. Sit down and tell me, which lady do you have your eye on?”

  Maximilian accepted the last empty seat, closest to the stage. “None, Your Highness.”

  Prinny guffawed, belly shaking. His glass was dangerously near to upending itself on the dandy next to him.

  The dandy righted the glass quickly enough, saying, “Discreet, are you, Mr. Westwood?”

  “Always, my lord.” Maximilian nodded his head to acknowledge the man.

  Prinny saluted the dandy and took a drink. “Don’t be discreet, Maximilian. I want to know.” He leaned forward, winked. “Who is she? The little Italian dancer? I’ve heard she’s got a— Well.” Prinny slid his gaze toward the stage, where the dancers performed and the soprano wailed. “Who is she?”

  Another man leaned forward, from Prinny’s other side. “You’re not known for dalliances, Mr. Westwood. She must be particular.”

  “Quite particular, isn’t she, Max?” Highchester drawled from his seat. His delight at Maximilian’s discomfort was obvious in the relaxed posture, the slight twist of lips, the mocking light in his eye.

  Maximilian did not bother to answer his brother. Highchester would do his utmost to make Maximilian uncomfortable. What was most important now was ensuring Vivienne was not discovered for a myriad of reasons, not the least of which was her position as spy.

  “We shall guess, Max,” Prinny said gleefully. “In the meantime, do think up another code for my own lady, won’t you?”

  He turned away, and Maximilian was blessedly forgotten for the moment. It wouldn’t last long, but a momentary reprieve was better than none at all.

  He turned his attention to the stage, his gaze focusing on Vivienne. He’d been vaguely aware of the stage and the dancers since he stepped into the box, he realized. Sort of an instinctive knowledge of where she was in relation to him.

  She seemed to him the most graceful dancer on the stage. Though there were other beautiful women there, including the soprano, there was something about Vivienne that caused a visceral beat in his blood.

  Maximilian wondered if predators in the wild felt this strange craving when stalking prey. It was a hard and fast churning in his belly—and farther south. A physical pull that kept his eyes tracking her across the stage. Vivienne La Fleur might belong in another man’s house, but that man did not hold her mind or her soul.

  Or her heart, but that was neither here nor there.

  Absently he listened to Prinny and his cronies rattle on about a horse race one man challenged another to, but he watched her. The distance to the stage was not far, and it seemed as if he could feel the air move as the dancers crossed the wooden surface. Vivienne danced at the rear of the stage, providing a moving backdrop for the singing soprano. Yet she was the center of the performance for him.

  Her feet moved in time with the music, and with each swirl and beat he could see the delicate bones of her ankles, the flash of the lean calves above. Those quick, talented feet fascinated him.

  Until he saw her eyes.

  Perhaps he thought she would be blind to anything but the music. Perhaps he’d thought dancing was her passion—in a way, he supposed it was or she wouldn’t continue. But it was not all she thought of when she
was on stage.

  She looked everywhere. No part of the theater was untouched by her gaze—including him. Her gaze flickered over him, registered his presence, and then moved on to this box or that. A twirl, a pointed toe, then her gaze landed on him again.

  This time, her lips tipped up in one corner.

  He caught his breath. Was it flirtation? Greeting? Laughter? He could not read her half smile. The sight created a yearning inside him. Not for her body, but for the understanding of what she was thinking.

  A crafty voice slithered into Maximilian’s ear. “You seem to be absorbed in the performance.”

  Maximilian clenched his jaw and breathed deep before turning to his brother. “I like the music,” he answered. Deliberately he looked back at the stage and the Flower.

  She made another spin then a series of small, controlled leaps across the stage. She slid another look in his direction. He swallowed hard as her lips tipped up again.

  The soprano’s voice soared over the music. He heard it, but it seemed like only a hum compared with the rushing of blood in his veins. He was certain there was a story behind the words of the song, but he couldn’t translate it just now.

  As the crowd began to buzz around him, he realized others watched Vivienne as well.

  She’s going to steal the show… The soprano won’t like that…but look at her. She’s never danced better…

  The Flower spun on the stage. She was dancing with a fan now. She fluttered it then set it against her face to hide her lips. Her eyes were downcast, demure, just like those of the other dancers as they sank into some sort of low curtsy. The song trailed off in a final series of notes. Things were beginning to draw to a close. He began to turn away, to say something to the prince—

  And her lashes swept up. Her gaze latched on his, and he could not breathe. The fan lowered, and her smile bloomed. Sly and sensual. For him.

  His fingers clutched the arms of his chair as his body began to thrum and pulse and rage. Some primitive male part of him wanted to possess her. To take her from this room and hide her away for his very own.