Three Lessons in Seduction

by Sofie Darling

  “I wasn’t hot from stale air.” She faced him, her amber eyes, clear and unflinching, gauging his reaction. “It was you. I was hot because of you.”

  No longer could he keep his emotions under a tight rein. She’d negated that control with a few careless words that struck his core with the precision of a well-aimed arrow.

  “Did no one ever teach you not to say such things to strange men?”

  “They tried,” she said with the assuredness of a woman with far too much experience, or maybe it was far too little. “There is nothing strange about you.”

  “You should try those words on a different man,” he said, straining for a tone of paternal guidance. If she believed it, he might, too. “One who would marry you.”

  “Oh, I care naught for that,” she said on a laugh.

  Instinctively, protectively, he reached out and pulled her close, her upturned lips a hairsbreadth away from his, her playful eyes inviting him to bridge the distance. “Society doesn’t tolerate ladies who entertain loose morals.”

  With feelings of longing, desire, and bewilderment warring inside him, he lowered his head and touched his mouth to hers, unprepared for the responding punch of electricity. His hands slid to her waist, and her fingers found the back of his neck, her nails tickling across sensitive skin, her body swaying into his in surrender.

  Kisses had the power to reveal truths about two people that extended far beyond trivialities like compatibility and incompatibility. This kiss revealed a single unshakeable truth: she was the only woman for him. It was a truth that shook him clear through to his bones. Nick had met his match. He would strive for the rest of his life to be worthy of her. And he knew he never would be.

  His eyes flew open, and he broke the kiss, eliciting a tiny gasp of protest from her. He watched with a mixture of self-loathing and thwarted passion as she opened desire-glazed eyes and closed kiss-crushed lips.

  “A girl like you is a girl one could marry,” he murmured. They were heedless and dangerous words that fell from his lips, and he couldn’t understand why he spoke them.

  “A girl like me?”

  “You.”

  “One could marry?”

  “I.”

  “Careful,” she whispered into the space between their lips. It was the only space that mattered in the universe. “I might hold you to such words.”

  “I might hope you do.”

  Again, words fell from his mouth of their own accord, and he’d proposed to her. There had been no biting it back. And he hadn’t wanted to. At least, not for another five seconds. Then the enormity of the night crashed in on him.

  They spoke not another word as they walked back to the house without touching. With barely a murmur of farewell, he left her at the French doors and strode toward the stables, single-minded purpose in every step. He’d proposed to Lady Mariana Montfort, a girl he didn’t know.

  That wasn’t precisely true; in the ways that mattered, he knew her.

  But it changed nothing: it was wrong. When the time came for marriage—if he chose to marry some years into the future—he needed a Society match. He needed the sort of marriage that relied on mutual goals of inheritance, procreation, and the continuation of civilized society. What he didn’t need was a love match, or whatever it was that had sparked between him and Lady Mariana tonight.

  A girl like her deserved to be with the sort of man who would know how to make a happy family with her. Nick barely knew how families functioned. In fact, he’d spent his entire childhood witnessing what happened when a love match made on short acquaintance turned to hate. He would yoke neither himself nor Lady Mariana to such a life. He must put distance between himself and the feelings she inspired within him. And the easiest way of accomplishing that feat was to put physical distance between them.

  Quietly and efficiently, he saddled his bay stallion in the dark and rode for London like the hounds of hell pursued him. From there, he followed his orders and left for the Continent, where he remained for the next year, confident that Lady Mariana would be snatched off the marriage mart by the time he returned. It wasn’t likely she’d taken his proposal, if it could be called such, seriously.

  Of course, wishful thinking was all it had been. Fate had had other plans for him and Mariana. Yes, fate. No matter how much of a realist and pragmatist he was in his everyday life, an unfathomable universal power bound them together. As much as he’d tried, he couldn’t reason it out of existence. The key had been to bury it deep beneath layers of resolve and willpower by focusing on reality. Mariana needed to be protected, and he’d taken the necessary measures.

  They were measures which had been successful . . . until tonight.

  Tonight, he’d involved her in the very world he’d vowed to protect her from. By any means necessary. A frustrated groan rumbled deep inside his chest, and he squinted against relentless mist that was thickening into a substantial rain. He pointed his feet in the direction of his modest set of rooms across the Seine on the Left Bank.

  He did have one last defense in his arsenal against her. Unlike his twenty-two-year-old self from that long-ago night, he now understood her power over him. This understanding lent him his only advantage, and his only hope. For although it appeared he’d made a clean break of their marriage ten years ago, he alone understood the single, tenacious strand that had refused to be severed.

  The desire to be worthy of her hadn’t cooled a single degree. And she had no idea. She thought him cold and indifferent to her. If he planned to keep it that way, he needed to better prepare himself against her. But mostly, he needed to prepare himself against himself.

  He could take a measure of comfort that in the coming days she would be spending her time with the Comte de Villefranche, not him. She would simply be another spy in his employ.

  Before he next saw her, he needed to convince himself of the lie.

  Chapter 6

  Starched: Stiff, prim, formal, affected.

  A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue

  Francis Grose

  Next Day

  Twin slivers of anticipation and anxiety snaked through Mariana as she strolled the wide, crowded promenade of a Palais-Royal gallery. She unclenched the damp fists at her sides and attempted to soak in surroundings bright and pulsing with life, even as she watched for the Comte de Villefranche.

  From the Rue de Richelieu, she’d passed through a screened entrance and into the rectangular interior arcade of bustling shops and cafés. While she could indulge in shopping and trade on the perimeter, she preferred the view provided by the interior grounds: perfectly aligned rows of apple trees and meticulously manicured gardens. In the center of the space stood a large circular fountain where Parisians of every class gathered to soak in a bit of afternoon sun to the mellifluous sound of bubbling water.

  Here, the Revolutionary principles of Liberté! Egalité! Fraternité! shone like nowhere else. Helene’s words were true: London had nothing on Paris.

  The mix of high and low on display both refreshed and invigorated her. Coarse broadcloth mingled amongst superfine; dull woolens wove amongst vibrant silks. Tourists ogled fashionable Parisians; Parisians, in turn, pretended not to notice. The prostitutes, whom she chose not to directly acknowledge, cast jaded eyes over the entire tableau as they waited for second floor gaming dens to spit out the odd, flush gambler.

  Mariana was just stepping aside to allow one such dissolute gentleman to pass when Villefranche appeared at the far end of the arcade. Her heart thumped a hard beat, and her stomach fluttered as competing emotions of fear, uncertainty, determination, and excitement washed over her. A tiny voice of calm attempted to tamp them down: she was here to shop and stroll with the man. Two activities she understood as they were two of the leading activities of her social set.

  Today is different
, the tiny voice reminded her. Today, she would be shopping, strolling, and spying on Villefranche. It was the last part that had her insides tangled up in knots.

  She gave herself a mental shake. She was complicating the day, when in reality it was simple: she was here to play a role. The ability to become someone else seemed to be an essential element of navigating the world of espionage effectively.

  Last night, Nick had come to her as a waiter and a fugitive in the space of a few hours. Although she would be none other than Lady Nicholas Asquith today, she would need to become a different version of herself if she was to finesse any closely held secrets out of Villefranche.

  She might have asked Nick for guidance on the matter.

  Her head gave a tiny shake. It was impossible. She was an intelligent, capable woman. She could navigate this outing without running to her husband.

  She’d told Nick she’d agreed to his plan for crown and country. But a deeper truth also lay at the heart of the matter: the prospect of entering his shadowy world of intrigue and besting him at it was a temptation too delectable to resist.

  It was a world that frightened her a bit, a world that excited her no end. It was Nick’s world. She would sooner streak down this promenade naked than implore him for help. But his words came to her: by any means necessary. Would any means really be necessary?

  She pivoted to face the front window of a curiosity shop and feigned interest in its wares, even as she tracked Villefranche in her peripheral vision. Judging from his intensely gathered brow, she intuited he was too deep inside his own thoughts to have noticed her yet.

  What sort of spy was the Comte de Villefranche anyway?

  Just as he was about to stride past her, she silently counted one . . . two . . . three before swiveling around in a dramatic flurry of skirts, a bright smile pasted across her face. “Comte de Villefranche, it is you!”

  As if startled out of a trance, he jerked to a stop, his eyes wide with surprise. “Lady Nicholas?”

  “The one and only,” she chirped like a brainless bird. Villefranche must be the same sort of spy as she: an inexperienced one.

  “But,” he began slowly, “you and I agreed to meet at Le Grand Véfour a quarter of an hour hence.”

  “Yet here we are . . . meeting.” Mariana noted how rattled he was by this slight alteration to their plan, certainly an unpromising trait for anyone involved in espionage. “Shall we proceed with our shopping excursion from here?”

  Villefranche’s demeanor shifted in subtle acceptance, and he held out his arm for her. “Of course,” he replied, his tone as wooden as his person. “Would you care to peruse this shop?” He glanced up at the sign. “Le Grenelle is renowned for its selection of eglomise boxes.”

  “How delightful,” she exclaimed. In a fraction of a second, she assumed her role: Vacuous-Lady-Who-Lives-For-Shopping.

  After just two footsteps inside the shop, however, Mariana regretted her blithe acquiescence. This particular shop was the breadth and depth of a horse stall—complete with its accompanying odor—and stuffed from ceiling to floor with all manner of bibelot, making it impossible for her and Villefranche to walk side by side.

  Carefully navigating cramped aisles, she picked her way to the back, where the proprietor stood behind a counter. The two men exchanged a few words in rapid French, setting the proprietor into a flurry of motion with an obsequious smile pasted onto his mouse-like face. Soon, he’d assembled various sizes and styles of eglomise boxes for her inspection.

  She singled out a box edged with lacy gilt and depressed its tiny lever, clicking open its ornate lid depicting the famed Medici Fountain of the Jardin du Luxembourg. Her gaze fixed on the box beneath her hand, she asked, “Are you an admirer of eglomise?”

  Who knew espionage could be so deadly dull?

  “I do not believe in accumulating material possessions for the sake of a collection. It is waste,” Villefranche pontificated. “All objects must be of use; otherwise, what is the point of that object?”

  Confounded by his absolute assuredness, Mariana felt her eyebrows lift. “How does art fit into your view of usefulness?”

  A blush crept up his youthful cheeks. “You will have to forgive me, Lady Nicholas. Sometimes I forget that not everyone shares my beliefs.” With an air of self-consciousness, he averted his gaze toward the velvety depths of the open box. “You look . . . comely . . . today,” he added in a tone both conciliatory and strangely flat.

  A bewildered smile found its way to Mariana’s lips. Villefranche wasn’t even looking at her. His skills as a suitor equaled his skills as a spy.

  “Your eyes,” he stuttered out, “they glow.”

  “Oh dear,” she returned, “I hope I haven’t caught a fever.”

  Eyes wide with alarm, he swung toward her. “You have mistaken the intent of my words.”

  “That is, indeed, a relief,” she returned, the words dry as dust. She tapped the box and nodded at the proprietor. With a dramatic flourish, he swept up the box and began bundling it for transport. “So you aren’t an admirer of eglomise?” She sensed a useful strand running through this particular conversational thread. “I would have thought you appreciative of a craft that requires such immense skill and expertise.”

  Villefranche averted his gaze. “Those who paint these tiny and intricate scenes for masses of rich tourists receive little pay, and their eyes fail at very young ages, leaving them with no livelihood and no eyesight. It is a tragedy,” he proclaimed to the room empty of patrons save themselves.

  In an attempt to prevent Villefranche from seeing the huge roll of her eyes, Mariana directed her attention toward the enormous sideboard to her left. She lay a hand on its marble surface and allowed its stone coolness to seep into her skin through the silk of her gloves. She glanced over her shoulder to find Villefranche righting an Oriental vase caught by his elbow.

  “This is quite a massive structure,” she began, hoping to lighten the conversation. “How did they manage to squeeze it inside this tiny shop? It must weigh a half a ton.”

  “Well actually, it’s not so heavy, but heavy enough to gravely injure a man who has the misfortune to find himself on the wrong side of it. Every day, dock workers maim themselves while moving such structures.”

  Mariana heaved a frustrated sigh. Had the man never heard of hyperbole or idle chit-chat? Above every exchange with the Comte de Villefranche hung a rain cloud ready to burst. How was she supposed to finagle any useful information out of this man? Her only hope lay in the fact that he was clearly, blessedly, as unskilled in the art of espionage as she.

  “Madame,” the proprietor cut in with a discreet murmur, “your cigar box is ready.”

  Cigar box? What did she need with a cigar box? She reached inside her reticule for payment. Money and item efficiently exchanged between her and the satisfied proprietor, she faced the young Comte. “Shall we venture on?”

  Villefranche nodded, and they began stutter-stepping through the cramped shop, each movement forward an intentional negotiation with the hodgepodge of furniture, stacked books, and various trifles and trinkets. Mariana glanced behind her and caught Villefranche restacking a column of books that he’d accidentally kicked over.

  Nick was never so clumsy.

  She shook her head. Where had that thought come from? The part of her brain that couldn’t stop thinking about him after last night. That was where. Nick was alive, and he was a spy.

  Nick was her . . . overseer? How best could she characterize this new twist in their relationship? Regardless of the title, she now spied for him, if one could call what she was doing spying.

  She needed a new role. Vacuous-Lady-Who-Lives-For-Shopping wasn’t working. Perhaps, flattery would. It usually did with young men. Lady-Who-Brazenly-Flatters-Younger-Men could be her new role. It was worth a try.

 
; At last rid of the cramped and odiferous shop, Mariana rested her hand on Villefranche’s extended arm and exclaimed, “Oh my, what hard muscles you have hidden beneath this superfine. Do you lift heavy objects?”

  Polished and handsome, the Comte de Villefranche was the sort of man who set young girlish hearts alight, but who left hers cold. Yet, she was struck by an observation that should have been obvious from the start: in build and coloring, Villefranche was eerily similar to Nick.

  Both men were tall, lean, and possessed a similar dark handsomeness that drew the eye.

  Still, a subtle, but distinct, difference in bearing differentiated them: Villefranche faced the world with a preposterously erect posture, while Nick held himself in a manner not precisely defensive, but in a way that kept himself to himself. It was one of the qualities that had drawn her toward Nick: the mystery of him.

  “I labor at our family estate when I have the opportunity. A connection to the earth is vital.”

  His words brought Mariana back to the present. Memories of Nick’s eternal mystery weren’t helpful at all. “Those muscles combined with your commanding height make you one . . . healthy, young man.”

  Healthy? Young man? That was the most flattering response she could devise? Her improvisational skills sorely lacked panache.

  “A healthy body is the foundation of a healthy mind,” Villefranche returned, so certain of his own rightness.

  “Of course,” she replied. Did the man speak in nothing but aphorisms? She cleared her throat and pressed on, “You possess such wisdom for one so very young. Your years on this earth cannot possibly exceed twenty.”

  “I saw one and twenty years on my last name day.”

  “How the ladies of Paris must compete for you,” she continued. “A striking aristocrat such as yourself must have his pick. And now, of course, aristocrats are back in favor in France.”