Three Lessons in Seduction

by Sofie Darling

  She did neither. Her lips firmed into a straight frown—he experienced a pang of loss for her cute, curly smile—and she fixed him with an intense glare. “How do you know of this place?”

  Impressed by her restraint, he cleared his throat. “In my métier, one learns of such venues.” He tugged his cravat loose and tossed it into the pot as his wager.

  “Paris,” she began in a conversational tone that he didn’t trust, “must be ripe with such venues.”

  He nodded a terse response, hoping to suppress this particular conversational thread, and pretended to focus on the game. Yvette and Lisette tossed one garter each into the kitty. Mariana reached down and again gathered up her dress fold by fold before unhooking the garters on her other leg, her movements quick and efficient as if this situation was mundane, banal even.

  Like a green boy on the verge of his first view of female flesh, Nick’s heart doubled its rate. He should avert his gaze. It was the gentlemanly course of action, but all hope of the high ground was lost when his gaze snagged on the instep of her narrow foot. The bones of her feet matched the rest of her: long and lithe. Elegant. The woman had elegant feet.

  He must gain control over himself. This was an example of how a moment could spin out of control around Mariana. How easily he could ask if her feet ached, if they required a massage. It was this sort of moment he’d been avoiding for most of their marriage. No matter how he feigned indifference, he wasn’t. The word cheap came to him again.

  Finally, she straightened and tossed both stocking and bright pink garter into the kitty. It was an unusual pink of the sort one would expect to find in the tropics where everything and everyone ran just a bit hotter . . .

  In a desperate bid to regain control of this night, Nick picked up the discarded remnant of their conversation and began stating facts in the hope they would rescue him from the erotic fiction his mind was creating. “In the thirteenth century,” he began, his tone brisk and matter-of-fact, “Louis the Ninth decreed prostitution legal on nine streets in Paris in an effort to control its spread throughout the city. Rue de la Huchette was one of those streets. Today, more than one hundred and eighty brothels populate Paris.”

  “Such a precise number,” she said. “One might think you a connoisseur.”

  Her voice had grown cold and distant. Just where he needed it to be. Hot and close was too distracting. “Connoisseur isn’t the correct word for my interest. And you know it.”

  “Do I?” she countered. “Do I know a single true thing about you?”

  “Yes,” he stated, daring her to look at him.

  Her gaze, however, remained steady on her cards. She was processing his response and, more specifically, that word. Yes. Wouldn’t it have simplified matters to have said no? Implicit in that word would have been that she’d never known him.

  But he’d replied the opposite. It was as if he had a basic need to preserve the thread of their old connection, a thread he’d severed. Or so he’d convinced himself. One day in her presence outed the lie.

  Her brows lifted to her hairline, and she gasped, bringing her fingertips to her mouth. Nick followed the direction of her gaze, and a far more cynical response escaped him in the form of a short, single-note chortle.

  Yvette and Lisette had stood and were now slinking around each other, slowly unbuttoning one another’s dresses. In unison, they shimmied their shoulders and allowed their dresses to fall to the floor. Neither wore a chemise, only short pantalettes and small corsets that served to lift exposed breasts, nipples immodestly puckered.

  Waves of tension radiated off Mariana as the trollops tossed their dresses into the pot and giggled. Nick knew better than to react.

  All eyes swung toward Mariana, even the croupier’s. Hers was the next move. A flush of deep rose crept along the delicate ridge of her collarbone as she did the unexpected: her fingers reached across her body and found the three buttons located on the side of her dress before flicking them out of their loops.

  The night might have gotten away from him.

  “Mariana”—He spoke up, because he must—“you don’t have to do this.”

  “Don’t I? I must abide by the rules of the game if I’m to stay in the game, correct?”

  Nick’s hand shot out and trapped Mariana’s fingers on the table. Her eyes widened and flew up to meet his as a spark of electrical current raced up his arm. She must have felt it, too. “This is your game, Mariana. You make the rules.”

  “How will I learn to play the game if I’m a delicate flower for whom allowances must be made? I thought you live in a harsher world than that.”

  “I do.”

  Sudden awareness caught Nick by surprise, the bare flesh of their hands pressed skin to skin. He pulled his hand back as if scalded. She rose to her feet and wiggled out of her dress, allowing it to fall to the floor in a heap of coarse wool. Yvette and Lisette first gasped, then collectively cooed at the sight of her.

  The dress was dull as used bathwater, but dull wasn’t the correct word for the garments that lay beneath. He wasn’t certain the fuchsia of the corset and garters existed in nature, but the color came alive against Mariana’s honey-toned skin, even as the corset embraced her lush body, pushing ripe breasts up and forward, curving in at her waist and subtly flaring out at her hips. She was a hothouse flower in bloom. She was incomparable.

  His mouth again went dry. He must busy himself if he was to keep his head, the one atop his shoulders, in the game. Slowly, as not to startle this exquisite confection before him, he shrugged off his jacket and added it to the pot. His contribution felt meager compared to Mariana’s.

  She settled into her chair with an insouciance as if nothing of consequence had occurred. Very French was that insouciance. Very unlike the Mariana he knew. The croupier dealt the next hand.

  As they changed cards, it was undeniable that the tone of the room had altered. How could it not? Mariana had thrown down the gauntlet.

  No longer did Yvette and Lisette whisper and giggle. Instead, they became more . . . tactile . . . with one another. Yvette feathered light fingertips across Lisette’s collarbone before reaching up to remove an earring. She repeated the motion on the other side and tossed the pair into the pot. Lisette responded in kind.

  And Mariana? Captivation writ plainly across her face, she watched Yvette and Lisette play out an erotic scene for which patrons paid outlandish sums of money to witness and even join. For the uninitiated, it could be overwhelming. Yet Mariana’s cool response was to reach up, remove the silver brooch holding her simple chignon in place, and drop it into the pot.

  The action itself was simple; the effect was anything but. Her hair tumbled about her shoulders, stray tendrils finding their way to the cleft between her breasts, transforming her into the most alluring woman in Paris. Nick added his waistcoat and averted his gaze. Play was ready to resume.

  The round that had begun so dramatically concluded with a whimper when he showed his hand. Mariana sighed and folded. As he gathered his winnings, he watched her attention again stray toward Yvette and Lisette, who were now caressing one another’s faces. Then, one whispered into the other’s ear, and they both angled their bodies toward Mariana. Likely she’d never seen such a display between two women. Or even considered its possibility.

  Lisette reached out a hand and tenderly cupped one side of Mariana’s face, while Yvette cupped the other. Mariana sat stone still as if bewitched by a spell. Experienced fingertips began tracing a path down her cheeks and neck, inch by inch, trailing lower before hesitating at the space just above her breasts. Suddenly, the equilibrium of the room felt balanced on the tip of a needle with no margin for a wrong movement. One either toppled over, or one was pricked.

  It occurred to Nick that blood might be drawn tonight.

  Emboldened by Mariana’s lack of response, Yvette
and Lisette sidled closer. The three women looked like they were forming a sacred pact, its secrets known only to them. And all Nick could do was watch, helpless on his side of the table. He glanced at the croupier whose attention remained fixed on the whispery fuzz of his cards.

  Fingertips resumed their progress ever lower toward the curve of Mariana’s scantily clad breasts. He could see the outline of her nipples puckered beneath her white chemise.

  Before Nick had a chance to consider what this night might reveal, Mariana’s hands reached up and grabbed each trollop by a wrist, eliciting annoyed whines from each. The pact was broken.

  A relieved Nick shot to his feet. At last, he could be of some use. “That will be all,” he told the visibly bewildered Yvette and Lisette in their native language. Petulantly, they grabbed their discarded apparel and stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind them.

  He made eye contact with the croupier. “You must go, too. And leave the cards.” The man nodded and was through the door in a thrice of heartbeats.

  Nick turned the lock behind him and faced a Mariana altered from the one who had entered this room an hour ago. This woman could be the most sought after and expensive courtesan in Paris.

  “There is nothing those women won’t do, is there?” came her first words in what felt like hours, but must have been no more than five minutes. Anything could happen in five minutes.

  “No.”

  “Must that be me as I work for you?”

  Her voice emerged quiet and soft, and he detected an uncharacteristic strand of uncertainty running through it. “You will never be forced to do anything you don’t want to do,” he responded with a fervid earnestness he hadn’t expressed in years, if ever. He sat in the croupier’s vacated chair across from her and pushed a stack of coins across the table. “Ready?”

  She pushed the coins back toward him. “Let’s keep the stakes high, shall we?”

  Chapter 9

  Sharp: Subtle, acute, quick-witted; also a sharper or cheat, in opposition to a flat, dupe, or gull. Sharp’s the word and quick’s the motion with him; said of anyone very attentive to his own interest, and apt to take all advantages.

  A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue

  Francis Grose

  Even with all the twists and turns the night had delivered, Mariana gleaned from Nick’s startled expression that he wasn’t prepared for this one. He’d expected her, like any sheltered lady of her class, to accuse him of subjecting her to a night filled with vice and perversity. Instead, she’d chosen to keep playing, to further the game, to push it to its edge. She would learn tonight’s lesson before their game was done.

  Her hand reached beneath the table and emerged dangling her other garter. He unclipped sapphire and gold cuff studs and tossed them onto the felt. Play was ready to resume.

  Silently, he shuffled the cards. Silently, he dealt them. Silently, he won when she folded. Silently, he slid the winnings into his growing pile.

  Silently, Mariana stewed.

  Gathering her composure, she finally spoke. “Tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

  “Show me your cards.”

  She lay them face up on the felt.

  “You were going for a straight.”

  “Yes?”

  “I know your hand by the way you bet. If you have a pair, you raise with two coins. If you have a better hand, you raise with five coins. You’re too predictable. You cannot be predictable in espionage.”

  She wanted to bristle at the word predictable, but she didn’t rise to it. “Then how did Villefranche become embroiled in this intrigue? He’s one of the most predictable people I’ve ever encountered.”

  “Perhaps that was why he was chosen.”

  “Chosen?”

  “He reports to someone with more power and connections. On the other hand, he could simply be a bloodthirsty anarchist.”

  “That’s one theory. Try another.”

  “He’s a scion of the Orléans family. They’re a powerful family, but not in power. He may wish to correct that imbalance.”

  Mariana shook her head. “That doesn’t ring true either. He doesn’t strike me as hungry for power. Tell me,” she continued, “have you visited the museums in Paris?”

  Nick’s eyebrows crinkled together in confusion at the sudden conversational switch. Then his eyes narrowed. “Is this about the Woolly Mammoth?”

  “They’re woolly and have large tusks. How was that question for the unpredictable?”

  Nick dropped his cards face up on the felt. She showed a pair of sevens and felt a sly smile tilt the corners of her mouth. He’d folded with a pair of Jacks. She’d won the hand and caught her first windfall of the night.

  Duplicity, guile . . . She was beginning to understand how to win at this game.

  Nick glared down at his mistake and conceded with a grudging, “Well done.” He took in hand a newly shuffled deck of cards, ready to deal.

  Riding a gratifying wave of triumph, Mariana was just about to slide his cuff studs into the kitty when she hesitated. A nervy feeling began to get the better of her, a feeling that made the room feel bright and shiny and teeming with possibility.

  She would stake her locket. She didn’t need to. And she most definitely didn’t want Nick to have it or see what lay inside, but she couldn’t resist wagering her most precious asset. She wanted to play for high stakes. She hadn’t felt this alive . . . ever. Perhaps the bourbon had been going down too smoothly.

  “In the last few years, I’ve discovered something about myself.” Blood zinging through her veins, she unclasped her locket and dropped it into the kitty. “I am quite taken with the history of our earth. It seems that The Progressive School for Young Ladies and the Education of Their Minds has worked its magic on my mind, too. Can you imagine?”

  “I can imagine,” he replied, meeting her wager with the sapphire and gold buttons that matched his lost cuff studs.

  “There’s a word for what I am. Autodidact. It’s my dirty little secret.” She could ignore the fact that his shirt fell the scantest inch open, revealing the fine trail of hair running down the hollow of his ridged stomach to the top of his trousers. “Check.”

  Charged up with a feeling of invincibility, she lay her cards face up on the felt—a full house.

  “Well done—again,” he bit out.

  With a simple nod of acknowledgement, she accepted his paltry congratulation and slid her winnings toward her growing pile of loot. “That isn’t to say I’m suddenly a bluestocking.” She picked up the thread of their conversation as if the hand she’d just won was a triviality, as if she wasn’t exhilarated by it. It was a heady feeling, beating a man like Nick.

  She reached for the decanter of bourbon at her elbow—when had that appeared on the table?—and topped her glass before shooting it back like a seasoned riverboat gambler. She might be developing a taste for hedonism.

  “If I may be blunt?”

  She liked the way his voice sounded just now. All affectation was gone, and there was no hint of patronization either. The tone conceded they were two well-matched adults. “Are you ever not blunt with me?”

  “You’re dressed like the most expensive courtesan in Paris.” His intense, gray gaze held hers. “It’s a fair bet that no one would mistake you for a bluestocking.”

  Her lips stretched into a too-wide smile. She should be offended by his words, but they delighted her. He’d only confirmed what she’d known for some minutes now. He was distracted by her state of dishabille.

  Her fingers absently toyed with the top of her chemise, brushing against the exposed skin above her corseted breasts. Nick averted his gaze and shifted in his chair.

  She leaned forward. “I really want to see that Woolly Mammoth.” The words might sound playful in the mo
ment, but she couldn’t be more earnest.

  “Be careful where you voice your wishes,” he began in a voice low and intense and utterly serious as his gaze again captured hers. “There are men who would stop at nothing to give you what you want. Men break laws, walk across flames, and even start wars to give a woman like you everything she wants.”

  “A woman like me?” she whispered from inside the spell he’d woven around her with his words. “A man like whom, Nick?”

  The air went completely still. The world could have stopped spinning on its axis, and she wouldn’t have noticed.

  “I think you’ve mastered duplicity and guile,” he spoke into the quiet before shooting to his feet and breaking the spell.

  Mariana assessed the man towering over the table. He was agitated, which perversely calmed her. “You think me so without guile?”

  She rose, one slow inch at a time, until they stood facing each other like combatants. His eyes remained steady, too steady, on hers. He was trying not to glance down at her scantily clad body. She liked to think she’d chosen tonight’s undergarments without him in mind, but she knew the truth.

  She leaned across the table to retrieve her clothing. If he received an eyeful of the effect of gravity on corseted cleavage, then so be it. She reclined in her chair and lifted a foot, slipping her toes inside a stocking and unrolling the length of silk up her leg. His eyes lingered hot upon the bare skin of her thigh just above where the stocking ended.

  She reached for the other stocking. “It feels as though we haven’t discussed anything substantive.”

  “There are many ways to have a conversation,” he said, his voice rough and intimate. “Sometimes we communicate more about ourselves by what we don’t say.” A moment passed. “And in the language of our bodies.”