Three Lessons in Seduction

by Sofie Darling

  A sick feeling of dread crept into her stomach. His eyes slid away from hers, and she knew. His government . . . Whitehall . . . the Foreign Office . . . Nick.

  Nick knew. Of course, he did.

  She’d seen them together twice. She’d even spent an evening in the same room with this man. A dark thought came to her. She wasn’t certain if it was born of fear or . . . hope. “I’ve seen you with Nick and the Comte de Villefranche. Perhaps you are playing both sides. Perhaps you sent those men to attack Nick.”

  He mulled her words before answering, “And if I did?”

  It was tempting to give in to the possibility of his confession. After all, if Percy was a double agent, the situation would be black and white, and easily concluded. As quickly as the thought came, it was replaced by another consideration, one grounded in reality. Nick trusted this man, Percy, with his life. Nick trusted no one.

  Percy wasn’t behind the attack. Furthermore, it was clear that he was providing cover for Nick. The black and white swirled into gray again.

  “Your loyalty to Nick runs so deep that you would allow me to think the worst of you so I don’t think it of him?”

  Percy’s gaze glimmered with an intense light. “Nick is finished.”

  A surge of protectiveness swelled within Mariana. “Nick knows his business very well. When he sets his mind to something, he is the—”

  “Best?” Percy finished for her. “He was the best before”—She braced herself. She knew how this sentence would end—“you arrived. Now, he is finished. He simply hasn’t realized it yet.” He shifted forward. “Do you know why he is finished? Can you admit why even to yourself? Allow him to come home, Mariana.”

  “You have the temerity to speak those words to me?” She threw back at him. “What of your home, Percy? What of Olivia? What of your daughter whom you’ve never met? Or do you even know of Lucy?”

  He flinched. She’d hit her mark. “I know of her.”

  “Have you considered how Olivia suffered?”

  “Not as much as she would had I returned.”

  “Help me understand. Why do you and Nick choose this?” She spread her arms wide to indicate the ramshackle room surrounding them. “You’re the son of a duke.”

  “I am a son of England. My surroundings”—He mirrored her gesture, arms splayed wide—“are of no consequence. But the work I do is.” He cocked his head, and a shrewd light sparked within his eyes. “It’s the same work you’re doing. This work seduces you in. It invigorates and makes you feel alive. You feel it, non?”

  Her mouth snapped shut as she remembered the heady sense of power she’d experienced conducting Villefranche.

  “Not everyone in this world can make the easy choice or take the straightforward path. Your tidy Mayfair world depends on it. Society’s ease comes with a price for those who will pay it. And make no mistake, Mariana, someone must pay the price. Have you ever taken a good look around you in London? Have you ever noticed the hordes of maimed men littering the sidewalks? Those men paid the price and are still paying it.”

  “But, Percy”—This conversation had taken a sharp turn, and she was determined to right it—“you owe . . .” His eyes snapped fire, and the remainder of her words died in her mouth.

  “You know nothing of my debts,” he said. “I owe you nothing.”

  “But Olivia—”

  “My wife, yes.”

  “Your wife?” The question startled out of her. “Percy, you were declared dead. Olivia is a widow. You don’t get to call her your wife.”

  A stab of concern for her sister cut through her. After years of widowhood, Olivia had settled into a measured life of peace and routine. It wasn’t the sort of life Mariana could tolerate for more than five minutes, but Olivia had chosen it. That was enough for Mariana. And, now, here was Percy, alive to muck up the past. And the present.

  His chair a sharp, strident scrape across the floor, he stood. “Allow me to escort you to the door.”

  “You never answered my question,” she protested. “Why did you choose this life over your family?”

  His head canted to the side, his eyes an onyx glint in half-shadowed light. “You think this life a choice? You’re not asking the right question.”

  “Tell me what question to ask.” A strange idea occurred to her. “Are you here against your will?”

  Although he hadn’t been moving, somehow his body went yet more still. It was as if she was a gorgon who had turned him to stone with her question. “Someday you and I might debate Aristotle’s meditations on free will and fate, but not today. It’s time for you to leave.”

  He placed a guiding hand on the small of her back and all but pushed her along. Nearly through the door, she planted her feet into rotting floorboards. She must say something more to this man, and he would hear it. She swiveled around to face him. “Whatever comes of this, leave Olivia be.”

  A strange mixture of curiosity and vulnerability shone in his eyes, but he kept silent.

  “Stay dead, Percy.”

  He flinched. Good. She pivoted on her heel and strode down the corridor, her footsteps a decisive echo behind her. The old Percy was in there, but buried deep—too deep for her to fathom.

  By the time she reached the outside of the building, her feet beat a harder, more decisive tattoo, her thoughts racing toward the source of her burgeoning wrath: Nick. She’d been a fool for the man . . . again.

  A storm of anger swept through her, body and mind, before settling into a cold fury. Her furies usually ran fierce and hot, obscuring the world around her for the length of time it took to drink a pot of tea, but this one was unlike any she’d ever experienced. Through this cold fury the events of the past week showed crisp and clear.

  She could have forgiven Nick the opera singer ruse. In fact, she saw now that it had been an inevitability. Perhaps she’d been on her way to reconciling with him. Perhaps that had been an inevitability, too.

  Now she knew the truth about Percy, a truth Nick had kept secret, not only from her, but from Olivia. Forgiveness and reconciliation with Nick were impossible.

  Bitterness frayed the edges of her crisp and clear fury. She should have known better than to be seduced by that most insidious of emotions: hope.

  Hope had no place in the lexicon of her relationship with Nick.

  No longer was this a game they were playing. Real life had been happening all this time, directly beneath her nose. She’d been playing fast and loose with a ruthless man, one who would watch others grieve when he knew a truth that would save so many from heartache. The good of the many outweighed the good of the few. That was Nick’s belief. What were a few lives worth when so many more were at stake?

  But what about those few? What about those individuals who sacrificed so much without any knowledge of their act? What about Olivia?

  To harm Olivia was to harm Mariana. It had ever been so. And ever would be. The man who had inflicted that harm had once held her heart, a heart he may once again hold . . .

  She swept aside the remainder of that unruly thought and returned to her cold fury, a fury that included herself. She’d gone into her dealings with Nick with the full knowledge that she played with fire. Yet she’d played on, foolishly thinking she could separate the emotional from the physical. She’d thought she wouldn’t get burned. That she’d learned her lesson the first time around. Well, she was scorched.

  And she had no one to blame except herself, not even Nick. Past behavior was the best predictor of future behavior, after all. Absurdly, she’d fallen into the trap of believing it could be otherwise and that a new pattern could develop.

  Ha.

  Nick would always be Nick. And she would always be Mariana, the girl who fell hopelessly in love with him any time he glanced her way. How easily she’d allowed herself to f
orget.

  But now she remembered. And now, once again, she must find a way to forget and carry on with the rest of her life. Dark possibility snaked in alongside the thought, and a way of forgetting came to her. Even as her stomach dropped to her toes, cold intellect pressed forward. It might be the only way.

  To forget one man, one could seduce another. Nick himself had given her a few lessons toward that end.

  Like a domino tipping over, the perfect candidate for her seduction fell into place: Captain Nylander.

  What was Helene’s description of him? A tall drink of Viking water.

  Her own? The path not pursued.

  Well, it was her prerogative to pursue that path now.

  Captain Nylander was gorgeous and discreet, and he’d given her his address in Calais. She could be there within the day.

  But she knew the answer must be no. The man clearly had a code of honor regarding women, and she wouldn’t take advantage of it.

  She needed someone else, someone who couldn’t threaten her emotionally and vice versa. She needed . . . the Comte de Villefranche.

  She couldn’t stand the man, which made him perfect. And she’d already put in the effort with him. Furthermore, he wasn’t exactly repulsive.

  With Villefranche, the sexual act would be a cold and sterile affair. She would walk away from him completely unscathed. That was the most important consideration.

  Villefranche would do.

  Tonight’s soirée would provide the opportunity she needed. Never mind that Nick would certainly find out. That wasn’t her motivation. Of course, it wasn’t. Through the haze of her cold fury, she saw that she would be doing this for herself. She needed this to forget Nick, to break her bond with him.

  She should have taken a lover years ago. Never mind that Nick had never taken one. He should have. They each should have. It was the only way to protect their hearts from each other.

  The past was done. A new future opened itself to her. It was a future she would embark upon tonight. She should feel optimistic.

  And if she didn’t? If the future stretching before her felt as bleak as the tundra of her cold fury?

  Well, there would be more lovers.

  Chapter 22

  Kiss mine A-se: An offer, as Fielding observes, very frequently made, but never, as he could learn, literally accepted.

  A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue

  Francis Grose

  “I do not deal in politics. I am a mere woman,” Mariana said.

  A passing tray of champagne floated within reach, and she snatched a glass. She took a rather deep sip, one that could be characterized as a gulp, and attempted to ignore the persistent little Frenchman hovering at her side.

  He’d been there since she’d stepped foot inside the Capet family’s soirée, set inside their private Palais-Royal garden. Within this exclusive preserve, the principles of Liberté! Egalité! Fraternité! didn’t exist. This opulent garden, replete with flowing champagne, sparkling gems of every hue, and coldly sophisticated smiles, was reserved solely for the pleasure of the reestablished aristocracy.

  “But, Madame, you deal in politics for that very reason,” the man insisted with an exhausting earnestness. “Everything about a woman is political. And this school you speak of, The Progress School—”

  “The Progressive School for Young Ladies and the Education of Their Minds,” she supplied for him, unable to keep a weary note out of her voice.

  “Exactement,” he exclaimed, his arm gesticulating theatrically up into the air. “Theese ees politics. Education ees politics.”

  The man’s protuberant eyes snagged on the line of her décolletage, and he went mute. Mariana cleared her throat, startling his eyes upward. Politics certainly didn’t render a man sexless.

  “To base a school on the precepts of Émile by our own Rousseau is political,” he resumed, inching closer and creating an intimate space ripe with breath that must have partaken of raw onion and garlic. “Such boldness only proves that you are, indeed, a rare Englishwoman.”

  Mariana took an instinctive step backward in subtle rebuff. She had two men on her mind, and this little toad wasn’t one of them. Her gaze swept the garden for the hundredth time tonight. Nothing.

  “Your eyes,” began the little toad, “they shine with the clear light of a flawless diamond.”

  Some nights this sort of man, servile and obsequious, amused her. Not tonight. A frigid smile curved her lips. “Doesn’t that particular metaphor better describe blue eyes? My eyes are, in fact, plain brown.”

  “Brown? Your eyes are no common brown”—The little toad all but spat the word—“Just look how the pink of your dress—”

  “I do not own a single pink dress,” she cut in. “This dress is coral.”

  “Ah, oui, my paltry English cannot capture the nuance of color. But the way the coral brings out the amber of your eyes reminds me of a ray of morning sun piercing a honeycomb with its warm glow.”

  “Warm glow?” she repeated on a joyless laugh that sounded brittle even to her own ears. “I think you were closer to the mark with the diamond metaphor.”

  She wasn’t certain about the flawless or brilliant parts, but the comparison cut strikingly close to her transformation over the last few hours. She may have been soft coal this morning, but, tonight, she was a hardened diamond. Tonight, she was adamantine.

  Once again, her gaze scanned the garden lit by particolored star lanterns composed of translucent papier-mâché. Small flames flickered and danced on the whimsical breeze, creating illusory images reminiscent of the fairies who once danced across her childhood ceiling. On a different night, this garden would enchant her.

  Tonight, it did nothing of the sort. The cold fury from earlier had given way to an odd sense of distance from herself.

  As her gaze darted from vibrant string quartet to perfectly manicured rows of fall flowers and on to the fleet of lanterns floating on the black void of the garden’s central fountain, she still detected no sign of either man. It would be easiest, of course, if Villefranche appeared before Nick arrived. Then she could get the seduction out of the way without any potential interference from Nick.

  Of course, it didn’t escape her notice that her plan might have one flaw. Namely, how was she supposed to seduce a man who wouldn’t come within seducing distance?

  She nabbed another flute off a passing tray, efficiently trading her empty for a full. The French made it entirely too easy to overindulge.

  Sensing an opportunity while she gulped down half of the flute’s contents, the little toad tried another angle. “Your eyes shine with the fiery light of an avenging goddess.”

  “Careful now,” Mariana began, “or you’ll deplete your entire repertoire of clichés before the night has a chance to truly begin.”

  She was being insufferably rude, but she cared not one jot. In fact, the little toad’s eyes only shone brighter.

  She glanced away from him in disgust, even as the word fiery called to her. This afternoon, she could have streaked across this garden like a ferocious, avenging goddess. Tonight, however, the emotion necessary to fuel such a dramatic flight lay just out of reach. In short, she felt numb and heavy, divorced from her emotions and bound by the lead weight she’d tied around her own neck: this seduction. She wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.

  If a little voice protested that seductions weren’t meant to be chores, that seductions were to be savored and enjoyed, she suppressed it with yet another gulp of champagne.

  The little toad opened his odiferous mouth to undoubtedly spew yet another round of noxious, hackneyed flattery, when Helene fluttered to her right side. At the exact same moment, Aunt Dot came at her from the left. The little toad was entirely squeezed out. An awkward and uncertain silence stretche
d with the three women uniformly staring the man down. At last, he heaved a resigned sigh and shuffled off to try his luck elsewhere.

  Mariana’s relief at his departure was short-lived when she noticed a palpable tension radiating off the two women flanking her sides. “Aunt Dot, you are acquainted with my honorary aunt, Helene de Vivonne, the Marquise de Chevreuse?”

  “Oh, my dear,” Aunt Dot began, her eyes straight ahead. “I am, of course, your aunt by blood”—There was no mistaking the umbrage in her voice—“and we all know blood is thicker than water.”

  “How true, Madame Montfort,” Helene intoned smoothly, her gaze, too, fixed in the distance. “I am merely Mariana’s aunt by choice.” Helene squeezed Mariana’s arm. “What is the saying? You cannot choose your family, but you can choose your friends?”

  Aunt Dot’s mouth snapped shut, and Mariana began to long for the little toad. Abhorrent breath and leering gaze might be preferable to spending an evening wedged between two women who loathed one another for no better reason than one was French and the other English.

  “Shall we take a turn about the garden?” Mariana asked, unable to summon the emotion to care one way or the other. They just seemed like the polite words to say.

  “Ma chérie,” Helene exclaimed as their feet found a sedate, collective pace, “do you see our dear Charlet? One cannot miss him. So talented is he with his lithographs.”

  Mariana followed the direction of Helene’s gaze and found the painter. He was indeed unmistakable with his towering height and ever-present smile. A small crowd gathered around him, basking in the warmth of a boyish good humor evident even from this distance.

  “You are aware, of course, that Charlet was a dear friend to Géricault,” Helene said in a reverent tone. “Such a tragedy was the death of Géricault. The boy was only a few steps into manhood.”