Three Lessons in Seduction

by Sofie Darling

  “A tragedy?” harrumphed Aunt Dot. “When is a painter’s death from dissipation and licentiousness so uncommon as to be tragedy?”

  “No, Aunt,” Mariana spoke before Helene could respond. “Olivia mentioned Géricault’s failing health when he showed The Raft of Medusa in London a few years ago. He suffered from a persistent lung ailment, if I remember correctly.”

  “Oh, The Raft of Medusa—” Helene began.

  “Obscene,” inserted Aunt Dot.

  “—Tragique,” Helene continued as if Aunt Dot hadn’t spoken. “Those poor souls . . . to be abandoned after a shipwreck by their own captain.”

  “Speaks of a certain national character, one would think,” Aunt Dot cut in.

  “And Géricault’s depiction of those poor, lost souls on the raft was so—”

  “Animalistic,” Aunt Dot again interrupted, a dramatic shudder quaking her generous bosom. “All those writhing limbs and bodies clad in only the loosest scraps of cloth, I daresay.”

  “—Sympathique to their plight and their suffering,” Helene pressed on. Mariana had never seen Helene so determined. “Géricault understood the human condition well beyond his years. His loss . . . oh, what tragedy for Charlet. Friends are the family we choose.” She paused, allowing her latest jab to sink in before asking, “Mariana, do you know that our great Delacroix—I wonder if he is here tonight?—posed for Géricault as one of the poor unfortunates?”

  “Oh, dearest dear, Delacroix,” Aunt Dot exclaimed. “That young reprobate? No thank you. Give me a painter like Mister Turner. Mariana, have you viewed The Battle of Trafalgar? Now, that is a national treasure of which to be proud.”

  “It is my understanding,” Helene began, “a controversy surrounds this painting. Perhaps Monsieur Turner’s depiction isn’t so accurate? Is it possible that a looseness with the truth speaks—how did you say it, Madame Montfort?—of a certain national character?”

  So stiff did Aunt Dot’s body go, it was a wonder the woman was able to continue placing one foot in front of the other. If emotion had been available to her, Mariana might have felt badly for her aunt. Perhaps. Likely not.

  “Duchesse,” Helene exclaimed of a sudden before lowering herself into a deep curtsy. Mariana’s gaze lit upon a tiny, yet somehow statuesque, woman approaching them without a single stir to her features or person. Not even her skirts moved as she progressed forward. Mariana and Aunt Dot followed Helene’s lead and dipped into their own curtsies.

  “What a magnifique soirée,” Helene sang out as she rose. “The stars. The fashion. The soirée of the year.”

  The Duchesse inclined her head and granted the three women a smile that could only be characterized as condescending. She was a duchesse, after all. The daughter of an earl, Mariana wasn’t especially impressed. Still, this woman was Villefranche’s mother, and this was their Paris residence.

  Like that, a solution to her problem struck her, and it became clear exactly how she could seduce a man who wouldn’t come within seducing distance.

  After Helene went through the requisite introduction ritual, Mariana exclaimed with all the grace of a country ingénue, “Duchesse, the beauty of your garden overwhelms me with its splendor.” She may have been laying it on a bit thick. After all, she’d been presented at court, and none other than the current King George himself had named her and Olivia Milk and Honey, due to their respective complexions. A moniker that had followed them everywhere their debut Season. “If I may be so bold”—She leaned in ever so slightly—“our English styles pale in comparison.”

  Helene gave her a smug pat on her right hand while Aunt Dot bristled to her left. If Mariana ever wanted to see the Folly again, she would find a way to make it up to Aunt. But that was a task for future Mariana. Tonight, she had a larger game at play.

  “I wonder if . . . oh, this may be asking too much,” Mariana faltered, willing a blush to rise to her cheeks. The Duchesse eyed her with all the verve of a dead-eyed fish. “But I wonder if a tour of your residence would be a possibility? Of a sudden, I’m feeling inspired to renovate my London townhouse in exactly this style.”

  The Duchesse’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Indeed?” With an elegant flick of her wrist, she summoned an attentive servant.

  While a muted conversation ensued, Mariana glanced to her left to find a beet red Aunt Dot staring straight ahead. She turned right to find a quiet Helene studying her closely. “What is this all about, ma chérie?”

  The Duchesse rescued Mariana from having to devise a lie. “Lady Nicholas, when you are ready, summon Gaston”—Her delicate fingers fluttered in the direction of the servant to her left—“and he will show you all you wish to see.”

  Mariana stepped forward to implement her plan and leave the three women to negotiate the rest of the evening without her. She had some exploring to do. Gaston was going to show her every inch of this residence, including the room where Villefranche slept. Before this night was finished, it was entirely possible that she would employ every single one of her newfound spy skills—duplicity, guile, invisibility, lock picking, and seduction . . .

  Unexpectedly, her eye caught on the figure she’d sought all evening, standing in a secluded alcove at the far end of the grounds: Villefranche.

  Two facts became immediately apparent. He wasn’t alone. And, if the impassioned nature of his hand gestures was an indicator, he was angry.

  Intrigued, Mariana took in the figure opposite Villefranche. Towering form . . . massive belly . . . sagging jowls . . . She knew that man.

  It was Uncle Bertie, engaging in a heated argument with Villefranche. Theirs wasn’t a polite acquaintanceship made at a Society function. What on earth did Uncle Bertie and the Comte de Villefranche have to discuss heatedly?

  Another question followed quick on its heels: did Nick know of Uncle Bertie’s connection to Villefranche? Where was the dratted man anyway?

  As if her unspoken question had the power to conjure him out of thin air, another familiar figure caught the edge of her vision. A collective gasp met her ears, and her body froze. A frisson of anticipation skittered through her veins.

  One steadying inhalation of air later, she pivoted to face fully what her body already knew. Across the garden stood Nick attired in crisp whites and blacks, surveying the garden like he owned it.

  Society’s eyes flitted between him and her as they awaited what would come next. Would he acknowledge her? Cut her? Embrace her? What a delicious amuse-bouche of gossip she and he were serving Society.

  Meanwhile, he remained seemingly oblivious to the hushed silence. How had she been fooled for so long by his façade of supercilious popinjay?

  She knew how. She’d chosen to see it. In that way, it had been easier to dismiss him and fashion a new life for herself. And now she knew the fop was a disguise for the real Nick, a deceitful bastard.

  As his gaze continued its thorough sweep of the garden, her heart hammered in her chest, her traitorous body winding up in expectation of the moment his eyes would land upon her. For the first time tonight, she felt alive. She could hate herself for it, even more than she hated him.

  At last, his gaze found her. A quick smile quirked up his lips and lit his eyes, and her breath caught. How easily she could become enthralled by his smile. It was the sort of smile that had the potential to erase an entire past. This smile was so utterly unlike Nick—open, loving, genuine—as if his entire world centered around her.

  Too open. Too loving. Too genuine.

  And she wasn’t his entire world. She never was and never would be. His smile played for the hundred pairs of eyes surrounding them on all sides, not for her.

  The thought was the splash of cold water she needed. Tonight, she had a role: loving wife to Nick’s loving husband. A smile matching his in brilliance curved her lips, even as she felt it didn’t qu
ite reach her eyes.

  In the next heartbeat, the quiet broke, replaced by the buzz of bees swarming. It was the sound of gossip, excitable and relentless.

  The curious numbness of the evening gone, her sleeping fury reawakened and began to rise. As she took her first step forward into this uncertain night, duplicitous smile pasted onto her face, she allowed her fury to enshroud her like a protective cloak. She wouldn’t be distracted from her intention to take a lover.

  Never mind that she’d never shared a bed with a man other than Nick. Tonight, she would remedy that. She was a diamond, unyielding and multi-faceted.

  And if within those illusory facets hid a weak spot that had never sufficiently hardened, only she needed to know of it. She would see the seduction through. Tonight was the beginning of the rest of her life without Nick.

  Only he didn’t know it yet.

  Chapter 23

  Carry witchet: A sort of conundrum, puzzlewit, or riddle.

  A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue

  Francis Grose

  Nick spotted Mariana across the starlit garden, and confirmation, deep and true, settled in his gut. She was his.

  A smile that refused to be suppressed opened wide across his face, stretching muscles that hadn’t been used since childhood, and possibly not even then. If he appeared foolish, then that was the price he must pay. He wanted everyone to see his feelings for her, but, even more, he wanted her to see them.

  With every step he took toward her, his world shifted into balance by increments. His feet ticked along at a pace, swift and sure, as he navigated through the party, maneuvering around effusive waiters, knowing Society smiles, and obstructive topiary animals.

  With only a dozen feet to go, the path to Mariana cleared, and it was only him and her beneath a low-slung crescent moon that shone solely for them. Even if the moon had shone full and bright tonight, it couldn’t match the tide of her smile inexorably pulling him toward her.

  He hesitated just shy of her and silently held her gaze. Words weren’t necessary. Not after this afternoon.

  “Nick,” she began, “there is something you must know.”

  Unable to resist the feel of her, he stepped forward and slipped his arms around the supple curve of her waist. He tipped his head and met the pulsing bend of her neck with his lips. A soft sigh released from her. Emboldened, his mouth trailed up to her ear, and beneath his lips a light dusting of goose bumps rose. “Play along as nicely as you did earlier,” his voice rumbled, “and I’ll reward you . . . again.”

  A duo of heartbeats later, her body stiffened into a rigid line, and she slipped entirely out of the circle of his arms. Perhaps she thought they were scandalizing Society?

  Strangely exposed and uncertain, he opened his mouth to question her when yet another hush descended over the crowd, drawing all eyes. He quashed his unease and followed the collective gaze, where he found the king’s heir Charles, the Duc d’Artois. Nick couldn’t help a grudging respect for the pretentious coxcomb. It was a savvy and bold move, walking into the lion’s den, even as his brother, the Bourbon king, lay on his death bed.

  Nick glanced down to find Mariana quietly taking in the scene. They would have to set aside their future until the matter of the Duc’s assassination was put to bed. He angled his mouth toward her ear. “Louis is expected to die tonight.”

  “And the Duc d’Artois is attending an Orléans soirée to shore up the support he needs for his claim to the throne,” she finished for him.

  “If the death is announced”—He needed to ask one more favor of his wife—“rush over to the Duc and create a little scene.”

  “Why?”

  “We need a distraction at that precise moment.”

  “And who are we?”

  His eyes narrowed on her. She held herself with a mien of disinterest, but a closer inspection revealed the opposite. Her eye held a sharp light. There was a correct answer to her question, but he wasn’t certain what it was. “I have another agent placed in the garden,” he said carefully.

  “Ah,” she said, a brittle smile curving her lips. “Should I seduce the Duc right then and there?”

  “Over my dead body,” he stated, sudden ferocity rearing up within him.

  The smile froze on her face. “I thought I was to use any means,” she threw back at him. Before he could reply, she continued, “Since we’re on the subject of cloaks and daggers, I feel somewhat obliged to tell you that I saw Villefranche engaged in a rather heated discussion with my Uncle—”

  “Bertie,” Nick finished for her.

  “Of course, this isn’t news to you. Who in my family isn’t involved in your spy intrigues?”

  It dawned on him that something was wrong. How was it possible?

  They’d been about to confess their love for one another this afternoon. Now she acted as if she couldn’t stand the sight of him. His sense of balance shifted away. “What happened between this afternoon and now? This afternoon we—”

  “We?” she cut in, her voice a shard of mockery. “There is no we. There never was.”

  Nick felt winded as if he’d been gut punched. He moved closer to her. He wouldn’t leave her side until they sorted this out.

  A sudden and cacophonous tapping of metal against glass rang out and demanded everyone’s attention. An expectant silence descended as the collective gaze swung toward the raised dais where the Duc d’Artois sat, coolly staring out across the garden. A frustrated Nick had no choice but to wait.

  A courtier stepped forward, a grave expression on his face, and proclaimed, “Le roi est mort, vive le roi!”

  In unison, the gathered sank into low curtsies before their new monarch, the man who would be crowned Charles X.

  Mariana finished off the last of her champagne in a single swallow. “Actors take your places.”

  “Hang the assassination plot,” Nick found himself not only saying, but also meaning with every ounce of his being. “You and I are—”

  “Far less important than the fate of two nations, correct?”

  “Not even close.” His fingers wrapped around her arm when she made to step away. Her eyes flashed fire over her shoulder, and his stomach sank.

  “You must do as you will. Just as I must.” She shook off his hand and fled toward the dais to set the plan into motion.

  He’d been delivered a message in no uncertain terms. His suspicions coalesced into a fully formed conclusion, unavoidable: something was again broken between them.

  This line of thought was interrupted when Percy, in the guise of a ubiquitous, faceless server, caught his eye. Nick’s feet sprang into motion. He located Mariana in time to see her barrel into the new king of France. The startled smile lighting up her face combined a flawless mixture of vacuity, sheepishness, and awe. He couldn’t resist a swell of pride, even as the prickle of anxiety remained constant. He must focus on the task at hand and see this night through. Mariana must come later.

  His feet accelerated into a light sprint as he and Percy converged on the fringe of the crowd just rising from their deep curtsies and bows. Their footsteps fell into a unified rhythm as they rushed toward the same destination: the Comte de Villefranche.

  “Get Villefranche out of here,” Nick spoke under his breath.

  “For how long?” Percy asked.

  “Tonight, at the very least. A few days would be ideal.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Your cover will be blown,” Nick continued. “It is only a matter of time before Montfort knows that you are alive. Perhaps it is time for you to go home, too.”

  “Perhaps,” Percy allowed, his tone indicating the opposite. Percy would follow his own path. “But Nick,” he continued, “we must discuss your wife.”

  “Now isn’t the time.”
Eyes trained on Villefranche some twenty yards away, Nick didn’t want to halt their forward momentum.

  “There is something you must know,” Percy pressed.

  “Not now, Bretagne,” Nick snapped. They were so close. Villefranche was in his sights, and nothing short of a force of nature would stop him from completing this mission.

  As he and Percy closed in, Villefranche’s body shifted and visibly tensed. The inevitable was striding toward him, and there was no avoiding it.

  Villefranche’s gaze met Nick’s for a fleeting second before the man excused himself from his guests and beat a hasty retreat to a nearby dark passageway. Percy, then Nick, followed. Nick took one last backward glance, his senses on the alert for a trap. Perceiving nothing untoward, he slipped into the shadows.

  The three men standing in a close, uneasy triangle, Nick spoke first. “The assassination won’t be happening tonight. Your new king only awaits his crown.”

  Villefranche hesitated, his wide gaze shifting back and forth between Nick and Percy. His chin jutted toward Percy. “He was your agent all this time?”

  “Oui,” Nick replied. A watchful Percy remained silent.

  A humorless chortle escaped Villefranche. “Your wife was correct about my espionage skills.”

  “Leave Mariana out of this,” Nick said, his body suddenly tensed for battle. Percy’s fingers discreetly closed around his upper arm.

  “Is there more we need to know?” Percy asked.

  “I told Bertrand Montfort to leave France with no delay, or he would be charged as an enemy of the state for plotting the death of the king.” Villefranche drummed impatient fingers on his thigh. “My part in the plot is done, but it is the Englishman who will decide if it is truly finished.”