Don't Tempt Me

by Loretta Chase

  “I don’t,” said Zoe. She shrugged. “He is very beautiful and desirable, and his membrum virile grows hard so easily. I scarcely have to touch him. And what other men do I see?”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I think.”

  “Marchmont, you said you would see this through,” Zoe said. “You said it wasn’t necessary for us to wed. I believe you. I trust you.”

  “That is one of the most frightening sentences I’ve ever heard,” said Priscilla.

  Zoe lifted her chin. “All of my sisters said no invitation would ever come, but you have arranged it.”

  That got Priscilla’s attention. “Invitation?” she said. “What invitation? You can’t mean…” She trailed off, looking from Zoe to Marchmont.

  “The Duke of York has promised to see that Zoe is invited to the Prince Regent’s Birthday Drawing Room on the twenty-third,” he said.

  “The Birthday Drawing Room?”

  “It is preferable, in the circumstances, to a Drawing Room reserved for presentations,” said Marchmont. “Zoe won’t be mixed in with a lot of girls barely out of leading strings.”

  “The Birthday Drawing Room,” said Priscilla. “Good grief, Zoe, why didn’t you say so?”

  “I forgot,” Zoe said. “He told me yesterday, but I was so angry with him that it went out of my brain.”

  “Oh, my goodness! The twenty-third. That’s only a fortnight away!” Priscilla grabbed Zoe’s arm and started to drag her away.

  “What are you doing?” Zoe said. “I cannot go with you. Mama’s horse is on the bridle path.”

  “Let him deal with it,” Priscilla said. “You’re coming in my carriage. The sooner you get away from Marchmont the better. Come along, you absurd creature. Forget? How could you forget such a thing? Stop dawdling. We’ve not a minute to lose.”

  Lexham House

  Friday afternoon

  Zoe stood in the corridor outside the open door of the large drawing room, preparing to enter. The two younger of her sisters were in the corridor with her, to provide guidance. The two older ones were inside. Augusta was playing the queen. Gertrude was playing Mama.

  For one who’d navigated the deadly shoals of Yusri Pasha’s court, the rules governing court presentations were laughably simple.

  Not so simple were the hoop petticoats. Her mother, grandmothers, and great-grandmothers had worn these interesting undergarments beneath the elaborate gowns Zoe had seen in family portraits. In olden times, though, a dress’s waistline had been at a woman’s natural waist or lower, and this made for some balance between top and bottom. Nowadays, the waists came up under one’s breasts, and the gown spread out from there, forming a dome, somewhat flattened fore and aft.

  “You could not wear this in the desert,” Zoe told her sisters. “If a sandstorm came, it would lift you up and carry you to Constantinople.”

  “What nonsense,” said Augusta. “There are no sandstorms in London.”

  “You needn’t worry about winds,” said Dorothea. “You need only step down from the carriage. Then it’s merely a few steps into the palace.”

  “The train is heavy enough to act as an anchor,” said Priscilla with a giggle. “Oh, Zoe, how droll you look.”

  Zoe wore one of Priscilla’s gowns. A pearl grey silk confection adorned with ruffles and lace, it was the size of a tent sufficient to house a family of Bedouins. The dress was a few inches too short, but there was plenty of train to make up for the hemline.

  Moving forward in a relatively empty space like the corridor of Lexham House had felt strange, but it had not proved very difficult. That, however, was only the beginning, her sisters assured her.

  “The palace doorways are wide enough to pass through, but you must be prepared to contend with a tremendous crush of people on the stairs and in the corridor,” Dorothea said. “You must practice and practice if you wish to move gracefully, particularly when you’re presented to the Queen.”

  “You must make your way up a crowded staircase,” said Gertrude. “You must gracefully maneuver your hoops and train among not only other ladies in hoops but men wearing swords. You must make a very deep curtsey to Her Majesty, and be careful not to get the plumes in her face.”

  “Take care they don’t fall off, either,” Dorothea said.

  “You must contrive to rise again without stumbling or dropping your fan and gloves,” said Gertrude. “Then you will back out of the royal presence, curtseying as you go.”

  “Without getting tangled in your train,” said Dorothea.

  “Yes, yes,” Zoe said impatiently. “But one thing at a time. Let me get through the door first.”

  Augusta walked away to the far end of the drawing room and took her place upon her “throne.” This was a chair the servants had raised up on bricks, to bring her to approximately the level at which the Queen would sit.

  Gertrude positioned herself nearby.

  Dorothea and Priscilla remained in the corridor, to offer instruction as needed. “Are you ready, Augusta?” Dorothea called.

  “Of course I’m ready,” said Augusta. “The question is whether Zoe is.”

  They had closed one side of the double doors leading into the large drawing room so that Zoe could practice maneuvering through a more confined space.

  She brought her elbows down to compress the hoops, as Priscilla had shown her. Then she concentrated on the route she meant to take to Augusta, took a deep breath, and sailed over the threshold at the same instant Dorothea cried, “Zoe, wait! The train!”

  Too late.

  Zoe’s foot tangled in the forgotten train, and down she went. She let go of the hoops and put her hands out to break her fall. The hoops sprang out as she went down face foremost onto the carpet, and the gown billowed up around her.

  She heard the snort behind her, but she was preoccupied with determining the simplest and quickest method of getting upright unaided. The corset required her to bend from the hips. After a quick mental survey of the options, she pressed her hands into the carpet and pushed herself up onto all fours. Then, hands still braced on the carpet, she lifted her bottom into the air while she straightened her legs. She carefully walked her hands back as close to her feet as she could, then angled her spine upright.

  Another, louder snort came from behind her, then a bark of laughter. Deep, masculine laughter.

  She turned toward the doorway, where Marchmont stood, one hand braced against the door frame while he laughed.

  And laughed.

  And laughed.

  Tears streamed down his face.

  He shook his head and composed himself. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. Having erased all signs of mirth from his face, he walked into the room and sat in a chair. Her two younger sisters broke into giggles. He made a strangled sound, then exploded into laughter. Then they were all laughing, even Augusta.

  “Do you know,” Zoe said to the room at large, “that is much more difficult than it looks?”

  “Falling on your face?” said Marchmont. “But you make it look s-so easy.” And off he went into whoops.

  During this one unguarded moment, Zoe could watch him, and she did, utterly bemused. Something had happened, and she wasn’t sure what. The world had changed somehow. Or perhaps something in her mind had changed or a key had turned in a keyhole, unlocking something hidden away and forgotten.

  Then, as his laughter began to subside, she saw what it was.

  This is he, she thought. This is the boy I used to know. This is Lucien.

  The moment passed and the green eyes shuttered, but she could still discern the amusement glinting there.

  “The Birthday Drawing Room will prove more entertaining, I suspect, than some might wish,” he said.

  “I shall not embarrass you,” Zoe said.

  “Oh, nothing embarrasses him,” said Gertrude. “Never fear for that. It’s the rest of us who’ll be mortified. It’s Mama who’ll be there, humiliated.”

  “She will not be humiliated,” Zo
e said. “I won’t fall. I’ll learn everything. If I can learn to dance in veils without killing myself, I can learn to get through a door wearing hoops.”

  She became acutely conscious of his slitted green gaze. She knew he was either picturing what was under the hooped petticoat or imagining her dancing in veils. She glanced down at his hands and remembered yesterday. Her skin had memorized every place where those hands had touched her. Every one of those places tingled. In the airy space under the hooped petticoat, her Palace of Delight tingled, too.

  “I’d always thought the Dance of the Seven Veils was a myth,” he said.

  “It isn’t,” Zoe said. “It’s very beautiful and arousing to men—well, not to Karim, but then, nothing aroused him.”

  Not like you, she thought. The trouble was, she’d thought of him in that way far too much. She really needed to meet other men.

  “That is an unsuitable topic of conversation,” said Augusta, who’d quickly regained her normal pomposity.

  “You had better go away, Marchmont,” said Gertrude. “You do not take this seriously, and you are a bad influence.”

  “Zoe can practice her gymnastics later,” said Marchmont. “I must mount her.”

  Augusta turned purple. Even Zoe looked taken aback.

  “Out!” Augusta snapped. “Out!”

  “Certainly not,” Marchmont said. “I am in charge of launching Zoe into Society, and she can’t make a respectable show if she isn’t properly mounted. We can’t have her riding in Hyde Park looking like a quiz, on a borrowed horse on a borrowed saddle and wearing a borrowed habit.”

  At the moment, in her borrowed finery, she made anything but a respectable show. It was the first time he’d ever seen her not wearing day dress, with her bosom covered. At present, it was on full display. Overfull display. They had stuffed some lace into the bodice for decency’s sake, but it was obviously too small, and the lace was being asked to do more than the laws of physics allowed.

  Zoe laughed. “Oh, it’s a word play. Mount means two things. Very funny, Marchmont. I’ll be happy to let you mount me.”

  The two younger of her sisters covered their mouths.

  Augusta and Gertrude glowered.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your presentation lessons,” he said. “But the matter can’t wait. We’re due at Tattersall’s in an hour.”

  “What is Tattersall’s?” Zoe said.

  “The grand mart for horses,” Priscilla explained. “It’s quite close to Hyde Park Corner. They’ve room for more than a hundred horses, as well as carriages and harnesses and hounds.”

  “The auction is not until Monday,” Augusta said. “And Tattersall’s is for men only.”

  “Like a gentleman’s club,” Priscilla told Zoe.

  “Women do not enter,” said Gertrude. “Unlike a gentleman’s club, they let in persons of high and low degree, including some of unsavory character.”

  “For a lady to go is unthinkable,” said Augusta.

  “True,” said Marchmont. “But the rules do not apply to me. I thought it unwise and dangerous to choose a horse for Zoe without her participation. I’ve made arrangements. What’s the good of having a duke in charge of these matters if he doesn’t use his…er…duke-ness?”

  “Baksheesh,” Zoe said. “It works magic, I know.”

  He knew what baksheesh was. He’d learned about it when she’d told her story to Beardsley. London was not altogether different from Cairo in that way. Bribes worked wonders.

  “That, too,” he said. He didn’t know or care what the special arrangement had cost. He left financial wrangling to Osgood. “But we have a limited time. Can you get out of that contraption quickly?”

  “Oh, yes.” She lifted up her gown, reached under, and started wriggling about as she hunted for the petticoat ties.

  “Zoe!” Gertrude cried.

  “Someone help me get out of this,” Zoe said.

  “Not here!” Augusta shrieked.

  Zoe paused, the front of the dress pulled up to expose her knees and more. Her garters were plainly visible. They were red.

  She did not appear to be wearing drawers.

  She let the garment fall, dragged up the train, and ran out of the room. “Jarvis?” she called. “Where is Jarvis?”

  He muttered something about making sure she didn’t tumble down the stairs and followed her out.

  It was the feeblest excuse. The truth was, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. It wasn’t simply the expanse of smooth flesh on display, either. It was the way she moved in the hooped skirts, the way they exaggerated the sway of her hips, and the way the skirts billowed about her. She was like a ship under full sail, gliding along the passage as though she glided on water.

  He was dimly aware of her sisters saying something. He shut the door behind him, to shut them out.

  She had the train over her arm, but the way she held it hiked up the skirt on one side. He remembered what he’d seen, what he knew: under those hooped petticoats was only air and skin.

  His mouth went dry.

  She rounded a corner. He could have—and should have—stopped then if he’d known how, but he didn’t.

  Temptation glided ahead of him, and he couldn’t turn away.

  Though the corridor was carpeted, she must have heard him, because she turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. She gave a little laugh and broke into a run.

  Then he became aware of the staircase looming ahead and a chair against the opposite wall and a table beyond that, with a great china dragon standing on it—and scores of obstacles elsewhere. If she tripped and fell against the table, the dragon would fall on her head.

  “Zoe, stop!” he called.

  She stopped abruptly, dropping the train. She started to turn, lost her balance, and tottered toward the stairs.

  He lunged toward her and pulled her upright and dragged her away from the stairs.

  He pushed her against the nearest wall, solid and safe, and tried to calm himself.

  Impossible. His heart was racing, churning with panic and anger and desire everlastingly put off.

  Red garters and stockinged legs and the memory of her hands on him and the taste of her mouth and the scent of her skin. In his mind he saw her as she was long ago, galloping away, never to return. He saw her as she was yesterday, in his arms, yielding and eager and curving and soft and turning the cool spring day into summer.

  “Don’t, don’t, don’t,” he said. He didn’t know what he was saying. Nothing made sense. But she was here, and he could feel her breath on his face. He could hear her inhale-exhale, fast and shallow, like his. He was aware of the rustle of silk and the gown billowing about him, a silken, feminine cloud.

  “Damned hoops,” he said. Then his mouth was on hers and she gave way instantly, her lips parting to his, her hands reaching up into his hair. To hold him.

  As though there was any danger of his running away.

  He’d never run away. It was always she.

  He had her now, though, and all the balked lust of yesterday exploded into life at the first taste and touch. Their kiss was deep and wild, nothing civilized about it at all, but he was worlds away from civilization at this moment.

  He broke away from her mouth to press his face into her neck and drink in the scent of her while his hands slid over the silk and lace encasing her. He was heatedly aware of her hands moving over him. She wasn’t afraid to touch. She wasn’t afraid to explore his body. Far from it. Her hands stole under his coat and waistcoat, and dragged over the front of his shirt. Then those restless hands moved behind and lower, to grasp his buttocks and press him closer. She rubbed herself against him.

  He slid his hands over the silk and ruffles and the frustrating layers between them. He wanted skin, but the dress entranced him. The silk draped over the hoops was the most sensuous and seductive of traps, yielding to the pressure of his hands and billowing up again when he released them.

  He grasped a fistful of silk and ruffles and lifted
up the front of the dress. The silk and lace whispered against his coat sleeve while he reached under and his fingers slid over her stocking and upward, to pause on a garter.

  Red.

  No drawers.

  His hand stole upward, to skin.

  She moved against his hand. He trailed his finger upward, to the junction of her thigh.

  “Oh,” she said.

  She was so soft in that softest of places.

  “Oh.” She squirmed against his hand.

  Then, “Oh!” she said, and pushed him away. Hard.

  So hard that he dropped the front of her dress and stumbled backward.

  Then he heard the approaching footsteps.

  It was then that he came to his senses—or as close as he could get. He looked down in despair at the incriminating evidence: his cock standing at attention, a great bulge straining at the flap of his breeches.

  He bent down and made a show of helping her gather up her train. He was explaining the most efficient way of carrying it when her father rounded the corner and stalked toward them.

  “Marchmont,” he said. “I want a word with you.”

  She’d heard the door shut shortly after she left the drawing room. She’d known it was Marchmont behind her. She knew his step, and she’d trained herself to hear far stealthier footfalls than his.

  All the same, she was amazed she’d heard her father coming. All the world had narrowed to Marchmont and what he did to her. She could not remember when anyone or anything had absorbed her as fully as he did when he kissed and caressed her.

  She really needed to meet other men.

  “You’d better go to your maid,” Marchmont told her.

  “Not yet,” said Lexham. “This involves Zoe, too.”

  Marchmont’s countenance, which had been almost human a moment ago when he’d got her all stirred up, reverted to its usual tell-nothing expression.

  It was a face she couldn’t marry, couldn’t think of marrying: a beautiful house with all the doors closed and the windows drawn. The women in his life would always be shut out.

  And she, unlike most of them, would know what he used to be and could envision what he might have become. She’d heard his laughter and watched his face before, in the drawing room. She’d seen and felt him come alive when he pushed her against the wall and when she thought he’d ravish her and it hadn’t occurred to her to do anything but let him.