by Anne Mallory
The Seven Secrets of Seduction
The equally grand but rented carriage rolled to a stop. Miranda touched the drawn shade. She’d drawn it upon entering and felt no urge to panic—at least not about being inside the carriage. She had plenty of unrelieved tension about her destination. But surely they weren’t yet at the Hannings’? The viscount was meeting her at the ball. He’d sent his primary carriage team with the rented carriage though, so she wasn’t alarmed at the sudden stop, just curious.
The viscount had said he would find her at the ball. That it would be part of the fun.
She was a little surprised, truth be told, that he wanted to meet her there. As if he was courting her. The first day she had met him, she would have said that he was the type to flout convention and enter a society ball, scarlet woman on his arm. And after she’d discovered he was Viscount Downing, she would have expected it.
But he’d been adamant about meeting her there.
The door opened, and an excited voice met her ears. “Thank you, kind sir. What strong shoulders you have.”
Miranda’s eyes widened, and she leaned forward to see the crown of a perfectly coiffed head duck into the interior. Benjamin’s goofy grin disappeared behind the door as it closed, and the entering figure of Good Queen Bess thumped onto the seat.
“Ooh, cushion comfort.”
“Georgette!”
“Miranda! Imagine seeing you here.” Her eyes sparkled as she put a hand to her bosom. “You are a vision of Artemis. Oh! Look at your arrows.” She touched the gilded set on the seat.
“What—I thought—you were—”
“Going to the Mortons’? With you? I was.” She patted her hair, her smile undimmed.
“I apologize again for canceling—”
“Good gads, Miranda. Whatever for? I was excited for you when I read your note. I was thrilled for you when I thought of your fate. Exhilarated for the adventure you’d experience, and that was all before I saw the very nice carriage that was waiting to take me shopping. And the stupefying explanation as to why it was taking me.” She happily looked around the interior. “And now, well, I think I might just love you forever.”
“You are coming then? To the Hannings’?” She wouldn’t have to arrive alone. Nor brave the lofty crowd of the event with only the viscount for comfort. The viscount not a very comfortable man. Exciting, thrilling, exhilarating—all of the words Georgette had used—but not comfortable.
“I am.” Georgette’s smile threatened to split her face as she held up a gilded invitation. “I’ve been practicing my Russian all day in case you cause too big a stir. Nyet! No dance!”
Miranda stared at her for a moment, then couldn’t contain the grin that spilled into laughter.
She touched her friend’s hand when her laughter finally subsided. “I’m so glad you are coming.”
Georgette squeezed her fingers back. “Me too. You can’t imagine how hard it was to keep it to myself and not fawn all over a reply to you. And that charming viscount of yours…” She waggled her brows, obviously forgiving him all of his sins. “Well, if I don’t see you for a time at the party, I assure you that I will be fine.”
Miranda colored. “I—”
Georgette smirked. “I love that you can still blush.”
They exchanged excited chatter for the rest of the long ride, the Hannings living on the outskirts of London proper.
As they drew closer, they both craned to peer through the window as surreptitiously as they could because there was a small crowd of people moving slowly along the curbside. Trying to catch a peek as the grand carriages moved slowly up the drive.
The house sparkled at the top of the curved drive. Lit by what looked like more lights than all of Vauxhall contained.
“Oh, Miranda.” Georgette’s face shone.
Miranda looked at her, shining in the interior. Staring out at the lit facade, face nearly pressed to the glass.
The viscount had done this. Maximilian. Had probably deduced it from their earlier conversations that not only would Miranda love to attend, but that it would absolutely be her friend’s dream.
“I think I love your viscount,” Georgette whispered. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Despite her best reservations, at the moment Miranda had to admit to feeling just a tad in love with the man herself.
Lights brimmed from the entryway. The viscount’s house was grand, but the Hannings’ house, lit the way it was, was magnificent. The entire scene was something out of a fairy tale.
As they entered the house, only Georgette’s excited hand upon her arm persuaded her that this was real. People were milling everywhere, though the overwhelming crush that was likely to attend had not yet arrived. They were early, and many would come fashionably late.
Those that wanted to set up their stations early were already doing so. Some wanted prime viewing spots while others preferred to be the ones in prime view. The mixture of attendees was part of what made the spectacle intriguing. One didn’t know if one was stepping onto the floor with a duchess or an actress, a prince or a dancing master.
Tales would run for weeks in the papers of simple folk who had brushed elbows with royalty. Or a countess seduced by her own husband, unknowingly. It made the whole spectacle possible for them to attend without too much of a concern.
They walked into the main ballroom and immediately everyone seemed to look their way. Georgette looked lovely, her figure on fine display in the queenly gown draped about her. And Miranda had to admit that she was quite pleased with her own appearance. Galina had been given free rein and done a wonderful job.
There were enough people entering with and around them that it made their own entrance mostly unremarkable. Too many people were trying to establish themselves in the crowd, though a few glances were sent their way. Groups established their spaces, then turned to watch the throng. To attempt to determine who was who by the way they held themselves or by what they were wearing.
Next to her, Georgette was nearly vibrating in excitement. She kept a running, whispered commentary every time a new couple, group, or person entered the main corridor through the throng. Some attendees were easily identifiable. Others were masked quite well. Goddesses, jesters, kings, puckish spirits, fictional characters, and darkly masked villains roamed the parquet floor as the space filled.
But where was the viscount?
The murmurs of the crowd suddenly rose. A woman walked into the thick of the room on the arm of a dark man. Georgette was avoiding the temptation to crane her neck, though she looked as if she wanted to do nothing short of standing on her tiptoes to see. “Who is it?” she whispered.
Currently in a better vantage spot due to the movements of the crowd, Miranda watched the woman, half of the pair of Romeo and Juliet, and the way she tried to smile gaily at those around her. The way the lines of her body were just a little too tight. “The Marchioness of Werston.”
Georgette’s neck craned slightly. “Really? Who is Romeo?”
Miranda shook her head, observing the rakish way the man sauntered. A decidedly scandalous sort as he began undoing his mask. “You would know better than I.”
She wondered what the viscount would have to do tonight to cover this one up, she thought somewhat cynically, then shut down the thought, determined to enjoy herself without restraint.
“Werston has nerve,” a woman muttered near them.
Miranda blinked and watched the man with greater interest as he sauntered forward, the mask dangling from his fingertips. So this was the viscount’s father. He was quite dashing.
And he was with his wife. As doomed star-crossed lovers.
At the moment they were creating more of a scandal together than apart.
Voices grew in volume. Miranda watched as a very familiar figure stepped into the room behind the couple wearing a simple masked outfit. He was dressed entirely in black, and though he was surrounded by outrageous costumes, he somehow commanded all attention. One hand was at h
is pocket, another held a glass. He looked bored as he gazed absently around the room, but then his eyes stopped on her, and a slow smile curved his lips.
“Oh, dear. I must harness my jealousy. That look.” Georgette fanned herself. “And he is heading this way.” Her friend lifted her skirts for flight.
“Georgette,” she hissed. “What are you doing?”
Her friend smiled mischievously. “Leaving you to your villain, dear. I am off to find a white knight. Ta!”
And her friend—well, she’d considered her a friend two minutes ago, but perhaps she ought to rethink it—took off, leaving her in the middle of the floor as a dark overpowering presence stepped beside her.
“That didn’t take very long,” she said as lightly as she could about his quick progress through the crowd, then turned to look up at him. His eyes caressed her face, lighting her on fire all the way down to her toes. Lord, he looked marvelous. “Good evening, your lordship,” she breathed.
He smiled—the smile that always did strange things to her insides. That mysterious, lovely pull of lips. He bowed over her hand, his eyes never leaving hers as the first notes of a waltz lifted into the air from the orchestral floor. “May I have this first dance, dear lady?”
And every dance thereafter, her heart nearly answered. “Yes.”
He spun her onto the floor, the lights a glowing halo above them as they moved. The faces in the crowd melted together. The onlookers became a simple backdrop in the pages of a storybook.
He was a wonderful dancer and made it easy to follow. She had taken many dancing lessons, but dancing with the viscount was a completely different experience. She had been taught the correct steps in order to be able to teach them in turn. But she had never danced with someone like the viscount. Someone who affected her in such a sensual way.
The waltz ended, and a new one began.
Her breath caught as his eyes met hers over touched fingertips. “I thought it improper to dance together again so soon.”
“At this ball, nothing is improper as long as one remains anonymous.”
“I don’t think you can be anonymous.”
His lips curved. “Anyone can be anonymous should it suit him.”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t think you could ever be.”
He looked away. “Then you might be surprised. I hope that should it happen, you will not be too displeased.”
She raised her brows.
He twirled and twirled her, taking her breath away, making her forget anything but the way they moved together. The music came to a close, and he opened his lips to say something, but they tightened as he looked at something over her shoulder.
His eyes met hers, darker and more focused. “I had meant to wait to greet you, to perhaps do so in some darkened hallway or behind a closed door, but I just couldn’t help myself.” He looked back into the crowd. “As always, when it comes to you.”
She tried to read his expression, but he quickly wiped it free.
“Don’t take off your mask, now that I’ve paid you attention,” the viscount said casually. Too casually. “Lest you be mobbed. The ton likes nothing better than a mystery. They’ll avidly try to discern your identity from afar until you slip and make it known. Messerden will want to speak nonsense for a few minutes without pause, trapping you here. Walk around the room, if you need to escape. I charged your friend with watching out for you.”
She startled at that piece of information but followed his eyes to a man in a dark cape drawing closer, another man in his wake. Onlookers gazed between them and the oncoming men, fascinated. Hoping for a bit of gossip.
“Leave if I can no longer stand the considering stares?” she asked.
The lines about the viscount’s mouth tightened farther. “I apologize.”
“Why?” she tried to say lightly. “It is a grand adventure, isn’t it? To be mistaken for a princess?”
His shoulders loosened minutely. “As long as you let me save you later from the wicked king.”
“I may, should I require aid.” She squared her shoulders as Messerden and the slighter man reached them. Both men eyed her but greeted the viscount first, as propriety dictated. Messerden turned to her, and she braced herself for the conversation.
Suddenly, the flowing silks of Juliet materialized in her view, at her side, stepping just a hair in front of her. Greeting Messerden in a twinkling voice.
Then she felt a presence near her back and turned to see a rakish, dark man bowing to her, lifting her hand with so much practiced ease.
Dressed as Romeo.
The viscount’s posture tightened, but he was busy answering his mother and the other two men. From his actions at Vauxhall, she had the feeling that he would easily ignore the two men to retrieve her, but the same couldn’t be said of ignoring his mother.
And his father had neatly and precisely cut her from their circle. She was somewhat relieved, truth be told. There was just something about Messerden and his continued appearances that put her on edge.
That didn’t mean that facing a marquess, even a decidedly scandalous one, was somehow an easy task. A marquess. Might as well be the King for all of the space between them socially.
“Good evening, dear lady.”
“Good evening,” she replied softly, unsure of a proper response in such a situation.
He smiled charmingly at a couple walking toward the dance floor and stepped backward and to the right, causing her to mirror the action as he hadn’t yet let go of her hand, allowing the couple to pass between their two groups, drawing her a little farther from the foursome now a few paces behind her back.
She narrowed her eyes a bit at the deliberate manipulation yet again. “How may I assist you, your lordship?”
The marquess looked at her, a steady long look, the edges of his eyes crinkled permanently in a charming, rather puckish way. “I know who you are.”
She swallowed. She wasn’t quite sure what she had expected him to say, but it had definitely not been that. “Oh?”
His lips briefly lifted. “I was a fourth son, never expecting to inherit. I’d rather have joined the navy. Set to sea.” His puckish smile grew. “Used to spend nights down by the docks. Lovely women there with a keen eye to teaching a man new tricks.”
She blinked.
His eyes sought the entrance again, as if he were waiting for someone. “Good place to pick up contacts. Ones that serve a man well in the future, no matter his status. Or perhaps better for his status.” His eyes slid back to her and held. “Of course, a few loyal servants also help. I make sure to keep an eye on the children. And their…interests. Sometimes their interests surprise even me.”
She smiled tightly. She hadn’t sought this man’s approval in any way, no matter his power, and didn’t feel a need to seek it now.
“Oh, you mistake me. I see it in your expression.” He leaned in. “I make it my concern to read women’s expressions too. Only my wife’s have ever fooled me. And yours says that you think I view you as a base servant.” He shrugged. “I have never been one to care much for such things. Figured I would marry a girl in some port. Perhaps two or three, one for each frequently scheduled destination.” His eyes almost looked dreamy for a second. “Love lasts so much better with plenty of space and bursts of passion, don’t you think? Alas, inheriting put quite a damper on such perfect plans.”
“That is outrageous,” she sputtered.
He smiled, his mercurial eyes changing once more. “Ah, a point in favor of your disguise, should anyone overhear. Mistresses routinely keep a bevy of admirers warming their sheets and accounts. A fallen woman would not be outraged by such. A princess, on the other hand…”
She got her sputtering under control. “Perhaps I’m a fallen princess.”
He just smiled as he examined her. “Perhaps you are falling. Maxim always did have a keen eye.”
She tried not to let the reminder that she was another conquest dampen her mood. Too much.
“
Ah, again I see your face. My son is far more constant than I. I do my duty. But Maxim always takes care of things I let wallow. You are hardly something he is picking up to spare a wallow.”
“I see.”
Once again, she decidedly did not.
“Everyone is so concerned with the state of our affairs. Tiresome. I don’t know why Maxim would even listen to some of his siblings’ natterings. Being proper is boring.”
Miranda thought of the tight, sad expressions on the face of his wife. Perhaps he couldn’t read her right because he didn’t wish to see the truth. To see how he truly affected her.
A wave of gossip pierced their space.
“Eleutherios, here?”
The edges of the marquess’s lips turned up. Much like his son’s. He looked to the entrance, to a brown-haired man there. Miranda couldn’t see much more of the man through the crowd. Though she craned her neck in curiosity. She had repeatedly restrained herself from doing so since she’d entered, now all restraint caved at the mention of the author’s name.
“Do you fancy the man’s writings?” the marquess asked.
Miranda blinked, trying to discern more of the man everyone was trying to see. He suddenly slipped away, into some room off to the right, and the voices dropped to whispers. “I do.”
“Thought the idea of a primer on seduction was silly myself at first. It’s more of an innate thing, a gift.” The right side of the marquess’s lip curved. “But I’ve quite changed my mind recently.”
“And?”
“And I thought of coming as the author myself tonight.”
She stared at him, and he laughed.
“Maxim would have sliced me to ribbons though. Probably socially disowned me once and for all.”
She looked at him closely. “Why would you dress as the author?” She tried to wrap her thinking around the idea that the marquess could be Eleutherios and failed.
“Merely as a lark. I have little talent with the pen, I assure you.” He gazed at his son, then back to where the man at the entrance had stood. “But I admire those who do.”
