The Study of Seduction: Sinful Suitors 2

by Sabrina Jeffries

  When, an hour and a half later, she and Mama descended the stairs in full regalia, complete with satin opera cloaks, she caught Edwin glancing at his pocket watch.

  “Don’t blame me if we’re late,” she told him with a side glance at her mother. “I wasn’t the one who insisted upon eating dinner while dressing.” And it had taken Clarissa’s maid a good half hour to get her coiffeur, a confection of feathers and curls and ribbons, done properly.

  “I’m an old woman,” her mother said with a sniff. “I get peckish.”

  “You are not that old, Mama.”

  “No matter, Lady Margrave,” Edwin said kindly and offered her his arm. “We’re not late yet. Once I realized I’d have to change my plans for the evening, I came early enough to allow plenty of time for you two to dress, in case you wanted to attend Olympic Revels with me. I know how long such preparations take. Not for nothing do I have a sister Clarissa’s age.”

  As she followed them down the steps to the carriage, Clarissa rolled her eyes at him. “You make it sound as if I’m miles younger than you. We’re only eight years apart.”

  He handed Mama into the carriage, then turned to Clarissa, his gaze glittering in the glow of the gas lamps. “Eight years can be an enormous divide.”

  Unnerved by the coolness of his tone, she tipped up her chin. “Are you trying to convince yourself? Or me?”

  He took her hand with a wary look. “Merely stating a fact.”

  “There’s no need for the reminder,” she said as he helped her in. “I already know we’re utterly wrong for each other.”

  “Clarissa, for shame,” Mama murmured as they settled into their seats and he told the driver to go on. “His lordship is being very kind, squiring us about town like this. You should be grateful.”

  She sighed. Mama had a point. “Forgive me, Edwin.” She was always willing to admit when she’d gone too far. “I’ve been in a foul mood all day, but I shouldn’t inflict it upon you.”

  A cloud spread over his brow. “Nothing to do with Durand, I hope.”

  “No, of course not. I would have told you first thing.” The truth was, Edwin’s searing kisses two nights ago had left her all at sea. One moment he seemed to desire her, the next he was cold and remote as usual. She’d spent the entire two days trying to make him out, with no great success.

  The worst was, she didn’t want to care that he seemed to be withdrawing, but she did, and that alone was maddening.

  “Per your instructions,” she went on, “we didn’t leave the house at all, not even to go shopping.”

  “Good.”

  As something occurred to her, she twisted the strap of her silk reticule. “You don’t think he’ll be there tonight, do you?”

  “He may. But with such a crowd, he’ll have a hard time finding us. Just stay close to me, and we should be fine.”

  She nodded, but her stomach knotted. She was being silly; Durand had probably lost interest once Edwin had stood up to him. She was worrying for nothing. Though she suddenly wished she hadn’t worn quite so daring a gown.

  Edwin seemed to sense her tension, for he softened his tone. “Don’t let that arse keep you from enjoying yourself. If he’s there, just leave him to me.”

  “Yes, my dear,” Mama chimed in. “I’m sure his lordship is perfectly capable of routing that Frenchman. And you do like the opera, after all.”

  “It’s not opera,” she said mechanically. “From what I understand, they’re doing burlesques.”

  “Oh, I love a good burlesque!” her mother cried. “Last year I saw one of The Magic Flute, and I nearly fell over laughing. That Mozart—what a droll fellow.”

  “Mozart didn’t write the burlesque, Mama,” Clarissa said. “He wrote the original opera from which they built the parody. And that burlesque could have used a dose of Madame Vestris. She has such a way of singing things that instantly makes one smile. Don’t you agree, Edwin?”

  “She does sing them very well,” he said noncommittally.

  “Come now, surely even you are susceptible to Madame Vestris’s fine talent for comedic singing and dancing.” She frowned at him. “Unless it’s her famous ‘breeches’ roles that make you disapprove.”

  “A woman in breeches can be very funny,” Mama put in. “You were quite comical when you dressed as Romeo for the masquerade last year, my dear.”

  Clarissa saw Edwin’s shoulders stiffen and couldn’t resist tweaking his nose. “Hard not to be comical in Papa’s old breeches. They came down to my ankles and were so big in the waist, I had a difficult time keeping them up.”

  “I noticed,” Edwin bit out.

  “Did you?”

  “Hard not to notice when you kept cinching up those braces until your . . . derriere was very prominently . . . well . . .” He muttered an oath under his breath. “Yes, I noticed you in breeches. The whole damned world noticed. The male half, at least. I can’t believe Warren let you leave the house in that.”

  “Let me? My cousin doesn’t dictate what I wear. Anyway, it was a masquerade. I wore a mask. No one knew who I was.”

  “The devil they didn’t. And Warren considers it his duty to look after you. Which means making sure you don’t attract unwanted attention.”

  “Warren didn’t know what I was wearing until I arrived. I came down with my cloak already on.” When his eyes narrowed as it apparently dawned on him that she’d done the same this evening, she added hastily, “This is why you and I would never suit, you know. You have no sense of fun.”

  That brought him up short. He crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s not true. Didn’t you hear Miss Trevor at the museum? She said I was surprisingly droll.”

  “That’s one instance—hardly enough to form a pattern.” She straightened her gloves. “Why, you can’t even go ten minutes without chiding me for something.”

  “Nonsense. If I so chose, I could go an entire evening without chiding you.”

  “Could you? Prove it.” The minute she said it, she questioned her sanity. Hadn’t she ended up regretting her previous attempt to set a task for him?

  Clearly, he hadn’t forgotten that, for fire leapt in his eyes. “And if I do? What do I get as my reward?”

  When his gaze drifted down to her arm, she swallowed hard, remembering the last reward he’d exacted. At least he wouldn’t dare choose such an outrageous prize tonight, since Mama was listening to the exchange quite avidly.

  Although Mama would probably approve whatever prize Edwin asked for. She wasn’t exactly known for being a strict chaperone.

  “Well?” he prodded.

  “You get the satisfaction of knowing you are improving yourself.”

  “That’s not much of an incentive.” The sudden gleam in his eyes gave her pause. “How about this? If I succeed in going an entire night without making a single criticism of you—”

  “Or my attire or my manners or—”

  “Anything in your sphere,” he said irritably.

  “I’m just making sure we agree on the rules from the beginning.” After last time, she wasn’t letting him play fast and loose with her demands.

  “Fine. If I behave to your specifications, then the next time I come to dine, you must wear breeches the entire evening.” He paused, then amended, “Breeches that fit, mind you.”

  Oh, dear, he made that sound . . . rather wicked. It wasn’t like him at all. In fact, it shocked her he would suggest such a thing, and he was rarely shocking.

  Her mother, however, didn’t seem to find it shocking at all, for she clapped her hands. “Oh, that would be such fun!”

  “Mama! It’s far too scandalous!”

  “Pish,” her mother said with a wave of her hand. “If it’s just us at dinner, no one will care.”

  Clarissa would care. As usual, Mama was more than willing to skate past the proprieties if they stood in the way of her enjoyment—or her determination to get Clarissa married off. Sometimes Clarissa enjoyed the freedom. Sometimes, she wished her mother was
n’t so . . . well . . . accommodating.

  This was one of those times. While it might not be too risqué to dress in men’s attire for a masquerade where everyone else was wearing outrageous costumes, doing it in a more private setting with Edwin, especially when Mama was so inattentive, was taking things too far. Why, the very idea of him watching her backside . . .

  “The servants will gossip,” she protested.

  “Since when do you care about servant gossip?” Edwin said dryly.

  Mama chimed in, “And they won’t think a thing about it, anyway, if we all dress up. We can make a game of it. I do love games.”

  “Yes, by all means, let’s make a game of it,” Edwin said, his glittering gaze drifting down to fix on Clarissa’s mouth.

  The hint of a dare in his tone got her back up. “You’re already assuming you will succeed, Edwin, but you might not. And if you don’t—”

  “I’ll give you something,” he said. “Why don’t we make it a true wager? If I win, you wear breeches for dinner. If you win, I’ll give you . . . what? You’ll have to choose what you’d want from me. That is, if I fail, which I won’t.”

  The arrogant statement pushed her over the edge. “Fine. I agree to a wager.” She tapped her chin. “Just let me think what I might want of you.”

  She must choose carefully, since he almost certainly couldn’t go an entire evening without instructing her on some aspect of her behavior. Her gown alone would send him over the edge. So she would win, which meant she wanted the prize to be something that made an impact, that truly made him regret not behaving more like an amiable gentleman.

  “A jewel perhaps?” he prodded. “A new hat?”

  “I can only imagine what sort of hat you would give me,” she said.

  Besides, he’d never been tightfisted, so throwing money about would hardly be a punishment for him. Indeed, the only things that did seem to matter to him, other than his family, his estates, and his good name, were his automatons, which he had never even allowed her to—

  “I know!” she said triumphantly. “If you fail, you must give me one of your automatons.”

  He blinked. “You want an automaton?”

  “Not just any automaton. One that you created.” She sat up straighter. “I don’t want you trying to fob off on me some broken thing that your father owned.”

  The glint of amusement in his eye surprised her. “I wouldn’t dream of it. But are you sure you don’t want an emerald bracelet or some such nonsense?”

  “No. I want an automaton.”

  “Very well. I agree to your terms.”

  He held his gloved hand out across the space between them, and she took it, an odd shiver of anticipation coursing down her when he squeezed her hand. But he didn’t release it right away. He held it, his gaze burning into hers, and for the merest moment, she wished she’d asked for some other sort of reward. Something more personal, more intimate even.

  Another kiss.

  No, that was absurd. Their last one had been unnerving enough.

  The moment passed. She tugged her hand free and flashed him a lofty smile. “All right, my lord. We are agreed.”

  He broke into a smile. “Good. Let the games begin.”

  Eight

  The crowds outside the Olympic Theatre prevented the carriage from moving at greater than a snail’s pace. It was one reason that, until two hours ago, Edwin had been dreading his evening. Though he’d promised to attend, he hadn’t been looking forward to it. But now . . .

  Now he could hardly wait. He would hold his tongue tonight if he had to bite it off, because he fully intended to win this wager.

  He’d barely had a chance to see Clarissa in her costume at the masquerade last year; she’d been surrounded by fawning admirers the entire night. But in her own home, with her mother sanctioning the visit, he could feast his eyes as much as he liked on the vision of her sweet little bottom lovingly cupped by a pair of boy’s breeches.

  The only thing better would be cupping that bottom in his hands.

  He groaned. Best to get such thoughts out of his head right now, before his body betrayed him. The carriage was finally drawing up in front, and the last thing he needed was to make a spectacle of himself before curious onlookers by thinking of Clarissa in anything more than the most brotherly fashion.

  They’d scarcely disembarked when a servant came to their side and said he’d been sent by madam to accompany them to a private box held for their use. The servant took Lady Margrave’s arm to help her walk, leaving Edwin to escort Clarissa.

  As they followed the fellow into the theater and up a staircase, Clarissa murmured, “Clearly there are advantages to investing in a theater. You didn’t even have to take a box of your own.”

  “It’s opening night. I doubt this will continue.”

  “Oh, don’t be a naysayer.” Her eyes darted about, taking in everything. “You have a private box at the opening night of the most anticipated performance in London. Do you know how many people would kill for that? And Mama and I get to join you. How thrilling!”

  “I’m glad it makes you happy,” he said, and meant it.

  As her mother hobbled along in front of them with her escort, Clarissa called a bright greeting to this friend or that acquaintance. The closer they moved down the passageway to the box, the more her smile broadened. It was breathtaking.

  She was breathtaking.

  Normally, he would only notice how many people were crowded into the place and how noisy it was. But tonight he couldn’t help seeing all the glitter and glamour of it through her eyes. Her enthusiasm was infectious.

  As soon as they entered the box where the servant was already settling Lady Margrave into a plush chair, Clarissa gave a little cry of delight. “Not only do you have a box, but it’s perfectly situated! Oh, this is wonderful.”

  “Here, let me take your cloak,” he said.

  Mischief glinted in her eyes before she put her back to him and untied the satin wrap. He took it from her, then froze at the sight before him.

  Her bodice barely clung to the edges of her shoulders. Though he knew that such necklines were the fashion, the fabric seemed to fall rather more deeply in the back than he was used to. He could see her shoulder blades, for God’s sake. And if it was cut that low in back . . .

  She turned, and he caught his breath. Her cross-draped bodice formed a low vee that served up the sweet swells of her creamy breasts for all to see.

  “God help me,” he rasped. He couldn’t seem to look away.

  “Is there something wrong?” she asked with a sly smile.

  “I should say so. Your gown—” He caught himself as he realized why she was smiling. Their wager. Bloody hell.

  “Yes?” Glee positively danced in her eyes. “What about my gown?”

  He scrambled for an answer that she wouldn’t consider “chiding.” “The fichu appears to have fallen out of your bodice. Perhaps I should go look for it in the passageway.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” she said with a laugh. “There’s no fichu. This is how the gown is supposed to look.”

  She thrust out her bosom—he would swear it was deliberate—and he had to swallow his groan. All that lush female flesh was close enough to kiss, to touch. Turning away to hang her cloak on a hook, he fought for composure.

  “Don’t you like it?” she persisted.

  Like it? He could easily slip his hand inside that bodice. He could probably slip it inside her corset, too. The gown was cut too low to accommodate a more formidable corset, so it would be an easy matter to shove one shoulder off and fill his hand with her perfect—

  “It’s lovely.” As he faced her once more, he had to resist the urge to act on his fantasy right here in the theater. “A very interesting gown.”

  She mocked him with a grin. “I thought you would enjoy it.”

  Sly minx.

  The overture began, and he said, “Perhaps we should sit down.”

  “Oh, certainly. If you’re don
e giving me compliments on my gown.”

  “It’s not the gown I’m complimenting,” he said dryly, “but what’s in it. Or rather, half out of it.”

  “Is that a criticism?” she said sweetly.

  “Merely an observation.” He was skirting the edges of their wager, but he didn’t care. The mere thought of the male half of the audience seeing her bosom so well displayed made something twist low in his gut. Clearly, he’d gone quite mad.

  “Hmm,” she murmured, but apparently chose to take him at his word. Probably she assumed she’d have plenty more chances to catch him.

  He began to think she might. Clarissa would do everything in her power to make sure she won.

  Meanwhile, he had to look away as he settled her into the chair beside her mother’s. Otherwise, he might stand there frozen half the night, gaping down at her delicious breasts and wondering how they might smell, feel, taste.

  God.

  He took the seat next to Clarissa, and a faint scent of lavender oil wafted to him. Every time he saw her, she wore a different perfume. Was it just boredom that made her change incessantly? Or a genuine pleasure in trying different things? The first showed her to be flighty; the second showed her to be adventurous.

  He wasn’t sure he wanted either in a wife. Not that it mattered. He wasn’t marrying her, after all. And why the devil did he keep having to remind himself of that? The blasted woman was getting under his skin.

  The audience erupted into thunderous applause as Lucia Bartolozzi Vestris herself came onto the stage to present an introductory speech. The half-Italian actress was widely acclaimed a beauty, although he’d always thought her only marginally pretty, at least compared to Clarissa. But despite being a year or two younger than he, Lucia possessed the grace and manners of a woman much older, which was why she was so beloved among the theater set.

  She’d taken months to prepare the Olympic for the opening, and it showed. There was none of the usual red velvet and heavy gilding of other theaters, just light and airy pastels with embossed flowers and fleurs-de-lis on the panels of the boxes. The sets were sparse but well done, and she’d fitted the theater with the latest in gas lighting. With the place crammed full to bursting and people still trying to get in from off the street, it appeared she’d already succeeded in having a first night to remember.