Silk Is For Seduction. Loretta Chase
blood in all of Europe. But Noirot was a common name, as common as dirt, which was why Grandpapa had chosen it. Now, most of the family was gone, taking their infamy with them.
Notorious or not, her family was as old as Clevedon’s—and she doubted all his ancestors had been saints. The only difference at the moment was that he was rich without having to work for it and she had to work for every farthing.
She knew it was absurd to let him provoke her. She knew her customers looked down on her. They all behaved the way Lady Renfrew and Mrs. Sharp did, speaking as though she and her sisters were invisible. To the upper orders, shopkeepers were simply another variety of servants. She’d always found that useful, and sometimes amusing.
But he…
Never mind. The question now was whether to let him win or lose.
Her pride couldn’t let him win. She wanted to crush him, his vanity, his casual superiority.
But his losing meant a serious inconvenience. She could hardly enter a ball on the Duke of Clevedon’s arm without setting off a firestorm of gossip—exactly what she didn’t want to do.
Yet she couldn’t let him win.
“We play the deck,” he said. “We play each deal, but with one difference: We don’t show our cards until the end. Then, whoever has won the most deals wins the game.”
Not being able to see the cards as they played through would make it harder to calculate the odds.
But she could read him, and he couldn’t read her. Moreover, the game he proposed could be played quickly. Soon enough she’d be able to tell whether he was playing recklessly.
The first deal. Two cards to each. He dealt her a natural—ace of diamonds and knave of hearts. But he stood at two cards as well, which he never did if they totaled less than seventeen. Next deal she had the ace of hearts, a four, and a three. The next time she stood at seventeen, with clubs. Then another natural—ace of spades and king of hearts. And next the queen of hearts and nine of diamonds.
On it went. He often drew three cards to her two. But he was intent, as he hadn’t been previously, and by this time, she could no longer detect the flicker in his green eyes that told her he didn’t like his cards.
She was aware of her heart beating faster with every deal, though her cards were good for the most part. Twenty-one once, twice, thrice. Most of the other hands were good. But he played calmly, for all his concentration, and she couldn’t be absolutely sure his luck was worse.
Ten deals played it out.
Then they turned their cards over, slapping them down smartly, smiling coolly at each other across the table as they did so, each of them confident.
A glance at the spread-out cards told her she’d beat him all but four times, and one of those was a tie.
Not that she needed to see the cards laid out to know who’d won. She had only to observe his stillness, and the blank way he regarded the cards. He looked utterly flummoxed.
It lasted but an instant before he became the jaded man of the world again; but in that look she glimpsed the boy he used to be, and for a moment she regretted everything: that they’d met in the way they’d done, that they were worlds apart, that she hadn’t known him before he lost his innocence…
Then he looked up and met her gaze, and in his green eyes she saw awareness dawn—at last—of the problem he’d created for himself.
Once again, he recovered in an instant. If he was at a loss—as surely he must be—there was no further sign. Like her, he was used to covering up. She should have covered up, too. He ought to have second thoughts. It was no more than she expected. His consternation, however faintly evidenced, rankled all the same, and more than it ought to have done.
“You’ve been rash, your grace,” she taunted. “Again. Another silly wager. But this time a great deal more is at stake.”
His pride, a gentleman’s most tender part.
He shrugged and gathered up the cards.
But she knew what the shrug masked.
His friends had seen him at the opera in the box of an aging actress, seeking an introduction to the actress’s friend. Émilien knew she was a London dressmaker, and by tomorrow night, at least half of Paris would know she was a nobody: no exciting foreign actress or courtesan, and certainly not a lady of any nationality.
What would his friends think, when they saw him enter a party he wouldn’t normally attend, bringing a most unwelcome guest, a shopkeeper?
“What hypocrites you aristos are,” she said. “It’s all well enough to chase women who are beneath you, merely to get them beneath you—but to attempt to bring them into good company? Unthinkable. Your friends will believe you’ve taken leave of your senses. They’ll believe you’ve let me make a fool of you. Enslaved, they’ll say. The great English duke is enslaved by a showy little bourgeoise.”
He shrugged. “Will they? Well, then, watching their jaws drop should prove entertaining. Will you wear red?”
She rose, and he did, too, manners perfect, no matter what.
“You put on a brave show,” she said. “I’ll give you credit for that. But I know you’re having second thoughts. And because I’m a generous woman—and all I want, foolish man, is to dress your wife—I’ll release you from a wager you never should have made. I do this because you’re a man, and I know that there are times when men use an organ other than their brains to think with.”
She gathered her reticule, arranged her shawl—and instantly recalled the brush of his fingers upon her skin.
Crushing the recollection, she swept to the door.
“Adieu,” she said. “I hope a few hours’ sleep will restore your good sense, and you’ll let us be friends. In that case, I’ll look forward to seeing you on Friday. Perhaps we’ll meet on the Quai Voltaire.”
He followed her to the door. “You’re the most damnable female,” he said. “I’m not accustomed to having women order me about.”
“We bourgeoise are like that,” she said. “No finesse or tact. So managing.”
She walked on, into the deserted corridor. From one room she heard low murmurs. Some were still at their gaming. From elsewhere came snores.
Mainly, though, she was aware of his footsteps, behind her at first, then alongside.
“I’ve hurt your feelings,” he said.
“I’m a dressmaker,” she said. “My customers are women. If you wish to hurt my feelings, you’ll need to exert yourself to a degree you may find both mentally and physically debilitating.”
“I hurt something,” he said. “You’re determined to dress my duchess, and you’ll stop at nothing, but you’ve stopped. You’re quite prepared to give up.”
“You underestimate me,” she said. “I never give up.”
“Then why are you telling me to go to the devil?”
“I’ve done no such thing,” she said. “I’ve forgiven the wager, as it is the winner’s prerogative to do. If you’d been thinking clearly, you would never have proposed it. If I hadn’t allowed you to provoke me, I should never have agreed. There. We were both in the wrong. Now go find your friends and arrange to have them carried home. I have a long day ahead of me, and unlike you, I can’t spend most of it recovering from this night.”
“You’re afraid,” he said.
She stopped short and looked up at him. He was smiling, a self-satisfied curve of his too-sensuous mouth. “I’m what?” she said quietly.
“You’re afraid,” he said. “You’re the one who’s afraid of what people will say—of you—and how they’ll