Silk Is For Seduction. Loretta Chase
forgotten. She’d wanted to come to this ball to observe. She would have come without him but for their wager—though that had been less a wager than a war of wills.
“How could I forget?” he said. “I could scarcely believe my eyes when my friends showed me the business cards you handed out as though they were party favors.”
“Has your exotic pet embarrassed you, monsieur le duc? Does the odor of the shop offend your nostrils? How curious. As I recall, you were the one who insisted on bringing me. You taunted me with cowardice. Yet you—”
“It would be vulgar to strangle you on the dance floor,” he said. “Yet I am sorely tempted.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “You haven’t had this much fun in an age. You told me, did you not, of the machinations the high and mighty employ to be invited to this exceedingly dull ball. You’ve done what scores of Parisians would give a vital organ to accomplish. You’ve achieved the social coup of the decade. In escorting me, you’ve broken a host of ancient, unbreakable rules. You’re thumbing your nose at Society, French and English. And you’re dancing with the most exciting woman in the room.”
His heart was thudding. It was the dance, the furious dance, and talking, and trying to keep up with her, matching wits. Yet he was aware of an uneasiness inside, the same he’d felt with her before—because it was true, all true, and he hadn’t known the truth himself until she uttered it.
“You have a mighty high opinion of yourself,” he said.
“My dear duke, only look at the competition.”
“I would,” he said, “but you’re so aggravating, I can’t tear my gaze away.”
They were turning, turning, both breathless from dancing and talking at the same time. She was looking up at him, her dark eyes brilliant, her mouth—the mouth that had knocked him on his pins—hinting at laughter.
“Fascinating,” she said. “You mean fascinating.”
“You’ve certainly fascinated my friend Aronduille. He wonders where you learned to curtsey and dance and speak so well.”
There was the barest pause before she answered. “Like a lady, you mean? But I’m only aping my betters.”
“And where did you learn to ape them, I wonder?” he said. “Do you not work from dawn till dusk? Are dressmakers not apprenticed at an early age?”
“Nine years old,” she said. “How knowledgeable you are, suddenly, of my trade.”
“I asked my valet,” he said.
She laughed. “Your valet,” she said. “Oh, that’s rich. Literally.”
“But you have a maid,” he said. “A slight girl with fair hair.”
Instantly the laughter in her eyes vanished. “You noticed my maid?”
“At the promenade, yes.”
“You’re above-average observant.”
“Madame, I notice everything about you, purely in the interests of self-preservation.”
“Call me cynical, but I suspect there’s nothing pure about it,” she said.
The dance was drawing to a close. He was distantly aware of the music subsiding, but more immediately aware of her: the heat between them, physical and mental, and the turbulence she made.
“And yet you court me,” he said.
“Solely in the interests of commerce,” she said.
“Interesting,” he said. “I wonder at your methods for attracting business. You say you wish to dress my duchess—and you start by making off with my stickpin.”
“I won it fair and square,” she said.
The dance ended, but still he held her. “You tease and provoke and dare and infuriate me,” he said.
“Oh, that I do for fun,” she said.
“For fun,” he said. “You like to play with fire, madame.”
“As do you,” she said.
Tense seconds ticked by before he noticed that the music had fully stopped, and people were watching them while pretending not to. He let go of her, making a show of smoothing her lace—tidying her up, as one might a child. He smiled a patronizing little smile he knew would infuriate her, then bowed politely.
She made him an equally polite curtsey, then opened her fan and lifted it to her face, hiding all but her mocking dark eyes. “If you’d wanted a tame pet, your grace, you should have picked another woman.”
She slipped away into the crowd, the black lace and red bows fluttering about the shimmering pink-tinged gold of her gown.
Masked balls are over for the season, but dress balls are as frequent as they were in the beginning of the winter. Some of the most novel dancing dresses are of gauze figured in a different colour from the ground, as jonquille and lilac, white and emerald green, or rose, écre and cherry-colour.
Costume of Paris by a Parisian correspondent,
The Court Magazine and Belle Assemblée, 1835
Marcelline swiftly made her way out of the ballroom and into the corridor. She started toward the stairway.
“I picked you?” came a familiar, low voice from close behind her.
Startled, she spun around—and collided with Clevedon. She stumbled, and he caught hold of her shoulders and righted her.
“Delicious exit line,” he said. “But we’re not quite done.”
“Oh, I think we are,” she said. “I’ve looked my fill tonight. My card will be in the hands of at least one reporter by tomorrow, along with a detailed description of my dress. Several ladies will be writing to their friends and family in London about my shop. And you and I have caused more talk than is altogether desirable. At the moment, I’m not absolutely certain I can turn the talk to account. Your grasping me in this primitive fashion doesn’t improve matters. May I point out as well that you’re wrinkling my lace.”
He released her, and for one demented instant, she missed the warmth and the pressure of his hands.
“I did not pick you,” he said. “You came to the theater and flaunted yourself and did your damndest to rivet my attention.”
“If you think that was my damndest, you’re sadly inexperienced,” she said.
He studied her face for a moment, his green eyes glittering.
If he took hold of her again and shook her until her teeth rattled, she wouldn’t be surprised. She was provoking him, and it wasn’t the wisest thing to do, but she was provoked, too, frustrated on any number of counts, mainly the obvious one.
“I brought you,” he said tightly. “I’ll take you back to your hotel.”
“There’s no reason for you to leave the party,” she said. “I’ll find a fiacre to take me back.”
“The party is boring,” he said. “You’re the only interesting thing in it. You’d scarcely left before it deflated, audibly, like a punctured hot-air balloon. I heard the sigh of escaping excitement behind me as I stepped into the corridor.”
“It didn’t occur to you that the deflation was on account of your departure?” she said.
“No,” he said. “And