[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.“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.”He smiled again.“And I can’t help but be enraptured by story.And desirous to stick my untalented pen in places where it doesn’t belong to make a tale dance to my bidding.”She wondered if perhaps madness did run in the family.The marquess laughed suddenly, a warm sound.“Oh, yes.Stirring the pot is necessary now that I’ve been reined in for a time.” His eyes danced as he looked at her.“To his benefit, anyway.”She nodded, agreeing with whatever the madman was saying.“Giving me an ultimatum.Taking away my search for true love.All of my searches.I think it my duty to point him toward his.”He looked into the crowd and suddenly cocked his head, a mischievous light brightening his eyes again.“Ah, my Juliet awaits.”Miranda looked over to see the marchioness separating from the men and staring coldly their way.The marquess winked at Miranda and lifted her hand.“To the dagger or poison, I go.A pleasure, princess.Until we meet again.”He deftly stepped toward Miranda, still holding her hand, and she stepped back into the hole he had once more created in the crowd.She felt the familiar presence of a warm back at hers.The marquess winked again and slipped into the crowd.The viscount’s warm hand steadied her as she turned again into their circle.Two more men had joined the group, arguing about politics, ignoring her for the moment.The whispers were loud in her ears now that the marquess wasn’t distracting her.Her mind had nothing to focus upon other than the frothy words in the crowd’s surf.“The Russian princess.”“I heard she was the illegitimate daughter of the czar.”“No, the next in line to the throne.”“Heard she doesn’t speak English.”“I heard she does but feels we are all beneath her.”“Look how she stands.Apart from everyone.Even Downing.”“Holds herself like a queen.”Miranda tried not to stay as rigid as her body wanted to remain.She was frozen.Her immobility taken as snobbery.Her posture taken as arrogance.Suddenly the gossip shifted.Looks still sent her way, but also toward the other side of the room.The waves of chin-wagging parting in two directions as if the keel of a heavy boat had sliced through the waters.Flowing brown hair, ruffled and wavy, bobbed through the crowd.Murmurs seeped through the guests, and more than one woman openly watched the masked man.“Eleutherios,” one woman squealed.The viscount’s hand surreptitiously moved down her spine, and she shivered.She looked up, seeing his black hair above his black mask.Severe and captivating.He continued to speak with the men, his fingers tickling her back almost absently.She looked back to the man the whispers were proclaiming as Eleutherios.A woman stepped in his path, the blond ice princess from Vauxhall.She said something, and he smiled, bowing low in a Byronic bend, light tendrils of hair brushing his forehead as he straightened.A hundred sighs echoed through the crowd.The viscount’s fingers caressed her flesh.The subject matter of their group abruptly changed to mistresses as one of the men said something about the ice blonde.Miranda shifted as more than one eye looked speculatively upon her at the introduction of the topic.The viscount’s eyes tightened.She was having trouble catching her breath all of a sudden.She caught sight of Georgette in the crowd.She needed to escape.Just for a moment.She touched the viscount’s hand.“Please pardon me,” she murmured, trying to inject some sort of shadowy accent to the words, dark humor the only thing saving her from uttering a slightly hysterical laugh.The men nodded, the viscount watching her with his dark eyes, seeing her gaze go to her friend and tipping his head.She tried not to hurry as she walked to Georgette.“Mir-Artemis!” Georgette exclaimed, and hooked her arm through hers, starting to steer her back into the fray.“I just met the most fabulous women.Shall I introduce you? I have figured out the best way of pretending to speak Russian.All you have to do is take the first—”“Perhaps later.” Miranda stopped their forward progress.“I thought I might head for the retiring room.”Georgette’s brows rose.“Very well.I’ll go with you.”But halfway to the room, Georgette stopped in her tracks and pointed a shaky finger.“Miranda! Mrs.Q.”Miranda kept the sigh to herself as her friend stood transfixed by the woman in green descending the stairs, all eyes glued to her.“Go.”Georgette looked torn, her eyes still on her idol.“But I don’t want to leave you.”“Go.I’ll be fine.I’m just going to retire for a few minutes.I’ll look for you when I return.”“Are you sure?”“Yes.” She gave her a push.“Go.”Georgette blew her an air kiss.“You are a peach.Ta!”Miranda shook her head and kept her eyes straight ahead until she entered the blissfully empty room.She leaned against the door and closed her eyes.She opened them slowly, gazing at her reflection in the wall of mirrors across from her.A woman in a flowing white gown and gilded combs stared back.The silk pooled around her.The gold beads and stitched diamond chips made the woman sparkle.She allowed a small smile to curve her lips.She was sparkling.Galina had ruthlessly made it so.She stepped away from the door and walked to the oval looking glass in front of her.Yes, that was Miranda Chase there behind the mask.But it was the siren touch of Maximilian, Lord Downing, that had lit the spark.Voices clamored, and the door to the hall opened.Miranda quickly ducked behind a screen, peering through the small crack.Five young women entered the room.“I heard him say it himself.He is Eleutherios.Imagine what he looks like beneath the mask.Who do you think he could be?” one woman said to the other as she patted a puff of powder on her forehead.“Could be almost anyone.Though I’m betting on the third son of the Hannings, since he chose their rout to reveal himself.Been gone to the Continent all this time, didn’t you know? Availing himself of all the lucky women in Paris.I do wish he’d visit me and unveil himself fully,” the woman twittered.“I’d let him seduce me right out.”The woman pulled her dress down while gazing into the mirror, pushing her bosom into better view.Twisting this way and that, trying to make the visible crease more enticing
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]