Regency Rogues and Rakes: Silk is for Seduction / Scandal Wears Satin / Vixen in Velvet / Seven Nights in a Rogue's Bed / A Rake's Midnight Kiss / What a Duke Dares. Loretta Chase
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for a fool. Because she’d lured him across an opera house and into the Longchamp mob, she imagined she’d enslaved him.
She wouldn’t be the first or the last woman to let her imagination run away with her in that way.
“I only ask you to consider,” she said. “Do you want your lady wife to be the best-dressed woman in London? Do you want her to be a leader of fashion? Do you want her to stop wearing those unfortunate dresses? Of course you do.”
“I don’t give a damn what Clara wears,” he said tautly. “I like her for herself.”
“That’s sweet,” she said, “but you fail to consider her position. People ought to look up to and admire the Duchess of Clevedon, and people, generally, judge the book by the cover. If that were not the case, we’d all go about in tunics and blankets and animal hides, as our ancestors did. And it’s silly for you of all men to make out that clothes are not important. Only look at you.”
He was all but dancing with rage. How dare she speak of Clara in that way? How dare she patronize him? He wanted to pick her up and—and—
Devil confound her. He couldn’t remember when last he’d let a woman—a shopkeeper, no less—ignite his temper.
He said, “Look about you. I’m in Paris. Where fashion’s heart beats, as you said.”
“And do you wear any old thing in London?” she said.
He was so busy trying not to strangle her that he couldn’t think of a proper retort. All he could do was glare at her.
“It’s no use scowling at me,” she said. “If I were easily intimidated, I should never have got into this business in the first place.”
“Madame Noirot,” he said, “you seem to have mistaken me for someone else. A fool, I believe. Good day.” He started to turn away.
“Yes, yes.” She gave a lazy wave of her hand. “You’re going to storm off. Go ahead. I’ll see you at Frascati’s, I daresay.”
HOTEL FRASCATI, No. 108, rue de Richelieu. This is a gaming-house, which may be considered the second in Paris in point of respectability, as the company is select. Ladies are admitted.
Galignani’s New Paris Guide, 1830
Clevedon stopped, turned back, and looked at her.
His eyes were green slits. His sensuous mouth was set. A muscle worked at his jaw near his right ear.
He was a large, powerful man.
He was an English duke, a species known for its tendency to crush any small, annoying thing that got in its way.
His stance and expression would have terrified the average person.
Marcelline was not an average person.
She knew she’d waved a red cape in front of a bull. She’d done it as deliberately as an experienced matador might. Now, like the bull, he was aware of no one else but her.
“Confound you,” he said. “Now I can’t storm away.”
“I shouldn’t blame you if you did,” she said. “You’ve been greatly provoked. But I warn you, your grace, I am the most determined woman you’ll ever meet, and I am determined to dress your duchess.”
“I’m tempted to say, ‘Over my dead body,’” he said, “but I have the harrowing suspicion that you will answer, ‘If necessary.’”
She smiled.
His countenance smoothed a degree and a wicked gleam came into his eyes. “Does this mean you’ll do whatever is necessary?”
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, “and that will not be necessary. Pray consider, your grace. What self-respecting lady would patronize a dressmaker who specializes in seducing the lady’s menfolk?”
“Ah, it’s a specialty, is it?”
“You of all men must know that seduction is an art, and some practitioners are more skilled than others,” she said. “I’ve chosen to apply my talents to dressing ladies beautifully. Women are capricious and difficult to please, yes. Men are easy to please but far more capricious.”
To a discerning woman, his beautiful face was wonderfully expressive. She watched, fascinated, while a speculative expression gradually erased the lingering signs of temper. He was puzzling over her, revising his original estimation and, therefore, his tactics.
This was an intelligent man. She had better be very careful.
“Frascati’s,” he said. “You’re a gambler.”
“The game of chance is my favorite sport,” she said. Gambling—with money, with people, with their futures—was a way of life for her family. “Roulette, especially. Pure chance.”
“This explains the risks you take with men you don’t know,” he said.
“Dressmaking is not a trade for the faint of heart,” she said.
The humor came back into his green eyes and the corners of his mouth quirked up. On any other man that look would have been charming. On him it was devastating. The eyes, the sweet little smile—it stabbed a girl to the heart and then lower down.
“So it would seem,” he said. “A more dangerous trade than I’d supposed.”
“You’ve no idea,” she said.
“This promises to be interesting,” he said. “I’ll see you at Frascati’s.”
He made her a bow, and it was pure masculine grace, the smooth and confident movement of a man completely at ease in his powerful body.
He took his leave, and she watched him saunter away. she watched scores of elegant hats and bonnets change direction as other women watched him pass.
She’d thrown down the gauntlet and he’d taken it up, as she’d known he would.
Now all she had to do was not end up on her back with that splendid body between her legs.
That was not going to be easy.
But then, if it were easy, it wouldn’t be much fun.
London
Wednesday night
Mrs. Downes waited in a carriage a short distance from the seamstress’s lodgings. Shortly after half-past nine, the seamstress passed the carriage. She glanced up but didn’t stop walking. A moment later, Mrs. Downes stepped down from the carriage, continued down the street, and greeted the young woman as though theirs was an accidental encounter of two old acquaintances. They asked after each other’s health. Then they walked a few steps to the door of the house where the seamstress lived. After a moment of conversation, the seamstress withdrew from her pocket a folded piece of paper.
Mrs. Downes reached for it.
“The money first,” the seamstress said.
“Let me see what it is first,” Mrs. Downes said. “For all I know, it’s nothing out of the way.”
The seamstress stepped closer to the street lamp and opened the folded sheet of paper.
Mrs. Downes gave a little gasp, and hastily covered it up with a disdainful sniff. “Is that all? My girls can run up something like that in an hour. It’s hardly worth half a crown, let alone a sovereign.”
The seamstress folded up the paper. “Well,