The Study of Seduction: Sinful Suitors 2 (12 page)

“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 wasn’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.”

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 done 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.

It took some moments for the theatergoers to quiet down enough so she could speak. Then, in her carrying tones, she began her introductory speech:

Clarissa leaned up to whisper, “It’s true, you know. I read in the paper that she’s the first Englishwoman to ever manage a theater. And look what a great success it is!”

“For tonight, anyway. She still has a hard path ahead of her.”

“But
you
believe in her, don’t you? You invested in her concern.”

He smiled. “I’ve known her a long time, actually. Her father, a dealer in art and other goods, supplied mine with most of his automatons. And me, as well, before he died. She and I have been friends since childhood.”

“
Friends
?” She bumped her arm with his. “You neglected to tell me that you knew her personally! Heavens, what other secrets are you keeping?”

None that he would tell her. “I have a fondness for women in breeches,” he said lightly. “But you unearthed that secret already.”

“Do be serious. How well do you know Madame Vestris? What is she like?” Her eyes narrowed. “Wait, she’s famous for her breeches parts—is that why you want me to wear breeches? Because you have some sort of . . . infatuation with her?”

“Shhh!” Lady Margrave hissed. “I can’t hear her speech! And everyone is sure to be talking about it tomorrow.”

“We’ll finish this discussion later,” Clarissa said under her breath.

They certainly would. After Clarissa had cautioned him about Miss Trevor and questioned him about Lucia, he had to wonder—could she really be jealous? It seemed impossible, but the signs were growing too strong to ignore.

Not that he wanted her to be jealous. Truly, he did not. But at least it put in a better light his own unsettling reactions to seeing men court her.

Of course, the cause of his behavior was a protective instinct, nothing more. Not jealousy.

Liar.

While that annoying word rang in his thoughts, the first piece of the four-part program began, a burlesque that showed the gods Hercules, Jupiter, Neptune, and Plutus singing a comic song while playing whist.

Musical or operatic parody wasn’t his favorite form of entertainment, but clearly it was hers. He soon found himself watching
her
half the time and not the production. Because Clarissa even threw herself into being a spectator. She laughed, she frowned,
she made droll commentaries on everything.

He’d never seen anyone get so much pleasure from a simple theater performance. While her mother was busy waving to other patrons, whispering in her daughter’s ear, and looking for the opera glasses she’d dropped, Clarissa sat rapt, an incandescent joy on her face as she watched what happened on the stage. He only wished he could capture that expression.

By the time the intermezzo came, he was almost loath to see the first piece end. But he had little chance to ask her opinion of the performance before the box door burst open, and they were swamped with visitors.

Unsurprisingly, none of them were there for him. A few of Lady Margrave’s cronies wanted to compare notes with the dowager countess, but most of the visitors were young heirs of titled gentlemen who’d come to flirt with Clarissa. So Edwin stood back and observed the scene, hoping to learn which of their tactics garnered the best response from her.