The Study of Seduction: Sinful Suitors 2 (7 page)

She swallowed hard. “Because Durand will run off and tell everyone, and then the two of us will be placed in a difficult—”

“He wouldn’t do that. It wouldn’t suit his plan.”

Clarissa gaped at him. “What plan?”

“To win you. If he tells the world that we’re engaged, he lessens his own chances at getting you back.”

“He has
no
chance of getting me back.”

“I know, but
he
clearly doesn’t know that. Or acknowledge it. And he has to realize that ending an engagement publicly would be messy for us; he’ll assume that we’d rather marry than cause a scandal. So it’s better for him to keep it secret, too, in hopes that he can end it privately by winning you. That’s the better strategy.”

“Do you always think in terms of strategies?”

Edwin shrugged. “I’m a chess player. And in life, as in chess, strategy is everything. Durand knows that. So, as long as we give him enough evidence to believe that we’re telling the truth, while at the same time not alerting the rest of the world to it, we’ll be fine.”

“You’re suggesting that we—”

“Pretend to be ‘secretly’ engaged for Durand’s benefit. Yes.”

She blanched. “That won’t work.”

“Why not?” He lifted an eyebrow. “Surely you can be nice to me long enough to convince him. And no one expects
me
to be nice. All I have to do is be attentive.”

“Oh, Lord, that alone will start people speculating about our new intimacy. And since telling Mama any kind of secret is just asking for trouble, she’ll spin a future for us out of what she witnesses, and will start insinuating that we have an understanding, and next thing I know I’ll be trapped into—”

“For God’s sake,” he bit out, growing annoyed by
her obvious loathing for the idea of ever wedding him. “If anyone will lose anything by having our supposed ‘engagement’ found out, it will be
me
. You said you’d never marry me. So you’d have to jilt me to get out of it.”

She blinked. “Well . . . yes. Exactly.”

“And since I’ve been jilted once already,” he went on irritably, “being jilted again would make it even more difficult for me to find a wife. So if
I’m
not worried about the consequences if our ‘engagement’ is revealed, I damned well don’t know why
you
should be.”

“I just don’t . . . see how it would work.”

“Do you have a better suggestion? I’d call the arse out, but that would almost certainly lead people to assume there’s something serious between you and me.”

To his surprise, horror suffused her features. “You are
not
dueling with that scoundrel. Don’t even think it!”

“I do know how to handle a pistol.” Blast it, did she consider him incapable of winning a duel?

“That’s not the point.”

“Fine. What’s
your
plan?”

She let out a long sigh. “All right. Let’s say we pretend to be ‘secretly’ engaged around Durand. How are we supposed to convince him that it’s real if we can’t actually behave like an engaged couple?”

“I have no idea.
You’re
the expert on flitting about society. Perhaps we should make sure he sees us holding hands in private, or even kissing or—”

“You’re such a
man
,” she cut in. “All of you go right to the physical.”

He eyed her askance. “Shall we have him read our minds instead?”

“Very amusing.” She pursed her lips. “But we can be more subtle. Give the illusion of your being on the verge of making an offer to me. We can flirt, tease, dance—” When he groaned, she added, with an arch glance, “Yes, we must dance as often as is proper without declaring ourselves. That’s a given.”

“Bloody hell,” he muttered.

“Stop cursing. Besides, you’re a better dancer than you let on. You’ll be fine.” Her expression softened. “Who knows? You might even learn how to put some poetry into your poussette.”

“Since I don’t know or care what a poussette is, I’m not sure how I could put poetry into it. And I really don’t see how my circling woodenly about a ballroom with you proves anything to anyone.”

“It proves you’re willing to endure a pastime you’re not fond of, just for the chance of touching me and holding me. Besides . . .”

As she went on describing the advantages of gamboling together in public, he slid behind a chair to hide the effect her words had provoked. He was stuck on the “touching me and holding me” part. Because he wanted to touch and hold her.

Years ago, Samuel, his practiced seducer of a brother, had told him that women responded very well to the usual kisses in the usual spots, but also to ones placed on strategic points all over the body. His brother had even claimed that some women could find their release merely from such caresses.

Though Edwin was skeptical about that last, he’d always wanted to try rousing a woman the way Samuel
described. And the idea of doing it with Clarissa now filled his head. He imagined kissing Clarissa’s inner arm, dragging his tongue along the soft skin of her throat, brushing his hand over the tiny dip in her—

“Edwin?” she prodded. “Do you agree?”

“Er . . . yes, of course.” God only knew what he was agreeing to. That’s what he got for woolgathering—that, and an arousal growing more prominent by the moment.

What the devil? This hadn’t happened to him since he was a green lad lusting after tavern wenches. “But you’ll have to help me with the flirting. It’s not my strong suit.”

“Don’t worry. Just follow my lead, and listen to your instincts. I’m sure you have them. You just ignore them.”

Or suppress them whenever it came to her, which he must continue to do. Because his instincts said to pull her close and kiss her the way Durand
should
have—like a lover, not a bully. His instincts said she might welcome such a kiss.

His instincts were doubtless quite wrong.

As if she could read his mind, she sharpened her gaze on him. “Are you sure you want to do this? It hardly seems fair to you.” She approached him slowly. “I mean, how long are we talking about continuing this sham?”

He fought to clear his head of erotic images. “However long it takes for Durand to get the message.”

“But that might be ages. What if you have to spend the entire Season pretending to court me for Count Durand’s benefit? How does that help you find a wife?”

“You let me worry about that.”

“You’re not getting any younger, you know.”

God, what did she think—he was doddering on the edge of the grave? “Thanks for reminding me.”

“Seriously, Edwin—”

“I doubt our sham will go on too long. Consider it this way: If you help me with my flirting and courting and such nonsense, then by the time we’re finally rid of that fool, I’ll be so far advanced in my strategies to secure a wife that it will take me no effort at all.”

She gazed heavenward. “Oh, Lord. I’m really going to have my work cut out for me, aren’t I?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Coming up next to him, she slid her hand into the crook of his arm. “Well, first of all, stop referring to flirting and courting as ‘nonsense’ in front of any woman you’re actually interested in. And second, you have got to stop thinking in terms of strategies and ‘securing a wife.’ The important thing to remember is . . .”

His mind wandered again as she led him from the room, instructing him the whole way. But this time his thoughts weren’t on undressing her. This time all he could think was that he’d gained himself yet another fiancée who was never going to marry him.

Bad enough that Jane had thrown him over. Though they’d never been more than friends and the only thing Jane had hurt was his pride, watching her fall for another man’s claptrap about “true love” had still stung. It had been unexpected, too, since she was a sensible woman otherwise.

But Clarissa wasn’t Jane. She took nothing—other than Durand’s obsession, apparently—very seriously.
And even if she
wanted
to marry Edwin, he would never consider marrying her. If he ever got close to the bright flame that was Lady Clarissa Lindsey, she would singe him but good. He’d rather be alone than to wed her and find that her infatuation was temporary.

He refused to have his heart pummeled when she lost interest in her husband and moved on to her next conquest. He refused to wake up one day, like his mother, to discover that his marriage was all a lie. That his spouse had never been in his corner. That Clarissa’s love or infatuation or whatever one called it could not withstand the rough times of a marriage.

Edwin had watched his mother die with his father’s name on her lips and her heart breaking, and all because Father had been off at a private opium club in London, indulging in his favorite vice to erase his memories of the past. Even “love” had not prevented his father from sinking into that abyss.

Before Edwin would risk having that happen to
him
, he would settle for a perfectly conventional, boring union with some responsible chit who was happy to live the usual life of a well-bred lady—bearing him children and managing his household and not making him think or feel.

Because quiet comfort with any ordinary female was surely preferable to a possibility of untold pain with a certain frivolous beauty.

Meeks’s Mechanical Museum had probably never seen such an influx of people. But having been appropriated by Lady Maribella’s parents for her eighteenth birthday, it was overrun with the beau monde in full flower, oohing and ahhing over such creations as a tiny clockwork coach drawn by two horses, and a mechanical flute player, which, once wound up, entertained an entire room.

Clarissa turned her attention to Edwin, who was frowning as he observed a mechanical spider in its advance forward. “You don’t look very pleased,” she said. “I’d think you’d be delirious at being able to attend a social occasion you can actually enjoy for once.”

“I would be happier if Meeks had added anything new since the last time I was here.”

“When was that?”

“Two months ago. I brought the lads.”

Ah yes, from Preston Charity School for Boys, which Edwin supported. Thanks to Yvette, Clarissa and her
mother had given to the cause more than once themselves. “I’m sure they enjoyed it immensely.”

“They seemed to. They usually do.”

“Usually? How often do you come here, for pity’s sake?”

He shrugged. “A few times a year. More, if I hear that there’s something new. It provides an excellent counterpoint to the lads’ lessons in physics and mathematics.”

“And I suppose you also get ideas for your own creations,” she teased.

A faint smile crossed his lips. “That, too.”

“One day I hope to see these automatons of yours.”

“So you can mock my endeavors the way Yvette does? No, thank you.”

She patted his arm. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“You’ve spent the past three days critiquing my manner of speech, my behavior toward ladies, and my opinions. I can hardly see why you would stop at mocking my favorite pastime.”

“If you would actually pay attention to my criticisms,” she said with a sniff, “I’d have no need to continue them.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “I doubt that. I suspect that you enjoy giving directions.”

“Only when they’re heeded.”

“I heed them when I can. But I doubt I will ever succeed in making my manner of speech ‘amiable’ enough to satisfy your stringent requirements.” His voice hardened. “And I am
not
going to alter my opinions about life and the world simply to acquire a wife.”

“I don’t want you to alter them. Just don’t voice them to ladies.”

“So I can surprise my wife on our wedding night when she finds out what I really think? That hardly seems a good plan.”

She huffed out a frustrated breath. “
You’re
the one who asked me to help you. I assumed that it meant you would accept my help.”

He cursed under his breath. “I’m trying.” With a glance about the room, he changed the subject. “At least there’s no sign of Durand. For a while there, he seemed to be at every event we attended.”

And Edwin had bared his teeth every time the man had ventured near her. Indeed, the earl’s fierce protectiveness toward her had come as a shock. He’d never before seemed to care so deeply about what happened to her.

“Perhaps your plan is working,” she said.

“Or he’s plotting a more indirect way to get to you.”

A shiver swept over her before she could suppress it. It infuriated her. She’d worked for years to put her fear behind her, to fight off the bad dreams and the nervousness. Now, that dratted Durand threatened to overset all her hard-won control.

She refused to let him. “Lord, I hope he’s abandoned his interest. If he hasn’t, it will send Mama into even more of a ‘spell’ than she’s in at present.”

Her mother had begged to be excused from this party because she was having one of her “spells.” Privately, Clarissa had suspected that Mama was simply trying to allow her and Edwin a chance to be alone, but Clarissa had said nothing to him about it and
merely asked that they take his open phaeton for propriety’s sake.

Miss Trevor and Lady Maribella hurried up to them. “Have you seen the boy draughtsman who draws sketches, Lady Clarissa?” Miss Trevor asked. “You must come look at it! It’s in the next room.”

The women tried to pull Clarissa away from Edwin, but she grabbed his arm. “His lordship and I will both come. He’s very knowledgeable about automatons. Perhaps he can give us some idea of how they work.”

“That would be wonderful,” Miss Trevor said without enthusiasm as she led the way into the other room. Clearly, the woman knew his reputation for being blunt and reticent.

But Lady Maribella must not have, for she gushed, “There’s a writer and a piano player, too. All three are positively amazing!”

“As opposed to negatively amazing, I suppose,” Edwin muttered under his breath as they followed at a more leisurely pace.

“Hush,” Clarissa chided, though she stifled a laugh. “She’s young.”

“
You’re
young. But you still know how to use the English language.”

“Why, Lord Blakeborough,” Clarissa said sweetly, “I do believe you’re giving me a compliment. You see? It’s not that difficult.”