The Seduction, page 12
Later that evening, when they met in the garden for their next adventure, Margaret gave him a piece of her mind. Trevor failed—deliberately, she thought— to understand just why she was upset.
"Yes," he admitted. "I've called on her twice. I've danced with her. What of it?"
"She thinks you might be inclined to marry her, as would any girl, given the circumstances. You are leading her on."
"Am I?"
She stared at him in astonishment. "You said you were not the marrying kind."
"True enough. I never have been. But, of late, I have found myself thinking more and more about the subject."
"You have?"
"Yes, indeed. You are partly to blame."
"Me? What are you talking about?"
"You reminded me that it is my duty to marry for an heir. And you were quite right."
Margaret felt as if her head were spinning. She hadn't said any such thing. Had she? "What are you saying? That Lady Sally would be your choice for a wife?"
"She would be quite a suitable wife for an earl."
"Really!" She stopped walking, and he paused beside her. Margaret felt insulted. "You talk of seducing me, but you talk of marrying Lady Sally?"
He seemed astonished. "Margaret, you have said quite clearly you don't wish to marry. I am an earl, and I have at last been forced to acknowledge that marriage is something I will have to do. I have my duty to consider. Besides, it is only something I am considering for the future. I don't know why you're so upset about this."
She drew a deep breath, trying to contain her growing irritation. "I'm not upset! It's just that, that..." She spluttered, unable to articulate what she felt without giving him the false impression that she wanted him for herself. "I thought we had agreed not to discuss the topic of marriage at all!"
"You're quite right," he agreed mildly and tucked her arm within his. They resumed walking, and he said, "I won't bring it up if you won't. And as long as our...association continues, I will not be marrying anyone else, I assure you."
"How considerate of you," she answered dryly, but he did not seem to notice the sarcasm.
He said no more about the matter, and they spent the evening at the theater, where they watched several skits from the Comedia dell'Arte. Both of them had seen the old Italian comedies before, but watching from the penny seats in a bourgeois theater was a totally new experience for Margaret.
"I had no idea crowds could be so critical!" she said. "Throwing tomatoes at the stage. Heavens! I'd love to see the audience do that at the Academy of Music back in New York. Just so I could see the look on Mrs. Astor's face!"
"From what I've heard of your American Knickerbocker set," Trevor answered, "a tomato in the face is exactly what Mrs. Astor deserves."
Margaret laughed delightedly at the picture his words evoked. "It's not my Knickerbocker set," she assured him. "And a good thing, too! Stuffy old cats, all of them."
"Why? Because they don't approve of throwing tomatoes at hideously bad actors?"
"No, because they told my father he wasn't good enough to have a box at their precious Academy." She stuck her nose in the air and added haughtily, "Those Van Aldens are such upstarts, you know. We couldn't allow such rabble into our set, my dear. Their money may be green, but their blood simply isn't blue enough."
Trevor smiled at her parody of Caroline Astor. But behind the teasing and laughter, he sensed an underlying hint of hurt in her voice, and he realized that, though she might pretend not to care, the social ostracism was a wound that cut deep.
"It would be difficult, I imagine, to have the money your father has, but be unable to achieve the social position to go with it."
She sighed. "It's difficult for my father. He wants to move in the highest circles, and it hurts him a great deal when we are not invited to the right parties. It hurts him, not for his own sake, but for mine." She was silent for a moment, then she said, "I remember when I was sixteen and I made my debut. Papa was so happy about it, so excited. He made these lavish preparations. He had the best musicians, the best food, the best wine. He invited all the right people. But—"
"But?" he prompted when she fell silent.
"Nobody came."
He sucked in a sharp breath, hearing the pain in her voice. "That must have hurt," he said gently.
She stiffened. "Mrs. Astor and her friends are just a bunch of malicious old cats. I don't care two cents for their opinion."
"Whose opinion do you care about?" Trevor asked.
"There are few people of whom I think well enough to desire their good opinion. My father and Cornelia. Edward. Some of my American girlfriends. That is all."
"And social acceptance in general means nothing to you?"
"Why should I want the acceptance of such hateful people?"
Her words struck a familiar chord. "In some ways, you and I are so much alike," he murmured. "I, too, am a rebel. But I have learned over the years that the price we pay for such an attitude is a high one. Especially you, since you are a woman."
"Why should it matter what other people think?"
"It shouldn't. But it does, Maggie. Don't fool yourself. It matters immensely. Unless you want to go live on a deserted island somewhere for the rest of your days, you must have a care for the opinion of others."
"I suppose you're right," she admitted. "I do try, for my father's sake. He has become quite obsessed with gaining respectability for me."
Trevor decided it was time to tackle the subject of marriage directly. "So, that's why your father is so determined to marry you off. Because he feels it would improve your social position."
"I knew it!" she cried and came to a halt. "He told you that he wants to marry me off."
"He mentioned it to me, yes," Trevor answered carefully. "He seems to feel you would gain a great deal by marrying a titled gentleman."
"Honestly!" she exclaimed in exasperation. "Why doesn't he just put me on the auction block at Sotheby's and be done with it!"
"He's right about one thing. You would gain respectability through marriage."
He glanced at her and saw her lift her chin stubbornly. "I'm not going to marry a man I do not love, a man who does not love me, just to be able to move in a higher social sphere."
"Is love so important then?"
She looked over at him, astonished. "It is everything."
"Perhaps," he murmured, but she scowled at him so fiercely, he decided to veer the conversation back to safer ground. At least now he knew for certain what he was up against. "So, tell me, what did your father do when the Academy refused him a box?"
She relaxed slightly. "He went to Willie K. Vanderbilt and several others who had also been rejected by the Academy, and they all invested the money to build a new opera house. It's going to be called the Metropolitan, and they plan to open it next year."
Trevor laughed. "Your father is quite a man, isn't he? No wonder he's made so much money, as stubborn as he is."
"It runs in the family," she said.
"So I'm discovering."
When they reached the garden gate, he opened it for Margaret and followed her in. "So did you enjoy yourself tonight?" he asked.
"Oh, yes. It was great fun."
Trevor leaned back against the stone wall of the garden and studied her face in the moonlight. "And have you forgiven me for my attentions to Lady Sally?" he asked, smiling at her.
She turned away, pretending great interest in the blooming camellias. "Lady Sally can go hang," she said stiffly. "If she wants to be such a fool over you, why should I care?"
Why, indeed? he thought. It pleased him to know that she was beginning to care for him—a great deal more than she wanted to let on. He seemed to be making progress.
"What are we going to do tomorrow night?" she asked, changing the subject.
He shook his head. "We can't go out tomorrow night," he answered. "I have another engagement."
That got her full attention. "You do?"
"I'm afraid so, one I cannot refuse. I'm meeting a business associate at the Royale."
"That's a gaming club, isn't it? Well, that's perfect! I've always wanted to go to a gaming club."
"I'm not taking you with me."
"Why not?"
"God, Margaret. I may be slightly lax when it comes to observing the proprieties, but even I could not take a lady to a gaming club!"
"Women aren't allowed inside, I suppose?"
"Only women of a certain type," he answered dryly.
"You mean mistresses and demi-reps."
"Exactly."
"Really!" she said, clearly aggrieved. "Life is so unfair to women. Unless we wish to sacrifice our reputations, we are barred from all that is fun and exciting."
"Step down from your suffragette soapbox, if you please. I can't change the world, and even if I could, I wouldn't. I like things the way they are."
"Of course you do," she countered. "You're a man."
"And you are most definitely a woman. So stop railing against things you can't change and give in gracefully. I'm sure you'll have a marvelous time at the Embassy Ball."
"Oh, yes, marvelous." She made a face. "Dancing with fat ambassadors who are dressed in silly elephant costumes and who tread on my feet. A memory I'll cherish all my days."
His lips quirked in a smile. "I see your point."
She was quick to pounce on that concession. "Then can I go with you?"
"My God, give you an inch and you do take a mile, don't you? What if someone recognizes you?"
"That's unlikely. It's Carnival, and I imagine most people will be costumed. No one would recognize me if I wore something that covered my face."
"Perhaps, but it's still far too risky."
"I thought you were a man who enjoyed taking risks."
"Margaret, just because a man and a woman are friends does not mean she can throw his own words back in his face to serve her purposes. I'm not taking you with me and that's final."
She opened her mouth to make her next argument, but he saw it coming and reached for her, pulling her into his arms with a suddenness that made her completely forget what she'd been about to say.
He bent his head and kissed her, a kiss totally unlike the first one in the library. That one had been raw and powerful, startling in its intensity. But this was something else, something slow and deliberate, blatantly sensual. His mouth grazed hers lightly, warm and persuasive, coaxing her lips to part for him. Margaret closed her eyes and obeyed his silent command, awash in the extraordinary feel of the feather-light contact.
His hands slid up between them to cup her face, and he pulled her lower lip between his teeth, sucking gently, as if she were a piece of sugar candy to be tasted and savored.
She could feel it happen, that strange, melting sensation that seemed to rob her of all her strength. She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him, pressing closer, wanting more.
But he did not give her what she wanted. Instead, his hands slid away and he pulled back slowly.
Stunned, Margaret did not move for a long moment. When she finally opened her eyes, she saw him smiling at her. There was a strange, dark satisfaction in that smile, and she did not know why, until she realized that she was still clinging to him but he was not touching her at all. She released her hold and stepped back, feeling flustered and embarrassed.
"You did that on purpose," she accused, mortified that her words came out in a breathless hush. "To distract me."
"Yes, I did," he admitted, completely without remorse. "Did it work?"
"You are the most provoking man! I really don't know why I put up with you."
"You put up with me because I intrigue you. I'm the only man you've ever known that won't let you have the upper hand."
Before she could even form the words of an indignant denial, he closed the distance between them and pressed a quick, hard kiss to her lips. "I will see you Monday night. Enjoy yourself at the Embassy Ball."
"Oh, I'm sure it will be just too exciting for words," she said so dismally that he laughed as he walked back through the gate and disappeared into the alley.
Margaret remained in the garden after he had gone, wrapped in a confusing haze of emotions. Her lips still tingled from his goodnight kisses. The feelings he aroused within her with his mouth and his hands were intense, yes, but they were also rather
frightening. She felt as if her control were being eroded away in tiny increments, and she wondered if there would come a time when she would surrender to him.
She shook off her uncertainties and told herself not to be silly. Someday she would meet the right man, a man who would not only desire her, but also love her. Until then, she intended to have fun. And if Trevor thought that his kisses, wonderful as they were, would keep her from embarking on an exciting adventure like the Royale, he was mistaken.
***
"St. James did not board any ship bound for England. I just learned of it an hour ago."
Lucci frowned at the man beside him, then glanced around at the elegant crowd that filled the drawing room. "Come with me," he commanded, and the head of the Egyptian Port Authority followed him out into the gardens and down a graveled path lined with palms.
"When we are surrounded by British officials and their wives, Signor Sallah, it would be wise to keep your voice down. I don't want St. James to find out I'm looking for him until he's on his knees in front of me."
"I understand." The Egyptian gentleman fell into step beside him. "My men have checked all the manifests of ships leaving Cairo the day after the burglary at your villa. St. James did not go to England. He went to Rome."
"Rome? Are you certain?"
Sallah stiffened at the question. "Of course I am certain. He made no effort to hide his identity, either. He did not seem to fear you would come after him."
"Then he is a fool." Lucci thought of his sweet wife and how she had been so abused. Since he had learned of it, his rage, instead of dissipating, burned hotter with each day that passed. "I will go to Rome myself."
Sallah seemed surprised. "The two of you have battled over artifacts for years. Why all of this trouble to regain a necklace?"
"That is not your concern," Lucci answered sharply.
"Of course. I have given you the information you requested."
"You will be paid, Sallah," Lucci assured him. "Call on my secretary tomorrow, and you will find the money waiting for you."
"You are generous, as always," the other man murmured. "I am grateful."
"You have earned it. Now leave me."
Sallah bowed. "Give my regards to your wife. I heard she is ill. I hope it is not serious."
The Egyptian returned to the party, but Lucci did not. He sat down on a stone bench amid the palm trees and thought of his sweet young wife with anguish.
Isabella would not eat, she would not talk, and she would not come out of her rooms. She would wake in the night, screaming and sobbing. She would not let him touch her. "When he is dead," she would sob, pulling free of him, "then, only then, will I be healed."
Soon, my sweet, he promised her silently. Soon.
***
The following night, Trevor walked through the glittering game rooms of the Royale, feeling strangely out of place. Though his black evening suit was impeccable, he felt as if he were the one in costume as he moved through the crowd of knights, peasants, princes, and demons. Unlike Trevor, most of these men were on their way to or from some costume party or ball, and were dressed accordingly.
He spied a stout fellow in green velvet, with stuffed yellow spines all down his back and the head of his dragon costume tucked under one arm, who moved carefully through the crowd, trying to avoid hitting anyone with his immense tail. Trevor thought of Margaret's woeful words of the night before and grinned. If this dragon were representative of the men she was dancing with at the Embassy Ball, he almost felt sorry for her.
Almost, but not quite. He meant what he had told her last night. He could not let her gain the upper hand. If she ever felt she could control him or manipulate him, she'd toss him aside like yesterday's newspaper. He would not allow that to happen.
No, he would win his heiress by slow seduction, by giving her just enough of what she wanted to make her want more. With the right bait to tempt her, he would lead her just where he wanted her to go, without ever letting her realize that she was being led. And he planned to lead her straight to the altar.
Trevor paused beside the bar for a glass of port, then moved toward the poker tables, knowing that was where he would find Emilio. A crowd had gathered around one of the tables, and Trevor caught sight of Emilio seated there, costumed as a Maltese sailor. His cards were in his hand and a worried frown was on his face.
Trevor realized why a crowd had gathered. Emilio was playing a woman.
Costumed as a Turkish slave girl, or, more accurately, as the European idea of what a Turkish slave girl would be, she wore silks—a robe of shimmering gold belted with a blue sash over ivory trousers. A headdress of blue silk covered her head and shoulders, concealing her hair, and, since her back was to him, he could not see her face. But a woman who could give Emilio a run for his money at poker was worth watching. Intrigued, he maneuvered his way through the crowd until he was close enough to observe the play.
Emilio called her bluff, adding money to the pot, and laid down his hand. "Two pair," he announced, laying down his cards. "Aces and eights."
The woman said nothing, she merely fanned her cards out on the table, revealing a full house. She raked in her winnings as Emilio lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I am finished," he announced, pushing back his chair. "After three losing hands, I would be a fool to play yet another with a woman who has beauty, luck, and skill on her side." He cast a glance over the crowd that surrounded him. "Would anyone care to take my place?"
Trevor decided to challenge her himself. "I will," he said, taking Emilio's chair.
