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If his hand was unsteady, it was camouflaged by the way he sloshed the drink in it. "To Mademoiselle Moldavi," he said, "the first woman to ever rend Eddersley speechless."
Since Eddersley's sexual preferences were well-known, Giordan's jest served to break the tension in the chamber, and everyone-except the Moldavis-laughed, including Eddersley himself. Then his friend caught Giordan's eyes for a moment, and he saw the same shock and distaste lingering in that of Eddersley's.
Narcise, once disrobed of her cloak, had hardly moved more than a step into the chamber. Giordan was compelled beyond imagination to go to her, but somehow, conscious of Moldavi's regard, he refrained, keeping his shoes rooted to the rug.
Instead he watched as Voss made a straight line toward the woman, trying not to want to put the man's head through a wall.
Giordan found himself unwilling to chance looking at Narcise, yet unable to put the image of her out of his mind. Her face, ivory with nary a hint of color to it tonight, was stark and bare. Even her lips were pale, and her eyes had that dull look he'd seen before-a look he hadn't noticed since the last time she was here. Her night-black hair was pulled back from her face, and twisted and braided into some huge, intricate knot at the back of her head. Diamonds hung from her ears, long teardrops nearly brushing her shoulders, and more of them sparkled around the bulging knot of her hair.
But it was her gown-what there was of it, and gown was not really an accurate term-that had struck every man in the room dumb. It was unlike anything in the shops of the modistes anywhere in Paris, and Giordan couldn't help but wonder where Moldavi had had it made. The dress was in the style of centuries ago, that of a medieval lady: a simple, high-necked frock that laced up between the br**sts and along the sides, clinging to every curve of the body from shoulder to knee. From there it flared out in a train onto the floor. Her sleeves were tight from shoulder to elbow then flared in long points nearly to her feet. And though the cut of her attire was unusual and revealing, it was its very substance that caused comment-for the entire dress was made only of black lace.
The gown clung to Narcise and revealed more than any whore's undergarments ever had. It was clear to Giordan that she wore no corset, no chemise or undergarments of any fashion. The only nod to propriety-not that such a thing existed in the world of the Dracule-was a black silk triangle at the juncture of her legs, and the triangular panels of her skirt, where it flared below the knees, were alternating black silk and black lace. Even the bodice was lace. Her br**sts were uncovered, her ni**les hidden by accident or design by a heavy part of the lace...but even the undercurves of her br**sts were evident.
He knew without a doubt that Moldavi had forced her to wear it, and Giordan burned to kill the man. But something else bothered him, and it was the only reason he didn't pin Narcise's brother to the wall with a stake: the look in her eyes.
His Narcise, the one he'd come to know and respect and love, might not choose on her own to wear such a gown. But, even if forced, she would never show shame or even submission while wearing it. She would walk boldly into a chamber and ignore the openmouthed gaping of every man in the room.
There was something else.
It took him some time, mingling with the other guests, directing his vintages about, but Giordan at last made it to Narcise's side. She'd hardly moved from where she entered the room, and he could see the drawn expression in her face, the emptiness in her eyes even more clearly as he approached.
"Find some other skirt to chase," he told Voss flatly. "She's mine."
Voss's quickly checked surprise told Giordan that he, at least, hadn't sensed the sizzling connection between Narcise and him. And Voss, no matter how much he enjoyed variety in the shape of women, was not at all a stupid man. He gave his host a brief salute with his glass and sauntered away, a bemused smile curving his lips. One thing about Voss: he never tired of the courting, the chase or the variety.
"What is it?" Giordan asked immediately. "By the soul of Luce, Narcise, what has he done?"
"Don't you wish to compliment me on my gown, monsieur?" she asked in a detached voice. "It was specially chosen to help me in my task of seduction." Her cool smile didn't reach her eyes. They remained blank, blue circles. Her cheeks were pale; her lips were nearly colorless.
"And who are you supposed to seduce?" he replied with ice in his veins.
"Why, you, monsieur," she said, leaning into him, placing a slender hand on the center of his chest. "I am to seduce you. Here. Tonight."
Giordan stared down at her, his heart thumping madly, her scent and her very proximity luring him into distraction...yet he knew he couldn't allow his brain to go to mush. It was the first time she'd touched him since the night he spent hanging from a pair of manacles. The sight of her in a gown that amounted to nothing more than a lacy glove, along with her pronouncement, set his thoughts to reeling. But...
"I cannot help but wonder," he said carefully, resisting the need to touch her, to close his large hand over the one that rested on his shirtwaist, "why you seem to be less than eager. Is seducing me still that revolting to you, Narcise? I thought...I'd hoped..."
He stopped, aware that he sounded pathetic and desperate. If the woman hadn't come to feel anything for him in the last weeks-which had been tortuous for him, being unable to touch her with anything but his eyes-perhaps he was wasting his time trying to convince her otherwise.
"It's Cezar," she whispered, seeming hardly to be able to form the words.
But before she could continue, Narcise clamped her lips closed, her eyes focused on something behind him, which could only be the man in question. Giordan felt and scented her brother's presence, that heavy and familiar aroma, tinged with something else he found inexplicably unappealing.
He felt the weight of the man's attention on them, and then it lifted and moved on.
"But then, mademoiselle, perhaps we ought to commence with the seduction. I am certain you know precisely how I feel about it." He managed to make his words sound light, despite the dark overhang of the situation. "Will you put on a good performance for your brother? And should I pretend to resist, or should I drag you eagerly from this chamber as I've longed to do these last weeks?"
The column of her throat, slender and elegant and so very bitable, convulsed as she swallowed hard. What is it, Narcise?
"Be reluctant," she whispered as if she could hardly form the words. "I believe he is testing you-or us-somehow."
That chill came back, ice in his veins again. Then Giordan pushed it away. The man was in his home. He could do nothing.
