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Chapter Three
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.
